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What You Can Get
by Speedo


T hings had just been way too peachy lately, which set off all kinds of internal alarms. Of course, having one's personal alarm go off and actually paying due attention were two separate tasks, and Mac felt wholly unequal to either of them. He did wonder, somewhere in the recesses of a slackening intellect, why all this peace and quiet wasn't driving him insane, was in fact just coaxing him into a deadened zone. But then again, that would be explained by the dulling of his wit in the first place.

Pretty much.

It would be a lot of trouble to admit to anyone that he missed Vic. He couldn't be bothered, given his current Zen-like state of mental inertia. Besides, who would even believe him? Since he'd made such a show of putting the guy down with style, he'd never had to take the time to get to know him very well—so what, exactly, could he miss? A challenge? As if Vic ever really posed one. Well, maybe for a while there, with Li Ann. But in the end, no, not much of a challenge, and she'd even done the dirty work by dumping Vic herself.

Still, it was mind-numbingly boring with him off in Quebec. Mac wasn't very clear what Vic was doing out East, since there had been no warning; one morning Vic was there, the next, he wasn't. That was three weeks ago now, and the Director had been vague about the whole thing. As usual. Just yet another show of omnipotence for the benefit of her subjects.

Mac swallowed a yawn and checked his watch. One-thirty A.M. and no sign of the mark yet. He wondered what the Director would say if he fell asleep on the job, then amended that to which limb she would have removed, and felt instantly more alert. He considered the possibility, in an abstract kind of way, that he and Vic were friends, but it just wouldn't fly. They had little in common besides the work, for one thing. But really, if he were honest, he'd have to admit that he didn't do friendship. It was either family or sex, and that was fine by him. And since Li Ann was the only family Mac had left (and he hadn't slept with her in ages), he'd just have to 'fess up that what he missed, what made him want to get up in the morning and kept him interested all day, was the flirting.

He missed flirting with Vic.

God, but he hated surveillance. Mac shifted his position slightly, easing a cramp in his foot. He was bored, bored, bored to hell with nothing to steal, no computers to hack into and no one to talk with. At least he wasn't being shot at, but even that amenity was beginning to pall. Now, if Vic were here....

He rubbed his eyes, blinked some of the scratchiness away. Vic could be a pain in the ass, actually, but it'd be nice just to have someone to rag on. Even better to have the odd, illicit thrill of coveting his body warmth, something Mac had found himself doing more often than he'd like to admit. Flirting, with possibilities.

If Vic knew half of what went through his head, he'd probably freak. Mac considered this, and smiled to himself. Well, that could be entertaining, too.

He felt the curved warmth slide through his grasp, fingers closing a little too late as his hand jerked upward. "Hey!" He was staring, he sensed it distractedly, and some still functioning network of synapses told him to close his mouth, that he must look like a fish. Vic?

And then he really had to move, because—ow!—the cup of coffee that had slipped out of his hand and soaked his trousers finally demanded his attention. He jumped sideways in a less than graceful maneuver, still gripping the lid that warned him with ironic indifference: caution, contents extremely hot. He tossed this out into the street like a Frisbee.

He knew he hated Starbucks for a reason.

Well, at least he'd managed to close his mouth, good going there. Mac brushed uselessly at the front of his pants, muttering. "Hell, I just got these back from the cleaners. Thirty-five freaking dollars worth." He sighed, and sucked on his thumb to forestall a rising blister.

If it was Vic, he looked pretty good at this distance. In a grungy sort of way. Mac could be generous here, since it wasn't really him, since Vic wasn't in Vancouver. For once the omnipresent leather jacket and jeans seemed more of a fashion statement than a blunder—they so fit this B-movie scene. Mac shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling that he hadn't been let in on something important, and kept his gaze fixed on his surveillance area.

He tracked the look-alike as long as he could, but the alley was dark and he hadn't been equipped with anything as reasonable as a scope. The back exit of the club was a popular meeting place and Mac wished he wasn't stuck here all night working. Not that this was his kind of crowd, but he couldn't remember when he'd last had time to party. Too damn long ago, and it was showing. He smiled to himself and shook his head. It was definitely showing if Vic could make him drop his coffee.

He'd be panting after Jackie next.

"Jesus!" Mac jumped at the nudge of an elbow. Not too swift there, either. What was with him, tonight? "You're not supposed to sneak up on me, Li Ann. We're on the same side. Remember?"

She gave him a smug look wrapped in a pretty smile. "What side is that?" Her eyes drifted towards the alley he'd been watching so raptly.

"Oh, you know. Truth, Justice and the American Way."

"Wrong government."

"Sorry. Defenders of our country when the guns begin to shoot?"

A perfectly shaped eyebrow rose in his direction. "You're not going native on me, are you?"

He had intended to laugh but sputtered instead, "What? Me? No way," drawling the last word in perfect imitation of his least favorite Valley Girl. Then his forced smile faded and he glanced surreptitiously back down the alley. Shyeah. "I am not the Mountie on this team, for sure."

"What is so interesting over there?" she said, ignoring him.

"Uh, nothing." He really didn't want his psyche examined this evening. Or his eyesight. "Rodriguez never showed. Y'know, I'm not sure there even is a Rodriguez. I think she's sent me on a wild goose chase. Again. "What are you doing here, anyway? Did we have a date I forgot about?"

"If we had a date, would you forget it?"

He angled his body towards her, trying to block her line of vision, and pouted. "Li Ann, I'm wounded."

"No, you're not. But you will be if you don't move out of the way." She squinted past him at the passageway between the two brick buildings across the street.

It was almost impossible to see anything, the streetlights' glare simply defining the swath of blackness between. Now and then the door would open, someone would exit and for that brief moment you could see the tableau of men, static and sharply outlined.

"Hey—that guy looks a little like Vic."

Shit. Sometimes Li Anne was too much like his twin for comfort. Mac pretended disinterest, silently cursing the perfect alignment of open door and suspiciously Vic-like person standing opposite, and shook his head. "Nah. Can't be. That's the back of The Manhole." Interesting how those words just rolled off his tongue.

Stupid tongue.

Li Ann choked back a laugh. "Oh, that's lovely. Charming. I thought Vic was in Quebec. What's he doing here, then?"

A good question, but Mac was not in the mood to speculate. "He isn't here. That is not Victor. Victor would not be hanging out in the back alley of a gay bar on his night off. Okay?"

"And how do you know about The—this place, anyway?"

"As if I'd ever frequent a denim and boots joint, hello?" No response. Mac rolled his eyes skyward. "I have amazing powers of observation," he parodied, then decided it was too much trouble, and gestured reflexively back across the street. "I really don't think it's karaoke night at the OK Corral."

"Mac." He hated it when she used his name as an accusation. Li Ann just kept looking at him until he shrugged his shoulders, What? "Since when does the Director tell us everything that's going on? Hmm?"

Hard to argue with her when she was being logical. He hated that, too. "Let's check it out." And she was off.

He really didn't want to be doing this, and he doubly didn't want to be doing it with Li Ann. Wasn't it bad enough having to admit to himself that his life was less than perfect without the presence of a certain annoying ex-cop, for god's sake? Did he have to go trawling through filthy back-alleys looking for him as well? With his ex-fiancée? He'd definitely had better days. Nights. Whatever.

"But... but they all look alike," he heard himself whine, taking a few long strides to catch up. "Well, they do. It's a—a leather and Levi's convention."

"And you two look like undertakers from the art world." A large man with a shaved head and twin dragon tats on his biceps came out of the darkness and effectively blocked their path by putting his body in it, arms placed warningly across his overdeveloped chest.

Li Ann was not amused. "Excuse me?"

"Merely quoting. Can I help you? You seem lost."

Mac glanced away for a moment. He had the advantage of height, and could see over the guy's shoulders enough to do a quick scan of the alleyway and the tops of the adjoining buildings. His eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Seemed safe enough, if you didn't count the sex. Then he smiled brightly. "We're looking for a friend of ours. Maybe you know him?"

"I don't know anybody. Why don't you go home? I'm sure you'll find your friend in the morning."

"Since when do public streets need bouncers?" Li Ann asked, her face hardening.

"We don't appreciate slumming around here."

"Is that what we're doing?"

"Sweetheart, you are so uptown I'm surprised you don't have the bends."

"Oh, you are really going to regret that," Li Ann said and took a decisive step forwards.

Right, this was beginning to get really stupid. No way was Mac gonna let her cause a scene here, or help her take this guy out—committing a bias crime just was not on his list of fun things to do on a Friday night. Mac insinuated himself between the two of them and tried another tack. "Listen, I have a date, okay? And I really hate being stood up." He pitched his voice low, hoping this goon couldn't detect the sarcastic commentary screaming through Mac's head like some very nasty feedback. The muscle merely raised an eyebrow at him. "About six, six- one, short brown hair, brown eyes—"

"Green, actually," Li Ann interjected, giving him an impatient glare.

"Yeah, whatever." He waved her words aside. "Earring. Uh, kind of, well, he's kind of—"

"Cute."

The single word came out clipped and hostile, and Mac had the feeling that a few more minutes of this and she'd be kicking the hell out of somebody. He wasn't taking bets on whom. Mac made a pained face. "Cute?"

"Attractive," she replied flatly. "He's very good-looking. Handsome."

"Are we playing Mad Libs here, or what?" Mac threw back at her, becoming unreasonably annoyed. "We don't need any more adjectives, thank you."

The man took no notice of Li Ann, but swept his eyes over Mac's six hundred dollar, hand tailored suit with a look that clearly said, No one here would want to date your candy ass, honey. The feeling was definitely mutual. Slumming—yeah, exactly. "We're gonna go look for our friend now," he said slowly, enunciating precisely as if speaking to a foreigner. Or an idiot. "We promise not to touch the merchandise."

Li Ann's back straightened at this remark and she looked thoughtful. "You know what, I've changed my mind. You go and check things out, and I'll meet you at Sammy's. Okay? I'd just get in the way here." She said this conspiratorially, but loud enough to be overheard.

"But this was your idea!"

All he got for his objection was a smile and a shrug. Mac watched Li Ann's slender silhouette disappear, her black jacket and pants making it difficult to distinguish her for very long. Man, had he been suckered. She was definitely going to pay for dinner tonight.

Mac edged his way past the self-appointed security guard, hands up, careful not to get anything on himself. One cup of coffee was way over his limit, and god only knew what kinds of detritus the local trade was spewing.

The idea of finding Victor here was completely laughable, except, well, he really thought he'd seen him, and so had Li Ann. They couldn't both be wrong. Yup, the whole Vic look-alike theory was taking a very wrong turn right about now. Being blown all to hell, actually. He could feel his lip curl at the appropriateness of that colloquialism, and Mac ducked his head so as not to let anyone mistake his smile for an invitation.

"Excuse me," he murmured, stepping past a clinch of men who were all way too pierced for any of them to be Vic. He assumed. The heel of his shoe caught, then slid on something unspeakably slick and Mac stumbled, pulling up short just in front of another couple. "Sorry, sorry. Just getting my sea legs."

The guy on his knees couldn't have replied if he'd wanted to, and Mac supposed the man getting all the attention wasn't attending to him. He smirked to himself, absurdly pleased not to be even remotely tempted by his surroundings. Given his empty social calendar lately, anything was possible.

He scanned further back for the cheap leather jacket that clung to his erstwhile partner like a leech, but it was nowhere in sight. Picking up his foot, he realized belatedly, was not a good idea, since whatever had tripped him was probably contagious. So he put it down again and sighed.

"Come on, man. Cops fucking turn me on."

The plea, rasping and needy, was coming from behind him. Oh, geez. Mac grimaced with embarrassment. Could things get any tackier than this? How had Vic managed to work Vice without retching? Or, or laughing? Or becoming an alcoholic—he could really use a shot of something right about now.

Antiseptic might do the trick.

"You've got the wrong guy."

"I don't think so."

"I'm not a cop."

He inhaled sharply then found he couldn't let go the air. Oh, nonono. Uh-uh, nope, he was not in the mood for any revelations this evening. Particularly about himself and the way this new voice just curled in his stomach like a purr.

"Yeah, whatever." The first man pressed his case. "Come on, just let me have it. I'll be real good to you, you'll see."

"Thanks, but I'm waiting for someone."

Mac had completed the turn without even being aware of the motion, detachedly marking the rise in his heart rate. Christ. He watched as the man with his back to the alley wall looked up at him. Christ, Vic. It couldn't be, but of course it was. The eyes widened in recognition, and surprise, and something else Mac couldn't catalogue because his ears were buzzing distractingly. His mouth was open again, too, and he knew he had an idiotic expression on his face.

Fuck.

He tried to look away, anywhere else, but it was difficult for his gaze not to skitter back to the source of his discomfort. The weird thing was that Vic didn't look any different than usual. Same bad hair, same thrift-store chic. It was just the context that was unnerving, had to be.

Well, duh.

What had happened to the carefully planned strategy to get under Vic's skin and make sure he knew which one of them was really in control? Of what, exactly, Mac had never bothered to examine. It was just the way things worked, their unspoken agreement—he'd push and Vic would dig in his heels and—shit. A low, guttural moan came from Mac's left, cutting off his thoughts. His head swam from the darkness, and the heat, and the sound, the white noise of all those men having sex, and he realized with a sudden sharp twist of perspective exactly how much he'd been taking for granted.

Mac cleared his throat meaningfully and nodded toward the mouth of the alley, but the gesture wasn't acknowledged. The guy who had been dismissed still hung on, speaking quietly to a polite, but unyielding, Vic. Mac flinched at the stranger's hand on Vic's arm, thumb brushing slowly over the exposed bicep. Had he really thought it gauche to turn your sleeves up that high? And where the hell had Vic's jacket disappeared to, anyway? Okay, he could deal with this. It was just a show, it didn't mean anything, and what did he care if some moron had his fingers splayed over Vic's hip, hmm? Since Vic wasn't objecting.

That was the problem, though. Total cognitive dissonance, and an insistent and inappropriate burn of jealousy besides. Vic had dropped his chin and was looking up at the man in front of him, smiling, saying something too low to overhear. Mac had to get out of there, had to get Vic out of there, and now. So he could go home and forget this had ever happened. Or go home and think about it every night for the rest of his life—either one, he wasn't picky.

He set his features, carefully unconcerned, and tapped the stranger on the back. "Excuse me," Mac flashed his teeth at the man as he spun around. "Do you mind if I cut in?" Which he then did, gracefully.

"Hey—" There was a tug on Mac's shoulder.

"He said he was waiting for someone."

"Is he for real?" The other guy looked from Vic to Mac skeptically, as if waiting for an apparition to fade.

"Unfortunately," Vic replied. "Maybe next time."

Maybe next time? Okay, so what if reality had suddenly been replaced by some cheesy porno flick—who was he to second-guess the mysterious workings of the Agency? On the obvious and convenient assumption that Vic was under cover, Mac would just have to go with it.

Yeah, twist that arm.

He looked Vic up and down dramatically and flashed a grin. "So, like, what's with the James Dean impersonation?" he whispered. Then: "Sorry I'm late," in a normal tone, giving Vic no time to answer. "C'mon, let's go to my place. It's closer."

"What the hell are you doing here?" was whispered back, intensely. Then Vic leaned against the brick wall, rolled his shoulders, and Mac wanted to laugh; he was posing. "You don't have enough money."

"Sure I do, baby." He moved a few inches closer. "I've got everything you need."

Vic shook his head, as if in disbelief. "You are so full of shit." He gave Mac a slow appraisal, from head to toe. "I really don't think so. But thanks for the offer."

A challenge, played for the benefit of Mac and the audience, it seemed. Yeah, he could work with that, that was good, that was fucking perfect. "You got something better lined up?" Mac dropped his voice again. "As if."

The look of derision Vic favored him with was oddly sexy, in an evil- twin kinda way. Mac could practically feel the coiled tension in the other man's body. He dipped his head, his mouth by Vic's ear. "Are you on assignment, or are you thinking of changing careers? Or maybe you're just backsliding, huh? Those years in Vice finally showing?"

Anger made Vic's eyes glitter. "None of your fucking business, actually."

He sighed. Vic was in Quebec, the Director had told them so. And although she wasn't known for being truthful this was still suspicious. Why lie about Vic's location, and then send Mac to pick him up here? Unless Vic was supposed to be somewhere he wasn't, which would make Mac what—the golden retriever? Good boy, bring him home in one piece and I'll save you a nice bone.

Oh, great. Perfect.

"No, but really, it is. My business, I mean. What the hell's going on?" A smile, then. And Mac noticed for the first time that Vic didn't have a nice smile. Oh, it was attractive all right—just not quite nice. "From the look of things, I was about to get laid. What are your plans for the evening?"

"Victor, Victor, Victor." Mac tapped the chest in front of him and spoke sotto voce. "I hate to break it to you, but. You're. Not. Gay."

"How would you know?"

Mac frowned and looked skyward, feigning thought. "Oh, gee, let's see. Didn't you almost get married not so long ago? To a lovely girl, I believe. What was her name?"

A pained look flashed over Vic's face. "Yeah, well." Then he lifted his chin, meeting Mac's smirk head on. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

His fingers lingered, tracing the placket of Vic's shirt. "That's you—- Victor Mansfield, International Man of Mystery." He smiled sardonically. "Three weeks in Quebec and you turn up in spunk alley. Very double-oh-seven."

"Quebec? What—who said anything about Quebec?"

"Shit." Mac closed his eyes briefly. Damn, stupid, unforgivably stupid. "I should've figured she was lying. Seems to be part of her job description."

"Job title," Vic agreed, then hissed in a breath between his teeth. "Stop that."

He frowned, momentarily confused, then watched his hand travel slowly down from Vic's collarbone to his bare sternum as if it belonged to someone else. Huh, usually Vic was buttoned up like a nun. Guess it wouldn't fit this new rent-boy profile, though. "Why? You're supposed to be a working girl tonight, remember?" he said mockingly, edging closer until they were practically embracing.

"And you're a jerk, as usual. So? That doesn't entitle you to a free grope."

Which was exactly where his hands had been headed—around Vic's waist and down the curve of his ass. Imagine that. "If you weren't in Quebec, where the hell were you?"

Really nice ass, too.

"I've been working on something here. Something personal," Vic bit out.

I bet. "And she let you." It wasn't a question; nothing they did went unnoticed or unrecorded by the Agency. The Director had made that extremely clear from the beginning. Mac felt a surge of frustration at being kept out of the loop on this one, whatever this one was.

Vic exhaled angrily. "Then sent you in to, what? Check up on me? Rein me in? No, as a back-up, just in case. So she could deny everything, as usual. Fuck. Fuck her."

Mac's fingers were curled tightly around Vic's waist, and he could feel the muscles pushing against him every time Vic inhaled. His breathing was shallow and too loud, and Vic was sweating beneath Mac's palms, the damp heat leeching into his skin. He couldn't remember the last time he'd held anything so alive.

"We've both been set up," he murmured, lips brushing the rim of Vic's ear. "And I'd love to stay here and discuss it, but Li Ann's waiting for me at Sammy's. Ever been there? Great noodles. So why don't you and I walk out of here together, and then we can, like, bond over dinner or something. 'Kay?"

Vic smiled tightly and pulled back from the touch. "I'm waiting for someone too, remember?"

"Sure, Vic," Mac lulled, allowing himself to register the solidity of the body in his arms. In his arms—how bizarre was that? He pressed forward slightly, testing his control, gauging how far he could go before Vic protested. Or how far he could go before he did something really rash, like... like drop to his knees and wrap his mouth around Vic's denim-covered crotch. Mac took a deep breath, fighting off that disorienting image.

As if he'd ever intentionally ruin a perfectly good suit.

"You're waiting for me. And now we're going home."

"Y'know, you're enjoying this way too much."

"Aren't you?"

The force of the flat-handed shove surprised him; he tended to underestimate Vic's strength. In the moment it took Mac to recover, Vic had pushed his hands into the pockets of his 501's and brought one leg up, the sole of his boot flat against the brick wall.

"It's not gonna happen," Vic said, looking at him as if he'd suddenly discovered the answer to something important. That smile again, smugger this time. He blinked lazily, shifted his weight a little, adjusted his jeans. Well that was obvious, and calculated, and made Mac want to laugh. Except—

"What?"

"It's not gonna happen," Vic repeated evenly, the sandpaper in his voice sending a counterpoint of shivers up Mac's spine. "We're not gonna have sex."

Now he did laugh, but his timing was off and it caught in his throat. "Is that some kind of—" but he didn't finish the thought. Vic was looking hard and directly to his left, and Mac turned his head, searching out the object of Vic's interest.

"Sorry that took so long." A man stepped around him, smiling. "John's an old friend, but he doesn't know when to stop talking." He was addressing Vic but gave Mac a thorough once-over. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I know you," Mac replied glibly, pleased at the tiny spark of concern in the other man's eyes. So maybe Rodriguez was a red herring, but clearly Vic was on the job—however that cashed out. He took in the stranger's good looks, expensive grooming, the rich man's idea of blue-collar attire, and felt unreasonably secure. "You're the kind of guy who leaves his cell phone on when he's on a date. Very bad manners."

Vic shook his head 'no' and pushed himself off the wall, the sole of his boot scraping over the brick.

"Especially when your date is so... cute."

Vic looked daggers at Mac and took another step forward, stopped only by the stranger's quickly outstretched arm. "He is rather special, isn't he," the man agreed with a cold smile. "But I'm afraid he's spoken for."

Well, this was getting more interesting by the second. Mac noted the easy assumption of ownership that lay behind the stranger's facile words. Still and silent, except for the arm that was now around Vic's waist, fingers slowly caressing. He clearly wanted Mac gone, but wasn't going to make a move. Which meant he was someone who didn't do his own dirty work—at least not in public—and he didn't seem to have any muscle with him this evening.

But he did have Vic's jacket. Folded neatly over his left arm. And Mac knew there was no excuse for not having noticed that interesting fact immediately, except that he hadn't wanted to.

Mac frowned and made a show of checking his watch. "So, how long are you two love-birds planning on taking? 'Cause I don't have to be at work again 'til...." He shrugged. "Monday, actually."

"I'm afraid you don't understand," came the quiet reply. Very blue eyes met his challengingly.

"Really?" Another foot or so and Mac was practically in his face, but he ignored him, holding Vic's gaze instead. "Whattaya say, beautiful," he crooned. "I'll make it worth your while."

Vic's expression was strangely contented. "C'mon, Steve, let's go," he said with a half-smile, and shoved his shoulder against Mac, trying to get by.

"Don't," Mac whispered too quickly as he blocked Vic's path.

The same cat-and-the-cream look. "Sorry, I'm not selling."

"So, what, you're giving it away for free these days?"

Nice move, he had to admire quick reflexes. Mac rebounded against the wall; the sharp pain that shook through his bones was satisfyingly real, something familiar he could wrap his head around, that his body knew how to compensate for. He bounced a little and found his footing again easily enough, relaxing. Yeah, this was well-known territory. Except some small part of his brain was on red alert. Vic was on assignment and no matter what Mac thought of it—or him—he couldn't jeopardize that. So when the punches came he only blocked them, waiting for Vic to realize, too.

It didn't take a minute and Mac watched the frustration announce itself in Vic's body, making him agitated and out of breath. "Are you trying to get me killed here?" he asked, backing Mac up until they were chest to chest. "Fuck you, Mac. Just—fuck you."

Yeah.

Oh, please, that was—that was exactly what he wanted: the anger, the indignation, the hostility he could so easily evoke, all that raw emotion directed right at him. An adrenaline high and a hard-on all in one beautiful, needle-free rush.

"Sometimes I really hate you," Vic snarled, pushing against him.

"Yeah, well—" But whatever he'd had in mind was stolen from him by the shocking heat of Vic's mouth on his, hands roughly pulling his head down, holding him steady.

And then it was over. Mac watched with a foreign, helpless feeling as Vic stepped back and turned to the stranger who was still there, still waiting, sleek and smiling and self-assured.

"Let's go."

Mac was restless. He felt buzzed, electrified, his brain incapable of holding onto a thought for more than a moment. Not that he was known for his long attention span, but still, this was decidedly... yeah. Worse. He kept snapping back into focus to find his hands playing with things. Pen. Lapels. Shades.

Why was he the only one on time? Like that had ever happened before. It was making him jumpy, sitting there alone in the Agency briefing room, waiting for Allen Funt to yell "Smile!"

"Where the hell is—"

"Looking for someone?" And how, exactly, was it possible for Victor to slide into his seat like that, like nothing was up and he'd had his full nine hours?

"Li Ann. She's late," Mac drawled disinterestedly.

Like he hadn't, he hadn't, he had kissed him. Vic had kissed him. Jesus.

"Sorry. I'm here." She came in practically on Vic's heels and sat neatly between them.

As if on cue—and Mac was certain she picked her moments carefully—the Director emerged from her own private entrance. "Do we have all our ducks in a row now?" The Director looked them over, not waiting for or seeming to expect a reply. "Good." She sat across the table from them, all sophisticated efficiency. "Welcome back, Victor."

Vic nodded and cleared his throat. His fingers were laced together in his lap, Mac noticed, then looked quickly away.

"As you may be aware, Victor hasn't actually been in Quebec these past three weeks."

No shit. Mac perched his sunglasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "Really?"

"He's been working on a pet project of mine, for which his past experience has made him an excellent candidate."

"So, let me get this straight. He wasn't ever supposed to be in Quebec, right? You just said that for our benefit?" And Mac hadn't even realized he was pissed off until he started to speak. Huh. "So he's been out there for three weeks without us."

"Until last night, yes."

"When you sent me in blind, thank you very much."

"So you did send him in." Vic picked up the thread, leaning forward. "I knew it. You don't trust me."

"Apparently, she doesn't trust any of us," Li Ann commented matter-of- factly.

The Director gave a small, blasé shrug. "I wouldn't put it quite that strongly. Let's just say I had my reasons, and leave it at that, shall we? The important thing is that the net is closing, and with very little additional effort we should be able to wrap things up quite nicely."

She worked her usual sleight-of-hand and there was Steve, larger than life and hovering over their heads. The sight was unexpectedly infuriating; Mac could still see the smug expression on his face as he walked off with Vic.

"This," the Director said smoothly, "is Mr. Steven Burghard, CEO of Lakeside Industries and an old acquaintance of Victor's. Mr. Burghard has his hand in many, many cookie-jars. We've been tracking him for years, waiting for him to finally make a wrong move. To... over-expand his business, shall we say."

Vic was very still and didn't meet Mac's eyes. Whether Li Ann noticed anything wrong he couldn't tell; she was her usual intelligent and business-like self.

"And now you're taking him down?" Li Ann swiveled her seat back to face the Director.

"As a matter of fact, things have gone even better than I expected. I initially thought we would simply squeeze Burghard, keep him under our thumb. But Victor's...diligence has really been remarkable. We'll be bringing Mr. Burghard in by the end of the week, at the latest."

The tension in the room seemed so alive, he couldn't imagine how the Director ignored it. Or maybe she thrived on it, who the hell knew. Mac tilted his head from side to side, trying to loosen his neck. So, were they supposed to sit here like good little boys and girls and pretend everything was perfectly normal?

Yeah, well, screw that.

"You said Vic was a good candidate for this assignment, right? Because of his experience. So, exactly what kind of experience could Victor possibly have in hustling?"

Oh, that was too damn easy, and he hadn't even been aiming. Vic was out of his chair in a second, and it should have amused Mac that the only thing that kept them from actually hitting each other was Li Ann. She'd jumped up, too, pre-empting with a hand on Vic's chest. And a glare over her shoulder at Mac.

Vic leaned toward him, fuming. "Shut up, or I swear I'll—"

"Sit. Down," the Director commanded.

Mac had never left his seat. He assumed a carefully benign expression, and folded his hands in front of him. Li Ann did as she was told, but Vic just grabbed the back of his chair and faced the Director angrily.

"You swore to me that this was off the record," he accused, "or I'd've never agreed—"

"Learn from your mistakes, Mr. Mansfield."

Vic threw up his hands, sending the chair forward into the table top with a clang. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing is ever off the record. There is nothing you do that I don't know about, and I can pretty much tell whoever, whatever, whenever I choose."

"Great, that's just—just great. Do your get you kicks by screwing with people's heads?"

The Director raised an eyebrow, appearing to consider this. "It's a perk. Now sit down and listen, because we are not through."

"Oh yes we are," Vic threw back with a humorless laugh. "I am outta here."

Mac watched him stalk off, surprised the Director didn't stop him, but figured there was a reason. There was always a reason; all he had to do was wait for it. "He's kinda touchy."

"You don't have to do that all the time," Li Ann said accusingly, but Mac contrived to look confused. "What were you talking about, anyway?"

"Ah, yes. Which brings us back on topic. Thank you, Li Ann." The Director crossed her legs elegantly and leaned forward. "As I was saying," she continued, "We have wanted Mr. Burghard for a very, very long time. Which works out quite nicely, since he's wanted Victor for a very long time, too."

Li Ann sat up straighter in her chair. "What are you talking about?"

"Cheese." Both women turned and stared at him, with differing degrees of pique. He smiled innocently. "Victor is the cheese. And we're waiting for the rat."

###

"Are you okay?"

The question startled him for no reason. "Yeah, yeah, fine. Why?"

Li Ann glanced over, then away again. "This is so weird. I mean, I know him. Vic is—he's not like you. I mean, he's so—straight."

Right.

"No offense," she added with a quick smile.

They sat facing forward, staring out the windshield as if the car was actually moving. Mac shrugged. "You can't always believe her. I mean, she could be yanking our chains here. Maybe he's just, you know, acting."

"What exactly happened last night, anyway?" she asked, frowning. "You were really weird during dinner—"

Mac made a dismissive noise.

"—And what you said to Vic—"

"Nah, I was just yanking his chain." He shifted in his seat, wondering who he was protecting.

"So you don't think...?" Li Ann let the question fade with a sigh. "I know who Burghard is. Vic's told me about him."

He probably looked angry. He felt angry, and the beginnings of a headache were clear enough signals of a semi-permanent frown.

"Just that he's worth bringing down," she amended, glancing at his reflection in the windshield. "Nothing personal."

Nope, it never was. "Must be why she sent me after a fictional 'Rodriguez'. Just in case I'd heard of him too?"

Li Ann nodded.

There had been a time when she told him everything, but it was getting harder to remember that far back. "Look, I don't really know what's going on, y'know?"

"I know."

"I mean, I'm not—hiding anything. Or anything."

"I know." Her lip twitched but Mac couldn't tell if she was trying not to smile, or holding back sarcasm.

"I'm gonna, I've got a few things to do. I'll catch you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"Okay." She gave him a lingering look then opened the car door. "'Night, Mac."

"G'night." He watched her go, letting his head fall back on the cool leather. She would probably call Vic as soon as she got inside, see if he was okay. God, what a bunch of chumps they were. He felt a rising and angry claustrophobia at being owned by Agency. It was enough that they told him when to piss and where to aim it, for chrissakes, but this was going too far. He couldn't shake the feeling of the Director crawling inside his head. And why the hell hadn't he tried to stop her? Why hadn't Vic?

Vic. Yeah, now there was a likely repository for some serious frustration. If he wasn't such an upstanding citizen, he would never have accepted the assignment. Mac turned the key in the ignition.

Vic should have said no.

It was no problem sneaking past the doorman and the security guard, even though it was Agency housing. Mac didn't want Vic to know he was coming— forewarned and all that, although he'd probably just play possum. He was surprised, though, when the door opened before he could even pick the lock.

"Jesus." Vic looked surprised too, and then furious because of it. "What the hell do you want?"

"Last night—" he started, his foot and his left shoulder in the doorway. "—That's your phone." He heard it in the background, still trilling and he'd counted five rings already.

"Li Ann," Vic conceded. "She's been at it for awhile now."

Caller ID could be such a bitch. "Are you going to get it?" he asked with mock patience. By the set of Vic's jaw and his defensive posture, Mac didn't have to wait for an answer. "Then turn the damn ringer off, and let me in."

Vic made a sound of aggravation, seeming to consider this. "I was just—"

"Leaving?"

"Stop pushing me," Vic said through clenched teeth. "You don't know shit."

"Someone in there with you?" Mac asked in a flash of inspiration. Vic's gaze skirted his, and Mac wanted to smile—if he could only get past this burning itch to smack Vic in the head. Huh. Interesting.

Vic shut his eyes a moment, huffing out a breath. Then he threw open the door and gestured expansively for Mac to enter. "You want to search the apartment, too? Go ahead. It's not as if I have a life or anything." He strode purposefully into the bedroom, leaving Mac staring after him.

"Here," he said, returning with a pair of black jeans and a T-shirt, which he flung at him. Mac caught them one-handed. "They're not mine. Why don't you run a DNA analysis or something."

He held the clothes for the second it took to register revulsion, then dropped them on the floor. Steve's, they had to be, and the Director had it all on camera. Shit, this should not make him jealous. What was Vic to him, anyway? An angry pressure was building in his chest, accompanied by a strange exhilaration. He held on tight to the discordant sensations, perversely savoring them, not letting anything show on his face. Mac moved further into the living room, close on Vic's heels. "Are you through?"

Vic's eyes flashed darkly, tension etched across his shoulders. "Since she sent you to check up on me—again—say whatever the hell you're gonna say, then get out."

Mac let the first comment lie. "Why?" he asked quietly, advancing. Vic looked startled and backed up to the edge of the sofa. "Why did you do it?"

"Why did I do what—my job?" Indignation then, but not enough to allow Vic to meet his eyes for more than a moment. "Why did I do what the Director ordered me to? Oh, I dunno. I kinda like my balls, thanks."

"Yeah, you get Volunteer of the Year award." Mac stopped a foot in front of him and watched Vic shift his feet, trying to brace himself against the couch. It wouldn't take much; one shove and he'd be sprawling. A nice image, too, it made him achingly nervous. "If you're so proud of your work ethic, how come you didn't want anyone to know what you were up to?"

Vic canted his head, looking up at him through hooded eyes. "Like I said last night, it's none of your damn business. But since you care so much...." He paused, shrugging tightly. "I've tried to bring this guy down for years. He's pond scum. But untouchable."

"Until now." The veneer of self-control was so thin, Mac could feel Vic's distress radiating off him like an SOS. He wondered what was causing it, given Vic's convincing performance last night; Vic might be a Boy Scout but he wasn't a masochist. Surely he hadn't done anything he hadn't wanted to?

"Right." Vic sounded as if he'd been up all night, smoking. "I met him when I worked Vice. He's big into philanthropy, gives a ton to the department, among other things. He used to—he used to, uh, he made a couple of passes at me. Y'know, when we ran into each other. Asked me out a few times."

Okay, that was too much information. "And you turned him down."

"Jesus, he's a criminal, all right? How low do you—" Vic cut himself off, shoving his hands into his pockets in an weird replay of the other night. Mac's gaze followed the movement down to the V of his jeans, then up again when he realized where he was staring.

That moment of weakness made him unreasonably scathing. "But now there's no conflict of interest, right? Because you're not a cop anymore. So the Director set you up with an appropriate cover story, and voila. A match made in heaven."

Fury then, tightly controlled. "You—y'know, you're this close to getting—"

"Smoked?" Mac offered smugly, his voice still perfectly calm.

Vic released a forceful breath. "You're such a pampered little... baby sometimes. You don't know a fucking thing about anything, anything real, except—except, the name of some stupid... famous painting or, or which fork to use. I am sick to death of your attitude. You haven't seen half the shit I've seen, Ramsey."

The outburst made him blink, hurt icing through his stomach. "Is this some kind of pissing contest, Victor? I thought you were way too mature for that kind of thing."

Vic seemed to think about this, or at least pull himself together. Whichever it was, the effect was visible in his stance. When he spoke again his voice was low and even. "I didn't tell you because—I didn't want Li Ann to think I'd been... lying to her." He sighed tiredly. "This wasn't exactly the most fun I've had all year."

Christ, this was worse than... than what, really? What had he been expecting? None of this, he never expected anything remotely like this. His own anger unnerved him. Why the hell should he care if Vic whored himself for the Agency? They were owned, lock, stock and the proverbial barrel; there was no point in worrying the details. But he couldn't let go of the idea that Vic should have protested, should have put up a fight. He'd refused assignments before, with greater and lesser degrees of success. Why not this one?

Right. He was really worried about Vic's ethics here. Not his own visceral response to the thought of Victor sleeping with a man. That wasn't him. Mac's hands itched with the sense memory of that dense, muscular body beneath them. It was just a competitive thing.

Nothing personal.

He shifted his weight and took a step backwards, suddenly needing to get of Vic's space. "You want a drink?"

Vic gave him an assessing stare, and Mac wondered what bullshit line he'd come up with if Vic asked why he wasn't leaving. But Vic just dropped his eyes in that peculiarly acquiescent gesture he'd seen a thousand times. It used to annoy the hell out of him—now he wondered what on earth was going on in Vic's head.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Help yourself."

He didn't even care that he was rummaging around in Vic's refrigerator as if they were buddies, then through cabinets, until he finally found something, anything, to dull his nerves. Whiskey—disgusting stuff, too sweet on the one hand, and on the other hand too Vic-like for comfort. What he wouldn't give for a shot of Du Kang burning a clear path to his stomach. Days like these his missed Hong Kong so much he could, yeah, he could taste it.

Good thing he still hadn't adopted the North American habit of drinking on the rocks, though, since his hand seemed a bit shaky. Mac put one glass on the coffee table and slid it towards Vic, who had sunk down into the couch from where he'd been standing.

Mac sat close. "So, you're bi, right?" He forced himself to relax, to feign disinterest. "I mean, not that I'd've guessed," he added, back- pedaling. "I didn't think you were. But, are you?"

Vic raised his eyebrows and gave him a sarcastic look. The whiskey went down in one long swallow and Mac watched his throat working, oddly fascinated.

"I was worried about Li Ann," Vic said finally. "I didn't think you'd get all hot and bothered about this."

So what was the chance of plausible deniability here? It was frighteningly difficult all of a sudden to tell when—if—Vic was trying to push his buttons. Mac slid down in his seat until his legs bumped the tabletop. "I guess you were right about one thing," he offered, side-stepping.

A quiet snort. "Yeah?"

"We don't know each other very well."

Vic seemed to think this over. "Would you rather it'd been you?"

A jolt of adrenaline zinged through his chest, lodging in his groin. God, fuck yes, if I'd known—

"I bet the Director would've been happy to send you instead of me, if it wasn't for the... the connection." He cleared his throat. "You would've made a much smoother job of it than I did."

Sonofabitch.

Not that Mac could deny the implication; who wouldn't be smoother than Vic? Mansfield wasn't exactly a stylin' kinda guy. On the other hand, the Director wasn't stupid, she knew Vic's assets, his appeal—what would appeal to Steve Burghard, and fuck, this train of thought was distinctly unhealthy.

"Mother knows best," he threw out lazily, taking another sip of whiskey.

Vic frowned and wrinkled his nose. "That's sick," he said without energy. "Hey. Thanks for not blowing my cover."

"No problem." Sure, that was stellar, just fucking brilliant, thought that one through really well, did you? Actually got your hands on him and fzzp! Your brains shorted out. Mac Ramsey, poster-boy for ADD. He glanced over, but mercifully Vic had let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

Didn't want to blow your cover. Wanna blow you.

Two indecent proposals in two days, and too damn bad he didn't seem to have the nerve to make them out loud. Mac couldn't quite figure the angle, how he'd save face if Vic turned him down. It wasn't like he was mooning over the guy, for chrissakes, but it would totally screw up the nice little routine they had going if he fell on his ass here.

On the other hand, he was sitting six inches away from sex. With Victor.

At least, the possibility of.

"So, what did he do?" Mac asked casually, shifting on to his left side a little, facing him.

That seemed to wake him up. "Steve? Drugs, mostly. Guns. The usual gamut. Some involvement in South America, and there's this Senator the Director's dying to get her hands on—"

"I wasn't asking for his resume." The words were cut through with sarcasm and Mac felt a thrill of danger just behind them, waiting.

"Then what?" Vic looked over with irritation.

Leaning closer, he noticed Li Ann had been right about Vic's eyes. "What did he do? Last night." Except now they looked quite dark. "With you."

He was asking for it, he really was. Vic twisted, shoved, and pinned him to the couch with his own weight. "Fuck you," he growled, pressing Mac's wrists hard into the cushions. Mac winced at the grinding of bones and the faint tingling in his fingers. "Don't you ever get tired of being such an asshole?"

As if I could get a rise out of you by being anything else. "I'm not baiting you, I swear." I really, really want to know. "Just—let go of my hands, jeez."

Vic glared down at him, breathing heavily against Mac's chest. "Uh-uh, no way."

"I could flip you anyhow," Mac challenged, letting one leg slip off the sofa, bracing his foot on the floor. "Then I'd be on top."

Vic released his grip with a final, painful squeeze, and quickly pushed himself up onto his arms. Mac thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in the face so close to his, then nothing but disdain. "Go find someone else to jerk around. We're through here."

"Jesus, you really know how to make a guy work," Mac muttered, surprising himself. He'd better fucking be worth the effort. Vic was still braced above him, but he shifted his hips to the side in an attempt to get up. The slow drag of bulked denim made Mac shiver. "Fuck off," Vic bit out, eyes meeting his hotly for a moment before dropping to his mouth. When Mac started to smile, they skittered up again, guiltily.

Hmm, not completely indifferent, then. "You looked pretty hot last night, y'know," Mac purred, switching tactics.

Vic laughed and looked startled, then embarrassed. "What?"

"I didn't want you to leave with him." He tried to keep his voice seductive, but it grated with an aggressive edge. "Shoulda been me."

"Are you insane?"

There wasn't much maneuvering room and Mac was faster, more certain. Now Vic was pinned, but sideways, his back flat against the back cushions, Mac's thigh wedged firmly against him. Mac grabbed Vic's fist before he could manage to leverage a decent punch, and twisted it down between them.

He watched Vic's eyes widen, lips parting with a sharp intake of breath. Mac pressed Vic's hand against his erection until the fingers loosened enough to hold him. "What do you think?"

Vic made a sound in the back of his throat, half groan and half gasp, as Mac nudged himself roughly into Vic's palm.

"If I'd known you liked guys—"

Vic shook his head. "But—"

"You managed to get it up for Steve," Mac bit out angrily, pushing his leg more tightly against Vic's crotch. "And me, apparently."

Okay, so he was definitely out on a limb here, but he wasn't alone. Mac was very aware of the fact that Vic hadn't pulled away, although he easily could have done. In fact, he was—oh, yeah—he was grinding the heel of his hand slowly up the length of Mac's cock. The reticence had been replaced with a more closed, more aggressive expression that made Mac want to squirm.

"Like I said," Vic grunted, rolling them over until Mac was on his back again. "You don't know shit."

Well, maybe if you hummed a few bars.

Vic's hand was strong and sure against him, making Mac fight to keep the smile on his face. Not actually thrusting into that grip was pretty damn good self-control. "Then educate me," he drawled.

Unfortunately, prompting Vic for information seemed to distract him from more important tasks. The hand that had been tormenting him left his lap, came up and pinched the bridge of Vic's nose. "Last night was a nightmare."

Mac flinched slightly. Nightmare? That was a bit harsh. Weird, yeah okay. Unexpected, definitely. Tacky, absolutely; but there was no way it even rated compared to Vic's days in Vice.

"You didn't have to kiss me," he said diffidently.

Vic shook his head. "Not everything's about you, Mac."

He frowned and stroked down the length of Vic's tense, damp back. Steve. Shit, it was so easy to forget the guy. "Did he hurt you?" As the words left his mouth he wondered what the hell he was thinking, then worried for a second that he might be on target here. The thought of Steve doing anything to Vic made Mac's insides seize up. He had the same panicked feeling he used to get at the dentist's, like someone had immobilized him and was slowly scooping out his guts with a melon- baller.

"No," and Vic laughed, a single harsh sound. "But he's... got a thing for— for cops." Vic's voice had gone gravelly and he wore a look of defensive defiancé. "He wanted..." Those eyes dipped down and then up again.

Mac relaxed, and this time his smile was delightedly real. "He wanted you to rough him up? Way to pick the wrong guy."

"Is that supposed to be an insult or something? Huh?" The question was underscored by a forearm sliding up towards Mac's throat. Mac reflexively blocked this move by heaving them both over and onto the floor with a heavy thud. Ding! Round three, and somewhere in the back of his mind he admitted it was embarrassing and a little silly how many times they'd ended up rolling around together like this.

Nothing remotely Freudian there.

He slammed Vic back against the carpeting—breathing harder than strictly necessary, although he wasn't an impartial judge—and held him down. "What is with you, anyway?" he gasped between sucking in air. "You wanna be a tough guy? Fine, you're a tough guy. You beat your dates regularly. Jesus H." Mac released Vic's shoulders and rolled onto his back, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

What the hell was up with him? He had never worked this hard to get laid in his life.

"Backwards."

"Excuse me?"

"You've got it backwards," Vic panted, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "He wanted me to take it, okay? Didn't go over too well, my not laying down for him."

Oh. Oh, shit.

Mac closed his eyes against the onslaught of images and worse, revelations. Victor, leaning against the wall in the alley, dripping indolence and challenge. The oddly satisfied smirk on his face when he was being argued over. The exact moment when their scuffle had twisted into sex and Vic had kissed him—hot, angry and full of secrets.

Okay, so the spice in his life had changed from flirting with his partner to trying, albeit ineffectively, to sleep with him. Because Vic wasn't straight, not really. He did men at least sometimes, although they never did him, and all of a sudden Mac couldn't decide which turned him on more.

"Glad to hear it," he said, earning a darkly suspicious look. He went to put his hand on Vic's chest, but was forcefully brushed aside.

"What's that supposed to mean? Think you can do better?"

He frowned, not sure there was any sense to their conversation, but figured he could never go wrong with crowing. "I know I can," he replied smugly. Mac attacked from below this time, brushing lightly over a taut leg, feeling the responsive trembling.

Vic sat very still, eyes fixed on the path Mac's hand was traveling. A low grunt accompanied the careful scratch of nails against denim. Vic's legs relaxed open in invitation, just enough to let Mac cup his hand over the swell of muscle along the inner thigh. Hot, literally, and damp, and it took all his self-control not to bring his hand to his face, or better yet his face to Vic's lap, and inhale deeply.

"I'm not... gonna..." Vic's head fell back. "For you, either."

Yeah. He shifted onto his hip, glad he wasn't wearing anything constricting. "So I won't get my hopes up, then, hmm?"

Something that could have been anger, could have been pain, flickered over Vic's face, settling into a perfect expression of distrust. Mac sighed. "I don't want to fuck you," he promised softly. He wondered what was going on behind those compellingly reactive eyes, then decided he didn't—he couldn't—care. Not right now. Maybe later, when he regretted all this, but not now.

Vic gave a quiet groan as Mac's hand traveled upward. Nice, a perfect package in his palm, and Mac forgave him for wearing jeans.

He leaned into the dense, solid body, and chastely brushed his lips over Vic's. Again, and again, until Vic didn't pull back even a fraction. "I want..." he murmured, running the tip of his tongue across the seam of Vic's mouth, making it soften and open slightly with a tiny breath of pleasure, "I just want..."

Vic's eyes were almost shut and he tilted his head, kissing back with a gentle, liquid slide that was nothing like last night, and made Mac ache. Fingers trailed sharp lines along his hipbones before settling on his ass. Mac could feel each digit like a brand, pressing scorchingly down.

An adrenaline surge crashed through him, drying his throat and making it difficult to speak above a hoarse whisper. "...What you gave Li Ann." He watched Vic frown, heard the rumble of confusion, and decided he liked the way Vic punctuated everything with those intimate sounds. Vic's eyes snapped up to his. "What—you wanna wear my ring?" he asked acidly.

But he really could be a pain in the ass sometimes. "Yes, Victor, I want to marry you and spend my life raising your twelve kids. Look—no more talk, okay? No more true confessions, and definitely no more wrestling-as-foreplay. Either fuck me, or I'm going home." Which would have come off way more flippant if his voice hadn't gone all ragged towards the end.

A long moment, then understanding. Mac's creeping discomfort was allayed somewhat by the bad-boy grin Vic suddenly flashed at him—lots of strong, white teeth and alarming promise. "Floor or bed?" Vic asked in the exact same tone he'd use for 'coffee or tea?'

Finally, a no-brainer. "Bed."

Here was a reason to stay in shape, above the strangely unmotivating I- don't-want-to-get-kicked-in-the-ass-by-a-thug, thanks. Vic was on his feet in one smooth motion, no hands needed, and Mac watched him walk into the next room appreciatively. Great view. He grinned and followed, suddenly full of good will.

"Oh, yeah. That's more like it." Even better view. Vic had taken the initiative and stripped off his shirt, and for the life of him Mac couldn't remember what it had looked like. He must've seen Vic without his clothes before too, come to think of it—Agency showers, at least? But he couldn't think of it, he had no memory of it, which made zero sense since the guy was... the guy was very easy on the eyes.

Mac took the two strides necessary to pull Vic in for another open- mouthed kiss. Hands reached behind and dragged his shirt tails out, then skimmed underneath; one up to a shoulder blade, the other worrying at his waistband until Vic managed to breach that obstacle to his satisfaction. A moan hummed at his lips and was echoed back to him with a scratchy roughness.

"Too many clothes" preceded Mac's hasty unbuckling of his pants, which pooled conveniently at his feet. He sat down on the edge of the bed, shoes and socks and shirt thrown quickly aside so he'd have time to watch Vic undress.

So damn weird to notice, as if for the first time, what's been under your nose for ages. Startling, in fact. All the blurred edges were gone; Vic looked as if he'd been cut out with an Exacto-knife and pasted over a two-dimensional bedroom. A cartoon backdrop.

Must be all that alcohol he hadn't been drinking.

"I can't believe this—" Mac stopped abruptly. Oh, perfect. That was so not what he'd intended to say, it was completely off the charts. "Um—"

Vic slipped his briefs off and stopped, looking at him questioningly. "I thought you didn't want to talk."

He caught the glint of a smile in Vic's eyes and returned it, grateful. Who the hell could talk with that standing two feet away, anyhow? "Right. Then c'mere," he said, all humor gone.

He had never actually imagined having sex with Vic. His fantasies usually centered around the voyeuristic; he'd never put himself in the scene. Once, early on, Mac found himself wondering about Vic and Li Ann, but that was disturbing on so many levels he'd just smashed the thought down permanently.

Maybe because he'd assumed Vic was straight, he'd taken it for granted he'd be straight in bed as well. Missionary position straight. Keep humping 'til you come then fall asleep straight. Not that Li Ann would have put up with that kind of treatment, if he'd thought it through. Which of course he hadn't.

Mac moaned as Vic's tongue found the cleft in his chin and lingered there, exploring. Something about the warm, wet, rasping pull over the beginnings of stubble was unbearably erotic, the way Vic kept at it slowly and purposefully while making little noises in the back of his throat, reminding Mac of a cat. He was being licked into oblivion and they hadn't even catalogued the usual erogenous zones yet. Mac shivered at the sharp pinch of teeth along his jaw.

How much did a straight fuck, no frills, go for these days, anyway? He wasn't gonna find out any time soon.

"Mmm...." Anything more creative than that refused to be summoned. Mac stretched luxuriously as a broad stripe of hot-wet-goosebumps ran under his chin and down his throat to the hollow there. He could feel Vic's smile against his skin. He wasn't being lazy or anything, really. He wanted to participate above the monosyllabic notes of appreciation, but every time he reached out Vic would bat his hands away. Not that he tried very hard. He felt absurdly like royalty laying there getting all of Vic's attention, and that was lovely. Really perfect.

So was the slow, torturous, sweat-sticky slide of Vic's body as he worked his way south. Vic's erection was pressed painfully against his hip but wriggling only made him lose the matching friction of hard body against his own cock, so he relaxed.

Until very sharp teeth found a nipple.

"Shit," he gasped and sat up automatically, Vic rising with him. There was an odd cast to Vic's eyes, something between arousal and humor. "Sensitive?"

"Surprised," Mac corrected, suddenly irked at admitting that. This being receptive shtick was getting a bit old. His fingers strayed over the tender flesh, which seemed to hypnotize Vic; he took the opportunity to push him back into the mattress with a hard, determined kiss. Yeah, that was much better. Vic obliged by arching into him seductively and making no effort to resist.

Part of him regretted his lack of patience and impulse control. A small part. He was taller but Vic was fuller, rounder, denser and felt incredible sprawled beneath him. So what if he'd asked—and he had, unbelievably— for Vic to fuck him. Right now he needed something more straightforward. Mac looked into the slitted eyes as he thrust long and slow against Vic's cock. Sharp stab of pleasure, not enough to satisfy and just this side of pain. So he did it again, earning a ragged groan, head tossing to the side.

"Mac—" Barely more than laryngitis now. Vic raked strong nails purposefully down his chest, catching at sensitive skin, then brushed up the same trail with the pads of his fingers. Hot, cool, hot, cool, until Mac started to shiver.

"Shit, no, touch me already."

This time the fingers strayed, two hands closing hard on both erections.

"Yeah." Mac's gaze dropped to where they fit together, liquid slicking Vic's stomach, his fingers glossy with it. "Jesus, man, you're—" He swallowed the words, the same ones he'd said earlier, only now they were choking him.

Hot, you're fucking hot; you're gorgeous like this. "You're killing me here," was all he could manage with bravura, and Mac's arms trembled slightly from strain. "C'mon, dammit, do something."

The hands came alive, establishing a slow, grinding, messy rhythm. Maybe, maybe in ten years he could get off like this, if his head didn't explode first. If his arms held up. If Vic didn't—

Mac cursed. Vic did, he stopped, holding them tight in a sticky grip. Vic was looking too, breathing rough and deep, as if waiting out an impending orgasm. But no, that wasn't it, because he pulled his hands up and down again quickly, twice, forcing Mac to groan. The sound seemed to get Vic's attention; he raised his head, glanced a question at him.

So much for the whole who's on top dilemma, Mac thought inanely, and felt the world slip sideways for a moment in a dizzying sweep. He didn't know what he was doing, had no idea what Vic was doing, and that wasn't a good thing. Was it?

His body, on the other hand, was pretty damn clear what it wanted. It was telling him to move, more, now. Mac shimmied his hips forward but Vic only squeezed tighter. "Hey—"

"Hold on." There was a sudden loss of pressure as Vic let go, went to push himself up higher on the bed and then seemed to consider the state of his hands. Oh, Christ, time to worry about dirtying the sheets. Mac felt a scowl tighten his forehead, was about to say something cutting when all the air was pulled from his lungs.

Vic was licking himself clean, with an uninhibited expression that belied any ulterior motive. Such as sending Mac over the edge without ever really doing anything, in which case Vic was a dead man 'cause Mac didn't see how he'd ever be able to live that one down.

The thought made appropriate muscles twitch.

Vic caught Mac's stare again and smiled, scooting back until he was leaning against the wall. "Bring it up here."

"Fuck."

"Well, yeah."

Jesus. Now he was practically sitting in Vic's lap, contemplating his next move. Up, of course, all he had to do, all he wanted to do was kneel up and finish this. Vic was touching him again: chest, stomach, thighs. And then he wrapped one hand back around Mac's cock, the other anchored to a hip, and tugged, forcing him onto his knees. Mac's palms flattened against the wall to steady himself.

"Beautiful," Vic murmured throatily, tongue joining fingers up the underside of Mac's erection.

A bright cut of fear sliced through him. "Again," he ground out, "more," not wanting to hear anything beyond the sex, not wanting to think about even that. Because it was all just a little too real: this apartment, this bed, Vic beneath him, that perfect, willing mouth—the wet scorch engulfed him in a long, continuous suck and Mac's head fell forward against the too-solid wall.

A wave of tingling bliss prickled over him when Vic retreated, the sudden breeze causing a seemingly instant evaporation of saliva and everything Mac was contributing to the mix. Then he was being drawn in again with greater insistence, Vic making noises that buzzed through Mac's cock teasingly.

Right, enough. Mac blinked, took a deep breath and straightened his arms. Not enough, actually, nowhere near enough. He wanted, needed, to be so far down Vic's throat that Vic's eyes watered, and now was not the time to examine his motives.

Apparently willing to go with the flow, Vic released Mac's hips in favor of his ass, pulling, matching his rhythm as Mac began to thrust. Finally some decent friction, some movement, some... control.

Jesus, but who was he kidding, he was just fucking going for it without any thought beyond the immediate agonizing, ball-tightening, breath- taking rush. And Vic's mouth, his throat, was heaven, was made just for this, for him. Mac's palms were sweating, slipping, but the hands on his ass held him relentlessly.

Mac's panting was loud, echoing off plasterboard and heating his own face. "Oh god, I can't—I'm gonna—" and teeth scraped over his skin, "Shit." More pressure; Vic made a sound, swallowed hard, then teeth again and Mac threw himself into the last thrust and the damn wall with a strangled cry.

###

This is your brain. This is your brain after it's been sucked out of your dick by Victor Mansfield.

Mac smirked, reached over his head in a stretch and realized he must be laying upside down on the bed. He opened his eyes slowly. Toes found the headboard, and yeah, there was the ceiling, just where it was supposed to be.

"Hey." The bed dipped and something slick and cold touched his hand. Mac had no idea if he'd been out for very long, but water was a brilliant idea, and he took the bottle gratefully.

"You looked thirsty," Vic said affably.

He studied his face as he drank. Vic looked positively decadent: lips swollen, hair spiked with sweat, eyes very dark. Still half hard, which came as a shock.

Mac wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thanks."

That seemed to be taken at more than face value. "Sure." Vic was staring at a spot just to Mac's left. "Look, if you're tired...."

He knew an out when he was being offered one. Wanted to take it, too, it was way more attractive than payback. A post-orgasmic cuddle he could deal with. A post-orgasmic fuck, well, that was something else. That was something he'd so far managed to avoid.

Except he'd never be able to face himself if he left now. Mac took another swig of water, throat suddenly dry. What excuse could he come up with? Hey man, I thought you were jacking off while you blew me. Not my fault you can't walk and chew gum at the same time.

Sure, that'd fly.

He rolled onto his side and put the bottle down on the floor. "I asked you, remember?"

"Uh-huh."

Vic was looking at him disturbingly, as if—as if he—he wanted him. Jesus. Vic wanted him. Had he looked like that, too, just minutes ago? Part god and part porn star, like one of those holographic postcards they sold at truck stops: now Jesus is blessing you, flip your wrist and he's winking.

He pushed his fingers through Vic's hair, angling his head back, and Vic sighed. This was yet another kiss, lips hot and soft like melting wax, laced through with longing. He'd done that, he'd made this mouth, and he wanted to be inside it again. It opened easily; he pressed his tongue where his cock had been, savoring Vic's sensual, slippery-wet- molten response.

"Come on." The sudden impatience startled him, threw him off his stride. Vic reversed their positions, half on top of him, his tongue in Mac's mouth, his hand on Mac's arm, pulling it down. Mac obediently curled his fingers around the heavy cock, feeling the surge of blood beneath paper-thin skin. His palm brushed the liquid glazing the head and spread it down, stroked a few times, Vic's rasp of pleasure in his ear.

Yeah, Vic wanted—that was abundantly clear. There was nothing languid left in his movements as he hooked an arm under Mac's knee and raised it, did the same thing on the other side, leaning his weight on the back of Mac's legs. This had never been his favorite position—not since he'd overheard some woman describe her trip to the gynecologist, and besides it meant looking right into the other guy's face—but he was just gonna have to get over it.

Where the bottle of Astroglide came from he didn't know or care; he wasn't the one who had to do the thinking now. All he could hear was Vic's breathing, annoyingly loud and sexy, and he let his eyes slip closed, waiting for the click of the plastic cap, the jolt of cold gel on hot, vulnerable skin, and other things that might make him anxious.

"Mac?"

"Mmm."

"Come on, look at me."

Sure, of course he'd want that—this was Vic, after all, not some anonymous fuck. Which wasn't the comforting thought it should be.

"Mac?"

Hot breath strafed his cheek and he instinctively turned towards it. "Yeah, babe." That was instinct, too, and Mac smiled at his own predictability. Opening his eyes just a fraction, he saw Vic's face looming, too close to be in focus, and he reached behind the damp head. The stretch in the back of his thighs made him grunt softly as he pulled Vic's mouth to his.

No need to see anything now, he could just concentrate on the meal Vic was making of him. It was surprisingly easy to lay back and enjoy the rush of eliciting that much ardor; low self-esteem had never been one of his issues. Mac ran his hand roughly through Vic's hair again, down to his neck, thumb finding the artery there and resting. The steady pulse was hypnotizing.

"Driving me crazy," Vic muttered, fumbling for something. And there it was: the sound of plastic and doom.

Mac hissed as sure fingers slid and pushed inside him. At least they were finally getting down to it. He wondered how long Vic would last, since he'd been so freaking generous and had let Mac come first. Since he was so determined to make Mac feel every damn thing they were doing. Vic was doing.

"'S this good?"

Christ, did he expect him to talk, too? Wasn't his body saying enough? Good —it was exquisite, perfect; the unrelenting purposefulness of it was destroying him. No simple preparation, this, nothing so clinical. He wasn't waiting to be fucked, getting ready to be fucked—he was being fucked, slowly and carefully and with vicious thoroughness. Was this what he'd meant when he told Vic he wanted the same as Li Ann?

Was this what Vic had been like with her?

"Oh yeah, more, c'mon." And some weird, animal sound accompanied his pushing back, down, grinding himself onto that hand, leveraging his body against the death grip Vic had on one shoulder.

He couldn't really tell, he was one raw, finely vibrating nerve, but Mac supposed he was hard again. Was he? Not that it mattered, it didn't, he couldn't have cared less. His legs were getting cramped, though, and the ache was beginning to be distracting.

"Need to move, wait a sec," he panted, and the sudden rush of cool air as Vic pulled carefully away made Mac shiver.

"How?"

He hesitated. On his stomach he wouldn't have to look, but then he couldn't see what all of this was doing to Vic. And he wanted to, suddenly, very much. Mac smiled, and pushed hard on Vic's shoulder. Sweat-wet, like the rest of him. Vic gave him a long, hot look before laying back and stuffing a pillow under his head.

"You just like being on top."

He'd been staring at Vic's right hand, the way he was holding himself, proprietorily. A whole goddamn sentence this time, and usually the man was nothing if not taciturn. "Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Vic?" Mac asked, crawling up the length of the sprawled body. "Never mind, don't answer that—I think I like you better."

Vic flashed him a knowing grin. "You'll like me even more in a minute."

Well, maybe.

Mac reached between them and grasped Vic's fist, lining up their bodies. It was easier than he thought, just the admission that he actually wanted this, wanted Vic inside him, needed to be the one to make Vic come.

Perspiration had broken out on Vic's face, along his hairline, and he tilted his head back, eyes to the ceiling, mouth set. Waiting. The sheer physical pleasure of slowly pushing himself down onto the hard flesh seemed to fuse Mac's braincells. He was thrown forward momentarily as Vic bent his legs, feet planted on the bed, and pushed his hips up. Put a quarter in the slot and there goes the kiddie ride, horse or race car rocking back and forth, up and down, tinny music keeping time to the mechanical thrusts.

"Thinking of doing all the work here?" Mac squeezed out, settling his weight and pinning Vic in place. It had been awhile since he'd done this, a long while since he'd done exactly this, and Mac had almost forgotten what it felt like to have something so hot and alive buried so fucking deep. It made a closed circuit from his ass to his cock, merging and intensifying every attendant sensation. And he'd wondered how long Vic would last.

"Not all." Vic sounded just as raw but the corners of his eyes smiled, gaze dropping slowly and luxuriously from Mac's face to his groin.

At the first languid movement, strong hands on his hips anchoring him in place, thighs tense with the effort of kneeling in that position, Mac gasped. He had the same rapid-pulsed, gutted feeling he got on an airplane when it fell suddenly then regained control, his stomach three beats behind, nerves sparking.

The slow pace was torture and he gripped Vic's forearms tightly. He was being watched and it shocked him, as if he'd forgotten he wasn't alone, somehow, in some virtual-reality wet dream of his own creation. The rush of actuality went straight to his cock. Yeah, if Vic kept staring at him like that he'd come from the visuals alone.

But he didn't want to, he wanted more, harder, faster, rougher, all the Penthouse clichés. He wanted to be fucked right out of his head. Mac shifted forward slightly and pushed back against Vic's thrust, earning a low growl and instant understanding.

Yeah, god, that was it, a skittering electric buzz that jammed right up his spine. Bliss. At this rate, he'd forget his own name in no time.

Now if he could only forget Vic's.

Mac closed his eyes to slits, peering down through his lashes as if they shielded him from the reciprocal stare. It wasn't natural, that kind of focus; sex was supposed to burn everything away, not bring it all home. His heart jigged wildly for a moment and Mac held his breath, forcing calm.

What the hell was the matter with him?

Vic was making the same panting moans he made when he was hurt, low sounds that rose slightly towards the end, erotic and plaintive and so intimate that each cry seemed to slice Mac open just a little bit more. Fingers dug into his hip bones sharply, and the pain almost made him lose his focus until the next drive of Vic's body into his. He didn't know if he could stand this, it was too real, Vic was just too there. He rocked down harder, feeling the pulse and swell of the cock in his ass and hoping, trying to make Vic come. So he could watch.

So he could end whatever it was that was starting to scare the hell out of him.

"N-no, you," Vic insisted, a gravelly rasp on the back of a moan. "With me."

Okay, he could do this; it was just sex, just sex, just the best sex he'd had in a long, long time and no problem, he could ignore the weird, hollow feeling in his chest in favor of the delicious, splintering friction of his hand on his own cock. Yeah, he could.

And if he timed his strokes right it was almost like he was fucking himself, except he couldn't wrench his gaze from Vic's and that wasn't good, that was bad. He was drowning slowly and... and he liked it.

"Come on, come on, come on," a whispered mantra in a lust-rich voice and Mac blinked, hesitated for a moment before giving in. God, it was dizzying, it rolled through him and spilled out of him like he'd been gutted. Exorcised. He didn't hear himself but only Vic's cry as he filled Mac's body and then, mercifully, nothing.

"Without going out the door, knowing everything. Without peeking out the window shades, seeing the Way of Heaven."

Mac pulled his jacket collar up, hunching his shoulders against the icy wind and even icier inflection. "It's six in the morning, Li Ann. I haven't had breakfast. I can't play What's My Line right now, okay?"

"The further you go, the less you know."

He studied her perfectly composed, expressionless features. When she graced him with her Buddha impression, he knew he was in big trouble. Even so, it was hard not to smirk. "Okay, is that, like, a prophecy, or a warning, or are you talking about yourself?"

"Bad karma, actually."

"You've been spending too much time with Jackie. She's—her head's all twisted." He twirled a finger by his ear mockingly.

The look Li Ann shot him made his smile waver. "And who have you been spending too much time with?"

Never mind that it was six-thirty a.m., and he never voluntarily got up before nine. Or that they were having this brilliant conversation while standing outside Vic's apartment building. There was no way he was gonna let her guilt him into confessing anything.

As if it wasn't all patently obvious. Wasn't he wearing a neon sign that read: freshly fucked by Victor Mansfield? If anyone could read it, she could. A strangely sobering thought.

"Someone could have picked up the phone. I was calling all night," she said angrily. "I was worried about—him, and then when you weren't home, either..." She sighed. "You must think I'm stupid."

He'd forgotten how good she was at making him feel like a heel. "Sorry. The ringer was off, and—"

"Right. Whatever." Li Ann gave him a tight smile and started towards the front door.

"Hey—he's not up yet. I mean," Mac added quickly, turning halfway around and gesturing to a diner across the street, "wanna get breakfast?"

Better and better. Now she was giving him that aren't-you-a-sad-excuse-for- an-adult stare, which softened into the pitiful I-feel-sorry-for-Victor look. Of course, if she actually went upstairs she'd never give Vic the full benefit of her compassion—he didn't think—but just knowing she believed Vic had somehow gotten the raw end of the deal made him mad.

Never mind that Mac had snuck out of Vic's apartment while he was still sleeping, and had had every intention of driving straight home and going back to bed. Alone. To forget.

"Mac—"

"Stop saying that."

"—you're coming back upstairs with me."

He stared in surprise. "You're out of your mind."

And the claustrophobia of the other day was back in full force, pressing insistently on his chest, making his heart race arhythmically. This was it: he was condemned to spend his entire life with Vic and Li Ann, occasionally Jackie and always, always the goddamn Director and her complete goddamn control.

"I can't." The note of honesty in his voice worried him. "I've gotta go. It's cool, I'll catch you later."

"You can't just leave. We're supposed to be a team. We're supposed to back each other up."

Oh, he'd like to back Vic up, all right. Back him up against a wall and— his thoughts stuttered, suddenly overwhelmed by a stunningly clear memory of calling out Vic's name, having it wrenched from him full-throttle and mid- fuck and god, he was mortified still.

Li Ann snapped her fingers in front of his face, and he blinked. "Are you with me?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he muttered diffidently. "I mean, I'm with you, I'm just not going with you. Upstairs. You know."

"Did you at least find out what the deal is with him and Burghard?"

Mac raised his eyebrows, shrugged. "I'm on surveillance."

"That better be all you're on," was Li Ann's parting shot, and Mac couldn't think of a fast enough comeback.

###

He was cruising along in neutral, mind pleasantly empty, until he got home and decided to take a shower. And then thought no, he'd rather not, because he'd be all squeaky clean and wouldn't smell like sex. Like Vic. Which was just too fucking weird and made him hesitate over getting into a freshly made bed. He opted for the couch, instead.

And felt a sudden, sickening lurch at the image of Li Ann in Vic's apartment, at that very moment. If Vic had half a brain, he wouldn't let her in the bedroom. Mac smiled, satisfied. Except why the hell was she there, and he here?

Something wrong with this picture. No—why was Li Ann there, period? Jesus, and come to think of it, Vic's place had suddenly sprung a revolving door.

He'd forgotten about Steve, again.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked loudly, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the insistent morning sun. The Director never answered when he wanted her to. "It isn't fair." Okay, that sounded childish, even for him, Mac admitted silently. What exactly did he have to complain about? That Vic had been holding out on him all this time? That if it wasn't for this assignment, he might never have known Vic was bi? That Vic had actually had sex with a man—even once—who wasn't him?

Not to mention the fact that—and here was the sticking point—sex with Vic hadn't turned out to be just, well, just sex at all. Which, if he'd had half a brain, he'd have figured out before having that particular piece of cake, thank you very much.

What it was, beyond the sex, Mac had no fucking clue.

He wasn't gonna fall asleep any time soon, but since he had nothing to do except come face to face with even more appalling admissions, he stayed on the couch and tried to meditate. It was hard to do lying down, Mac discovered; much easier to count the cracks in the plaster, the errands he should run, all the things he'd rather be doing if he were free to do them. Like going to Venice. He'd always had a romantic inclination to take himself off to Venice for the summer, or maybe Milan. Good shopping there. Great food. An appreciation of the finer things.

Not that he had anyone to go with. Not that he'd ever, in his whole useful shelf life (and he wondered, sometimes, just what his expiration date was), be allowed to go anywhere he chose, simply because he chose to.

Mac shifted, redistributing his weight. He was bone-tired, and his body was sore in every distinct set of muscles. If he'd been in Hong Kong, he could have gotten a damn fine massage—something to melt his head as well as his body, so that there was nothing left but a clear, burning emptiness. Well, he wasn't in Hong Kong, and he wasn't going to Italy, which just left his newly adopted country and that country's native son.

He started to laugh, then grunted at the splinter of pain. God, did he even have muscles there? "Okay, oh—kay." Mac swayed to an upright position and squinted, rubbed his eyes. Nothing was working for him and he was going to have to face it. He took a deep breath, felt foolish having to gird himself against his own thoughts, and let them go.

Vic, of course. Vic was suddenly the occasion for an alarmingly focused arousal that threatened to spiral into something much more menacing. Like actual caring. Like, like friendship.

He was going to have to help. The idea slammed through Mac's head and left him slightly sick. He was going to have to get his ass back to Vic's place and help him sort out this whole, fucking, stupid mess.

"Tell me you didn't sleep with him."

If ever there was proof that crime didn't pay, this was it. Mac stood in the doorway, lock picks in hand, frozen.

Shit.

"Vic, you didn't—"

Victor looked harassed. Pent up. Mac had seen that expression hundreds of times, but not directed at Li Ann. At him, sure, and the Director, of course, because they each worked on him mercilessly in their own way.

When Vic spoke, his voice had that intimate, scratchy quality that made Mac want to bite something. "I like it, okay? I like sleeping with men."

Talk about dropping a bomb. Well, it wasn't exactly headline news any longer, but sometimes denial was a wonderful thing. Mac glanced at Li Ann and winced. Vic was being completely tactless, and he felt himself getting annoyed, too.

Sure, just tell her. Make me work my ass off for it.

"Since when?" Li Ann asked disbelievingly.

"Since before." Vic moved around the living room restlessly. "Before us."

"I see. So what did that make me, some misguided attempt at—"

"No!" He stopped, facing her. "This isn't... about you."

"Jesus." Whatever self-editing he'd ever possessed simply went off- line. Mac heard the one word ring loudly, and watched as two pairs of eyes turned to stare him down.

"Do you ever knock?" Vic asked, temper making his voice break roughly.

"You mean this isn't an open audition for Truth or Consequences?" Mac pocketed the picks and walked over to the couch, sprawling casually. No easy feat, given the memory of their earlier wrestling match, and Mac noticed right about the same time as Vic that the coffee table was still displaced. He returned Vic's glare with nonchalance.

"Did you know?"

Mac blinked, realized Li Ann's question was directed at him, and drew a blank. Did he know? He'd been there, hadn't he? "Excuse me?"

"I knew I couldn't trust either of you," she continued, turning back to Vic. "How could you be engaged to someone and not tell them something like that?"

Vic dropped his gaze and sighed.

He was going to apologize, Mac could sense it, and for some reason it really pissed him off. "Can we all just agree that none of us has been, like, a hundred per cent honest? Because I don't think this is really a great time to start counting skeletons."

He had her there and she knew it. Interesting how easily Michael could be summoned from beyond the grave.

Li Ann relaxed fractionally, anger sliding into simple misery. "But you hate Burghard," she said quietly. "How could you?"

"I don't... I don't want to talk about it." Vic went over to the window, staring out.

That was predictable, except for the fact that he really thought they'd been talking about him. Them. Him and Vic. Whatever. Mac leaned forward, elbows on knees, and studied the line of Vic's back. What a load of passive-aggressive bullshit the guy was flinging.

"So you're seeing him again." He got up and walked across the floor, motioning Li Ann to stay where she was.

"Never said I wasn't."

Stubborn sonofabitch, too, Mac could see it in the set of his shoulders. "I thought it was a nightmare," he said quietly, standing right behind him.

Vic gave a choked laugh. "This whole fucking job is a nightmare. The Agency, the Director, my life—take your pick."

And last night? Mac looked at Vic's reflection in the glass, trying to read his face. Mac didn't understand what made him tick. He never had. It was too complicated, too volatile, and there were times—many times ­ when he wished he'd never met him.

It was also too late. "I'm going with you."

"You can't. He's seen you, remember?"

Vic's arms were at his sides. Mac laced their hands together, feeling him relax awkwardly. Nothing at all like the languid, post-coital curve of body spooned up behind him, Vic's fingers pushing between his own with a contented sigh.

He shook the memory off ruthlessly. "Work with me here, huh? You tell me what's really going down, and I'll think of an angle. I'm excellent at that."

Vic started to smile at the brag but it slipped away quickly. "If this gets messed up, then I—then it was all—" The thought lay unfinished, swallowed in a complicated sound of pain, anger and tight, tight control.

"We've always got your back," Li Ann said from her chair across the room and it startled him; he'd forgotten she was even there. "No matter what."

"Vic?" He'd forgotten a lot of things. Mac pulled in too much air and stopped, his brain functions spinning into gear at a frightening pace. "It's been three weeks. I mean, you've been undercover for—have you, y'know, you and Steve? For three weeks?"

It wasn't as if he wanted an answer, but not knowing was infinitely worse. He was jealous, a dispassionate part of him registered with amusement. Not hurt, the way he'd been when Li Ann rejected him, but viscerally and primitively jealous. Wanna snap every fine, delicate bone in the hand that touched Vic jealous.

And shit, why did that make him hard?

"I was..." Vic said and faltered, voice edgy, just this side of losing it. He turned, shoulder against Mac's chest. "I can't... really... talk. Li Ann, I'm sorry."

So he managed to slip the apology in anyway. Figured. Mac watched them try to meet each other's gazes, remembering in that exchange how they used to be together. When they were together.

Try as he might, he had never really believed Vic was Mr. Rebound. "It's okay," she said quietly, giving Vic a pained smile. "I guess it's okay, right? Why don't I go get some lunch or something."

"Alone at last." Mac grinned at the irritated glare Vic shot him, but felt pretty twitchy himself. "So, what's up with all the secrecy? I mean, this is the land of the politically correct, right? Or is it a generational thing? Did you miss that 'Free to Be You and Me' instructional video or what?"

Of course the hit and run technique wouldn't net him anything in the way of information, but it didn't stop him, either. Mac could feel the groundswell of guilty pleasure at dancing just a little faster than Vic, and he was having trouble resisting it. He'd always had trouble resisting temptation.

"I knew it was too good to be true," Vic commented sarcastically. He had another bottle of water in his fist and took a long swallow.

"Well, maybe if you play your cards right, I'll let you take me to dinner later."

Vic snorted, shook his head. "When pigs can fly."

"So, you'll fuck me, but won't be seen in public with me?" It was just a line, but Mac's breath caught at a blaze of emotion in Vic's eyes which was quickly banked.

"Something like that."

"Yeah, no, exactly like that." Mac sat across from him, just where Li Ann had been minutes ago. Seemed to be the Inquisitor's chair. "Exactly."

"I'm a cop—I was a cop," Vic replied testily. "I couldn't just... out myself. I'd've been killed."

No point in mentioning that he'd been set up by his own anyhow. Mac shrugged, as much to ease the creeping tension in his shoulders as anything else. "Is that imprinted in your DNA, cop-ness? Because you haven't been on the Force for a couple of years now, Vic. You could have told someone." You could've fucking told me. "I guess it is, though, huh. The whole entrapment thing really fits—"

"Don't." Those eyes again, this time unguarded and rich with anger. "Just don't."

He didn't know why he was, even, except it was simpler than the alternative. On the other hand, it burned to think he was taking the easy way out.

Yeah, great reason to do the right thing: pride.

"I didn't tell anyone," Vic said carefully, "because I didn't want it used against me."

"Li Ann wouldn't have done that."

A long, heavy rush of air, and Vic's posture was eloquent. What could he say? Screwed again, wrong again, good intentions pave that too- familiar road. Mac watched it all play across him like a video screen and wondered if everyone saw what he did when they looked at Vic. Oh, and that brought back a stab of possessiveness he had no right to.

"What about you?" Vic was frowning at him. "You're not exactly known for wearing rainbows yourself."

"Rainbows?" He shook his head in mock disdain. "That's so over." "Whatever."

"Li Ann's always known," he said lightly, "the Director. Pretty much everybody. It's no big deal."

Vic was giving him the same careful scrutiny he might give a suspect in the box, and it made Mac uncomfortable. "So, that's it?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, most people know I'm not totally," he made a flat- line gesture with one hand, "straight."

"Then you're... bent. Warped? Twisted?"

"Watch that," he admonished, suddenly trying not to smile.

Vic lowered his head, a smirk threatening as well. "About dinner—"

"That was a joke."

"Um. The whole thing was probably ill-advised."

"Probably." Mac rose and walked over to the couch, tracking Vic the whole time. He saw the slight drawing back, a flicker of unease, and then something too new not to startle: hunger.

"So," he said, sinking down casually beside him and letting his legs fall where they may. "You never did answer my question."

Vic made a small noise, cleared his throat. "Took time to convince Steve I was on the level. Y'know. With our history."

He realized he was rocking his body very slightly and he stopped. "Not long, though, huh?"

Vic shook his head a fraction.

He thought Vic would kiss him, then. He could sense the tiny shift of Vic's body, the desire to kiss him. But no, it would be too much like an apology. As if he even deserved one, but Mac wanted Vic to tell him he shouldn't have, he was wrong, and never again.

Embarrassing, romantic crap that lodged in his gut, sharp and insistent.

"Hey." Vic gave him a strange look and reached out for Mac's shirt.

Mac blocked him reflexively with a quick, circular motion. "What?"

"Your clothes. You haven't changed." Vic leaned towards him slowly and Mac thought yeah, finally, but he stopped short and—was he really, could he actually be smelling him? Because that was just plain weird. Vic's hand went to his shirt again, fingers smoothing it, petting the fabric appreciatively. "You haven't showered." The voice was low and vibrated against his neck, heating his skin.

"And that turns you on?" Even as he formed the question Mac's breathing stuttered, the hand that had been resting chastely in his lap suddenly full.

He flinched at the unexpected liquid curl of Vic's tongue near his ear. "Yeah, Mac, you taste like—"

"Don't be a damn tease." He grabbed the back of Vic's neck, nice and strong and something sexy about that, and pulled him forcefully into the kiss he wanted. Vic was smiling against his mouth and it annoyed him. This was serious, dammit, pay attention.

Somehow he managed to get a thigh between Vic's, yanking him off- balance so that he fell forward into Mac's arms with a grunt. The damn couch was definitely getting on his nerves, never enough of a surface to work with. Vic slipped out of his grip, sliding slowly down the length of his body, riding his leg until he reached the floor.

"Oh." Vic looked flustered, then squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. Hands came out to steady himself, finding Mac's knees.

"You okay?"

No answer, just a heavy-lidded appraisal that sent shocks of god-yes- now through Mac's brain. What was left of it. This was perfect, palms hot and heavy and stroking up his legs, Vic settled in between. Perfect, except couldn't he have just stayed in Vic's apartment in the first place, woken up next to him, against him, under him, hard and naked and in bed?

Because that would have been so much easier, and they'd have wasted so much less time.

"Salt" was murmured into his lap, barely audible, breath humid through the fabric of his trousers. Vic slowly raked his teeth along the outline of Mac's erection and Mac hissed into the mix of instinctive fear and edgy pleasure.

He unzipped impatiently, un-tucking his shirt and wondering why the hell people wore so many clothes. Boxers, at least, posed no obstacle. His thumb brushed Vic's lips as he freed himself and Vic smiled slyly.

"Sweat," Vic rasped, tongue delving below Mac's fist. Mac had to distract himself from the long, green look that skewered him through the chest, and found himself replaying Vic's confession, wondering how much he liked men, how many lovers he'd had. Not enough to keep him single by choice, he mused, but oh god, enough to learn how to do this.

Mac melted into the couch, legs falling wide, hips sinking forward. Skanky. Had to be, after what they'd been up to and that shouldn't, really, do anything for Vic, shouldn't make him hum like that, low in his throat. Vic slipped the point of his tongue over Mac's knuckles, pushing between his fingers, all plush-hot and serpentine; Mac could smell the sex coming off him in sharp, acrid waves.

"Vic."

A glint of focused desire, and his voice sounded raw. "Yeah?"

Mac exhaled. "Go on, do it."

Vic wet his lips and sat back on his heels, mouth slightly open, inviting.

God, how right was this? No worrying about what you wanted or how hard, no having to explain or cajole or barter, knowing all the time that it was only for you, that your partner was only obliging you and didn't enjoy the taste, the feel, the push and slide and rhythm of your cock in her mouth.

He leaned forward, angling down, and rubbed himself against Vic's lower lip, making it glisten. "Do it."

"Patience, Ramsey."

The words buzzed against him achingly. "Fuck you," he threw back in frustration and wondered why the hell Vic had picked this particular moment to play coy. He noticed with a weird sense of déją vu that Vic was giving him the same look he'd once caught him giving that woman down in Research: breathy and expectant, part put-on and part come-on. It had seemed so corny at the time.

"Yeah. Fuck me."

"Jesus." That was eloquent, but every intelligent word was burned from his brain. "Jesus, Vic," and he shunted his hips forward to meet that dare.

One day he'd have to figure out why he never really felt in control when he was doing this. One day way far in the future, if Vic and god were willing, because he would never tire of driving himself down that throat. Which was funny, really, since on the face of it Vic was the last person on earth he'd have ever believed could—would—do that with him.

Mac hissed as fingers encircled his balls, applying a measured pressure. The sound mutated into something more guttural as he settled into a rough and careless rhythm, trusting Vic to stay with him. He didn't look down, didn't need to; the earlier, burned-into-his-retina image of friction swollen lips, hollowed cheeks and lust glazed eyes was like his own private porno stash. Mac grinned, a moment of perfect rightness passing over him. He could get very used to this. Except—

"Hey!" He grabbed a handful of Vic's hair, which wasn't quite long enough to keep Vic from yanking his head away. "What the hell are you doing?"

Because suddenly everything had come to a spectacular halt, and Vic had tried, had actually—unbelievably—begun to get up off his knees.

As if he was through, the sonofabitch.

"The phone," he replied shortly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mac stared. "What?"

"The phone."

He was still staring, his mind drawing a blank while the adrenaline zinged aimlessly through his system. "Don't you leave me like this to answer the damn—"

"I'm expecting—"

"I don't give a flying fuck who you're expecting." His hand went out automatically, fastening hard on Vic's shoulder, pressing him down angrily. "You're here. With me."

"Mac," Vic began, but let it fade. For a moment Mac thought he had him; Vic lowered his gaze a fraction and sighed. "It's the Director."

"What?" He frowned, trying to concentrate and failing.

"Get a grip, will you?" Vic sounded disgusted. He shrugged off Mac's hand and stood up carefully, adjusting himself in his jeans. Picking up his cell, he jabbed the talk button and threw the phone at Mac. "Tell her how you feel."

"Playtime is over, boys and... well." Mac cursed and pulled his shirt tails down over his lap hastily, although the smile in the Director's voice was coldly deflating. "Mac. I know it's you. I also know what you're thinking."

"Then you must be blushing," he said, surprised his voice didn't shake.

"You know I never blush," came the pat reply and he found he was rubbing his forehead, trying to ease the steel band of headache there.

"Pay very close attention to what I am going to tell you. You will not be accompanying Victor when he rendezvous with Mr. Burghard."

The name brought a rush of bile into his throat. He started to object and was abruptly cut off.

"You wouldn't want all of Victor's hard work to be for naught, would you?" she said very calmly, as if speaking to a child known for throwing tantrums. "He's seen you. You have no cover. Vic is a big boy and knows what he's doing. We have been working on setting this up for months. Need I say more?"

Please don't. "Well I'm not just gonna sit here while they play house." Mac glanced over to Vic, who seemed to be finding the floor remarkably fascinating.

"Back up. You're familiar with the concept, I assume? I want you on the inside. Li Ann will take the perimeter. Is that clear? Mac?"

"Yeah. All too."

"Now say goodbye and give the phone to Victor."

"Right. Bye." He threw the phone in the air and took aim with his finger, miming a dead-on shot. Vic lurched forward and caught it before it hit the ground, cursing loudly. Well, that would work, too. He hoped she'd heard him.

Mac watched Vic in profile, cradling the compact appliance in his hand. Vic caught his eye and turned away for a moment, finishing the conversation in a hushed voice. Who did he think he was fooling with this whole Maxwell Smart routine? A fine edge of anger was working its way up his spine and Mac sat a little straighter.

"Li Ann's back at the Agency," Vic said, unable to completely mask his annoyance. Had he really thought she was just going for lunch, that she'd be coming right back? Mac's lip twitched and he fought off an unpleasant smirk. 'Cause having sex in the wake of that possibility was downright careless. One of the few things he hadn't accused Vic of in the past.

"You're supposed to meet her there in an hour. Dobrinsky's gonna brief you on procedure," Vic finished gruffly.

"Don't change the subject."

Vic tossed the phone onto a chair. "What?"

"You're not doing this." Mac refastened his pants and shoved his shirt inside with ruthless efficiency. "I don't care what she says or what kind of punishment she comes up with. You're not seeing him again."

Vic raised his eyebrows scornfully. "What are you, my wife?"

"Take that back." He was on his feet and halfway across the floor before he could recalibrate the pain in his voice to something less revealing. And there they were, back to square one in the space of less than a minute. It was childishly comforting, somehow. "I mean it."

"Look, I have to go. No one's forcing me, all right?"

He made it sound as if no one could force him, and it stopped Mac in his tracks. Of course it wasn't true, but the implication worried him more than... well, he didn't usually worry much. He really didn't want to worry about Vic, of all people.

"You don't know what he is."

But he did. He knew exactly what Burghard was, what they all were, all the pushers and killers and psychos the Director sent them after. He couldn't see anything different about this case except Vic's willingness to crucify himself on it.

Mac shook his head. "Oh, I forgot. You're the one with all the experience. I don't know shit." Better sarcasm than sounding like he gave a damn. Mac slipped his hands into his pockets, affecting a non- committal stance.

"That's right," Vic threw back at him. "If it was up to me, you and Li Ann wouldn't be involved at all in this. At least, that was the deal going in."

"Well, I'm involved now," Mac said without thinking, and swallowed a violent rush of ohmygodwhatthefuck? Vic's eyes flashed something hot and enigmatic, then slid away, momentarily unnerving him. Focus, he needed to focus if he was going to dissuade the idiot in front of him from doing anything stupid. Stupider. Anything that would make Mac want to kill someone.

Because he just hated that feeling.

"He'll think it's a set-up if you go to his place," he offered in a controlled voice. "You should meet somewhere neutral."

"Steve's already—he's already been here, and anyway he's pushing for it. If I say no," Vic paused, "again, he'll be suspicious."

Again? He narrowed his eyes and tried to stare Vic down.

"Mac. It'll be fine."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

"We have all the dirt on him we need," Vic said, ignoring the question. Mac tensed at his choice of pronoun. We, as in the Agency. Nothing personal. "All I have to do is keep Steve interest- distracted."

Which made Mac snort. "Yeah. Piece of cake."

He was getting worked up again and thought it had to be the job, the goddamn Agency; he wasn't one of those toughs who got turned on by anger and violence. He'd been a high class thief, for god's sake, not some pathetic street hood. Mac stood very near his partner, enjoying the three inches he had over him. He supposed now might be the time to ask Vic why he had suddenly and benevolently decided that having sex with him was a good thing —the kind of good thing he actually wanted to repeat—but he couldn't wrap his head around it, let alone form the question.

So he kissed him instead, angrily, possessively, feeling Vic's instinctive response. It burned like hundred proof liquor right down to Mac's groin and he wondered if the sex was just sublimated fighting, or if the fighting had been sublimated sex, but really he didn't care, he'd take what he could get.

Of course, pushing Vic never actually moved him in the right direction. Something Mac should've known. Had, in fact, known, prior to whatever the hell this thing was that they were sharing. So there was no plausible excuse for the surprise he felt when Vic shoved him away so decisively.

"You don't give a shit about this assignment, admit it. You just want to get off."

Too bad that those words coming from that mouth, the flash of anger across that face, only served to stroke him harder. Mac laughed shakily and ran his tongue over his lower lip. "Like I'd pick you for an easy lay." The words tumbled out unthinkingly, weren't really what he wanted to say, and he watched Vic's expression harden. Okay, so the guy was half right. Mostly right. But hell, Vic had to know that he wouldn't just use him.

"You're a professional." Vic made it sound sordid. Suspect. "Just do your damn job."

It was unintentional, swaying into Vic like that, practically leaning against him. That lint-filled voice was doing wicked things to his equilibrium. "What's my job, then, huh? Watching your back? Or watching you put out?"

Mac tensed at the anger that blossomed but was all too quickly controlled. "This. Is not. About. You."

"Really?" He could feel something awful bubbling up in his chest but he wasn't sure what it was. Was certain he didn't want to know. "You've been saying that a lot lately and I think you're full of shit. You can't just put everyone in their own little box."

"No? I suppose you think you belong somewhere special," Vic challenged, breathing slightly ragged with anger.

Asshole. And he did, he did think that, Jesus. How ironic could you possibly get? He watched Vic's face and it was all there, it was always right there; easy to read and impossible to broach. If only Vic would let rip, let him have it, give him one good reason why this thing with Steve meant so goddamn much.

But no. Of course not.

"Okay," he said, hearing his voice turn bitter. "I get it. The job comes first, the fucking job is everything. Fine. Have it your way. If this is what you want, I'll be there for you. Just don't lie to yourself and—and tell yourself this had nothing to do with me."

Dobrinsky had been remarkably helpful—if by that one meant he left the room as quickly as possible and without the usual tepid verbal abuse. Mac was thankful for what he could get. It was cold in the briefing room with just Li Ann and him, and a big, fat file that had Steve Burghard's face stapled to the inside cover. He hunched over the table, moping.

"That's him." Li Ann had been through everything already, so this wasn't a question. But she scrutinized the photo for a long moment. "It's a better picture than the one the Director showed us yesterday. Still, I thought he was older."

"Older than what?" he bit out before he could catch himself. He hadn't mentioned meeting Burghard back in the alley, and now the deception rankled.

She glanced at him thoughtfully. "Older than Vic, I guess. He's amassed quite an empire for someone in his early thirties. Without seed money. Family to get him set up."

"Come on, Li Ann." He was angry, and although loath to admit it, glad she offered him a target at which to vent. "I could have made millions like that," Mac said and snapped his fingers sharply. "If I was on my own. A free agent. Not shut up here in this godforsaken place where you're forced to do good until you die."

Li Ann raised a brow in his direction.

"Well..." A practiced shrug, a feigned expression of 'What did I say?' The whole thing was getting under his skin like an itch you can't quite locate. He'd slough off the whole last twenty-four hours if he could.

Probably.

"It seems," Li Ann went on, "that Burghard is something of a computer freak. Keeps all his records on file."

"Now he is too old for that," Mac grumbled.

"And too good-looking," she agreed, a funny expression on her face.

Mac humphed pre-emptingly, and made a show of adjusting his sleeves. There was no way he was going to sit here and discuss the merits of Vic's "date." Not unless there was a toilet handy.

"Right. Well, if it's on the system, we have a chance of getting it. The whole drug operation, who's on his payroll, everything. He's given Vic enough information for us to break into the databases. We think."

"You think?"

"It could be a test. Or just plain misinformation. In either case we're screwed. And that's not even counting getting into the building."

"Did I ever tell you how much I hate this job?"

"Not today."

Christ. Mac realized he was staring at the wall across the room, but was too lethargic to unglue his eyes. To even blink. Everything on the outside seemed so perfectly normal—the job, Li Ann, Dobrinsky. The weather was obligingly cold, wet, and grey just like every day every Fall. A statistical average. Moderation in all things. On the outside.

"... The blueprints for his apartment."

The words seeped through his fugue and he forced himself to look. "You go in here," Li Ann said, pointing, "then up to the penthouse. Stay on the balcony and wait 'til I tell you we're all clear."

"The balcony?" he repeated and made a face. A stunning, twenty-five foot wraparound, no less. Plants and furniture and all the accouterments. Some people knew how to live.

"...Requisition for a head set but you won't need a scope. I—"

"Li Ann." He was surprised by the loudness of his voice and the startled look that flew across her face. The wall he'd been depending on, forcibly propping up with this odd, numbing pain, was beginning to crumble. And everything on the other side was rushing to that breach.

"Li Ann?" Mac held her gaze, wishing he could telegraph his thoughts. Vic's having sex with that man you think is too young and too good- looking, but not because he wants to, he doesn't, and he didn't want you to know. So you're pretending he isn't, that he and I haven't, and everything's the same. But it's not. Nothing is.

"What?" She asked impatiently.

But he never did have those sorts of mental powers, and lately he wondered if he had a brain at all. "Nothing."

###

Surveillance, again. Cold, and dark, and uncomfortable. Again. Getting up to the damn balcony hadn't been as easy as advertised, and now he realized that of the twenty-five feet allocated to it, only a two foot square of said balcony afforded him a clear and sheltered view of the spacious, brightly lit, climate-controlled living room.

He checked his watch. Vic was scheduled to meet Steve at 8:30, and it was 9:15 now. Forty-five minutes late because he had to neutralize some muscle that wasn't supposed to be there, and the blueprints had been out of date. Mac had a niggling suspicion that the Director was aware of both of those facts—didn't she know everything?—and had somehow contrived to use them against him. To make him late on purpose.

To give Vic a head start.

He couldn't hear anyone, despite the headset that wired him into both Li Ann and the apartment. All he was picking up was ambient noise. Movement in the room, perhaps, it was hard to sort out the details. He couldn't even be certain Vic was there, since Mac had his head ducked down low behind a bank of potted plants.

Maybe it was a case of voyeurism phobia, if such a thing was possible. His heart was thumping so hard he couldn't concentrate. The afternoon's anger had settled like tar in his stomach, bitterly toxic; this, he noted in surprise, was fear. He was fucking afraid to look.

Because whatifwhatifwhatiftheywere—whatifVicwasbeing—shit. Way unprofessional. Dangerous. Stupid.

Mac took in a lung full of air and let it out slowly, counting the seconds. One. Two. Three. And lifted his eyes.

Ohmygod, he was such a wuss; they were just having a drink. And the game was on TV. It was all so Good Housekeeping. Mac shook his head and crouched as low to the ground as he could. His runaway emotions were doing nothing to calm the needling ache of unfinished sex; he pressed the heel of his palm roughly against his crotch, and chewed on his lip.

Vic emptied his glass and put it down on the kitchen pass-through counter, and Mac found himself admiring the stretch and pull of the shirt he didn't remember fitting that well. God, was everything going to be tinged with sex from now on? Because that would definitely drive him insane. He felt the anxiety building into panic and fought it down. Sitting still was not what he was best at, nuh-uh, no way.

"It's all set."

Vic had flopped into an easy chair and was watching the hockey game. At Steve's remark he looked up. "That fast?" Then he smiled wryly. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to for a moment."

Steve was standing on the other side of the coffee table, nursing a drink, and he nodded. "You remember the youth center you kept pushing for back in eighty-nine?"

"Yeah, but I couldn't raise enough interest—"

"Money," Steve corrected, shrugging out of his suit coat. He tossed it carelessly onto the couch. "It was up six months after you told me about it. At the Christmas party?"

"Shit, that's right." Vic tossed back his whiskey and relaxed into the cushions with a long sigh. "I didn't know you made that happen."

"I'm a long-term investor. Even though you turned me down. Politely. And more than once."

"Never for a game, though," Vic replied, then grinned. "I distinctly remember saying yes to Morgan Creek without a second thought. Beautiful course." He leaned back even further in his seat, looking innocently up at the ceiling. "Isn't that where you hit it into the shit on sixteen? And then climbed right in there, rolled up your pants and tried to hit it out again?"

Steve's eyes narrowed but he smiled. "Something like that."

"You always were a stubborn sonofabitch," Vic said affably. "You should've just taken a drop."

Golf. Mac smirked. Now this was something he should be able to use against Vic for a long time. How much squarer could the guy possibly get? And yet, the easy familiarity they had with each other was disconcerting; sure Vic was undercover, but he wasn't playing a role. Not entirely.

They'd been friends. Before Vic knew who Steve really was, before he cut him off, Steve had been one of Vic's friends. The thought made his breath catch, a thick wave of unaccustomed depression gagging him. It was all there: everything he'd never had, everything he'd had and lost, and quite possibly the only thing he really wanted and might not get. The perfect irony of it made him want to puke.

"You know I never settle. But I will admit to being a bit distracted by the company. That was a good weekend." Steve put his glass down on the bar to his left, and started to undo his cuffs. "Too bad you felt you had to play it straight in those days."

"Yeah, well." Vic shifted in his seat. "That was a long time ago. Shit happens."

"It was worth the wait," Steve said, gaze never straying. "To be partners. I've arranged a meeting with John for tomorrow morning. He'll fill you in on the details. I expect a few things have changed since you were on the city payroll."

"John from the club?"

"The same."

For a moment, Mac thought Vic must have spotted him. Their eyes met straight on, although Mac was sure he was well hidden and the bright lights in the apartment made it impossible to see out the plate-glass terrace doors. Still, it sent a jolt of anxiety through him that lodged inappropriately in his groin.

But Vic looked away again without any change in his expression. "I've tried to keep up. You start feeling old when Smack is out of style." He stretched, twisting his upper body from side to side. "Looks like The Oilers are gonna win by a mile."

Steve neatly rolled up each sleeve two times and smoothed out the fabric. "Come on over here."

All right. Mac had his gun out with an ease and speed that took him by surprise, fingers gripping tightly and slick with sweat. Had he really told the Godfather that guns weren't his thing? Not good, this was very not good, and he forced himself to relax his trigger finger and rest the weapon on his thigh.

He adjusted his earplug with his free hand, hoping the reason Li Ann hadn't contacted him yet was because of an equipment snafu, rather than anything more serious. Because then he'd have the perfect excuse to exercise maximum force on this asshole.

A moment's hesitation and Vic was on his feet and crossing the floor. Mac frowned, wondering if Steve noticed the reticence, if he cared, what he'd make of it. It had always been so easy for Mac to read Vic's emotions, to know instinctively what tone of voice and choice of words would tick him off. Funny. Vic was a pretty good poker player. He just didn't seem to be able to make that work for him in real life.

Steve was standing there waiting for Vic like a contented cat. If the guy wasn't so damn self-possessed he might be attractive, Mac conceded uncomfortably; he was good-looking, well-dressed, in decent shape. Vic smiled again, sexy—that smile was only supposed to be for him, dammit —and then Steve had him by the shoulders. Close, Steve pulled Vic completely against him and Mac wanted to look away but he couldn't. His attention was caught against his will, like a motorist unable to keep from gawking at a highway fatality.

"Well worth the wait." Steve bent Vic's head roughly back, making Mac acknowledge for the first time that he was a big man, and Vic seemed to be caught off-balance. He grabbed Steve's waist and made a sound of objection. God, how had Vic negotiated this for three weeks? If he even once stopped and considered it from Vic's point of view—but no, he couldn't go there. Not now. Maybe never. Mac steeled himself for the kiss he knew was coming but it didn't help, he felt his muscles twitch dangerously.

One hand still held Vic's head at that awkward angle and Steve seemed intent on his own pleasure. It was torturously slow—at least it seemed so to Mac —and he told himself again and uselessly that he didn't have to watch. The apartment was wired for sound and video, and there wasn't any obvious danger there. Steve wasn't going to shoot Vic or cut him or beat him senseless as long as he played his cards right, and anyway, Vic was capable of defending himself against those sorts of assaults.

Mac tensed, and waited out the jolt of a painfully obvious realization. He hadn't asked, he should've asked, but it was looking like great odds that Vic wasn't carrying. There was nowhere to hide a weapon when he was being so thoroughly and personally frisked.

"I've kept my end of the deal," Steve said quietly, pulling back at last. Vic stumbled slightly against him, regained his balance with a palm against his chest. "You'll run the whole kiddy division. Max, X, R-2, Special K, the works." Steve insinuated his fingers between the buttons of Vic's shirt. Mac could see Vic inhale tightly and he fought to stay calm, be objective, do his job. Don't interfere. Right—like that was something he was known for on his best days.

"Now it's your turn."

Okay, and he could tell by the set of Vic's mouth that this wasn't good, either: resignation iced over with pride. Mac watched him try to let it go, the struggle so obvious he couldn't understand why Steve didn't notice it. But the man was still smiling that infuriatingly confident smile, as if he knew he'd already won.

Vic closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they glanced past Steve and this time Mac was sure Vic was looking at him. At where he knew he was. "Let's take this in the bedroom, then," he offered in a low voice.

Black fury pressed against Mac's lungs and he wanted to kick Vic in the head. Did he really think it would help, that he could spare Mac anything by taking this show on the road? As if his imagination wasn't gorier and more ruthless than any reality could be. As if he'd let Vic take Steve on by himself.

As if he'd ever—he would never—let Vic give it up in the line of duty.

"Mac?"

Li Ann. "Where the hell are you?" he whispered back, as quietly as he could but still managing to bristle.

"Give me ten minutes. Twelve, tops." "I don't have—"

"Don't. Do. Anything."

"Don't do anything," he repeated, muttering to himself and shaking his head. Mac flexed his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension settling there. Steve was kissing Vic again, and unbuttoning his shirt as if he had all the time in the world. For a crazy moment Mac wondered if Vic liked it, if he'd ever wanted Steve and shit he'd better pay attention or something would go very wrong, he was sure of it. Like, he'd go postal and kill everyone including himself.

Nah, well, probably not. He really wasn't the suicidal type.

"No, not this time," Steve replied firmly.

Mac blinked, not sure he was following the train of their conversation. Vic's shirt was off now and Steve was admiring his handiwork. It was like a porno movie, there was no way this was actually happening; no way could he be sitting here letting this goon ogle his... whatever. Vic. Who looked too fucking good standing there half-naked except for those familiar and well-worn jeans.

Had it been only yesterday that Vic had stripped off and stood, confident and effortlessly seductive, waiting for Mac to join him? The image was sharp and visceral. He could still taste the tang of salt on Vic's skin.

"We'll stay out here. I don't want you," Steve was saying warmly, "lying down."

Which meant what, exactly? And Mac had a flash of inspiration aided by memory. Yeah, okay, a nightmare, he'd have to give Vic that; some personal twist on the usual power games men like Steve preferred. Up against the wall and spread 'em, baby. I'm gonna be the cop tonight.

The gun came up again, frighteningly quickly. Was lowered much more slowly. Don't do anything, don't do anything, don't fucking do anything. What would he, if he could? It wasn't hard to kill a man with your bare hands if you knew what you were about. A sharp upward blow with the heel of his palm to Steve's nose, and the bone would go right into his brain. The thought gave him a rush that was too much like lust for comfort.

Mac found he was rocking his body again, this time from nervous tension. If he never saw another public display of affection it would be too soon. He knew Vic had to participate. He'd been undercover for three weeks already; laid the groundwork, as it were, and possibly more. Still, Mac's stomach pitched at the thought and the sight of Vic touching Steve, holding the side of his face as they kissed, again, and even more thoroughly.

Breathe. If only he could just keep breathing, just that steady, necessary intake of oxygen, exhalation of toxins. In, out. In, out. This was stupid, embarrassing, he really shouldn't give a damn what Vic did or with whom, and what was taking Li Ann so goddamn long? It had to be more than ten minutes already. The gun felt heavy against his leg, like lead. He ought to wipe the sweat from his hand but he was afraid to let go of his weapon even for that, because Steve was caressing Vic's bare chest, Vic's stomach, and he needed to know with utter certainty he could shoot the prick on a second's notice.

"Mac."

He winced at Li Ann's voice, and tilted his head a little from side to side. "When?"

"They're having problems with the passwords. Which means Burghard doesn't trust Vic as much as we hoped."

"Or he's just a naturally suspicious guy," he whispered back. "What now?"

"We need more time or we'll lose everything." A moment's silence on the other end. "How's Vic?"

Mac glanced up, surprised into realizing he hadn't been watching Steve during this exchange, and swallowed. "He'll live."

"Soon, okay?"

"Li Ann, don't—" He bit off the rest of the sentence. Don't screw this up, don't let Vic get hurt, don't make me do something really stupid. Like it was her responsibility. Not.

"Just hold on. Gotta go."

Hold on, right. He took the admonishment literally, hand traveling into his lap and squeezing. The pain felt good, somehow; real. A terrifying burn prickled directly behind his eyes and Mac worried ten minutes would be too long, that he wasn't going to last, he couldn't just sit here and watch someone else make love to—have sex with—molest Vic.

Vic, whose forehead rested on Steve's shoulder, face half hidden, held the other man loosely around the waist. The pose by itself was unreadable, but Mac could see his quick, shallow breathing. Fear, or one shot away from retching, which was just about the same thing.

"You haven't changed much," Steve was saying with appreciation. He yanked opened the front of Vic's jeans, forcing Vic to brace himself. "Not like a lot of cops your age, gone to fat. If anything, you're better looking now. The earring's a nice touch," he added with a quick grin, hand smoothing down over Vic's stomach.

Vic grunted and shifted his feet, making room for the questing fingers. "Yeah, I thought I'd upgrade my image a little," he commented dryly.

"Oh, I promise, by the end of the evening your image will be completely overhauled."

An angry grimace twisted Vic's face and shit, Mac knew that look. He'd provoked it himself many times and often on purpose. Why couldn't Steve see through this whole charade when it was so glaringly obvious that Vic wasn't enjoying himself?

Oh yeah, and he was a really bright boy, wasn't he. Mac shook his head. There was the piece of the puzzle he had deliberately mislaid, staring him right in the face. Of course Steve knew. He knew exactly how Vic felt and that was just fine by him. It was better than fine; it was freaking perfect.

Vic seemed to be struggling with Steve's shirt, and some detached part of Mac's brain registered approval of the garment. Hand-tailored and very expensive, there weren't many places that made them any more. Gee, the world was just going all to hell. But not fast enough for some people, because the buttons were refusing to slip free under Vic's ministrations and he blew out a long, frustrated breath.

"Nervous?" Steve asked, a hint of laughter in his voice as he took over the job himself. He made quick work of it and tossed the shirt on top of his discarded jacket.

"You've had a good run, really," he continued, turning his attention back to Vic. Steve's voice was pitched low but he still spoke calmly, confidently, and without anger. "Three weeks. Longer than anyone else. But you can't jack me around anymore, sweetheart."

Shitshitshit, and Mac thanked god the safety was still on when his arm jerked up again forcefully. He was sweating for real now, cool and itchy down the side of his face. It was all so screwed up; he couldn't tell when to jump out and yell "Surprise!" Nothing had actually happened, had it? At least in the way of bullet wounds or broken bones, the stuff he was trained to deal with. So why was he so damn flustered?

Steve kissed Vic again, open mouthed and insistent, stopping only when Vic visibly relaxed against him. It was repulsive, those hands on him. Vic allowing it. And yet, something sparked hot and yearning in Mac's gut. Repulsive, yeah, but he wasn't repulsed. He wanted to kill Steve for having access, and control, and making Vic give over. He hated him for that. And he wanted, god how he wanted to be him for that.

Something else to file under Not In This Lifetime, Ramsey.

"I haven't... been jacking you around." Vic's voice was rough and the words appeared costly. He flinched at the re-invasion of Steve's hand between his thighs and Mac couldn't help but wonder if Vic was hard by now. "We've done whatever you—" and Vic grunted quietly. "I mean, I've been completely—"

"Yeah. You're gorgeous, Vic, and hot as hell. But you've been tap dancing. Throwing everything at me except what I really want."

Vic took in a long pull of air, as if about to speak, then just let it go. His arms had fallen to his sides and he was standing there, letting Steve touch him, with an expression Mac wasn't sure he'd ever seen. Something harder, slicker, and more calculating seemed to slide into place like a transparent shell.

"Now it's time to pay up."

"It's—it isn't—" Vic had ducked his head slightly and was looking up at Steve from under his lashes. Nice trick. "It isn't you," he said quietly, cajoling. For the first time he reached out and touched Steve purposefully, palms skimming over his chest and down his stomach, lingering at the waistband of Steve's slacks. It seemed like he was going to unfasten them but he hesitated.

His open hand slid firmly down over the zipper placket instead, fingers curling in. "It's just not my thing. Nothing personal."

"Now there's where you're wrong." Steve ignored Vic's attempts at persuasion, both verbal and physical, grabbing the hand at his crotch and twisting Vic's arm up high behind his back in one quick motion.

"Ow! Hey—"

"You came to me."

Mac shifted his feet and raised himself halfway up, bracing against a planter. Violence he could deal with, no problem. The sight and sound of it snapped him out of his disassociated stupor, and he released the safety on his gun.

"Li Ann," he said lowly and moved closer. It was pitch dark out; they couldn't see him even if he was standing right against the door. He glanced disparagingly at the so-called lock. Another foot and he could just reach up and... yeah. Beautifully kept expensive apartments like this always had perfectly fitting, airtight doors and well-oiled locks that never stuck. Picking them was child's play.

"Li Ann?"

Nothing.

Mac tracked Steve as he backed Vic up to the couch, moving slowly. "I offered you a piece of my business."

"You've been really generous. I was only explaining," Vic said, breathing heavily. "Christ, let go of my arm, all right? I'm not going anywhere."

"No, let me explain." He released Vic and turned him roughly around to face the couch. "This is non-negotiable," and he shoved Vic forward until he was bent over at the waist.

"Yeah, Steve, okay." Vic looked over his shoulder. "I get it."

"Do you?" Steve stood directly behind him, hands settling on Vic's hips. "Because this not a one shot deal. And if you ever step out on me, personally or in business, I'll kill you."

Okay. Enough of this doing the right thing shit.

Mac slid the terrace door open with one hand, his back against the outside wall, and took a deep breath. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going in," he whispered before pulling off his headset and dropping it on the ground beside him.

Vic might not be carrying, but Steve had to have at least one weapon somewhere in the apartment. Mac gave the living room a sweeping glance, picking out the most likely places to keep a gun—desk, bureau, bedroom, closet—and then started to move.

He hadn't counted on the outdoor lighting kicking in at the exact moment he was about to step into the apartment. Since it wasn't in the fucking Agency's fucking blueprints.

"I thought I told you not to start the party without me," Mac said to the room at large, walking carefully forward. "Seems I'm a tad overdressed." His right arm was outstretched, gun aimed at the center of Steve's forehead. The metallic click of the hammer being cocked was unnaturally loud. In fact, everything seemed magnified out of proportion, not the least of which was Vic's look of barely restrained fury.

Nice reception the Cavalry got these days.

"Who are you?" Steve, in contrast, sounded oddly calm. He had spun around before Mac had had both feet in the room, pulling Vic with him. Insurance and a full-body shield. The fingers of Steve's left hand were splayed over Vic's chest, forearm snug against his body, and Mac couldn't figure out why Vic didn't just pull away.

"No, no, no. Wrong question," he corrected. "Not who. What."

Steve smiled. "That's easy. Dead."

"Excuse me?"

"You're dead. You just don't know it yet."

Mac tilted his head in a small shrug and readjusted his grip, left palm supporting the butt of his weapon. "I'm dead, you're dead, whatever. No need to get all existential. Just let him go, and we're outta here."

"What the hell do you think—" Vic exploded, taking an abortive step forward before he was stopped by Steve's tight hold. And the gun that snaked around Vic's body and slid up to his throat. The one Steve must have had stashed somewhere in the bar, right behind where he was standing.

Wonderful. Just brilliant.

"I remember you," Steve said, voice ice and granite. "The smart-ass from the alley. Or is it the aggrieved boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Vic denied with a scowl. He leaned back into Steve's embrace, making Mac's teeth click together sharply. "He's my stalker."

"A rose by any other name...." And he watched the anger flare more brightly in Vic's eyes. "Let him go. Now."

He could do it. He was sure he could get a clear shot before Steve pulled the trigger, if only the asshole was aiming at him. Mac forced himself to focus on Steve and not on the press of the muzzle on Vic's jugular, black metal gleaming against that strong, pale neck. "You won't shoot," he tested, when there was no response.

"I'd rather not," came the cool reply. Steve nudged his gun higher, forcing Vic to lift his chin. His left hand made random, lazy patterns across Vic's bare chest. "It would be a waste. But I can afford it. Can you?"

He hadn't even told Mac to drop his gun. Arrogant sonofabitch. Mac met the too-blue eyes head on and saw quite clearly that Steve knew the answer to his own question. He wondered what kind of man could want someone for so long, and then when he actually had him, use him as protection. As his trump card.

He refused to let himself wonder what Vic thought about this.

"Go home, Mac." The words were thin, pulled taut by the angle of Vic's head. "Get the hell out of here. It's over, yeah?"

Of course Vic would say that; he had to stay undercover until the last possible moment. Intelligent, and Agency procedure to boot. But he didn't have to sound quite so sincere. "Not by a long shot, babe," Mac replied glibly and flashed a practiced Ramsey smile. "I'm not leaving empty handed."

Vic lowered his eyes in a gesture of complicity and unspoken challenge that was infuriatingly arousing. Mac fought off the memory of Vic on his knees, the desire to have Vic on his knees, and an insidious wave of self-doubt.

"Perhaps you'd rather stay and watch," Steve suggested, a smear of amusement in his voice. His left hand traveled back down to Vic's groin possessively. "The body is an amazing thing. So complex, and yet it can't tell the difference between fear and arousal."

"Hey—" and Vic made a noise low in his throat. "Ease up. I'm with you, right? No question."

"No question at all." Steve agreed very quietly, eyes never leaving Mac's. "Which do you think this is?"

Mac swallowed any possible response. Vic had always been a bit old- maidish about his body. Slept in pajama's, for chrissakes. It was excruciating, standing so close to him now. Exposed. On display. Like a whore—hadn't he thought that once of Vic already? An Agency whore. The meanness of it burned sharply in Mac's stomach, even as he couldn't shake off the residual image.

He sensed movement below his line of vision, saw Steve's shoulder work and Vic's shudder. A tug, a shift of weight between the two men and Vic made a sound Mac remembered hearing not that long ago: a splintered, gasping groan almost too intimate to bear. "Stop. Stop, I'm not gonna be able to stand in a minute," Vic panted and Mac was startled into glancing at him. Narrowed eyes glowered hotly, accusing, and he wrenched his gaze away, searching for some place—any place—else to look.

Down was not a good choice. There were the fingers he wanted to snap one by one like dry twigs, wrapped around Vic's cock. Stroking him, forcing a physical response Mac knew was involuntary. Except that Vic had volunteered, hadn't he? Mac tried to concentrate on Steve and how the hell they were going to get out of this mess, pushing back the tide of other, more ambiguous feelings. Like base lust, rage, and the tendency of his imagination to wander through the last three weeks painting vivid and increasingly disturbing pictures.

But he couldn't hold it all in. "Jesus Christ." Mac's gaze skittered up guiltily and caught at the expression on Vic's face. Hostility and reproach, and so much raw pain it was difficult to look away. I trusted you, Vic seemed to be saying, but Mac never believed he had that trust in the first place. And now there was no regaining it.

"Why don't you just shoot him already, huh? Then you can have everything you want."

The suggestion was hideously sexy, and for a dizzying moment Mac thought Vic was talking to him. He laughed shakily. "Hey—I admit we have a few problems, but I thought... you know, a little counseling, maybe a vacation, how about South Beach, huh? Some sun. Romance. Like that."

"Come on," Vic encouraged, voice pitched low as he pulled back even further into Steve's body. "Do it."

It took Mac a moment to notice the gun, now resting loosely against Vic's neck. So fine, there was a plan. Vic had a fucking plan. And why did that make him angry enough to spit? Just do your damn job, he thought harshly; you're a professional. Vic said so himself.

Steve smiled. "Maybe you're right. I'm getting a little bored with this game." His left arm came up and fixed Vic in a chokehold. "Drop your weapon. Now."

"Hey, look, wait," and Mac raised his hands, gun pointed up toward the ceiling, finger conspicuously off the trigger. Either this would work or they were both dead. At least he had his pants on. "Don't do anything hasty, okay?" Mac kept his eyes on Vic's throat as he bent his knees, squatting until he could place the weapon on the floor.

"Kick it over here," came the predictable order and Mac did. Steve carefully tightened his grip on Vic, making Vic wheeze and strain hard against him.

Perfect coordination and a second sense of what the other person would do, how they fought—he had to believe these instincts were still intact under all the layers of uncertainty. They'd always worked well together when they had to, Mac found himself thinking as he watched Vic suddenly relax in Steve's arms. The loss of counter force made Steve stumble back and his gun arm rose, suddenly pointing over Mac's head.

Mac kicked it easily out of his hand, connecting nicely with flesh as well as metal. A second later and Vic had jabbed his elbow savagely backwards into Steve's solar plexus, making him release his hold and double over, gasping. A kick, then, gratuitous and satisfyingly accurate left Steve down on the ground and Vic breathing heavily.

He almost did it. Mac retrieved both guns and steeled himself against shooting either. But he moved close enough to cover Vic without a second thought, just in case anyone did anything even more stupid than, say, martyring themselves in the name of some misguided sense of justice.

"You're more ambitious than I thought." Steve coughed, holding his ribs with one arm and bracing himself off the floor with the other. "My mistake... for underestimating you. What do you want? Maybe we can negotiate the deal."

Vic shook his head. "Don't believe everything you read in the paper," he said disgustedly. "I was never bent."

"They tossed your ass in jail so fast," Steve coughed again and took a deep, wracking breath. "I didn't have time to say goodbye."

A quick smile down at his own feet; bitter and self-critical all in one flash. "We said goodbye," Vic replied very quietly.

"If you weren't on the take—"

"I was set up." By friends, Mac thought uncharitably, feeling himself losing patience. Just like—"Just like you."

Yeah, exactly. Though what it meant to be Vic's friend—the lengths he'd go for you, one way or the other—was a little bit frightening.

Steve grunted and heaved himself up off the floor with a wince. "Well, at least you learned something from the experience."

Mac watched Vic's struggle not to register his anger, as if he couldn't afford to give one more thing away. "You don't know me."

"Not even after the past three weeks?"

It was like that old movie, The Lost Weekend, where the guy went on a spree and then couldn't remember anything that had happened. Only this was a more brutal gap for not being lost, but simply unspoken. The temptation to have that blank filled in worried at Mac like a broken tooth, and somehow the unsettling urge to take Vic's hand—lace their fingers together—did nothing to ease the throbbing.

"Not even after—" Steve's reached out quickly and grabbed the back of Vic's neck before Mac could stop him. Pulled Vic close, whispered something Mac couldn't hear but could see the effects of on Vic's face.

God, he ached to shoot him almost as much as he'd ever ached for sex. Mac took a half step forward, aiming point blank at Steve's temple. "Vic?"

"You never touched me."

Mac almost heaved at the explosion of memory: the first time he'd pressed Vic back into the couch, thigh hard against his denim clad crotch...

"You could never touch me," Vic repeated, voice cold.

... his own hand being pulled impatiently down to hold Vic's cock, the weight of Vic's body pushing him into the bed, needy and demanding. Watching him. Jesus fuck. Mac blinked, daring to glance away from Steve for the moment necessary to catch the flicker of grief in those green eyes.

"Back it up," Mac said and Steve obeyed, moving awkwardly. Broken ribs, but the thought didn't warm him at all. In fact he couldn't remember feeling quite so cold since the steel doors had sealed him from Li Ann and he knew he was going to die.

But this time he wasn't going to die alone. "Don't you just hate it when it's over?" Another moment and he'd surely pull the trigger. How the hell long could a guy hold a gun without it going off, anyway? But the door slammed open at that precise moment as if choreographed, which it damn well could have been, and there were the Agency's best in all their glory.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw Vic turn away.


Mac stood and watched the Agency's efficiency with cold detachment. Even as they bundled Steve off he couldn't summon the anger that had been just below the surface all evening. He felt oddly flat; depressed.

Li Ann had arrived last, because of reticence or the job she'd been doing he didn't know. He could have asked, but really—what would be the point? Sometimes ignorance was your best and only defense.

"Is he all right?"

Vic first. There was a precedent for that. Mac could tell by the look on her face that he wasn't doing a good job of pretending. "Sure."

"Are you?" Mac nodded. Then: "Where is he?" Li Ann's gaze swept over the room, lingering on the bedroom doorway. She threw him a questioning look, but he only shrugged.

"He used to tell me things. About being undercover." Li Ann paused, seeming to reconsider that conversation starter. "You know, if you two... if Vic...."

She stopped again, and Mac forced himself to really look at her. All in black, naturally. Beautiful. Composed. Like a piece of art, something he used to steal. The idea made his lip curve in a private smile. "It doesn't matter," he said off-handedly.

"He wouldn't do anything if it didn't matter. Vic's not like that."

Then what the hell was he like? And why was she so sure she knew? "Yeah, well, don't send out any invitations yet," Mac whispered, leaning close.

"Hey." One hand went up in a half-gesture of surrender. "I'm the last person to jump that gun."

There was nothing to say to that, either, but Mac had the brief impression of ghost-men strewn haplessly on either side of Li Ann as she made her stylish way towards the bedroom. He could easily believe she'd be Director one day herself, god help them all.

Mac waited a few minutes before following her. Vic was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the window, a pillow hugged protectively against his body. Li Ann was close by his side.

"We found everything. It took a few tries, but we finally cracked the databases," she said, and gave him a small smile.

"Good. That's—that's good."

Vic averted his face but Mac could see his reflection in the glass. He wanted to know why Vic needed this. Why this? Why not him? Not that he was offering. It was a hypothetical question. Mac wondered, too, what would happen if he ever admitted to Vic—hypothetically—that he needed him. Would Vic refuse, or capitulate—try to give Mac everything he asked for?

But he couldn't stand it if Vic were to look at him with that same open, vulnerable expression he saw in the window. If Vic ever turned those eyes on him, something awful would happen. Mac was certain of it.

"If you need to talk, don't think I won't listen, okay?" Li Ann touched the back of his head gently, then let her hand drop.

Vic nodded.

"I'm here for you. We're here for you."

"Yeah."

Mac leaned a shoulder against the bedroom wall. Right. They were the goddamn Three Musketeers.

He let Li Ann past him without saying anything and lingered in the middle of the room, wanting so much to follow her. It was almost too tempting; he could tell himself Vic needed space, he should leave him alone, he'd see him tomorrow anyway. But Vic slowly got to his feet and it was too late. He couldn't leave without being noticed.

"Vic?" Mac watched his back straighten. Vic had unclutched the pillow and was carefully buttoning up his jeans. He didn't turn around. "You all right?"

Stupid, stupid question. Just a formality in a situation that called for something personal. But all of a sudden every square inch of air between them seemed miles of inhospitable back road that Mac didn't think he had the energy to cross.

"Fine." The single word was barely audible, and Vic's shoulders rose and fell slightly.

Of course, there was that pride thing again. Fuck it if he couldn't see things through after all this. Mac moved closer, reached his hand out and laid it on Vic's back. "You sure?"

Amazing what a simple touch could produce. Vic turned in an instant, coiled and tense with anger. Mac had seen that look before, right about the first time Vic ever punched him. What a sucker; he let the force of the blow throw him back, making him stumble against an overstuffed chair. His head pounded and his ankle hurt, but it was fine, it was perfect; he wanted to do it all again. Say the same things, make the same mistakes, take them right back to the beginning.

'Man, I know you didn't mean that,' and Vic would tell him to keep the hell away.

"Stay. Away. From me." Just like that, yeah.

Li Ann wasn't keeping them apart this time, though. "Come on, I saved your ass," he said automatically. What a perfect turn of phrase. Strike one, he thought, but then no—he'd lost count of the score a long time ago. Mac forced himself to meet the furious eyes across from him.

"You could've gotten killed," Vic half-yelled, half-panted at him, invading his space. Practically pushing him with his upper body. "Where was the back-up? Huh? Huh? There was no back-up. You just had to act like a goddamn cowboy and blast your way in here."

"I didn't blast anything," Mac pointed out, as if literalism would put things right. It seemed the safest response, though; there was something coolly comforting in dissecting Vic's words, ignoring their meaning.

"Right." Vic's voice was raw. "Did you think for one moment—no, no of course not. You never do. Why change your MO now?"

He could have said, "Because I was scared, I couldn't stand to see you hurt, to watch anyone else touch you." Of course, laying down in the middle of the freeway and hoping no one ran him over was also an option.

Mac felt his face getting hot under Vic's continued scrutiny, and his gaze dropped to somewhere in the middle of Vic's chest. Neutral territory, at least it always had been, before every inch of his partner had taken on a surreal, erogenous quality that Vic himself seemed to be sensitive to. The fact that his shirt still wasn't buttoned forced Mac to look up again.

"Okay, whatever. You're right. Okay? I wasn't thinking. Happy now?" Vic was radiant with contempt. He straightened his shoulders, as if defiant in the face of this anger-and-fear-and-pheromone charged air that hung desperately between them. "You didn't hit me back."

He frowned. "What?"

"You agreed with me, and you didn't hit me back," Vic repeated coldly. "You're getting soft, Mac."

Jesus, what the fuck?

"Everything okay in here?" Li Ann asked, poking her head into the room. Her voice, in the resonant soundlessness of Mac's sudden inability to respond, was startling. Oh fine, fine, dandy, great, he nodded and Vic did too, curtly, and she must have gotten the drift because she drifted off again with an oblique expression of concern.

"You want me to hit you?" Mac asked, finding his voice again. A little too loudly, apparently, because another of the Agency's minions stopped in the doorway to stare. There were Cleaners, and then there were cleaners, Mac mused, smiling at the man in the suit. Who only hesitated a moment before discretely disappearing.

Ah, alone at last. Again.

"I'm right, aren't I." It wasn't a question at all, and he watched Vic watching him. Wary. Guarded. As if he'd ever hurt him. As if he'd hurt him already.

"What—" and Vic made a sound that only partly resembled a laugh. "You're crazy." He finished doing up his shirt. All the way up. Like a nun.

Every button slipped into its hole said 'no—not you, not now, not ever.' Mac felt as though all the air was being forced from his lungs, and wondered if asphyxiation was anything like this. A slow death by denial. And what would go through your head in those two minutes when you couldn't breathe but your brain still functioned well enough to know exactly what you were losing?

Like Vic, hair spiky with sweat, naked, and hard, and wanting him. Wanting him. Authentic Hong Kong cuisine, a case of ice cold Tsing Tao, and a shot at the mother of all hangovers. That trip to Italy, for instance. He took a step towards Vic, whose slightly labored breathing seemed to make the air around him shimmer like a midday heat wave.

He could have asked, "Why? Why did you do it?" But Mac didn't know if he meant Steve or himself, and either way he was afraid Vic might actually answer. "How long will they send him away for?" he finally said, seeing the glint of surprise—and relief—in Vic's eyes.

"No chance for parole."

Mac caught the tiny tremor that went through him, but pretended not to notice. "Life sentence, huh? The Director's good at handing those out."

A forced smile, strung tight like the rest of him, and Vic turned his head away. Mac stared at the boyish profile. "With friends like that..."

"Yeah." Vic scrubbed a hand over his face tiredly and shifted his feet; those simple actions made Mac's mouth dry with longing. He took another half step, drawn forward against his will like a willow branch. Which made Vic, what—water? The answer to a long and unacknowledged drought?

Introspection just wasn't his thing. All this subterranean shit was making his head ache, and ruining any chance he might have of saving face and keeping cool.

"Don't fucking do that again," Mac surprised himself by saying. Yup, nothing remotely cool about that. "Setting yourself up as bait. It's bullshit."

"Back off," came the edgy reply. Vic shoved his shirt tails into his jeans as if trying to rid himself of something distasteful. "Just back off, all right?"

Like that was ever an option. "You'd never let Li Ann be used that way." Interesting how angry that sounded; how blazingly jealous of her Mac felt.

"Yeah, no, but she's—" At the mention of her name, Vic seemed to lose hold of his anger. He let out a long, expressive rush of air. "Li Ann is—"

"You care about her, dammit. You love her." Okay, so he was way out in uncool territory now. Mac's mouth tasted bitter from fear and self- disgust. He couldn't figure out how this had happened, when he'd begun not only to want Vic, but to want something of him.

Too bad he knew exactly what that something was.

Vic looked startled, then confused. "What—what are you talking about?" His voice broke slightly. "What are you saying?"

I want everything you've given Li Ann. Everything.

"Mac?"

But he'd never been the one to say it first, and he wasn't about to start now. "I'm sorry." Mac winced at the hurt that bled into Vic's eyes, making them shine. "I should've—I mean, I shouldn't have...." And he stopped, all at once getting what Vic had tried telling him. That it wasn't about him. Even if he was right and Vic was wrong. It just wasn't about him.

"I didn't have to see that," he said in a sudden, vertiginous attack of honesty. "You didn't need anyone to see all that."

Vic was staring at him, mouth slightly open, a frown etched between his brows. Then he blinked and looked quickly down at the floor. When he raised his head again there was a shadow of humor lurking beneath the pain. "Who are you," he asked roughly, "and what have you done with Mac?"

"Damned if I know," Mac muttered feelingly. A long shudder of heat ran through him at the memory those words invoked: Vic, damp and disheveled from sex, willingly on his back and waiting for Mac to crawl up and straddle him. His easy smile in answer to Mac's question, and the look of hunger on his face as they fucked.

"We... used to be pretty close."

The words snapped him back to the present and Mac forced himself to pay attention.

"He hurt a lot of people. Decent people. I thought—I could never get him on anything. And when the Director...." Vic set his jaw in a familiar expression of stubbornness. "I know she used me. I just didn't think there was another way."

Of course not. Mac was close enough to touch, and his hand automatically went to Vic's shoulder. He gave the muscle a sympathetic squeeze, fully intending to let go.

"Mac."

It was like rubbing velvet against the nap, the way that voice caressed him. He couldn't help leaning in and kissing him, even though Vic was tense; unyielding. Mac's skin tingled where Vic's hands had come up to hold him; to keep some space between them.

This was the old Vic, Mac thought with a shock. And as much as he'd missed him when he was supposedly in Quebec, Mac really didn't want him back now.

"I can't." The words were hot and pleading against Mac's cheek. "I just—I can't."

Not me, not now, or not ever? He pulled away and tried on a smile. Half a smile. Better than nothing. "Yeah."

Vic wasn't meeting his gaze, and his arms had dropped to his sides. "I need a few... I'm gonna just, I think I'll just sit here for a little while."

"Okay." He backed away, unwilling to let Vic out of his sight, even if he couldn't hold him. "You, ah, don't stay too long."

"Right."

Mac fought back the crazy urge to push Vic up against the wall, exorcise the demons of the last few hours, and tell him—show him—exactly how he felt. But it wouldn't work. Worse, it might. Vic might give in, take pity on him, and how could he ever live with himself after that?

Vic had turned away, head bowed, a hand massaging his forehead. Mac wondered how he could live knowing just what he was missing, either. "Listen, if you get hungry—I'll be over at Sammy's. Join me later? I hate eating alone."

Vic nodded.

Well, maybe dinner, then. Mac steeled himself and walked away, striding quickly across the room.

He'd take what he could get.

###

Speedo6034@aol.com

Title: What You Can Get

Author: Speedo

Fandom: OaT

Pairing: Vic/Mac

Rating: NC-17

Archive: NickZone, and anywhere else if you ask first.

Spoilers: Tiny ones for the Pilot, True Blue, Li Ann's Choice, Rave On, and anything I may have inadvertently picked up reading fanfic.

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.

Summary: The title basically says it all.

Dedicated to Calico, Keith, and GP for their support and encouragement; whitecrow and rev for beta'ing. All mistakes are mine, regardless.

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