by Kiran
Nah. Besides, that would mean he'd have to walk all the way to the
bathroom, fill the tub, strip off his clothes, get in the water, and
then try not to fall asleep in the water. Too much effort.
Finally. There was the door to his apartment; just a few more steps,
Mac, then you can collapse like an overburdened table. He made it,
blearily dumping coat and shoes on the floor—but not forgetting to
place his guns on the nearby table as he flopped himself on to the
sofa. He was never too tired to remember caution.
Ouch. Oh, that was the stereo remote. Dig it out, turn on the unit.
Ahh—the blues—Colin James. Mac had really gotten into the blues
since he started working at the Agency. And it had nothing to do with
Vic. Right.
He flicked to track four, not really in the mood for anything with a
beat that had any oopmh to it. Slow, gentle, soothing and one
hundred percent pure melancholy, the words and the voice were enough to
bring tears to Mac's eyes. What the hell, a guy was entitled to a good
cry now and then, especially since he could relate to the Otis Redding
words Colin was singing: "These arms of mine, they are lonely, lonely,
and feeling blue ...." Except that they sounded so much better, so
much deeper, when they were sung the way they were being sung. And
they would have sounded just tacky if it had been Mac singing them. He
knew; he'd tried.
He lay there, sniffling and almost enjoying feeling miserable. Not
just tired, but pathetically self-sorry, and yep, depressed. No way
Mac Ramsey was coming up with his standard clever quips tonight. No
pouty smiles or smirks. No energy for even thinking of tomorrow's
first dig of the day at Vic. That was usually something fun, something
to look forward to.
He couldn't even be bothered momentarily wondering what the Director
was up to after hours, thoughts which normally held some bizarre
appeal for at least a couple minutes. And, god, was he ever NOT up to
thinking about LiAnn.
And, yet, he was. Damn that Colin James. Track four: "These Arms of
Mine." Mac knew why he loved the song, and that really depressed
him. He loved its nuances, the simple words, so honest, so bloody
true: "These arms of mine, they are yearning, yearning, and wanting
you. And if you, would let me hold you, how grateful I would be ...."
Not that LiAnn was the answer. Mac knew that. But it was easier to
want something you'd once had than to move on and do the hard work of
deciding what it was you wanted and NEEDED now. So he pined for LiAnn.
Nah, be honest, Mac. You long for what you HAD with her. You want
someone to hold, just as badly as Colin does, you're as lonely as he
sounds. Damn, I'm so tired and depressed already and now I'm thinking
about RELATIONSHIPS! Oh, there's the upper, Mac.
Out of the blue, Mac wondered what someone else would do in his place.
LiAnn and her bath. Nah, won't go there. Vic? Hmmm. The thought
held interest. A down in the dumps Vic would be ... even more fun to
pick on.
Maybe not; too easy. Mac hoped he'd grown beyond the temptation of
getting his kicks taking shots where he could, just for the sake of it.
He thought back to Vic and the look on his face when LiAnn decided
their relationship should move to a new "friendlier" stage. That was a
bummed out Vic—and Mac remembered how pissed off he'd been that
he felt for Vic. It didn't seem to matter that LiAnn was single
again, so to speak. It just mattered that his partner, and, man, just
admit it, his friend, was hurting.
Mac wondered how Vic got through it and managed to work with LiAnn as
well as he did. Hell, he'd never really been engaged to her and he
still got weird when alone with her.
Maybe Vic had something to teach him. Like where in this city he could
have some decent fun. Do SOMETHING to take his mind off of feeling
sorry for himself. That got old after a while.
Mac's mind wandered back to the music. Thoughts, so quick that so many
could pass through his mind in the duration of poor Colin's musical
venting. The man could make music. Play with emotions. They're the
same thing.
Woah! Too deep, Mac. No, deep thoughts were NOT the answer to
depression OR exhaustion. If he weren't so tired, Mac would've escaped
into doing something.
Shit. Doing something alone's not much fun, Mac, my boy. God, this is
depressing. Aside from Vic and LiAnn, who the hell did he know to go
out with?
Now Mac was really ready to crawl in bed and cry. Oh shit. Even more
depressing—no one to hold him there.
"These arms of mine ....," Colin wailed. Good ole Colin, keeping me
company here in the emotional trashcan. Mac heard a funny noise and
realized he was whimpering.
That was so pathetically funny, Mac giggled. Whimpering? Giggling?
What the heck was wrong with him?
Giggle. Chuckle. Mac felt out of control listening to himself
chortling and then guffawing and laughing like a hyena on a high.
Hee hee. Ooh, even his hee hees were funny. Ouch, my stomach! Hee
hee. Ha. Ouch. Whimper. And that set him off again.
Oh, man, my tummy—hee hee—ouch, ouch, whimper, argh, hee hee, ouch.
Mac felt lighter, like telling Colin to get over it, man, like he might
be able to get off the couch—soon. All of a sudden, not having
someone to hold on to, to hold him, didn't make him want to curl up on
the floor and moan like a lonely puppy. It was something to look
forward to, something he'd appreciate when it happened. Life wasn't so
bad.
Life in the Agency was beyond most people's realm of belief or
acceptance, but he had a life of some sort. A couple of good, if
slightly screwed up (like he wasn't), partners, enough crazy co-workers
to make sure he never got slow or lost his sense of humour, a boss who
made life ... interesting. Even Jackie had her moments. And Dobrinsky
gave him someone to feel right about not liking.
Cool clothes, livable apartment. Sure, he was probably always under
surveillance, had little chance to meet people beyond work, and had a
family life out of "The Godfather."
Maybe he was getting too MUCH into the blues. Time to switch musical
genres. Country? Hmph. Nooo, although Shania Twain might help.
Ah, that felt more like Mac.
Colin had moved on to other things. Mac figured he should, too. So,
he cuddled closer into the couch, and fell asleep to the blues, with a
smile on his face, leaving the watchers wondering what—or who—he
was dreaming about.
"Mmmm ... 'lo?"
"Good evening, sir! I'd like to inform you of our special rates on
over 300 magazines. Subscribe to any one today and you'll receive a
FREE set of WonderWear boxers!"
(.......)
"You blasted, moronic, blithering dickhead! You woke me up from the
best freaking dream of my life. A hot dream, y'know?!?" Mac managed
to get this vitrolic spate out, albeit in Chinese. Fortunately.
Then he slammed the phone down on the table.
Man, oh man. THE hottest, most vivid dream of his entire life—ruined. He had to get back to it, had to find that exquisiteness
again. Mac cuddled back into the sofa, set his intent to return to his
dream, focused on the last scene he remembered, and ordered himself to
sleep.
"I'm too sexy for this hall, too sexy for this hall ...."
Who of his acquaintences would believe Vic could let loose like this,
that he knew every word to that song?
"... too sexy for this jacket,"—he threw his leather coat down a la
Chippendales—"nah ... maybe not too sexy for this jacket!" Vic had
bought it when he noted LiAnn's reaction as he tried it on in the
store. She didn't fit in his life that way anymore, but the coat still
did. The thought didn't even give him pause as he pretty much pranced
around the apartment, opening windows, checking for messages (like,
from who, Vic? Your family?!?), and having a shower.
He liked the acoustics of the shower so much, he sang the "sexy song"
twice, with all the moves. After so much gyrating and dancing, Vic was
feeling slightly tired. Like when you're coming off a laughing jag.
The day had been ... so ... much. Non-stop action, non-stop
adrenalin. He was hyped; Mac was zonked; LiAnn? She seemed to be her
usual unflappable self, but Vic could read her. She needed downtime,
alone. She was probably soaking in a hot tub, cup of cocoa at hand,
box of Godivas readily reachable, with candlelight framing her face.
Pretty picture, Vic.
How about the Director? Shiver. Not going there. Er, why not?
You're all grown up. Don't think I'll ever be that grown up! You
might surprise yourself, Vic, given the opportunity. And who's giving
me the opportunity??? Hmmm. Good point.
So, LiAnn's in the tub. You're lying in bed. Wanna listen to some
music? Maybe later. Watch TV? Nah. There's only one show worth
watching on Saturday night and, well, at least I have tapes. Sigh.
Vic.
Whah? Whah? I'm up.
Do you realize what you were fading into dreamland thinking about?
Hey, who is that?
It's me, idiot. Yourself. I just wanted to bring to your attention
what you were fantasizing about before I let it become a full-fledged
dream.
Uhhh. It was good, that's all I remember. Verrry good. Oh, yeah,
it was .... sigh. Can I go back to it now?
If you're cool with where it's going, sure. Wonder how you'll see it
in the morning.
LiAnn wan't much into thinking deep thoughts, soul-searching thoughts,
life-altering mental directions these days. She'd done enough of that
over the last two years. First, the whole deal about leaving the Tangs
tore her self-image and life apart. Then, Mac, up 'til then, the love
of her life, had apparently died. She'd gone deep within herself to
find the strength to carry on, alone. Really alone, with the only
family she'd ever known oh, so not impressed with her survival.
Just when things were in some state of resolution, she'd met Vic. All
the old stuff had come back, to be dealt with again as she sorted out
how she felt about him and decided that Mac, being a loving and
hopefully, evolved, ghost would want her to be happy and love again.
Throw in working for the Agency and getting to "know" her co-workers,
and LiAnn had had a lot to deal with.
And then Mac walked back in, tearing the hinges off the door to her
life while he was at it. She'd sorted it out, dealt with it in her
normal imperturbable manner. THEN, she'd turned the door upside down,
painted it with stripes, and told Vic "it" was over. No more LiAnn
"and so-and-so." Now, it was just LiAnn, only this time, it wasn't
frighting; it was her choice. And then she started living.
Not that she really had a "life," as people defined the term these
days. She hung out with two fantastic partners, who she'd already gone
through the "more than partners" thing with, worked for a boss who
worked for who-knew and was on what sort of trip, and most of the time,
shoved LiAnn off to do the grunt work in the stacks, with ... Nathan.
Oh, yeah, she had no life.
Thank god for bath oils and Godiva chocolates.
"Pffttt!" LiAnn blew the bubbles off her fingers so she could grab
another chocolate from the strategically located box, right next to the
mug of cocoa. Ummm umm, yum, ahhh .... She could compare that
taste, that feeling to a couple things, but why not just enjoy this
chocolate? She took another and let this one melt in her mouth, idly
wondering if it would melt quicker than normal because she was sitting
in hot water. Hot, scented water. Surrounded by candles. Eating
chocolate. Drinking cocoa. Alone.
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned: I want all this all for ME and
only for ME.
Sigh. Wait. Something could be improved on here. Ah. She reached up
and turned on the radio. Ahhhhhhhhh. Took another chocolate, eating
this one in little tantilizing bites so it lasted ... and lasted,
melted on to her fingers. She licked them off and didn't know whether
to groan or laugh at the indulgence.
She deserved this. Anyone would after a day like today, but SHE really
deserved this. Oh, let's not start thinking, LiAnn. Just feel.
Oooh, like that. Bubbles tickled her toes, candlelight warmed her
face, and chocolate ... well, need she say more?
Something in the music turned her senses from taste to hearing.
"And I need tender hands to hold me, I need tender hands tonight.
Oops. This could lead her to depressing thoughts. Wait, LiAnn, I
thought you decided thinking wasn't on the evening's action plan?
Yeah, you're right. But I never said anything about fantisizing ....
LiAnn almost hurriedly finished the chocolates and the cocoa, blew out
the candles, and got into her jammies. Silk jammies. There wasn't
anything decadent she didn't deserve tonight. Uh huh. And that
included good thoughts, happy thoughts, reeeee....laxing thoughts. She
tuned off the light, making sure her gun was on the bedside table, as
usual, and tumbled into the luxury of bed.
Already in a ... receptive ... frame of mind, her dreams were relaxing
in a very stimulating sort of way.
ac was beat, bushed, pooped, wiped out, beyond tired. If he'd been
LiAnn, he would have plopped himself in a hot scented bath for two
hours, then passed out in silk pj'd glamour. But Mac didn't do hot
scented baths alone.
Vic high-fived the snoozy doorman who let any thug in a Vic-punching
mood get by. Today, Vic was too psyched to glower at the dufus. He
sang his way to the elevator, letting it get really funky during the
ride, jumped out of the car and struck a pose, then bee-bopped his way
down the hall.
Vic???
VIC?!?
Will you lay them on my shoulders?
Will you lay them on my eyes?
And I need tender hands to take me, all the way to paradise,
And then, when it's over, I need tender hands to hold me through the
night"
