Title: Family

Author: Shadowscast

(shadowscast@yahoo.com)

Fandom: Once A Thief

Pairing: Mac/Michael (part 1), Mac/Li Ann (part 2), Mac/Vic (part 3)

Genre: drama

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: You know me. Sex, violence.... Part 1 has some borderline n/c. Also, this is a WIP. I give you fair warning now, it'll be at least a month before part 2 comes out.

Archive: Anywhere you want! Just let me know.

Spoilers: tba (I'll let you know before part 3, 'cause that's where they'll be)

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Alliance. This was written for fun, not profit.

Notes: This fic was inspired by a couple lines in "Mac Daddy" which didn't quite make sense to me in the context of the rest of the show's backstory. I started trying to resolve those lines in terms of the rest of the series, and this story grew from there.

Thanks to Lorie for the beta!

Feedback always welcome. Always.

Family I

by Shadowscast

London, England, November 1971

n a 3rd floor walk-up flat in North London, a young woman kept an anxious vigil.

Barefoot, she padded to the window to look down at the street and see if he was coming yet. All she could see was a dance of black umbrellas, protecting pedestrians from the chilly November rain. A red double-decker bus roared by.

The woman was tall and slender. She wore a yellow peasant blouse, and bell-bottom jeans which she'd decorated with embroidered flowers. Her thick chestnut hair, ironed straight, fell freely to her waist. Her intense brown eyes, thick eyebrows and strong chin gave her face a powerful look—she might be called beautiful, but not pretty.

The flat's door opened behind her, and she turned with a startled gasp. "William!"

The man who walked in was tall as well, with a wavy mop of strawberry-blond hair. He shook his umbrella and regarded the woman with a confident grin.

"Anita darling, give me a kiss." William put the umbrella to the side and opened his arms.

"You're all wet," Anita protested, hesitating away from him.

"Now that sentiment is not at all romantic," William scolded her with a mock pout. He strode across the floor in his wet rubbers, and scooped her into his arms for a passionate kiss. When she didn't respond as she usually did, he let her go. "Is something wrong, my darling?"

"William, I—I'm sorry I—" She turned away with a troubled expression, and gazed at the floor.

"My dearest girl, do tell me what's wrong," William insisted. He lifted her chin with an index finger and tilted her face towards him. Tears glimmered in her eyes.

She spoke very quietly. "I'm pregnant."

There was a moment of silence. She couldn't read him. He stared at her, a cypher. William was the most romantic and passionate man she'd ever met. He was the adventure she'd dreamed of when she came to London, alone, from Canada, and she was desperately in love with him— but there were times when she realized she knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about him.

And then he dropped to one knee in front of her, and kissed her hand. He pulled a small box from a pocket of his overcoat, and opened it. There was a ring inside, a gold band with a small inset diamond. "Anita, will you marry me?"

She hardly dared to breathe. "Yes. Oh yes. Oh my God William, you were going to ask me anyway!" All at once she was laughing and crying, and he stood up again and caught her in his arms.

"We'll see to it right away, my love. Within a fortnight, your name will be Anita Ramsey."

Barcelona, Spain, June 1973

"New York?" Anita repeated, suspicious. "And why the hell would we want to move to New York?"

"It's a fine city, very cosmopolitan," William insisted. He bounced the baby on his knee and made a cooing noise. "You'd like to see the New World, wouldn't you, Mac?"

The baby gurgled and squealed, and clapped his hands.

"See? See Anita? Mac wants to go."

Anita was unimpressed. "He can't even talk yet. Don't bring him into this. This is about that poker game you were at last night, isn't it?"

"How did you—what poker game?"

Anita grabbed the baby from him and stood up so that she could glare down at him. "I could smell it on your clothes."

"Picture it, darling." William stood up and spread his hands wide, ready to tell his tale. "The stakes were sky high, and I held in my hand four kings. I could tell by the twitch of Enrico's eye he was bluffing. It was a sure thing, the opportunity of a lifetime—of two lifetimes!"

Her mouth dry, Anita asked, "How much?"

"Everything. And then some."

"And?"

"And he had a straight flush."

"So we have to skip town? Again?" Anita put the baby down on the floor because the way her hands were starting to shake, she was afraid she would drop him. He crawled off across the floor in search of a toy to teethe on.

"Oh my dear, I wish you wouldn't think of it so crudely. We will relocate—people like us can't be tied down to one place for long."

"People like us? It's you!" Anita's voice rose into a yell; Mac looked up and whimpered. "You just keep fucking up your idiotic cons, and we have to run to another country in the dead of night because big men with guns are coming after us for your money or your blood! London, Paris, Amsterdam, now Barcelona—it's only been two years and we're on the run from half of Europe! What are you going to do when you owe money to someone in every city on Earth, huh? Run to the fucking moon and start trying to sell green cheese?"

Mac started to howl. A sharp thumping sound came from the floor, followed by a string of muffled Spanish insults.

"Fuck off, we're having a fight here!" Anita yelled at the floorboards. Mac started screaming louder.

"You're upsetting the baby," William said. "Calm down Anita. Come here, let me kiss you. We don't have to leave yet. Enrico isn't expecting the first payment until tomorrow morning. I'll think of something before then." He took a step towards her and she slapped him, hard, across the face.

"No," she said, her voice suddenly calm and cold in counterpoint to the baby's screaming. "Not again. I'm not falling for it again. You're charming, William, and you're sexy as all hell, but you've fucked with me enough. I'm taking Mac and I'm going back to Canada—without you."

Hong Kong, September 1991

"You wanted to see me, Father?" Mac asked, walking into the parlour where the godfather liked to serve British-style tea. The table was set with the imported silver tea set and several plates of cakes and biscuits. Mr. Tang, facing Mac, nodded to him and rose to his feet. A couple impassive thugs stood near the table; one Mac recognized as a Tang soldier, and the other must have come with the guest. Mr. Tang's guest remained seated at the table with his back to Mac. The guest was a white man with thinning strawberry-blond hair, speckled with grey.

"Yes, Mac," the godfather said with his trademark friendly smile. "I require your services as a translator."

"Um, pardon?" Mac raised an eyebrow.

"Our guest here does not speak Cantonese and I, as you know, do not speak English." The godfather said this without any odd emphasis, but Mac took his meaning. The godfather spoke better English than Mac did —there was some sort of game being played here. "He has a translator in his employ," Mr. Tang nodded towards the goon Mac didn't recognize, "but for the sensitive matters he wishes to discuss, I thought it would be prudent to have someone in the family translate instead, and he agreed." Mr. Tang motioned to his own man, and to the translator. "Leave us now." The two men left.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind the men, the visitor stood up and turned around.

And Mac felt the ground shift under him.

"Now come on," William Ramsey said, holding his arms open, "Aren't you going to give your old man a hug?"

Mac staggered a step backwards. "Dad?"

"In the very flesh, my dear son!"

Mac stared wide-eyed at the scene in front of him. His father—Mr. Tang—still stood near the table, frowning now. And his father— William Ramsey—stood in front of him, beaming at him and asking for a hug.

"This is your father, Mac?" Mr. Tang asked in Cantonese.

"No," Mac replied flatly, in the same language, "You're my father. This is the man who fucked my mother nine months before I was born."

"Language, Mac," Mr. Tang chided.

"I'd appreciate a translation," William said, finally letting his arms drop from their ridiculous invitation to hug.

Mac glared at William. "He's asking if I know you. What should I tell him?"

"Tell him the truth, dear boy!"

"What, that you're the one who abandoned me here when I was thirteen?"

William puffed up, taking offence. "I did not abandon you. You screamed that you hated me and never wanted to see me again, and you ran out of the hotel. What was I to do?"

"Oh, I don't know.... look for me!?"

"If I may interrupt?" Mr. Tang interjected, in Cantonese again. "Perhaps we should all sit down. I think you should drink some tea, Mac. I apologize for the shock—this man said that he knew you, but he didn't tell me the nature of your relationship."

"Yeah. Yeah, OK." Keeping a wary eye on William, Mac circled around the table to an empty chair. All three men sat down. Mr. Tang poured a cup of tea for Mac. Mac picked it up and was appalled to find that his hand was shaking so much that the tea nearly sloshed over the side— he put the teacup down quickly, and grabbed a biscuit instead.

"So what the hell are you doing here?" Mac demanded, glaring at William.

"I came to see you, of course." William took a dainty sip of his tea. "Please tell Mr. Tang that this is the best tea I've tasted since I left London."

"He says this is the best tea—" Mac started obediently in Cantonese. "Jeez, I don't have to tell you what he's saying!"

"Why do you suppose he's really here?" the godfather asked, sipping at his own tea.

"To con you, probably," Mac said grimly. "That's what he does for a living."

Mr. Tang shook his head, looking sad. "You should not speak so disrespectfully of your own father."

Mac met William's expectant look. "He says of course it's as good as the tea in London—all the good tea comes from China anyway. So how long have you known I was here?"

"Oh, I heard rumours years ago, and I took heart that you were safe and in better hands than mine." William set his teacup on its saucer with a clink, and gave Mac a rueful look. "I really was a terrible father to you, wasn't I?"

"I'll say." Mac stuffed a biscuit into his mouth.

William took a biscuit himself, and nibbled daintily at it. "Tell Mr. Tang that these biscuits are very good. Very authentic."

Mac rolled his eyes. He touched his thick linen napkin to the corners of his mouth to dab away any crumbs, and said to the godfather "Why did he tell you he was here?"

"He said he had a business proposition. He didn't give details, but he said that you would vouch for him."

"Vouch for him? The man's been telling so many lies for so long, he's completely lost his grip on reality!" Mac switched to English, and turned to William. "He says the baker we buy them from used to work in Balmoral Castle. He also says you said you have a business proposition for us."

"Oh yes, well, you know me," William offered with a grin, "Always five or six balls in the air."

Mac glared at him. "So, what's the con this time?"

His father turned his face slightly and sucked air through his teeth, as though Mac had slapped him on the cheek. "Such a nasty word, 'con' —I wish you wouldn't use it. This is straight-and-narrow, up-and-up, a totally sure thing."

Mac raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Oil, my son. Black gold. Texas tea. A brand new source has been discovered in Indonesia. And, well, the situation in the Persian Gulf being what it is right now, you can imagine how hungry certain parties are for a new source of oil." William tapped the side of his nose and winked.

Mac sighed. "And where do the Tangs fit into your scheme?"

"Exploration and drilling equipment costs a lot of money up front. We need investors. Go on, translate this for Mr. Tang."

The godfather looked at Mac expectantly.

"I wouldn't trust him," Mac said. "He always had these crazy schemes for getting rich, and not one ever worked out as long as I knew him."

"But it's true that you haven't seen him in six years. Perhaps his luck has changed."

Mac stared at his adoptive father. "Tell me you're not thinking about giving him money."

"Now Mac, you know I never act in haste. I would need to hear your father's story confirmed by independent sources before any money changes hands. Now, ask him whether OPEC knows about this new oil field."

"Mac," Li Ann said, "if you can't stay still for five seconds, why don't you go somewhere else and stop bugging us?" Li Ann and Michael knelt facing each other on the floor, with a disassembled sniper rifle between them. Michael was trying to show Li Ann and Mac how to clean it and put it together, but as Li Ann had observed, Mac was pacing around the room instead of paying attention.

"Sorry, sorry," Mac said, returning to kneel beside Li Ann. Michael picked up a piece of the gun and opened his mouth to speak, but Mac interrupted him. "I just had a really whacked-out day."

Michael put the piece down again and, with a sigh, shifted into a more relaxed, cross-legged position. "We're not going to get any work done like this. So why don't you tell us what happened?"

"My father's here. My biological father."

Li Ann frowned. "I thought you said he was dead."

"I was speaking, uh, metaphorically."

Michael regarded Mac with interest. "Your father is alive, and he's here?"

"Yeah. The guy shows up six years after leaving me to die here, and expects me to talk Father into going into some kind of business deal with him!"

"What kind of business?" Michael asked.

"Oil speculation. It doesn't matter. My father is a con man, there's no way this is legit."

"Did you tell Father?" Li Ann asked, concerned.

"Of course!" Mac said. "He wanted to talk to him anyway, though. I don't know why."

Just then there was a knock at the door. They all looked up—and William Ramsey walked in.

"What do you want?" Mac asked in an unfriendly tone. "This is William Ramsey," he added for the benefit of Li Ann and Michael.

"Just the chance for a private conversation with my son, who I haven't seen in years." William gave Mac a pleading, wounded look.

Mac looked to his siblings for help. Li Ann shrugged. Michael said, in English, "Why don't you take him to the library?"

William settled himself in one of the big leather armchairs. He took out a pipe and a pack of tobacco, asking "Mind if I smoke?"

Mac shrugged. He pulled the other armchair around to face the first, and perched on the edge of its seat. "What do you want from me?"

William completed the business of stuffing his pipe, lighting the tobacco, and taking his first puff before he answered. "I'd like to make amends, if I can. Get to know my boy a little better."

"It's too late for that," Mac said quietly. "That boy is gone, and I was never 'yours' to begin with."

"I was never there for you when you needed me, was I?" William blew a smoke ring, and watched with a sad, thoughtful expression as it dissipated.

Mac snorted. "That's an understatement. You showed up what, twice? the whole time I was growing up. And then it took Child Services four months to find you after Mom...." His voice trailed off and he stared at the wisps of smoke drifting by.

"But then I did come, did I not?" William leaned forward, eyes flashing with intensity. "Deep in the Peruvian rain forests, I received a telegram that my dear boy needed a father, and in a flash I made the three day overland journey in two, and boarded a plane to Canada."

Mac crossed his arms. "That story would be more touching if you hadn't abandoned me in Hong Kong five months later."

William sucked on his pipe. "I do feel bad about that. You always were my favourite son. There was something about you, you had spunk, verve—"

"You have other sons?" Mac interrupted.

William chuckled. "Well, I have sown a few wild oats in my time. But your mother Lillian will always have a very special place in my heart—"

"Anita," Mac snapped.

William blinked, momentarily at a loss, and then found his stride again. "Anita, of course. Wonderful woman. Too bad about the end—"

Mac glared at William. "Who's Lillian?"

"Oh, just my third wife. After Anita. They were both in my life in the early seventies, so it's easy to get the names mixed up. Are you happy here, my boy?"

"What?!"

"Are you happy here?" William repeated himself. "To be sure, I can see that you're well fed, clothed—all the physical necessities are met. But I fear you may be lacking in affection, nurturing."

William sat back with a thoughtful air and puffed at his pipe, giving Mac a chance to catch up.

Mac was stunned at the man's nerve—to show up after six years without a real apology, to come into Mac's new home and new family and ask a question like that. The worst part was some corner of Mac's mind was considering the question seriously.

Of course the godfather had affection for Mac. He wasn't demonstrative, but he let Mac and Li Ann know he cared for them.

And all right, deep inside Mac there was still a lonely little boy who craved his real father's love and approval. Mac fought against that little boy, struggling to keep him buried.

Mac set his jaw. "You're just saying all this because you want me to convince Father to go ahead with your oil field scheme."

"Not at all," William denied, waving at the air. "I know that approval rests entirely upon the word his own source in Indonesia brings him."

"Wait a second." Mac furrowed his brow. "I didn't tell you about that."

"No, my dear son," William said in Cantonese. "He did." William's accent was quite bad, but he was entirely understandable.

"Son of a bitch," Mac breathed. "You understood every word we said."

"If it's any comfort to you, I am quite sure that Mr. Tang very quickly figured out that I could understand him."

Mac clenched his fists. "OK. I don't get it. So he knew what you were saying, and you knew what he was saying, and you knew that he knew and he knew that you knew—what the fuck did I have to be there for?"

William smiled and winked. "It was all about the game, my dear son. The grand joust. Mr. Tang and I were feeling each other out, communicating on many levels simultaneously. It was all very subtle and exciting. And this is exactly the sort of thing I want to show you. I want to come back into your life and teach you from my own experience."

Despite himself, Mac felt his heart starting to beat faster. Maybe this time he really meant it. It was possible. Now that Mac was grown up, maybe he was more interesting to this man than he had been as a child. But... "I'm not leaving the Tangs," Mac warned his father. "They're my family now, and I owe them everything."

"Of course, of course not," William murmured. "But surely we could spend a little time together? Consider me an old acquaintance, if you will. Perhaps we could go out for lunch tomorrow? My treat. You choose the place—show me what good Hong Kong cooking is. Deal?" William held out his hand with an expectant smile.

Mac hesitated. But... it had been six years. A man could change.

Besides, this was his father.

Mac gripped William's hand and shook it firmly. "Tomorrow. Lunch."

*

Hamilton, Canada, May 1978

Mac climbed the three flights of stairs to the apartment where he and his mom lived, counting the steps. He'd got into counting things lately.

It was nearly four o'clock. He was late coming home from school, but he didn't think his mom would notice.

"Mac, you're late!" Anita called out as soon as he opened the door.

Mac stared at his mom. She was dressed in day clothes, and the living room was all cleaned up!

"Give me a hug and a kiss, sweetie!" Anita said, scooching down to give Mac a peck on the cheek. Mac squirmed away, but he grinned. Mom had put on lipstick, and she looked pretty. It was a really nice change to come home and be greeted by Mom. Usually she'd be spaced out on the couch, watching TV and smoking a cigarette and not even noticing that Mac was home. "Why are you late?" she asked. "Where were you?"

"I stayed after school to help Mrs. Lyon clean the boards and the erasers," Mac answered, looking up at his mom with unblinking boyish innocence. What he'd said was totally true, and there was no need at all to mention that it had been a detention for swearing at the teacher.

"Oh, that's sweet, honey," Anita said. "Now take off your coat and shoes and come into the kitchen. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Mac followed his mom into the apartment's tiny eat-in kitchen. A man sat at the table. To a six-year-old boy, he looked huge and old. He had short strawberry blond hair and a big nose. When the man saw Mac, he gave him a toothy grin.

"My, how you've grown!" the man said. He spoke too loudly for the small room, and he had some kind of funny accent. "You're a strapping young man, now. You've done a marvellous job, Anita."

"Mac," Anita said, putting her hand on Mac's shoulder, "This is your father."

Mac sat in the front passenger seat of his father's car, licking a chocolate ice cream cone. This was great. Mom never bought him ice cream cones. She always said she couldn't afford it.

"So, do you like school?" William asked. "What grade are you in?"

"I'm almost done grade one," Mac answered, sitting up straighter with pride at his father's attention. "School's OK. I like gym class. I can't wait for summer vacation. My teacher's an old witch."

William braked abruptly at a red light. Mac slid forward in his seat, and barely managed to save his ice cream from the dashboard. He laughed with excitement. It was so cool that his dad didn't make him wear a seatbelt.

"Are you doing well? Do you get good grades?"

Mac rolled his eyes at the typical grownup questions. He caught a drip of ice cream with his tongue just before it got to his hand. "I guess so," he hedged. "I like math better than spelling."

"Your mother tells me that your teacher thinks you're very bright, and you'd be at the top of your class if you'd apply yourself."

Mac snorted, but in a weird way he was enjoying this. This was exactly the kind of thing that the kids who had fathers complained about. Mac felt like he was earning membership in some exclusive club. "Mom doesn't even care if I do my homework," Mac mumbled around a mouthful of ice cream.

"Does she ever talk about me?" William asked.

"Who, Mom?" Mac shrugged. "She said she didn't know where you were. That's all she said about you before. She's really happy you're here now." Mac had seen his mom smiling and laughing in the past week more than he could ever remember. She got dressed every day, and even cooked all sorts of food. She hadn't screamed at Mac all week. It was great, and Mac hoped his dad would stick around forever.

"How would you like to go to a movie, son?" his dad offered.

Mac grinned so wide it almost hurt. "All right!!"

Mac woke up. It was dark, and his mom was yelling.

"Bastard! Asshole! I hate you!" she screamed. "Fucking prick! I hate you!" There was the sound of glass smashing.

Mac hid his head under his pillow. That way his mom's voice was muffled and he couldn't make out the words, but he still heard more things smashing.

After a while, things got quiet. Then Mac's bedroom door opened. Mom came in, and he felt her sitting at the foot of his bed. She was sobbing quietly.

Mac shoved the pillow to the side; it flumped to the floor. "Is Dad gone?" he asked in a very hushed tone.

Anita drew a shuddering breath. "Yes, sweetheart," she said. "Daddy's gone."

Hong Kong, September 1991

"I've had word from my source in Indonesia," Mr. Tang said.

Mac swallowed. The godfather's expression was tight-lipped, and grim.

"There is no oil. The supposed oil field is, in fact, filled with carbolic acid."

Mac felt slightly nauseous—but he couldn't claim to be surprised. "The old man's not much of a chemist, I guess," he muttered.

"I'm afraid there's more bad news," Mr. Tang continued. "There's no sign of your father anywhere. He seems to have left Hong Kong."

Mac nodded, acknowledging the information. It was amazing—it really was the exact same physical sensation as getting punched in the gut, an experience Mac was all too familiar with.

"I am truly sorry, Mac," the godfather said. He rose, gave Mac a slight bow, and left Mac alone in the parlour.

With a howl of rage, Mac punched the sofa cushions. It didn't help. Nothing would.

Michael bowed to Mac. He shifted his feet and bent his knees slightly, coming into a fighting stance. He held his bo steady in a defensive position, waiting for Mac's attack.

Mac bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, feinting once or twice with his own bo. Michael held his place, gazing steadily into Mac's eyes and watching for the flicker that always preceded Mac's real attack. The attack came and he blocked it; Mac followed through with a flurry of ineffective blows until Michael caught one between their chests and pushed Mac away. The younger, lighter man was thrown off balance and fell backwards, flat on his ass. With an angry scowl Mac jumped back to his feet and assumed a defensive position.

"You're still projecting your attacks, like I told you before," Michael lectured, circling Mac now and feinting a couple times himself. "Your eyes always flick sideways the moment before you strike."

"Jesus, who's going to notice that besides you?" Mac grumbled, managing to parry a couple playful blows.

"A skilled opponent will notice the second time you do it, and kill you on the third," Michael said, and started attacking Mac in earnest.

Mac dodged, parried, and counterattacked skillfully, as Michael had taught him. The thwock of wood hitting wood rang out again and again, in an irregular and staccato percussion, and Michael felt sweat trickling down the side of his face.

There was something wrong today—something off about Mac's fighting. His reactions were fractionally too slow. His movements were a bit jerky, and there was something dark behind his eyes. All this was very subtle—Michael noticed only because he'd been training with Mac every day for years, and he knew the young man's every movement and expression as well as he would know a lover's body.

"You're upset about your father, aren't you?" Michael guessed. "I heard he left." Mac missed a beat and Michael got his bo in past Mac's defences, to tap his young adoptive brother lightly on the side of the head. "Got you. Keep going."

"That man is nothing to me," Mac insisted, though his scowl and the fury of the blows he directed at Michael said otherwise.

"He didn't stay long, did he?" Michael blocked Mac's volley easily as he spoke. He circled Mac, waiting patiently for a good opening. Mac clearly wasn't thinking about his attacks, he was just lashing out randomly. "How was lunch yesterday?"

"I had to pay. All he had in his wallet was fucking Icelandic kronur." Mac lifted his bo to block Michael's high snapping counterattack—and the weapons met with a different sound, a soft crunch.

Mac made a choked, gasping sound. His bo dropped to the mat and rolled away, as Mac sank to his knees and then toppled slowly sideways, clutching his left hand close to his chest. Mac's face had gone completely white, and his jaw was clenched. "fuck fuck fuck fuck..." he chanted through gritted teeth.

Michael's heart started pounding harder than it had during the combat. Mac had made a novice mistake with that block, and now his hand was probably broken. Normally Mac was very skillful with the bo—not as good as Michael, but very good. His real father's leaving must have shaken him a lot.

Michael knelt on the mat beside Mac. "Hey. That was a bad mistake. Remember it."

Mac nodded, his eyes squinched shut against tears and his jaw clenched shut against screams.

There are a hell of a lot of nerves in the hand. Michael knew Mac was in severe pain. "If this is real combat, I kill you now while you lie there," Michael pointed out. "The hand is a non-lethal target, but if you go down like this it'll kill you anyway."

With a low moan, Mac uncurled his body and forced himself to his feet, swaying a bit. Michael stood up with him. "We're still in combat," Michael insisted. "What do you do?"

Mac lashed out with his right fist, a lightning punch to Michael's head. Michael deflected the punch and countered with one of his own, and Mac side-stepped away. Mac danced away a few more steps to give himself space. His left hand was protectively tucked against his chest, and his right was held loosely out, ready to block or attack. He shifted his weight and aimed a side kick at Michael. Michael stepped aside and punched at Mac, left hand followed by right. Mac instinctively tapped the second punch aside with his left hand—and couldn't stop himself from crying out at the pain. Combat forgotten, he clutched his wrist and swayed, his face even whiter than before. Concerned that Mac was about to pass out, Michael stepped forward and put an arm around him. He felt Mac shudder at his touch. "That wasn't bad," Michael said, intending to comfort Mac.

Mac made a gulping noise and his right hand flew up to cover his mouth. He tore out of Michael's grasp and dashed to the sink at the edge of the training room. He clutched one-handed at the side of the sink for support while he vomited into the white porcelain basin.

Michael came up behind Mac and turned the water on. Mac cupped his right hand under the stream, and washed out his mouth. Michael put a hand on Mac's back, and he could feel the young man trembling. "Let me see your hand," Michael said.

Mac lifted his left arm. The hand was already looking a bit swollen.

"Can you move your fingers?" Michael asked.

Mac stared at his hand—his fingers didn't move. "Uh, no. Oh fuck," and he bent over the sink, retching again.

Michael was fascinated by Mac's reaction to this injury. He should be scornful of the weakness Mac was showing—falling over, nearly passing out and then vomiting—but instead, Michael found the whole thing strangely appealing. Mac was usually so brash and full of himself. The intense pain had broken past that, to a place where Mac was vulnerable—where everyone was vulnerable, in fact. Michael realized with surprise that he enjoyed the feel of Mac helpless in his arms.

Michael put a steadying arm around Mac. "It's probably broken."

"No shit," Mac moaned.

Michael looked Mac in the eye. Mac's pupils were dilated wide, and his face was still pasty—even for a white guy. His too-long bangs were stuck to his sweaty forehead. He looked hurt, ill and vulnerable, and suddenly younger than his nineteen years. Michael reached up and brushed Mac's hair away from his eyes—which motion earned him a startled look from Mac.

"I'll take you to the hospital," Michael said.

None of the Tangs' regular drivers were around, so Michael hailed a cab on the street in front of the Tang residence. He gave the name of the nearest hospital with an ER, and opened the door for Mac.

At first Mac stared out the window, and Michael stared at Mac. Then Mac turned a wry grin on his older brother and said "Next time we use pool noodles, OK?"

"I don't think that would be properly instructive," Michael replied stiffly.

Mac crossed his eyes at Michael. "Can't we ever just have fun?"

Michael didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he said "I apologize for mentioning your father while we were fighting. I didn't know it would throw you off so much."

Mac's head snapped around to look out the window again, avoiding Michael's eye. "Like I said, he's nothing to me."

They rode in silence for a few more heartbeats. Michael felt like prodding at this wound a little more to see what would happen, but before he could think of what else to say, Mac interrupted his thoughts with a strangled, choking noise.

Michael frowned, concerned. "Mac?"

Mac made the noise again. Michael tried to remember if Mac had had something in his mouth that he could be choking on now. Quickly, he wondered whether it would be possible to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre seated in the back seat of a compact car. Then Mac made the noise for a third time and Michael noticed the new wetness gleaming on Mac's cheek, and he realized that Mac was crying.

At first Michael could only stare in horrified fascination while the tempo of Mac's sobs increased. He'd never seen Mac cry before. Never.

When Michael's father had first brought Mac home, Mac had been a skinny, dirty street rat, unusual only because of his race. Predictably, Mac had played it tough and distant back then. Michael hadn't been much interested in the kid, but the godfather had insisted that Michael treat Mac like a younger brother, so he'd let Mac tag along with him sometimes. When history repeated itself about a year later with Li Ann, Michael was content to let the two strays amuse each other, but his father had other ideas. Mac and Li Ann were schooled and groomed and trained until it looked like they might actually be useful after all. Gradually, Mac had lost his I'm-from-the-streets-and-don't-you-forget-it prickly bravado, and replaced it with a frequently annoying mixture of wicked playfulness, impulsive boldness and spoiled petulance. But behind all that there was a real, honest toughness. Just thirteen years old, Mac had survived on his own in Hong Kong for half a year, somehow—without even knowing ten words of Cantonese at first. Sometimes, Michael even thought he admired the kid. And he knew for certain that never in six years had he seen Mac cry.

It was because his father had just abandoned him again, obviously. And then the intense pain of the broken hand had been the single drop of water that makes the cup overflow.

The driver glanced back curiously in his rear-view mirror, but didn't say a word. Michael reached over and pulled Mac towards himself. Mac let himself fall against Michael's chest, still shaking with harsh sobs.

Michael wrapped his arms around his younger brother, and held on. He felt a muted contempt for Mac's weakness, but that feeling was overpowered by a strange excitement at this new dynamic. Michael had never comforted anyone before. It was a powerful feeling.

*

"Hey, Michael."

Michael looked up from the newspaper he was reading. Mac was walking towards him through the hospital's waiting room, waving his left hand. It was encased in a white plaster cast which went halfway up his forearm.

"We can go now," Mac said.

Michael folded the newspaper, tossed it onto a table, and stood up. He took a close look at Mac. Mac's bangs were stuck to his forehead with sweat and he didn't quite have his normal colour back, but he seemed cheerful.

"They gave me codeine," Mac explained. "I feel good. Don't let me operate any heavy machinery, though. I've got this prescription for more painkillers."

"We can pick them up on the way home," Michael offered.

On the way home, Michael felt his gaze drawn again and again to the cast. It was beautiful, in its sterile whiteness. The pink tips of Mac's fingers protruded from the end, reminders of the soft vulnerability inside the shell. When he looked at it, Michael remembered the crunch of his weapon against Mac's hand, and Mac's cry of pain. Michael felt gentle stirrings of arousal at the memory; this disturbed him a little, but it was a good feeling.

"You want to sign it?" Mac asked.

"What?" Michael said. They were in the cab on the way home, and Mac had just caught Michael staring at his cast.

"You want to sign the cast?" Mac tapped it with his right index finger. "Do you do that here? When I was ten I broke my arm, and everyone in my class signed the cast. I kept it, after—'till I had to leave home, anyway."

Michael smiled. "Sure. I'll sign it."

As soon as they got home, Michael found a felt-tipped pen and drew his characters on the cast in jet black ink. "There, now I've put my name on you, you're mine," he joked.

"Yeah...." Mac said, in a suddenly distracted and sad tone.

Michael frowned. "What's wrong?"

Mac shrugged it off. "Nothing. Hey, Li Ann'll probably want to sign too."

"You were just thinking about your father again, weren't you?" Michael guessed.

Mac glared at him. "All right. Yeah. So, he put his name on me, didn't he? Ramsey. But he never really wanted me."

Mac's tone was belligerent, but the pain in his eyes was clear. Michael remembered the cab ride to the hospital, and the way Mac had just collapsed, sobbing, in his arms. Michael wondered how Mac felt about that now—if it had changed the way Mac saw him. For sure, there was power in this. Michael wondered how far it might go.

"You want some ice cream?" Michael suggested.

Mac frowned slightly, understandably confused. Michael had never suggested a late-night snack together before. He generally avoided Mac and Li Ann when he could—which meant whenever they weren't training together. "All right," Mac agreed.

They went to the Tang household's well-stocked pantry. Michael found a tub of mango ice cream in the deep freeze. He scooped some into bowls for himself and Mac.

"The dining room's already laid out for breakfast tomorrow," Michael pointed out. "Let's go to my room."

Mac raised an eyebrow in surprise, but shrugged 'OK.'

In Michael's room, they both sat cross-legged on the mat in the middle of the room. Mac folded himself skillfully into position, holding the bowl of ice cream with his good hand and not using his broken hand at all.

The ice cream was frozen very hard. Michael watched as Mac tried to cut into it with his spoon, but the spoon slipped off the surface of the ice cream and the bowl slipped across the mat. With two hands, Michael had no problem; he held onto his bowl and cut into his ice cream. Mac growled with frustration—he was on a short fuse. He tried to brace the bowl against his cast to keep it steady, but that didn't work, it just skidded to the side. "Fuck!" he swore.

"Sorry, it's really hard," Michael said. "You could wait for it to warm up a bit."

"I hate melted ice cream," Mac complained. Michael could see that Mac was really angry. He was probably upset at the realization that there would be a lot of things he wouldn't be able to do for the next few weeks, but Michael guessed the anger was mostly leftover from his father's leaving.

Suddenly, Michael was struck with a crazy impulse. He dug out a spoonful of ice cream himself—and then held it up, offering it to Mac. "Here."

Mac put his spoon down and reached for the one Michael held out, but Michael shook his head. "Open your mouth." He felt his heart beating faster—would Mac do it?

Mac laughed, and Michael could see the angry tension in him easing up a bit. "You're the mommy bird and I'm the baby bird?" Mac opened his mouth, and let Michael slide the spoonful of ice cream in, and then he closed his lips over it. Michael pulled the spoon out again. Mac closed his eyes, tasting the ice cream. "That's good. Thanks."

Michael got another spoonful of ice cream and offered it again. Mac gave him an amused look, and opened his mouth for it.

"So what's with this?" Mac asked after he swallowed, while Michael took a spoonful of ice cream for himself. "All of a sudden you're acting like you like me, or something. Are you feeling guilty for breaking my hand?"

Michael glared at him. "No. That was your fault."

"If you had more control, it wouldn't have happened." Mac stated this matter-of-factly. He didn't seem to be particularly pissed off with Michael; training accidents were a regular part of life. He was just trying to nettle Michael, probably out of habit more than anything. Instead of rising to the bait, Michael just smirked and offered Mac another spoonful of ice cream.

Mac took the spoon in his mouth again, giving Michael a puzzled and challenging look at the same time. Michael, for his part, watched Mac's lips. Mac had such full, almost bruised-looking lips—they made the simple act of licking ice cream off a spoon startlingly sensual.

"Have I got ice cream on my face?" Mac asked, noticing Michael staring at his lips.

"Yes," Michael lied. He licked his finger, and then rubbed the corner of Mac's mouth. He felt a surge of excitement as he did this. This was all very unexpected—he'd never thought of Mac sexually before. "Got it."

Mac reached for his spoon. "It's soft enough now," he noted, digging the spoon successfully into his ice cream.

Michael sat back and ate the rest of his own dessert. When Mac had finished, he said good night and left.

Michael left the bowls where the maid would find them, and got ready to go to bed. Once he lay in his bed, though, he couldn't sleep. His mind kept teasing him with images from the evening: Mac shaking and sick in the training room, Mac sobbing in the cab, Mac letting Michael feed him ice cream. As the scenes played in Michael's memory, he felt himself becoming distinctly aroused.

Michael liked to be in control. The women he slept with were always very pliant, providing no challenge. Michael had always thought that was the way he liked it—he'd always sought out particularly submissive women for his lovers. Mac, on the other hand—he was definitely not submissive. When Michael found himself comforting Mac, in that unexpected position of power, it was a victory over a will as strong as Michael's own—and that was exciting.

Michael finally drifted into a light sleep.

He woke to the sound of knocking at his bedroom door. He blinked at the glowing clock near his bed—it was 2:43 a.m. "Who is it?"

"It's me." It was Mac. "I forgot to get the painkillers from you."

Michael got up, wrapped a silk robe around his nakedness, and went to open the door. In the dim light Mac looked like a pale, glowing ghost. His hair was rumpled, he was barefoot, and he wore a robe similar to Michael's.

"Come in," Michael said. They were both speaking in hushed tones, just because it was the middle of the night.

Michael turned on his desk lamp. "Are you sure you need the pills?" he asked.

"My hand's throbbing. I can't sleep," Mac said.

Michael took pleasure in the raw vulnerability of Mac's words. He decided to see if he could get Mac to stay with him. He found the bag from the drugstore. "Here they are." He handed the bottle to Mac.

Mac looked at it, sighed, and handed it back to Michael. "I can't open it."

Michael smiled. "Right, sorry." He'd known that; he'd just wanted to make Mac say it. Michael checked the label, then twisted the cap off and shook out two pills. "Here."

Mac popped them into his mouth and swallowed them dry.

"You want a glass of water?" Michael asked. Mac shrugged. "Wait here, I'll get you one," he said, and left before Mac could object.

When he came back with the water, Mac was sitting on Michael's bed. Michael handed him the water, and Mac chugged it. "Thanks," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of the hand that still held the glass.

"Why don't you stay here until the pills take effect?" Michael offered softly, sitting down on the bed beside Mac. He took the glass and set it aside.

"No, I'm fine," Mac said, going to stand up. Michael put an arm across his waist and stopped him.

"I can see you're in pain," Michael disagreed. "You shouldn't be alone."

Mac gave Michael a startled look. "What's it to you?"

"You're my brother, aren't you?"

Mac just stared at Michael for a heartbeat. Then he grinned. "Yeah. You can tell 'cause we have the same nose." He pinched Michael's nose between his thumb and index finger, grinning wider when Michael batted his hand away.

"I'm serious, Mac!" Michael lay a hand on Mac's knee, and looked steadily into Mac's eyes. Mac had been hurt by his father's leaving— Michael was sure he could step past Mac's defences now if Mac saw him as surrogate family. "When Father first brought you home, he told me that I had to treat you as my brother. I never had a brother before— I didn't know how to treat you. I know I was impatient with you a lot of the time. I'm sorry for that."

Mac shrugged. "No big deal. That's a pretty normal thing between brothers anyway."

"Do you have any real brothers?" Michael asked, suddenly curious. He'd never thought of Mac as having a real family before—Mac came from the street, that was all, and Li Ann came from the brothel. Now that he'd met Mac's biological father, it seriously occurred to him that both of them must have had a mother and a father at some point, and maybe siblings, too.

"No, I was an only child." Mac frowned. "Actually, I might have half-brothers somewhere. Dad said something.... but I don't know."

"I had a sister," Michael said suddenly. Inwardly, he cringed. He hadn't meant to say that. It had just slipped out. He was trying to draw out confessions from Mac, not make them himself.

"What happened?" Mac asked, of course.

"She was killed with our mother, in the car crash."

Mac put his hand on Michael's. "I'm sorry."

Michael jerked his hand away from Mac's. "It was a long time ago," he said sharply. "I was ten. It doesn't bother me anymore." He couldn't let Mac comfort him—that was an unacceptable shift in the balance of power. And truly, the memory of the accident didn't bother him anymore. It had been so long, he could barely remember his mother's and sister's faces.

Mac looked apologetic; he rubbed his upper arm with his hand, as though erasing Michael's touch. "I never even knew how your mother died. I asked Father once, right at the beginning, where Mrs. Tang was, and he told me she was dead. That was all he ever told me."

Michael wanted to change the topic—he was not interested in discussing that time with Mac. "What about your mother?" he asked.

That was an effective distraction. It was almost visible, the way Mac drew in on himself and closed up. "What about her?" Mac said.

"Where is she?"

"She's dead." Mac's gaze dropped to the bedspread. "She died when I was a baby. I don't even remember her."

"So your father raised you?"

"Nah, he wasn't around much. I grew up in foster care, mostly." Abruptly, Mac shifted to the edge of the bed and stood up. "I really should get to bed. I've got class in the morning."

Michael ignored Mac's last statement. "We both lost our mothers. That makes us true brothers."

"Whatever." Mac started for the door.

Michael still thought he could get Mac to stay. "How's your hand?"

"It fucking hurts!" Mac spun around to face Michael, angry now. "What did you think? Of course it fucking hurts. You broke it!"

Michael didn't react to the anger Mac showed, but he was quietly pleased—provoking Mac into losing control was a good first step in gaining control over him. "I want you to know that I don't think any less of you for what happened in the cab on the way to the hospital," Michael said.

Mac's expression darkened even more. With a low growl, he spun around and punched the door frame. The thud of the impact was so loud that Michael half expected the wood to shatter, but the Tang's residence was of solid construction. Mac raised his fist to his mouth, his back still to Michael.

Michael stood up and padded towards Mac. "You want to break the other one, too?" He kept his voice low and soft, as though he were talking to a spooked horse. "You're right, you should go to bed. It's been a long day. Maybe I asked too many questions. I'm sorry." He was close enough now to touch Mac; Mac still hadn't moved. Michael laid a hand on Mac's shoulder and Mac twitched at the touch. He was practically vibrating, he was so tense. Michael slid his hand along to Mac's other shoulder, so that he had his arm around Mac. "I'll walk you to your room. Come on."

Mac let himself be guided to his own bedroom. It was as though some sort of spell had been cast on him—he was tripping on anger and hurt, but he couldn't speak.

Michael left him on his bed, only to return with a bag of ice.

Mac looked up in surprise; he hadn't moved from the position Michael had left him in, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"For your hand," Michael explained. He sat beside Mac and took Mac's right hand and looked at it. The first and second knuckles were already swollen, but it didn't look too bad. "Can you wiggle your fingers?" In reply, Mac gave him the finger. "Hey." Michael grabbed Mac's fingers and pressed them closed, into a fist; he squeezed. "All I ask is that you treat me with respect." Mac winced at the pain, and Michael let up. "Here, take this, it'll hurt less." He held the bag of ice against the back of Mac's hand.

Mac tried to take over holding the bag of ice by placing his other hand, in its cast, against it. Michael let go and the ice slipped to the floor. "That's not gonna work," Mac observed in an impartial tone.

"And you're not supposed to get the cast wet, anyway," Michael reminded him. The bag of ice wasn't leaking, but it was already beaded with condensation. He picked the bag up. "Lie down. Get into bed."

Mac gave him a challenging look, but then he shrugged out of his dressing gown. He had boxers on underneath, Michael noted with mild regret. Mac crawled under his sheet and lay on his back, with both his hands on top of the sheet. "Give me the ice," he said.

Michael put the ice on Mac's right hand—and held it there.

"Leave it," Mac said.

"It would slide off."

"No it wouldn't."

"It will when you move."

"What do you care?"

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Michael lied. "Just relax, OK? I'll leave when you fall asleep."

Mac closed his eyes, but he complained anyway. "I can't fall asleep with you here. It's like napping with a tiger in the room."

Michael glowed secretly at the comparison. He would be a tiger to Mac. The thought added to his already considerable arousal. "I'll help you relax. Roll over and I'll rub your back."

Mac's eyes popped open again. "Really?"

"Sure."

Mac finally smiled a bit. "Well... I've never said no to a back rub."

Michael smiled too, at the slight sexual innuendo in Mac's words.

Mac rolled onto his stomach, lifting his arms over his head. Michael put the ice bag on Mac's right hand—it didn't slide off. Then he climbed onto the bed and knelt, straddling Mac over the small of his back.

Since Michael was wearing a bathrobe with nothing underneath, there was nothing but the thin sheet between Mac's skin and Michael's balls. Michael smiled with this secret knowledge, and his erection twitched.

The sheet was pulled up right to Mac's shoulders; Michael pulled it down so that Mac's back was exposed. Then he started by kneading Mac's shoulders.

Mac's shoulders were like one big knot, he was so tense. He gasped with pain at the roughness of Michael's touch, and Michael relented, working the knotted muscles more gently. If he hurt Mac too much at this point, Mac would just ask him to stop.

Michael was patient; he had nowhere else to go, nowhere he'd rather be. As he got the knots to release, one by one, he worked his way down the sides of Mac's spine. He stopped when he got to the small of his back. Then he started rubbing Mac's back in lighter, circular motions. Mac's skin warmed under his touch. Michael wished he had some oil to use, to make the motions smoother.

He stopped when he heard faint snoring. Michael sat back, satisfied. Mac had relaxed and trusted him enough to fall asleep while he was there—while he was touching him, even. It was a good start.

Michael got off Mac, careful not to disturb him. He took the half-melted bag of ice and put it on the floor. He turned the light off, and let his eyes adjust to the dark.

Mac had a double bed, and he was lying to one side of it. There was plenty of room for another.

Quiet like a cat, Michael crawled onto the bed and lay beside Mac. He was on top of the sheets, while Mac was under them, but other than that he was in bed with Mac. Mac lay on his belly still, with his face turned towards Michael. Seen dimly in the near-darkness, and in sleep, Mac's face looked peaceful and trusting. Staring at his adoptive brother's face, Michael reached into the folds of his dressing gown and wrapped his hand around the end of his penis. He started to stroke himself, slowly and gently. He would not let himself climax—not here. But he could enjoy the exquisite torture of bringing himself oh so close to the edge, again and again.

After a while, Michael fell into a trance-like state, but he didn't sleep. In this state, hours passed like nothing until the peace was broken by Mac frowning in his sleep, mumbling, and rolling over.

Michael came quickly into full wakefulness, shifting closer to the wall so that Mac wouldn't bump into him. Mac was quiet again for a moment, and then his legs scissored and his head tossed back and forth. He grunted, nothing like distinguishable words, but the tone was high-pitched, like fear. Then suddenly his hands flew up toward his face, and he banged himself in the eye with his cast. He woke up with a yell of shock and pain; he sat straight up and, seeing someone in bed with him when he thought he was alone, scrambled backwards away from Michael. His legs tangled in the sheets and he fell over the edge of the bed; amid the general thud of Mac's body hitting the floor there was the sharper sound of his cast hitting the wooden floorboards. That was presumably the reason for the next yelp of pain, followed by a string of desperate profanities.

Michael crawled over the bed and got down onto the floor where Mac lay in a heap, curled around his hands.

"Are you OK?" Michael whispered, laying a hand on Mac's head. His hair was damp with sweat. "Were you having a nightmare?"

Mac didn't say anything, but he was breathing hard. Abruptly a gasp caught in his throat and turned into a sob. For the second time that night and the second time ever, Michael drew Mac up into his arms and felt the young man shaking with sobs.

"What were you dreaming?" Michael asked again.

"...the b-blood..." Mac gasped out. "M-mom..." And then he buried his face in Michael's chest.

Michael frowned. "But you don't remember your mother."

Mac ignored him, if he heard him at all.

Michael stroked Mac's hair. The intensity of the moment was so pure. Mac had utterly abandoned himself into Michael's embrace. Michael wondered whether Mac had nightmares often, or whether it was only because of the pain and the drugs. If he spent more nights with Mac, would he get to see Mac like this again?

And how far, in his pain and disorientation, would Mac let Michael go?

Michael bent his head down to brush the top of Mac's head with a kiss. Mac gave no sign of noticing. Michael ran a finger along the edge of Mac's face. It was damp with sweat and tears. Mac noticed that touch; he was startled into near silence, broken by shuddering breaths.

"Come back onto the bed," Michael whispered. "I'll make it all go away."

Mac let Michael lift him up onto the bed. Michael pressed a tissue into Mac's unbroken hand. "Clean yourself up," he instructed him. Meanwhile, Michael rubbed the back of Mac's neck.

When Mac tossed the wadded-up tissue away, Michael leaned in to kiss Mac's neck. He felt Mac's pulse throbbing wildly under his lips.

"What are you doing?" Mac whispered.

"Don't you like it?" Michael lifted his face so his nose and Mac's were almost touching, and he caressed Mac's cheek with one finger. His cheek was rough with stubble. Michael had never done this with a man before, but it didn't seem to make much difference. Just like the women always did, Mac looked at him with eyes full of trepidation and longing. Michael leaned in fractionally closer so that their lips met. Mac drew a startled breath, opening his lips at the same time; Michael pressed their lips harder together, and let the tip of his tongue flicker between Mac's lips. It was just like kissing a woman, only rougher around the edges. Through slitted lids, Michael saw Mac close his eyes. Mac's good hand clutched at the front of Michael's dressing gown.

Michael let the kiss continue, gently exploring, for a while. Then he laid a hand on Mac's crotch. He had just enough time to feel the satisfying warmth and hardness of the bulge there before Mac pulled away from him.

"What are you doing?" Mac whispered, the same question as before.

"I want to make you happy," Michael said. "I want to erase yesterday for you."

"Yesterday?"

"It's dawn now." The window had a pale glow, and shapes in the room were becoming more clear with each passing moment. Michael could see dark bruising around Mac's eye where he'd hit himself with his cast. That made him want to kiss Mac again; he did, and Mac didn't resist. Then Michael took hold of Mac's right hand. He looked at it—the first and second knuckles were a dusky purple. He kissed them. "Does it hurt much?"

"Not too much."

Michael took Mac's hand and guided it through the folds of his dressing gown. Mac met Michael's gaze, unblinking, and didn't pull away. Michael laid Mac's hand on his hard, aching dick, and took his own hand away. "You see how much I like you," he murmured.

Michael felt Mac's fingers close around his dick. Mac's hand was rough with calluses from weapons training, and much bigger and stronger than a woman's. It felt similar to Michael's own hand when he pleasured himself—but different, too, because he didn't know what Mac would do next.

Michael was surprised that it had all been this easy. He'd half-expected Mac to attack him when he first kissed him. Michael wondered what exactly Mac's co-operation meant—had he fallen completely under Michael's spell so quickly, or had there always been potential here, that Michael simply hadn't seen?

In a quick motion that took Michael completely by surprise, Mac went down on him.

Michael gasped at the sudden sensation of tight, wet warmth. Mac's tongue danced crazy figures on the head of Michael's dick, while he caressed Michael's balls with his hand. Michael closed his eyes, leaned back, and groaned with pleasure. His whole body felt suffused with glowing, tingling warmth, with a white-hot centre at his groin. Losing himself, floating away, he grabbed at Mac's hair and tangled his fingers deeply in the warm, damp curls. Mac's hand wrapped around the base of Michael's penis, squeezing it, and Michael groaned. He felt Mac's head bobbing up and down. Mac took in more of Michael's length than any woman ever had. Michael swore at the ecstatic torture, and twisted his fingers harder in Mac's hair, pulling it. He felt the vibrations of Mac's cry of pain, muffled around his dick, and that sent him over the edge. In an endless moment of throbbing, sweet release, he ejaculated into Mac's mouth.

Michael lay back, boneless, momentarily relaxed and at peace. He felt the bed creak as Mac lay down beside him.

"Can I kiss you?" Mac asked softly.

Michael imagined the taste of his own semen—ugh. That would be going too far. "No."

"All right."

"You've done this before," Michael realized.

"I'm good, huh?" Mac sounded sad, rather than proud.

"When were you with another man?" Michael felt unexpected twinges of jealousy. He knew Mac had had a couple girlfriends, and that didn't bother him—but he'd expected to be Mac's first male lover. This was Michael's first time with a man—if Mac was more experienced than he was, that gave power to Mac, and Michael didn't like that.

"After Dad abandoned me. Before Father took me in."

"Oh." Michael turned his head so he could see Mac. Mac was staring up at the ceiling. Michael lifted a hand to cup Mac's cheek. "I'm sorry," he said, and actually meant it. "I hadn't thought of that."

Mac shrugged. "I lived."

"I never really thought about how you lived," Michael confessed. "I've never had to worry about where my next meal was coming from."

"Food wasn't the problem," Mac said, still staring at the ceiling. "I could steal food. But I needed protection from the gangs. That's why I stayed with Tom."

"Tom?" Michael prompted. Mac didn't say anything. Michael wanted him to keep talking—the more he knew about Mac's past, the better he could control him. "Who was he? What was he, your pimp?"

"I never knew his real name. Everyone just called him Tom around me. He wasn't a pimp. He was... my boyfriend, I guess. He liked me. He liked to have sex with me. A couple times he loaned me out to his friends, but I don't think they paid him. I was thirteen. He spoke some English, that's how we hooked up at first. He seemed old to me at the time—I guess he was in his mid twenties." Mac told his story in a low tone, without expression. At some point Michael took Mac's good hand in his, to encourage him; Mac squeezed back, hard, and held on, without looking at Michael. "He pulled some weight on the streets. People were scared of him. I think he'd killed a guy, before I met him. Everyone knew he was connected somehow with a real gang, one of the big crime families. Actually it was the Tangs—I didn't know that 'till later. He was just an informant for them, but still, people who aren't connected don't mess with people who are. So once everyone knew I was under Tom's protection, people left me alone."

This explained a lot about tonight, Michael reflected. And it was ripe with possibilities. Mac must have reacted with Michael as he'd been used to reacting with Tom. That's why he'd moved so quickly from 'What are you doing?' to giving Michael the best blow job of his life. Mac's experience here wasn't an asset to him, it was a liability. He was used to being taken advantage of by an older man on whom he was totally dependent for physical protection. That was definitely something Michael could exploit. "So what happened?" Michael asked, when it seemed that Mac wasn't going to say anything else. "How did you end up here?"

"One day Tom had this visitor," Mac recalled. "He sent me into the kitchen to make tea. I was still in there when I heard gunshots. Then a man sort of fell backwards through the kitchen door. I hadn't seen him before, he wasn't Tom's guest. He was bleeding from the chest. He fell onto the floor. He was still holding a gun." Mac took a deep breath. "There was shouting in the front room, more gunshots. I grabbed the gun from the guy on the floor and I ran into the front room. Tom was on the floor, and this other guy I hadn't seen before had a gun on Tom's guest. So I shot the guy. Actually I shot at him four times and I think I only hit once, but it was enough, and he didn't manage to turn around and shoot me. So it turned out the guest, the guy I saved, was a Tang soldier, and he took me away with him. A couple days later he brought me here."

"Did he die?"

"Tom? Yeah."

"No, I meant the man you shot."

"Oh. Yeah, he died too."

Michael felt afraid for a moment, and hostile towards Mac. He took his hand away. Michael had never killed anyone, not yet. His father had never let him take on that kind of risk. Michael imagined there was great power in a kill. He was not going to ask Mac about it. Instead, he rolled over and pinned Mac's body under his. "That was a long time ago," he said. "I'm here now." And he kissed Mac, hard. He was pleased to feel Mac kissing him back after a moment. Maybe Mac had killed a hit man when he was thirteen, but Michael could still dominate him, here, now, like this.

Hong Kong, November 1991

Mac and Li Ann sat in the parlour, studying. Li Ann was preparing for a Biology test the next day. Mac was reading a UNIX manual for the computer programming course he was taking. A peaceful silence enveloped them—the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Mac tried to keep his mind on the book, but it was insanely dull, and he was distracted. He sipped at his can of pop, and let his eyes wander off the page.

He wondered where Michael was. Michael had been gone for a week. He missed him.

Since Mac came to live with the Tangs, Michael had been a remote older brother to him—admired and envied, and distant. And then, just when he'd been feeling completely abandoned and unloved, it had all changed. Michael had kissed him. He'd held him. He'd slept with him.

That first morning, Michael had crept out of Mac's room just before the household would start rising for breakfast. That day, life had gone on as usual—except for the secret glances Mac and Michael had shared.

Michael hadn't come back to Mac's bed that night, and Mac had instinctively known that he shouldn't go to Michael's—not so soon. A few days later, in the gym (Mac still had to train, even with a broken hand) Michael had come over to Mac and whispered "Come to me tonight." Li Ann had been close by, on the rowing machine; the thrill of the secrecy had shot through Mac. He shared something special with Michael. Wow.

He loved it when Michael kissed him. It made him feel special, like no one else ever had. He was glad he could make Michael feel good, too, by sucking him off.

They hadn't gone all the way yet. Mac knew Michael would only top, and he didn't mind, but when he thought about actually getting fucked he got tense and uncomfortable. He'd never exactly enjoyed it with Tom or his friends, though some times had been better than others. After Tom died, one of his first thoughts had been that he'd never have to do that again—and he'd immediately felt guilty for the thought, because Tom had been his protector and, in some ways, his only friend in Hong Kong. These days, Mac tried not to think about all that—but it was hard not to, when Michael started fingering his ass and acting like he was going to hold Mac down and just do it. So far, Mac had always convinced him not to.

Mac flexed his left hand, and turned the page in his book. The cast had come off two days ago. His hand was still weak and kind of funny-looking, but damn it was good to be able to turn the page of a book and hold a can of pop at the same time.

Michael had disappeared a week ago. The godfather said he was on a business trip. Mac wondered why Michael hadn't told him he was leaving. He missed him.

"I've had enough," Li Ann said, snapping her book shut. "I'm going to bed."

"Yeah, me too," Mac agreed.

Just then, the door opened and Michael walked in.

"Hi, Michael!" Li Ann greeted him. "Where were you?"

"Yeah, where were you?" Mac repeated. He wanted to bite his tongue as soon as the words came out—when Li Ann asked the question it sounded like mere curiosity, but when Mac repeated it, it came out as a whining accusation, at least to his ears.

"Kenya," Michael replied. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were bright, and he was flushed—sunburned, actually. "It was a wild trip! Father wanted me to collect the dividends from the Birchell-Wong operation. I had two bodyguards with me. While we were driving back to Nairobi, our jeep was attacked by brigands! They must have known we'd be travelling that way with a lot of money."

"What happened?" Li Ann asked, wide-eyed. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No. They shot out our tires, and then they expected us to be scared into submission." He grinned. "We weren't." He looked at Mac. "I had to kill one of them." He paused, as though waiting for some reaction; Mac couldn't imagine what. "We disarmed the others, took them prisoner. Turned them over to the local police."

"I'm glad you're OK," Li Ann said.

"Me too," Mac added. "Not surprised, though—I've seen you fight."

Michael glowed at the praise. "But I'd never been tried in real combat before now. Maybe now Father will stop holding me back."

"I hope he lets me do something soon," Mac added. "It seems like I've been training forever."

"He has plans for us. He's just waiting 'till we're ready," Li Ann assured her brothers. "And I can't wait, either," she admitted with a shy grin.

"You worry about graduating from high school, first," Mac told her. "Like, get some sleep before your test?" Honestly, he wanted her to go to bed so he'd have Michael to himself.

Li Ann rolled her eyes at him. "You're such a great, responsible role model." She did gather up her books then and go, giving both of her brothers a kiss on the cheek.

Mac looked at Michael. 'I missed you,' he thought. He didn't say it. "So, hey, good work with keeping the money safe and everything. Wanna have a drink?"

"That sounds good. I want something to eat, too. I'm starving. I had a snack in Bangkok and some nuts on the plane, but I haven't really eaten since Dubai."

"Wow, you must be exhausted," Mac said. Looking closer, he saw that Michael's eyes were tinged with red, and there were shadows under his eyes. "I guess you'll want to go right to bed."

Michael shrugged. "I should be exhausted but I'm not. I feel hyper-awake. Maybe it's adrenaline. Anyway, I want to eat. Let's get the cook to send up dinner and some port to the roof."

Like much of the Tangs' residence, the rooftop garden was influenced by British aesthetics. Fragrant rose bushes hedged it into sections, and it was carpeted in soft grass. There was a wooden picnic table; a canopy was available, but had been rolled back because the night was clear. The garden was softly lit by Chinese lanterns hung on cords strung between poles planted in the rose bushes. Shortly after Michael and Mac ascended to the roof, a servant arrived with Greek salad on a silver tray for Michael, along with crystal bottles of vinegar and olive oil. Michael tucked in, while Mac wandered quietly around the roof. The night was warmer than usual for November in Hong Kong— somewhere around twenty-eight or twenty-nine degrees Celsius. The air felt thick and heavy.

Another servant brought a main course, and then the first returned with a bottle of fine port and two glasses.

Michael poured drinks for two, and Mac joined him at the table, perching sideways on the other bench. Michael held up his glass. "Chin chin," he said.

"Chin chin," Mac echoed, clinking his glass against Michael's. "What are we toasting?"

"The night," Michael replied with his tight smile. "Us. My first combat."

They both sipped at the strong, sweet drink, and just as they lowered their glasses the whole scene was illuminated by a momentary stark white light.

"Lightning," Michael observed.

Michael went back to eating his meal, while Mac silently counted the seconds, waiting for the thunder. Counting was an automatic reaction; he didn't even notice he was doing it until he got to six. Then he realized what he was doing and remembered his mother teaching him the trick, some summer in his childhood. The thought made him melancholy; he tried to forget it. The thunder finally rumbled, faint and distant. "It's over the water," Mac said. "Nowhere near here." He looked up at the sky. The stars were sparse, as always in the city, but there were no clouds at all.

Michael put down his fork. "I feel so alive."

"Because you're not dead?" Mac asked.

"Yes," Michael replied, missing Mac's sarcasm as usual. "Because the man who tried to kill me is dead instead, by my hand."

Lightning flashed again.

Mac took his pocket knife out and flipped it open. He pressed it against the edge of the table, making a tiny dent in the wood. "So?"

Michael ignored Mac's rudeness in taking out a knife at the table. "I want to have sex with you. Tonight. Now."

Mac switched the knife to his left hand and reached for his drink. He took a long swallow, watching Michael over the rim of the glass. Michael sipped his own drink and held Mac's gaze. The thunder rolled.

"Maybe," Mac said. "Need to drink more first."

Michael stood up, and moved around the table. "I wasn't asking you. I was telling you." His lips were wet from the port, and his expression was intense and hungry. Mac felt a shiver go down his spine. At the same time, he felt stirrings of arousal. Love-play with Michael was never gentle. To Michael, Mac had already learned, this was foreplay.

"Wait," Mac warned, holding up the knife. "I said I need to drink more first."

Lightning.

"I can't wait." Michael kept his distance, but his hands twitched. "I've been waiting since the road outside Nairobi. I haven't slept since then. It was... yesterday, I think."

"Well maybe you should just sleep, then. You're jet-lagged. You've been awake so long you're a little crazy." Mac kept the knife up between them, switching it to his good hand. He wanted to touch Michael, he wanted Michael to touch him.... but he didn't want to get fucked. That hurt. It always hurt.

Lightning, thunder, lightning. The storm offshore was picking up. The sky overhead remained clear, and the air was heavy and still.

"I need you," Michael insisted. "I'm aching for you. And I know you want it." His gaze fell pointedly to Mac's crotch. He took one step toward Mac.

"Maybe," Mac repeated. He stood up quickly, one motion getting his legs clear of the bench. He kept the knife up, and both brothers shifted automatically into loose combat stances.

Michael exhaled slowly. The frozen scene flashed white with lightning. In the moment Mac was blinded by the flash, Michael shifted forward and, quick like a striking cobra, knocked the knife out of Mac's hand with a crescent kick. Mac gritted his teeth against the pain and threw himself at Michael, aiming to head-butt him in the gut. He'd rather punch the bastard, but his right hand was numb from the kick and his left hand was weak, just two days out of six weeks in a cast. Michael leapt aside just in time and used Mac's momentum to throw him forward onto the ground. Mac landed on his belly in a rose bush with Michael on top of him. He struggled to free himself. He felt thorns pricking him all over. He managed to twist around and get on top of Michael, who showed his teeth in a grin. Mac panted and glared down at Michael. He couldn't hold on properly; Michael bucked and Mac fell, on the bottom again and crushing more bushes. The bruised flowers sent a heavy, sweet scent into the air. The thorns were ripping into Mac more than Michael, because Mac wore a short-sleeved t-shirt, while Michael was wearing a blue button-down shirt which protected his arms. Mac's arms were covered with scratches already, some of them bleeding. He stopped struggling for a moment, and felt Michael undoing his belt. Holy shit. Was Michael planning to just hold him down and rape him? Michael wouldn't do that. No. They were brothers. But Michael did like it rough, Mac knew that much.

Lightning flashed again. At the edge of his vision, in the grass, Mac saw a glint of metal. The knife.

Michael had one arm on Mac's neck while he undid their pants with his other hand. He wasn't in a good position to hold on. Mac kicked and bucked suddenly and got free, and scrambled for the knife. Michael dove after him and grabbed his wrist, and they wrestled for possession. Near-constant thunder accompanied the struggle. The knife twisted and slashed, not really under the control of either brother. Suddenly Mac felt a bright flash of pain along his left forearm. He let out a choked yelp. "Fuck! What are you doing?!"

Seeing the blood, Michael pushed away and came to his feet a safe distance from Mac. Mac glared up at him, panting. Blood trickled down his arm. The gash was several inches long.

"I'm sorry," Michael said in a soft, contrite tone. "That went too far. I was just playing with you."

"I know," Mac said. He did. Michael was like that. If Mac wanted Michael to accept him, he knew he had to accept Michael, too, just as he was. He wiped the knife blade on the grass, then folded the thing and put it back in his pocket. He felt like he was on speed or something. The lightning acted like a strobe, breaking every movement into distinct moments. Michael dropped to his knees, and crawled to Mac on the grass.

"How bad is it?" Michael asked, taking Mac's arm to look at the cut.

Mac shrugged. "Not bad. It'll need stitches, I guess."

Michael leaned in closer, and touched the blood running down Mac's arm. "I'll take you to the hospital."

"No big hurry." With Michael so close, Mac could ignore the pain from the cut and his scratches from the thorns. The sex hormones pumping through him gave him happy feelings. It had been a long and lonely week with just Li Ann for company.

Michael looked at Mac, and then kissed his forehead. Mac shivered. "What's wrong?" Michael asked. Mac didn't answer. He just returned the kiss, on Michael's lips, and they shared that for a while, gentle and sweet. Mac felt his heart beating like crazy. He knew that Michael still wanted what he'd demanded in the beginning. He thought now that he'd give it to him, just to feel Michael's arms around him again.

"Why did you fight me?" Michael asked. "We both want this, don't we?" His fingers trailed to Mac's waist. He'd already unbuckled Mac's belt; now he teased the fly of his pants open.

Mac put a restraining hand over Michael's hand. "I'm just not sure. It's been—I haven't—" He halted, not comfortable with what he wanted to say.

"Is this about Tom?" Michael asked gently.

Mac's pulse quickened. They hadn't talked about Mac's past since that first night. Mac had almost fooled himself into thinking Michael had forgotten what Mac had told him. "Yeah," he admitted. And was shocked to feel Michael pulling him against his chest, and hugging him. Mac felt himself starting to shiver, even though the night was sultry hot. With Michael holding him, Mac found he could speak. "When he—I never liked it. What he did. Fucking. I just endured it."

"It would be different with me," Michael promised, rocking Mac a bit.

"Why?"

"Because I love you." Michael's arms tightened around Mac. Mac stopped breathing. His head was cradled against Michael's chest, and he could hear Michael's heart beating even over the rumbles of thunder. It was beating so fast, Mac knew Michael was telling the truth.

"All right," Mac whispered. He felt Michael kiss his hair.

"Here, on the grass," Michael said. "No one will come up." He pulled Mac's t-shirt off and kissed his bare chest.

Mac started unbuttoning Michael's shirt. "But we need some kind of lube."

"I never used lube before." Michael tugged at Mac's pants, and Mac moved to let him pull them down. "Is it really necessary?"

"Yeah. It's different than with a woman. If you don't use lube, it'll hurt me a lot." Mac gave Michael a warning look. "I won't let you do that."

"All right." Michael shrugged out of his shirt, and touched the red-black wetness on Mac's arm. "We can use your blood."

Mac's stomach twisted. "Fuck, no! No way in hell." He stared at his arm. "Damn, that's bleeding a lot."

Michael stroked Mac's face with his bloody fingers. "What, then? What do you want me to use?"

"There's olive oil on the table. That'll work."

"First I'd better take care of you," Michael said. He picked up Mac's t-shirt. "This a good shirt?"

Mac shook his head.

Michael tied the shirt around Mac's arm, making it into a bandage. Mac kept still under Michael's ministrations. Michael loved him. He'd said it, and now he was proving it with this uncharacteristically gentle action. Mac felt a warm glow starting somewhere deep inside.

With Mac's arm taken care of, Michael fetched the olive oil. Mac was already naked; now Michael stripped his pants off and threw them to the side. He gave Mac a simmering look, and poured some oil into his palm. "Like this?" he asked, rubbing the oil over his erection.

Mac nodded. His mouth was dry. Michael was beautiful naked, his body sculpted by years of hard martial-arts training.

"I want you to lie down, on your stomach," Michael instructed him. His voice was tender. Mac did as he said. The grass tickled his neck.

"You know, we don't have to be in this position," Mac said. He'd rather be able to see Michael.

"I'd like to, though. Just this first time," Michael said.

Mac felt Michael's dick brushing his ass. Then suddenly, Michael pushed inside him. Mac gasped. It hurt; Michael was slick with oil, but Mac had been tense, so it hurt. Not Michael's fault.

Michael gasped too. "Oh, that's good," he moaned. Mac felt kisses on his shoulders. "That's good. That's wonderful. You're beautiful." Michael started to move, and Mac felt, unexpectedly, a flash of ecstatic bliss. His hips bucked automatically into Michael's movement. "Oh, yesss," Michael groaned, speeding up. "You're incredible, Mac."

Under Michael, Mac whimpered, but not in pain. It was a good feeling —a better feeling than he'd ever imagined. It had never, ever been like this with Tom or his friends. It got better and better, white hot like the lightning. He wasn't sure if the lightning flashes were in the clouds or behind his eyes. He yelled, and felt Michael crying out at the same moment, in a fantastic moment of unified bliss.

Michael collapsed on Mac's back, then rolled off. He lay on the grass beside Mac, keeping one arm over him. Mac snuggled against him, murmuring nonsense syllables.

"You see?" Michael let the words fall soft, like butterflies. "I love you."

End Part One.

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