ick tick tick scritch tick tick

Jackie started out of her light sleep at the sound. She lifted her head, wincing a little at the cricks in her neck. A few aches were inevitable given her sleeping position: curled up on a cold, dirty concrete floor, handcuffed to a heavy pipe that ran the length of the cinderblock wall she now leaned against. Her wrists ached where she'd been pulling on the cuffs in her sleep. She shivered. She was cold all over. At least someone had come by while she was asleep and put a blanket over her.

A short man in a ragged old green coat had entered the small room where Jackie and another woman were restrained. His boots clacked on the floor as though there were tacks stuck into their soles—that was the sound which had woken Jackie.

The short man approached the other woman first. She was handcuffed to a pipe running along the wall opposite Jackie's. She was young, maybe twenty, and quite overweight. Her drab denim clothes indicated that she had been a prisoner in the same institution Jackie had been trying to guard. A blanket had been draped over her shoulders, too.

"Wakey, wakey, time for your medicine, darling," the short man crooned. His voice was old and cracked. He reached out a wrinkled hand to shake the woman's shoulder.

The woman blinked her eyes open, and shifted into a sitting position. "Ow," she mumbled, obviously feeling some of the same aches Jackie was feeling.

"Time for your medicine," the man repeated. He wasn't the same person who had brought them pills before. That time—how long ago had it been? six hours? twelve? there was no real way to tell—it had been a young black man who brought the pills. This was an old white man. Jackie didn't recognize either of them.

"All right," the woman said. "Then can I go to the bathroom? I really have to pee."

The man gave no sign of noticing the puddle or the smell that indicated the woman had already been overcome by that particular need. "Very soon, dear," he promised. "Take your medicine, and then in a little while someone else will come and take the cuffs off, and give you the big introductory tour."

"Oh, good!" the woman said, smiling like the man had honestly pleased her. She opened her mouth wide, like a baby bird. The man put something on her tongue, then held a glass of water to her lips, from which she drank greedily. Then she gaped her mouth wide at the man. He nodded approvingly, then crossed the small room to crouch by Jackie.

"Now you, dear," he said. Jackie forced herself not to lean away from him, despite his bad breath and the three ugly hairs on his chin. She was taking her behavioural cues from the woman across the room. This time the woman had been alert and co-operative; therefore Jackie would be alert and co-operative. She opened her mouth wide and let the man put a round blue pill on her tongue; she successfully resisted the urge to bite his fingers off.

Jackie closed her mouth. When she was younger, she'd mastered the trick of tying a cherry stem into a knot using only her tongue. In comparison, the trick of quickly shifting the pill under her tongue before the man raised the water glass to her lips was dead easy. She gulped the water, keeping the pill securely tucked under her tongue. Then she smiled at the man.

"Now just let me see under your tongue, darling," the man said.

Damn. He wasn't quite as gullible as the last guy had been. Jackie thought fast. She started to open her mouth, but stopped, wrinkling her nose. "Just a sec," she gasped. "ah-Choo!" she pretended to sneeze. She let herself double over; her loose hair fell in front of her face, an effective shield as she quickly spat the pill out onto her lap, letting it get lost in the folds of her blanket. She sat up and sniffled dramatically. "Sorry," she said sweetly. "I think I'm catching a cold. The floor here's, like, kind of cold and damp, you know." Then she opened her mouth wide and let the guy look under her tongue.

It had been a pretty dumb ruse, but it worked on the guy. He nodded, satisfied, and left, telling them once more that someone would come for them soon.

Toronto, Canada, the same day

Vic shuffled his feet uncomfortably and tucked his thumbs into his pockets. By his side, Li Ann waited calmly for the orderly to come open the locked door to the psych ward and let them in.

Vic didn't want to be here, but he couldn't come up with an excuse good enough to keep him away without making Li Ann suspicious. He'd tried playing the "It's too dangerous, the Director told us all to stay in Mac's apartment because someone's trying to kill you," card, but that had failed for all the obvious reasons. Li Ann had just pointed out that she'd already gone to the hospital with Mac in the first place, last night, and then come home alone in a cab a few hours later, and the Director hadn't even reamed her out for it. Besides, Li Ann's loyalty to family far outstripped her concern for her personal safety, and Mac was the only family she had left.

A tall, dark-skinned Asian man in green scrubs opened the door for Li Ann and Vic. "Who are you here to see?" he greeted them, ushering them in to the quiet, brightly lit ward.

"Mac Ramsey," Li Ann said.

"Oh!" the man raised his eyebrows. "We've all been pretty curious about him." His tone of voice suggested a hope that they would give him some juicy news to pass on to his co-workers.

"Curious why?" Li Ann asked.

"The guard outside his door, for one thing. And then the doctor who's treating him—that doctor's not one of the hospital staff, and none of us have ever seen him before."

Li Ann met Vic's glance sideways, and mouthed the word 'Agency.' Out loud, she said to the inquisitive orderly, "We don't really know much of anything, we're just his family."

The orderly shrugged. "Oh well, that's his room—the one with the guard."

The "guard" looked vaguely familiar to Vic—he thought he'd seen him before, maybe at an Agency party. He looked like a Secret Service guy now, standing outside the hospital room in a neat black suit; he even had one of those little radio receivers in his ear. He turned his head slightly to face Vic and Li Ann, and gave them a fraction of a nod, keeping his face impassive.

Like all the rooms in the psych ward, Mac's room was single-occupancy and had a big window in the wall connecting it to the central hub, so the nurses at their station could keep an eye on the patient. Through the window, Vic saw Mac. He was sitting on the bed, picking at a tray of hospital food. He was still wearing the navy blue pyjamas, the only clothes he had with him. Vic had in his hand an overnight bag with some clothes and toiletries which Li Ann had packed for Mac.

Li Ann went into the room, and Vic was forced to follow. He couldn't tell Li Ann the real reason he didn't want to come to the hospital to visit Mac, which was that Vic was completely shattered inside by the discovery that Mac thought Vic was Michael when he kissed him last night. He didn't know what the hell he'd say to Mac now. He didn't know how much Mac would remember, and he didn't really want to find out.

"Hi, Mac, how are you feeling?" Li Ann asked. She grabbed the one chair in the room and pulled it over to the side of the bed. Vic remained standing, just inside the door. He leaned against the wall, trying to look casual.

"Not hungry enough to eat this," Mac said, grimacing at the tray of food he held. His voice and motions struck Vic as slightly subdued. Mac's tone was a bit softer than usual, and the rhythm of his words was just slightly too slow. "I think the white stuff's supposed to be potato. Not sure about the yellow stuff. Want some?" Finding no takers, he put the tray down on the table by the bed. He coughed, and grabbed a tissue from a nearby box to blow his nose. He still had a cold, of course, though he sounded better than yesterday.

Vic shifted his position slightly; the light switch was digging into his back between his shoulder blades. He wanted to know what Mac remembered from last night. No, he didn't want to know. He needed to know. But he couldn't ask. He stayed silent, letting Li Ann do the talking.

"I meant... what did the doctor say?" Li Ann was obviously trying to avoid directly asking Mac if he was still crazy.

"I had... an isolated breakdown, triggered by stress. That's what he told me. I don't know what he told the Director."

"The Director?" Li Ann repeated. "When was she here?"

Mac shrugged, and shifted back on the bed so he could lean against the wall. "Dunno. Earlier. I don't have a really good sense of time, I'm all tranked up."

He was on tranquillizers—that explained the strange, subdued way he was acting. Li Ann looked concerned. "What did they give you?" she asked.

Mac shrugged again. "They didn't tell me. I feel like there's a Plexiglas shield between me and the world." He lifted one hand, extending his fingers towards Li Ann as though he were touching the invisible shield. Then he stared at his fingers for a few seconds. He wiggled them, and watched them with an air of fascination. "It's kind of nice," he mused.

Vic cleared his throat. "Hey," he said by way of a greeting, "We brought some stuff for you. Clothes, and Li Ann bought you a couple magazines."

"I thought you might be bored in here," Li Ann explained.

"Yeah..." Mac agreed listlessly. He scratched his chin, which was dark with a couple days' growth of stubble, and slumped down more against the wall. "I guess. Right now I'm just sleepy."

Li Ann looked at Vic. "We should probably go, let Mac rest."

"Sure," Vic agreed, managing not to sound desperately enthusiastic.

Li Ann stood up. "I want to go to the washroom before we go—I'll just be a minute. Wait here."

Before Vic could propose an alternate plan, she was gone. A little voice inside Vic's head whimpered silently.

"Hey, Vic?" Mac said. He shifted, sitting up a bit straighter.

"Uh, yeah?"

"About last night. I'm not sure..." he hesitated, "I'm not sure what was real."

Neither was Vic, in a sense. "What do you remember?" he asked Mac, feeling his heart pounding faster.

Mac sort of laughed, without smiling. "I remember being with Michael."

Vic felt his heart breaking just a little bit more. "You were talking in your sleep," he lied. "Woke me up. You were mumbling, I couldn't make out what you were saying. Then suddenly you got up, grabbed my gun from the table, and stuck it in your mouth."

Mac nodded, slowly. "And that's when Li Ann called 911?"

"Pretty much."

"It wasn't as bad as it looked," Mac said. "I mean, I wasn't going to shoot myself." He darted a glance at the door, and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. Vic had to move closer to hear him. "I know that's what you were thinking. But I wasn't. Michael and I used to play with guns. It was just a sex thing."

Oh, and that made it any less fucked up and terrifying?

"Talk about it with the doctor," Vic said gruffly. "It's none of my business."

Mac coughed again. "You haven't told Li Ann anything—about me and Michael, have you?" he asked, keeping his voice very quiet.

"Of course not," Vic answered, annoyed that Mac would doubt him. "You can trust me to keep a secret."

"Good," Mac said.

Li Ann returned to the room. They said their goodbyes, and the visit ended.

Location Unknown, the same day

Jackie hungrily slurped the bowl of ramen noodles she'd been given. She was fairly sure the food wasn't drugged. Since her captors believed they were successfully giving her pills, drugged food would be redundant.

She shifted her legs, enjoying her freedom of movement. A woman had finally come and removed her handcuffs, and brought her to this larger room where people were eating.

It was a motley collection of people in the room with Jackie. Most of them were dressed randomly and appallingly in what looked like Salvation Army leftovers. It was freezing cold in this place where they were, so everyone was wearing layers upon layers. A typical woman, grey-haired and stout, wore a bright green polyester sweater over a pale pink turtleneck, baggy yellow pants, and mismatched sneakers (one blue hightop, one red running shoe). She had a ragged purple feather boa draped artfully around her shoulder. She caught Jackie looking at her, and gave a dramatic wink. Jackie giggled; it was too absurd.

There were also a handful of people wearing denim prison jump-suits. They all looked rather stunned and uncomfortable, but all of them were enthusiastically attacking their noodles. They must have been taken from the Kingston prison and only now released into the cafeteria, like Jackie.

Jackie recognized most of the faces of the oddly-dressed people from the case files she'd studied before going to Kingston. They had all been inmates in the "nuthouse"—to use Vic's term—in Alberta. Interestingly, other than their criminally bad fashion sense, none of them seemed to be crazy. The same went for the new arrivals. In contrast to the bedlam Jackie had seen inside the Harriss Memorial, everyone here was behaving in a normal, orderly way, talking calmly with their neighbours as they ate. No one rolled on the floor screaming. No one stood up and tore their clothes off and ran around the room. No one tried to harm themselves with their soup spoon. Jackie suspected this had to do with the pills.

She recalled the progression of the woman she'd been locked in the room with, whose name she had learned was Sara. When they'd first been left, restrained, in the room, Sara had immediately fallen into ranting incoherently and occasionally banging her head against the wall. Then the man had come in with pills for Jackie and Sara—two pills for each of them, and of course Jackie had avoided taking hers. Not long after that, Sara had fallen asleep. Supposing that it was an effect of one of the pills, and seeing that there wasn't anything else she could do, Jackie had allowed herself to sleep, too. They woke up when the second man came with pills for them; that time, Sara had been alert and coherent. After the man left, Jackie had talked with Sara a bit. Sara remembered being liberated from prison by a purple kangaroo, and she remembered being tied up in a "dark, noisy, moving place" for a long time. That was consistent with Jackie's experience of being taken from the prison by people in costume (w! ho had had mistaken Jackie as an inmate, despite the fact that she wasn't dressed as one, because when they arrived she had loudly proclaimed to the nearest giant bunny rabbit that she was the Queen of Spain and she demanded to know what the Vikings were doing in her castle), and then being bound and gagged and blindfolded and put in the back of a tractor trailer for an interminably long ride.

So. The Mad Millennium group kidnapped crazy people and drugged them into sanity? There had to be more to this picture. Jackie spooned up the last of the soup broth in her bowl, and considered her next move. She had to get away, but she wanted to learn as much as she could, first.

She had a drug-related problem of her own to consider. It had been at least one day, maybe two, since she'd last taken her medication. She could already feel herself starting to slip. Her mind and her emotions felt less controlled. Looking around the room at the oddly-dressed people, she could barely stop herself from laughing. And she knew that she had to get in contact with the Agency... but that need seemed less and less pressing all the time, next to her curiosity about what was going on here, and whether it might get more amusing.

All right. She had to find a way to contact the Agency fast, before she forgot which side she was on.

Toronto, Canada, the next day

Vic read the last lines of the paperback thriller he'd picked up at the hospital yesterday. He closed the book and put it down on the couch next to him, and sighed. He wished he'd bought another one. Mac hardly had any reading material in his apartment, and what there was, was in Chinese. There was nothing good on daytime TV. Vic was amazed to find himself wishing he could go to work—but the Director was still keeping them all in exile from the Agency. Mac had come home from the hospital around ten this morning, escorted by Dobrinsky. There were still no leads on who had planted the bomb in Li Ann's apartment, and the Director had ordered the three of them to keep lying low in Mac's apartment. That didn't sit well with Vic—not when Jackie was missing in action, probably being held prisoner by some sort of evil cult. Why wouldn't the Director let the team do anything?

OK, Vic knew the reasons. They didn't know where Jackie was, and Vic still had the injured hand which severely limited his usefulness, and Mac... well, Mac probably wasn't ready to work just yet.

At the moment, Mac was in the other room working out on his home gym. He'd been at it for hours. He was using the punching bag now; Vic could hear the staccato thuds of Mac's bare fists striking the bag.

Vic stood up. He felt restless. He decided to join Mac in working out. Vic hadn't had any real exercise in days, and his body didn't feel right.

He went into the bathroom to change into shorts and an old blue t-shirt, then joined Mac in the corner of the apartment where he kept his home gym. Mac was still working the punching bag, now practising those high kicks he liked so much. He was wearing loose black cotton pants, and a sleeveless grey t-shirt which was almost completely soaked with sweat. Sweat glistened on Mac's bare, muscular arms, held close to his body now as he extended his right leg in a series of high, snapping kicks to the punching bag, and sweat trickled down the sides of Mac's face. His short hair curled close to his head, dark in its dampness. His gaze was intense, focused on his target; his eyes didn't flicker towards Vic, though he must have noticed Vic's approach.

Vic caught himself staring, caught himself holding his breath. Mac was beautiful. How had Vic denied this for so long? His strength, his grace, his long limbs, the slight smile he allowed himself now as he switched his stance and started the same series of kicks with his left leg. The smile—he was aware that Vic was watching him.

Like everyone Vic had ever fallen for, Mac was beautiful, and flawed, and hurt, and unattainable.

Vic started doing a few stretches to warm up. He wouldn't do a hard workout today, he decided. With his left hand injured, he was limited in what he could do.

Mac stood in front of the punching bag, both feet on the floor. He was breathing hard. He leaned against the bag and coughed.

"You OK?" Vic asked, trying to sound casual. For a guy who'd been hospitalized twice in the past three days, Mac was working himself pretty hard.

Mac grinned at him and swiped his hand over his forehead, sending droplets of sweat flying. "Fine. Exercise is good for a cold." Mac went out to the kitchen and came back chugging a bottle of water.

Vic decided to start with the pec deck. He checked the weight; Mac had it set to 90 pounds. Good enough. He set down and braced his arms against the pads. He brought the pads together in front of his face, and started counting reps.

They worked out in mutual silence for a while. Mac worked on triceps extension; Vic could just see him out of the corner of his eye, grunting slightly with exertion every time he pulled the bar down to his shoulders. Then Vic switched to the leg press. In position for the leg press, he had a much better view of Mac. The muscles and veins on Mac's arms stood out in sharp definition as he strained to pull the bar down. His arms were shaking a bit. He must be getting tired; he'd been working out for hours.

Mac finished his set. He picked a small towel up off the floor and patted it over his face. "How's your hand?" he asked Vic.

"Can't use it yet," Vic answered, his voice tight with the force he was using to work the leg press. "Doesn't hurt much."

"How long do you think the Director's going to keep us penned up here?" Mac lay down on the floor with his knees bent, and started to do crunches.

"Dunno."

"This isn't right," Mac said, speaking in brief breaks between crunches. "We should be out there, finding who planted the bomb at Li Ann's place, looking for Jackie...."

Vic grunted his agreement.

Mac sat up all the way and looked at Vic. "So let's go. I know Li Ann'll agree."

Vic shook his head. He wasn't about to remind Mac of what had happened the last time Vic had ignored the Director's orders: Mac had encountered his crazy, axe-murderer mother in the Harriss Memorial after Vic ignored the Director's explicit instructions to keep himself and Mac out of that place. Mac had flipped out, and Vic had had to chase him across half of Ontario in a blizzard to save him from himself. All Vic said now was "The Director doesn't want us to get in the way of the RCMP. They're handling the Mad Millennium case now. And we don't have any leads on the bomb, so what could we do?"

Mac made a frustrated growling sound, and started doing crunches again, setting a faster pace than before.

"I don't like it either," Vic said. Mac ignored him. Vic sighed, and resumed working the leg press.

The phone rang in the other room.

"Hello?" Li Ann answered it.

A minute later she came in to the room where the boys were, looking excited. "Jackie's contacted the Director!" she announced. "We're going to go rescue her!"

Mac, Vic and Li Ann sat around the table in the briefing room, impatiently waiting for the Director. Mac drummed his fingers on the table. Li Ann crossed her legs, then re-crossed them the other way. Vic craned his head around to look up the stairs. She must know they'd arrived, she'd be down any second now....

The Director had told Li Ann on the phone that she wanted the team assembled in thirty minutes. Mac had quickly showered; his hair was still wet and Vic could just barely smell the soap he'd used. Vic hadn't even worked up a sweat in his aborted workout, so he'd just thrown some proper clothes on, and then Mac had driven them all to the Agency in his car.

"What's taking her so long?" Mac grumbled.

"Taking who so long?" the Director asked sweetly, right behind Mac. Mac jumped in his seat. Vic was startled, too. Damn, he'd only looked away for a second—how did the Director do that?

"Jackie's been missing since Tuesday," Li Ann pointed out. "I'm pretty tired of waiting for you to let us do something about it."

Vic looked with surprise at Li Ann—did she just tell off the Director? Over Jackie?

"Well let's just say that this team isn't my first choice." The Director made sure the boys, in particular, caught her glare. "I'd rather give you all another week of quiet time, but you know Jackie, so you're my best choice to go in and kidnap her."

"Kidnap?" Vic repeated, puzzled. "Aren't we rescuing her?"

The Director waved her fingers loosely in the air. "Rescue, kidnap, pot-aye-to, pot-ah-to... actually, Jackie may not come willingly. She's been off her meds for a few days, you see, and she may be unstable. There's no way to predict how she'll react when she sees you."

"So what's the plan?" Li Ann asked.

"Jackie's being held in an abandoned factory in Belleville." The Director perched on an empty chair, flipped up one of the computers inset in the table, and pressed a few keys to bring up a schematic map. "She estimates there are about thirty people there with her, including about eight of the prisoners from Harriss."

The prisoners from Harriss? God damn, Vic had managed to forget up 'till now that where Jackie was, Mac's mom might also be. And the Director was going to just send Mac in there?

Vic noticed Li Ann frowning; she caught his eye, glanced at Mac to make sure he wasn't looking at her, and then mouthed the word "Anita" at Vic across the table. He nodded slightly to let her know he'd thought of that too, then mouthed the word "later" at her. He'd ask the Director, but not in front of Mac.

The Director was still talking. "It's obviously not Mad Millennium's centre of operations, so we're not in a position to take them down yet. We need to learn more. But I want Jackie out of there. So I want you to go in covertly—get her out quietly, and get out of there."

Covert ops were one of this team's specialities. This shouldn't be too bad.

Vic quietly flexed his left hand, under the table, checking its range of motion. The movement hurt, and the thick bandage restricted him somewhat, but he could fire a gun with that hand if he had to. He didn't think he'd be able to support his weight with it, though—no climbing ladders, or hanging from windowsills.

"You'll have a couple hours to go over the mission plans, and then you'll be leaving for Belleville," the Director continued.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs behind him, Vic turned around to look. Dobrinsky came down the stairs and approached the table, holding a small stack of black-covered mission dossiers. He handed one each to Mac, Li Ann and Vic, leaving him with one still in hand.

"Who's the fourth folder for?" Li Ann asked.

The Director stood up. "Mr. Dobrinsky will be working along with you on this one. I suggest you all go over your dossiers now, and work out the details of your plan." The other agents looked at Dobrinsky with surprise.

"You don't go out on missions," Mac said.

"If anyone's got a chance of convincing Jackie to come willingly, it's me," Dobrinsky pointed out. He sat down at the table, and opened his folder. "Now, let's get cracking."

While everyone skimmed the papers they'd been given, Vic drew the Director aside. "I want to talk with you," he whispered. Li Ann looked up to see what he was doing; then, apparently trusting Vic to handle things, she turned her attention back to her folder.

The Director gave Vic an indulgent look, and beckoned him to follow her. She led him out of the briefing room and closed the door behind them; in the empty hallway, they had privacy to talk.

"You noticed that Anita Ramsey was one of the prisoners kidnapped from Harriss, right?" Vic asked her, making sure he was standing well inside her personal space. He was feeling slightly pissed at her, and he needed to show it.

The Director declined to back away; she looked at him scathingly. "That is a rather important detail, Victor. Am I in the habit of overlooking important details?"

"No," Vic admitted. "But don't you think it's dangerous to send Mac on a mission where he might run into his mom? Considering what happened last time?"

The Director smiled lazily, and took a half-step forward. Now she was the one invading his personal space. She picked an imaginary fleck of lint off Vic's shirt, 'accidentally' flicking his left nipple with her fingernail through the soft plaid flannel. "My goodness," she said, "haven't we become protective?" Vic thought he detected a thread of deep satisfaction in her tone. He recalled the talk she'd had with him back before the team left for Kingston—and his resolve not to fall for her wounded bird trick.

Fuck.

"If he sees her and freaks out like last time, it'll jeopardize us all," Vic pointed out, wishing he could manage to say that without it sounding so defensive.

Anyway, he hadn't fallen for her trick. He was concerned about Mac because Mac was his friend, and Mac was in trouble. Li Ann was worried about him too, and Vic knew she didn't have any "wounded bird" syndrome.

Vic just hoped the Director wouldn't see through to the rest of Vic's feelings about Mac. If she knew Vic had somehow developed a crush on Mac... Jesus, she'd find thirty ways to use it against him before breakfast.

"It's all right," the Director said, "Anita's not there. Jackie was sure that she'd seen everyone who's being held in the factory. Only eight of the prisoners from Harriss are there, and none of their descriptions matches Anita."

Vic was not entirely convinced. "What if Jackie's wrong? You said yourself she's mentally unstable."

"May be unstable," the Director corrected him absently. "We don't really know... there are no sure things, Vic. I calculate risks, and I make decisions."

"And sometimes you're wrong," Vic reminded her. He didn't need to say the names Pucci, or Michael. She'd know what he meant. Those wounds were fresh—including the new scar he knew she hid under her shirt.

"That's built into the definition of risk," she said, after a pause. "But really, this time, I think it'll be all right."

Belleville, Canada, that night

"I sure hope the crazy people sleep at night," Mac whispered to Li Ann as they worked together to hoist Vic up onto the roof. Vic came over the edge, grabbing the low wall with his good hand and pulling himself up and over. He was wearing all black, like the others—their standard night ops gear. He unclipped his harness, and tossed the end of the rope back down for Dobrinsky.

The roof they stood on was about eight metres off the ground. Other parts of the abandoned factory rose two or three storeys higher than this part; where this roof met the wall of the factory's taller section, it gave easy access to several third-floor windows.

Leaving Li Ann and Vic to keep watch and help Dobrinsky up, Mac went over to the window they planned to enter by. He tested to see if it was unlocked; no such luck. No problem. Mac checked over his shoulder to see that Dobrinsky was safely up with the others, then he reached into a pocket for his knife. He cut into the caulking around the edge of the pane of glass, and then used the knife to pry out one of the cut ends. Slowly, carefully, he started to peel the caulking strip away from the window.

Cold wind gusted over the rooftop. Mac shivered, and stifled a cough. His cold was getting better, but he was still feeling its effects. He paused, the caulking half away from the window now, to dig a Halls out of another pocket and pop it in his mouth. He went back to his task, bemusedly picturing himself in a cough drop commercial. Don't let an annoying cough due to cold get in your way when you're sneaking into a top secret enemy stronghold in the dead of night... He pulled the last of the caulking away from the window, smiling that he'd managed to get the whole thing intact. Wonder if he got a wish for that, like getting an orange peel off all in one piece? He dropped the caulking strip in the snow on the roof, and lifted the window pane out of its frame.

They all climbed in—Mac first, then Li Ann, Dobrinsky, and finally Vic, guarding the rear. Inside, they split up according to the prearranged plan. Floor plans of the abandoned factory had been made available to them, and even Mac had studied them carefully, knowing he'd be finding his way through this enemy territory in near total darkness.

Also knowing that this was probably the one chance the Director would give him to redeem himself of the complete and total fuck-up he'd made of the last mission. Not that he usually worried about pleasing her... but after that story she'd told him the other night, about his past and hers intertwining, he'd felt this strange desire for her to respect him.

If the story was even true. She'd implied it might not be.

Abandoning that pointless line of thought, Mac slipped his night vision goggles over his eyes and tiptoed his way to the staircase.

At the bottom of the staircase, Mac heard muffled thumping noises coming from around the corner. There seemed to be some light, too. He shifted the goggles up off his eyes again, and took a cautious peek around the corner.

He saw a huge, open area with a two-storey ceiling. This had once been the factory's main production floor. The machines were gone now, but in their place was an eclectic collection of gym equipment. There were parallel bars, mats, a wall and a wide pipe—an obstacle course, maybe?—and a few basketballs on the floor. A couple ragged climbing ropes hung from the ceiling. The scene was lit, dimly, by a few old-fashioned oil lamps which had been placed in a sparse circle around the equipment.

There were people in the scene. Being hidden in the shadows at the edge of the room, Mac didn't worry that they'd notice him. He watched, to see what he could learn.

If anything, they looked like clowns rehearsing for the circus. Their clothes were bright and mismatched. One of them, a grey-haired man, held a hula hoop perpendicular to the floor and about a foot above one of the gym mats. The other two, a very thin woman and a rather plump woman, took turns diving through the hoop to do somersaults on the gym mat.

Very strange.

This was a problem. He'd planned to cross the factory floor in order to reach the rooms, former offices, on the other side. There was no other access to those rooms. Even keeping to the shadows at the edge of the room, Mac was doubtful he could make it all the way across without being spotted.

He crept backwards into the stairwell, and whispered very softly, knowing the mike would pick it up, "I can't cross the factory floor. There are people there."

"Just wait, then," came Dobrinsky's whispered order through the earpiece, "see if we find her upstairs."

Just wait. Damn. Waiting was so not one of Mac's strong points.

Drawn to entertainment over safety, Mac peeked around the corner to see what the clowns were up to. The hoop lay discarded on the floor, and now the two women were climbing the ropes. Rather, they were both standing on the floor holding on to the ropes as though they'd like to climb them. The man was explaining something about how to put their hands and feet.

The women started trying to climb. The plump woman tugged at her rope, but her feet didn't leave the floor. The skinny woman managed to climb about a foot before dropping off the rope. She tried again.

It was quite sad, and Mac was tempted to go out there and show them the right way to do it. The grey-haired man's instructions to the women were practically useless. The skinny woman, at least, looked like she had the strength to pull her body weight up if only she had the right technique.

"Do not engage the enemy," Mac whispered to remind himself of his orders here.

"What was that, Mac?" Li Ann asked, through the radio.

"Nothing, sorry," he whispered back.

Man, he hated doing nothing. The problem with doing nothing was it gave him time to think. It'd been OK yesterday in the hospital, when he was drugged out of his mind, but now his head was clear. With nothing to do and no one to talk to, he couldn't distract himself when his thoughts turned to themes he'd rather avoid.

Was Michael's ghost real, or not? He'd seemed real enough two nights ago, when he'd come to Mac in the night in Vic's apartment. The doctor at the hospital had told Mac it was all in his head. Either way, real or not, it was bad news. As a ghost, Michael was certainly a vengeful ghost. As a hallucination, he was a portent of Mac's greatest, most deeply-buried fear: that he'd take after his mother.

And if Mac wasn't going crazy, then why had the doctor given him all those pills?

The white ones were for sleeping. The doctor said they'd send him into a deep sleep, without dreams or nightmares. "Take as required, not exceeding one every 24 hours," the label said. The pink ones were antidepressants, the doctor said. "Take one every 24 hours." And the blue ones, well, the doctor hadn't even told him what the blue ones were. "Take two daily. Take with food." None of them had brand names stamped on them. The Director had probably decided to use him as a guinea pig to test some weird experimental drugs for the Agency. Just like they'd apparently done with Jackie.

"Found her," Vic whispered over the radio. "Third floor, second door on the right. She's asleep. There's two other women sleeping in here too."

Good. Something to do. Mac put the night-vision goggles back on and started up the stairs.

He met Dobrinsky, Li Ann and Vic in the empty third floor corridor. With whispers and gestures, they decided that Dobrinsky and Li Ann would go in to the room to get Jackie, while Mac and Vic would stand guard in the corridor.

Dobrinsky and Li Ann went in. Moments later, Mac heard Jackie enthusiastically—and loudly—exclaiming "Hi, guys!" Down the hall, Vic winced.

There were sounds of a scuffle from the room. "I'm going in," Vic whispered quickly, and did.

The door across the hall opened. A skinny young man in sweat pants and a bulky sweater stepped out and looked at Mac, blinking sleepily. "What's going on?" he asked Mac.

"Oh, nothing," Mac assured him, flashing a reassuring smile. He flipped up the night vision goggles, too, so as to look less threatening.

The sounds of combat in Jackie's room intensified. The man looked worried, and took another step out into the corridor. "It's just some more practising," Mac added, taking a wild stab that the man might associate what was going on up here with hoop-jumping and rope-climbing that had been happening downstairs.

The explanation seemed to satisfy him. "Oh," he said, nodding. "I guess it's time for the new people to start practising now. They'll have to work hard to catch up."

"You might as well go back to sleep," Mac suggested, giving him a nudge back in the direction of his door.

The young man let Mac back him into his room, but he stared up at Mac, looking thoughtful again. "Who are you?" he asked.

There were two cots in the small room; one was empty, and on the other one another man snored lightly.

"Oh, I'm just helping with the practice." Mac suddenly needed to sneeze. It came over him too suddenly to stop it. "heCHsh!"

He sniffed, rubbed his nose. Fuck. The man in the other cot stopped snoring.

"Bless you," the young man said politely. "You sound like you have a cold. Do you have a cold?"

The man on the other cot rolled over and started snoring again.

"Yeah," Mac said. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I do, actually. So I'm going to go finish practising, now, 'cause the sooner I finish the sooner I can get some rest." Hoping his bluff would hold—not that he couldn't knock this man out, but he really didn't want to—he turned and went out the door, and closed it behind him.

Vic came out of Jackie's room, across the hall, at the same time. "Trouble?" he asked Mac.

"With luck, no," Mac whispered. In a slightly louder tone he added "We woke up one guy, he didn't know we'd be practising tonight."

"Oh, OK," Vic said, understanding well enough. He beckoned behind him, and Dobrinsky came out of the room with Jackie limp in his arms.

The rest of the escape was trouble-free. They left the same way they'd come, using the harness to lower first Vic, then Jackie to the ground. They stuffed Jackie into the back of their van, tied her up, and sped away.

Toronto, Canada, the next morning

"Excellent work, Jackie," the Director purred.

"Yeah, like, I'm sorry about fighting with everybody when they came to rescue me," Jackie said. She grinned and squirmed in her chair, happy for the praise from the Director. The Director smiled back at her. Jackie had done good work indeed, penetrating Mad Millennium and finding out in some detail what the cult was all about.

"So, their leader, this Candyman fellow—you thought you recognized him?" the Director reminded her.

"Yeah, like, maybe." Jackie pursed her lips. "Like I saw him once a long time ago, or maybe just like a picture or on TV or something... there was something familiar about him. But I've got, like, no idea why."

"Perhaps he's on the Agency's 'watch list,'" the Director suggested. She walked back to her desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and took out a thick photo album. "Here," she handed it to Jackie, "See if you can find his picture in here."

The Director returned to her desk, opened up her computer and browsed through the day's memos while Jackie flipped the pages of the book.

Several minutes later, Jackie let out a satisfied cry. "Got it! Here he is." She brought the book over to the Director, and pointed the man out.

The head shot showed a nervous, vaguely weasel-faced white man with short brown hair.

"Ah," said the Director, not surprised at all. "Him."

"First on today's agenda: the Mad Millennium case." The Director, at the head of the table, gazed at her palmtop and tapped it with a stylus. Her hair was swept up in a bun, and she wore her glasses today.

Vic stifled a yawn. By the time they'd brought Jackie back to the Agency, been debriefed by the Director, and finally returned to Mac's apartment to crash, it had been nearly 8 am. The Director had called Mac's apartment at noon, waking them all out of deep slumber to order them to report in to the Agency at 1 p.m.. Or rather, the phone ringing had woken Li Ann and Vic. Mac, they'd had to roll off the couch to wake up. Vic snuck a sideways glance at Mac now to see if his eyes were open behind his sunglasses. Nope. Vic kicked him under the table to wake him up. No reason Li Ann and Vic should suffer alone.

"Your execution of the mission last night was adequate," the Director allowed. "Jackie was able to tell me what I wanted to know about Mad Millennium. You won't have anything else to do with them."

Good riddance to that case, Vic thought. He could have hoped for a bit more closure—a nice dramatic shootout, maybe—but the Mad Millennium case had been trouble since the beginning and he was happy to see the end of it.

"Next," the Director continued, "The housing situation."

Li Ann perked up. "Can I get a new place now?"

The Director smiled at her. "Yes. I've located a condo for you. It's a very choice property, with a view of the lake; I'm sure you'll like it."

"When can I move in?"

"Today, if you wish." The Director tossed her a key ring.

"So, you're not making them stay at my place anymore," Mac extrapolated, looking hopeful.

"No. There's been no sign of any more attempts by the party who left the bomb in Li Ann's apartment." The Director sighed. "There have been no leads, either, unfortunately. Now that you're done with the Mad Millennium case, you can all take a shot at solving that mystery. Nathan has all the Forensics department's findings down in Research."

"So I can go home now," Vic asked to double-check her meaning.

"When I'm done with you, yes," the Director said.

"About time," Vic said. He leaned back and crossed his arms, smiling, making a great show of how relieved he was.

Inside, he was torn.

He wanted to get away from Mac's apartment and Mac's constant presence, the reminders of the fucked-up night when Vic had managed to find the courage to admit to Mac that he was attracted to him, and to kiss him, only to find out Mac thought Vic was Michael at the time.

At the same time, he wasn't really comfortable with the idea of leaving Mac alone. Jesus, the guy just got out of the psych ward yesterday. What if he dreamed about Michael again tonight, and decided to "play" with his own gun?

Li Ann was talking with the Director now, getting more details about the new condo. Mac, meanwhile, had closed his eyes again behind the sunglasses. Vic watched as Mac's head started to droop forward. Damn, that was so... cute. Vic considered reaching over and shaking Mac's shoulder. He decided to just let him snooze for a second. Li Ann and the Director talked on, not noticing. The condo wasn't furnished; the two women were negotiating a budget for Li Ann to furnish it. Mac's chin rested on his chest. His balance wasn't perfect; he started to tilt sideways, about to fall out of his chair. Instinctively, Vic leapt to the rescue, jumping out of his chair to grab Mac's arm and hold him up. At the same time Mac jerked awake. Feeling someone grabbing him, he naturally twisted and kicked to get away—knocking Vic's feet out from under him. Now Vic was the one falling, but Mac, by now alert enough to see that it was Vic he'd just knocked over, grabbed him around the waist. Instead of falling ont! o the floor, Vic fell into Mac's lap. The chair rocked backwards, but didn't tip over.

So Vic found himself sitting on Mac's lap, with Mac's arms hugging tight around his waist.

Li Ann and the Director stared at the boys. Li Ann stifled a giggle. The Director raised an eyebrow.

Mac grinned up at Vic. "And what would you like for Christmas, little boy?"

Vic froze for a moment. He couldn't think of a comeback. He felt his ears getting red. And, worse, he felt his dick getting hard.

He was sitting in Mac's lap. He could feel Mac's thighs under his butt. He could smell Mac's spicy, exotic scent. Mac's warm, strong arms held him close. Jesus, he wanted nothing more than to lean down and kiss those full, teasing lips.

"Let go of me," Vic said, trying to sound indignant. It came out much hoarser than he would have liked.

Mac let go, and Vic stood up. And caught the Director's gaze travelling from his crotch back up to his face, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. Oh God. She noticed.

"Mac, you know it displeases me when my agents fall asleep during my briefings," the Director said. Her tone implied there would be consequences.

Vic collapsed back into his own chair with all the dignity he could muster. She didn't say anything. Maybe she won't say anything. Maybe she didn't notice.

"It's not my fault I'm tired," Mac argued. "We were up all night!"

"The others are managing to stay awake," the Director pointed out.

Mac had to stifle a yawn before he could reply. "They didn't take sleeping pills."

Vic stared at him. "You took a pill to get to sleep? We were all falling asleep on our feet by the time we got to your place!"

Mac shrugged. "The doctor gave them to me."

"Is that safe?" Vic asked. He turned to the Director. "I mean, what if someone breaks into his place at night? He might not wake up."

"It's up to me if I take the damn pills or not," Mac snapped at Vic.

"Settle down, boys," the Director said. "Mac: Vic is right, in your line of work there is some risk involved in sleeping deeply. Please keep that in mind. Vic: Mac is right, it's up to him whether to take the sedatives. The doctor prescribed them for him to take as needed. This is a personal health issue and really none of your business."

She had a lot of nerve shooting Vic down like that, after she was the one who told him to look out for Mac. Vic bit back a retort to that effect; he didn't want to say it in front of Mac.

The Director waved her hands at the boys. "I don't need you two for anything else, now. Shoo."

"What about me?" Li Ann asked.

The Director smiled. "I thought we could look through some catalogues together."

"Why can't we just call a cab to the reservoir?" Mac complained as they walked out the Agency's front door into the cold, bright January afternoon.

Vic rolled his eyes behind the sunglasses he'd just put on. "I don't know. Why can't we call a cab to our secret headquarters? Do think it might, possibly, arouse suspicion?"

Mac hunched his shoulders against the wind and kept grumbling. "The Vancouver section gets an office building downtown. We get a stupid converted reservoir in the middle of nowhere."

"You sure are grumpy when you're tired," Vic observed.

They'd carpooled to work in Li Ann's car; since she was staying at the Agency, Vic and Mac had to walk fifteen minutes to a pay phone to call a cab.

"I'm not grumpy," Mac said. "I'm happy. I'm getting my apartment back. I'm getting my bed back."

They walked a while longer. The path away from the reservoir had been shovelled, but wasn't wide enough for two to walk abreast. Mac led the way, with Vic following him.

"You know," Mac said after a few minutes, "it really sucks when the person you love is sleeping in your bed, and you're sleeping out on the couch."

rip went Vic's heart. Again. Not that he hadn't seen the way Mac was looking at Li Ann these days, but Mac hadn't said it out loud before. "You and Li Ann agreed just to be friends, didn't you?"

Mac stopped and turned; Vic barely stopped in time to not run into him. "You won't say anything to her about this, will you?" Mac asked, looking very vulnerable and worried. Vic could feel Mac's warm breath against his face; the white cloud hung between them. Vic took a step back.

"No, man, that's between you and her."

Mac turned and kept walking. Vic stared at his retreating back; it took him several seconds to get himself to start moving again, and then he hurried to catch up.

Mac kept walking, hands in his pockets, pitching his voice to carry back over his shoulder to Vic. "I don't understand how it changed between us. We loved each other. Then she thought I was dead, so she moved on—OK. But then she found out I was alive."

"But she was engaged to me," Vic contributed to the story. They'd rehashed this tale together dozens of times. In the early days it would take the form of an argument—later it was more about commiseration.

"But then she broke up with you. She never broke up with me!"

"She would have." Vic started to get angry with Mac. This whole conversation felt like rubbing an open wound. "If things had gone differently, if you'd made it away from the Tangs together, she would have broken up with you eventually."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. I mean, she talked about all this with you, didn't she?"

Mac's shoulders slumped down a fraction. "She thinks I'm shallow."

"You are shallow," Vic replied automatically, letting the anger he was feeling direct his words but keeping it out of the tone.

"But she used to like that about me!" Mac exclaimed.

Vic frowned at Mac's back. What Mac just said struck him as profoundly sad. Vic regretted his snarky comeback of a moment ago. He grabbed Mac's arm to stop him. "Wait!"

Mac stopped, and turned around. "What?"

"I don't really think you're shallow." Vic said it fast, before he could lose his nerve. It wasn't quite up there with admitting he was attracted to Mac... but it was a step. A baby step.

Mac frowned. "Yes I am."

Um? "No you're not," Vic insisted.

"Yes I am," Mac repeated, raising his voice. "I am very, fucking, shallow."

"No you're not." This was not an argument Vic had ever anticipated having with Mac.

"Yes I am!" Mac was really angry now; Vic stepped backwards instinctively, getting out of range. "I live in the moment! I don't care about yesterday or tomorrow! I don't fucking care about anything besides clothes and cars and music!"

"If you don't care about yesterday, then why can't you let go of Li Ann!?" Vic shouted back at him.

He'd nearly said "Michael" instead of "Li Ann." That probably would have gone badly.

As it was, Mac just deflated. "Fuck," he said quietly, kicking a chunk of ice on the path, "I don't know." He turned and walked away. Vic followed him, silently, wondering what the hell they'd just had a fight about.

Toronto, Canada, February 1st 1999

Mac walked into the usual bar. It was pretty dead inside—not surprising on a Monday night. He was happy enough with this situation. He wasn't here to socialize; he was here to get drunk.

The sleeping pills the doctor had given him last month had been fantastic at first. Every night he took one and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. No dreams, no nightmares.

Only... after about a week, the nightmares broke through again. He was locked in a cell with his mother. Michael stood outside the bars, taunting him. His mother had a knife, and she was going to kill him....

The next night, Mac took two pills. What could it hurt? Sure, the label said not to exceed one every 24 hours, but if one didn't kill him, then neither would two, right? And it was all right. He was a bit groggy the next day, but there hadn't been anything important to do that day anyway. The team had hit nothing but dead ends trying to solve the mystery of the bomb in Li Ann's apartment, and the Director hadn't assigned them to a new case yet.

Then, after another week or so, he had to increase to three pills.

And last night, he'd taken the last three pills.

He'd gone to the Infirmary today and tried to get the nurse there to refill his prescription. She refused, just because he'd gone through what was supposed to be two months' supply in about three weeks. He'd told her that he hadn't taken them all, that he'd lost most of them down the drain when he accidentally knocked the open bottle into the sink. She refused anyway—bitch.

Facing the hollow fear of a night without the pills, Mac had decided to fix this problem the old-fashioned way: with lots of alcohol. Unfortunately, by the time he got to the LCBO it was already closed. So putting plan C into action, he'd come to the bar.

Mac chose a bar stool and put a five dollar bill down on the bar. The bartender came over; it was the old guy tonight. Good; he never really seemed to care how drunk the patrons got. "Rum and coke," Mac ordered. "Hold the coke."

"Mac?"

Mac had noticed, when he came in, that there was a guy in a brown leather jacket sitting at the other end of the bar. He hadn't really looked at the guy; he hadn't been interested.

It was Vic, of course. Fuck.

"Oh, hi Vic!" Mac gave him a cheerful wave. "What's a nice boy like you doing in a low-down joint like this?"

Vic had a pained look on his face. It looked like he hadn't really wanted company tonight, either. Mac decided he'd just have the drink he'd already bought, and then go find another bar.

In the meantime, it would be rude not to go sit by Vic.

"I was just unwinding," Vic said. "Enjoying the quiet," he added, pointedly.

Mac took the glass out of Vic's hand and sniffed the drink, then took a sip. Cheap whiskey. He handed it back to Vic, who glared at him. From the deliberate way Vic spoke and held himself, Mac guessed he'd already had a few drinks.

"I was just passing through," Mac promised. The bartender handed Mac his drink. Mac tipped it up and drank half of it in one go. It burned its way down his esophagus; he welcomed the feeling.

But why was Vic getting drunk alone on a work night?

Mac put a hand on Vic's shoulder. "Hey, Vic, is everything all right?"

Vic pushed Mac's hand away roughly. "Fine," he snapped, staring down into the depths of his glass. Then he picked up the glass and tossed back the rest of its contents. He thunked the glass back down on the bar, and called to the bartender "Refill over here."

"Make that two," Mac added, quickly emptying his own glass.

The bartender brought them two whiskeys. Oops—Mac had meant two refills, not two whiskeys. Oh well. It had a high alcohol content; that was the important thing.

"No, something's wrong, I can tell," Mac insisted. He was quite sure that this was not part of Vic's normal program—he was much too bright-eyed on a typical morning in the Agency to be spending all his evenings getting drunk.

"All right, if there is something wrong, which there's not, it's none of your fucking business anyway." Vic glared at Mac momentarily, then went back to contemplating his drink.

Mac finished his drink and signalled for another one. Vic was several drinks ahead—he had to catch up. "Are you pissed at me for some reason? Did I do something? 'Cause you're acting pissed at me."

Vic sighed. "I'm not, OK? If I'm pissed at anyone, it's me. But that's private." Suddenly he looked up at Mac, frowning and crinkling his forehead. "Wait... why are you here?"

Mac sipped at his new drink. Rum again this time. "Liquor store was closed."

"Ah." Vic nodded. "Yeah, it's kind of late." He frowned again. "No but... why are you drinking? 's Monday night. 's work tomorrow."

"Same for you," Mac pointed out. He looked down at his glass. It was almost empty. He didn't remember it getting that way. Good; that was progress.

"Yeah, but I know I'm being an idiot tonight," Vic explained. "I decided. Fuck it. I'll get drunk." He punctuated his phrases by tapping his empty glass on the bar.

Empty. Mac's glass was empty. The bartender came over when he signalled, and gave him another one.

Vic shook his head. "You shouldn't drink that." He moved his hand as if he was going to take the glass away from Mac. Mac snatched it away, and drank the contents quickly before Vic got any funny ideas.

"One more," Mac said to the bartender.

Vic shook his head. "No. Don't give it to him."

Mac glared at his partner. "Don't listen to him, it's none of his business."

The bartender shook his head. "You two sort it out between yourselves," he said. "I'll be in the back."

"What the hell?!" Mac exclaimed to Vic. "What did you do that for?"

"The Director talked to me after New Year's. Told me to look out for you."

Oh. That was just great. They were conspiring behind his back, now. "Well, I have not had a drink since New Year's," Mac said, pronouncing the words very carefully so they wouldn't run together. He was starting to feel pleasantly dizzy. He just needed a few more drinks, and he could go home and pass out. "I just want one more..."

Vic sighed, then shrugged. "What the hell." He called out to the bartender, "Bring us two more!"

The bartender came back. He looked the guys over, and apparently decided that one refill each wouldn't kill them. He gave Mac his rum and Vic his whiskey.

Mac sipped at his drink. Wow, it was almost gone already. Time to go. He hadn't meant to stay here with Vic, anyway. He stood up.

The bar spun and tilted wildly, and then Mac was sitting on the floor for some reason.

He heard Vic's voice, somewhere remote, groaning "Fuck."

Vic dug a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to the cabbie. "Keep the change," he told him. Then he dragged Mac out of the back of the cab.

Damn it. This was so unfair. Vic was drunk. He was drunk on purpose, because he'd decided to get drunk, because he was frustrated and miserable over his fucking unrequited crush on Mac. So who comes into the bar, just when Vic is passing from nicely buzzed to nicely sloshed? That's right, Mac. And before you know it, Mac manages to catch up to Vic and pass him, in terms of inebriation, and the next thing you know Mac is passing out in the fucking bar and then Vic is dragging him, semiconscious, up the steps into Vic's apartment building because Vic can't leave him alone and Vic can't even remember Mac's address. Fuck.

"You fucking owe me, Ramsey," Vic growled as he manhandled Mac into the elevator.

Very unfortunately, Vic wasn't drunk enough to stop him from getting a hard-on from the sheer fact that his hands were all over Mac's body in the process of holding him up. The sweet scent of alcohol filled the elevator, but under that Vic smelled the special, warm scent of Mac. This clumsy, groping physical intimacy was hitting Vic deep down in the primitive parts of his brain.

The elevator reached Vic's floor. He stuck his foot in the door to hold it open, and guided Mac out into the hall. They got as far as Vic's door. Vic leaned Mac against the wall, and fumbled with his keys. It took him four tries to get his key to work in the lock. He was drunk. Meanwhile, Mac slid down the wall and sat on the floor with his head on his knees.

With the door open, Vic tried to convince Mac to come inside. Mac didn't acknowledge Vic.

"All right, stay in the hall all night," Vic said. "See if I care."

Vic went into his apartment and shut the door behind him. He stood there for a minute.

No. Wait. He couldn't really leave Mac in the hall.

He opened the door again. Mac looked up. "Come on," Vic said. "Come in." He grabbed Mac's arms and tried to pull him up. Mac managed to find his feet but not his balance; he fell forwards against Vic, pinning Vic against the door frame.

Vic moaned softly, feeling Mac's whole body pressed up against his. Mac's face was buried in Vic's hair. "I'm dizzy," he mumbled into Vic's ear.

Vic rolled his eyes. "No kidding. Come on. All the way into the apartment so I can shut the door."

He managed to shift them both, so Mac was leaning against the wall on the inside of the apartment. Vic shut his door and locked it. What next? Oh, right. Take his boots and his coat off.

Vic leaned over to untie his boot laces, and nearly fell. Damn. Balance was a bit off. He sat on the floor and undid them. Then he remembered Mac. He looked up. Mac was still standing, leaning against the wall where Vic had left him, with a glassy look in his eyes. He'd gotten as far as unbuttoning his coat, but he wasn't moving now. "You OK?" Vic asked him.

Mac shook his head. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Fuck! Not here!" Vic stood up and grabbed Mac, and pulled him into the bathroom. They made it in time, thank God.

Vic sat on the edge of the tub, head in his hands, while Mac kneeled in front of the toilet, puking his guts up. The bathroom was small; Vic's knees were almost touching Mac.

"I think I remember now why I don't do this more often," Vic mused out loud.

Mac finished vomiting. He managed to pull himself up to the sink and, cupping water in his hand, rinsed his mouth out. Then he sank back down onto the floor and leaned against Vic's legs.

"Uh..." Vic said, startled and a bit disconcerted to suddenly find Mac's head in his lap.

"I still feel sick," Mac moaned softly.

"Okaaay, maybe you'd better stay in here 'till you don't," Vic suggested. "And get your head off my lap."

Mac didn't move. "I'm sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to be sick."

Vic rolled his eyes. "Of course you didn't." Vic put his hand on Mac's head and tried to shove him away. "Get your head off my lap." It didn't work. Mac's head seemed to be very, very heavy. Vic ended up with his fingers buried in Mac's hair. Soft hair. Warm.

"I didn't even drink as much as you," Mac insisted.

Vic shrugged. "Maybe my tolerance is higher."

Mac snorted. "I don't think so, Mr. Boy Scout."

"Hey, I'm not the one who passed out after five drinks," Vic pointed out, taking offence to the Boy Scout comment. He should never, ever have let Mac see that old photo of him in his Beaver uniform....

"Neither do I," Mac mumbled into Vic's leg. "Usually. Maybe the sleeping pills are still in my bloodstream."

"The what?" Vic stared down at Mac. A shot of fear made Vic suddenly feel a lot less drunk. "You went drinking after you took sleeping pills?!"

"So what?"

"So don't you know that can fucking kill you?"

Mac shrugged, disinterested. "Took the pills last night. Doesn't matter."

Vic swore again, under his breath. Sometimes Mac could be such a fucking idiot. "You just said yourself that you shouldn't be this wasted on five drinks, that the drug might still be in your blood."

"It's fine, I'm fine," Mac insisted, still not moving his head off Vic's lap.

Vic lifted Mac's head, holding the younger man's face between his hands to force him to look at Vic. "I want you to make yourself throw up again."

Mac shook his head out of Vic's hands. "No fucking way!" he said, looking outraged.

"If there's any alcohol left in your stomach, it's still being absorbed into your bloodstream. You've got to get rid of it," Vic told him, trying to sound calm and reasonable.

Mac set his jaw rebelliously. "You can't make me."

Well, maybe Vic could and maybe he couldn't, but that would be a messy fight and he didn't want to try. "If you don't, I'll call 911."

Mac blanched. "You can't. No way. No fucking way. If I end up in the hospital again and you tell them I was mixing sleeping pills and alcohol they'll think I was trying to kill myself. Three times in a month—they'll lock me up in a fucking rubber room." Mac was wide-eyed now, and obviously afraid. An image suddenly flashed in Vic's memory: Anita Ramsey, so familiar-looking because she shared Mac's features, locked in her cell and tied up in a straitjacket.

It was an effective threat, then. And Vic meant it. "So stick your fingers down your throat. Get rid of the alcohol. Or I'm calling 911 right now."

"Fuck," Mac swore, angry and defeated. And he knelt in front of the toilet again, and did what Vic told him to do.

Vic looked away, but he heard the awful gagging sounds, and then the unmistakable sound of Mac vomiting again. Sounded like he'd still had some liquid in his stomach, all right.

"I hate you," Mac moaned.

Ouch. That hurt. "It's for your own good, man," Vic replied gruffly.

OK, some perspective. Mac didn't really hate him. He was just saying that because Vic was forcing him to make himself puke. At some later point, he'd appreciate that Vic was only doing this because he didn't want Mac to fall into a coma from a drug and alcohol overdose. Hopefully.

Vic nudged Mac's back with his knee. "Do it again."

"NO!" Mac tried to stand up, but Vic grabbed him and pulled him down again without much difficulty.

"You have to keep doing it until nothing comes up. Or I call 911."

Under the circumstances, Mac didn't have a choice. He leaned over the toilet again, and did it again. The sounds were even more painful this time. Vic cringed, but didn't relent.

This was so not how Vic's evening was supposed to go. All he'd wanted was to go to the bar and get nicely drunk by himself, take a cab home, and sleep all night without having any more wet dreams about Mac. He'd even, deep down, looked forward to the inevitable pain of the next morning at work—that would be a suitable penance for the deeply wrong feelings he harboured for his co-worker.

Well, this could be seen as penance, too. Some sort of poetic justice. Vic had largely been avoiding Mac since he moved back into his own apartment. They had to work together, of course, but Vic had kept their interactions to the absolute minimum possible. Every time he saw Mac, it brought back Vic's embarrassment, confusion and bitter disappointment over the kiss. Both the kisses. All three of the fucking kisses. And he still wanted Mac. Just being in the same room as him made Vic feel warmer, more alive. He laughed at Mac's jokes. He admired the way Mac moved, finding himself too often entranced by Mac's beauty—and then looking over to see the Director watching him. She knew everything. Vic was sure of it. But she hadn't said a word.

Of course, Mac wasn't at his best right now. Vic could definitely say at this moment that he was in the same room as Mac without being turned on at all.

There was nothing left in Mac's stomach. He clutched the edge of the toilet bowl, shaking with dry heaves.

"Hey man, it's OK, that's enough," Vic said. "You can stop." He patted Mac on the back—a nice, manly, platonic pat. He felt Mac shiver. "Can you get up?" Mac shook his head. "Come on, then." Vic grabbed Mac around the waist and helped him stand—sort of. They stumbled together against the sink, arms and legs all confused.

With a visibly trembling hand, Mac reached out and turned on the cold water tap. His face was pasty; he looked about as haggard as Vic had ever seen him. He rinsed out his mouth, and splashed some over his face. Some water was getting onto the sleeves of his black wool coat, too, and onto the front of his shirt where his coat hung open. That was OK. It was just water. He was OK for balance now, leaning against the sink, so Vic backed off. Mac cupped his hands under the tap and brought them to his mouth, drinking some water now.

Hey, Vic was still wearing his jacket. No wonder he was so warm. Vic unzipped his leather jacket, and hung it up on one of the hooks meant for towels.

Suddenly over the sound of the running water Vic heard Mac retching. "Shit," Vic swore, turning around in time to see Mac covering his mouth with his hand in an ineffective attempt to stop anything from coming out.

"Get it in the sink," Vic sighed. Apparently Mac's stomach was rejecting the water he'd just drunk.

Mac got control of himself again, and washed his hands off under the water, which was still running. He suddenly made a fist and pounded the edge of the sink. Vic winced at the thud. "Fuck!" Mac shouted.

"Cool it," Vic urged him. "Just wait a bit before you try to drink anything."

"Some got on my shirt," Mac said, meeting Vic's eyes in the mirror. He sounded angry, but there was this edge to his voice like it was about to break, like he might just start to sob any second. His eyes glittered.

"It- jeez, I'm sorry," Vic said, feeling intensely uncomfortable with the despair he thought he sensed hiding under Mac's accusing glare. "Look, we can wash it off. It'll be fine. Just hang on a second."

Vic pulled back the shower curtain and turned on the water in the tub. He made sure it was running warm, then switched the flow up to the shower head. "Get in," he said to Mac. "Wash it all off."

Mac frowned at the water. "With my clothes on?"

"The point is to rinse your shirt off, right?"

Mac shrugged, slipped his wool coat off and let it drop to the floor, and tried to step into the tub. His foot caught on the edge, and he fell in, half-catching himself against the tiled wall. "Ow," he mused. "That hurt."

"Fuck," Vic muttered to himself. He stepped into the shower to help Mac up.

The warm water blasted against Vic, plastering his hair to his head and his shirt to his back. Then, with a little teamwork, Mac was standing in front of him, and the water wasn't hitting Vic any more. Vic kept his arms around Mac's waist for a moment, making sure Mac had his balance, then let go quickly. He wouldn't want Mac to think he liked holding him.

Mac faced the showerhead and rubbed a bar of soap over the front of his shirt. The bar slipped out of his fingers. Mac swore and started to crouch down to pick it up again, and lost his balance. Vic grabbed at him, trying to help, and he fell too. His elbow hit the edge of the tub, right on his funny bone. Vic grabbed his elbow with his other hand and hissed at the sharp pain.

"You OK?" Mac asked, squinting at him through the water. He, like Vic, had ended up on his butt in the tub.

"Yeah. You?"

Mac shifted up to his knees so that he could move closer to Vic. "I just had an idea. Wouldn't it be easier if I took my shirt off to wash it?"

Vic looked at Mac. The water was falling right on him, flattening his hair and streaming over his shoulders. His dark blue shirt looked black, being totally soaked. It stuck to Mac's body like a second skin, showing every contour of his slim, muscular torso. Mac's pants, too, were completely waterlogged, especially now that he was sitting in the bottom of the tub. Even his boots—they were both still wearing their boots—were likely soaked through. Vic was just as wet.

Vic started to laugh.

"What?" Mac frowned. "What's so funny?"

"Take the shirt off to wash it," Vic choked out through the laughter. "Yep. That would've been a good idea. Very good idea."

Mac took a good look at Vic, and started to laugh too. "Oh yeah. Guess it's kind of late for that, huh?"

Even if he was laughing at his own drunken stupidity, laughter felt good. Vic had to grab the side of the tub for support. Mac took charge of the situation, turning off the water and prodding Vic to get up. Vic felt giddy. He was grateful that Mac had the sense to get them out of the shower.

It was time to sleep. Definitely time to sleep.

As Vic caught his breath and managed to get to his feet, dripping, he remembered one small problem: he wasn't sure yet if Mac was going to be OK. He seemed better now, after the shower, but there'd been plenty of alcohol absorbed into his bloodstream before Vic made him induce vomiting. Vic had to keep an eye on him, make sure. So either they both slept in the living room, on the easy chair and the couch, or they shared the bed.

Fuck. Might as well be comfortable. At least it was a queen-sized.

"Let's go to the bedroom," Vic said.

Mac was still unsteady on his feet, so he put an arm over Vic's shoulders and they staggered and dripped to the bedroom together. Vic stopped Mac before he got to the bed.

"Wet clothes off," Vic ordered.

"Yes sir," Mac said with a quick grin. He leaned against the door frame and started to fumble with his buttons.

Vic peeled off his soggy shirt. The jeans were harder; wet jeans are so awkward. Halfway through that he realized he should have taken his boots off before trying to get the jeans off. Damn.

Finally, Vic stood there naked, with all his clothes in a puddle at his feet. Mac was still working on his shirt buttons, frowning with intense concentration; he'd got just the bottom quarter of them undone.

Vic wasn't shy. It didn't occur to him to go find shorts to put on before he went over to help Mac with his buttons. After all, they'd seen each other naked plenty of times in the locker room at the Agency gym.

"That'll take you all night." Vic stood in front of Mac, batted the other man's hands away, and started to undo his buttons, starting at the top.

"I was doing just fine," Mac muttered in protest, but he let Vic do it.

And that was when Vic realized that he was standing in front of Mac, naked, undressing him. Oh God. He felt the heat of Mac's skin through the shirt. He saw Mac's breath rising and falling. If he looked up, if he looked away from the little round black buttons and up, he'd be looking into Mac's eyes from just inches away. As he slipped the second button through its hole, Mac's shirt started to part at the top, and Vic could see the shallow dip at the centre of his collar bone. He could see Mac's Adam's apple moving as the other man swallowed. Vic's own mouth felt suddenly dry. His heart beat faster, and he felt warmer. He felt his erection stirring. Oh God. He was naked, and Mac was looking down, watching Vic's fingers on his buttons. Vic edged closer to Mac. If he stood close enough, Mac wouldn't be able to see down between their chests.

Vic's fingers moved to the next button. There was no sound but the whisper of their breathing; Vic's was faster than Mac's, going in and out and in again while Mac took and released one breath. Standing this much closer to Mac, Vic felt almost dizzy. He was getting drunk all over again. His fingers felt big and clumsy as he undid another button, and moved to the next one. Mac stood there peacefully, letting Vic undo his shirt. It was incredibly intimate, this act of undressing someone else. Intimate, and erotic. Vic wished he'd never started, because now he was almost finished and he could feel his dick becoming firm and rising up, and there was no way Mac would miss noticing that, even if he was falling-over drunk. It wasn't the sort of thing Mac would miss.

Vic was done with the buttons now; the shirt hung open. There was Mac's belly button, and the line of dark hair underneath it disappearing under the top of his pants. Vic had the tiger by the tail now; it was an intractable dilemma. If he moved away from Mac at all, Mac would see his erection. If he didn't move away, Mac would know something was wrong for sure.

Vic tried his best. He backed off and turned away quickly, and strode towards his bureau. "I'll get you a pair of shorts to sleep in," he offered.

"What was that about?" Mac asked, his voice full of surprise with a definite hint of teasing.

Vic felt his face flushing red. "Nothing." He opened a drawer and made much more of a show than necessary of digging through the contents to find a couple pairs of boxer shorts that would be comfortable for sleeping. He put his pair on before he turned around.

Mac had actually managed to undo his own belt. "Are you attracted to me?" he asked, putting on an expression of innocent curiosity while he pulled down his pants. Luckily for Vic's dignity, Mac was still very inebriated. He'd forgotten to take his boots off; his pants wouldn't come off over the boots, and he stumbled and fell down, swearing in Chinese.

"Not gonna help him," Vic muttered to himself. He'd embarrassed himself enough already.

With a little luck, Mac wouldn't remember this tomorrow.

Leaving Mac struggling with his pants on the floor, Vic climbed onto bed. He lay on top of the covers on the right side, closed his eyes, and tried to focus on something calming.

His hands were shaking—whether from frustrated sexuality, or the crushing embarrassment of Mac catching him with a hard-on for him, Vic didn't know and didn't care. He linked his fingers over his stomach and breathed in and out, slowly.

After a couple minutes, the muttered stream of Chinese ceased. A few moments later, Vic felt the weight on the mattress beside him and heard the bedsprings faintly creak as Mac lay down next to him. Vic pretended to already be asleep, intending actually to stay awake for a while and make sure Mac was really all right.

A few minutes later, Vic wasn't pretending anymore. He slept, dreamlessly and deep.

Toronto, Canada, the next morning

"Oh my God."

Vic woke up, hearing the words. Who said that? Voice was familiar... Li Ann.

Vic tried to open his eyes. They seemed to be gummed shut. With heroic effort, he managed to open them.

Oh fuck. The light.

Several thousand miniature hammers pounded on Vic's skull, all at once.

His mouth tasted like something had died in it. Something furry. About a week ago.

He was cold, too. Why hadn't he slept under the covers?

This had to be a hangover. Details at the moment were fuzzy, but Vic thought last night had somehow involved drinking.

"Vic?" Li Ann said, her voice oddly tight.

He squinted. Li Ann was standing at the foot of the bed. He'd have to open his eyes more to see what she was doing there.

Oh fuck... it was Tuesday. A work day. Li Ann must have come to get him.

"....hi," Vic managed to croak out.

"Tell me this isn't what it looks like." Li Ann sounded upset.

The plot line was a bit too complicated for Vic, just at this moment. What was Li Ann talking about? Vic started to sit up, to ask her.

He couldn't sit up. There was something heavy lying across his chest.

An arm.

Mac's arm.

"GAh!!" Vic gasped. He jerked Mac's arm off him and leapt out of bed.

Ooooooh, head. Bad idea.

Mac woke up, startled, coming quickly to a sitting position. "Aaaagh," he groaned, clutching his head with his hands. "Where are we? Who hit me?"

"This isn't what it looks like," Vic said quickly.

Li Ann looked relieved, if only slightly. "So what happened to you guys?"

"Oh, um," Vic stuttered, about to tell Li Ann the perfectly reasonable reason that he and Mac had been snuggled up together in bed, wearing only boxer shorts.

And that reason was....?

Vic tried to remember how he ended up in bed with Mac. He drew a blank. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. There was no way, no way that it was what it looked like....

"Hey, Vic, this is your place. How'd I get here?" Mac asked, not helping the situation.

"You don't remember?" Vic rubbed his temple. "Well, we were at the bar, and I...." he stopped, hitting nothing but a hazy blankness in his memory. He turned to Li Ann, who was staring at them both with a desperate expression. "We were drinking," Vic added.

"You guys didn't show up for work." Li Ann sounded like a recording of herself. "You weren't answering your phones. The Director told me to come check on you. There was no one at Mac's apartment. I came here and knocked on the door and there was no answer and I was worried so I came in, I still have a key remember."

Mac plucked at the shorts he was wearing. "Hey, this isn't my underwear," he said, sounding confused.

Vic let out a little moan.

"Why don't I, uh, let you get dressed," Li Ann suggested, backing away. Her voice was a tone or two higher than usual. "Your, uh, clothes are here on the floor. I'll be in the living room?" She shut the door behind her. Mac and Vic both winced at the thud.

"Oooowwww," Mac whimpered, rubbing his temples. "Whatever we did last night, it must've been some party."

Vic looked sideways at Mac. "You must remember something. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Oooww," Mac moaned again. "Don't talk so loud, OK?"

"Sorry." Vic stumbled around the foot of the bed, heading for his closet. He nearly tripped over the pile of clothes. His clothes, and Mac's, lying in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. Damn, that didn't look good at all.

They were wet, he discovered, nudging them with his toe. Very strange.

"I remember seeing you at the bar," Mac said in a voice so quiet he was almost whispering. "I wasn't going to stay long. Fuck, I feel like I'm going to die."

Li Ann banged on the outside of the door. Mac's expression became even more pained; Vic empathized thoroughly. "You'd better hurry up!" she called to them. "The longer this takes, the angrier the Director's going to get!"

"The Director," Mac repeated. "Do you think she'd know?"

"Huh?"

"What happened. She spies on us all the time."

Vic shook his head—and regretted the motion. He grabbed his head with his hands to try to steady the world, and explained "Ever since I found out about that, I've swept the room for hidden cameras twice a week. It's clean."

"Damn," Mac said. In response to the shocked look Vic gave him, he explained "Well, at least if she had a tape she could tell us what happened."

Vic yanked the closet open and pulled out some clothes. "It doesn't matter. Nothing happened. What could have happened? I mean, it's not like we'd do anything with each other, right? And there's no sign anyone else was here. So obviously we came home drunk and decided to sleep it off."

"Together," Mac added, skeptically. "In your bed. Wearing your underwear."

Vic pulled out another pair of pants and a shirt for Mac; they wouldn't quite fit him but they'd have to do, since Mac's own clothes were soaking wet for some mysterious reason. He tossed the clothes at Mac. "Put these on. Your clothes are wet."

Mac snatched the clothes out of the air. "Wet? How did we—oh, wait, I remember! We took a shower together!"

With that much help, memories of the previous evening came flooding back to Vic. Mac passing out at the bar, Vic bringing him back here, Mac mentioning that he'd taken sleeping pills before drinking, Vic making him induce vomiting to clear out his system and then shoving him into the shower to get cleaned up... but how did they end up in bed together?

While he thought, Vic got dressed. Instead of slowing his movements down to reduce pain, he relished the hurting. The sledgehammer headache and the rising nausea were just perfect accompaniments to his frantic speculation.

How did he end up in bed with Mac? What happened? He vaguely remembered undressing Mac. Fuck, fuck, fuck.... Had Vic come on to Mac? He wouldn't do that, never ever, but maybe, if he was drunk enough, uninhibited... and then Mac had been into it? Not possible. But maybe, if he was drunk enough....

And it was Li Ann who found them. How could she possibly come to any conclusion but the obvious? And how could Vic's friendship with Li Ann possibly survive this? She must think he was disgusting. Fuck!

"Socks?" Mac asked.

"Top drawer. Toss me a pair. Do you remember why we went to bed together?"

Mac dug out some socks and lobbed a pair across the room at Vic. "Nope." He flashed a grin at Vic that turned into a wince. "I could come up with some theories, but I don't think you'd like them."

Vic stood still, fighting down a wave of nausea. He rubbed his pounding temples. "Nothing happened," he said, as firmly as he could manage. "If we say that nothing happened, then nothing happened."

"Sure, whatever," Mac agreed faintly. He'd sat back down on the bed, and was holding his head in his hands.

Leaving Mac to pull himself together, Vic put his socks on and then, taking a deep breath, went out to face Li Ann.

She was sitting on the couch, knees together and hands clasped on her lap, looking very prim in the way she did sometimes when something big was troubling her. She turned to face Vic. "I'll drive you to the Agency."

Mac came out of the room and stopped next to Vic. "I have to go home first. I need some things."

Mac looked awful. Considering the care he normally took with clothes, the slightly-too-short sleeves and legs of his borrowed outfit made Vic cringe. His bloodshot eyes had dark crescents under them, and his face was pale under his dark morning growth of stubble.

Vic suspected he didn't look much better himself. At least he got to wear his own clothes.

Li Ann stood up and shook her car keys. "It doesn't matter if your clothes don't fit. The Director's going to skin you alive anyway. We're going straight to the Agency."

"No, I have to go home," Mac insisted. He leaned against the door frame; he was looking pretty green. "There's... fuck. There's medication I have to take."

Li Ann raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know you were taking anything."

"It's really none of your business," Mac snapped. Then he coughed softly, and pressed his hand over his mouth. With a quiet moan, he left the room quickly, heading for the bathroom.

Li Ann met Vic's eyes, looking concerned, as they both heard the retching sounds coming from the bathroom.

"We, uh, drank too much last night," Vic mumbled.

Li Ann's mouth made a tight line. "It looks that way," she agreed. She followed Mac to the bathroom.

Vic's stomach wasn't feeling too great either, so he decided to just sit down. Maybe he'd get something to drink in a minute—water or juice. He knew the headache he had was a result of dehydration.

He could hear Li Ann scolding Mac. "I'm not taking you in my car if you're going to throw up." That was unusually harsh, coming from Li Ann; she was obviously shaken by the whole finding-them-in-bed-together thing.

Vic couldn't hear how Mac answered her, but he could hear when Li Ann spoke again. "All right, how about I go get your pills and you stay here and get yourself together."

There was a bit more negotiation; Vic heard only Li Ann's side. She agreed to get clothes for Mac, too, but she said she was going to call the Director right away to let her know she'd found the guys. Vic covered his face with his hands, already dreading the Director's response.

Li Ann left, saying she'd be back in half an hour. Vic got up and poured two glasses of orange juice. He sipped cautiously at one, and left the other on the table where Mac should be able to find it.

He went to the bedroom, to look for clues. There must be some way to find out what had or hadn't happened last night.

What was a clue, anyway? A thorough search turned up no used condoms. That was a good sign, right? Or a bad sign, depending.

Impossible to tell from the bed itself if anything had happened. Vic knew from experience that the dark green sheets hid stains nicely.

Dammit! What had happened? Why couldn't he remember?

OK... Vic didn't remember. Neither did Mac. Vic was reasonably sure, after his search, that there were no new hidden cameras in the room, therefore even the Director didn't know what had happened last night. If a tree falls in a forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound?

He went back out to the kitchen. "It's like a tree," he said. "In a forest." Mac looked up from the table; he'd been staring at the orange juice, possibly considering drinking it. He was wearing sunglasses.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Mac asked, reasonably.

"I mean if nobody knows what happened it's like nothing happened anyway, right?" Listening to his own words, Vic realized how lame that sounded.

Mac managed a weak smile. "Whatever happened, we were both totally wasted, so don't worry about it."

"Whatever happened?" Vic repeated. "So you think something might actually have happened?"

Mac shrugged. "Who knows?" He picked up the glass and took a very timid sip.

"It couldn't have. I wouldn't have- I mean, no matter how drunk I was, I wouldn't have done anything with you," Vic insisted. He felt this was a very important point to get across.

Too bad it was a total lie.

Mac didn't appear very concerned one way or the other. "I might do you if I was drunk," he admitted with a slight teasing grin and a shrug. He took one more sip of the juice, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses.

Vic choked on his juice. "What?"

He wanted to kill Mac, for teasing him like this. He was teasing, Vic was sure of it. Mac had just found one more way to disconcert Vic, and he couldn't resist.

"I mean, you're attractive and all. Personality, meh," Mac made the so-so gesture with one hand, "much too uptight, but that's not such a big concern once you've had a few drinks."

Vic slammed his glass down on the table. Juice sloshed over the edge. "Shut the fuck up," he shouted, and stood up and left the table.

He went looking for his coat, so he could leave. He could drive himself to work, and leave Mac to wait for Li Ann.

He couldn't find it anywhere. What the hell? He must have worn it home last night. It was the dead of winter. His memories of last night were so sketchy, though, that he couldn't remember where he'd left it.

"Vic?" he heard Mac call out.

"I'm looking for my coat," Vic snapped.

A minute later, Mac came to him in the living room, holding the coat.

"Where was it?" Vic asked, snatching it from Mac's hands without looking at Mac.

"Bathroom," Mac answered. "Look, if it's any comfort, I'm pretty sure we didn't fuck last night."

Vic was shocked into looking at Mac by the bluntness of Mac's statement. Mac regarded him calmly through his dark glasses. "How do you know?" Vic managed to ask.

"There was nothing like lube in your room. If either of us had been fucked without lube last night, we'd feel it now."

"Thanks," Vic managed. "That's good to know."

It was good to know. Vic felt awkward and uncomfortable all the same, at the reminder that Mac was no stranger to anal sex. He felt a wave of frightened nausea rising at Mac's reference to what it felt like to get fucked in the ass, and he suppressed the thought quickly—that was not something he was ready to think about.

Anyway, Vic knew perfectly well there was more to sex than just penetration, so things still could have happened last night.

Could they have? That was quite a loaded question. Mac was acting as though maybe they could have. It was hard to tell if he was serious or not. If he was... Jesus, what then? What if Vic actually told him at some point when they both weren't drunk or hallucinating that he found him attractive? What would happen?

No. That was a terrible idea for so many reasons. There was no way Vic could make himself that vulnerable to Mac. And this whole thing was just a stupid crush, a phase. Vic was attracted to women, dammit!

Li Ann walked back into the apartment. She was carrying a bag. "Here," she said, tossing a couple pill bottles to Mac and handing him the bag, "there's a change of clothes in here. Get ready fast; the Director wants you guys in now."

Vic and Li Ann waited for Mac, eyeing each other awkwardly.

"We've pretty much remembered," Vic said, feeling an overwhelming need to explain himself to Li Ann. "Nothing happened. Our clothes, uh, got wet, so we had to take them off. That's all."

Li Ann nodded slowly. "All right. That's good. I thought it was something like that."

Vic wasn't sure if she really believed him—the story had been pretty thin and pathetic—but he sensed that she wanted to believe him. That would have to do.

Toronto, Canada, the following Friday

"My place or yours?" the woman asked with a self-aware, wry grin.

Liz, her name was. She was at least as tall as Li Ann, and much more generously curved. Her long, chestnut hair was done up in a loose bun, and she wore cat's eye glasses and tastefully minimal makeup. She was thirty-five, she'd said, divorced, no children. She was looking for a night's companionship, with no illusions and no strings. She liked jazz—that's why she was at this bar in particular. "Hey, even if I go home alone," she'd laughed, "at least the music was good!" She wore a long, black wool dress, high-collared but sleeveless. She was a smoker, which was probably why kissing her made Vic think of Ivy.

"If it's all right with you," Vic said, taking her hand in his, "I'd rather go to your place."

"Fine with me." Liz stood up. "Let's get our coats."

Outside on the cold street, Vic put his arm around her to keep her warm while he flagged down a cab. Vic deliberately let his mind wander while Liz gave the driver the address; he didn't want to be able to retrace his steps.

Liz's condo was neat and tastefully furnished in wood and beige; it had the feel of a professional woman living on her own. She had a Siamese cat, which wound around Vic's ankles mewling a greeting while he took his boots off.

She took Vic's coat, and when she came back he put his hands on her hips and kissed her.

One night stands were not Vic's style. Tonight felt very strange; he had a sense, almost, of disembodiment. He felt like he was watching two people in a movie walking through the paces of a cliché: now the woman undoes the man's shirt, now they move towards the bedroom, shedding clothing as they go, now the man picks the woman up and sets her on the bed and she giggles, surprised, because she hasn't been picked up by a man in a long time.

Her skin was warm, and soft. Her hands were soft, not callused like Li Ann's—or Mac's.

Vic hesitated, distracted for a moment by the thought of Mac. Mac, if Vic was honest with himself, was the reason Vic was here. Vic couldn't get Mac out of his head, and he desperately wanted to.

"You're so fit," Liz marvelled, winning Vic's attention back by caressing his bare chest with her hands and her eyes. "You must work out."

Vic shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I have to." He kissed her. "My job."

"What do you do?" she asked, of course.

Vic slid his hands around her body to unclasp her lacy black bra. "I'm a secret agent." He'd learned long ago that in situations where he knew he wouldn't be believed, the truth was just as deceptive as a lie. Hide in plain sight.

Liz chuckled. "Like James Bond?"

Vic cupped her breasts in his hands, and leaned closer to kiss one pink nipple. "Exactly," he murmured into her soft sweetness.

She laughed again, low and sexy. "I always wanted to be a Bond girl."

After, she wanted a cigarette.

"It's not that sex makes me want a smoke, exactly," she explained absently as she pulled on a faded pair of jeans, not bothering with underwear, "It's just that it's been two hours since the last cigarette, you know?"

It was a rhetorical question, so Vic let it go. He followed the trail of clothes out of the bedroom, putting things on as he came to them. It was like the foreplay in reverse. He had a brief, wistful fantasy that if he kept retracing his motions, he could undo the whole night.

He wasn't sorry that he'd come. The sex had been nice. Liz seemed nice. And, after weeks of being attracted to no one but Mac, Vic had been so relieved to find that he could still enjoy being with a woman. He hadn't turned gay.

But he didn't know Liz at all. It all felt so... sordid. And he couldn't get to know her, either—Vic knew exactly how the Director would react to a relationship with someone outside the Agency. 'Unacceptable risk,' she would call it.

Besides, Liz had said in so many words that she was only looking for a one night stand.

Liz pulled on a sweater, boots, and her coat, and then Vic followed her out onto her balcony.

The night was cold, but at least there wasn't any wind. The balcony was covered with a light skiff of snow, packed down in footprints. The downtown streets glittered 14 storeys down.

"You'd think I'd quit," Liz mused, taking a pack out of her coat pocket. "Or at least smoke inside—but I hate the smell of stale smoke. Want one?"

About to say no, Vic hesitated. He'd been so tense for so long, so worried about everything with Mac—and especially worried about how the hell they ended up in bed together Tuesday morning—the idea of a cigarette suddenly had strong appeal. It would calm him, a bit. He nodded. "Sure."

Liz frowned, slightly. "You don't smoke, do you?"

Vic was annoyed that she'd seen so much, when she didn't know him at all. "I used to," he said, an edge creeping into his voice.

Liz's raised her eyebrows. "Well, don't start again on my account."

"That won't happen," Vic assured her.

She shrugged, and shook another cigarette out of the box for him before she put it back in her pocket. "They're your lungs." She put her cigarette between her lips, and cupped one hand around the end to protect the flame of her little Bic lighter. She handed Vic the other cigarette. Rather than handing him the lighter, she waited for him to put the cigarette between his lips and then she lit it for him.

She smoked an unusual type: Gauloise, a French brand. The smoke was harsh. Maybe because of that, or maybe because he hadn't smoked in six years, Vic coughed.

The Director would have his balls if she caught him smoking.

In some ways, working for the Agency was just like being sixteen and living at home again.

"I get them in Montreal," Liz said. It took Vic a few seconds to realize she was talking about the cigarettes. "I could find them in Toronto, I suppose, but I like the idea that they're exotic. Pretentious of me, isn't it?" She laughed a little. Vic laughed too, only because she had. He didn't care where she bought her cigarettes. He realized she was only making small talk because she felt awkward with silence, and the two of them had nothing real to talk about. He would leave soon, he knew. He was already dressed for it.

The tip of Liz's Gauloise glowed orange. She turned her head and exhaled the smoke in a long stream over the edge of the balcony, then turned back to study Vic. "You don't seem like you do this much. And I've never seen you downtown before."

Vic shrugged. "Yeah, well." He took a drag on his cigarette.

Liz moved over to the edge of the balcony, so she could rest her elbows on the concrete ledge and stare out into the night. "Did you do it to hurt someone? Or to forget someone?"

"What do you mean?" Vic asked. Playing dumb was the only cover he could think of on such short notice—how the fuck did she guess? Was he that transparent?

"Don't worry, it doesn't bother me. I got what I wanted out of tonight." Liz flicked the ashes off her cigarette into the wind.

Feeling awkward and guilty, Vic touched her shoulder. He hated it that Liz thought he'd just used her. Even if, damn it to hell, it was true. "Even if I wanted to forget someone, it wasn't just—I mean, I did forget him. My attention was all on you." It had been, too. The whole time they were having sex, he hadn't thought about Mac. Right before and right after, yeah, but not during.

"Him?" Liz repeated, suddenly curious.

Vic winced. Fuck. He hadn't meant to say that. "Uh,...."

"Don't worry, I'm cool with that." Liz stubbed her Gauloise out on the ledge, grinning. "Actually, I find the concept of bi men very sexy. I have this fantasy where I make out with two gorgeous men at once, and then they fuck each other while I watch." She tossed the cigarette butt into a tin can on the floor of the balcony.

"It's late," Vic said. "I should go." Even in the frigid air, he felt himself blushing. He was starting to think Liz was some kind of sex freak. Normal women don't have fantasies like that, do they? This whole night had been a bad idea.

Liz sighed, but she didn't look unhappy. She gave Vic a quick kiss on the lips. "Go, then. Maybe I'll see you again someday."

Toronto, Canada, Chinese New Year 1999

"This is Mac's building!" Vic protested.

"Yes," Li Ann agreed, manoeuvring her car into a parking space. She'd decided that the awkwardness had gone on long enough; Vic had been avoiding Mac since the morning she found them in bed together a couple weeks ago, and it put Li Ann in an uncomfortable position. She finally decided the two of them just needed to have some casual time together to get them over the hump.

Vic crossed his arms in front of him. "I didn't know Mac was coming. I wouldn't have come if you'd told me."

"Right," Li Ann agreed easily. "That's why I didn't tell you."

"I'm not going."

"Oh yes you are. You promised," Li Ann reminded him. "I came to your New Year's party with you, and now you're coming to my New Year's celebration with me."

Vic pounded the dashboard lightly with one fist. "Damn, I hate it when you do that."

"What, remember what you promise me?" Li Ann raised her eyebrows and looked sideways at Vic.

"Yeah." Vic couldn't stop himself from smiling a bit.

Li Ann collected Mac, and brought him back down to where she'd left Vic. They left her car parked where it was. Li Ann knew from past years that it would be hopeless looking for parking near the big, outdoor festival, so she insisted they take the subway.

Mac had objections to taking public transit. "You don't know who sat there before you."

Vic rolled his eyes. "You'd rather rather spend half an hour looking for parking and end up walking two kilometres?"

Mac looked with distaste at the seat in question. "It was probably some homeless guy, some smelly old guy who hasn't washed or changed his clothes since last August."

"So don't sit down," Vic advised him, visibly irritated, and took the seat.

Li Ann let the bickering wash over her. At least Vic was talking to Mac again. Vic had been so upset after she discovered him in bed with Mac, it had been affecting all their work. Li Ann believed Vic that nothing had happened between him and Mac—really, how could it have? But Vic obviously was still worried about what Li Ann thought, and he'd been acting really awkward around Mac. Mac had told Li Ann about a few instances of Vic's new behaviour towards him—like a time last week that Vic had sent Jackie into the gym ahead of him, to warn him if Mac was there so he could avoid him. Mac was there, and Jackie, of course, chose amusement over tact and told Mac exactly what was going on. Mac had related this to Li Ann as a funny story, a joke on Vic, but Li Ann could tell it had bothered him. Thank goodness the Director had decided to pair off Jackie and Vic on a case, giving Vic some time off from both Mac and Li Ann.

Enough was enough, though. They couldn't avoid each other forever, and Li Ann was getting tired of the strain it was putting on her. After all, Vic and Mac were, among other things, her only two friends in the world. Li Ann hoped that having fun together tonight would get them over the hump and back into their normal working relationship.

Besides, Li Ann was still concerned about the breakdown Mac had had at the start of January. That wasn't something Li Ann was comfortable asking him about. The one time she'd got up the guts to mention it, he'd said he was fine now. He'd said that the doctor had given him medication that really helped, and he refused to talk any more about it.

He wasn't fine. He was tense and irritable. He'd shown up late for work three times last week, and ended up vacuuming the interiors of all of Dobrinsky's cars as punishment. And he'd mentioned something offhand to Li Ann about having trouble sleeping.

Li Ann remembered, suddenly, what it used to be like in Hong Kong—back when they were living with the Tangs, and everything they did was cloaked with secrecy. Li Ann remembered how she used to refuse to spend the night with Mac. She'd been so scared back then, and hiding it with all her might. She'd thought the only way to deal with all the pain and fear was to pretend it wasn't there, and that required very strict self-control. She wouldn't sleep with Mac because she knew her nightmares would betray her.

It all seemed so long ago and far away now—almost like it had happened to another person. Li Ann looked back on the girl who'd been Mac's lover with pity, for what she hadn't yet had the chance to learn about life and trust.

Li Ann had been so lucky to find Vic—especially in a workplace as cold and strange as the Agency. He'd saved her life by showing her a new way to live. He'd shown her that it was possible to trust someone in a deeper way than letting them take your back in a fire fight. She'd slept with him, and when she woke from the dreams he'd held her, and she'd remembered the distinction between present and past, and slowly a healing had taken place.

Watching Mac now from across the aisle of the subway car, Li Ann realized that he hadn't, yet, found someone like Vic. While Li Ann had been with Vic, learning about trust and healing, Mac had been in jail. Li Ann had never dared to ask him what that time was like.

Mac was standing, holding on to the overhead bar that ran the length of the car, swaying with the train's motion. He was far too stubborn to sit in the seats now that he'd made a point of it, even though the car was half empty. He was wearing sunglasses underground at night. What are you hiding? she wondered.

They got off the subway at St. Patrick's, and joined the crowd making their way to the blocked-off part of Kensington. Li Ann very deliberately put her worries aside, and embraced the happy energy of the crowd. Tonight, she was going to have fun.

The night wasn't too cold—just a few degrees below zero, and there was no wind. A light flurry of snow was falling. The flakes whirled festively in the streetlights.

Chinese lanterns were strung in lines over the street, marking off the area where people gathered. The crowd was thickest around the small stages that had been set up at intervals along the street. On the first one they came to, which was apparently the "Bell Canada" stage, a troupe of drummers was performing. Up close to the stage, people were dancing in the street.

The dancers caught Mac's eye. "Hey, that's a way to keep warm," he said, already sliding through the crowd towards the stage.

"C'mon, Vic," Li Ann said, grabbing her other partner by the sleeve. "If we lose sight of each other we'll never find each other again." He let her pull him through the crowd, after Mac.

Vic and Li Ann hung back from the edge of the dancers, in the more sedate part of the crowd that just tapped their feet and bobbed their heads to the beat. They watched Mac throw himself right into the dance.

There were maybe ten or fifteen dancers. Most of them were probably in their teens or twenties, but several young children jumped around at the edges, obviously having the time of their lives. There was nothing sophisticated about the dancing—it was primal, the dancers just jumping and swaying and undulating to the beat. Li Ann noticed that quite a few of the dancers wore unusual coats, brightly-coloured hats and scarves, and even mittens. They were obviously not shy people. Probably art students she mused.

Vic leaned closer to Li Ann's ear. "Mac's dancing like he's at a rave."

Li Ann looked at Mac again. "Is he? I wouldn't know." At least he looked like he was having fun. Li Ann herself couldn't imagine ever moving that freely in public.

They watched the dancers for a little while, before Vic spoke up again. "You were right, I don't feel out of place here."

Li Ann poked him affectionately in the ribs. "I told you. It's not really a traditional Chinese celebration. It's sort of been adopted by the whole city."

Vic shrugged. "I pictured—well, I thought I might be the only white guy, and everything would be happening in Chinese, and I wouldn't understand anything...."

In some ways, Vic was very unadventurous. Li Ann gave him a reassuring smile, and patted his shoulder. "If you need anything translated or explained, just ask! I'm right here, and so's Mac."

"You know, I used to be jealous of him for knowing your language and your culture. I felt threatened by it."

Li Ann looked at Vic, a bit surprised at him bringing that up. He was watching the drummers on stage now; he looked thoughtful. "Really?" she said.

"It didn't help that he kept rubbing my nose in it," Vic added, grimacing slightly. "At the beginning, when he thought we were competing for you, he was always doing that. Like, he'd talk Cantonese to you in front of me, and then ask me why I hadn't learned Cantonese for you yet. Jeez—I mean, I'm just not good at languages. I barely passed French in high school."

Li Ann threaded her arm through Vic's. "I never expected you to learn Cantonese. We communicated fine in English. Mac was just being immature and petty." Li Ann felt an echo of the old twinges of guilt she'd always felt when she reassured Vic that Mac was no threat, trying to make Vic feel secure with her, while at the same time she was wondering if she wanted to be with Vic at all. Of course, it was all different now that they both knew she didn't want to be with either of them—she just wanted time to herself to grow and figure things out.

"Don't you think that's kind of harsh?" Vic said, surprising Li Ann. "Back then he was still reeling from finding out you'd got engaged to me so soon after you thought he died. He just didn't understand why you couldn't go back to the way things were, once you found out he was alive."

Li Ann smiled, and squeezed Vic's arm affectionately. It was amazing to hear him seeing Mac's side of that old rivalry. She was very glad that Vic was getting over that whole Tuesday morning fiasco, too. "You're right," she admitted. "He was just acting like that because he thought he was in love with me."

"Thought?" Vic repeated. From his tone, it seemed he didn't think Li Ann quite had that right.

Li Ann sighed. Her gaze fell on Mac. In the flow of the dance, he'd temporarily found a partner in a young black woman—they mirrored each other's movements, moving always with the drumbeat. "We were so young, in Hong Kong. We were so desperate. Neither of us knew what love really was."

"Well, he still thinks he's in love with you." Vic's words came out quickly, and harsh.

It took a second for the meaning to sink in, and then Li Ann snapped her head around to stare at Vic. "What?"

Vic stared stubbornly ahead, watching the dancers. He didn't elaborate.

Li Ann felt her heart sinking. Oh no. Vic was getting jealous again. God damn, she'd thought that was so far behind them.... "No, he doesn't," she reassured Vic patiently. "We've talked about it. We both agreed that it's best if we're friends, not lovers."

The muscles in Vic's cheek twitched. "Yeah, well, he lied."

"How would you know?" Li Ann challenged him. Already, doubt was creeping in. Without her permission, her mind was playing over the last couple months in fast forward, trying to see if it could be true.

"Everybody knows." Again, Vic sounded almost but not quite angry. "The Director knows. Dobrinsky knows. Jackie definitely knows. The Cleaners were making some really obscure insinuations at the poker game last week, and I think the gist of it was that they know, too. Everybody's figured it out but you."

Li Ann laughed as dismissively as possible. "Come on, Vic. You're talking about Agency speculations. The Agency's worse than a girls' boarding school for wild rumours."

Vic shook his head. "It's not just speculations," he said, quieter and calmer than a moment ago. "He told me himself. In so many words."

Li Ann's stomach sank. She couldn't dismiss that, no matter how much she wanted to. She knew Vic wouldn't lie about something like that, and anyway he had no conceivable reason to. She swore under her breath in Cantonese.

"What was that?" Vic asked.

Li Ann shook her head. "Nothing." She felt an almost irresistible urge to hit Victor. "So, why are you telling me this? Why now?"

Vic let out a deep sigh, making a billowing cloud in the cold air. "Actually I thought you knew. I thought you were just pretending not to, because it was easier."

"Well, I didn't." Li Ann made a fist and bit her gloved knuckles, trying to stifle the confusion of violent impulses she was feeling towards Mac, for falling in love with her again when he wasn't supposed to, and Vic, for telling her about it.

And the drumming stopped.

The crowd cheered, the troupe made their bows, and Mac rejoined Li Ann and Vic. His cheeks were flushed and he was grinning. His coat was half undone, but his sunglasses were still in place. "That was great!" he enthused. "C'mon, let's see what else there is!"

Mac didn't seem to notice his partners' simmering silence at first as they all made their way down the street, deeper into the festival area. He talked about how cool it was to dance with strangers on the street, and he compared the drummers' music to some other artists' he knew. He speculated about the drummers' influences, and he wondered aloud about how the local music scene was these days in Hong Kong.

"You should come to a dance party with me sometime, Li Ann," he said, throwing an arm over her shoulder. "I know you're shy about that kind of dancing, but if you just let go I know you'd be awesome, and it'd be so fun-"

Li Ann stopped walking. Since his arm was around her, Mac had to stop, too. Vic made it another couple steps before he realized he was alone, and turned around.

"You think you're still in love with me," Li Ann accused Mac. She spoke in Cantonese—too bad if Vic felt excluded. She needed to deal with this with Mac now—she wasn't going to wait until they could talk in private.

"I—what?" Mac's first confused response came out in English. He looked towards Vic, then leaned in closer to Li Ann and continued in Cantonese. "Why do you think that?"

"Vic told me."

Mac's eyes were hidden by his dark glasses, but still she could read the look on his face—desperate, and trapped.

It was true, then.

"Look," Mac hedged, "maybe this isn't the best time to talk about this?"

"I don't want this hanging open any longer," Li Ann insisted. She'd thought she had closure months ago. She wanted it now. "We talked about this. What we had in Hong Kong—it can never happen again. We're different people now."

"Different people? What the hell does that mean?" Mac's voice rose. Vic, hanging back and looking uncomfortable, took a half step towards them, obviously ready to intervene if he had to. He couldn't understand the words, of course, but he could understand the tone. "You're Li Ann Tsei, I'm Mac Ramsey—who else was there?"

Li Ann stood her ground. "Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. We were kids. We were isolated—all we had was each other."

"And how is that different from now?" Mac asked, angry and plaintive.

Li Ann spoke quietly and deliberately, looking Mac directly in the face. She needed him to understand this. "Now I have myself."

Mac didn't have a reply. He just stood there. The sunglasses hid his expression and yet Li Ann imagined she could see the deep hurt in it—like that which, she had to admit to herself now, she'd seen and ignored in November when they had their nice talk about how it was best to be just friends.

"You know, I'm really hungry," he said suddenly, in English, in a dead casual tone. "I think I'll see if I can hunt down that guy who does the really good eel. I'll catch up with you two later, OK?" Without waiting for a response, he walked away.

Li Ann hid her face in her hands. She felt terrible. She knew she'd had to say everything she said, but still, she felt like she'd just kicked a puppy.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and, grateful, she put her hand on Vic's. "Am I a cold-hearted bitch?" she asked him, in a small voice.

Vic wrapped her in a quick, tight hug. "Don't say that about yourself. You do what you have to do."

Of course, Li Ann realized, Vic didn't even know what she'd just said to Mac.

Li Ann felt Vic shift, looking over his shoulder. "Maybe I should go after him," he said. "He, uh, you know he's been kind of unstable lately...."

Li Ann's eyes widened. "Oh no! I didn't even think of that. Shit." She bit her knuckle, fighting a sudden rush of fear. "You'd better go, now. I'll wait here. I'd only make things worse."

Vic took off, as fast as he could go through the thick crowd without getting into a fight. Li Ann waited where she was, cursing herself for not thinking more before she spoke.

She didn't regret making her feelings clear to Mac. There'd be no kindness in stringing him along. But she could have let him down a little more gently... damn.

She stayed where she was, letting the street party progress around her. She was still close enough to the Bell Canada stage to hear the next act; it was some kind of Chinese/Canadian rock fusion band.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only twenty minutes by Li Ann's watch, Vic returned—alone.

Catching sight of Li Ann, Vic came over to her, shaking his head. "I couldn't find him. I'm going to call the Director." He took out his cell phone.

Li Ann was surprised at the suggestion, and she grabbed his hand to stop him from dialling. "The Director? How could she help?"

"She has resources. If anyone can find him, she can."

Li Ann shook her head. "I don't think Mac would appreciate us calling the Director down on him."

"It doesn't matter if he appreciates it," Vic said, something dark flashing in his green eyes. "The important thing is to keep him safe."

Li Ann felt shocked by Vic's intensity, and his palpable fear. "Don't you think this is a bit dramatic? Mac can take care of himself."

Vic gave a short, bleak laugh. "Yeah. Like he did after we met his mother in the nuthouse?"

"That was different," Li Ann said, but a chill ran down her back at the reminder.

Around them, the crowd was shifting. A space was clearing nearby for the Dragon Dance.

"And the night in his apartment, when we barely stopped him from eating his fucking gun?" Vic was getting increasingly agitated. Li Ann kept her hands around his, on the cell phone—she still wasn't convinced that calling the Director was a good idea. Getting the Director involved in personal matters was never a good idea.

"He was sick, he was hallucinating," Li Ann reminded Vic. "He thought it was Michael holding the gun. He's on antidepressants now, and he says he's fine."

"Yeah, and he said he wasn't in love with you anymore, too, didn't he?" Vic pointed out bitingly.

Li Ann didn't have an answer to that one. She let go of the phone.

All around them, the crowd clapped and cheered for the dragon dancers. Purely by accident, Li Ann and Vic had ended up on the edge of the space cleared for the dance. Now Li Ann looked over and saw the elaborate, terrifying mask bobbing up and down. The four feet of the two dancers moved like the feet of one creature. The illusion was perfect for those willing to believe—the dragon breathed, roared silently, and danced. Li Ann felt a dizzying moment of connection to all the New Years' celebrations she remembered from years gone by.

"Excuse me, Ms. Li Ann Tsei?" inquired an unfamiliar male voice behind her, speaking English with a thick Chinese accent.

Li Ann spun around to face the stranger. Vic paused, his finger poised to punch in the Director's number on his phone—he, too, stared at the strange man who knew Li Ann's name.

The man wore a red mask which covered his whole face; it was vaguely reminiscent of the dragon mask but more probably some demonic thing left over from Halloween. He was dressed in a quilted black bodysuit. He was a bit short, maybe 5 foot 6, and stocky but clearly not fat. Other than that, it was impossible to tell anything about him.

"I have a message for you, from the Director. I can't give it to you here," he said urgently, beckoning. "You must follow me." He didn't wait for agreement, but threaded through the crowd, heading away from the dragon dance.

Li Ann frowned, and saw Vic looking similarly suspicious and puzzled. "What the hell is she up to now?" he wondered out loud.

"Whatever it is, we'd better find out." Li Ann started pushing her way through the spectators, following the masked man in black. "You wanted to talk to the Director, anyway."

Li Ann followed the man, and Vic followed Li Ann, down a side street where the crowd thinned out, and then into an alley between two stores.

As she walked into the alley, Li Ann was extremely annoyed that the Director would choose now of all times to play some new mind game with them. But suddenly, she had a rush of instinct—something wasn't right.

This clever insight likely had to do with catching sight, in her peripheral vision, of a second masked guy lunging at her with a big, shiny knife.

"It's a trap!" she yelled to Vic, spinning and blocking. She deflected the lunge but the attacker, a much taller man, rolled away from her and came up with a crescent kick which caught her left elbow. She staggered backwards, her mind momentarily hazed with pain. Her back hit the brick wall behind her, and she saw the first guy coming at her with a length of metal pipe. She stepped into the attack, stopping his overhead strike by blocking his arms close in. She grabbed his wrist and twisted, trying to force him to the ground, but he threw his weight against her and managed to knock her off balance. She stumbled, but caught the pipe which was loose in his grip and yanked it away from him. She spun 360 degrees quickly, and caught him on the side of the head with the pipe. He didn't go down but he did stumble away from her, momentarily disabled. Meanwhile, from the sounds behind her she knew Vic was fighting the taller attacker. She turned in time to see Vic slamming against the wall, and the tall! man turned on her again. His demon mask leered at her with its frozen, mass-produced fury. The knife still glinted in his right hand. This time he only faked with the knife, immediately moving into a spinning kick which he executed so fast she barely had time to move. She managed to get half out of the way but the kick caught her on the ribs and sent her flying right over the crouching figure of the shorter attacker, to land on her ass in the dirty slush with the breath knocked out of her and a red haze blurring her vision.

She didn't see what happened next, but she heard crashing and thumping and then several gunshots.

Then she heard Vic. "Li Ann!!"

"I'm here," she managed, not very loud. "Are you all right?"

Vic leaned over her. His mouth was bleeding. His gun was in his hand. "I'm fine—how bad are you hurt?"

Li Ann winced. "I think that kick cracked a rib or two. I'll be OK—you want to chase the bad guys?"

"I'll be back," he promised, and sprinted away.

Li Ann just lay where she was for the moment. Breathing hurt, a lot. She'd had a broken rib before and she was pretty sure she recognized the feeling. But she'd live.

The slush she was lying in was soaking through her coat. It was a nasty, icy wet feeling. She didn't know how long Vic would be—she had to move.

She gritted her teeth and pulled herself up. She waited, on her knees, for the new waves of pain to subside. Then she looked up, and saw that she was sharing the alley with a dead body.

She waited, gathering the strength to stand up. She'd have to get to a hospital soon. The slush soaked her pants. She shivered.

She stood up. Bracing herself with one hand against the closer wall of the alley, she shuffled over to the body. It was the shorter attacker—the one who'd approached her in the crowd and called her by name. The slush around him was tinted red. He'd been shot in the chest, right over the heart. Gingerly, she knelt again next to his head, and pulled off the mask. The man's eyes stared blankly at her. He looked Chinese. He had high cheekbones and smooth skin; he might have been attractive, alive. He looked vaguely familiar, but Li Ann couldn't place him.

Li Ann brushed her hand over his face to close his eyes, and then she reached for his right sleeve. She pushed it up, baring his forearm. He had an elaborate, green twisted dragon tattooed there. It was a design Li Ann knew intimately.

"That's the Tangs' symbol, isn't it?"

Li Ann looked up to see Vic at the entrance of the alley. He held up a red demon mask. "He got away," Vic said. "Not a fucking trace. I found this in a garbage can two blocks away."

"Yes, it's the Tangs' symbol," Li Ann confirmed quietly.

Vic swore.

"We're in public with a dead body," Li Ann pointed out. "We'd better call the Director right away. And then I have to get to a hospital."

Vic made the call while Li Ann waited, shivering with cold and pain and fear.

They had never found out who put the bomb in her apartment. With over a month gone by and nothing happening, Li Ann had let herself put it out of her mind. She couldn't afford to live scared.

She couldn't afford to keep her head in the sand, either.

Someone wanted her dead.

Toronto, Canada, three days later

The Director leaned forward, resting her elbows on the conference table and steepling her fingers together. "All our sources are saying the same thing: there are no 'Tangs' anymore. Michael's death was the last blow to the already weakened power structure. Most of the known criminal holdings had already been sold off. Most of the inner circle had already been killed. With no clear successor to Michael, what was left of the empire crumbled into its smallest constituent pieces."

Vic frowned. "So why was a Tang—or a former Tang—trying to kill Li Ann?"

"Revenge," Li Ann suggested. X-rays had revealed two cracked ribs. Now Li Ann moved gingerly and with a palpable frustration; she was off active duty for at least a month, and she had to leave the others to hunt down her would-be assassin. "I destroyed the Tangs." Vic heard the regret in her voice; they had been her family, after all, and her home.

"Not alone," Mac pointed out. "We all did it—and anyone who knew about your role would know about me and Vic, too. So why are you the only target?"

Mac had still been in the Kensington area when the fight happened. The Director had decided to deal with the cleanup through the regular emergency services this time, so several squad cars and ambulances had converged on the alley. Mac had been in a local bar, still on his first drink—he said—when he'd heard the sirens. If there was any silver lining to the assassination attempt, Vic reflected, it was this: that Mac had abandoned whatever self-destructive plans or non-plans he'd had for the evening when he ran out of the bar to see what the emergency was, and whether he could help.

"Maybe I'm not the only target," Li Ann pointed out. "They tried to kill Vic, too. And remember, he was also with me when the bomb went off."

"But it was you the guy found in the crowd, and called out by name," Vic reminded her. "I don't think he even noticed I'd followed you two until I got involved in the fight. And whoever planted the bomb in your apartment had no way of knowing I'd go home with you."

The Director rapped her fingers on the table. "These speculations are getting us nowhere."

It was true; they were basically just rehashing stuff they'd gone over the first night. They hadn't learned anything new since then.

"I have something new for you," the Director went on, and she smiled sweetly. "I have an ID on the man Victor killed. His name was Jok-Yu Li. He moved here from Hong Kong last August, to take a degree in business administration at the University of Toronto."

"He had a criminal record?" Mac guessed.

"No." The Director raised her eyebrows and looked mysterious. "You'll never guess how we found out who he was."

Vic shrugged, irritated that she hadn't brought up the new info right away. Did she toy with them for a reason, or was it just habit? "OK, we'll never guess, so tell us."

"Missing persons report. Filed this morning."

"By who?" Li Ann asked. Her surprise reflected Vic's own. Quite a few bad guys had 'disappeared' after encountering the Agency team in the past—but as far as Vic knew, no one had ever gone to the police looking for one of the missing before.

The Director called up an image on their display screens. It was a twenty-something white man with long blonde hair and a scraggly beard. "His roommate. Jonathan Dooley. He's a PhD student in Early Medieval Studies at U of T."

"Sounds like a fun guy," Mac commented drily.

The Director held up a slender dossier. "Here's what we know, including the address." She slid the folder across the table to Vic. "Vic, Jackie, you'll pose as police detectives investigating the missing persons case. You'll go talk to Dooley this afternoon, and find out everything you can. We want to track down the accomplice, and we want to find out who was calling the shots."

"If it was Jok-Yu calling the shots, then there may not be any more attempts." Li Ann sounded hopeful.

Jackie cracked her gum. "If it was the other guy, though, we've still, like, got a problem."

"Very likely, it's someone you haven't even encountered yet," the Director pointed out. "So, ask lots of questions and keep your eyes open."

"So," Vic said, taking out a notebook, "You reported your roommate missing this morning."

Jackie perched on the room's one easy chair, grinning at Jonathan Dooley and twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Vic had asked her, in the car, to talk as little as possible—he didn't think she played a very convincing police detective.

"That's right," Jonathan nodded. "He went out Monday afternoon, at about four. He hasn't been home since." Jonathan ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture. "I thought about calling the police on Wednesday, but I thought 'no, I'm not his mother, he doesn't have to check in with me'—you know? But jeez, now he's been gone three days, and he didn't say he was going to be gone overnight and he didn't even take his wallet with him—it's on his dresser. He's never done anything like this before."

"How well do you know Jok-Yu?" Vic asked, nearly slipping up and saying 'did' instead of 'do.' This was a fucked-up situation—pretending to be a police detective investigating this guy's disappearance. Vic knew exactly where Jok-Yu Li was; he'd killed the guy.

"Not well," Jonathan admitted. "We aren't friends or anything, we're just sharing the rent. He's pretty quiet, keeps to himself. He does his share of the housework."

"Does he have friends who come around? Any family?" Vic asked.

"I think his family is back in Hong Kong—he never talked about it. And he never has friends come around, except this one guy who's been here a couple times. Thing is, that guy came over on Monday. Jok-Yu left with him. Before they left, it sounded like they had an argument, but I wasn't sure, 'cause they were talking Chinese."

"Well, that could be important," Vic observed.

"Like, yeah, why didn't you say so in the first place?" Jackie contributed, making no attempt to sound more like a detective than a Valley Girl.

Jonathan gave her a puzzled look—while he was looking away from Vic, Vic glared at Jackie and made the 'cut-it-out!' gesture, drawing a quick line across his neck with his index finger. Jackie rolled her eyes.

"I was, uh, just getting to it," Jonathan said to Jackie. He returned her grin, weakly.

"Could you describe this guy? Do you know his name? When did you see him before?" Vic asked, trying to get them back on track.

"I remember him coming over before, maybe a month ago?" Jonathan said. "I don't know his name. He never spoke a word to me. He never said a word in English, actually—he just talked with Jok-Yu in Chinese. He wasn't Chinese, though—he was white. He was very tall—maybe 6'4" or 6'5."

Jackie, wide-eyed, met Vic's gaze and mouthed the word 'Mac?'

That was impossible. It had to be someone else.

"Can you describe him in more detail?" Vic asked. The point of his pen dug into his notepad. "Do you remember his hair colour, his build, his age?"

"Ummm...." Jonathan squinched up his eyes and put his hand over his forehead, making a visible effort to remember. "I was never very good at recall.... His hair was brown, I think. He was pretty slender—not skinny, though, he looked like he worked out. Age, um, hard to say—about my age, I think? Mid twenties."

Vic made a show of taking down the details, but his writing wasn't legible at all. His heart skipped a beat with every detail that matched Mac. "Keep going," he urged Jonathan. "Describe his face."

Jonathan just shrugged. "I don't know what else to say! He had two eyes, a nose, a mouth."

Jackie stood up to whisper in Vic's ear. "Do you have a photo of Mac?"

"No, not on me." That was a good idea, though. They could come back with a photo, and Jonathan could say "No, that's not the guy," and Vic could breathe again....

"All right, like, thanks," Jackie said to Jonathan. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, it'd be great if you'd show us Jok-Yu's room."

They searched the room for potential clues. Vic moved on autopilot, putting a couple of notebooks full of hand-written Chinese into evidence bags. Jackie picked up Jok-Yu's wallet, and a post-it note with what looked like a couple of phone numbers. They found nothing else that looked useful.

When they were back in Vic's truck, Jackie gave voice to the question that was tormenting Vic: "Like, what the fuck is Mac up to?"

"It's not Mac," Vic said grimly. If he could convince Jackie, he could convince himself. "I know it looks bad, but... first of all, we both know Mac would never hurt Li Ann. And anyway, Mac was with me and Li Ann on Monday."

Jackie snapped her gum. "But he wasn't in the fight, right?"

"Well, no, he left us just before..." About twenty-five minutes before, Vic recalled. Right after Li Ann told him she didn't love him. And then he showed up again about twenty minutes after it was over. Fuuuuck...

"And what time did you pick him up at his place?" Jackie asked.

"About six," Vic answered, reluctantly.

"So, like, if he picked up Jok-Yu at four, that would've left lots of time to set up and get back home," Jackie pointed out.

"OK, but remember the bomb in Li Ann's apartment that month? That was planted sometime while he was in Kingston, or Hamilton, or under the Director's watch at the Agency. No way he could've done that," Vic insisted.

"Right," Jackie agreed, "but Jok-Yu could've done that. Or, like, somebody else."

"The guy wasn't Mac," Vic said, stubbornly. His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled.

Jackie laid a hand on Vic's shoulder. "Hey, like no offence Vic, but I think you're letting your personal feelings kind of make you stupid here."

Personal feelings? Holy shit, what did she know? "What do you mean?" Vic snapped.

"Like, everybody knows that you and Mac are doing it."

"What?!" Vic jerked the truck over to the side of the road and braked, hard. He and Jackie both fell forward against their seatbelts.

"Like, whoa, don't take a fit," Jackie said. "I just heard Li Ann caught you and Mac in bed together, is all."

"Nothing happened," Vic said defensively. "Anyway, how did you know about that?"

"Dobrinsky. The Director told him."

Vic felt a low growl starting, deep in his throat.

"C'mon, you can't pretend that's not why you're refusing to see what's in front of your face here," Jackie said, smoothing her hair out.

"There's nothing in front of my face. Just a whole lot of circumstantial evidence."

"OK, Vic, like get a grip," Jackie said, grabbing Vic's hands and staring him right in the eye. "Just think about this for a second. How many six-foot-four brown-haired white guys in their mid twenties who speak Chinese and have ties to the Tangs do you think there are in Toronto?"

"Fuck." She was so right. He was refusing to admit the obvious because of his feelings for Mac—and damn it, no one was supposed to know he had feelings for Mac! Vic dropped his head against the steering wheel and swore again. Then, with his forehead resting against the wheel, staring fixedly at the dusk on the steering column, he asked "How could I fight him and not even know it was him?" He thought back to the fight in the alley. The combat style of the tall, masked attacker had been so familiar, full of high kicks and acrobatics, but Vic hadn't thought anything of it. Li Ann fought that way too. Of course, she and Mac had trained together.... Vic shivered. "He was trying to kill us. I was trying to kill him." Feeling desperate and numb, Vic imagined if he'd defeated the second attacker. Imagined pulling off the demon mask to reveal Mac's face, cold and open-eyed in death.

That would have killed Vic. No matter what Mac had done, if Vic killed him, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

Vic felt a hand on his back. "Well, don't, like, lose it," Jackie said. "I mean, the Director's sent one of us undercover before without telling anyone else. Maybe that's what's going on."

Vic was eager to grasp at the shred of hope Jackie had come up with, but he wanted her to convince him—to give him a hand out of the deep pit of despair he was wallowing in. "But, he broke Li Ann's ribs," Vic pointed out.

"To maintain his cover?" Jackie suggested. "And anyway, he didn't, like, actually kill either one of you. So maybe he wasn't really trying."

"That must be what happened." Vic sat up again, feeling immense relief. His eyes felt a bit wet—he hoped Jackie wouldn't notice. "Is that what you think happened?"

"Naaah, I think Mac went nuts 'cause Li Ann doesn't love him," Jackie admitted cheerfully. "He's been totally losing it ever since the godfather died. I just, like, said all that undercover stuff so you'd feel better and start driving the friggin' truck again."

"You're so sweet," Vic muttered, shoving the truck into drive. But he did feel better—the scenario Jackie had offered was totally plausible, and he clung to it, trying to ignore his persistent doubts which whispered Jackie's right, Mac's been mentally unstable since the godfather died. Especially after running into his mother. His criminally insane mother. That kind of thing could be hereditary, couldn't it? But then, maybe it would all be OK. If Mac really was going crazy—for real, chemical-imbalance-in-the-brain crazy—then maybe the Agency could fix him. They'd fixed Jackie... more or less.

When they got back to the Agency, they had an argument about how to reveal what they'd found. Jackie wanted to speak to the Director, privately. Vic wanted to go directly to Mac and confront him, and let him speak for himself.

"If the Director's behind all this—and ten to one says she is—then if we go right to her she'll just make up more stories to keep us in the dark," Vic whispered. They were in the main corridor. They seemed to be alone, but Vic would never trust that in the Agency.

"But if we go to Mac, then he can make up stories to explain everything," Jackie pointed out. "I mean, you know he's a con artist, right?"

They reached the double doors to the briefing room. When Vic pulled the door open, he saw the Director, Li Ann and Mac all sitting around the table, with several pieces of paper and a map scattered between them. "All right," he said under his breath to Jackie, "Let's just tell both of them at once. Give them both a chance to tell us their stories."

"Okey-dokey," Jackie agreed. Then she pitched her voice to carry. "Like, hi, everybody! We're back, and we found out some interesting stuff."

Mac leaned back in his seat. "Great! We're getting nowhere, here. What's the news?"

Jackie kept talking as she and Vic approached the table and sat down. Vic let her talk, and just watched Mac's face.

"So, like, we talked to Jonathan. He said that when Jok-Yu left Monday afternoon, he was with another guy. Jonathan'd seen this other guy, like, once before—a month ago. Like, maybe around the time when Li Ann's apartment blew up?"

Mac seemed totally calm as his listened to Jackie. He looked interested, sure, but he didn't look worried. The Director prompted Jackie to go on.

"So, like, Jonathan described the guy to us," Jackie continued. Her voice took on a slightly harder edge. "It's a white guy, mid-twenties, about 6'4". He's slender but, like, muscular, he's got brown hair and no beard or mustache, and he speaks Chinese."

Watching Mac, Vic saw his eyes widen in recognition as the description ended. And then Mac turned to look at Li Ann, and she looked back at him, and they held each others' gaze for a full second before they both spoke at once.

"Paul," they both said.

Jackie shook her head, confused. "What?"

"Paul was a... friend of Michael's," Mac explained. "He was here with him in December. The description fits him perfectly."

Vic felt dizzy for a second, as the tension in his body went poof and he found he could breathe again.

Jackie laughed. "Jesus! I thought Vic was going to faint, there! Mac, we thought it was you!"

Vic felt his face going red. He glared at Jackie, trying very hard to kill her with the look.

"Me? Trying to kill Li Ann and Vic?" Mac looked wounded.

"How many six-foot-four brown-haired white guys in their mid twenties who speak Chinese and have ties to the Tangs can there possibly be in Toronto?" Vic muttered into the table, and shot another death-glare at Jackie.

The Director, meanwhile, was frowning. "Are you talking about Michael's bodyguard?"

"Oh, he was more than just a bodyguard," Mac assured her quickly.

"In that case, you two should have mentioned him in your reports back in December," she said to Li Ann and Mac. She sounded seriously annoyed.

Li Ann looked uncomfortable, and shrugged. "It didn't occur to me. He didn't seem important—he was just kind of... there."

"He was a loose end," the Director pointed out, scowling. "I do not like loose ends."

"Well, now that we know he's behind the attacks on Li Ann, we'll take care of him." The tone of Mac's voice made it clear he didn't mean "take care" in a nice way.

"We don't know that he's the one calling the shots," Vic pointed out. "Like the Director said earlier, we probably haven't met the one in charge, yet."

The Director nodded her approval to Vic.

Mac shook his head. "It's Paul. He's the one." He sounded certain of himself, but not happy about it.

"But, like, what does this Paul guy stand to gain from killing Li Ann now?" Jackie asked, reasonably.

Mac grimaced. "Revenge."

"But Li Ann didn't take down the Tangs by herself," Vic reminded him. "We all helped."

"Even Michael and Paul had a part in it," Li Ann added.

Mac shook his head slowly. "Not revenge for destroying the Tangs. Li Ann... you're the one who killed Michael."

Li Ann's eyes widened. "Oh," she said quietly.

"This is a nice theory," the Director interjected, "but it's just a theory. Someone convince me, please. You've never even mentioned Paul before. Who is he that he would risk everything, months after Michael's death, just to avenge him?"

"I don't know where he came from." Li Ann looked to Mac, and Mac shrugged—he didn't know either. "He was with Michael when we met with him in private, in December. He didn't say much. He seemed to be acting as Michael's bodyguard."

"Michael called him his brother," Mac added, his expression dark.

The Director was wearing her glasses; now she tapped them so they slid down her nose and she peered intensely over them at Mac, calculating. "So Michael came back with a man who superficially resembles you, and named him as his brother. It sounds like he replaced you."

"Yeah, it does." Mac agreed, keeping his expression fixed.

"And based on this, you believe that Paul would be bound to avenge Michael's death," the Director went on.

Mac gave a short, curt nod. "Absolutely."

The Director crossed her arms, and sat back in her chair. "I'm not convinced yet. But I happen to suspect, Mr. Ramsey, that you know more than you're saying, and I think it's about time to come out with it."

Mac looked trapped. Li Ann and Jackie both looked curiously between Mac and the Director. As for Vic, he thought he could guess what the Director was fishing for.

The Director stood up. She walked around the table, to perch on its edge in front of Mac. Mac swallowed. The Director put a finger under his chin, to tilt his face up towards hers. "How far will Paul go in pursuit of this revenge?" she asked Mac. "How much will he risk?"

Mac swallowed again. "He'll risk everything." His voice was strained and soft, almost shaking. "He's willing to die for it."

"Why?" the Director pressed him, letting her voice get softer, too. The girls and Vic leaned closer to hear.

"Because he loved Michael," Mac whispered.

Li Ann frowned, looking puzzled. "How can you be sure? We only met Paul three times. He barely spoke to us."

"Yes, Mac," the Director said, keeping her physical and eye contact with Mac, who was becoming pale. "How can you be sure?"

Vic couldn't let this go any further. "Hey!" he said. He grabbed the back of Mac's chair and spun it around, breaking the Director's contact with Mac. Now Mac faced Vic, looking shaken and desperate. "He just is," Vic said over Mac's head, to the Director. "I trust his instincts. Don't you?"

The Director raised her eyebrows, but she didn't say anything about Vic leaping to Mac's rescue. "I put very little faith in anything as intangible as an instinct," she said instead.

"Remember what happened last time you didn't trust his instincts?" Vic asked. "We all nearly got killed by Michael and Pucci."

"Except for me!" Jackie interjected cheerfully. Everyone ignored her.

"Ah, but I believe there was more than instinct at work there," the Director said. She put a hand on Mac's shoulder and kneaded it slowly. "I think Mac knew something back then that he chose not to share. I think he's still hiding it."

Vic looked into the Director's eyes, and he knew that she knew. Maybe she didn't know the details, or maybe she did, but somehow she knew that Mac had been Michael's lover.

And she was going to make him say it.

In front of Li Ann.

Vic stood up. "This is between you and Mac," he said to the Director. "Li Ann and Jackie and I should go."

"Like, no way!" Jackie snapped at Vic, annoyed. "This is getting really interesting!"

The Director motioned for Vic to sit down. "You're all involved, because you all need to know everything possible about Paul in order to stop him."

Vic remained standing. "This isn't even about Paul!"

"Should I be questioning you, Vic, instead of Mac?" The Director made the question sound like a threat.

"All right!" Mac shouted suddenly. He spun the chair around to face the Director. "Michael and I were lovers! Are you happy now?" He sprang out of his chair and headed for the door.

The Director, expression calm, snapped her fingers to Jackie. "Stop him."

Jackie dashed and got ahead of Mac before he reached the exit. She stood in front of him, feet apart, arms loose and ready for if she had to use force. Mac just stopped and turned around. "What the hell do you want from me?" he demanded of the Director.

Vic snuck a glance at Li Ann. She was staring, wide-eyed, at Mac, with her hand over her mouth.

"I've known from the beginning that you and Michael had been lovers," the Director said, dry and calm. "You used to talk in your sleep, when you were in jail. It was in your files. Come here. Sit down."

Mac walked forward as though she'd put a spell on him. There was no sound in the room. Li Ann was still as stone, with her hand still over her mouth. Jackie stayed in her place, guarding the exit. Vic hardly dared to breathe.

Mac sat back down in his chair and looked up at the Director, who still sat on the edge of the table.

"What I need you to tell me," the Director said quietly in a calm, reasonable, low voice, "is what it is like to be Michael's lover. What is Paul feeling now? Why does he need to kill Li Ann?"

Mac stared at her unblinking while he answered. "Michael is so intense." When he spoke, his tone was flat. "Being with him feels like being a car on fire. Everything but the hardest parts of you gets burned away. I'm terrified of him. I never know what he's going to do next."

With a shock, Vic realized that Mac was talking about Michael in the present tense.

This wasn't healthy. This wasn't safe. Why was the Director making Mac go through with this? They didn't need to know this. All they needed to know was that Paul had had strong emotional ties to Michael, strong enough that now he'd devote his life to vengeance. All they needed to know, really, was that Paul was the one behind the attacks and that he'd certainly try again. Now they had to catch Paul, and stop him. Nothing Mac could say about Michael would help them find Paul.

"Michael thrives on pain. He wants people to be afraid of him. He wants me to be afraid of him. And I am. Because I know he's going to destroy me," Mac continued in the same flat, matter-of-fact tone.

Not healthy, not safe. Vic's heart raced. He was about to stand up, shout, grab Mac and take him out of here—anything to stop the Director's fucked-up game—but something stopped him. He couldn't bring himself to move.

"But you love him," the Director prompted him, her voice even, soothing.

"I'm not alive until he comes into the room," Mac said. "When he looks at me, I know that I'm nothing without him, but I'm everything while his eyes are on me. When he fucks me sometimes it hurts so much I scream, but at the same time I'm dying and being reborn, and I'm invincible."

"What would you do if someone hurt Michael?" the Director asked, still soothing.

"No one can hurt Michael. He's too strong."

An emotion flickered across the Director's face, and Vic thought it was pity. Then she snapped her fingers.

Mac slumped forward in his chair. Li Ann let out a high-pitched whimper. And Vic found he could move again.

Vic wanted to run right to Mac and see if he was all right, see if he was even conscious—but he couldn't, not with the Director, Li Ann and Jackie watching. "What the hell did that have to do with the case?" he demanded, instead, taking an aggressive step toward the Director.

The Director gave an easy shrug. "The case, your lives—it's all interconnected. Li Ann needed to know what she's up against. And you -" the Director pitched her voice lower, to just carry to Vic's ears, "You need to know what you're getting into."

Before Vic could process that thought, the Director snaked her hand down the front of her own shirt, and pulled out a couple of $100 bills. "You all must be terribly hungry," she said. "I think you should all go out and get some dinner now—my treat. That's an order, by the way."

Li Ann and Jackie were standing by the room's exit; Li Ann obviously wanted to leave, but Jackie was blocking her way. Li Ann looked haunted.

The Director placed $100 in Vic's hand, then walked over to the girls and handed the other bill to Jackie. "I would suggest," she added, "two separate restaurants. Jackie, Vic, do you follow me?"

"Yup!" Jackie nodded. "Come on," she said to Li Ann, taking her by the elbow, "You'll feel better after you eat."

Li Ann cast one hollow-eyed look back over her shoulder at Mac, and let Jackie lead her away.

"I have to go, now," the Director said to Vic. "I have..." she wiggled her fingers, "things to do. See if you can make it through without anyone getting hospitalized this time, all right?"

She was gone before he could protest.

Vic stood there, stunned, with a $100 bill in his hand. He felt drained by the scene he'd just witnessed.

Mac was still hunched forward in his chair, holding his head in his hands. Vic approached him hesitantly. "Uh, Mac?"

Mac sat up and looked bleakly at Vic. "Li Ann will hate me now, won't she?"

Vic shook his head slowly. "No. It'll take her some time to adjust, that's all."

"I didn't mean to say all that. I don't know why I did."

Vic recalled the strange, even tone Mac's voice had taken while he was talking, and the way Vic himself had wanted to stop the scene, yet had been unable to compel himself to move. "Fuck!" he realized, "She hypnotized us."

Mac furrowed his forehead. "Huh? Can she do that?"

"I've seen her do it to suspects a few times. It's like... she can use the force of her personality to get people to just fixate on her, and talk."

Mac shuddered. "That woman scares me more every day."

"But hey, she did give us $100 for supper," Vic pointed out, holding up the bill.

"I'm not hungry," Mac said. "You take the money, buy yourself dinner and a nice lap dance or something. I'm going home." He stood up.

"She ordered us to go out to a restaurant," Vic reminded him. "Come on, you can pick—we can even go somewhere with authentic Hong Kong food."

Mac grinned. "Really? Would you eat eel?"

"Uh, no," Vic winced, "But I'd try not to look too grossed out while you ate it."

"Actually I don't feel like Chinese food tonight," Mac said. "How about you pick a place."

"OK..." Vic wondered whether Mac wanting to avoid Chinese food had anything to do with reminiscing about Michael. "How about Greek? There's a really nice Greek place I've been wanting to go back to, and $100 will go a long way there."

"Greek, great, sign me up," Mac said, heading for the door in long strides. "I'll drive."

Vic expected Mac to be subdued after what happened in the briefing room. Instead, Mac talked non-stop the whole way to the restaurant. He started talking about the Greeks, and then togas, and then toga parties, and then Vic lost the thread. Vic contributed nothing but the directions to the restaurant, along with the occasional grunt, or "yeah," or "no," or "really?" He couldn't concentrate on what Mac was saying; he just kept thinking about what he had said.

'I'm terrified of him,' Mac had said. 'Michael thrives on pain,' he'd said. 'I know that I'm nothing without him, but I'm everything while his eyes are on me,' he'd said. 'When he fucks me sometimes it hurts so much I scream,' he'd said.

Jesus. Mac had been in an abusive relationship with Michael. Vic had sort of known that already—the very first time Mac told Vic he'd been Michael's lover, it was to explain how he knew Michael was a sadist—but Vic had never really put it together and thought of it in these terms. That word. Abuse. Honestly, it had been too weird at first to think of two guys even having a relationship—having sex, maybe, but a relationship? Given a month or so to think about it, and to start to come to terms with the fact that he was attracted to Mac, himself, in a tangle of feelings that had to do with sex but not just sex, he was starting to realize that whatever had been between Michael and Mac, it had been more than just sex.

And what had the Director said to Vic? 'You need to know what you're getting into.'

"Earth to Vic!" Mac said, snapping his fingers in front of Vic's face. "We're here."

Inside the restaurant, Mac gave Vic a funny look when he asked for a seat in the smoking section. There was a vacant table for two; they were seated right away.

"Since when do you smoke?" Mac asked, opening up his menu.

"Since I was sixteen," Vic replied irritably, taking a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket. He was not going to make it through this dinner without one.

Mac shook his head, scanning the menu. "You do not smoke. I would've smelled it on you. I think I'll get the stuffed grape leaves for an appetizer, and the moussaka."

"Well, the Director made me quit when I joined the Agency," Vic muttered. He lit his cigarette.

"And you started again...?"

"About two weeks ago. Want one?" Vic offered the pack to Mac.

Mac held up his hand in refusal. "No thanks, I quit when I was fourteen. The godfather made me. The Director's gonna kill you."

"She's not going to find out."

A waiter came over to their table. He was a stout, middle-aged man, and he looked authentically Greek. "Are you ready to order?"

Mac and Vic placed their orders, and then the waiter asked them about drinks. Mac ordered a litre of the house red wine.

"So, you quit smoking when you were fourteen?" Vic asked. "When the hell did you start?"

Mac smirked. "I was ten."

"Man." Vic tapped the end of his cigarette into the ashtray. "I should've known you'd be a juvenile delinquent."

"That was me all right." Mac looked pleased at the characterization. "All my teachers figured I'd end up in jail."

"Then they were right. You did end up in jail," Vic pointed out.

"Ah," Mac waggled a finger, "But did they predict I'd get sprung by a Shadowy Government Agency, and spend the rest of my days as a secret agent defending the world from evil?"

Vic grinned, and took a drag on his cigarette. "Oh, is that what we do? Defend the world from evil?"

Mac half shrugged, and looked less happy. "Well, sometimes. On the good days."

"Today wasn't such a good day," Vic suggested.

"I've had better. Like, remember the time we went on that jewellery heist with the Rivers family? Damn, that was fun," Mac grinned.

Vic didn't let Mac get away with changing the subject this time. He was starting to figure out how good Mac was at that—at changing the subject to avoid things he didn't want to talk about. Vic had the feeling that Mac had been doing it all the time, all along, without Vic even noticing. This time, though, Vic noticed. "Do you actually remember what you said to the Director?" he asked.

Mac balled his napkin up on the table. "You mean about Michael? Yeah, I remember." He looked up at Vic. "Did you really think that I was the one who attacked you and Li Ann?"

Vic shrugged. "I didn't want to. But the description sounded just like you. I thought maybe you were working undercover and the Director hadn't told us, or something."

"I wouldn't hurt Li Ann." Without looking down at his hands, Mac now twisted his napkin into a tight snake. The waiter arrived with the wine, and they paused in their conversation while he poured them each a glass.

"I know you wouldn't," Vic assured him as the waiter walked away.

"The Director thinks I might." The snake in Mac's hands doubled over on itself.

Vic frowned. "Huh? What makes you think that?"

"The last question she asked me, remember?"

Vic thought back. The last question had been 'What would you do if someone hurt Michael?' And Mac had said it was impossible, that no one could hurt Michael.

"I don't understand you," Vic said.

"Li Ann killed Michael. Paul wants to kill her, for doing it, because he loves Michael. And I love Michael, too—so what does that tell you?" Mac took his wine glass and drained it.

Vic pulled the bottle of wine away before Mac could pour himself a second glass. "You keep talking about Michael as if he was still here. Do you still see his ghost?" he asked.

Mac's eyes widened. "I didn't think you remembered about that," he said softly.

"Do you?" Vic insisted.

Mac shook his head. "Not when I'm awake. Not since I started taking the drugs."

"The antidepressants?"

"And the blue pills."

"What blue pills?"

Mac shrugged. "The doctor never told me what they were. You know what the Agency's like."

Vic knew, and it wasn't comforting to think they were trying weird experimental drugs on Mac.

Just then, the waiter arrived with their food. Vic let Mac change the subject, and they talked about trivial things while they ate.

The Director had been right. They'd needed food. Vic, at least, felt ten times better once he was full. Mac started talking about martial arts in movies, and he made Vic laugh so much he nearly choked on his food. Vic was entranced, too, by the way Mac waved his hands around while telling his stories, sometimes demonstrating the move he was talking about in ways which seemed dangerous to the table ornaments. Mac looked so young when he laughed, and innocent. That had to be because of the dimples.

They paid and left the restaurant, still chatting easily. Then they came to the place where Mac's car was parked.

Had been parked.

There was a lime green Volkswagen in the spot now.

"Somebody stole my car?" Mac said, dumbfounded.

"How much money did you put in the meter?" Vic asked.

"Money," Mac repeated. "Meter. Fuck."

"Looks like it got towed," Vic observed, unhelpfully. He looked at Mac; Mac was standing tight, with his hands clenched, staring at the Volkswagen.

Suddenly, growling, Mac turned around and kicked a nearby garbage can. The metal mesh can tipped, but didn't fall; it was chained to a lamp post. Mac kicked it again, harder, and again and again after it fell over. His face was pure fury. People walking by started to give him a wide berth, avoiding eye contact.

"Mac!" Vic yelled, and failed to get his attention. He grabbed him, pinning his arms behind him, and pulled him back away from the garbage can.

Mac tried to twist out of his grip, yelling "Get off me!" but Vic held tight.

"Come on, cool it!" Vic urged Mac. "We'll get your car out of the pound."

Mac stopped fighting, but he didn't relax. Vic let go, cautiously.

Mac stood there, staring down at the garbage can like it might get up and come looking for more.

"Come on, let's go," Vic said. Mac ignored him. "Come on," Vic insisted, and, without really thinking about it, took Mac's hand to pull him away from the garbage can.

In response, Mac squeezed Vic's hand so hard it hurt. "OK, let's go," Mac agreed. With his free hand, he pulled sunglasses out of his coat pocket and put them on.

"The subway's this way," Vic said, unnecessarily and awkwardly, nodding his head in the right direction. Mac was holding his hand. Vic had only meant to pull Mac away from the garbage can, he hadn't meant to hold on to him for more than a second... but Mac, without looking at Vic, was holding his hand in a death grip.

They started walking along the street, still holding hands. Vic felt strange and off-balance, and dangerously conspicuous, walking down this heavily-travelled, commercial street holding hands with another man. He had a feeling that the contact was important to Mac, though, so instead of letting go he tightened his grip.

It didn't take a trained psychiatrist to guess that Mac's explosion over his car getting towed had a lot more to do with the afternoon meeting than with the car.

"I don't have any money for the subway," Mac mentioned, his offhand tone at odds with the desperate grip he had on Vic's hand.

"No problem, I can cover us," Vic assured him.

Mac nodded. "Do you know where the pound is?"

"Yeah, but your car won't be ready to pick up 'till tomorrow." While he spoke, Vic kept an anxious eye on everyone approaching them on the sidewalk. Nobody seemed to be noticing them, particularly, but Vic feared that any moment they'd be jumped by a gang of skinheads, or something. They were holding hands on a public street!

"You're pretty familiar with this whole drill," Mac observed, glancing sideways at him with a grin. "Do you park in front of fire hydrants a lot?"

"Hey, I've never been dumb enough to get my truck towed," Vic protested. "I spent six months as a traffic cop at the start of my career."

Mac snorted. "That, I can see. I bet you loved giving out tickets, huh?"

Vic might have been deceived by the casual, joking conversation into thinking that Mac had already moved past the crisis and forgotten about it, except that Mac was still hanging on to his hand as though it were the only thing between Mac and a 20 metre drop off the edge of a cliff. Vic was starting to seriously think that his hand was going to bruise from this—but he wasn't going to let go.

They finally did have to let go, to get through the turnstile in the subway. Vic flexed his hand, trying to get the circulation back, and Mac noticed. He didn't say anything, but he looked troubled and turned and walked away from Vic.

Vic let him go. He figured maybe Mac needed some space. Anyway, Vic needed space—he needed to think about what that had meant. The holding-hands thing. Vic was buzzing with adrenaline from the experience. What had Mac been thinking, the whole time? Holding hands was just not something guys did unless they were dating. Women, maybe, occasionally, but not men. Not in Vic's culture.

Vic wished suddenly that he'd made more of an effort to learn about Hong Kong. He tended to forget that Mac had grown up in an entirely different cultural environment. Not all of his assumptions would be the same as Vic's. For all Vic knew, holding hands meant nothing in particular to Mac.

No, no. Vic's hand still ached. Holding on that tight could not possibly be casual. It had meant something to Mac. But what?

There were only a few other people on the platform. Mac had wandered all the way down to the end, and was standing near the edge leaning against the wall, next to the tunnel opening the train would come through.

He had planned to give Mac space, but suddenly Vic felt distinctly uneasy. Mac was standing so close to the edge, at the end of the station where the train would burst out of the tunnel....

Get a grip, Vic, he told himself. He was really letting his mother hen instincts get away with him. There was absolutely no reason to believe Mac was contemplating anything that stupid.

OK, sure, there'd been the hand-holding... and the unprovoked attack on the garbage can. Mac was obviously upset about what he'd revealed to Li Ann that afternoon.

A faint breeze against Vic's cheek let him know the train was coming. He hesitated for a moment longer. Mac, who had been leaning against the wall, stood up straight and took a step closer to the edge, bringing him past the safety line painted at the edge of the platform. Vic swore to himself, then jogged briskly towards his partner, calling out "Hey! Mac!"

Mac turned towards Vic, his eyebrows lifting quizzically over his dark glasses. Vic, getting close enough, grabbed Mac's hand. And stopped, panting a little, and feeling stupid. The train roared out of the tunnel beside them. "Uh, I thought we should ride in the same car," Vic said.

"...sure," Mac agreed. He'd obviously thought of saying something else, and then bit it back.

Mac had forgotten his previous objections to sitting down on public transit; they found a vacant double seat, and sat together. Their hands were still linked.

Mac maintained a broody sort of silence as the train travelled to the next stop. He held on to Vic's hand, which rested on Vic's thigh, and he stared out the window into the blackness—or maybe just at their own reflections in the window.

As the train pulled away from the next stop, he leaned in close to Vic and said softly in his ear "I wasn't going to jump."

"Who said you were?" Vic asked, automatically defensive, staring straight ahead.

"The Director said something to you, didn't she?"

"I don't know what you mean," Vic lied.

"Yes you do," Mac insisted. Vic could feel Mac's warm breath on his ear. Vic's heart was racing, and he didn't know if it was because of the electric feel of Mac's hand in his, or the intimate closeness of Mac speaking softly right into his ear, or because of his fear that Mac was about to cut right through Vic's lame excuses and see that Vic had been conspiring with the Director behind his back. Not that Vic had had a choice in the conspiracy, and not that there'd been any goal but protecting Mac, but Vic still suspected Mac wouldn't be happy about it. "You've been... hovering," Mac said.

"Still don't know what you mean," Vic said stubbornly.

"Like you think I'm going to go off again like... that time in Kingston."

Vic sucked in a breath through his teeth. Well, that put the cards more or less on the table. "So you think I shouldn't be concerned? After that?"

"That was a one-off. We ran into my fucking mother, Vic. The last time I saw her, I was twelve years old and she was sitting on the kitchen floor covered with blood from the guy she'd just hacked to pieces with a meat cleaver. So I flipped. Who wouldn't?"

"Jesus," Vic whispered, turning to face his partner. Mac's expression was calm behind his sunglasses, but he was squeezing Vic's hand again, so hard that his arm was trembling. At least it was the other hand this time. "Sorry."

Mac shrugged tightly. "I'm dealing."

"But it wasn't a one-off," Vic said, only barely loud enough for Mac to hear him over the subway car's rumbling. "The Director told me about when you were in jail." Vic hadn't planned to say that; it just came out. He was tired of carrying this secret knowledge around with him, tainting all his time with Mac, and there would never come a more topical moment in conversation.

Mac took that in; his jaw tightened. "What, exactly, did she tell you?"

"She told me you tried to kill yourself."

"Did she tell you I was half crazy from drug withdrawal at the time?"

Vic shook his head. "No," he admitted. She had mentioned that Mac had been using before he went to jail, but she hadn't connected that with the suicide attempts. OK, if Mac had only tried to harm himself because he was going out of his mind with drug withdrawal, then there was less to worry about now. And it would be just like the Director to leave out a detail like that, the better to manipulate Vic. But still, she'd said... "She said it happened more than once."

Mac gave a short, hollow laugh. "There is no privacy in this life," he mused out loud. "All right. It... I'm not so good with boredom, you know? With being still, doing nothing? And then I get locked in a cell for a year and a half.... I didn't know if Li Ann was alive or dead, I didn't know if Michael was alive or dead.... Hey, Vic, don't look now but you just missed your stop."

"I know," Vic said. Like he was going to stand up and walk away in the middle of this conversation? "I'll walk you home."

"And then what?" Mac challenged him. "Follow me into my apartment and strap me to the bed so I can't hurt myself?"

The bitterness in Mac's tone shocked Vic. "No, I just-"

"'Cause that's what it takes," Mac added, turning his head to look out the window, away from Vic. "That's what it takes to be sure. That's what they did with me in Hong Kong, for a week each time."

"I'm not here for that," Vic managed to say firmly. "Look at me, Mac." His left hand was still in Mac's right; now he took Mac's left hand with his right, tugging Mac partly sideways in the seat to make him face Vic. "If you're not safe, we can go to the hospital. I'm not here to do a suicide watch on you. The Director didn't tell me to do that—she just said to look out for you, nothing more. And I'd do that much anyway, because you're my... friend." Maybe they should go to the hospital. This conversation was scaring the hell out of Vic. This wasn't something he knew how to talk about. Mac talking about needing to be strapped to the bed—was that an implicit suicide threat? But no, he'd just been making the point that Vic couldn't really protect him, and that he was getting on Mac's nerves, trying. Or, anyway, that was Vic thought he'd meant... fuck. "Maybe I just want to go home with you because I like being with you, had you thought of that?" Vic burst out.

Mac stared at him, looking more confused than anything. OK, maybe that message would have come through a little more clearly if Vic hadn't sounded so pissed at Mac when he'd said it.

"Since when do you like being with me?" Mac asked.

Vic shrugged uncomfortably. All of a sudden he'd managed to bring the conversation way too close to the place where he'd find himself admitting out loud that he was attracted to Mac. "What, don't you like being with me?"

"Well, sure, sometimes," Mac said easily, "but you've been totally avoiding me since that morning we woke up in your bed together. I thought you were completely freaked out."

Vic's natural impulse was to deny that, but what good would that do? "I was," he admitted, an image of Liz flashing through his mind. That one-night stand had done nothing to ease Vic's confusion over Mac.

Mac tilted his head, to peer at Vic over the tops of his sunglasses. He looked bemused. "Well, OK, you want to talk about that?"

No no no no no no "Yeah."

The train slowed to a stop again, and it was Mac's station, so they got off. They weren't holding hands anymore. Mac had sloughed off the tight, desperate manner he'd had since discovering his car missing. Now he seemed normal and at ease, and it was Vic who was troubled. What was he going to say to Mac?

When they got out onto the street, Mac pulled out his cell phone and dialled a number. "Hey, everything OK there?" he asked into the phone. "Yeah, we're fine too. Just checking... Is she going to stay at the Agency again tonight?... OK, good night."

"Who was that?" Vic asked.

Mac tucked the phone back into his pocket. "Jackie."

Vic nodded. Mac was worried about Li Ann, naturally. So was Vic. They knew who was trying to kill her now, but they weren't any closer to stopping him. "Are they going back to the Agency?"

"No, Li Ann's going back to her apartment tonight, but Dobrinsky's going to stay over."

"That's going to get on Li Ann's nerves," Vic predicted.

"We'll find Paul soon," Mac said darkly.

When they reached Mac's place, Vic hesitated in the doorway.

"You said you wanted to talk," Mac reminded him.

"Yeah..." Vic admitted, taking a reluctant step inside and letting the door shut behind him. He didn't know what he wanted.

He wanted Mac to kiss him, knowing it was him, meaning it, remembering it afterwards.

He wanted it all to go away. He wanted everything to be like it used to be, before New Year's, before Pucci, before Michael came back from the dead.

He wanted to know what holding hands meant to Mac.

"Do you have anything to drink?" Vic asked, peeling off his winter clothes. He wasn't going to make it through this without a drink.

Mac wandered away to check his cupboard. "Scotch," he offered.

"That'll do. Could I get an ice cube in that?" Vic went and sat on the white couch, and fiddled with his hands. He wanted a cigarette, too, but he was too polite to light up in someone else's apartment.

Mac came out with two glasses in one hand, and the bottle in the other. There was an ice cube in one glass. He poured what looked like double shots for each of them, left the bottle on the coffee table, handed Vic his drink, and sat down on the other couch.

"So." Mac leaned forward, with his knees jutting out at angles and his elbows resting on them. "You're going to talk."

Vic took the first sip of his drink. The scotch burned its way down his esophagus. It was good stuff. "Take your fucking sunglasses off."

Mac shrugged, took them off and laid them on the coffee table. "Why did you start smoking?"

Vic winced, and took another good swallow of scotch. He'd started smoking because he was so fucking stressed out about being attracted to Mac. But he'd hoped to lead into the subject a bit more gradually than that. "I was with a woman... she was smoking."

Mac nodded. "Peer pressure. Aren't you a bit old for that?" A hint of a teasing smile played across his lips. "What woman? There aren't any women in your life but Li Ann, Jackie, and the Director."

"It was just some woman I picked up at a bar," Vic said, feeling his face grow warm. He stared into his glass, swirling the ice cube around, so that he wouldn't have to see Mac's surprised, curious grin. He knew, in theory, he should be bragging to Mac that he was actually getting some (for once)... but instead he felt embarrassed about the incident with Liz, and vaguely guilty. Like he'd cheated on Mac.

Mac snorted. "You picked up at a bar?"

Vic shrugged, and let himself get sarcastic. "It's this quaint mating ritual we have here in Canada."

"Nah, I don't believe you. I mean, I've seen you work. If anything happened, she picked you up."

Vic glared at Mac, pissed off primarily because Mac was right. Mac wasn't supposed to be that perceptive. He was supposed to be the self-absorbed one.

"But it didn't make you happy," Mac added, losing his grin.

"Says who?"

"You started smoking."

Fuck politeness. If Mac was going to keep bringing that up, and reminding Vic how much he wanted a cigarette, Vic was damn well going to have one. He took the pack out of his pocket, and shook out a cigarette and his lighter. "What can I use for an ashtray?"

Mac frowned, shaking his head. "Don't smoke that."

"Why not?" Vic challenged Mac with a look. He put the cigarette in his mouth but didn't light it yet.

"I don't like the smell."

"Do I look like I care?" Vic half-hoped Mac would kick him out of his apartment, cutting off the conversation.

Mac leaned in a fraction more, meeting Vic's eyes steadily. "I don't like the taste."

Vic's heart stopped for a moment. He stared at Mac. "What does that have to do with anything?" he asked, making his voice too gruff in his effort not to let it squeak.

"Tell me that's not what this is about." Mac raised an eyebrow, infuriatingly calm while Vic's blood roared in his ears. "You look kind of dumb with that cigarette hanging from your lips, by the way."

Vic took the cigarette and crushed it on the coffee table.

Taste.

Was Mac implying he was going to kiss Vic?

Vic tossed back the last of his glass of scotch. The ice bumped against his lips. "What is this about?" he asked. He thought they were talking about the same thing... but he couldn't be the first one to say it. That would make him way too vulnerable. He poured himself another drink.

Mac gave a slight smile. "How much do you remember about the night we slept together?"

Vic nearly choked. "We did not sleep together. We slept in the same bed. There's a difference." He felt his face getting hot again.

"How much do you remember?" Mac insisted. "Do you remember taking my clothes off?"

"No!" Vic snapped. But he did. He remembered—Mac was exaggerating, Vic had only unbuttoned Mac's shirt, but Vic had been naked at the time. Vic remembered the up-close scent of Mac, and Vic's fingers getting thick and clumsy as they accidentally touched the warm, curly hair on Mac's chest. He remembered turning away quickly to hide his erection, and not quite succeeding.

"Do you remember kissing me?"

"No," Vic repeated, feeling defensive and miserable. Mac was grinning; he was teasing Vic, and Vic was just squirming, unable to come up with any sort of comeback. Vic couldn't remember a damn thing after climbing into bed. He remembered unbuttoning Mac's shirt, climbing into bed... and nothing.

"Do you wish you did?"

"What!?" Vic glared at Mac, who was looking irritatingly gleeful. "Do you get Frequent Flyer points for these ego trips?"

Mac's smile wavered. "OK, neither do I, actually. Remember, I mean. I was just messing with you. Actually I don't think anything happened that night."

Vic sagged back against the couch. "Thank God." He drained his glass, and reached for the bottle to fill it again. He tried to keep his expression blank, to hide from Mac the emotional turmoil this conversation was causing him. When Mac let him think, for a second, that there'd been a kiss that Mac remembered and Vic didn't... that was a scary thing. He was losing control of this situation.

No, he'd lost it a long time ago.

Mac tossed back the last of his own drink, then said in an even, deliberate tone, "I remember that last night in Kingston, though. You're a good kisser."

Vic nearly dropped his glass. He stared at Mac, frozen. Mac put his glass on the coffee table, then moved over to Vic's couch, sitting beside him. Mac took the glass out of Vic's hand—his fingers brushed Vic's, and Vic felt the touch as an electric shock. After putting the glass to the side, Mac brought his hand close to Vic's again, so their fingers just barely touched. Vic remembered to breathe.

"Are you going to hit me?" Mac asked, sounding half teasing, half worried. "You sort of look like you're going to hit me...."

"No," Vic said, finding his voice low and hoarse. This wasn't really happening. Mac wasn't really reaching up with his other hand to touch Vic's cheek with his fingertips. He wasn't really leaning closer as though he was about to kiss Vic....

He was.

Vic's eyes closed. He felt Mac's warm breath against his lips an instant before the shock of lips touching.

Holy shit. In all of Vic's agony of dealing with realizing he was attracted to Mac, he'd never considered that Mac might be attracted to him, too. Not after that awful night when they kissed, and then Vic realized Mac thought he was Michael at the time.

This could change everything.

Mac's lips were a bit chapped, from the cold, dry winter air. The rough edges of skin added intensity to the sensation of Mac's lips brushing against Vic's, pressing for a moment, and then vanishing from Vic's touch perception.

Vic opened his eyes. Mac had moved back away from Vic, and he was giving him a look that seemed... curious, maybe. Waiting to see what Vic would do.

Unconsciously, Vic reached up and touched his lips with his fingers. "You're not drunk, right?"

Mac snorted. "I've had one drink, Vic. I'm not a ten-year-old girl."

"Why did you do that?" And why was Vic resisting it? Why was he holding himself stiff and aloof, not even looking straight at Mac?

Part of Vic wanted to grab Mac and pin him against the couch and kiss him back, hard.

Other feelings flitted through Vic's mind, fast and insistent. Vic was so terrified his mouth had gone dry. A man had just kissed him. And he'd liked it.

"Well, after careful observation," Mac said in answer to Vic's question, "I've realized you never make the first move. And you were making eyes at me all through dinner..."

Uncountable confused questions half-formed in Vic's mind, but one in particular stood out as critically important. "What about Li Ann? You're in love with her."

Vic looked at Mac. Mac seemed to go distant for a moment. He reached for his glass, found it empty, took Vic's glass instead and drank out of it. "I'll be lucky if she ever talks to me again, after today," he said quietly. "Things will never go back to the way they were."

So, what Mac was saying was, if he couldn't have Li Ann he'd settle for Vic?

Vic felt a dull hurt settle deep inside him.

But he'd never expected perfect happiness. He'd never been under the illusion he deserved it. He'd take what he always did—what he could get.

Vic took the glass away from Mac, the same way Mac had done to him. Vic drained the rest of its contents, put it aside, and kissed Mac.

It was strangely easy. He just shifted closer to Mac, and Mac leaned in to meet him, and their lips touched, and this time Mac didn't pull away after just a second. Mac's hands snaked around Vic's back, pulling him closer, and Vic reached up to touch Mac's face again, to feel Mac's sandpaper cheek with his fingertips while he nipped at Mac's rough lips, and Mac's tongue met Vic's and they explored each other, soft and warm and gentle.

Vic's heart raced. He was as nervous and excited as the first time he'd ever made out with a girl. Random thoughts flitted through his mind. He put his hand on Mac's chest, over his heart, and he thought he could feel Mac's heart racing, too. He noticed how soft the wool of Mac's cream-coloured sweater was. He noticed that Mac tasted nice, like mint, probably from the after-dinner mints at the restaurant. He worried that he tasted bad to Mac, because of the cigarettes. He promised himself right there that he'd quit smoking again, cold turkey.

And then the doubts came flooding back.

"The Director," Vic said, breaking contact with Mac. "Shit. She'll crucify us."

Mac frowned slightly. "She doesn't even have to know about this."

"Maybe she already does." Vic stood up, and started a near frantic scan of the room. "You know she bugs our apartments. Is this room clean?"

"I don't know, probably." Mac watched Vic with a puzzled expression. "I've never found one of her bugs in here. Only in the bedroom." He waited a while longer, while Vic searched under the pieces of furniture. Then he got up and came over to Vic, and Vic felt Mac's hand on his back. Vic froze. "Come on," Mac said, "Who cares what she knows? She knew about you and Li Ann."

"That was different."

"How?"

Vic stood up and walked away from Mac, back to the couch, but didn't sit down. "Li Ann's a woman."

"So?"

Vic wondered if Mac really didn't know what Vic meant, or if he was just playing dumb to force Vic to say things he wasn't comfortable with. Sometimes it seemed like everything between them was a power game, even this. "So, a man and a woman getting together is... normal."

Mac gave a wry half-smile, and went and flopped loosely on the blue couch. "Vic, I don't think the Director is too hung up on 'normal.'"

"Well, maybe she's not, but I'm.... I don't know. Shit," Vic finished weakly. He decided to pour himself another drink, and sit down on the other couch instead of next to Mac.

"You're what?" Mac prompted.

"I'm not gay!" Vic burst out. And immediately felt awful. 'Moderately homophobic,' the Director had called him once, and he'd protested.

"Of course you're not," Mac agreed easily. "You were in love with Li Ann, weren't you?"

"Yes!" Vic agreed, emphatically.

"Personally," Mac said, sliding close enough to put one hand on Vic's knee, "I have this theory that if you strip away all the social taboos, underneath, everyone's naturally bisexual."

"Everyone?" Vic snorted. "Come on."

Mac shrugged. "Just my theory." He shifted over to Vic's couch, and slung his arm over the back behind Vic. He seemed playful, now. Vic still felt confused, and conflicted, but he started to relax again. "And you're definitely helping to strengthen the theory, here. I mean, in the beginning I thought you were totally straight. Until I realized you were hot for me."

Vic felt heat rising to his cheeks again, but he made a wild decision: instead of protesting, instead of accusing Mac of narcissism, he deadpanned "Well, I didn't stand a chance of resisting, what with you being so astoundingly attractive." Vic had the satisfaction of Mac blinking in surprise, then grinning when he realized Vic was teasing him.

Mac let his arm slide down onto Vic's shoulders, and pulled him a little closer. Vic felt himself tense up, and he made himself relax. Mac's arm around him felt good. "You're pretty good-looking yourself," Mac murmured into Vic's ear.

"Really?" Vic blurted out, honestly surprised. OK, he'd been told before by women that they liked how he looked... but he'd never imagined Mac thinking of him that way.

Mac laughed softly, and kissed Vic's ear. It tickled. "Yeah," Mac said. "You're gorgeous. You have stunning eyes. You have a beautiful ass."

Vic laughed, pleased and uncomfortable at the same time. "Stop it," he protested, embarrassed.

It was weird, Mac saying those things. It was too far outside of Vic's conception of the way the world worked.

He kissed Mac again, to shut him up.

All right, not just to shut him up. He kissed him again because he liked it, and it was unbelievably amazing that they were here, they were doing this, and Vic knew this time that they'd both remember it after.

And if a little voice in the back of Vic's head kept reminding him about problems with this... like the trouble they'd be in when the Director found out, and the fact that Mac had as much as said that he was only coming on to Vic because he'd given up on Li Ann, and the fact that Mac was probably too screwed up to really know what he was doing with Vic... for once Vic ignored that voice. He wasn't going to let rational thoughts about consequences screw up this fantastic moment.

Mac kissed Vic back enthusiastically. This time, his hands played over Vic's body, stroking his arms, his back, his chest, his thighs... but when Mac's touch became too intimate, moving up the inside of Vic's thigh, Vic got nervous again. Sensing that, maybe, Mac took his hand away from Vic's legs and caressed the back of Vic's neck, instead.

Vic, in turn, began to touch Mac. It was a pleasant novelty to touch Mac gently, to explore by touch the curves of the muscles in his arms and chest through the thickness of his sweater. He imagined what the bare skin would feel like.

Mac, at that moment, broke away to pull his sweater off over his head. "I'm too warm," he explained as he did so, his voice muffled through the sweater.

"Uh, I'm not ready for this," Vic said quickly, his heart pounding, sliding away from Mac.

"For what?" Mac furrowed his brow—he looked puzzled, and a little uncertain. "Kissing? You were doing great."

"For undressing," Vic clarified. He felt too warm too, but he wasn't about to take his shirt off.

His pants felt too tight, too, and he really wasn't about to take them off.

Mac looked down at himself, and back at Vic, his expression still perplexed. Mac had been wearing an unbleached cotton button-up shirt under his sweater, and he still had that on. He wasn't exactly undressed.

Vic sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I-I'm new at this." He glared at Mac, daring him to make fun of him.

Mac shrugged. "That's all right." He glanced at his watch. "It's almost 8:00. Want to see if there's anything good on TV?"

"TV," Vic repeated, feeling confused and let down. Mac had sure lost interest pretty fast when Vic didn't want to take any more clothes off. "OK... Sure. Why not."

Mac turned the TV so it was facing the couch they were sitting on, and then he rejoined Vic.

And then Vic realized, with a renewed sense of wonder, why Mac had suggested watching TV. Mac snuggled up to Vic on the couch, putting an arm loosely over Vic's shoulders. "Relax," he said quietly. Feeling as nervous as he had when they kissed, Vic tried to do as Mac said. He let himself lean, ever so slightly, against the other man. Mac used the remote to flip through channels until he found a sitcom he liked.

Vic understood, now, that Mac had wanted to watch TV so that they could do this. So that they could get used to the feel of each other without it being a situation that felt like it inevitably had to escalate towards sex.

Vic wasn't ready for sex. Oh, God. Not yet. His body wanted it, but his mind wasn't ready to get past 35 years of strict taboo.

He hadn't expected any of this. Even more amazing than the fact that Mac seemed to return some of the feelings of attraction Vic had for him, was the fact that Mac was now treating Vic gently, not pushing him or pressuring him into an intimacy he wasn't ready for.

Vic had thought he knew Mac... but he'd never seen this side of him before. He liked it. He snuggled closer against Mac's side as Mac laughed at something that had happened in the TV show that Vic hadn't been paying attention to. Vic felt a rush of affection for Mac, and all his contradictions.

Toronto, Canada, the next morning

Mac lounged in his chair, alone in the briefing room, and fiddled with the Rubik's Cube he'd found on his seat when he arrived. He'd seen these before—the goal was to get each face of the cube to be all the same colour. The thing had been totally scrambled when he found it. He'd managed to get eight of the nine blue squares onto one face, but he saw that he was going to have to mess that up if he wanted to solve the other faces....

While he played with the cube, his mind drifted over the events of yesterday. He wondered how Vic would act towards him today. Last night had been interesting. When Mac kissed Vic the first time, he'd been half-certain Vic would sock him one in the face, like he apparently had when Mac kissed him at the Agency New Year's party. Mac sort of wished he could remember that—not the pain, of course, but the look on Vic's face.

Vic didn't hit him, though. Vic kissed him back, confirming the wild theory Mac had been developing over the past month or so that Vic was actually teeming with repressed desire for Mac.

OK, possibly 'teeming' was too strong a word for it—they'd only kissed chastely for a minute or so, then watched TV for a couple hours, and then Vic had left with one awkward kiss goodbye.

Being with Vic last night had reminded Mac of the early days with Li Ann, when she was still afraid of sex. When Vic had flinched away from Mac's hand on his inner thigh, Mac had understood he'd have to go slow and gently at first, like with Li Ann. It wouldn't be exactly the same, though. Mac knew now that Li Ann had been so troubled about sex because she'd been abused, as a child, when she was forced to work in a brothel. Really it was amazing she'd found the courage to let Mac close at all. Vic, on the other hand, had had pretty healthy sexual relations as far as Mac knew—but always with women. Vic was freaked out at the idea of being 'gay.' He just needed a little time to get used to it....

What the hell am I doing with Vic? Mac asked himself. He blinked at the cube in his hands. While his mind wandered, he'd managed to collect more than half the reds on one face, and more than half the yellows on another, but the blues were screwed up again. There might be some sort of message in that.

Mac had neglected to ask himself, last night, exactly why he'd decided to seduce Vic. Mac was pretty sure the decision had happened on the subway, about the time he'd managed to get the conversation away from evaluating his own suicide risk. So, distraction had been a part of it. Distracting Vic, and distracting himself too—from the hollow, desperate realization that he'd truly lost Li Ann, forever.

And Vic was cute, of course. Stunningly gorgeous, in fact. Mac grinned to himself, twisting the cube. Vic had certainly squirmed when Mac told him that last night.

"Good morning, Mr. Ramsey," the Director startled him out of his contemplation.

"Oh, hi." Mac grinned up at her. "Good morning. What's this for?" He held up the cube.

The Director smirked, and patted him on the head. "To keep you from getting bored waiting for the others. They just came in the front door, by the way—get your feet off my table, the meeting's about to start."

According to Mac's watch, it was 9:00 a.m. on the nose when Li Ann, Vic and Jackie all took their places at the table. They'd all been cutting it close this morning. Mac discreetly checked out his fellow agents while they got settled. None of them looked like they'd had a good night's sleep—they all had that thick, tired look in their eyes. Vic and Li Ann were both definitely avoiding looking at Mac; Jackie was staring at him openly, and only looked away when he answered her look with a challenging one of his own.

"I think you all know what you're doing today," the Director told them.

Mac sure did. "Hunting for Paul."

The Director nodded. "You'll start with what Victor and Jackie picked up at Jok-Yu's apartment yesterday." She had the notebooks, the wallet, and a photocopy of the post-it note Vic and Jackie had found. "Mac, Li Ann—you can read Chinese, so you'll go through the notebooks and see if there's any useful information. Jackie, Vic, see what you can learn from the contents of the wallet, and the note. The numbers on the post-it look like phone numbers; find out if they are."

When the briefing was over, and they were all leaving the room, Li Ann approached Mac, touching his arm. "Could we talk?" she asked quietly.

Filled with equal parts hope and dread, Mac agreed casually and suggested they go to a coffee shop. They might as well read the notebooks somewhere comfortable, and for privacy they could speak Cantonese.

They agreed on a place—a small, independently run café that had comfortable couches and let you stay for hours even if you didn't keep buying drinks—and they drove there separately. Mac arrived first. The place was pretty empty at 9:30 in the morning. Mac bought a coffee and claimed a couch with a good view of the room. Li Ann arrived moments later, bought a drink for herself and joined him on the couch.

"I want you to know I'm not angry at you," she said right away.

That was good news, but Mac had sensed a silent 'but...' at the end of her sentence. "I'm sorry I never told you," he said. He didn't have to specify what he was talking about; they both knew they were talking abut Michael.

Li Ann took a slow breath, and rested her hand lightly on Mac's knee before she spoke. "Yesterday I was angry. And shocked, and hurt."

Mac blew on his hot coffee, and met her gaze. "And now?"

Her mouth turned up in a faint smile. "Would you believe I spent half the night in a heart-to-heart talk with Jackie and Dobrinsky?"

Mac blinked. "Would you believe I'm the 32nd reincarnation of Cleopatra?"

Li Ann swatted him. "Shut up Mac, I'm serious!"

"So am I. Why do you think I'm so terrified of snakes?"

"You aren't. You used to have a pet snake named Tiger." Li Ann glared at him, and Mac realized he'd better stop with the joking.

"OK, Jackie and Dobrinsky, heart-to-heart. I'm listening."

"So I realized that it's pointless to be upset about it now. It's all so far in the past."

"Let the past be the past," Mac agreed softly. That was what he and Li Ann had agreed after Mac told her he was in love with her again, a couple months ago, after one of the Cleaners' concoctions nearly killed him. Mac hadn't meant it then, and he didn't mean it now.

"Right," Li Ann said. Mac suspected she didn't catch the reference. "And after I ranted about it all to them for a while, I realized something else: that it hadn't been such a surprise, really, if I was honest with myself."

Mac frowned. "What do you mean? You knew before?"

Li Ann shrugged, looking very uncertain. She sipped at her coffee before she answered. "I didn't know anything really, but... I never let myself think about it, but there were hints. Clues. I mean -" She cleared her throat, and then with a soft voice asked "How long were you and Michael lovers?"

It was far too late for lies. "From when I was nineteen."

Li Ann's eyes widened slightly, but she maintained her composure. "Until we ran away?"

Mac nodded. Li Ann raised her coffee mug to her lips again, and she had to hold it in both hands to steady it.

"But you see," Li Ann said as though she was continuing a thought, "you couldn't keep a secret like that for so long, when we were all so close."

"But you didn't know."

"Only because I didn't want to." Li Ann half shrugged, and made a wry face at herself. "There were a few times when I went to your room in the middle of the night, and before I knocked on the door I heard Michael's voice inside. I didn't ask myself questions then—I just walked away."

All right. That made sense. It had been a niggling question in the back of Mac's head all those years in Hong Kong while he lived on the knife's edge between Li Ann and Michael—how long would his luck hold and Li Ann not catch him? It had never made sense that his luck held out to the end. So it hadn't been luck, not entirely.

"I just wanted to tell you that," Li Ann said then. "There's nothing else to say, is there? It's all in the past."

"Prehistoric," Mac agreed. What else could he say? He knew enough to count his blessings that Li Ann was talking to him at all—that she hadn't petitioned the Director to transfer her to another team or something.

They settled to work, then, reading Jok-Yu's notebooks. The one Mac had, a thick coil-bound scribbler, seemed to be all notes on various books and articles Jok-Yu had read about business and management. Bo-ring. Mac leafed through the whole thing, looking for anything different, but nothing leapt out at him. The last half of the book was blank. The entries weren't dated.

Li Ann was reading hers with more interest. When Mac bugged her, she told him it seemed to be a personal journal. She refused to trade books, though, even when Mac tried to bribe her with a piece of raspberry cheesecake. So he ate the cheesecake himself while he resentfully looked through the coil-bound scribbler more carefully, looking for any possible clues hidden in the text.

Finally, Li Ann looked up from her reading. "Did you find anything?" she asked Mac.

"No," he said impatiently. "But you must have found something."

Li Ann shrugged. "Maybe not anything that'll help. It looks like Jok-Yu was really trying to go straight. He came here to study business administration. The journal doesn't mention the Tangs explicitly, or Paul—I guess he was being careful, even in his private writing. Reading between the lines, I think Paul got in touch with him in early January, and blackmailed him into helping. Paul probably threatened to inform the immigration authorities about Jok-Yu's past. Jok-Yu didn't want to get involved, but he didn't want to get kicked out of Canada or arrested, either."

"Sucks to be him," Mac said, remembering Jok-Yu the only way he'd seen him—as a dead body lying in an alley. "Do you think there's anyone else helping Paul?"

"From what's in here, no. But like I said, I have to read between the lines to get anything out of this. Besides, maybe there's someone Jok-Yu didn't know about." Li Ann sighed, frustrated. "So, to sum up, there's nothing useful in here and we're no closer to finding Paul."

When Mac and Li Ann got back to the Agency, they discovered that Vic and Jackie had had a bit more success.

"We matched the numbers on the post-it with Jok-Yu's phone records," Vic explained. "There were four hits—all of them were local phone numbers. One's the foreign student aid office at the university, and the other three are grad students in Jok-Yu's department."

"The fifth number didn't match any numbers in Jok-Yu's phone records," Jackie picked up the explanation. "But, like, assuming it is a local phone number, we checked with the phone company and it matches the number for a cell phone."

"The cell phone is registered to a guy named Stanley Brown," Vic continued, starting to look smug. "But when we tried to find out who this guy is-" He made a gesture with his hands, opening them wide. "Nothing. He doesn't exist."

"Then it's Paul," Li Ann said.

Vic nodded. "That's what we're thinking. But that's as far as we've got. Since it's a cell phone, he could be anywhere."

"How does he pay the phone bills?" Li Ann asked.

"We thought of that," Vic said. "He pays them online, from a bank account in the name of some other guy who doesn't exist."

"We have his phone number," Mac said. "We can get him."

Vic looked skeptical. "How? Call him up and ask him over for a poker game?"

Mac shook his head. He had an idea forming. It wasn't a very pleasant one, but he thought it would work, and to save Li Ann he'd do a lot worse than this. "I have a plan...."

"Hello?" The voice on the phone was guarded. Maybe he hadn't expected a call on this phone. Mac thought the voice was Paul's, but it was tough to be sure.

"I know who you are, and I know what you need to do," Mac said. He was at a pay phone downtown. The phone's receiver smelled strongly of cheap perfume. He pressed it hard against his ear and covered his other ear with his hand, so that he could hear better over the roar of the traffic.

"Who is this?" It was Paul, all right. His voice had the same calm threat in it now that it had when he'd told Mac 'You hurt Michael, I'll kill you.'

"You know me," Mac said. "We've met. And I understand you like no one else does."

"Quit playing games," Paul said. "What's your name? How did you get this number?"

"Jok-Yu had it," Mac said, ignoring the first question. There was a serious risk that as soon as Paul figured out who Mac was, he'd hang up, maybe even ditch the phone. Mac had to get a hook into Paul before that. "He failed you, but I won't."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know what you need to do," Mac repeated, "and I understand. Completely. And I'll help you."

"Why should I believe you?"

"She killed him. She has to die. My reasons are the same as yours. Have you figured out who I am, yet?"

"Mac Ramsey." There was palpable hate in Paul's tone. "Now I know you're lying."

"Why? Didn't he tell you about me? I loved him, same as you."

"You betrayed him."

"And he betrayed me. So we're even. But now he's dead, and we both know who killed him."

"And he tried to kill you," Paul reminded him. It was a reasonable point. Why should Paul believe that Mac was ready to kill to avenge Michael's death, when Michael had died in the act of trying to kill Mac?

But he would believe it. Mac knew he could convince him, because he knew what it meant to be Michael's lover. Mac laughed, and let Paul hear him. "It wasn't the first time. You can't tell me you've never thought he was going to kill you, can you?"

Silence on the other end.

"That's part of loving Michael. I always accepted that. You do, too." Mac felt clammy sweat on the back of his neck, despite the fact it was below zero out.

"If you want to kill her, you don't need me. You see her every day." Paul sounded cold and suspicious, but he hadn't hung up yet. That was a good sign. It meant he was still open to letting Mac convince him. Paul was obsessed with his need to enact revenge on Li Ann, and he'd already failed twice. He wanted Mac to convince him that he really was willing to help.

"I can't do it. I—I've tried," Mac lied, "but something inside me just won't let me. We fucking grew up together. I loved her. I can't do it. But I could open a way for you."

"How?" Paul asked. His tone was still curt and cold, but Mac smiled, because he knew he had him now.

"I can bring her to you. I can switch her ammo for blanks."

"Would you do it tomorrow night?"

"Yes."

"Then give me your cell number. I'll call you tomorrow, and tell you where to bring her."

Mac, feeling a wild mix of relief and tension, reeled off his number. Paul had given in a little too quickly—he still had doubts, obviously, and he'd certainly spend the next 24 hours trying to set up a meeting that would work for him even if Mac double-crossed him. It wouldn't work, though. Paul was only one, and Mac had the Agency behind him.

Mac couldn't move his arms. He couldn't roll over. He was strapped into bed again, in the Hong Kong prison hospital. There was nothing he could do but stare at the painfully familiar patch of ceiling. Right over his head there was a water-stain that looked like a running horse. It was running in place, galloping full speed ahead and getting nowhere.

Mac's skin twitched all over. He wanted to move. He needed to move. The need was all-encompassing; he was going to rip apart if he didn't move. "Let me out of here!" he yelled, straining against the thick leather straps that held him in place.

He turned his head and saw Michael standing beside him, dressed in a doctor's white coat.

Michael crossed his arms. "I like it better when you can't move."

"Undo the straps," Mac begged him. "I promise I won't try it again."

"No, it's perfect like this," Michael said, and suddenly he was on top of Mac, straddling him, one knee to each side of Mac's hips. He smirked down at Mac, then bent down to kiss him on the lips. He bit Mac's lip hard enough to draw blood, and Mac moaned. Mac made another futile attempt to move; the restraints held fast. Michael licked the blood from Mac's lip and kissed him deeper, plunging his tongue between Mac's teeth. Mac kissed him back, hating his helplessness and his arousal.

Mac wasn't surprised when Michael suddenly had a gun in his hand. Michael kissed the side of its barrel, his eyes gleaming hungrily. Then he poked its tip against Mac's cheek. "Wake up, Mac."

Wake up, Mac

Mac became fuzzily aware of darkness, and it occurred to him that Michael was dead, and he wasn't in jail in Hong Kong anymore, and he must have been dreaming.

He drifted half-awake, trying to separate the shreds of the dream from his reality. He tried to rub his eyes.

He couldn't move his arms.

Something cold and hard and very like the barrel of a gun was poking into his cheek.

"Wake up, damn it!" The poke became a jab.

Why couldn't he wake up?

Mac opened his eyes. The dim city-glow coming through his bedroom window was enough for him to make out the shape of a man standing next to his bed, holding a gun up to Mac's head.

Fuck. He wasn't asleep anymore. This was real.

His arms were pulled to the top corners of the bed, and he felt the familiar bite of handcuffs at his wrists.

Mac was confused. He tried to think of how he'd ended up like this. A memory surfaced involving a model named Chantelle, and a drugged water bottle... but no, that was a long time ago.

"You're awake now? Good," said the stranger.

Mac knew his voice, but he couldn't place it. He struggled to remember, but his thoughts felt sluggish and fuzzy. He knew where this drugged feeling came from—he'd taken a pill to sleep, the single pill the Director let the nurse dole out to him on a daily basis.

The gun moved away from Mac's face, and a moment later the bedside light clicked on, stabbing Mac's eyes with light. He tried to cover his eyes with his arm, but he couldn't move his arms, of course. He shut his eyes instead; the light glowed red through his lids. He waited until the light faded a bit, and opened them again.

Paul stared down at him.

"What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?" Mac demanded.

Paul stood still, impassive. "I need to satisfy myself that you were telling me the truth today."

"OK, sure," Mac agreed. He might as well agree. He was handcuffed to his bed and dopey from drugs—he wasn't in a position to offer much resistance.

Which was not to say his adrenal gland wasn't working overtime. Paul was a wild card. He'd barely spoken five sentences to Mac the times they'd met when Michael was alive. He may have plotted with Michael to murder Mac. There was no reason to believe he hadn't come here tonight to finish that job—except for the fact that Mac wasn't dead yet.

Paul sat down on the edge of Mac's bed, and leaned over Mac to rake him with an intense, scornful stare. "So convince me."

Mac could talk his way through this. He could. "Where do I start?" he said. "What did Michael tell you about me?"

"That you betrayed him."

Not the best start. "Did he tell you he loved me?"

Silence from Paul.

"Did he tell you how I betrayed him, what happened?" Still no response from Paul. Mac had to keep talking. He had to convince Paul. Or, even if he couldn't convince Paul, if Paul just let him keep talking long enough there was a chance of a rescue. The Director had Mac's room bugged for sound. Mac had known this for ages, but he'd never removed the bug. He'd always subscribed to the theory that knowing you're being spied on puts you in a position of power. Tonight, it might save his life—if anyone was listening. "He was going to leave me. For Li Ann."

Paul scowled. At least it was a reaction. "He told me that you ran off with Li Ann."

"Yeah. It was... complicated." That was an understatement. "I loved Li Ann, too. And the two of them were going to go away together, and leave me. I thought it would kill me."

"What are you on?"

The non sequitur threw Mac off. "Huh?"

"You're on something."

"Oh." Mac was surprised Paul could tell. He thought he'd been doing a pretty good job of hiding his fuzziness. There was no advantage to lying, though. In fact, this might help him convince Paul. "Just sleeping pills. I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping since Michael was killed." Paul's eyes flickered; Mac was sure he'd hit on something. "Does he come to you, too?"

"Fuck you!" Paul burst out, and whacked the side of Mac's head with the butt of his gun. White and yellow sparks flashed against Mac's eyelids. Mac thrashed against his bonds, trying to move to protect himself, but there was no way. He discovered his feet were tied, too. The only thing that wasn't tied was his tongue.

No more blows followed the first. After striking him, Paul retreated to the foot of the bed and turned his back on Mac.

"You know what I mean," Mac said, as calmly as he could with his ear ringing. Mac didn't know exactly what was going on in Paul's head, but he was sure it had to do with being fucked up by Michael. "He comes to me at night, in my dreams. He used to come at other times, but the Director made me start taking some kind of drugs, and now he only gets through to me when I'm asleep."

Paul swung around to face Mac again, and this time he was pointing the gun towards Mac's head, and it was shaking. "Liar." His tone was very low. "He does not come to you."

Mac stared into the barrel of the gun and hoped he wasn't about to provoke Paul into shooting him. "He comes because he wants revenge."

"He comes to me," Paul whispered. "I'm the one he loved." The gun was still pointing right at Mac. Paul's hands still trembled. Mac's mouth felt very, very dry.

"We have a lot in common," Mac said.

"You think so?" Suddenly Paul was up close again, and the gun, fuck, the gun was between Mac's teeth. "Do you know what to do now?"

Mac had the feeling that if it weren't for the sedative in his system, he'd probably be so scared he'd be having a fatal heart attack right now, relieving Paul of the dilemma of whether to trust him or not.

Still, he knew what to do.

He opened his jaw wider, wrapped his lips around the cold, angular barrel of the gun, and sucked on it. He took it in deep, not letting himself gag, though his eyes watered from the jabbing of the sight against his throat. He gave the gun a fucking blow job, just like Michael used to make him do.

He tried not to think about Paul's shaking finger on the trigger, because there was nothing he could do about that now.

He thought about the irony of the fact that he had, actually, been thinking about suicide again recently—and now Paul was going to blow his head off, probably by accident, and Mac didn't want to die. He didn't want to die because he had to beat Paul, to save Li Ann. And because yesterday Vic had kissed him, and meant it.

And then the gun was yanked out of his mouth. Mac gagged finally, and panted, and felt Paul's hand roughly grabbing his crotch.

"You're not hard," Paul noted disdainfully.

"You're not Michael," Mac croaked, with all the scorn he could manage. He was discovering there was a fine balance between convincing Paul he'd really loved Michael, and wanted to avenge him—and pissing Paul off by making him jealous.

Mac never found out whether he'd managed to maintain that delicate balance—because at that moment, Vic burst into the room, pointing a gun at Paul, yelling "Freeze!" Jackie was right behind him. Keeping her gun on Paul, too, she made her way quickly around the foot of the bed, aiming to corner Paul.

Paul must have been taken completely by surprise. For a moment, he stood there frozen, as though he was obeying Vic's command. But he still had his own gun in his hand. Before Jackie could get to him, Paul gave Mac a cold, dead look, and mouthed the word "Traitor." And raised his gun.

Three gunshots, in such quick succession it was hard to tell there'd been more than one. Mac felt himself slammed hard down into the bed, but he saw Paul stagger backwards and fall before he even felt the pain in his chest.

Then the pain hit. It was like nothing Mac had ever experienced. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, and the room was getting dark, and red.

There was shouting. Someone yelling about calling 911. Someone begging him to hold on. It was all so far away—like something that had happened in another life.

As those impressions faded away, Mac became aware that he wasn't alone. Michael was perched on the end of the bed, by Mac's feet. He was wearing a black-and-white tux, with a white rose in the buttonhole. When he saw that Mac had noticed him, he smiled. "About time you got here, Mac."

"Here?" Mac repeated, sitting up. "This is my bedroom. I've been here all along."

Michael tilted his head. "Yes and no. I couldn't quite get to you, as long as you were alive."

"Huh?"

Michael nodded towards Mac's chest. Mac looked down, and saw the front of the grey t-shirt he'd been sleeping in was soaked red-black with blood. There was a little hole in the fabric, just to the right of Mac's sternum. "Fuck," Mac swore softly. He pulled the t-shirt off over his head, and ran his hand over his chest. There was no wound—he wasn't even bloody under the shirt.

"The dead are flawless," Michael explained. "Your scars are gone, too."

"Oh yeah? Cool." Mac was distracted for a moment, running his fingers over the uncanny smooth skin in places where he should have scar tissue. Then he remembered that there were more interesting things going on here. "So, I'm dead?"

Michael waved his hand. "Pretty close. Once you've finished dying, we can blow this joint."

Mac got up and went over to his dresser, to get another t-shirt. When he touched the handle, he remembered to wonder whether he could even open the drawer. It felt strange—tingly, and kind of slippery—but he was able to open it without a problem, and he picked out a black t-shirt to put on. While he was pulling it over his head, Michael asked, "So who killed you?"

"I did," said Paul. When Mac had the shirt past his eyes so he could see, Paul was standing in the corner where he'd fallen, and Michael was looking his way.

"Paul! I didn't see you there," Michael said. His easy, smiling demeanour dropped away. He stood up, looking back and forth between Mac and Paul.

Mac tugged his t-shirt into position, and took stock of the bizarre love triangle that had formed in his bedroom.

The last time Mac, Paul and Michael had been in a room together, they'd all been alive, and Michael and Paul had been lovers.

"What happened?" Michael asked Paul. "Who killed you?"

"The ex-cop and the mob queen both shot me," Paul said. "He let them know I'd be there, somehow. He betrayed me just like he betrayed you." The direction of Paul's glare made it clear he meant Mac, in case anyone had any doubt.

"Hey," Mac protested, "I didn't know you'd be coming to my apartment. The Director bugs my room. You betrayed yourself."

"You didn't say anything about that when I came in. You wanted me to get caught."

"All right, it's true," Mac admitted. He turned to Michael. "Paul was going to kill Li Ann. I had to stop him."

"She's the one who killed Michael!" Paul snapped at Mac. "You said you wanted her dead, too!"

"So," Michael said quietly, looking at Paul, "he lied to you."

"He was full of lies," Paul said. He didn't raise his voice, but his tone dripped with hate. "He even told me you loved him."

Michael, in response, walked over to Mac, grabbed him by the shoulders, and kissed him. The kiss was rough and aggressive, classic Michael, and Mac's heart raced. He kissed Michael back, submitting without resistance—he belonged to Michael, heart and soul, as he had since the night Michael fucked him on the roof of their home in Hong Kong. He'd tried to escape, thought for a while that he had, but he should have known that he'd be Michael's again in the end.

Michael broke away from the kiss, shoved Mac down onto the bed, then turned to face Paul. "I do love Mac," he said, and Mac felt almost dizzy with joy. "That's why I took you home that night," Michael went on, still talking to Paul. "You reminded me of him."

"No," Paul said, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. "No. This is the traitor. He betrayed you, again and again. He betrayed me. We hate him. Let me kill him!"

To Mac's horror, Michael shrugged and stepped aside, and Paul lunged towards Mac. Mac rolled off the bed, and Paul's fist bounced off the mattress where Mac had just been lying. Mac, finding his feet, grabbed the bedside lamp and hurled it at Paul. Paul ducked, and it smashed against the wall. Then Paul closed the distance between them, and attacked Mac with a flurry of punches and strikes. Mac blocked and dodged and evaded them all, and counterattacked as fast and as hard as he could, but nothing got through. Just like the last time they'd fought, they were perfectly evenly matched.

Then they heard Michael laughing, and they stopped, panting, eyeing each other warily.

"You're both ghosts!" Michael said. "What do you think you can do to each other?"

Paul scowled at Mac. "I'll think of something."

Michael looked pensive. "I'd love to watch that. I'd love to watch you beat him up and tie him down and fuck him. Or maybe he'd beat you. And then I could fuck the victor while the loser watched. That would be fun. But," he shrugged, "there's no time. We have to go, Paul."

"Go?" Mac repeated. Michael beckoned and Paul, looking unhappy and uncertain, went to him. Michael kissed Paul, the same way he'd kissed Mac a minute ago. Mac stared at Michael, agonized and scared and longing. "You can't leave me."

"You can't tell me what to do, Mac," Michael said. "That's not the way it works, remember?" He smiled his tight, threatening smile, and pulled the white rose out of his buttonhole. He tossed it towards Mac; it landed at Mac's feet. "Goodbye, Mac Ramsey," said Michael, and he walked out of the room.

Paul hesitated a moment longer, his eyes flicking back to Mac. "He's mine," he said, calm and certain. And he followed Michael out of Mac's sight.

Mac stared after them. Somehow he knew he couldn't follow them. He felt unbearably empty, and alone.

He reached down and picked up the rose. A thorn on the stem pricked his finger. Mac hissed at the sudden jolt of pain. Completely disproportionate to the wound, the pain spread and intensified and washed over his whole body, concentrating in a tight, hot ball in his chest. Mac cried out and collapsed onto the bed, still clutching the rose. The rose, he saw, was red. Then his hand became too heavy to hold up; it dropped to the bed, and he lost the rose.

Mac's whole body seemed to be made of lead now. Wrapped up in the pain, he couldn't move. He moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. He saw a bright and hazy image. It was Vic.

"Mac!" Vic's voice was soft and hoarse. "Thank God."

Toronto, Canada, February 22nd 1999

Vic turned the page of the paperback novel he was reading. He read the first sentence on the new page, could make no sense of it, and realized he couldn't remember anything that had happened on the previous page. He dropped the book to his lap and let it close. He rubbed the flat of his hand over his face, massaging around his tired eyes. Two days' worth of stubble scratched his palm.

Beside him, Mac lay on the hospital bed, pale and still. Vic knew that the monitors would ring out an alarm if Mac crashed, as he had the first night a couple hours after getting out of surgery, but still Vic felt compelled to watch the sheet over Mac's chest until he could detect the shallow up-and-down of Mac's breathing.

It was agony, waiting. Since the first night, Li Ann and Vic had been waiting together, white-knuckled.

While Mac had been in surgery, they hadn't talked about him at all. They'd talked about stupid things, things that meant nothing. They found a pack of cards and played crazy eights in the waiting room. They'd developed a mutual, unspoken superstition that if they didn't talk about Mac, he couldn't die. Meanwhile, the Director had come and gone and come again, presumably busy with the business of covering up the incident and disposing of the body.

Li Ann had mourned Mac's death once already. Vic could tell that didn't make this any easier on her. She was Mac's sister; she had been his lover. Vic had never been more keenly aware of Mac and Li Ann's bond. Vic knew he had to be strong for Li Ann.

But no one knew that the day before Mac was shot, Vic had kissed him. No one knew exactly how much Vic cared for Mac—not even Vic. In the hospital, feeling alternately numb and on the verge of a breakdown, Vic was not in a great position to sort out what he felt about Mac. He could only hope and pray that he'd get to figure that out later, with Mac's help.

Now, as he watched, Vic became convinced Mac was breathing faster. Vic glanced up at the monitors, but no alarms were going off and other than that, Vic had no idea how to read the things.

Mac groaned. Vic nearly jumped. Mac hadn't made a sound in two days.

"Mac?" Vic leaned closer. He gently took Mac's hand in his. "Can you hear me, Mac? Can you squeeze my hand?"

Mac's hand stayed limp, but he groaned again, and his eyes fluttered open. His pupils fixed on Vic.

Vic was so overwhelmed with joy, he could barely talk. "Mac," he managed to croak. "Thank God."

Mac's mouth moved, but no sound came out. His lips were cracked and dry. He tried again, and Vic had to lean in close to hear his whisper. "what...hell?" he whispered.

Vic squeezed Mac's hand slightly. "Paul shot you," he said. "It was pretty bad, but you're going to be OK." Vic pressed the nurse call button.

"what...day?" Mac whispered.

"It's Monday morning."

Mac's lips twitched—it could have been a grimace or a smile. "monday morning?" he whispered, his words clearer now. "no wonder i feel like crap." He coughed weakly.

Vic jabbed the call button again, starting to worry. "Don't try to talk anymore. Just rest, OK?"

A nurse came through the door. "What's going on?" she asked Vic, already looking to the monitors.

"He just woke up," Vic started to say, then realized Mac's lips were moving again. Vic leaned in close to hear.

"...hurts like hell."

"What did he say?" the nurse asked, and Vic repeated it. The nurse frowned. "He shouldn't be in any pain at this point. We might have to change the dosages. I'll get a doctor."

The nurse left, and Vic held on to Mac's hand. Mac didn't blink or speak again. In a few moments the nurse was back with two other women. One was the doctor; one was the Director. While the doctor went to Mac's bedside, the Director pulled Vic out of the room.

"Where's Li Ann?" she asked.

Vic glanced at his watch. "She went down to the cafeteria about twenty minutes ago. She'll be back soon."

"Before she gets back, I want to talk with you about what comes next," the Director said. She started walking. Vic didn't want to get farther from Mac, but he was too wasted to resist the Director's will. She led him into an empty room, where they could talk in privacy.

"I'm disbanding your team," was the first thing the Director said.

Vic stared at her blankly.

"With her cracked ribs, Li Ann won't be ready for full active duty again for at least a month. Mac won't be ready for a lot longer than that. I can't afford to keep you on the sidelines for that long."

"Could we talk about this later?" Vic snapped. Stress and exhaustion and nicotine withdrawal made him cranky. "Mac's still in the ICU. I'm not going back to work yet."

"As soon as Mac is well enough to be moved, I'm transferring him to one of our own medical facilities."

"Sure, fine." Vic didn't exactly like it, but he knew that the Agency liked to keep tight control over its employees. It was probably giving the Director jitters, having Mac in an area she didn't control.

"I'm sending Li Ann away with him. They can convalesce together. And you'll be in charge of a new team."

"What!?" Vic stared at the Director, appalled. She couldn't do that. This wasn't just some office restructuring. Mac and Li Ann were his family!

"Pull yourself together, Victor. This isn't a family," the Director said, and Vic realized he'd spoken aloud. "It's a shadowy government agency. We've worked together for a long time, and I indulge you, but when it comes down to the wire you still have to do what I tell you."

"You told me to look after Mac," Vic reminded her. "I can't do that if you send him away from me."

For the first time, Vic thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy in the Director's expression. "The situation has changed since then," she said. "Other people will help him. Trained professionals. He'll have physiotherapy, Vic, and counselling. I'll bring him back when he's ready."

"You're sending Li Ann with him," Vic pointed out. He realized it sounded like he was whining. He didn't care.

"Li Ann will need physio too, once her ribs heal—albeit not for nearly as long as Mac." The Director paused. "You're jealous."

"No! It's not like that—Li Ann and I have been over for a long time."

The Director's expression softened, and she reached up to stroke his hair. "But you and Mac...?"

Vic tried to stammer out a denial, but he choked on it. Before he knew it, the Director's arms were around him, and he was sobbing.

"Shhh," she soothed him, embracing him, "I know it's been hard. It'll be all right. The doctor expects him to recover completely. It'll just take a while."

After a bit, Vic managed to bring himself back under control. The Director had led him over to a couch, and was sitting next to him, rubbing his back. He was too tired, stressed and wrecked to care about breaking down in front of his boss. She was more than that to him, anyway. Not really family... but something like it.

"I love him," Vic said suddenly. He hadn't planned to say it. He didn't know why he'd said it. As soon as he said it, he was terrified of what it meant.

All the Director said was "So do I." Then she stood up. "Li Ann just walked by. Get yourself cleaned up, then meet us by Mac's room."

She left. There was a sink in the room. Vic dampened a paper towel and rubbed it over his face, and steeled himself for whatever would come next.

Toronto, Canada, June 7th 1999

Mac used his passkey to let himself in the Agency's front door. He closed his umbrella and shook the rain off it. It was pouring outside. It had been raining since he got back to Toronto on Saturday. Quite a change from Arizona.

It was strange to come back to the Agency after more than three months away. He felt like it should have changed, somehow. It didn't seem to have. Anyway the main hallway was eerily empty, as usual. There was no sound but the air conditioning and the squeaking of his wet shoes on the tile floor.

As he neared a corner, Mac heard another set of footsteps approaching in a hurry. He stepped to the side to get out of the other person's way—but as Mac zigged, the other person zagged. The man came around the corner in a hurry, with his attention on a sheaf of papers in his hand, and he slammed right into Mac. The papers went flying.

"Why don't you watch-" the man started, annoyed, and then he looked up and saw who he'd banged into.

Mac, meanwhile, was staring dumbfounded at William Ramsey. "Dad," he finally managed to say. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"My dear boy!" William exclaimed, sweeping Mac into a hug before Mac could dodge it. "It's so good to see you! I heard what happened of course, though not until you were well on the road to recovery, so I was spared the worry." He held Mac at arm's length to take a better look at him. "You look like the picture of health, now!"

"What are you doing here?" Mac repeated, squirming out of his father's grasp.

"Oh, your Director got in touch with me a while ago—I'm doing freelance work for her again. I can't discuss it with you, I'm afraid." William laid his finger alongside his nose, and winked at Mac. "Top secret, you understand?"

"Sure, that's standard Agency procedure." Mac hesitated. His father was pretty much the last person he'd expected to meet here. He'd hoped to find Vic—he hadn't seen him since February. He'd expected to see the Director—she'd called Mac here to meet with her. But William Ramsey? It was true that William had done a bit of work for the Director about a year ago, but then he'd disappeared into thin air the way he always did—leaving Mac a short farewell message on a fucking videotape.

As Mac got over his initial shock, the usual mess of feelings emerged. He wasn't sure if he loved his biological father, or hated him. He knew he shouldn't trust him—and he remembered that he had, every single time William had shown up in his life. This time, Mac swore to himself, he'd remember all the other times. "How long are you around for?" Mac asked. He kept his expression carefully neutral.

William shrugged. "Hard to say. I certainly won't be leaving before tomorrow, at any rate, so why don't I take you out to dinner?"

"You know Toronto restaurants don't take Icelandic kronur, right?"

William looked at him blankly. "Why on earth would they?" He obviously didn't catch the reference to the time, eight years ago in Hong Kong, he'd taken Mac out to dinner and then stuck Mac with the bill because he had no local currency. But that shouldn't be a surprise. This was the man who couldn't even remember Mac's mother's name.

"Right," Mac agreed softly, "Why would they?" He wouldn't get taken in this time. He wouldn't.

"So that's settled," William said brightly. "We'll meet in the main conference room at five o'clock. See you then!" He crouched down to gather up the papers he'd dropped when he first ran into Mac. Mac started to help him—not so much to be helpful, as in hopes of catching a glimpse of what the Director had pulled William in to work on.

"No, no," William said, waving his hands, "I'm fine here, you go and do what you have to do."

Mac ignored him, quickly gathering papers off the floor. His fingers met a different texture, and he picked up an 8x10 photo that had fallen face-down. Before his father could snatch it from his fingers, he turned it over.

And stared. Time stopped. His heart stopped. "Holy shit," he whispered.

William grabbed the picture, but it was too late. Mac would never forget the image now.

The picture, obviously a surveillance photo, showed a man and a woman stealing a kiss beside an unmarked beige van.

The man was Dr. Bernard Fry, the Agency's former in-house mad scientist—the neuropharmawhatever.

The woman was Anita Ramsey, Mac's mother.

End Part Four.

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