by Calico

He'd been waiting for Vic to say no.
No, Mac.
Stop.
Anything.
He'd been waiting so intently that once he had stopped, thinking he'd seen Vic shake his head— but the creases in Vic's forehead had only deepened— "Mac, c'mon, what the fuck?"— and green eyes had flashed open accusingly, and Mac had shuddered at the heat and slammed forward again.
Vic had gasped. Appreciatively.

This was getting boring; the one time he knew he was right, everyone started playing the skeptic. Mac scowled. "Look, I'm sorry, this may be hard for you to come to terms with, but I know I didn't screw up on this one."

Vic scowled back at him. "Yeah, and since when does your assurance count for anything?"

"Fuck off," Mac frowned, then glanced at the ceiling and shrugged. "Listen," he said, calmly, knowing how irritating that was, "I know you've been pretty tired and stuff lately. But really," and with a deft little tilt of his voice, he threw a patronizing undertone into the mix as well, "you've gotta admit that if your mind had been on the job, the guy wouldn't have gotten away."

Vic was shaking his head, a sour little smile twisting his lips. "You were watching the wrong door."

Mac felt a little blaze of satisfaction. "Uh, no. You were watching the wrong door."

"Wanna check the blueprints?" Vic demanded, arms folding angrily against his chest.

Mac reached for the file, flipped it open with one finger. "Sure," he said, spreading the papers around, then selecting one and holding it up to the light. "This would be the one."

Vic plucked it curtly away from him. "Yeah," he said authoritatively, tracing fine lines on the delicate paper, "so here's their stronghold, and here's the door you were stationed at, and here's the door I was..."

Mac grinned. "The door you were...?"

Vic was frowning at the map. "That makes no sense," he muttered, turning it in his hands, tilting his head like someone trying to see what's round the next corner in a horror flick. "I thought— "

Mac strolled closer. "See this," he interrupted, pointing, a low burr of triumph underscoring his words, "is where they were. And this is where I was. And you, well, you were kinda just hanging round watching the janitor's room, weren't you?"

Vic glanced at him, eyes distant with resentful acceptance, then looked away. "Great. Apparently."

"Yeah, I'd say so," Mac said, enjoying himself. "But I'm sure you did a great job of making sure the brooms stayed quiet. No toolkit shenanigans or unruly floor polish— "

"The guy did come my way, actually," Vic snapped.

"Yeah, it's just a pity you weren't tough enough to bring him down."

"He had a helluva lot of bullets, or have you forgotten the swiss-cheese-effect he left in the wall? Although if you'd been waiting on the third floor instead of the second, we could've had him— "

"Waiting on the third floor, instead of the second, where I'd been stationed, where me and Li Ann were holding off a whole load of spontaneous thugs? I should've been on the third floor, leaving her to all that, so I could help you stake out the cleaning cupboard? Yeah, Vic, cool idea. You should've brought it up in the briefing."

Vic glowered, contempt mangling with embarrassment in his eyes. "Get out my way, Ramsey. I'm going home."

Mac took his shades out of his pocket, buffed them quickly on his sleeve, then snapped them on. "Wrong again. I'm going home. You've got paperwork."

Vic's mouth closed with a sharp click. "I don't think so. The paperwork can wait."

"You think she'd agree with you on that one?" Mac asked pleasantly.

"I don't think she'd care much given that, basically, this case was a fiasco from start to finish. I figure she'd like a break before having to read it all."

"Gonna tell her that yourself, huh?"

Vic looked softer through Mac's dark glasses, a study in frustrated charcoal. "I'll... look, I can't work right now anyway." There was a flash of monochrome brilliance as Vic threw him a brief glance. "It's your turn to write it up, anyway."

With great enjoyment, Mac shook his head once. "I think not."

"It is," Vic repeated, with just a trace of uncertainty wafting amongst the defiant waves.

"It is not, because I did the last one, and Li Ann did the one before that."

"What last one?"

"With the grass."

Vic blew out indignantly. "That? That was like, two pages. This is gonna take hours."

Mac nodded helpfully. "You sure can pick ‘em." He laid a conciliatory arm around Vic's shoulders, felt the muscles in Vic's back seize up. "And," he said, dropping his voice in deference to the close proximity of Vic's ear, "I think she'll want it by tomorrow. You've got a loooong night ahead of you."

Vic twisted away violently; "I have had it with you," he snarled, whirling and stalking out the door. Mac stared after him, bemused, hearing words float back faintly, "I can't take this any more."

Huh, thought Mac, smirking. So he did have limited endurance, after all.

"I hope you're going after him," the Director's voice came, behind him. Mac tensed. "Never go to bed angry. Especially not in your profession." She sounded absently concerned, which was clearly a bad thing.

"Are you threatening me?" Mac asked, genuinely curious.

She smiled, awfully nice. "If I were threatening you, you wouldn't need to ask."

"I got that," Mac said, making for the door. She didn't seem too pissed off about the case. Of course, today he seemed to have a knack for not noticing until it was too late— just look at Vic, talk about hidden depth.

Or maybe, just a stretch of very choppy shallows.

"Wait."

Mac paused, fingers hovering near the door. "Hmm?"

"Take this to him." Her hands moved to the papers on the table, and then she was holding out a perfectly neat file, so quickly Mac wondered if he'd blinked too long. "Victor seems to have left it behind, too wrapped up in his precipitous exit, but if he's going to do a satisfactory write-up he'll need it tonight."

Mac looked at her unenthusiastically. "Can't he get it himself?"

"Undoubtedly. But I'd hate to make his life any more difficult that necessary."

Mac snorted, then held out his hand. "Are you feeling alright? Like, because this sounds suspiciously altruistic. Maybe you're coming down with a fever." He tilted his head, pausing. "Or," he said, skeptically, "am I  being really dumb? You've got this big ole motive that's going right over my head...?"

"What do you think?"

"I think," he said vaguely, taking the folder and tucking it into his coat, then facing her. "I think, I don't care. Are we done?"

"We're done," she said, disinterested already. "Run along."

The door opened— and then jarred, caught on a chain. Vic's eyes flashed at him, aggressive. "What are you doing here?"

"She sent me." Mac looked pointedly at the door chain. "Let me in."

"No."

Mac raised his eyebrows. "It's her orders..."

"I don't give a fuck," Vic said evenly, making to shut the door.

Mac shoved his foot out quickly, getting annoyed. "C'mon, Vic, what'ya got back there? You got a reason not to let me in?"

"It's my apartment!"

Mac shook his head slowly, meanly. "It's her apartment."

Vic threw him a poisonous glare, then sighed, exasperated. "Fine." He looked pointedly at Mac's foot, then back at the door chain.

Mac let him close the door, and listened for the click of the chain being slid off.

Waited.

Reached for the doorbell again, when only silence followed.

No answer.

He rapped the door with his fist, wincing slightly at the sting of his knuckles.

No answer.

He got out his phone, stabbed in Vic's number.

"Yes?" Vic said, second ring.

Mistake, Victor— you should've checked your caller ID. "You know, you're gonna have to come out some time. For fuck's sake, Vic: I know you're there. It's really lame to hide out in your own apartment, you know that? And you really don't want me to have to call her."

There was a hostile pause. "Look," Vic snapped, eventually. "Can't you just fuck off? I mean, since when do you pay any attention to what she says?"

Since it leads to irritating you, Mac thought, absently. "Now, that wouldn't be very responsible of me, would it?" He shifted, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. "I'm turning over a new leaf. Gonna start being more reliable— "

The phone clicked dead just as the door wrenched open. Vic stood there, arms folded, animosity radiating over Mac in waves. "Fine," he growled, voice ragged with anger. "Say your piece, and get out."

Mac smiled, folded his phone. "Not that simple," he said, and slid it back into his pocket. "Can I come in?"

"Why is it not that simple?" Vic demanded, not budging.

Mac tilted his head, enjoying his composure. "Well, she didn't just send me to give back your file," he said, handing it over. Vic took it without looking down, still unmoving. "She said never go to bed angry."

"Personally, I find it helps me sleep better," Vic retorted, barring the doorway. His eyes were black and narrow.

"Lemme in." Mac glanced past him to the room beyond. "I've driven a long way to talk to you, Vic. The least you can do is let me in. Plus, all this arguing is making me thirsty."

Vic stared at him a long moment, then dropped his hands. "Fine," he said, blowing out an exasperated breath. He turned and walked away from the door, headed for the kitchen.

"Beer," Mac called, wanting to pre-empt.

Vic didn't reply, just rummaged around and then threw him a bottle. "Drink up and get out," he said, walking back round, tasting a beer of his own.

"What a host," Mac remarked, twisting the cap off his bottle and then pressing his mouth quickly to the top, catching most of the agitated overflow. "Oh, way to go," he said sarcastically, when he'd swallowed about half a pint of foam. "For a housewife, you sure take a few risks with the furnishings."

"For a brat, you sure live up to expectations," Vic snapped back, walking past him and turning on the television.

Mac watched the tense line of his shoulders, wondered exactly what was going through his head. "You know, I think she wants us to bond, or something," he said, throwing words into the air between them.

"I'd rather bond with an aphid."

Mac raised his eyebrows, more amused than insulted. For some reason, the air was even edgier than normal, and Vic seemed to be acutely aware of it. He took a deep pull of beer, then licked his lips. What had Vic said, he couldn't take it anymore? Huh. Maybe life really was getting to him.

He walked quietly closer, right up behind him, incredibly tempted to touch the stone-cold bottle to the back of Vic's neck. "I wonder if you'll have manners when you grow up," he said, instead, then blinked when Vic jumped like he'd stepped in a nest of electrodes.

"Fuck off," Vic insisted, turning round and fixing him with a darkly impatient glare.

Interesting.

"So," Mac said, gesturing casually with his bottle. "What's up?"

"Don't even try it," Vic said irritably, grabbing the remote from the table and thumbing up the sound.

Mac took the remote off him, a thief's fingers proving more than a match for an agitated cop; Vic turned on him with a growl, then jerked his hand back fast enough that Mac wondered if he'd strain something. "Man! What is with you?"

"Nothing, alright?" Vic said loudly, and Mac saw his gaze dart across his face, refusing to meet his eye.

"Nothing," he repeated, amused. "Yeah, great definition of nothing you've got there— anyone'd think you were in mortal danger the way you're jumping around."

"I'm not in fucking danger," Vic said, voice too clipped to be patient. His gaze snapped back, dark and hot, then skittered away again. "For fuck's sake— will you get out my space already?"

"Not in danger," Mac mused leisurely, ignoring him, "right, okay, so there's gotta be some other reason— "

Vic rolled his eyes and broke the tableau, stalking past him. Mac reached out and grabbed his shoulder; Vic froze and then twisted round violently, wrenching out of his grasp, eyes wide like a startled animal. "Get off me— "

"So there's something else there, huh? Something about me, some other reason..." He raised his eyebrows, grinning. "I'm right, aren't I? You've got something going on below the surface here— "

"Fuck off," Vic said earnestly, a skein of danger folding around his tone.

Mac's grin widened. "Oh no," he murmured, "no chance. I'm interested now." He could feel stirrings of energy going through his stomach— there was something so infinitely satisfying about winding Vic up, and this was unfolding into a whole new realm of wind-up potential.

Vic closed his eyes, apparently struggling for patience. "Can't you just leave me the hell alone?" he asked, opening his eyes again. His gaze bored into Mac's, direct with heat and fury, at odds to his forcedly even tone. "I don't wanna be part of your life, you don't wanna be part of mine, there's nothing to be fucking interested about, and yeah, there's something below the surface, in that I can't stand you near me getting in my face all the time— "

"Yeah, yeah," Mac said, agreeably, nodding, "absolutely, yeah, sure— bullshit."

Vic's eyebrows shot up, eyes flashing angrily. "Excuse me?"

"I said," Mac said deliberately, putting the flat of his hand on Vic's chest and pushing him backwards, "that's bullshit." His instincts were burning, radar picking up signals he'd never expected to receive. It was exhilarating.

Vic laughed— and it sounded half-strangled. "Get off me," he said— and it was threaded through with panic.

"Mmm, keep telling yourself you want that," Mac said, very nicely. Vic's chest was like hard rubber, moving shallowly beneath his palm. He increased the pressure.

Vic shook his head, panic definitely coming to the fore. "You're demented," he said, and his voice was rough. "But look, get out of my house and we'll forget it, okay?"

Mac felt a thrill bullet through him, pure and visceral. "Yeah, we'll forget this, will we?" he asked softly, reaching down with his other hand and running the flat of a knuckle up the solid front of Vic's cock.

Vic gasped, jerked, easily disguising Mac's internal flick of tension. It was true— Vic was actually hard. In front of him. Against his hand. Jesus. Feeling it made a difference, made him suddenly bolt-aware of standing here, trying to intimidate, discovering Vic found it— what? Powerful? Hot? Arousing?

His stomach tightened, another thin rush of adrenaline heating him up. Something special about causing that kind of reaction, no matter who was reacting.

"What are you doing?" Vic asked, and the strangled voice was in full now, and he could feel tremors going through Vic's chest.

Something more special about making Vic react. "Experimenting," Mac said, covering the brewing excitement in his voice with enforced casualness.

"You gonna hit me, just hit me. Don't be m— "

"I'm not gonna hit you."

"What do you want?" Vic's voice sounded restrained and unstable, like a flame stretched tight.

Mac suppressed a grin, felt it charge in his eyes. "Surely I'm the one supposed to be asking that question." He twisted his hand, cupping Vic's cock with an exhilarating sense of the forbidden. Yeah, so his life purpose had just redefined itself to encompass provoking Vic as much as possible: so?

Vic inhaled, leaning into him, then stepped back abruptly, getting out of reach. "Don't fuck with me on this, Ramsey," he warned, eyes stormy.

Mac glanced to Vic's mouth. Leisurely, he straightened his shoulders. "What if I want to?"

Vic blinked. "Do you?"

Mac raised an eyebrow. "Why? You offering?" He moved closer, and flashed his teeth when Vic's back hit the wall. He felt a sudden flare of certainty, let it cut into his voice; "You want to be fucked?"

There was a moment of silence, then Vic laughed, a nervous rasp of air, shaking his head. "In your dreams."

"Nightmares," Mac lied, and then flicked him a tiny smile. "Probably." He lifted his hand and replaced his palm on Vic's chest, pressing him harder into the wall. "But for you— I don't think it'd be such a nightmare. Right?"

"Get off me," Vic breathed, shoulders rising and falling, chest hot under Mac's hand.

"Yeah, I seem to remember you saying that before."

"Fuck you— "

"Not a chance in hell," Mac said smoothly, and slid his hand up to Vic's collarbone. The stitching of his shirt rasped on his fingers. The tip of his thumb brushed against Vic's top button; he swept it higher, finding the pulse in his warm dry skin.

"I guess not," Vic said, and there was a hitch in his voice now, getting breathless. Then, his mouth tilted into a small, challenging smile.

Mac flinched back, feeling Vic's firm fingers suddenly curl against the compressed electricity at his crotch— he grabbed Vic's wrist, slammed it into the wall. Half-hard only, he reassured himself. He hadn't lost too much of his advantage. "Don't move unless I tell you to."

Vic stared at him, then tilted his head, something luxurious trickling slowly into his expression. "Is that right?" he asked, and Mac could've kicked himself for letting himself get turned on.

"That's right," he said, as evenly as possible, ignoring the sensation of Vic's wrist flexing gently in his grip.

"Okay, so you've got me against the wall," Vic said, the drawl growing stronger in his voice. "Congratulations. Now what?"

Vic's colour was normal, and Mac felt the strongest desire to make him blush. Well, why the fuck not? He let go and stepped back, giving Vic a slow once-over, then ostentatiously checked his watch. "I dunno, I guess I've got two minutes to spare," he mused, then cracked his knuckles. "I can't see you lasting longer than that."

Vic smirked slightly and stepped forward; Mac had to keep himself from jerking away. He didn't like it, an unfamiliar situation, dangerously close to not being in control. "Don't judge everyone by your standards," Vic said softly, trailing a fingertip down Mac's chest. "Not everyone's so... volatile."

Mac pushed Vic's hand back, catching his finger in his fist before it had a chance to touch something dangerous. It was thick and firm and living, making him want to squeeze harder. "Gee, Vic. Why do I always seem to get a rise out of you?"

"Yeah, but I'm not alone," Vic pointed out, blinking lazily, reaching down with his free hand and stroking the back of his knuckles against Mac's crotch. "Takes a while to wake up, I guess."

Mac's jaw tightened and twisted his hips away. Still not fully hard, thank god. But really, really time to redress the power balance. "I wake up fine when I've got decent stimulus."

Vic shrugged lightly, radiating renewed confidence. "Apparently though, that's me."

Mac scowled at him. "What can I say— when someone's getting hot and bothered right in your face, it's easy enough to get in the mood."

"Yeah, happens rarely enough to give you a diamond-cutter, I bet." He grinned nastily. "Thank the Lord! Someone wants me!"

"I can leave, too," Mac warned, making to uncurl his fist.

"Don't," Vic said, too quickly, then added, equally quickly, "I'm curious now. Wanna know what you've got to offer." Mac felt a wave of relief; yeah, Vic fucked up there. Responded without thinking: dumb mistake.

"I'm not offering," Mac said, dropping Vic's finger and wiping his hand distastefully on his sleeve. If he was offering, he was vulnerable— but if he was under obligation, he had a safety net for later. "I owe you for covering before. Tuesday. The grass thing."

"And just like a whore..." Vic purred, apparently recovering from his blunder, and Mac raised his hand warningly.

"Shut up, or I leave. The rain's looking distinctly more appealing."

Vic caught his wrist, tight. "Don't leave," he said shortly, and Mac watched stoically as Vic worked his jeans and took his cock in his free hand, jerking it a couple of times before pulling Mac's hand against it. "Like you said, you owe me."

Mac curled his fingers round Vic's cock, not replying. He'd thought Vic's finger felt alive. Jesus. He could almost feel the blood swishing through its veins, feel ridges through the paper-thin skin; like his own cock, but not. An alien version. He tightened his grip, and Vic made a short sound in his throat, like half an involuntary sigh. Okay, similar equipment, similar responses. He could work with that.

His mind reeled and blinked, a double take, because this wasn't taunting any more; they'd reached the end of that conversation and were firmly ensconced in very different one. He was standing here holding another guy's cock; shit. Not just another guy, either— holding Vic. Bizarre— no, that didn't cover it. Fucking weird. Sort of fit his hand, too; sort of felt natural.

He looked up sharply, expecting to see a challenge skulking in green eyes, and found they were closed. Mac blinked, discovered he liked it. Vic's body was ringing with tension, totally focussed on Mac's hand wrapped around his erection, mouth silent at last. Mac felt a streak of hotness plough through him, etching the bulk of his cock more firmly in its prison. He slid his palm up, stirred the pad of his thumb over the slit in the head, and Vic's eyes flicked open.

"Careful," Vic said, shifting on his feet, then leaning back against the wall.

"Careful," Mac mimicked, under his breath, thinking what, Vic thought he couldn't even give a decent handjob? He started stroking, pleased when Vic's face tightened. Better re-educate him.

His fingers found the cut of the crown and shimmied slowly against it, finding it oddly satisfying when Vic's hips nudged forwards, like scratching a cat behind its ears and feeling it press mindlessly into your fingertips.

"Yeah," Vic breathed, when Mac flattened his fingertips and drew them slowly down his erection, then curled his hand firmly around the shaft and worked his way back up again. Mac found his eyes closing, focussing on the sensation of Vic's cock prying open his fist, and snapped them open again. C'mon, Ramsey. Stay with it.

He took a slow, silent breath, and then swallowed as aroused air found its way into his lungs— shouldn't smell good, really shouldn't, should nauseate him, but it meant Vic was getting off on this, and that, that power— that realization— refined the sickly edge to a dizzying perfume.

He pinched off the warm gloss that was easing out the head, spread it down the sides. A few strokes later and his fingers felt tacky, hitching on the skin, and he realized he was staring at Vic's mouth, the dark crack, the moisture of his tongue, the cut of teeth barring his way.

He let go of Vic's cock, held his palm close over Vic's mouth, close enough that he bet Vic could feel the heat on his lips. "Lick my hand," he said, and his voice was a shade hoarser than usual.

There was a moment's pause, then a hot wet tongue snaked out and lapped at his palm— he realized Vic's eyes were still closed, and swallowed, trying to rationalize the sensations of that tongue sliding over the creases of his hand and up between his fingers. Just, he hadn't been with anyone in a while. Not because it was Vic's tongue, servicing him. Getting him wet, so together they could beat friction and make him come. Not at all.

"Okay," he said, licking dry lips and swallowing again, and took his hand away, stealing it down between their bodies, wondering when he'd stepped closer because there was less space between them now.

His wet palm was tingling with air, and then it was touching the feverish skin of Vic's cock, feeling larger than before, and there was more fluid gathered at the head— what, so Vic was turned on by servicing him as well? By tasting himself on Mac's hand? Sweet Jesus. The thought made him squeeze hard, suddenly wanting to hear Vic say something, admit something, stroking fast and swallowing as it jumped again in his hand.

Vic's head tilted back into the wall, and he really seemed to be getting into it, teeth clenching and unclenching, his hand swooping down to fasten over Mac's and up the ante against working hips— and then Vic had hooked two fingers into Mac's waistband, dragging him closer, and Mac almost let go with shock.

"C'mon, join in," Vic muttered, "I can practically feel it coming off you— c'mon, get it out— "

Numbly, Mac undid his fly, feeling his zipper come open like it had been waiting years. His cock was pulsing hotly, boxers taut and clinging, and then Vic's hand was burrowing blindly inside and easing him out, cold air buzzing with the blunt heat of his fist.

Vic tugged, and Mac stepped forwards helplessly, catching a hiss of breath between his teeth when Vic worked open Mac's grip to encompass his own cock as well.

Holding them together, tightly together, the wetness on Vic's cock rubbing off on his own. Mac took a deep breath, adjusting his hand, finding his fingers wouldn't fold all the way round. Thick, hot, male hard-ons, clamped together, and Vic was making circling movements with his hips, enough to drive him crazy. Shit. Crazy, yeah; this could never work, this was insane.

Then Vic reached back into the dark cramped heat between his legs and lifted his balls, rolling them, squeezing lightly, and Mac gasped shortly and started moving his hand, jerking them off together, finding moisture leaking from one cock and sliding over the other. Okay, they could cope with insanity.

Vic left his balls aching, both hands fastening on his hips instead, using him to get more leverage. He was panting, grinning upwards, eyes closed, head turning mindlessly from side to side, and Mac couldn't help but flash that grin against his cock, imagine Vic going down on him, fantasy mouth struggling to accommodate his thrusts.

A flicker of something like blissed-out pain crossed Vic's face, and then he let go and was undoing the buttons to his shirt, chest heaving tautly beneath. One hand raked down sharply on its way back to Mac's hipbone, leaving pale pink streaks on a smooth, heaving sweep of tanned skin. Mac's breath came faster. He stared at one dark nipple and felt the urge to lean down and bite it, imagining a helpless whine falling from Vic's mouth, imagining the glistening salt of sweat on his tongue.

He almost did it, decision veering off at the last moment, grinding down hard with his fist instead.

"Yeah, yeah," Vic whispered, sounding strained, hand wrapping over Mac's, tightening the friction into licking fire. Mac groaned as the world tilted into a place of finite oxygen, feeling his cock sliding hard against Vic's, and this was going well, this glorious rasping, this hot-sticky-tight, this gonna hurt later but feels immeasurably good right now—

"I'm gonna come on you," Mac growled, crowding him, cotton of his shirt grazing Vic's naked skin. "Gonna shoot," hand blurring, thick heat gathering in the base of his cock, "all over," nearly there, nearly nearly nearly, "your chest," and his eyes slammed shut and the world shuddered to a white-hot halt, and he hung there for a few glorious seconds—

He panted and reeled, then realized he'd forgotten Vic would have to come on him too, forgotten until he felt an otherworldly hot soft splash against his stomach, then another, heard Vic's breathing hitch loudly and then melt out on a low moan, felt his body rocking into a standstill against him.

His shirt clung insistently to his stomach, cooling fast, slick and unpleasant. The air was thick with lascivious salt as he stepped back, tucking his cock back into his boxers, stripping off his shirt with distaste.

"Talk about mess," he muttered, amused, then looked up, faintly diffident, wondering what the hell was protocol in these situations.

Vic stared at him a moment, like he'd just come out of a daze, then glanced down at his own chest. "Yeah," he said slowly, "point," then shrugged. "Leave that here, you can wear one of mine. Or take it, whatever."

Mac stared at the bundled-up shirt, then set his shoulders. "Where's your laundry basket?" he asked, then cringed internally as he realized he should've made a crack about Vic's clothes being pretty obviously inferior on him.

Vic opened his mouth, then shook his head. "I'm not," he said clearly, humour brewing in the tone, "having that festering somewhere."

"The bin?" Mac asked, taken aback. Talk about hygiene overkill— it wasn't like his shirt was gonna run around and infect the water supply, was it? Besides, when they came down to it, it was Vic's fault.

Vic smirked. "The sink, I was thinking," he said, idly scratching his chest, then staring startled at the slick on his fingers like it might bite him. "Okay, I need a shower," he said quickly, unbuttoning his wrist cuffs, heading for the bathroom. "Umbrella's in the closet, and so are my shirts," he called, over his shoulder; "yeah, and thanks for the file."

"No problem," Mac called back, mildly bemused, to the closing door, and stared blankly until the noise of the shower coming on jolted him out of it.

Grinning slowly, he realized he wasn't gonna get that last image out his head for some time: Vic standing there like ordinary but with spunk beginning to trickle down his chest, nipples dark and puckered, smelling like an advert for post-orgy cleaning spray. And he'd done that.

He turned and strode quickly for Vic's bedroom, then wheeled and went for the kitchen and dumped his shirt in the sink. Hot, he decided, turning the tap on hard, watching the fabric darken and balloon under the blast of water.

Wait: Vic was gonna hand-wash that?

For some reason, he kinda hoped so.

He turned the water off, stalked back to Vic's bedroom. He was cold; the hairs on the back of his arms were up. The smell of Vic's bedroom was familiar; the pictures it summoned weren't. Fuck. So every time he thought of Vic, he'd picture him half-naked, now? This was gonna be time-consuming.

He rolled his eyes, looking for a half-decent shirt. Not many he'd deign to wear— ah. A suit, dark blue— hadn't realized Vic owned one. Okay, this'd work.

He pulled out the shirt and slipped it on, then blinked as the smell of the collar drew up Vic's frown as he'd stripped off earlier and bolted for the bathroom. He started lingering over what Vic might be doing now, with the soap right now, and realized that if it was a woman he'd probably sneak in at this point and see if he could instigate Round Two, but given it was his allegedly hetero partner, that was probably out the question.

He froze— maybe the umbrella wasn't alone in the closet— then shook his head. Vic'd been far too wrapped up in Li Ann, not to mention the rest of his female entourage, and Mac didn't credit him with the subtlety to have been pretending all these years. He also didn't behave like a man just discovering his true sexuality. So. A bit of powerplay, that's what this had been.

He finished buttoning up the shirt, wondering if maybe there could be a round two— some time later this week, perhaps. Not that Mac was amazingly attracted, but they definitely had a spice in the air... and it was good to get laid, whatever the situation, especially when he hadn't for longer than he cared admit...

Okay, so maybe some other day. Hopefully. See if he could make him blush next time.

"Late again, Mac?" she said darkly, and Mac winced and apologized and tried to say he'd slept over the alarm without implying it was because he'd spent an inordinate amount of solitary time last night jerking off to the thought of cramming Vic's mouth until his eyes watered.

Vic was staring straight ahead; when he looked round, Mac saw a familiarly mocking smile with a touch more heat than usual. Shit. He'd kinda hoped Vic would be nervous, uncomfortable; although, this was okay too, he could cope. An uncomfortable Vic might not want to try again. His mind seethed with images of prying those lips open with his cock— he barely heard the Director chastise him until her voice rose menacingly.

"On second thoughts, Mac, would you care to share whatever's occupying your head this morning? I'm sure we'd all like to hear it."

"Actually," Vic said quickly, drawing it out like he was considering something, "I wouldn't. I mean, I already know what cotton wool sounds like..."

"Fuck you," Mac said lightly, not even glancing over, then cramped down on a wave of sexual agitation as he remembered those words yesterday, remembered what followed. "Sorry," he managed belatedly, to the Director, sounding pretty normal considering, and shifted in his chair.

Not for the first time, he wondered if it was intentional that this table couldn't even conceal an extra thread in his lap, let alone an excess of blood.

She raised an eyebrow. "If we're quite settled," she said pointedly, "I'd like to brief you."

"Sorry," Mac said again, trying to look attentive. He could feel Vic, sitting a distance of maybe five feet away. Not far enough.

Fuck it.

Not near enough.

He may as well admit it, painful as that felt.

Shit. Admitting to wanting to be nearer Vic— anyone for a nice white coat? With special sleeves?

"...Dobrinsky knows Silver Service, so he will train you."

Mac blinked. "Hey, wait," he said, then felt his blood creep a layer closer to the surface of his cheeks, "sorry, missed that," he murmured, and gritted his teeth against her appraisal.

"You know, I found a way to acquire Vic's attention," she said, gaze crackling to his lips, "and I'm tempted to see if the same method works on you..."

"It's okay, I'm listening, really, definitely am," Mac said quickly, remembering Vic's surprise at her kiss a few days ago— and the image of Vic rubbing his mouth to abrade the memory was quick to follow.

She levelled a long, skeptical gaze at him, then pursed her lips. "Very well. As your companions have known for the past half hour, you are to pose as high-class waiters. Your target is holding a dinner party for his father, who's just achieved the ripe age of sixty-five— sadly, the end of the road for him, unless you can intercept certain succulent morsels on Sunday night."

Mac tried to process, hit a stumbling block. "Say what?"

"His son wants him dead because then he gets legal access to a safety deposit box containing some formula or other," Li Ann said, with a little shrug, then nodded at the Director. "She won't tell us what the formula's for."

"Here," Vic said, passing him a piece of parchment. "His will."

Mac frowned, taking it by the edges, avoiding Vic's fingers.

"This is the latest version," the Director said, "and not a copy, so please don't crease it. It has to be returned in immaculate condition."

"Okay, okay," Mac muttered, reading. It seemed Mr. Wilson didn't want his son to have whatever was in the box until after his time, but had signed over the key— locked in another box, custody of the court— in his will. "Okay," Mac repeated, more confidently. "Motive, we got. Now you just need to explain where silver service comes in. And succulent morsels."

Unbidden, his mind flashed to Vic's mouth; he steeled himself.

"Dinner party," the Director said slowly. "Are you following, so far?"

Mac threw her a sour smile. "Yeah, and...?"

Li Ann sighed. "Jack Wilson Junior's holding the party: his house, some manor somewhere."

"Foxhill Grange, a few miles east of I–27," Vic supplied, and Mac frowned. He hated that Vic generally knew more geography than him. Not that he cared where Foxhill might be— it was just the principle of the thing.

"Okay, then what?"

The Director slid a photograph across the table. "He has unwittingly hired you to assist one Frank Church— a chef with predilections one wouldn't normally expect in the catering business." The man in the picture had more curves than Jackie— several chins, a belly bulging low over tightly chessboard-checked pants, and a chest that was in serious need of uplift. His eyes were grey, slitted over rounded pink cheeks.

"He does a great line in cyanide-related hors d'oeuvres," Vic said helpfully.

"Arsenious soup," Li Ann suggested. "Tasty, but deadly."

"Okay," Mac said, filing a mental note not to eat anything on the job.

"You can detect a variety of poisons using one of these," the Director said, and from the way Li Ann sat straighter, Mac guessed he'd caught up. He looked at the innocuous white thermometer the Director was holding. "It slips into your waistcoat pocket. Contaminated food is to be disposed of— my sources tell me that there will be opportunities to do this without rousing suspicion."

"Won't Junior notice if Senior doesn't drop dead?" Mac asked, wondering what Vic looked like in full waiter's costume.

"Don't you think the rest of the guests might notice if he did?" the Director asked sweetly, and Mac opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Point," he said.

"Prolonged exposure," Li Ann guessed, and the Director nodded.

"That's right. If our crooked chef sticks to his customary recipe, Jack Wilson Senior will pass away from heart failure about six hours after coffee and mints. From the excitement of his birthday, no doubt. It will be a terrible shame." Her voice could have dehydrated oceans.

A young man marched into the room; Mac turned sharply, watched him approach the Director, hand her a piece of paper, then leave without a word. Mac tried to remember his face and failed; he'd never seen him before, and somehow never expected to see him again. Even though he'd seemed totally familiar with the room, familiar as Mac was after at least two years.

"Right," the Director said, eyes flicking over the paper. "You have an appointment with Dobrinsky: five minutes. Go to training room 45L, second floor."

"Where?" Vic said.

She looked from one to the other, an expression of faint surprise on her face, then reached under her side of the desk. A moment later, the young man returned.

"Yes?" he said, politely.

Mac frowned. He'd walked round that desk: there were no buttons. His appreciation of Agency technology rose, grudgingly.

"Take these three to training room 45L," the Director said.

"Second floor?" the man qualified, face professionally blank. Mac began to suspect he'd been here significantly longer than they had.

"Yes."

The man nodded sharply, turned on his heel and walked briskly out the door. His steps were even, precise, shoes making no noise on the floor. Mac began to suspect he'd been born here. Or maybe, he was a robot.

He glanced at Li Ann, who shrugged and stood up.

"I want you back here by six-thirty tomorrow morning," the Director said. "You have a job at quarter-to-eight, and you need briefing."

"A job?" Vic said, forehead creasing.

"You don't think I'd turn you out onto the rowdy streets of Frank Church's kitchen without hands-on experience, do you?" she said, like he was particularly dumb. Nice to see her slurs had their accurate moments.

"It wouldn't exactly be the first time," Vic said pleasantly, then stood up as well and walked towards the door. The man was standing there, stock still, radiating impatience. Perhaps human after all— or else the secret agent technology was getting pretty damn impressive.

Mac felt reluctantly pleased with Vic's behaviour, and followed him. He heard the Director murmur something to herself, didn't catch the specifics, and wondered if that meant they'd gotten the last word for once.

"You're late," Dobrinsky said, and the man inclined his head.

"Two minutes, thirty seconds, no more" he said; "I did the best I could."

"He took us to the third floor," Vic said, and Mac grinned. Well, he couldn't blame the man— definitely human, he'd hit the wrong button when Jackie slunk into the elevator before the doors closed, complaining about tooth marks on her inner thigh. They like, just wouldn't fade. And the Director had like, even helped rub in this bizarre oil, which was supposed to get rid of the marks real fast but was clearly made by someone from like incompetentsville because c'mon, how hard can it be? and it was all just so awful, because she had to be a virgin on this assignment thing? and like no one was gonna believe she was a virgin with bite marks like that.

It looked like she was wearing the Director's clothes again, too.

Mac was really kinda surprised they'd got to Dobrinsky at all.

"Well, go get into these," Dobrinsky was saying, tossing them each a cellophane-wrapped package. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "Li Ann, Jackie, there's a screen. Malcolm: you staying?"

"No, sir," the man said quickly, eyes flicking to Jackie's back as she strode over after Li Ann. The screen, predictably enough, was backlit. Just enough light to make out faint shadows stripping off.

"Get, then," Dobrinsky said, and the man melted away, door sliding noiselessly shut behind him.

Mac dug his fingernails into the cellophane, tore it open. Black and white fabric spilled out; he sorted it into an outfit and started putting it on, burningly conscious of Vic getting changed to his right, of the shadows helping each other do up buttons. He scowled, pushing his toes into buffed shoes that looked like black scarab beetles, kneeling down to tie bitingly thin laces. Since when were the girls friendly enough to do up buttons? And why hadn't he been there to see that conversion?

He wondered, suddenly, who'd made the bite marks on Jackie's thigh.

"How the hell does this thing work?" came Vic's voice, suddenly, and Mac looked up from wrestling with some weird velcro-brastrap contraction to see Dobrinsky lean across and transform Vic's version of it into a neat bow tie.

Mac scowled at it. Uh, no. His one must be missing some vital parts— there was no way it'd turn into something respectable around his neck, no way in hell.

"Here, squirt," Dobrinsky said, sounding impatient, reaching for it and performing the same minor miracle for him. "You guys'd better learn to do this properly."

"Well, you know, mine was tangled," Vic said instantly, with a shrug. "I'd have seen how if it hadn't been."

"Well, you know, mine was inside out," Mac mimicked, fixing it under his collar, then glanced up to see the women stalking out from behind their screen. He lost interest in ties; the waitress outfit probably looked quite respectable on some people, but Jackie wasn't one of them.

"Right, all settled?" Dobrinsky said, rubbing his hands together, apparently oblivious to the fact that no man alive ought to feel settled right now. "Follow me."

He led them over to a long table, pointed out a large cardboard box and gave them each a folded sheet of paper. "Set it. Twelve places."

Mac stared at the picture on his paper: it seemed to show a plate being advanced upon by an army of assorted cutlery.

Jackie reached into the box, frowning, then snatched her hand back, sucked her finger. "Okay, like, this is so out of order," she pronounced, lips curved disdainfully at her paper. "No one needs that many knives. Are these guests, like, Samurai or something?"

Mac reached in gingerly, pulled out a handful of spiked metal and spread it on the table. Across from him, he saw Vic do the same, frowning thoughtfully at a small fork, before his face cleared and he set it precisely on the table. "Okay," Mac said, suddenly determined to finish before Vic did, "this looks simple enough."

Okay, so it hadn't been simple. The subtleties of butter, fish and palate knives were deceptively complex. Plus, he'd forgotten Vic was already pseudo-culinary, with his whole let's-cook-and-pretend-we're-forty getup, and of course Vic was just the kind of person who'd know what "crumbing down" meant.

Still, Mac was better at serving soup, and he'd reached the point of celebrating small battle-victories as if they wrapped up the whole war. Plus he was better at using the fork-and-spoon to silver-serve plastic vegetables from a platter. Okay, so Li Ann was the only one who could actually pick up real vegetables, which was minorly embarrassing since Mac'd been using chopsticks all his life and the principle was identical, but Vic's kept sliding all over the place even more, so he felt sort of redeemed. He had a feeling he needed practice, though.

Mac walked quickly down the corridor, waiter's outfit packed into a briefcase, not pausing as he heard someone catch a door as it swung behind him. He'd had the whole afternoon in purgatory, thanks— he wasn't feeling too much like conversation.

"Wait a sec," called Vic, catching up and falling into stride with him as they walked out the Agency building. "Where are you going now?"

"Need to buy shoes," Mac said, checking his watch. He had maybe two hours— plenty of time, if he left now.

Vic raised an eyebrow. "Shoes?"

"You don't honestly think I'm gonna be wearing these," Mac said, snidely. "C'mon. They look like something from a car boot sale, and they pinch."

"Oh yeah, good point, great way to blow your cover," Vic said warmly. "A penniless waiter strutting round in Gucci."

"Shoes don't have to look expensive to feel good," Mac told him. "Not that you'd know— what, Vic needs new footwear? Off we go to Wal-Mart. There is such a thing as apathy-chic, you know. And I don't strut."

"You so strut," Vic corrected, "but sure, go spend a bomb because you've got deformed feet, it's no skin off my nose." He opened the truck door, leaning over and fishing something off the passenger seat.

"Not deformed; wide," Mac corrected, "and you know what they say about foot size." Then he blinked as Vic turned round, realizing what he'd said.

"I know exactly what they say about foot size," Vic told him evenly, and held out a folded Armani. "Your shirt," he said unnecessarily, and it was clean and crisp without the faintest hint of salt. Must've been machine-washed, after all.

"Thanks," Mac said, taking it, "and I'll drop your umbrella round later." He paused, then smirked, "and the shirt, since I bet you'll wanna wear a real suit some day this year," and congratulated himself internally on managing to get a jibe in about Vic's fashion sense after all.

"Sure," Vic said, "do it," and it sounded slightly off, like he was talking on another level. Shades of meaning rippled through Mac's chest, and he nodded.

"About nine," he said, meeting Vic's gaze head-on.

Vic tilted his head fractionally, then nodded. "I'll make sure I'm in."

He was gonna get ambushed, he could tell. Loitering around a corner after dark was just, well, dumb.

He wasn't even sure why he was here. It was only a quarter to nine, after all, and Vic's apartment was only five minute's walk away, and he didn't want to arrive promptly on time anyway, so he could've conceivably waited in another twenty minutes before even putting his shoes on. New shoes, given that he'd somehow bought three pairs. He reminded himself again not to shop when feeling endlessly distracted.

Somehow, though, he'd gotten here. Checking his watch, he'd realized how unacceptably early he was, and had had to backtrack and loiter. So here he was. Loitering. For fifteen minutes, at least. Holding an umbrella, and a briefcase, looking ripe for a quick ambuscade.

He'd expected the walk to take longer— it hadn't. Maybe he was walking faster, or something. Possible, definitely. He'd felt electric with tension, barely noticing cars as they careened past the stretch of road he was about to cross.

Well, he was pretty sure he was gonna get laid. This was a good thing. So, why not feel a little buzzed?

It was odd, though, because Vic couldn't provide him with the warm, heavy breasts or silken skin or whimpered gasps that Mac preferred— and yet, he rationalized, it felt good in the way any pleasantly proportioned human body felt good, and Vic really wasn't bad looking when it came down to it, and someone else's hand was someone else's hand no matter the physique attached to it. Okay, he was repeating himself— but it bore repeating. So. No problem.

Ten minutes to wait. He rubbed one ankle over the other, hand on the cold wall to steady himself, appeasing the itch in his shin. Stupid new socks— the shoes, they were good, lovely. But the socks? He'd been preoccupied, sure, but still. Why were people giving out free socks— could it be, because they wouldn't sell? Because they were some bizarre combination of polyester and, whatever, fibreglass that irritated human skin? No, it was because the people at Banana Republic were truly concerned his feet weren't breathing properly and required a new environment.

Maybe they had a point, though. Maybe he should see about buying some more socks. Cotton ones. He'd seen a line in chenille, but that wouldn't last five minutes in his lifestyle. So yeah, better sticking with cotton, and actually, there was something energizing about knowing this was another guy, no worries about faked cries or lacklustre thrusts, no need to feel nervous about crushed ribs or scratching— because damnit, Vic had marked him up pretty well over the years. Plus, it wasn't like either of them were getting any other full-body exposure so a few fingertip-shaped bruises wouldn't figure in the scheme of things.

Not even on the hips.

He swallowed, feeling the train of thought carry him helplessly towards its destination. No, though, there was no way Vic'd let that happen, let him fold him over and hold him in place, the perfect forbidden fingertip-shaped bruises developing enthusiastically as Vic clawed the floor and let him shove into his— no. No way.

Better thinking about socks, he told himself, because there's an outside minuscule possibility you might be able to mentally persuade them to morph into something nice and hypoallergenic, while there is absolutely no hope in hell of getting into Vic's pants at that particular angle.

No way. As if. As absolutely fucking if.

He shifted, wondering if there were any surveillance units round here. Then his watch gave a single, quiet beep, and he swallowed. Shit. That was kinda sudden, actually. Okay. Time.

"Thanks," Vic said, taking the umbrella and the shirt and leaving them on the table. "I was just gonna watch the game. Nine-fifteen start. Wanna join me?"

"No," Mac said, walking in anyway, glancing at the mute TV, then back at Vic's eyes. I wanna fuck you, he thought loudly. "But you can watch it after. What's left of it."

Something akin to admiration winked across Vic's mouth and was gone— "Yeah?" he said, challenge-rich, watching Mac walk towards him.

Mac nodded lightly, held his eyes, implacable. Vic backed up, hands finding the table edge behind him, raising his eyebrows as Mac stopped just in front of him and stroked a confident fingertip down the clear bulge of his cock. "Not here," Mac said, eyes flicking at the bedroom door, then back. "There."

"Okay," Vic said, straightening, coming into dangerous proximity. "Lead the way."

Mac moistened his lips, shook his head. "You go first," he said.

The eyebrow went up again, but a sort of lightly guilty pleasure went through Vic's expression as well, and Mac decided he'd been right to go on his instincts here. "Have it your way," Vic said, as he brushed past and walked into the bedroom.

Mac followed, eyes sweeping over Vic's body; no, not bad at all. "Oh, I intend to."

Vic panted and squirmed against the sheets, up into his hand, effortlessly hedonistic as he finally exploded with a low moan, and it took Mac a few seconds to realize he hadn't come alongside. He smirked faintly, a flash of warm insouciant triumph trickling down inside him, and his cock throbbed against the inside of his pants. That could've been embarrassing. Nice to know his body had fought a fight for him while his brain had been reeling out of control.

To his credit, it didn't take Vic that much longer. Bleary eyes opened, blinked up, grinned rakishly, then took stock of the situation. "Whaddyou want?" he asked, licking sweat off his lips, and Mac stared at them and considered asking for a blowjob, then veered away. Never forget about the obligation to reciprocate. He didn't wanna raise the stakes that high. On the other hand, he might not have an opportunity like this again.

He looked at Vic's shirt, fabric crumpled but all buttons in place. "I wanna come on your back," he said suddenly, inspired. He waited for Vic to say no, hoping hard that he wouldn't. Some reason, the idea fired something inside him. His cock had jumped.

Vic raised his eyebrows, but didn't shake his head. "Whatever turns you on," he murmured, and it wasn't quite the insult Mac suspected Vic had intended.

"Take your shirt off," he said, and Vic's mouth twitched.

"Like I'd let you without," he said sardonically, standing up, but Mac didn't let it annoy him. Given what he was about to do, he really didn't have to worry about a few smart-alec remarks.

Vic draped the shirt on the bed, glanced down. "I'm guessing I don't get to put on my pants?"

Mac shook his head, pleased with how the evening was panning out, eyes roaming leisurely down Vic's naked body. "No chance. Now turn round and put your hands on the doorframe."

He heard Vic inhale, then watched him do it. The minute hesitation turned him on; if Vic had really objected, he would have refused. He wasn't a martyr; Mac knew that much. Which meant it hit a charge with both of them, one Vic hadn't expected. Excellent.

He stroked one knuckle down Vic's spine, watching the sleek lines. Soft skin, slightly tacky with sweat; Vic had really gotten into it earlier. Something powerful about that, hearing him pant, watching those white teeth close down hard and imagining it was the base of his palm. His shoulderblades were slightly distended; Mac found himself imagining if Vic was on his knees, what they'd look like then, if he had his hands reached up to the top of the door, if he was bent over the end of the bed.

Warm thoughts, forbidden for all they were attractive. He ran his hands up Vic's sides, felt the exposed strength. Vic's back would have turned him off, if it had been on a woman. Strong, with faint definition of muscle, narrowing to his waist from a broad start; it flexed under his knuckle, and he reached down and released his cock silently, holding steady as it thrummed and ached. On a man, this was pretty damn near perfect.

His free hand slipped round, fingers splayed firmly against Vic's stomach, feeling his muscles tremble and twitch. He drew Vic back, watching the tension flex in smooth shoulders as he put a faint strain on Vic's grip of the doorframe. Gorgeous. Guided, the head of his cock touched the shallow dip of a vertebrate, heat jolting through him, leaving a clear wet mark.

Stunning.

Vic's stomach jumped against his hand, and he grinned, starting to draw slow slick patterns around the base of Vic's spine. Heat was flowing down his cock, spreading out round the shaft, leaving him hot and frustrated. He pulled Vic back harder, heard the squeak of sweat-sticky fingers against paintwork, and dragged the tip of his cock slowly down the path his knuckle had taken earlier.

He saw Vic's shoulders rise and fall, wondered briefly what it felt like from the other side, and shivered. Of course, he'd slug Vic before he'd let him try something like this with Mac underneath— but the idea of Vic feeling it, tracing the path of his cock with his mind, feeling the air cooling on the smears he left behind— that was kinda hot.

Even hotter, to have Vic waiting for every touch. Anticipating.

He steeled himself and backed away, instantly missing the contact. Vic swayed slightly, and his knuckles whitened on the door; Mac closed his eyes briefly, started stroking his cock, then gave in and let his other hand slink back onto Vic's body and explore again.

He found tight nipples, and thrumming muscles etched in a way that indicated to Mac that Vic was leaning into his touch. He scratched down Vic's back, heard Vic's throat release a low cut of noise, and watched three white lines score to red and then fade into soft pink. His breathing was growing louder in his ears— he stared at his own hand, flashing over his cock, almost dreamlike, superimposed against a picture of a naked man.

His vision shifted, focussing on the curve of Vic's ass, imagining making the request. Oh, yeah. Imagine Vic accepting. Yeah.

His hand stroked down, following the path his eyes had just enjoyed, feeling the fullness of flesh in his palm, squeezing enough to feel the resistance. Not like a woman, somehow more exotic, a league of its own. God, imagine, spreading it and working his cock inside, hands clamping round Vic's thighs, anchoring them together— and then sitting down, pulling Vic down with him, feeling the sweetness of Vic's weight impaling himself completely.

His cock swelled a little further, head glossing over. He grinned to himself, fingertips tempted, and just brushed them wickedly up the crack of Vic's ass— "ah!" said Vic, like Mac had known he was gonna say it, say it and slap his hand and protest— except his spine arched as well, and his legs shifted instinctively further apart, and the noise twisted in Mac's ear and sounded erotic.

Erotic. Not a protest.

Something sparked in the pit of his stomach and sizzled up through his cock, and his fist ground down hard, and he snatched his other hand around his cock and jerked three times fast, fighting to keep his eyes open as white streaks spat over Vic's back and messed up his pattern, just as the enormity of what had occurred to him messed up the simple agenda in his head.

Vic wanted to be fucked.

Or, at least, his body wanted to be.

He reeled, one hand finding the wall and propping himself up against it, the other still holding his cock, feeling it soften enough to tuck safely away. The air suddenly felt dangerous, charged. He didn't dare say the words.

"Shit," he muttered, loud enough for Vic to hear. "Guess," he said, injecting a little humour, "you missed most of the game."

"It's on tape," Vic said, over his shoulder, lowering his arms, sounding faintly strained.

"Right," Mac said, staring at Vic's shoulderblades as they flexed and melted under glistening skin, then forcing his eyes away. "You need a shower," he told him, letting Vic hear him grin.

"Déjà vu," Vic said, and the grin was in his voice too, and Mac turned to fish his jacket off the bed.

"Well, I better get going," he said, glancing up just quick enough to see Vic in profile as he padded out the door. Just quick enough to see what he'd already guessed, that Vic was hard, that the conclusion he'd come to was on some levels mutual.

"Remember, gotta be at the Agency by six-thirty," Vic said, out of sight, voice hollowing as he moved into— Mac guessed— the bathroom.

"What's the odds she wants us serving breakfast to some psychopath," Mac called, lacing up his shoes.

"Or a team of Directors," Vic returned, grimly amused.

"Same thing, surely," Mac said, then walked out, smelling sex on his clothes as he met the fresh air of the main room. The TV was still blinking in the corner; he ignored it, making for the door. "Later."

"Bye," Vic called, muffled now the bathroom door was closed, and Mac swallowed. Shit. Shitting fuck. So he'd pretended not to notice: why?

He stalked down the stairs, deciding he really didn't feel like the enclosed clunking embrace of the elevator right now. Because, he thought, it would have been prime mocking material, would have caused bitterness, would have admitted something far stronger than a bit of drought-induced groping— and Mac really really didn't want Vic to back out now.

Not for another... he checked his watch... twenty-three hours at least.

Waking stupidly late again, there wasn't time for breakfast; getting the location via the Director's pissed off cell phone, he arrived at the hotel to see Li Ann finishing off a bagel. She was wiping her hands on her white serving cloth, folding it to conceal the greasy stain; "Ready?" she asked, moving into place, smiling apologetically when he said he was clearly not.

The hotel was opulent. No psychopaths, as far as he could tell; just luxurious well-rested rich people meandering down to breakfast. He'd shared a wry little grimace with Li Ann— this used to be their breakfast, their opulence. He arranged a smile firmly over his lips, stood straight, and looked after his allocated tables. Two dozen people, two dozen orders, barely three hours sleep— it blurred.

He served an obscenity of butter-glazed croissants and pancakes, pulpy orange juice and hot coffee, steam finding its way unerringly to the pit of his stomach. He learnt to aim a patient-yet-faintly-disapproving look at the man at the next table every time his stomach grumbled about not having had its fair share of cholesterol this morning.

"No, no, I realize some people prefer to avoid harsh stimulants; I'll bring a fresh pot right over," he heard Li Ann saying pleasantly, and fought off a grin— that guy was maybe two leers away from a scalding decaffeinated shower.

He'd chosen his tables carefully, making sure both women were between him and Vic. Just because. And so what if one man was sulking over his apricot compote, because he'd run out of peach and the refill station was behind Vic's route? The man should learn to embrace new preserves, shouldn't restrict himself to just the one flavour.

He repeated that reassuringly to himself a couple of times, until the context twisted in his brain, and then he ground the train of thought into dust and concentrated hard on pouring coffee with his left hand.

"Well done," the Director said, reading what Mac assumed was a report on their morning off her laptop. Hell, what did he know— could be accounts, could be porn, more likely the latter but frankly he didn't wanna know. She frowned at the screen, then snapped it shut, and he wondered what— or who— had displeased her.

Probably someone not being submissive enough.

His lips pressed together, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Projecting, he told himself clearly, thinking he could probably count the teeth of his zipper from the inside, his cock was that alert today.

"Aside from a few mishaps," she sent a warning glare at Li Ann, "that went smoothly. Now. How do your wrists feel?"

Vic's choke drowned out Mac's splutter— he thought wryly that they were closer in mind than either of them felt comfortable with. He wondered what else Vic was thinking about, then swallowed at the memory of leaving Vic last night, positive he was about to jerk off in the shower. He could see it, drifts of soap gliding down Vic's wet body, the cubicle steam-silent except for his mouth working around low moans.

His dick nudged around uncomfortably in his pants. Forty-eight: and they were biting into sensitive flesh with the lack of regard only an inanimate piece of clothing would have.

"Fine," said Jackie, when no one else answered. "Like, the chef? he got the back of my hand with this tray thing, full of croissants? and it was like, majorly hot, so I've got this blister? but other than that, I'm good. Why?"

The Director beamed at her, then inclined her head. "I'm sure you'll do just fine," she purred; "it's the others I'm worried about. They probably don't have your... stamina." She glanced round the room, then back to Jackie, adding, "Li Ann has a particular disadvantage, I'd say."

"My wrists are fine," Li Ann said staunchly, just as Jackie broke in helpfully,

"Oh no, her stamina's pretty funky actually— I mean, okay, not like in my league, but still a-okay for most things we try."

Mac exchanged an incredulous look with Vic before he registered it, then found he was holding the dark eyes longer than necessary. He found he really, really wanted to adjust himself inside his jeans.

He looked away, back to the Director, who was smirking knowingly at Li Ann— who was blushing. Just a little. Interesting.

He gritted his teeth. Interesting, should have been fascinating, so why was the what's-Vic-doing-now question tugging so much harder on his brain?

He'd decided, firmly, at around 10 a.m. over a pot of steaming water as he polished countless knives to a professional shine, that he couldn't go back to Vic's place. Because he'd only been twice, and he'd left both times feeling disturbed to his bones, and it could only get worse.

Although...

He could almost feel Vic's eyes brushing over him, felt very grateful for the briefcase in his lap.

Okay.

Fuck.

It could only get worse, and yet...

Screw it.

Self-delusion was just so passé.

Vic's gaze was trailing his neck, he could feel it, and he was gonna do it again, he wanted to— it was heady with Vic, no denying it, plus incalculably good to feel any hot human body arching for the merest brush of his skin.

Mac shot him a sideways glance, let his breath open his mouth just a little, then bit down deliberately on his lower lip. Vic blinked, looked away. Mac licked his lips, then flashed his tongue round his mouth, where all the saliva had dried up. Cause for concern, perhaps. But hey.

"You can pick up new service cloths in room 22B," the Director was saying, and Mac pulled himself together quickly enough to paste a blank look over his face to match the others'. "Oh, never mind," the Director said, shaking her head. "I'll send them on."

"You know," Jackie said, "this place? I'd really appreciate like some sort of map."

The Director blinked. "I'm afraid," she said sincerely, the voice a teacher uses to talk to her pet, "that's absolutely out of the question."

"Huh," Jackie said, pouting. "Lame."

The Director smiled; she reached across, patted her hand. "The blueprints were destroyed; you're welcome to try and prise a home-made version out of Nathan, if you wish, but I don't think even he knows all the rooms."

Mac felt Vic looked too interested in that piece of trivia, and it gave him an oddly triumphant sensation in his chest. Looked like he wasn't the only one having trouble concentrating.

Jackie raised her eyebrows. "This place hasn't got a map?" she said, delighted. "Wow, that is so cool! It's a total mystery hideout. Although... I think I'm gonna try anyway, with that Nathan guy? It could be, like, incredibly useful."

The Director pulled her hand back. "On your own time," she warned, including all of them now it wasn't a one-to-one with her favourite pupil. "Now. About those wrists..."

Four hours in the gym. If they were going to be carrying stacked plates around all evening, they'd need stronger arms than that, the Director had said.

"I swear," Vic muttered darkly to him, from an adjacent rowing machine, "real waiters don't have to go through this shit." His hair was spiked with sweat, eyelashes glossy.

"Nuh-uh," Mac agreed, slowing to rest a while, feeling the muscle tighten and whine plaintively all down his arm. He watched the muscles in Vic's back work, the crunch of his shoulders on the down-stroke, the misted dark patches where fabric had acted as blotting paper.

He was absently aware he'd arranged his workout to correspond with Vic's— or to put it another way, yeah, of course it was coincidence that he when he moved on to work his shoulders he chose the machine about three feet behind where Vic was speeding up on the treadmill. And he was staring into space to count the reps, honestly, not pacing himself using the movement of Vic's ass and thighs.

"What's the likelihood she's got something else lined up after, put us through real torture?"

The air smelt like salt, tasted pleasantly bitter with chemicals. Mac tilted his neck and kneaded his shoulder, fingers digging into an assortment of rocks. "Like, another job?"

"Pre-cisely," Vic grunted, heaving a last long stroke, then slumping back in his seat and panting softly. "I'm thinking beastfighting, thinking a spell in grenade disposal— "

"Thinking another waitressing job," came the Director's voice, cool and sweet.

"Waitress?" Mac demanded, twisting round, as Vic groaned and chimed in with,

"C'mon, that's pretty low— we may not be pushing Jackie's standards but we're still not as bad as— "

Mac caught sight of Li Ann approaching behind the Director, a towel slung over the back of her neck, poised to speak. "— Nathan," he interjected quickly, shooting a warning glance at Vic, who sat up and sent him a quizzical look; it cleared as Mac nodded behind them and Vic caught sight of his ex-fiancée.

"I'm sorry, but I've had enough— my arms feel like they're going to drop off any second now," Li Ann said, smiling agreeably, blatantly trying to butter her up.

"Me too," Mac said quickly, figuring this might be their only chance at escape for the whole afternoon. "There's such a thing as overwork, you know?"

"Not that we haven't been pacing ourselves," Vic added, getting off the machine and stretching. "But I know my limits. They were about a half hour ago."

The Director's gaze slid over them slowly, then across to Jackie, who was humming to her headphones as she executed smooth curls in one corner. "Oh, very well," she drawled, unimpressed. "But I want you back here tomorrow, improved by fifteen per cent on your current stats."

She slipped a hand inside her long black coat; it reappeared fingering a slip of blue paper. "Tonight, I want you to learn the file Nathan's prepared for you— by the way," she said languidly, through a faint smile, "don't you think a man who's acted as an intern in four major American prisons might have to be rather adaptable when it comes to upper body development? Judging the cover again, boys..."

"Huh," Mac said. Lurid pictures of Nathan swam through his mind; he forced them away.

"How about that," Vic agreed, rolling his eyes.

"Quite," the Director said, then handed Mac the slip of paper. "You two— dinner at the wrestling club."

"For us?" Mac said effusively, pressing a hand to his heart. "That's so kind!"

"You're working four ‘til two," the Director said pleasantly, ignoring him. "I'm afraid you'll have to find your own way home."

"That's harsh," Mac said. "You should at least book us cabs."

"Do we get to keep tips?" Vic demanded, adopting a pugnacious stance.

"We've got a union, you know," Mac said threateningly, trying not to be aware of Vic's body drawn up next to him.

"We'll take strike action."

"According to the charter of ‘92, you're obliged— "

"Do you two jokers have any idea what you'd have to do for wrestlers before they'd give you a tip?" the Director asked dryly, then clapped her hands. "All right, hit the showers. Li Ann, you and Miss Janczyk are booked in to serve for a wedding anniversary. There'll be twelve of you in total: it's your mission to blend in, you hear me? Whatever the drunken guests say, you are not to reciprocate."

Li Ann tossed her a sour look, folding her arms. "Okay, sure, whatever," she said. "Do I detect a hint of sexism here, though? I mean, a wrestling dinner?"

"Actually, sexism hadn't crossed my mind— you are being punished for a volatile temper by having to work on the uneven mud of a marquee, and Jackie needs the experience of a large group situation." She turned, one hand landing on Mac's shoulder, the other slipping round Vic's waist. "Mac and Vic, on the other hand, need to lose their pretty little expressions of disdain. I figure that in an environment where projected contempt will get them assaulted, they'll develop appropriately docile demeanours rather quickly."

Mac slipped away from her, scowling. "Docile?" he protested, an extra line of irritation in his voice as he realized Vic was still well within her clutches. "No waiter I've ever been served by has ever been docile, especially not silver service men. Not even when Michael slapped one for insolence. We'll be rumbled for having good manners, and how embarrassing would that be?"

The Director smiled, and Mac watched her fingernails trace languid patterns on Vic's hipbone. "You didn't bother hiring from this Agency, did you? Serve with a simper, boys. No argument. Now go clean up."

Vic may still have been wearing the appalling shoes, but the rest of the uniform looked fine. Nothing like a penguin, or Mac was gonna have to rethink his stance on bestiality.

He smirked, shaking his head as he refilled the oil drizzler. Any telepaths with a propensity for loaded retired wrestlers would be giving him very weird looks about now.

"Excuse me?"

Mac turned sharply, then checked himself and pasted on a helpful smile. "Yeah?"

A large expensive brown bull-dog-type with petulant jowls stared up at him. Mac remembered filling his wine glass three times— this table had also had its allocation of free Bloody Mary's by the end of the first course. "This," the man said, with an irritable gesture at his plate, "is not what I ordered."

Mac glanced down. Actually, yes, it was. Exactly as he'd ordered. "Oh, really?" he said blandly, waiting for the man to realize his mistake and let him leave.

"Damn straight it's not," the man said, and jabbed a finger at his neighbour's dish. His heavy gold watch slumped against the base of his hand, and Mac reminded himself again to hire a wardrobe mistress if he ever got too rich to know better. "That's what I ordered."

The neighbour stared up at him accusingly. "And, hello? This ain't what I ordered either."

Mac restrained from rolling his eyes. "Lemme guess," he started, acidly, then stalled his tone, continuing ingratiatingly, "you wanted that?"

"Don't point at my food," the first man warned. "I might want to eat that. Except I don't."

"Yeah," the neighbour nodded, then frowned and bent his head sharply to one side; the crack was faintly sickening. He shook his head slightly, then nodded again. "I wanted that one."

Mac closed his eyes for a second, then smiled and addressed both men without actually looking at either. "How about we just swap your dishes then, huh?"

Pity he hadn't been looking; the hand that shot out and fisted the front of his waistcoat would've been easy to dodge had he been more alert. As it was, he had to clamp down hard on the jumping muscles in his arms, eager to floor this guy and leave an imprint or two.

"You trying to rip me off with second-hand food?" the man was demanding, belligerently. "I'll get the management down on your ass— we're paying customers, you know; we pay your wages— !"

"Can I help?" came Vic's voice, from next to him.

The man's hold of Mac slackened as he twisted in his seat to see the new speaker. Mac took the opportunity to step sideways, out of his reach.

"Yeah," the man was saying; "you can get me the fucking alternative, since this guy's too dumb to tell the difference. And the same for my friend."

"Sure," Vic said politely, swiping the offending plates from the table, all the decorum and form of a servant. It made Mac's dick twitch.

"One minute, sir," Mac said courteously, glancing at Vic's eyes and seeing the checked amusement there. He could imagine grabbing him, pushing his curtly groomed body against table, flicking the compressed laughter into low, choked approval.

Mac straightened his waistcoat, trying not to think too loudly, and nodded to the two ex-wrestlers as docilely as possible. "I mean," he hissed to Vic, stalking back towards the kitchens. "What's the difference between pork medallions and rack of lamb anyway? They both look like hunks of grey meat drowning in brown slime— "

"Lamb's more tender," Vic said, shrugging, handing him the first dish and then balancing the second on the base of his hand. "Voila," he said, amused. "Now go and play nice." He grinned, eyes glinting wickedly, compressed laughter bubbling to the surface again.

A flare of heat slashed through Mac's chest. "I want," he leaned in, holding the plates clear of their bodies, "to take you home right now, show you the difference between dealing with these guys and playing nice."

He heard Vic's teeth click together, by his ear, and wished with sudden desire that Vic would abandon chrome-plastic protocol and lick his neck.

" I can't believe you said that," Vic managed a moment later, "when I've still gotta serve desert."

"Sorry," Mac said, without a hint of contrition. "Meanwhile, where do you stand on a little InstaLax mixed in his gravy?"

Vic's hand appeared on his chest, pushed him back firmly. "I'd be more worried you carried powdered laxatives around with you, I think."

Mac smirked, then looked up sharply as a sucking noise from the corridor heralded the opening of the swing door, and stepped back. "Why Victor, that's why I was asking you," he teased, turning and heading back to the diners, smiling vaguely at a waiter who stank of an excessive amount of Lynx, holding his breath.

"Rack of lamb, sir," he said, finding the table again, syrup-polite. "And for you: the alternative. Enjoy."

He looked around for empty glasses, and rescued a basket of bread rolls from the edge of the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vic carrying a tray of condiments to a table across the way. He moved fluidly, no hint of the hard-on Mac'd rubbed against just minutes ago.

Mac grinned to himself, imagining padding up behind Vic right here and now, wriggling a hand down his pants and jerking him off in the middle of the room, with a strong feeling that Vic would only protest because he needed something to do with his mouth— then reigned in his thoughts.

He'd found that by arranging the service cloth just so over his wrist and crossing his arm before his body, he could hide a multitude of over-excited sins— but there were always limits, and he didn't think the diners were quite that drunk. Yet.

Mac stumbled into his apartment, fingers sliding crazily against the wall to find the light. Never mind the diners getting drunk; he'd had a pleasant introduction to the perks of serving rich men a pre-determined volley of alcohol, in that all sorts of things can go missing without the blink of a single diamond-encrusted eyelash.

The headwaiter had initiated it. Dean, who was a tall, broad blond with skilful fingers and a charmingly sly smile, gave such a strong impression of faultless professionalism that Mac had actually jumped when he'd felt the smooth, cool bulk of a champagne bottle pressed into his unsuspecting fingers from behind. Luckily, he'd always had a quick recovery time.

Dean, continuing innocently past him into the dining room laden with small portions of French dessert, had nodded surreptitiously at a large metal service cupboard to Mac's left.

The ominously large hinges were silent, and Mac had had a fleeting suspicion that Dean had worked this venue before. With a quick look round, he'd stashed the bottle, shaking his head slightly at finding three jugs already waiting for him, full of the expensive fruit cocktails he had been serving wistfully all evening.

He could still taste their residue now, bright and sweet against his tongue, slightly curdled with time. Their effect was also tumbling around his head, giving the corners of his brain a rolling massage.

Stumbling in the dark, he found the light switch and pressed it decisively. Good. Bright, too bright, but way less scary than the proscept... the procsept... the thought of going through the room without light. When had he decided to furnish his apartment with so many corners, huh?

In the end, they'd had enough alcohol to drop a dozen carthorses, let alone five waiters. And Matt had gone home early, calling a taxi from Dean's house, citing a wife.

"You boys don't have wives, do you?" Dean had said earnestly, and Vic had shaken his head with a small grin and reached for another pitcher of Slaked Devil.

"No chance," Mac had said, holding out his glass. "No, no, no," he'd said, a moment later, to Vic, then beamed at Dean. "Not that; more champagne."

The champagne had been a nice touch, even if it was slightly sacrilegious to wind up drinking vintage Moetaet Chandon out of two-dollar mugs. Mac had felt it was his duty to drink more than Vic, because he'd been raised to the high-life and knew how to do a fine draught justice.

Pressure at his knees suddenly tipped him onto his bed— he crawled up to his half-submerged pillow, scrabbled at the tightly-made covers, found a breach in their sternly impermeable body, and slid inside. Fabric scratched and twisted up his legs, and he wriggled free of his pants with a sigh. Pulling at the buttons of his shirt, sparing a moment to wonder wildly where the hell he'd left the bow tie, he finally relaxed into the nice, firm mattress.

There'd been this moment, he remembered, where he'd laughed even harder than before. When Dean, who was really a good guy— pity they probably wouldn't work with him next time— had done this classic double take, looked at Vic then him then Vic then him then turned to Jake, the forth man, and asked imploringly, "Wait, these two— have I been really dumb?"

He'd thought they were together: a couple. They'd laughed and laughed, waved him down, laughed some more.

Mac frowned, turned over. Now he thought about it, he wasn't sure what had made Dean think that. He didn't remember doing anything particularly gay, like kissing him or groping him or anything.

There again, Slaked Devil was pretty much enforced amnesia in a glass. Or out of the jug, when they couldn't find glasses any more.

Wait, no, he had done sex things: but later, just a few minutes ago. Dean couldn't have seen that, no chance. That was just them. Vic showing him to his apartment; he'd leaned back against his front door and slipped his hands down Vic's pants, cupped that ass, rubbed against him lewdly. "Spirit's willing," he'd said, smugly obscure.

Vic'd wriggled sluttily under his hands and understood and leaned forward and licked his ear. "Ditto," he'd said, a blast of velvety-hot breath.

"Have you got my keys?"

"No." Vic'd fumbled around in Mac's pockets, come up with a triumphant fist of scratchy metal. "Wait, yes. Now I have."

"Give here," Mac had said, easing his hands out Vic's pants, holding his palm up expectantly. Between them, they'd managed to get the door open. Turning, Mac'd tried to focus on Vic's eyes, found them as unsteady as his own. "No point in coming in," he'd said, clearly.

Vic had shaken his head. "No point," he'd agreed, and lifted a hand in farewell, and weaved off down the corridor.

Mac burrowed deeper under the covers, the frown smoothing out with intoxicated exhaustion. At least they were thinking on the same lines, right? Unbidden, the thought of his alarm clock loomed on the horizon, and he let the thoughts of Vic rove away from his mind and resolve instead into sleep.

"It seems you'll never be professional enough for my standards, but this will have to do," the Director said, loudly. Mac cringed into his headache. "Li Ann, you will wear a wire. You are also diabetic: under the guise of an insulin injection, I want a report at eight pm and another at midnight. He won't trouble you— he has a documented fear of needles."

Mac raised his hand, tentatively. "Uh, I need a new bow tie," he said, watching the Director for signs of increased volume. "Sorry."

She leaned over the table. "And why, Mr. Ramsey, is that the case?"

"Uh," Mac said, wondering which excuse would sound most professional, then wondering if it was possible to professionally lose a piece of your uniform.

"Perhaps the champagne was the culprit?" the Director supplied sweetly, then passed a hand under her desk and lifted out a brown envelope. "Delivered courtesy one Andrew Shields."

Mac frowned in confusion, taking the envelope and finding his missing bow tie inside. "That's... nice of him," he said vaguely, glancing at Vic for comprehension and feeling a little better when he didn't receive any.

"Known to you as Dean, I'm sure," the Director's voice came, low and cutting.

Vic's eyes widened; Mac felt his own face respond similarly, and looked quickly back to the Director. "He was a plant?"

"Sweetheart, sixty per cent of the people you meet with on any given day are plants. Shields is just... fonder of taking his work home with him than most." She waved a manicured hand at their protest. "Oh, don't make such a fuss. I needed to know if you could keep with your stories under duress— and he provided sufficient duress to settle my mind. On the most prominent counts, anyway. You acted perfectly within my predictions."

Mac wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or relieved. He wondered what would have happened if they'd surprised her. Some reason, it gave him the shivers.

"So lemme get this straight," Vic was saying. "You arranged for us to go home with him?"

Jackie rolled her eyes. "What did you guys get up to that it's such an issue, huh? Like, I'm beginning to get kinda intrigued..."

"Nothing to do with you," Vic snapped, and then his eyes widened and he darted a panicked glance at the Director, "that is, uh, I mean— "

"Class," she said precisely, "will come to order."

Mac felt a tinge of jealousy: Vic would talk over him for hours, but when the Director said to shut up, Vic shut up. It wasn't fair.

"I want you to spend the rest of the afternoon preparing: you're to move into position at six. Arrive in different cars; all cabs, please. Mac and Li Ann, you come together." She slid a set of files across the table, one to each of them. "Mac, throughout the evening you are distracted by Jackie— you've wanted her for some time, flirted at a distance, but this is your first opportunity to work with her."

Mac glanced over, gave her a friendly leer. Jackie laughed. "Did you see that?" she said, pointing. "He's like, so ready for this role."

The Director didn't laugh, but the warmth in her lips gave Mac pause. Vic, he noticed, didn't even smile. Mac reached for his file, started flipping through. Boring as hell.

"Vic, you're on your own. This is the first time you've worked with this Agency, but you know Mac from a few years ago."

Vic was leafing through his file. "'Cat allergies— ‘ Do I really need to know all this?" he said, skeptically.

The Director's eyes narrowed. "Frank Church might not ask you, but I will not have my agents wandering around without a three-dimensional history. Plus, I happen to know the house you are working in does not have a cat. But if it did, you would be required to react accordingly."

Vic shook his head. "Then why make me allergic in the first place?" he demanded, and Mac felt a tiny rush of adrenaline at the intensity of his voice. He was beginning to wish he'd brought Vic in last night, woken up next to him, didn't have this lazily gathering heat at his groin.

"I have my reasons," she shot back.

Vic scowled. "Do you."

"Perhaps," she said, her lips curving in a smile. "But it really doesn't concern you if I have or not. I say so, and therefore— "

Mac watched the moment Vic folded, frustration arching in his eyes. "Okay," Vic said, flatly. "You win. I'm allergic."

Mac wondered why he felt he'd lost as well. "I'm thinking," he said vaguely, then realized he'd never be able to argue Vic's case and switched to impudence, "I'm thinking I'm real tired, and I'd be better off sleeping a while. Get rid of the headache."

The Director frowned at him, then she gave a little implacable shrug. "Be back by five."

"Half five," Mac said automatically, wanting a victory over her. "And the others get time off too." Maybe he could lure Vic home with him. Sleep wasn't the only way to clear the mind.

"It's not time off, Mac," she said, sibilant and dangerous. "It's time for preparation. If you choose to spend it curled up in bed and then later fail me, you are absolutely responsible." She tilted his chin up with one cool forefinger. "Be back for five."

He opened his mouth, ready to growl, then felt his own resistance fold just as Vic's had. There was no fucking point, arguing it out with her. "Okay, sure."

"Five, Mac."

"I said okay, didn't I?"

"I don't trust you," she said, and it felt like a warning.

Mac felt a flare of anger strike through his body, and stood up suddenly. "Your loss," he ground out, and snatched the file off the table. "But I know I'll be back here for five, and I will be, and if you don't believe me, it's really no skin off my nose."

He stalked out, then reeled slightly with anger when Vic didn't follow him.

Ten to five, and Mac was in a traffic jam. He reached for his phone, jabbed in Vic's number.

"Yes."

"Vic?"

"Mac?"

"I'm on the road, traffic lights."

He could almost hear Vic's frown. "How far away?"

"Ten minutes. At best."

"You want me to... what? Cover for you?"

Mac felt a slight jump of surprise. He hadn't even thought of that— and if the positions were reversed, he wouldn't have thought of it either. "Uh, yeah," he said, "or just, you know. Let her know it's not my fault."

"Whose else's fault would it be?" Vic asked, pragmatically. "I mean, in her eyes."

Mac eased the car forward, scanning for a break in the traffic. "The city fucking planner's?"

Vic's laugh came loud in his ear, making it tingle. "I don't think she'd buy it. Look, I've gotta go. She's on the prowl."

Mac shifted in his seat, feeling a sudden desire for phone sex. "Is my bow tie still there?" he asked, wanting to prolong the conversation.

"...Yeah, I think," Vic said, after a pause. "I've really gotta— I'll see you in ten, okay? Good luck."

The phone rang off, and Mac glared at a spot on his windshield. Fuck. Now he had half a hard-on and ten minutes to think about it, with a withering glare to look forward to when he finally arrived. Fucking great.

The thermometers, Mac decided, were actually pretty cool. He'd learnt the scale— the different poisons sending the colour to different heights, so that if there was no opportunity to discard the meal then at least they'd know which foods were most toxic, and could act accordingly.

As Nathan put it, "if all the guests come down with mild food poisoning, they're not going to blame the waiters, are they? No. Blame the chef for his ingredients, and the host for his choice in catering firms— because they think small, you see, don't even imagine the conspiracy unfolding around their little air-soaked brains."

"Uh huh," Mac had nodded, wondering if he had any painkillers to hand.

"One last thing," the Director said, as they rose to leave. "Feel free to dole out a little tainted food to Wilson Junior, just enough to render him immobile for a day or two. Easier to pick up, you know. Also, don't eat anything you haven't tested— including fluids. Church has lost seven staff already this year. Let's not make it ten.

"Ten?"

"Well, Jackie would never eat anything I didn't expressly advise her to, now, would you?"

Jackie inclined her head, blonde hair falling forward, and smiled. "Like, of course not!" she gushed, rolling her eyes. "You have the best taste."

Mac shuddered delicately, then gave himself a mental shake. When the fuck did that become nauseating? Damnit. Today was not going well.

Frank Church was pretty much as he looked in the photo, a broad frame swollen like freshly risen dough, although he straightened when the girls came in. Mac exchanged a look with Li Ann as Jackie rose smoothly into her role and asked where she could freshen up.

No worries about nibbling on Church's food: he'd just lost his appetite.

"We need to get going," Church was saying, gruffly. "You three, start taking these here trays to the van." He handed Vic the key.

Mac picked up the first wide metal tray, hefting it in his hands, then set out purposefully for the white people carrier in the yard. He heard Church's voice carry behind him, "Load ‘em carefully, you hear?"

"Wouldn't wanna spill something corrosive," Vic muttered, catching up with him, and together they wrestled open the doors and started stacking up cellophane-covered hors d'oeuvres.

The house was large, smug in its own polished interior. The rooms were slightly overstuffed, as if someone had had too much fun with a stack of contemporary catalogues. The walls were yellow; just a tone too daring for comfort, making Mac wish he could keep wearing shades. It had the air of a show home that was trying too hard.

Jack Wilson Jr.'s exquisitely tailored suit didn't fit him very well, and he had neither the suntan nor the charisma to carry off the pale yellow tie. His handshake was over-firm. Mac suspected he was overcompensating; for his life or his crime, he wasn't sure which.

Sandy Wilson looked about six months pregnant. She smiled brightly and welcomed them in with an effusive charm that probably would have cracked her husband's cheekbones.

Mac shook her hand and decided she knew nothing of the conspiracy against her father-in-law— or else, she was an incredibly good actor.

"Mommy, hey!" screamed a little kid, hurtling from nowhere, and she rolled her eyes and swung the child up into her arms, excusing herself from the room.

"Don't mind Lewis," Mr. Wilson said, slightly awkwardly. "Uh, kitchen's this way." He strode ahead of them, held open the door, and they filed inside. "Uh, use whatever you like, utensils and things," he said, hesitating in the door, then nodding once and backing away.

Mac could hear his footsteps traipsing quickly upstairs after his wife.

The large, tasteless kitchen looked like they'd been aiming for Rustic-Chic and missed by two decades. Cut glass goblets gleamed behind cabinet doors, never to be used. A fringe of dried herbs ran close to the ceiling along one wall— probably, Mac thought cynically, boasting organic vegetable dyes.

"Useless!" came Church's voice, disgusted.

Mac turned, saw the chef irritably palming a large black Aga cooker. "Problem?"

"Of course they didn't think to turn the damn thing on," Church was muttering, then cast his gaze around the kitchen. "Okay, we'll have to bring in the little oven. You," he said, pointing at Mac, "come help me. You three," he nodded at the others, "get the boxed dining sets from the van, and make the boxes into a stand. About so wide," he said, shaping a large rectangle with his arms. His eyes flickered disdainfully. "After all, we wouldn't want to leave a heat mark on this lovely faux-pine vinyl..."

They grouped round the plate, staring blankly from it to the hand-written menu and back again. Mac tried not to feel Vic's thigh pressing into his own when Vic reached for the piece of paper and folded it over.

"Chicken, ginger and spring onion wontons," Li Ann said obediently, looking politely at the beige parcel. Looked like a battered mushroom.

"Sliver of goat's cheese with red onion marmalade on barquettes," Mac said. "A.k.a, a slice of white stuff on a lump of red stuff on a little boat." He shut his mouth quickly when Church ambled over.

"Prawn in chilli jam on crispy noodle cake," Vic said, adopting a French accent, then dropping it quickly when the chef glared at him. "Sorry."

"Don't mock my food," Church warned, and Mac jabbed Vic surreptitiously in the ribs with his elbow and mentally added, or I'll make you eat something I've specially prepared. "Jackie? This one?"

"Uh, like a nice long pastry thing, smells beautiful, with green and pink stuff inside?" she simpered, then smiled sweetly. "Like, of course I know it. Asparagus with Parma ham and Parmesan in filo pastry. Highly recommended. I'm not dumb."

Mac caught her eye, grinned; she was the only one here who could get away with that.

Church's eyes narrowed at him. "You. Show me round this plate."

Mac gritted his teeth, repeated word-perfect definitions dutifully back to him, enjoying the way the frown deepened.

"Yeah, well. Good. See you don't screw up when you're out there." Something started sizzling violently, and the air filled with a pungent seafood aroma. Church turned and hurried back to the main stove, waving them at the side oven. "In there. Hot! Take them at once. Circulate— but come back, the moment anything runs out, you hear me? Never circulate with a half-empty plate!"

"Like, we have been doing dinner parties for six years," Jackie said mildly. "I think we know what we're doing."

He shot her a dark look, went back to stirring his prawns.

"Service gear," Li Ann said, passing over a pile of folded white cloths. Vic bent down and opened the oven in a cloud of steam, giving Mac a great view in the process. "If those plates touch bare skin..."

Stepping from the bright kitchen to the dusk-lit corridor made him squint, his hands felt like particularly mushy prunes from all the pre-meal washing up they'd had to do, and he felt an unusual flash of gratitude towards the Director: at least his wrist wasn't aching yet. Maybe the time spent working out had benefited him more than just giving him the opportunity to comprise a detailed and intricate map of Vic's sweat-sleek shoulders and ass.

"Here goes," Li Ann muttered, next to him, and he smiled grimly and walked ahead to hold the door for her.

It seemed that while they'd been washing up six dinner services and filling the kitchen with steam, their hosts had been pretty busy too.

The room it felt bigger. Much bigger than when they'd had to hoist the side oven through it and worry about scraping the paintwork— damn all pretentious people who have to have Aga's but forget to set them heating up in time— although maybe now it felt bigger because the three-year-old kid had stopped running round on a sugar high...

The walls were no longer the garish yellow of the afternoon— Mac felt a low resentment grow towards people frivolous enough to decorate a room that it'd only look good semi-lit, after dark. On the plus side, Vic did look good in low lighting, prowling around demurely with the muscles in his arm twitching slightly under the weight of the tray.

Mac picked his way through the tables, heading towards the knots of people gathered in doorways to other rooms. Well, actually, heading after Vic's ass, seductively classy in eveningwear. He caught sight of him standing back to let some old hen in pearls through the doorway before him, and swallowed at the powerful urge to grab him by the starched collar and pin him to the yellow wall. He could almost feel the cool black fabric rustling against his hands, the easy slide of big waistcoat buttons from their tidy homes, the feverish smoothness of Vic's skin waiting under all those suffocating layers.

Vic looked up, a swift flash in the dark, then turned to give some airhead a piece of jumped-up asparagus from his tray. Mac blinked, realizing he was scowling, and forced himself to circulate. He kept peripherally aware of the others, making sure they were spread equally throughout the guests. He could hear them guiding people around their plates, repeating the same dry statements, heard his own voice copying them, inflected without attention. He tuned out determinedly whenever Vic's voice carried to his ears, because he wanted to be able to eat finger food again without getting a hard-on, please, and that was getting less and less likely with every increasingly smoky phrase.

He concentrated on the guests instead, then tried not to smirk. How was Alfie doing for himself— not bad? Good, good. We must catch up some time— here, take my mobile number. Did she know Stephanie was getting divorced? What had it been, two years? No, she'd thought they'd be together longer than that, too. Yeah, it was such a shame.

Two teenage girls hunched in the corner of one room, rolling their eyes and giggling at Vic. Like, oh my god, isn't he cute? Pity they could never date a waiter— how would it look? Plus he couldn't take you anywhere— probably didn't even have a proper car. Major pity, though. Like, where did your dad find him?

He passed Vic on his way out the door and innocently sent him over in their direction. "In the corner," he murmured. "They were deep in conversation, so I didn't wanna disturb them, but if you hover for a while..."

Vic frowned, and Mac had to clamp down on that same starched-collar-hard-wall impulse, which this time included his hands on Vic's shoulders, pushing him onto his knees. He smiled vaguely, hoping it didn't show in his eyes, and nodded at the girls. "Over there," he said, making it a whisper to disguise the way his mouth was abruptly far too dry.

Escaping, he made another circuit, trying to wait patiently for people to move out of his way. Cigar smoke stank from pinstriped sleeves. Business booming, yeah, flutters on the stock market. Just a little bit invested. Well yeah, maybe it is a risk, but we've got a man watching out for us, just in case. Oh yeah, gimme another of those prawn things.

"'Scuse me? ‘Scuse me, you with the canapés?"

Mac turned round, a bland smile plastered across his face. "Yes?"

"What's that?" she asked, frowning at the plate, then flashing him a sultry glance.

He kept himself from raising an eyebrow. Sorry, but he just wasn't interested in G&T-glazed women with pearls in their hair.

Now Vic, he might look good in pearls.

"Crispy noodle cake, prawns, chilli jam," he choked, swallowing down that image, ignoring the hand that landed on his elbow.

"Don't you have any of those goat's cheese ones?" the woman asked, pouting, squeezing his arm.

"Uh, apparently not. I'll go find some," he said, spotting one in the corner of the plate and carefully ignoring it. "Please refrain from squeezing my arm— you'll knock me off balance," he admonished blandly, and felt better when she blinked.

"I'll get some off the other man," she said quickly, and scurried away.

Mac smiled grimly after her, and weaved his way quickly back to the kitchen.

"You're coming with me," Mac said quietly, as the diners started to take their seats.

Vic looked startled, and glanced meaningfully at the bottle of wine settled snugly in the crook of his arm. "No time." He turned back to survey the tables, attentive and nervous.

Mac grinned. A challenge, Vic? My pleasure.

He checked round the room— good, no one paying attention to them, all too wrapped up in their crocheted napkins. He leaned forward and gently bit the back of Vic's neck, teeth slanted against the shallow swell of a vertebra, lips pressed against warm skin just above the crisp white collar that had given him so much trouble all evening. Vic inhaled sharply, and Mac stepped away silently and stood next to him, a picture of virtue.

"Coming?" Mac asked, and he could hear Vic breathing with determined slowness.

"The wine," Vic muttered, shifting uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the oblivious guests.

Mac glanced at the bottle, at Vic's white knuckles against the green glass. "You've only got a half-bottle left. Get rid of it, and come with me. They're not gonna notice if they haven't got hand-and-foot service for a couple of minutes." He lowered his voice, fighting down the urgency that was prickling through his chest now he had the prospect of getting Vic alone within his sights. "And I only want a couple of minutes..."

Vic hesitated, then nodded shortly. "Where?"

"Outside," Mac began, then cut off when Li Ann appeared, frowning at them.

"Guys, have you any idea how many plates he wants to load us up with?" she demanded quietly, eyes flicking meaningfully towards the kitchen. "We've been waiting— we need you in there now."

"The wine— "

"Leave the wine on the side— you really think they'll notice?"

Mac wondered just where he'd gone wrong, then realized it was back when he didn't tell the Director to stick the get-out-of-jail-semi-free card up her ass and sit out his prison sentence like a good boy. Then he'd never have met Vic, and he wouldn't be following him reluctantly into a steam-thick kitchen to get loaded up with succulent food for other people.

On the other hand, he'd never have met Vic, those eyes wouldn't be sending him hot little messages from across crowded tables, and he wouldn't be having nearly so much fun.

"It's gonna bruise; I'm telling you, the end's too big."

"I don't care," Mac hissed. "Just stick it in— we haven't got much time." He squirmed impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Just touch it, then. The side; that's wet enough."

Vic glared at him. "Yeah, good one, Einstein," he said, "as if that will have any effect."

"Your fault if you don't know how to use it," Mac growled back. Growling felt good. His collar was strangling him, he wasn't going to have a chance to catch Vic alone for another hour at least, and un-growled-at-Vic's were getting pretty irritating.

"Whatever," Vic said, and pushed the poison thermometer deeply into the plate of pan-fried prawns headed for Wilson Senior. There was no change; the reading stayed firmly at zero.

"Now the salsa," Mac instructed, and Vic looked doubtfully at the greenish-yellow slime that didn't resemble any mangoes Mac had seen recently.

"Surely he wouldn't do the... salsa... if the prawn was okay?"

Mac exhaled slowly. "At this rate, I'm pretty happy to keep the birthday boy in the corner and feed the rest of his friends all the cyanide they can eat."

"Salsa's okay," Vic said, frowning at the reading, then quirked an eyebrow. "That is, it's not gonna kill anyone."

"Unless they're really set on aesthetics," Mac grinned, snagging the thermometer and tucking it back into his waistcoat pocket. "Okay, let's go."

Vic was becoming irritating as hell, and Mac was ignoring him and concentrating instead on the bizarre sense of shame he'd developed regarding the dining set he had at home. Not only did it not always match, but it had never been polished. And considering he'd just done two dozen glasses to a brilliant, dishwasher-commercial gloss, that was beginning to seem important.

He reached for another wet glass, fingers beating Vic's to it, and settled back against the counter. They were polishing champagne glasses, and it was more arduous than he'd expected, what with the need to get up a real shine with a dampening dry cloth, and the perpetual fear of snapping the stems.

Church was hovering, Vic was trying lamely to engage him in culinary conversation, Li Ann was checking how far along diners had got, and Jackie was strutting round with mineral water. Mac had started tuning out the discussion, finding it sickly to the core. Couldn't Vic just shut the fuck up like a normal guy? Did he have to endlessly extol the virtues of nutmeg and cardamom?

"Okay, put that'n down," Church said suddenly, pitched louder than the rumbled conversation, and Mac looked up.

"We've got more still."

"Vic can do them," Church said. "He's got narrower fingers."

Mac felt a flick of possessiveness; some reason, he didn't want anyone else checking out Vic's fingers.

"You: get the ice-cream into the fridge now, out the freezer— we'll lose the edges, but at least it won't be rock solid by the time of dessert."

Vic looked up. "You know," he said helpfully, swivelling the cloth deeper into the glass without looking, conceivably professional, "if you put ice cream in a microwave on defrost for ten seconds, it thaws out the middle just enough to make it possible to cut."

Mac watched Church's eyebrows draw together like thunderclouds, and tried to hide his smirk as Vic got a curt lecture on never ever using a microwave, ever. Except to heat formula for babies, sometimes.

It stripped the smug more-culinary-than-thou right down to bearable again.

"Yeah, okay, got it," Vic was saying, hastily. "Definitely. Not for cooking. Evil. You ever tried drying glasses in one?" he asked quickly, clearly trying to regain his footing. "You know, like a blast of hot air, not smudging, then there's no need to polish them?"

"Where would the evaporated water go?" Church asked ominously.

"Oh," said Vic, nodding vaguely. "I see."

"That of course," Church said, shifting on his feet, leaning one ample hip into the cupboard, "is why we should bring our personal dishwasher round with us. Machine-dry the lot of ‘em. I mean this," he said vehemently, and waved the dishcloth around, "this is crawling with germs! Do you have any idea how unhygienic this is?!"

Not very, compared with poisoning your guests, Mac thought mildly, and excused himself to help Li Ann clear the starter.

"We should be locked up by the hygiene bureau," Church was saying, "cleaning things with dishcloths, I ask you! But you know, you can't lug round glass cleaning equipment, oh no. Big machine, you know— and there's no budget either, not when you get down to it..."

Mac caught Vic's stricken expression, and winked. "Bye," he mouthed, letting the door swing shut behind him, feeling lighter again.

"You're positive it's for him?"

Mac looked again at the reading. "Yeah. Junior came in, said Senior's wasn't hot enough, and that just wasn't good enough, they wanted a replacement... It was pretty lame. Church's eyes were almost gleaming."

Li Ann peered at the thermometer. "That's a pretty high count."

"I know," Mac said, irritated. "Obviously I'm not gonna give it to him. But how the fuck am I supposed to dispose of it?"

She frowned. "Didn't she say there was a place to get rid of stuff?"

Mac scowled. "She said, yeah. Doesn't mean she has to deliver. I mean— "

"Shh," Li Ann warned, raising her hand. "That door's not so thick, you know."

Mac took a deep breath, held it. "Okay, so what. I'm supposed to... stash it somewhere? Find a waste-disposal unit?"

"Wait there, and I'll drop these off," Li Ann said, taking a handful of used glasses back towards the kitchen. "I'll radio the Director, find out her take on it all. I'm due for an update, anyway."

Mac waited, staring morosely at the steaming meal, wondering if the poison had soaked through to the middle. He was really starved. It smelt good, that was for sure. Nothing like almonds— just rich, hot sauce wrapped around chunks of beautifully textured meat.

He plucked a roast potato off the edge of the plate, popping it whole into his mouth and chewing happily. "Mmm," he agreed, almost involuntarily. Beautiful. Exactly what he needed. He reached for another, then snatched his hand back as the door opened behind him, licking gravy hastily off his fingers.

"What are you doing?" Li Ann demanded, eyes wide. "I thought you said that one was laced?"

"More like soaked in," Mac said easily, "but I checked the potatoes. They're okay. And I'm ravenous."

Her eyes narrowed, but she shrugged. "Okay, I guess. It's your funeral. Here, I brought this."

It was a lockpick. Mac raised an eyebrow, and Li Ann knelt down at his feet and rummaged around briefly in the region of the sideboard. A piece of wood panelling folded inwards; Li Ann looked up at him and grinned, then held her hand out for the food.

Mac stared for a moment, then handed it to her. His fingers tingled slightly, not just from the heat of the dish. It was like... okay, so if Vic was here, at his feet, grinning up at him, he'd be well-near getting his hands in his hair and pushing him back into the sideboard, prying that mouth open wide with skilful thumbs to the hinge of the jaw—

But it wasn't Vic, it was Li Ann, Li Ann who was now sliding the plate out of view and getting to her feet again, and she was a friend, a sister, and the last person he'd want giving him a blowjob right now.

"All done?" she asked, dusting off her hands.

"Sure," Mac managed, then glanced at the door to the kitchen. "I guess I'd better go get another helping for someone, huh?"

She frowned, then shook her head. "No point. He'd only get suspicious. Wait a while, then take back a couple of empty plates and ask for one portion of second helpings. The wife's eating pretty fast— just clear her early, right?"

"And Senior won't notice he's missing out?"

She smirked. "Jackie's topping up his glass, and he's drinking it fast enough to keep her close by. There's no fear of him thinking he's missing out." The smirk broadened to a grin, and she nodded her head back behind her. "Meanwhile, how ‘bout you go rescue Vic from those teenagers? They're about to eat him alive..."

Dessert, cheese, coffee. Certain plates for the head table disposed of, quietly. Mac wondered if the Wilsons were gonna have an infestation of mice, and grinned to himself. More champagne, more wine. They were probably gonna start on absinthe, next. A second helping of dessert for some old woman with bad teeth. Little bottled samples of poisoned food in waistcoat pockets. And now, orders for more coffee.

Mac watched Vic nod to Sandra Wilson, then head off to the kitchen. A moment later, Jackie slipped back into the room, a jug of coffee steaming from her French-manicured fingers. Mac walked past her, back to the kitchen, thinking wryly that the workout had paid off— a full jug was startlingly heavy, but her hand bore it like a pro.

He entered the kitchen, took a glass to the sink, filled it, and downed it. Vic was drying little jugs by the stove while Church frowned into the refrigerator.

Mac caught Vic's gaze, kept it. Church faded away. A faint tint touched Vic's cheeks, but maybe it was just heat from the stove. Not good enough. He'd never blushed yet, actually.

He should have kept him longer, in the traffic jam. He just hadn't been assertive enough, had let Vic drift away without complaint. He shouldn't have let him hang up— shouldn't have taken no for an answer.

Of course, he could rectify that now.

He licked his lower lip, thoughtfully. Vic blinked, looked away, then took a loaded plate from Church and pushed quickly out through the door.

Whimsically, Mac hurried, caught up with him in the corridor. The lights had been turned low in deference to the late hour; a few candles provided an aesthetic fire hazard.

"Vic, hey, whoa," Mac murmured, sliding a finger under the man's collar from behind.

Vic spun round, glaring, startled, the doily-clad plate of foil-wrapped mints and small jugs of cream balanced precariously on his fingers. "Careful," he hissed, and Mac ignored him and reached forward and stroked the surface of one jug with his fingertip, then spread cream across Vic's lower lip.

"Lick it off," he said quietly, even as Vic's tongue flicked out automatically, and he tilted his head and looked at his flame-polished mouth shining softly in near darkness. It opened, slightly, then shut again, and he could almost feel Vic swallowing the words.

He listened, picking out their breathing and the guttural mutter of a candle drowning itself. Almost entirely muffled by the door, the guests laughed and chattered like hyenas on a caffeine high.

Vic nodded his head at the door. "They're going to be wanting this," he said, voice quiet and hoarse, a second nod to the plate.

"They're really, really not gonna notice," Mac reasoned, moving back towards the kitchen, setting his heel against the bottom of the door. "C'mere."

Vic hesitated, then followed, plate of cream and chocolate tilting dangerously.

Mac opened his mouth to speak, stared at the wide, dark, molten eyes, and shook his head. His hand glided up, stroking the shape of Vic's mouth, feeling the residual wetness hot under his skin. Vic's breathing hitched, tip of his tongue catching against Mac's fingertip; Mac crammed his heel down, other hand moving to gently fist in his hair.

Vic nudged his head back, lips moving under his touch; Mac pushed a finger inside, feeling his teeth part, liquid heat sliding up his skin. There was a pause, and Mac stopped breathing, feeling like he'd been caught in some act as he realized Vic's eyes were staring back at him with full awareness of the situation.

He felt a minute tremor through Vic's tongue, set his jaw a touch defiantly, drawing up— hey, no, you let me— and then Vic started sucking, eyes closing— looked like pleasure, but Mac wasn't sure, could've been shame. Whatever, the sensations coursing up his finger were worth it, flowing right to his cock, alighting his skin on the way.

He shifted his hand; two fingers, then three, Vic's tongue sliding between them, slight cold hissing because Vic couldn't entirely close his lips around them and Mac could feel trickles of air being sucked in hard.

The cream in the jugs was shivering, and Mac swallowed to keep his breathing from speeding up, becoming audible. Very sweet, Vic sucking his fingers, muscles in his arm trembling to keep the plate horizontal. Sweet like sharp, clean adrenaline smashing through his veins.

He withdrew his index finger, let it swipe a trail against Vic's clean-shaven cheek, and pushed the others in firmly. He could feel the strong curve of Vic's tongue down to his throat, the hot ridges of teeth, then felt suction waver around him and was half-expelled, looked up to hear Vic swallowing hard, see his eyes glinting and blinking in the candle light. His cock tightened, reared; oh, fucking beautiful.

He drew his fingers out, fingertips playing along Vic's lower lip, poised at the entrance of his mouth, then plunged in smoothly. He wanted to make Vic's eyes water, wanted to prime him, could imagine sticking his cock between these pink lips and watching them slide down his shaft as he pressed uncompromisingly right inside—

There was another slide of glorious slick velvet, but Vic was ready this time; his tongue rose up between Mac's fingers, spreading them, reaching to lick the very inside of Mac's knuckle. Mac stared, the pink tip just visible between his fingers, making his blood thin with heat. His head spun and he withdrew his hand completely, leaning in to bite and suck, fingers twisting tighter in Vic's hair— then veered off sharply before contact as the door clunked behind him, eyes flying open, heart panting with fear.

Vic turned quickly away from Mac, wiping his mouth, taking a deep breath and starting forwards down the corridor to the dining room— Mac waited a count of three and stepped back, straightening his jacket quickly, grateful for the half-light to obscure his crotch.

"Is this door jamming?" Li Ann wanted to know, frowning slightly, catching the bottom of the door with her foot just before it slammed. She held a bottle of champagne in one hand, a tray of cobweb-thin glasses in the other. "It's impossible enough with no hands, let alone if I have to kick to get the damn thing open at all."

"All this money, can't afford a decent carpenter," Mac agreed, keeping his voice low as Vic opened the door and let the noise flow in.

Li Ann frowned at him. "Weren't you supposed to be collecting empties before the toast?"

Mac shook his head. "I tried, but they're all holding their glasses like, in their laps," he lied, shrugging. "Not my place to intervene."

She rolled her eyes sympathetically, and he moved back to let her past. "There's another tray of glasses still to come out," she called, reaching the door. "Here, can you help me open this?"

Mac hurried to help her, holding the door open, catching sight of Vic leaning over a table to lift an empty wine glass, then turning as someone signalled him, padding out of Mac's range of vision. Mac let the door swing, returning to the kitchen, and started washing up. Vigorously.

The others could cope for a while. Vic could get glasses. The kitchen was well lit.

He wanted to face a work surface for a while.

"One of those jugs spilt," Vic murmured, shoulder brushing past his chest. "I had a complaint."

Mac swallowed. "So report me," he called after him, then waved down Jackie when she looked up curiously.

"Sorry. She wants me to go in, get de-wired," Li Ann said, in explanation, staring out the window of the cab. "It doesn't make your journey that much longer, does it?"

"I guess, just... Couldn't you drop me off first?" Mac pleaded— although, not too hard. Not unless they wanted to drop Vic off at his place as well.

"I need to get there now, Mac."

He shrugged, carefully checking a smile. He could feel Li Ann's thigh pressing into his, and the texture was different, no tension, blood-warm rather than banked heat. "Sure, I guess. Okay. We'll do it your way."

"Yeah, guys, can I like, get dropped off here too?"

Li Ann paused in getting out, then held the door for her. Jackie smiled, waved a cheery thankyou at Vic, winked at Mac, and headed off for the darkened bulk of the Agency.

"You guys gotta be here at ten tomorrow, okay?" Li Ann said, then nodded to both of them and hurried off after Jackie's retreating waitress' uniform.

Vic pulled the door shut. Mac leaned forward, gave his address, then glanced at the other man to see if he'd protest. Vic's was closer, after all. But he wanted his own turf.

Vic raised his eyebrows, then shrugged lightly and relaxed into the seat. "Notice you've no idea where she goes after dark," he said, leaning his head back, closing his eyes.

It was quiet in the cab— just the slur of the engine, the creak of plastic seats and soft breathing. "Not back to the Janczyk mansion?"

"Nope," Vic sighed, turning his head slightly to look up at Mac, lips tilting in a little grin. "I checked up. Well, kinda. Just enough to find out she didn't live there any more."

Mac looked down at him, his dark hair absorbing more than its fair share of light, his face ivory-sleek, and decided this guy was way too comfortable around him. No tension here, either. Yet. "Seeking to take her under your wing?" he mocked, watching Vic's smile widen guiltily.

"You'd object to that?"

Yes, thought Mac. "Not at all. But the Director might."

Vic's eyelashes shivered, then parted, eyes black in the roving blocks of streetlight. "They've got something going on, haven't they? Not just my... fevered imagination."

"I'm not saying anything," Mac said, and Vic grinned.

"Might jinx it?"

"You calling me superstitious?" Mac murmured, sliding his hand up Vic's thigh, feeling the evening-crushed fabric coarse under his palm.

Vic shifted, easing his legs apart. "Not at all," he said, a hitch in his breath, eyes closing again.

Mac leant down, traced the corner of Vic's mouth with his tongue, then leant back again and watched with satisfaction as Vic turned his head to try and capture his mouth.

"This it?" asked the driver, bringing them to a halt.

Vic's eyes snapped open; he sat up, looked around. "Another half-block," he said, clearing his throat.

Mac eased his fingers right between Vic's legs, thumb reaching up and sliding over the ridge of his erection. Vic shivered, threw him a mock glare.

"I'm sure he's seen it all before," Mac said, whisper-soft, thinking there was no chance the cab driver had ever seen someone so achingly responsive.

"Here," Vic said loudly, reaching for the door.

The cab swerved to a halt, a couple of houses down; Mac got out, cold air blanketing him, and walked round to the pavement.

The apartment was warm, silent. Mac reached out, took Vic's hand, felt the fingers flex and then relax in his grip. He walked ahead, foot-sure, smiling to himself with a fast pulse in his throat. The slight drag of his arm— Vic not knowing his way round Mac's apartment in the dark— was making him hard.

He toed the bedroom door shut, letting go of Vic's hand. His territory— never done this before, in his bed, but he wanted to, and that was enough, between them, always enough.

He turned the light on abruptly, setting it at half-pitch. Vic's skin was golden, his uniform violently monochrome. He looked corruptible, full of appetite and fleeting uncertainty.

("Take your shirt off," he'd said, and Vic had smirked and said, "Like I'd let you without.")

A vague decision snapped into focus, and he let the predatory urge show in his eyes. "Lie face down, and take these off," he said quietly, running one finger under the waistband of Vic's fitted black pants, under the elastic of his boxers.

Vic frowned, hands moving slowly to comply, but Mac saw he was hard, and said nothing. The hem of Vic's white, slightly crumpled, Director-issued shirt swung against the curve of his ass. It brought a darker tan into his skin, taking Mac's breath away.

"Face down," Mac repeated softly, following Vic onto the bed, watching him lie down with his hands braced, licking his lips. The tension was there now, singing in the muscles as he slipped his hands between Vic's thighs. He eased them apart, graciously uncompromising, settling his knees between them.

He was tempted, totally tempted, to try and get inside him. That was what Vic was expecting, after all— and this rigid acquiescence was so succulent, so appetizing... Mac bit down on his tongue to reign in his control, felt the impulse gather itself and bunch up in the base of his stomach. He couldn't last, right now; the knife-edge was too precarious to give him the advantage he wanted. Plus, anticipation was half the game.

Vic stirred against him, and he leant down carefully, started sliding his cock in the crease of Vic's ass in a slow parody of fucking, heat sweeping through him. Vic's ass lifted, wriggling up, making it easier for him to do whatever he liked— and then he was speeding up and shifting forwards and bunching the bottom of Vic's shirt round his cock. He stroked into it, under it against the hot skin of Vic's back, tightening his fist, sweat-damp fabric scratching sweetly over eager nerves.

He felt Vic catch on and exhale sharply, and then the restless pleasure that had been gathering in stormclouds all night resounded through him, surf over gravel— and then he was coming harshly like a clash of symbols, the thin fabric of Vic's turning wet and sticky in his fingers, it's translucence inadvertently proving the bronze of Vic's skin.

His arms crumpled; Vic hissed, squirming up against him, and he rolled off him stickily and stroked a hand down the white cotton sleeve. "Thanks," he murmured, eyes closed, feeling Vic turn onto his side. "Christ. Gimme a minute, I'll do you as well. Get out of that shirt."

"Not impatient or anything," Vic observed, humour in his voice, and Mac listened to the noise of him shifting and undressing, wiping damp skin, heard the faint whuff of fabric being tossed on the floor.

He opened his eyes, suddenly aware there was a naked man in his bed, expecting while he was satiated, everything so terrifyingly real and why did he want to roll over and touch him?

"Lie down," he said quietly, reaching for him, a thrill ghosting through his stomach as he watched the heat in Vic's eyes kindle as he obeyed.

Words filled his mouth, and he held his breath: he wasn't going to ask. Turnabout was fair play for the one who'd had a bad deal. He wasn't ready to go there yet, to what-does-Vic-want, to a place where decisions were taken out of his reach.

His hand found Vic's body, warm and dry and flexing against his touch. He swept his thumb down the dip in the middle of his chest, from heart to navel, then felt the underside of his wrist meet something bluntly warm and wet, and swept back up sharply, startled.

Vic sighed, deeply. It would have been a luxurious sound if the edge of need hadn't threaded through it, a demanding undercurrent, sharp in the air. Mac rose to his hands and knees, looking down, naked body, man in his bed, naked and he'd promised it, not just any man—

Vic's eyes were closed, thank god, and his teeth were locked. Mac leant down, pressed his teeth into the line of Vic's jaw, gnawed gently. He settled his hands heavily on Vic's chest, stroking firmly, exploring unfamiliar terrain. He could feel the burr of Vic cutting off sounds in his throat whispering against his palms as he stroked up, across, across, then down.

Strange, to feel crunched muscles in the place of soft, endlessly satin female curves. Even stranger, that he felt the same thrill of excitement, the same sense of the forbidden as he scratched his nails down Vic's sides and felt Vic's ribcage work in little pants and sighs.

He started sucking— Vic's throat tasted the same as the small of his back— and moved leisurely down Vic's throat, momentarily taken aback by the cut of Adam's apple that shouldn't have been there. He found the sloping glide of delicate collarbones, and bit down gently, hands circling lower, eventually locking onto Vic's hips and aligning him against fisted sheets.

He sat back between Vic's legs, looked down. Vic's eyes were still closed, his head arched back, his hands clenched tight. His cock was hard, arrowing straight up, the shaft flaring into a darker head, a patch of moisture glistening on the tip. Mac trailed his fingernail across it, watched it twitch. Almost like a separate entity, although linked totally to Vic— as the sucked-in gasp proved.

He licked his lips, decided he didn't want to know what it tasted like. One step at a time, thanks. Let Vic make that journey before he did, please.

He slid his fingers under Vic's knees and lifted, feeling a new tension go through the soft skin, lifting until his feet were flat on the sheets and he could run his hands up Vic's thighs towards the darkened, inexplicably exciting space between them.

Inexplicably. And he was kidding how many people with that one?

Still, he reasoned, strange to be so turned on before his dick had recovered enough to strain against his belly, strange to feel electricity where there shouldn't be.

He slid one slow hand higher up Vic's thigh, watching, mesmerized. The skin was like warm, silky paper, lightly hairy, muscles twitching beneath his touch. Satisfying.

His forefinger stretched out, brushed lightly against the dark centre. Vic's gasp hung in the air and then he was breathing hard, head turning relentlessly from side to side.

Mac grinned. Not gonna get a clearer invitation than that, actually.

He drew a small circle, smoothing tiny hairs, then reached up and rolled his fingertip in the fluid at the head of Vic's cock. Vic arched up, pleasingly.

Mac blinked and let his finger, slick and warm, tease against the breach of this smooth, hard body. He waited for Vic to rock back on him, still half-incredulous that he would, then felt a momentary relaxation and pushed it inwards swiftly before he had a chance to change his mind.

"Ah," Vic gasped, and Mac paused.

"Hurts?"

"Mm," Vic said, and Mac didn't move, tight prison with Vic's pulse cramping down on his fingertip, wondering if this was gonna be difficult, desperately hoping he could make this good now so that Vic wouldn't freak at the idea of doing it again some time. Doing it again with Mac's dick involved. As soon as possible.

Yeah, that was calculating. And? Because so many people are selfless in bed, right?

He stroked Vic's thigh with his free hand, wondering if he should've gotten lube out the drawer earlier since this natural stuff wasn't the effective wonder he'd been lead to believe—

He scratched down, and Vic's hips hunched slightly, a tiny rise of pressure. Mac closed his eyes briefly, unable to prevent himself imagining how that would feel on his cock. Slow, insistent rocking, his ass seeming to get tighter and tighter with every passing second. Damn good, was his cock's answer. Incredibly damn fucking good.

He wrapped his free hand around Vic's cock, felt Vic's back arch and bear down, and twisted his finger right in. Vic moaned, and he froze again.

"No," Vic breathed, voice splintering; "keep going— "

He couldn't move his finger, though. Not fast. He crooked it, and Vic gasped and arched and stayed there, panting shallowly, as if Mac'd just diverted an electric current up his ass. Mac grinned to himself. Way to immobilize someone. He straightened his finger again and settled for jacking Vic off, steadily, carefully, finding sweet spots and working at them like he'd persist with the weaknesses in a choked lock, worrying it patiently until the catch sprang free. Vic sucked air in through his teeth, writhing shockily, breathing speeding up, ass rocking deeper on his finger.

Mac stared at him, feeling about as aroused as he could remember, his dick growing heavily in his lap. Fucking hell. The heat, silken and clutching, was gonna kill him any second now. He sped up his grip on Vic's cock, fist moving faster, faster, furiously, then leant down impulsively and kissed the hollow by his hipbone.

Vic bucked, bore down on his finger, and came. Mac grinned, looking up, seeing the liquid spill and pool on Vic's chest like ivory candle-wax. He pulled his finger away carefully, still enjoying the cling of Vic's ass, distractedly relieved to see it clean and pink. He hadn't just wounded anyone, thank god.

"Mmmm," Vic sighed, and Mac watched him start to roll over.

"Wait," he said quickly, one hand on his hip checking him. "Okay, if you're sleeping here, you're so having a shower first."

Vic opened his eyes, shook his head in disbelief, then gave a half-laugh. "You're such a selfish bastard," he said affectionately, and heaved himself up into a sitting position.

"Yeah, well. If you're sleeping here, it's for your good too," Mac muttered, re-arranging the covers, then wriggling in to close his eyes. The eroticism was fading, leaving him with a faintly itchy sensation of giving up half way through. But, not a problem. He was tired, goddamnit. And there was always tomorrow morning.

"Sure, I'll sleep here," Vic's voice came, softly. Mac didn't know if he was a long way away, or just quiet.

"Mmm," Mac retorted, vaguely. He was swimming in the darkness behind his eyes. His hand found its way absently down to his cock, cupping the warm handful of silkiness drowsily, and he realized he was actually too tired to get himself off here and now.

He grinned slowly, his head making a slight rustle on the pillow as he turned it slowly from side to side. Hey, it didn't matter— he could get Vic to do something about it, tomorrow. They could wake up early, see exactly how far Vic was willing to let him go.

The heat of his bed was soaking up into his body, gorgeous and thorough, inviting him to breathe deeply and relax into its embrace. When Vic returned, faintly damp and smelling of expensive shampoo, Mac found it worryingly easy to relax into his arms as well.

The blackness receded, comfortably, then a shot of adrenaline fell over him like ice water. There was someone in his bed! Fuck! His mind span into overdrive, then he remembered, okay, yeah, Vic, that's okay— more than okay—

He rolled over sharply, throwing his arm across Vic's chest, pinning him to the bed. "Lie very, very still," he said, waiting for Vic's heart to stop thumping wildly at his hand. If this guy was gonna hang out in his bed, he should definitely make up for the cardiac near-misses.

"Mac," Vic said, and Mac stopped his mouth with his tongue, a strange, visceral thrill crashing over him as Vic's mouth opened easily, warm and wet and he'd had his fingers here, wanted his dick here, he'd stared at Vic's mouth and needed to bite those lips and feel that tongue squirm and thrust against his own— but feeling it, actually tasting the musky-deferential heat of it, sucking his breath away—

His cock was aching against the hot sheets; he had to get it touching skin. He shifted blindly, wriggling on top of Vic and groaning with the burst of gratification, then feeling a swift sharp panic as their cocks ground together between their stomachs, hard and indisputable. Was it worrying that a kiss got him this hard? More worrying that Vic would know it.

One of Vic's arms wrapped across the small of his back, anchoring them together. Mac started rocking, urgent, biting, liking the feel of Vic responding in kind, and then his hands found Vic's head, gripping tightly as he tore his mouth away, the air stinging freshly on his wet lips. A kiss, scalding him— his hands moved, pressing one set of fingers into his mouth, finding the curve of his hips with the other.

Vic made a low noise in his throat, exhaling against his fingers, taking them deeply into his mouth and spreading his legs at the prompt of Mac's knee.

Mac reached out sharply in the darkness, almost pulling the bedside table over as he wrenched the drawer too hard and scrabbled around inside. His hand half-crumpled the tube; he brought it quickly between them, squeezing out onto Vic's stomach, enjoying the gasp against his fingers, deciding not to free Vic's mouth in order to explain.

I know, it's cold. But you'll warm it up.

He swivelled his hand in the mess on Vic's stomach; the gel felt like it was squirming, oozing between his fingers as he rubbed it right down to the knuckles. Remember Vic's tongue there, just as wet but immeasurably warmer, squirming against his palm. Oh, yeah.

His cock rocked lightly against Vic's thigh; he was beautifully aware that Vic couldn't rub off against anything, that he was waiting for Mac's touch, that the only stimulation was from Mac's fingers, Mac's teeth—

He slid his hand between Vic's legs, searching for the vulnerability in an ass tight like steel, finding the soft point and pressing deliberately inside. His eyes were staring blankly into the darkness, nothing to watch, but they closed at the sensation of Vic's ass letting him in, the sensation of sliding up into the tight, velvet grip he was beginning to dream about.

Shit. If this was a dream, he was gonna murder someone.

Vic exhaled sharply, started sucking viciously on his fingertips, sending flurries of fire tumbling over his skin. Mac corkscrewed his fingers deeper, felt Vic bear down rhythmically, and felt his own shoulders start rising fast as the sensation around his fingers contrasted with the dry brush of Vic's thigh and burnt away his sanity like he'd never need it again.

He pulled his hands away, impatient, and rose to his knees. "Turn over," he managed, hearing his voice like birch smoke, "turn over, and get up on all fours."

He felt the mattress shift in the dark and reached out blindly— connecting with warm, solid, slightly sweaty flesh made his head spin. He stroked, finding the curve of Vic's buttocks, the dip between them. The sound of Vic's breathing came from further away, and Mac wished he could see better in the dark— wished he could see the stretch of Vic's back arching away from him clear enough to memories it.

He slid his hands down Vic's legs, pulled his knees further apart. Vic's hot thighs clenched, rocking under his touch. The way Vic worked with him, taking deep breaths and moving against his hands in agreement, made him blink in the darkness and breathe out slowly. Yeah, he had free reign to do this. Forget tacit approval— this was Vic on his hands and knees with "welcome" tattooed across his ass, spread and waiting, wanting it, and what else was a gentleman supposed to do?

Congratulations, he heard, surreally clear in the frenzied wild churning of his thoughts: you got there. He could taste salt and iron on his tongue, exhilaration gloriously tainting the air. His knees were unsteady against the trembling sheets— he needed to get on with it, do it, get inside him before his muscles turned entirely to melting curls of steam.

Edging forwards, he smoothed his hands against Vic's ass again and spread it, aiming blindly for the heat between. The tip of his cock bumped wetly against hot, slick skin; he shifted on a rush of sensation, pressing forwards, slipping his wet hand blissfully around the head of his cock to guide it— and then there, pressure, heat opening for him reluctantly. He worked his hips, slowly easing inside, Vic gasping all the way.

Mac heard himself groaning, pleasure crashing across his body from crown to toes. His hands slipped down, locking round Vic's thighs, drawing him firmly back against him.

Fuck but— that was good. Everything he'd imagined, everything, all melted down and poured into this new mould of furnace heat and silk-glove friction.

He slid back then pushed inside, feeling the resistance of Vic's ass rake sparks up behind his eyes. Vic squirmed, shuddered, then started rocking back against him, waves of sensation sinking into his body like hot water spilt on blotting paper.

The sliding of their skin filled his ears, slick noises contrasted with the dry and ragged sliding of air in and out their lungs. He started moaning every time he hit deep, eyes closing again, back arching to force himself as deep as possible.

Deeper, he thought suddenly, from the surprised little panting noises Vic was making, than anyone else had been. He sucked in a breath viciously, the head of his cock buried impossibly far up Vic's ass, the sucking bright heat of it flooding his body in shallow, biting waves. This place was reserved for him— no way Vic'd let anyone else fuck him, not when it'd taken Mac so much to get here, and no way he'd let anyone else fuck Vic now, not without fighting through Mac first, finding out exactly how much it hurt to have your bones snapped with your own hands.

He shoved in hard, the angle working briefly against him before it capitulated, pressure honing and yielding, every stroke feeling deeper and more brutal than before. His teeth were dry with his own fast panting, cheeks aching distantly from a profound, perpetual grin. There was something incredible about not having to worry he was too heavy, too strong— Vic would take it, whatever he dished out. He licked his lips, hands working their way appreciatively up Vic's solid chest, then slid one arm around and pulled him backwards, sitting back on his heels.

He felt the resistance, then Vic moved with him; his cock nudged a little deeper, the last fraction forcing its way inside. His head fell back blindly, a groan passing from his throat.

He moved his hands to Vic's hips again, started guiding him to bounce up and down. He breathed in through a sudden rush of salacious electricity, feeling the small part of the universe he was still aware of squeeze its way into his cock and make it glow. Fucking amazing— Vic here, letting him fuck him, letting him actually shove his cock up his ass and not just letting him but liking it, moaning for it—

He started thrusting up, longer jerks, Vic's back skimming against his chest, every nerve in his body offloading furious pleasure onto the next. Vic started making complicated noises in his throat, a tangled aria of snarled breath and muttered curses, then hissed loudly and ground down hard.

"Yeah, just there, just there, just there," he was muttering, and Mac stayed just there, riding the spot that had Vic panting and growling, power thrilling through him like an electrochemical whiplash. This was raw, sensational— no one else, he was certain, had ever made Vic sound like this, had ever made him jerk and quake and moan by fucking him viciously from behind.

"Fucking mine," he growled, feeling the charge build in his balls, and reached up and crammed three fingers into Vic's mouth, hearing him gag and suck through a sensational haze.

That's it, that's it, just there, deeper, yeah— He thrust up hard, feeling Vic screw down on him, knowing it was all instinct throwing the fireworks around because they were both too far gone for technique of any kind. Pleasure started coalescing inwards, dragging him towards the edge, the edge—

Gonna come gonna come gonna come— He moved his other hand to Vic's cock, found it half-hard and slippery, realized Vic had come already and was still there, still moaning, still enjoying being fucked by him for being fucked's sake—

He hurtled over the edge like an exploding freight train, cock driving hard into Vic's body and grinding there, balls pulsing against his ass, shooting hot and deep inside.

"Fuck, yeah," he managed, fingers sliding from Vic's mouth, reaching for the mattress with both hands to steady himself.

"Mmmm," Vic agreed, heavier for a moment before easing forward and falling on his front.

Mac shifted, let himself fall onto his side. Jesus. Fantastic afterglow. He sighed softly, then paused; the air was kinda chill, currents teasing his skin a little too insistently for his comfort. "Mmm," he said in belated reply, scrabbling and burrowing under the covers, feeling a warm body scooting back against him.

He closed his eyes, exhausted and pleased. Good to know they were both after the same thing, get-laid-fall-asleep, no risk of "so about next Thursday...?" conversations or tightly-pressed lips because you didn't spend enough time trying to make them come.

"Hey," he heard, a few moments later. He felt it through his hand, as well— he'd stolen his arm round Vic's chest again, finding he didn't mind the residual stickiness nearly as much as he'd expected.

"Yeah?"

"That was not an appropriate use of latex," Vic told him, through a yawn.

Mac squeezed him tighter, buying time. "Yeah," he said, thinking quickly. "Well, you knew I was clean— there's no way the Director would miss that kind of detail."

"I guess," Vic said, sounding sleepy as hell. Mac shifted against him again, getting a lovely warm Vic pressing back into his chest. Nice. "I'm clean, too," Vic mumbled, and Mac realized, faintly sickly, that he actually hadn't been thinking in that direction at all.

There again, not so much danger— he wasn't the one being fucked.

That was Vic.

Who was now spooned up against him.

Okay, he had a feeling there might be time for more of this before morning. He licked his lips, tickled by Vic's hair, and breathed deeply. He'd need some more sleep first, though.

There was an oil slick of light seeping from under the garage door, the only clue that it was occupied. Mac crouched behind the large expensive people-carrier parked outside it, then held his breath and made a quiet dash across the fishbone-brick drive.

"I'm not handing over a cent," he heard, the voice snarled viciously low. He glanced sideways, caught Vic's eye in the darkness, then nodded at the other side of the automatic garage door.

Vic nodded, moving stealthily into position.

"You signed the contract— you can't back out now," Church was warning, ominous and threatening. "I've got it in ink."

"Worthless ink— what law authority's gonna recognize that, huh?"

Mac pressed the button pad in his pocket. A sort of electrical skeleton key, Nathan had said, handing it over proudly. Three seconds to activate the lock; three and counting.

"I know a lot of people who'd recognize it," Church said, his shadow blocking some of the light under the door, making Mac's fingers tighten on his gun.

Wilson laughed harshly. "I don't care: he didn't die, so I'm not gonna pay!"

The door clicked and flew up. "Actually," Mac said, stepping forward into the light and smiling pleasantly at the two men frozen inside, "you're both gonna pay."

Church cursed loudly, then gasped when Vic tilted his gun into his line of vision. "Shut the fuck up," Vic warned, also smiling. "You made me polish a hell of a lot of glasses; my trigger finger's feeling pretty tense."

There was a moment of absolute silence. Mac thought, faintly, that Vic had never sounded sexier.

"Wait— you're the waiters," Wilson said suddenly, glancing from one to the other with panic. "You— you were here last night, you served us— You!" he shouted, interrupting himself, pointing wildly behind Mac's shoulder.

"Hadn't forgotten us, now, had you?" Li Ann said cheerfully, and Mac didn't look across at her as both women slotted into line beside him. Damn, he loved this, performing as professionals, everything falling into place.

"Like, you don't look majorly pleased to see us," Jackie drawled, sweetly accusing. "I thought you said you liked women who knew their wine..."

Wilson had turned the colour of mango salsa. "You," was all he seemed inclined to say. "You, you— " He spun to face Church, then whipped back when Li Ann raised her gun, "you, these are your staff, what the hell's going on that your staff are here, that your staff are, what are you, police? FBI? private investigators?"

"I've no idea," Church growled, hand starting to make its way to his belt; Li Ann and Jackie darted forwards.

"Stop right there," Mac said, enjoying the snap of Church's hand back above his head, then smirked and gestured for the women to proceed. "Well, no. You two go right ahead."

Wilson let Li Ann arrange his arms behind his back in silence. He was staring into space, lips moving silently, eyes suspiciously bright.

"Like, what have we here?" Jackie crooned, fishing a small gun out of Church's checked pocket. "You know," she said conversationally, turning it in her hand and then slipping it into her own halter, "that's like a major safety hazard, you know, in the pocket and all, plus I bet you haven't gotten a license yet. You could get so fined."

"Get him restrained, and let's take ‘em into the house," Vic said, tossing Jackie a length of garden twine.

"Want a hand with the knots?" Mac offered, stepping forward, hoping he didn't sound too eager, itching to help. Just seeing the man made him want to cause some serious pain.

"Oh no," Jackie said, eyes glinting. "I'm like, totally handling it." Mac grinned, watching Jackie take particular enjoyment in spiking a knee up into the small of Church's back. "That's for those stupid costumes," she hissed, and Mac mouthed to her, "don't forget the canapés."

It was gratifying to see the flash of Jackie's fist, hear the grunt as Church doubled over in pain...

Li Ann steered Wilson out the garage, and Mac smirked when he tripped on the slight step.

"Done?" Vic asked, walking across close behind him to the light switch. Mac leaned back, felt their bodies touch briefly. Vic's hand swept across his hip as he moved past.

"Done," Jackie said, sounding satisfied. She pushed Church out the door, Mac following, and Vic flicked off the light. Just before he stepped out onto the now-floodlit patio, Mac felt Vic's hand on his chest, then a flutter of warm breath at his neck.

"We finished, now?" Vic murmured, nipping the line of his jaw. "I wanna go back to yours."

"I wanna go back to yours," Mac said quietly, wanting to fuck Vic on Vic's turf, leave memories all over his bedroom. His hands found Vic's waist, tempted to pull him back inside and see if they couldn't find a new use for engine oil.

Vic sucked on his neck, tiny wet noises in the dark. "Mine, then," he concurred, and Mac stepped back quickly before he actually lost his mind and acted on the fuck-him-here-and-now impulse.

He rubbed his neck, trying to stop the shadows of sensation chasing each other haphazardly through his goosebumps. "Okay," he said, hurrying to catch up with the others. "C'mon." He didn't wait to see if Vic was following.

"My wife," Wilson was muttering earnestly, staring in agony at the house, "my wife can't know, she can't, she'll kill me— "

"Better she finds out now than at the court case," Li Ann said, throwing a wince in Mac's direction. Mac knew what she meant. He didn't fancy telling a pregnant woman her husband was going in for attempted patricide either. Maybe they could get Vic to do it— he was always good with the sympathetic tact thing.

The front door wasn't locked. Mac remembered to wipe his feet as they filed inside, the familiar yellow walls making him blink all over again. There were no traces left of the dinner party, only one table in the middle of the room.

Sandra Wilson came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Can I help you?" she asked, then did a double take, eyes fastening on her husband. The towel fell to the floor. "Jack?"

"I'm sorry, Sandra," he began.

Her eyes grew very wide, and Mac realized grimly she'd just recognized them. "What's happening?" she asked, and Mac wished Vic would go forwards and comfort her already, cause he really didn't want to answer that question. "Jack? What's going on?"

Vic cleared his throat. "Well— "

"Oh," came the Director's voice, and Mac almost shot his foot, seeing her sweep down the stairs like some kind of leatherette film star, "but surely you know all about it?"

Sandra whipped round and gasped audibly. "You!"

"In the flesh," the Director said, walking right up to her. "Honestly, Rebecca— you didn't think I wouldn't notice, did you?" She tucked a strand of hair behind the other woman's ear, stroked the line of her jaw, jabbed her in the stomach with a gun. "Back up," she said quietly, steel-sharp.

"You bitch," the woman hissed, batting the gun away from her, smoothing protective fingers over her stomach. "I should've known you were watching— you never could appreciate when it's over— "

"Be quiet," the Director warned, then nodded at the door. "Once too many, and you won't have the shiny lawyer this time," she said, sounding as bitter as Mac'd ever heard. "Now get outside."

Jack Wilson Jr. looked away, didn't move as his wife left.

Huh? Mac thought, catching Li Ann's eye, finding an equal wry bafflement looking back at him.

"Okay," he said eventually, breaking the silence. "You two jokers can get outside too." The rumble of an engine started up, faintly, and it dawned on him that the Director had just driven away in their car.

"Yeah," Vic said quickly, "you two sit down there. On the step. And start thinking about your defence." He reached inside his jacket, withdrew his cell and met Mac's eyes. "I'm just gonna find out what the hell's going on."

"She's been shipped to London," Vic said, blankly. "Sandra, Rebecca— whatever her name is. The son's there too. Seems the Director's had this house under surveillance for weeks— we just brought in the final evidence."

Mac blinked. They were back in the kitchen, figuring that the prisoners didn't need to hear that their captors still hadn't the faintest idea what was happening next. "London," he said. "Right, okay. What the fuck do we do?"

"Just, get them back to base, I guess," Vic said, then sighed. "Of course," he said matter-of-factly, "she wouldn't tell me why, with Rebecca. Or how."

"Or what," Mac offered, feeling disheartened. They'd done so well, it had all been so dramatic, so slick— and then she'd had to storm in gracefully and take off the significant villain and leave them embarrassingly having to pool funds for a cab.

"Mm," Vic agreed, moodily pouring himself a mug of water and fiddling with his phone. "Here, okay. These guys take credit cards."

"They'd come out here?" Mac asked, skeptically.

"Yeah." Vic tapped in the number. "Ought to," he said, then set down his water hard when Mac slid between him and the sink and bit the back of his neck. "Mmm, yeah— hello?" he said abruptly, squirming back against him, and Mac's hand slid up to his throat, feeling his voice box buzz as he made the call.

"Okay," Vic said, hoarsely, eventually, "thanks."

Mac heard the beep of the phone turning off, then the plastic protest as he bit down again and it skittered across the floor. "Ten minutes?"

"Fifteen," Vic breathed, turning in his arms.

Mac kissed him briefly on the mouth, hands smoothing down his body, the flat of his thumb sliding down the side of Vic's cock, then wriggled sideways out of reach and walked to the door. "I guess," he said, feeling refreshed and smug, "we'd better go tell them then."

He noticed, pleased, that it was gonna be a while before Vic could face anyone.

They stood up to leave. The Director nodded, moving a piece of paper carefully from one pile to another. "Well done. All present and accounted for."

"What about the son?" Li Ann asked, arms folded accusingly, voice walking the dangerous wire between frost and fury. Mac knew how she felt; the Director hadn't told them a thing, and it didn't look like she was gonna. This time, they'd been hired muscle and that was it. It left him oddly churned up.

"He will live with his grandfather," the Director said, "who ought to have several years left in him, and far more energy now his son's stopped spiking his cereal with soporifics."

"Not enough energy to deal with that kid," Mac said, tone bordering on belligerent.

"You'd prefer for him to live with the rest of his family?" she asked. "I thought not." She shook her head, politely disparaging. "Really, it's not your concern. Nothing related to this case is your concern any longer."

Mac took breath again, and she looked up sharply. "That's my last word on the issue," she said, then shuffled some papers and cast a glance at her watch. "Girls, you can go. I need a man for this one. You've got the afternoon off."

"Uh, right," Li Ann said, frowning.

"Off, as in, I want that report by tomorrow morning, of course," the Director qualified smoothly, and Li Ann's brow cleared.

"Right, okay," she said, "thank god. For a moment there I thought you were actually giving me time off. My world view was shattered."

The Director looked up, amused. "Scram," she said, flapping her fingers.

Jackie slipped her hand into the crook of Li Ann's arm, tugged her away. "C'mon. There is no reason to give her chance to change her mind, you know? And we're not getting like a terrifically bad deal..." They trooped out, heading off in the same direction.

Mac felt his eyes narrow. "You need a man?"

Her gaze rested on him, languidly corrosive. "A man. Singular. Vic. In fact, Mac, you may leave too, if you wish. I just thought you two tended to leave together, these days."

Mac glanced over, frowning; Vic's face grew wary. "Why? Why do you need a man?"

"Sunday. There's an... a dinner. A meal. Some associates of mine— a waiter has dropped out, developed a terminal disease or some such garbage, and I need a replacement. You fit the profile."

Vic was shaking his head, backing away. "No, nonono, no way, absolutely not," he said faintly, waving his finger at her as if it might change her mind, "I know what this is, this is the Evening Nathan was talking about, the Directors, all of you— no. You'll have my balls for glazed shallots by the second course."

"Really, Mr. Mansfield," she tutted, "your imagination has become lurid. Too much time with Mac, I think. I shall have to cut down your interaction."

"Hey, no," Vic said quickly, and Mac scowled. Acknowledge she has the power, why don't you.

"Sunday night. Vic. Full black and whites, be here at six, ready to be blindfolded... I'm sure that was on your plans for the evening anyway, but we'd prefer to use our own props. Less chance of smears, you know."

Mac's mouth clicked shut— he didn't want to hear this. The voice was soft, luxurious, but the words were mean and her eyes were mean and the air was thick with, well, meanness.

"That's all right?" the Director said, and Mac just shook his head, disdain and disbelief.

Vic folded his arms, stood straighter. "I think I deserve a choice," he warned, and Mac swallowed at the tone of voice.

"Deserve," the Director repeated, staring at him flatly. "Sorry— remind me again, who owns your body? Your mind? Your free time?"

"I fucking do," Vic spat back; "You've got me under duress, that's all— I am not your property."

The Director raised an eyebrow, touched her bottom lip with her thumbnail. "You know," she said, eventually, pleasantly, "I think you couldn't be more wrong."

Vic just shook his head, silent, glaring. Mac could feel sparks spiking off him.

"You see," and the Director walked round the desk, walked between them, "you think your lives are difficult. You don't realize how much worse they could be. I'm lawfully within my rights to have you in solitary confinement for as long as I like."

"That's not law," Mac broke in, voice tasting sour on his tongue.

"Oh, but it is— my law." Her hand lighted on the small of his back, steel grip under a manicure. She turned them towards each other, lips gliding into a smile. "My turf. My possessions."

"I don't care," Mac said, flatly. "We have rights." He wished he couldn't feel the fire dying next to him, see the electricity fade from Vic's eyes.

"No you don't," the Director said sweetly; "You're outside conventional law. I protect you, arm you, dispatch you for the common good."

"Your version of the common good," Mac retorted, hopelessly willing Vic's hackles to raise again, for that spur of anger to add a spine to his protest.

"Precisely." Her finger traced up his back, a light touch, thrumming with victorious energy. Mac clenched his teeth, trying not to flinch. "And yet, my version sometimes has merit too— isn't that right, Victor?"

Vic stared at the ground. "Yeah."

Mac felt something go numb inside him.

"Yeah," she echoed, winsome, an edge to it. "Mac? Do you agree with your partner? My version of the common good has merit too?"

He tilted his head angrily, looked her straight in the eye. "When it does, it's a fluke," he said clearly, then flicked his attention to Vic, standing bolt straight, the Director's fingers playing at the nape of his neck.

Vic looked away.

He felt a harsh jealousy course through him— Vic was only supposed to roll over and show his underbelly for him, only supposed to cave and crumble under his instruction. Watching it happen for the Director felt... not like betrayed per se, but definitely intrusive. He didn't like the acquiescent defocusing that came over Vic's eyes— far too closely associated with their unspoken arrangement for comfort.

"Well, I suppose I could entitle you to your misconceptions," the Director was saying pleasantly, "just this once. After all, your views are of no concern to me whatsoever. But to business: Sunday, the common good is a pleasant little dinner party. I need you for six, Vic." She stroked her fingernail across his cheek, leaving a faint red mark that echoed through Mac's stomach. "Begin with canapés."

"Canapés, sure," Vic said brightly, not quite glib enough to be insincere.

The Director tilted her head, skeptic-come-succubus, then nodded shortly. "That's settled, then." Her eyes slid, impatient, over Mac, one eyebrow rising dryly. "Objections, Ramsey?"

I wanted Vic in my bed, panting and pleading my name, Sunday. "Vic's a pretty good person to watch hockey with," he said, measuring his tone, a shade over insincere, wanting it to be heard. "But hey, I'm pretty used to you messing my life around."

"Hmm. I suppose. But, not jealous of the blatant favouritism?" she asked, leisurely.

"If it means being at your service at the click of your fingers, then no, for some reason, I'm not."

"Oh, but the rewards for servicing me are... ample," she purred, and Mac gritted his teeth to keep from choking.

Vic raised his eyebrows at the corner of the desk, mouth set sullenly.

She ignored him, shooting Mac a nasty little smile. "Don't wear him out beforehand, okay? My need is greater than yours."

Mac's jaw started hurting, and he looked away.

Vic stormed ahead. Mac lengthened his pace, caught his shoulder just as they emerged into the sunlight. "Hey— "

"Don't even," Vic spat, breaking free and stalking to his truck; "She pissed me off enough already."

"Fuck her," Mac shouted, catching up with him again, slamming the truck door shut again. "Where are you going, huh?"

Vic's eyes flashed anger. "Mine. Follow me." He wrenched Mac's hand aside, jerked open the door. "Believe me," he muttered, hauling himself inside and making to slam it closed again, "you don't wanna share a ride."

Mac almost flinched when the engine roared, wheels scritching too close to his feet then sending up a scatter of gravel as Vic floored the truck and drove away too fast. He watched it disappear round the corner; he felt alive, exhilarated. Vic's anger was something base and deadly, leaving him shell-shocked and rock-hard. "Believe me," he said to himself, hearing his voice husky, "I do."

The kettle was simmering, approaching the boil— apt, Mac had time to think, before hands were in his hair, Vic pinning him against the wall, biting his lower lip, sucking viciously at his tongue.

Mac twisted sharply, grabbing Vic's wrists, ripping away. "Fucking hell," already panting, feeling his startled cock swell and throb in his pants. He spun round, slamming Vic's wrists into the wall. "Give me," he snarled, "a chance to get my fucking breath— "

"Need you," Vic breathed, flexing forward, eyes wide. Mac's mouth went dry, a roaring descending on his ears as Vic's voice dropped to beg, to plead. He was abruptly happy he'd let Vic alone, let him go ahead and fume the distance between the Agency and Vic's apartment, because this was good, this wasn't anger any more, this had mutated into desperation, desire, need. "C'mon, Mac, please, get rid of her, I need you— "

"On my terms," Mac interrupted hoarsely, pulling Vic's wrists above his head and folding one hand over them, letting his other hand fall and relieve Vic's fly.

Vic's eyes fell closed, and his hips arched. "Fuck, yeah."

"You better never forget that." Vic's cock was hot, eager in his unfamiliar left hand. "You got that, Vic?" He could feel the pulses inside it, twitches of pleasure running up the shaft, ever hardening. "My terms."

"I know."

"Not her terms," Mac said, his voice dropping to a growl.

Vic exhaled sharply, eyebrows drawing together, almost as if in pain. Mac grinned— he knew exactly what Vic needed, exactly what would make the other man flinch and squirm. "Like that," Vic was murmuring, blurring the words, "like that but faster, faster, please— "

"Not her terms," Mac repeated, keeping the same pace for agonizing seconds, then speeding up and squeezing hard.

"Yours," Vic managed, breathing hard through his teeth, and Mac ground down with his fist and let himself fall forwards and bite his ear, then smiled smugly as Vic came between them with a groan. Not bad, using the wrong hand.

"Better?" he mocked quietly, leaning back, frowning as he realized he'd need another shirt to go home in. Maybe he should start keeping one here on standby.

"Fuck," Vic said distinctly, massaging his wrist as Mac let him free. "I need a bed."

Mac ran his gaze down him, derogatory. "So do I," he said lightly, letting the barest hint of a threat sidle into the tone.

Vic shot him a sharp look from under his lashes. "We're uneven again?" he asked, smoke in his eyes.

Mac pulled Vic's hands away from each other. "I'd say," he murmured, taking Vic's palm and pressing it into his cock. He grinned. "Wouldn't you say?"

Vic tilted his head. "Apparently."

Mac let go of his hand, turned away. Some point, the kettle had finished boiling; a faint taste of steam moistened the air. "Follow me," he said quietly, a shiver running through him as he remembered Vic using those same words earlier. As he walked into the bedroom he stripped off his shirt, dropping it on the floor.

He heard Vic's footsteps behind him, and turned.

"What do you want?" Vic asked, and Mac felt something twist and startle in his stomach, tempted to find something new and obscene, something that would force Vic to his metaphorical knees.

Although— wouldn't his actual knees serve just as well?

His cock tightened, and he swallowed. "I want," he began huskily, then cleared his throat. "Suck me— through this," he said, running a finger over the fly of his jeans, feeling the solid shape of his dick beneath.

Vic's eyes narrowed, and Mac felt a smile of sorts grow on his mouth.

"It's my choice now," he warned softly, watching for defiance.

Vic stared, then walked to him, sank to his knees. "If— if I have to," he said, sounding hoarsely resentful, but there was a flick of glitter through his eyes as he looked up at Mac's face.

"I want you to," Mac said clearly, then shrugged slightly. Power was playing through his fingers, making them itch to take Vic's head. "Up to you if you play the game."

Vic's eyes were large, intense, unwavering. His mouth was set. As Mac waited those familiar warm hands settled on his ass, then slid down to part his thighs; Mac let him, with just enough resistance that Vic had to work to be permitted to blow him. "Yeah, well. Not my call," Vic muttered, eyelashes dipping away, leaning in and tilting his head and sliding his teeth against the plumped-out denim.

Mac inhaled, feeling spikes. "Careful," he warned, hands dropping to Vic's head, feeling moist breath blast against his cock.

Vic grunted something in return, opening his mouth wider and closing his eyes and working his tongue against the denim— Mac squirmed lightly, crotch heating with sheer frustration, trying not to buck into Vic's mouth.

Had to leave something for later, after all.

"Yeah," he surprised himself by saying, when Vic tilted his head in the other direction and sucked hard. Airy tongues of heat were sifting through the fabric, leaving him weak and unsteady. His hand slipped down, finding Vic's working jaw, trying to work a finger into his mouth; Vic backed up a little, let him push inside and feel the silken-smooth contours skin to skin, sucked hard.

"Fuck," Mac bit off, eyes closing at the sight.

Vic swirled his tongue pointedly round Mac's finger, lips sealed around it, fingertip bumping back into the arch of his throat. Mac blinked his eyes open again, looked at his finger disappearing lewdly between angelic lips. His dick was tingling, abandoned, cold stroking through wet denim and torturing his skin.

"For real," he managed, backing up until his knees hit the edge of the bed. "Do it for real."

His finger slid silently from the wet heat of Vic's mouth, teeth scraping a reproachful path. "Another request?" Vic asked, silkily. "I thought it was my turn."

Mac took a short breath: one fist clenched in Vic's hair, forcing his head back, holding him on his knees; the other calmly slid the button from its home, drew down his fly. "It is your turn," he said quietly, watching Vic's eyes dilate. "C'mon; you want this just as much as I do."

"Projecting," Vic shot back, but it was a whisper, and his hands helped Mac peel down his jeans, guided him to sit down on the cool bedspread.

"What you want is so clear, I'd have to be blind not to see it," Mac told him, steering his head closer and spreading his thighs, then hissing sharply when that blessed mouth descended without preamble. It was like the friction from sucking his jeans had stoked it, abraded it into a sweet slickness like thrusting into hot Vaseline. "Fuck, yeah. That. Yeah, shit; yeah," he heard, his hands twinning together in Vic's hair, working him deeper onto Mac's cock. "Like that but harder— harder— "

He felt Vic twist against his hands, felt a rush of fever as he felt the squirmed resistance, and reluctantly let him back off. Vic's lips were wet, slightly swollen, parted around harsh breath. His eyes blinked back water. "Just a. minute," he panted, softly, swallowing hard, and Mac twisted his hips against painfully unreceptive air and bit back a moan.

"C'mon," he whispered, hooking a heel round Vic's back, angling him closer. Strands of hair were biting rhythmically into his fingers as Vic's shoulders rose and fell. He watched that mouth edging closer, felt the shift of breath against sensitive skin, stared down like a well-placed camera in a porn movie. "Bring me off," he said, nudging Vic closer, "I want it, please, c'mon, bring me off with your mouth, do it, suck me— "

The tip of Vic's tongue flashed out, caught the end of his cock in a hot wet streak. "You want it," Vic said, hovering dangerously close, voice heady with air.

"You want it," Mac said firmly, bringing his other foot up to pin Vic in place, letting his hands force that sweet head down into his crotch. Oh, yeah. Sliding in like a dream, a fucking pornographic Oscar of a dream, throat clutching at his dick, pure slick pressure shivering end to end.

No resistance— Vic had learnt fast, or remembered previous encounters and steeled his muscles not to rebel. Mac tightened his hold, hearing the shallow sound of Vic sipping air rasp against a dozen erogenous zones at once.

He looked down, shoving deeper and liking the way Vic's breath cut off sharp. Heat swelled as his eyes focused on the supplicated arch of Vic's back curled up beneath his crossed ankles, raising his ass to the air— and he came suddenly. Pleasure blasted like salt-laced bullets; Vic sucked in a hard breath and shuddered under his hands, wrenching his head back, not before swallowing a deep deposit of come.

"Prick," Vic muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mac smiled at him, falling back on the bed. "C'mere," he said, head spinning with dizzy pleasure, grateful when Vic crawled up beside him. He pulled at his clothes, somehow managing to drag them off his body and toss them onto the floor by the time he'd wriggled fully under the covers.

Vic's feet were cold; so were his calves. Mac had a sudden thought that the circulation had been cut off, that while Vic'd been sucking him—

"Hey," he squawked, indignant, when Vic's arms prevented him wriggling away from impertinent icy toes pushed into the back of his knee. "Watch it."

"I just blew you, Ramsey. That gives me certain rights."

"They don't include shock-bombing my nerves with cold," Mac told him, shivering slightly as Vic trailed his foot down to play with Mac's ankle.

"Yeah, well," Vic said, turning and kissing the corner of Mac's mouth.

Mac's lips parted automatically, and then he bit the edge of Vic's jaw and rolled back to go to sleep. He didn't want to taste that, thanks.

"Hey," he murmured, a moment later, "you know the Director?"

Vic yawned noisily. "I've heard of her, yeah."

"I want you to ruin their meal," Mac decided, opening his eyes long enough to flash him a grin.

"Ruin?" Vic said doubtfully, and Mac shrugged against the pillow and closed his eyes.

"Unsettle," he amended, sliding his arm under Vic's shoulders, feeling residual sweat catch on his skin. "I want her to know she can't just order us about, not all the time. We do have some integrity."

Vic laughed. "Integrity? You want me to risk decapitation for integrity?"

Mac jostled him. "Pretty much," he said, with a grin, then sighed, staring at the ceiling. "I don't know, really. I just wanna make a point to her, want us to stand up against her. Want you to stand up. I don't like that earlier you just— rolled over for her."

Vic stiffened. "What, I'm only supposed to do that for you?" His voice was low, dangerous.

"Hey, no, Vic, that's not what I meant," Mac said quickly, then realized he was lying. That was exactly right; he was not a sharing man.

Vic shifted, leaning up on his elbow, the anger of earlier storming to the surface again. His hand was fisted on Mac's arm; Mac felt a thrill prickle into his skin, reacting to threat. "What did you mean, then?"

Mac stared up at him, at this exciting stranger in his bed, eyes like pine needles, dark and spiked. That mouth, still pink with sucking him off, was tilted into half a snarl. "Vic— "

"What did you mean?" Vic demanded, and Mac felt a rush of defiant energy; he grabbed Vic's shoulders and pushed him over into the mattress, rolling on top of him, naked skin a hot clash against naked skin.

Vic stared up at him, lips twisted angrily— but he was hard between his legs, irrefutable, and Mac ground slowly against him and watched his eyes glaze and snap to focus and glaze again. "I meant, we should stand up to her, together," Mac said, chest tingling where it brushed Vic's on every slightly-heated breath.

"That's not— what it sounded like," Vic managed, eyelashes stuttering as Mac started a slow, thorough slide with his hips. His own cock was pleasantly firm, charged with the sparks between them, waking up to the idea of another round. Vic was clearly— beautifully— much further along.

"It's what I meant, though," Mac insisted softly, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to get some strategy into his brain. Work out how, exactly, he wanted to play this. Vic wriggled beneath him, mouth opening in a silent plea. "You shouldn't bitch at me when you're the one misinterpreting," Mac said, thinking aloud.

Vic shivered, and Mac ground down harder.

"I mean," he continued, leaning down to murmur into Vic's ear, "it's not like we're on different sides, here— just I don't want her to win, and this time, you let her."

"It was pointless to argue," Vic breathed sharply, warm air tousling the hair by Mac's ear.

"Yeah, pointless except it made her look good— she chalked that up as a victory, and you know it. And I object to her winning."

"Yeah, I— Sorry," Vic said, and it sounded like he was squeezing the words out a punctured tire, like it hurt him to say it, like it aroused him more than anything else Mac'd done all night.

Mac's head spun. His cock beginning to ache, remembering where it'd been tonight, nudging at Vic's thighs and wondering where else it could go. He leaned back, holding Vic down into the mattress, and bit his lip hard to clamp down on the rush of eroticism at pinning this man into this bed.

Vic stared up at him, mute and silently panting.

Mac released his lip, licked the tiny indentation. "Make it up to me."

Two days later

Mac woke up, stared in the darkness. A man was sleeping next to him, breath soft and even. A man he could wake up, have do whatever he liked.

It was weird. He'd started this on impulse, secure, thinking he was taking, only taking, stepping it up in anger and frustration— but now he was in a place where Vic had enjoyed it all. Well. Maybe not all. But mostly. And while he'd enjoyed it all too, there was that edge, that sense that he was working for pleasure—

He sighed, trying to make the thoughts flock into some sort of order.

The last few days, all his excess energy had flown into devising incrementally baser situations. He wanted to shock, to stay one step ahead. He wanted to make Vic think every time, work out if he wanted Mac enough to let him do this, that, the next thing. Fuck him, grope him, order him around. It was like a hit: there was always a moment before Vic agreed, and that moment was critical, a splash of hot water at every increasingly unlikely consent.

"What do you want?" each time, an imperative in there to suit them both, eyes dark and swift with just the subtlest hint of rich beseeching.

"I want," each time, daring to push further and further, words sizzling and purring in his mouth, a high to beat all highs with steaming sex to follow— and yet fearful that Vic would shake his head one time and that would be it, everything would be over. Unsafe— and increasingly more dangerous. Every time Mac made him choose, Vic was gaining more and more power— because they both knew that the refusal that would finish it for good was the moment that Vic protested, and the only way Mac could retain his lead was by thinking up ever more-potent scenes and throwing them down like a verbal gauntlet he couldn't afford to sacrifice every time.

And of course, Vic didn't have to spend any time thinking at all. He sighed. Until now, he'd been so sure he'd been getting the better deal.

He felt Vic shift next to him, and slipped quietly out of bed. He needed a shower. Alone.

A few days later

"Where've you been?"

Mac scowled. "What's it to you?" The moment he said it, he realized what a bad mood he was in. Huh.

He hadn't been in a bad mood until he found Vic watching his TV, right where he'd left him. Something about it, crowding him, there when he left, there when he came back— it stank of faked marriage with Li Ann, when the walls and ceiling were that much closer to his head.

Vic frowned, looked up at him. "Christ— who bit your ass this morning?"

You would, if I asked you to. You'd lick my feet. "What are you still doing here, anyway?" Some crazy sensation inside him wanted to see how far he could push it.

Vic got to his feet. "I do sort of live here, you know," he said stiffly, eyes wary, frown deepening.

Mac gave a short, harsh laugh. "Sort of live here— read, I do sort of get fucked here, you know," he mocked, pushing past him to get to the fridge. He needed a drink.

"Man! What is your problem?"

"Who says I've got a problem?" Mac demanded, spinning round to face him.

"I fucking say— at least, it's not normal behaviour in my book," Vic said caustically, arms folded.

God, it felt good. Seeing that shimmer of defiance in a body he knew inside out. "Yeah, but frankly, Vic," Mac said, honey dripped over steel, "your book isn't the smartest in the country, now, is it?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Or should I say, healthiest," Mac drawled, feeling the air crackle and sizzle between them. If only Vic would move— move of his own fucking volition, without Mac drawing him a map and telling him what face to wear while he did it.

"Mac, you got something to say, just say it."

"Work it out."

Vic shook his head, disbelief burning with anger in his eyes. "You know? Maybe I won't stay tonight."

"I could do with a break."

"Oh, you'll miss me. Come ten o'clock, you'll miss me."

"Will I."

"I know exactly what you'll miss," Vic said, silkily vitriolic.

He'd miss having to contrive a situation dirty enough to get a little resistance before Vic bent over and took whatever he handed out? One he'd have to think about later, knowing it'd sprung from his head? Yeah, right. "Yeah? Well maybe I've exhausted all you've got," Mac snapped, eyes running derisively over Vic's body. It looked fantastic, taut and rugged with diffidence, and confusion, and anger. "You're good, sure. But if I wanted to break this rut we've gotten into, it'd be broken like that."

Vic whipped round. "If you wanted to?" he demanded, and apparently that was the last straw; his fists were clenched, body tight, getting right in his face, and that was good, there was fire there. Refreshing, perfect, arousing as fuck— Mac gritted his teeth, a wave of insistent lust swelling inside his skin. Abruptly, he couldn't stand not to touch him.

He reached for him, watched incredulous— dreamlike— as Vic twisted out his way with a frown.

"Fuck off, Ramsey," he spat, amazement in his voice. "You think this is all on your terms? You say frog and I jump, unconditionally? I'm telling you, the moment I don't get off on being with you, we are so over."

Mac stared. "I— I know," he said, defensive, "of course I know that." Relieved as fuck. "And— you do, though, don't you?"

Vic shot him a look of pure disbelieving disdain. "If you don't know the difference between me getting off and me lying there stone-cold unaffected, then I'm wondering if I've been sleeping with your clone for the last week and a half."

Mac closed his eyes. "Okay, now who's misinterpreting," he bit off, wanting him, wanting him now— "I meant now, I meant today, the present; I meant," he opened his eyes, stepped closer, curling his fingers round Vic's lapel, "here. Right now."

Vic's hand moved up, covered his own, then wrenched it off his jacket. "Right now, I couldn't give a flying fuck what you want," he growled, turning and stalking out.

The door slammed; Mac groaned, long and painful, and sank down into his chair. Fuck. Handled that so badly. Wanted him so much.

Three days of glaring, projected indifference, and near-permanent hard-ons. He'd gotten used to satisfying himself pretty much whenever he felt like it; it hurt to regress, and he couldn't find a substitute fantasy. He found himself groping for any little moment of heterosexual excitement, then jerking it to death, wringing out the arousal all too quickly to enjoy.

He'd even snapped at Jackie, had to duck an angry blow to the neck. "Like, what is your problem?" she'd demanded, angry, then leaned into the Director's hand like a cat when they'd argued enough to attract professional interference.

Mac wondered wildly why that pout didn't make him sizzle up inside.

It welled up inside him. He wanted to shout at her, wanted to ask why, what had she done, that now the sight of her left him cold, that now he preferred a shabby ex-cop with less fashion sense than a fishtank to a certifiably gorgeous blonde with legs up to there. Had she done something to her hair?

Or even, god forbid, had Vic?

He wouldn't put it past him, the sneaky bastard. The manipulative, underhanded jerk. The shameless, responsive fucking seraphic jerk.

He heard the words trickle through his head again, and wanted to bang aforesaid head against the table. Or even, merely bang Vic. And only Vic. Shit. Shit! Whatever this was, it was bad.

Vic answered on the second ring.

"Hey."

No answer.

Mac swallowed, then spoke. "There's a game on tonight. Kick off's nine. I don't want to watch it. You interested?"

"Can you interest me?"

"I used to," he said, voice dropping, coaxing. He wanted to appeal to Vic's cock first, arresting rational thought. "I know what you like." He waited, hoping Vic would contradict that, that his brain would step in, that he'd demand more than what they'd had—

"Nine? I'll probably be in."

"Make sure you are," Mac heard himself say, slipping back into his role as easily as jimmying a familiar lock, feeling only the faintest edge of disappointment, and heard Vic inhale slowly. The sound rushed through him, faint but snowballing, blood siphoning away from the mainstream to plump up his cock.

"If that's what you want," Vic said, and Mac hung up and tried to feel good, turning on the stereo loud to drown out the noise of a crack sealing over like it had never been.

"I've decided, I'd rather watch the game."

"Mmm?" Vic said, then shook his head. Mac felt bullets crash through the air around him— then they faded, as Vic made no further move to deny him, teasing, "I checked. There are no games this evening."

"I know," Mac said, walking past him, dropping to his knees to find the tape he wanted. "I wanna watch this," he said, brandishing it.

Vic raised his eyebrows. "That aired two days ago."

"I was busy." Mac padded closer, pressed the tape into Vic's hands, then turned and sank into the couch. He hooked his foot round Vic's leg, tugged him closer, looked up into bright eyes. "I want you— want you on your knees, blowing me, while I watch hockey and have a beer."

Vic's eyebrows rose a fraction— and there was the pure moment when he might refuse, the one Mac worked for, the one that gave the extra spice to the evening— and then he purred, "but you don't even like hockey."

"So you better make it a good blowjob," Mac reasoned, pleasantly.

A few days later

"Where're you posted?"

"Mexico," Vic said, scowling. "Four days."

Mac looked at him, imagined taking his head lightly between his hands and leaning in and gently, gently licking his lower lip. Then he wondered how to make that impulse dirty enough that they could do it, that it'd fit in the parameters they'd set and cemented, and realized it wouldn't be worth it. "You leave tomorrow morning?"

Vic nodded, eyes falling to Mac's mouth. Mac wondered if he was thinking the same thing. "5 a.m. She's still cross about the canapés, at that meal."

Mac held his tongue, well aware that wasn't the reason at all, that this was the Director's subtle hit at him, pointing out delicately that they were still her fucking property no matter how well Mac could bend Vic to his will.

"— she just wants to make my life as uncomfortable as possible."

"So do I," Mac said softly, mischief sparking in his voice, and by the gleam in Vic's eye he knew he'd been interpreted correctly.

"What do you want?"

Oh, everything. More than you're offering. "I want you to sit on me, screw down, while I lie back and think about Jackie," Mac said, an answer he'd prepared earlier. It had been enough to give him a hard-on in the coffee bar, but he'd forced it down and simmered pleasantly all day, waiting for Vic to come and ask him the question, yet strangely worried that Vic might change the words. If Vic wanted to know what he'd like most, at this point, the answer would be... well, actually, to hear the one word he was thinking he'd never pry from Vic's otherwise faultless mouth.

It wasn't that he wanted Vic to say no, wasn't that he wanted to end it, just that— there was tension building, building, like elastic, and the sooner you break it the faster the marks fade. Just leaving it, endlessly tighter, means it'll snap one day.

Vic's eyes glowed faintly, and for the one terrified-glorious moment Mac thought he was going to refuse. Then he tilted his head, licked his lips. "Where." His voice was low, sexy.

"On the rug," Mac said, planning to roll Vic over halfway through and grind him into it, leave a memory ringing indignant in his skin, one that would stay with him on the plane, "facing away from me."

And if he could get away with this, get Vic off on it, maybe when he got back from Mexico he could try the gentle licking, the soft holding— He saw the appreciative spark kindle in Vic's eyes, realized no, not on this take of their relationship. If he tried, Vic would be waiting, expecting some filthy twist to make them come like supernovae.

Well, he could live with that. Coming like supernovae was definitely better than coming in his own fist, night after night. Better than lapsing into an inferior, sugar-coated excuse for sentimentality, an idealistic white rose doomed to tarnish and wither away.

This, at least, was gratifying. A spiral, sucking him in, promising new and tempting things— and then delivering, to the nth degree. So what if a shake of Vic's head was the end of the line for him, and Vic knew it? So what if he was waiting, on edge, endlessly apprehensive? Maybe, he didn't need to worry. At this rate, Vic wasn't ever gonna say no.

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