e-mail: elel_rocks@hotmail.com

"Vic. Vic, man ..." Shane whined as he began to bang his forehead on the scarred surface of Strike Team's office. "I'm losin' it man. I tell ya' ... I tell ya' I'm fucked -- royally fucked up, man."

Vic Mackey rolled his eyes and tightened his jaw in disgust. How many times in the past year had they repeated this scene?

Shane having a meltdown and Mackey being face with the decision of whether or not his friend was worth saving. At what point should Mackey cut his losses and dispose of the weak link?

Shane Vendrell had been the first officer that Mackey had recruited for his elite team. At the time, Vic had been sure that Shane was a perfect fit, but that had been before Terry, before Terry's death, and before Shane had become so unreliable.

These depressions seemed to happen at least once a month -- every time the littlest thing would go wrong in Shane's sorry excuse for a life. It didn't matter what it was either -- mundane things as well as freaky things could set him off on a depression binge. Last month it had been his cable TV getting hooked up wrong that had precipitated the melancholia. The month before that it had been the constant drip of the faucet in the station's bathroom. Lemonhead had alerted Mackey to the fact that Shane had lost it in the ladies' room. Mackey had found him curled up against the fake pink marble, staring at the faucet with round, haunted eyes. He'd started babbling about not being able to stop the water and ended up muttering about not being able to stop thinking about Terry.

Mackey had locked the door and done what had to be done -- what he had to do once again.

He sighed as he made his decision. No matter how much of a basket case Shane had become, Vic knew how to bring him back. With short choppy strides he crossed the room and secured the door. No one could ever know what he had to do in order to calm Shane down.

Mackey didn't bother to talk. Shane didn't need to hear him mouth any platitudes or lecture him on loyalty. Shane needed to *feel* Mackey's concern. Shane needed it deep and rough and hard enough to drive Terry's accusing specter out of his mind.

With one huge hand, Mackey took hold of the waistband of Shane's faded jeans and hauled the slender man up. Mackey pressed his other hand directly between Shane's protruding shoulder blades, pressing the unresisting torso down onto the table. Shane, himself, undid his jeans, baring himself -- presenting himself -- spreading himself eagerly.

Mackey scowled. His forehead crinkling as he fished a condom packet out of his pocket. Shane was getting too dependent on this -- enjoying it too much. Mackey had started this as a means of controlling his subordinates, now Shane needed it too much.

"Fuck!" Mackey swore as he squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his way in.

Shane moaned, a mixture of pleasure and pain and need and relief.

Mackey rode Shane hard and brutally, using the muscles of his thick thighs and powerful hips to drive deeply into the young man's ass.

Ten minutes later, when the two men left the office, Shane was smiling again and, if his stride resembled a duck walk more than its usually cocky swagger, no one commented.


END
Read me? Feed me. elel_rocks@hotmail.com