Director's Order
        Susan Smithson


        Victor Mansfield felt his palms itch, felt the physical premonitions of shock skittering over his skin. "You can't order me to have sex!" He wanted to bristle and argue and splutter, but further words drowned with a last bobbing gasp beneath a swell of panic.

        The Director raised finely shaped eyebrows. "I can order you to do whatever I like, Victor," she stated mildly. "It's one of the many perks of my job."

        There were times when Mansfield actually liked the Director; she was dispassionate, goal-oriented, and completely lacking in favoritism. But she was also a sexually preoccupied, self-admitted sadist who took, Victor believed, far more than professional interest in her agents. The idea that she thought she could just tell him to--to-- "I'm not having sex just because you tell me to. Not with anyone, and definitely not with him." She stared. "I mean, has it even occurred to you that I'm not homosexual?" She kept staring. "I don't even like the guy!"

        "That's not what the psych people say." A brown leather binder appeared in her hand, stuffed with paper. Her wrist flicked, sending it skittering to balance on the edge of the conference table two inches in front of him.

        The blush started in his fingertips, worked its way up his arms and over his chest, crawled up his neck and heated his face, all in the space of a second. Inside that folder was--what? Reports, assessments, reconnaissance photos? Of what? He had a sudden stomach-churning image of some night unremembered, himself in women's clothes or SS regalia… if the Director wanted it, she'd set up the thing, he knew. He prayed she hadn't wanted it.

        "Go ahead, Victor. It contains every pertinent part of both yours and Ramsey's reports."

        A part of him itched to grab it and run, if only to get a look into MacLeod Ramsey's underdeveloped brain. Another part itched to simply run because, from the smug smile on the Director's face, there were parts of himself bound in that leather that he didn't want to see.

        "The psych department tells me that… tensions… are building to an intolerable level, and that something needs to be done."

        "Try firing him. Or me. What the heck, just send him back to that Brady Bunch crime family he landed us in."

        "As for punishments, those are mine to mete, and that overzealously naïve bunch of jewel thieves would hardly be my first choice. As for termination--well, it means something a little different than you might think." Castors rolled; stiletto heels clicked. Her perfume surrounded him just as her arms did, and short lacquered fingernails brushed the back of his left hand. She backed off before he could flinch away, which in itself irritated the hell out of him. "Be reasonable, Vic. Half of what you're saying here is a lie--to yourself or me, I don't really care. Get to the bottom of it. I have better things to worry about than the emotional stability of my agents."

        "You can't order me to do this," he repeated, feeling like he was speaking to someone who didn't understand English. "Am I getting through to you? I'm not doing it."

        "For all the qualities you provide as an agent, Victor, you do bring your fair share of drawbacks." She sounded like he imagined she imagined a mother would, and it gave him the creeps. "All that nobility… no wonder Ramsey wants you." She tapped the file. "Read what's in here, Victor. That's all I'm asking. Take it, Victor." Every cell in his body resisted reaching out, but he did it anyway. All she was ordering him to do was read, he could hardly fight with her about that. "Report back at noon tomorrow."

        "Whatever," he muttered, getting the hell out.

        Ramsey, cleft-chinned, Varnet-wearing, clothes-horsed and irritatingly bouncy, was loitering in the halls. "Hey, Vic! There you are! C'mon, let's go get a beer."

        "No."

        "Ohh-kay. Let's go get a whiskey, then. You look like you could use it, buddy. " A friendly hand reached for his shoulder; he ducked, and knocked it away.

        "Get off me, Mac."

        "Touchy." Mac's gaze, steady in his peripheral vision, looked first curious then amused. "Is she flirting with you again? Vic, I keep tellin' ya, she likes it when you get all prissy." Ramsey smirked again.

        Digging his finger into his partner's bony chest, he growled, "I am not prissy."

        "Okay, okay. What did she do to you? I haven't seen you this wound up since your sister was in town."

        "Just back off."

        "Come on, Vic!"

        The hand snaked toward him again, and he lost it. "Jeez, does nobody understand simple English? Leave me the hell alone!" He saw the words hit home, saw Ramsey's studied indifference take over.

        "Sure, Vic," Ramsey replied. "Whatever you say." He turned coolly and lengthened his stride just as Victor started to feel guilty.

        "Mac--" Vic watched him reach the exit and push through the security door without a backward glance, without a pause. Shit.

        7:12 p.m.

        Victor Mansfield sat on his sofa, empty dinner plate on the coffee table, empty Corona bottle beside it. Half the contents of the Director's report were scattered over his lap and a wide semi-circle of surrounding surfaces.

        Idly, he scratched his belly and felt like shit for yelling at his partner. He had read through Ramsey's files once already, and now, as with junk food or bad medicine, was trying to digest it. Mac's session summaries implied that he was hornier than any four people Victor knew. Adventurous, curious, amoral-- "well, I knew that already," Victor muttered to the empty room. But while he hinted at a capacity for all things, he had never come right out and claimed any sort of alternate sexuality.

        Victor grimaced at one particularly torrid description of what was probably a fantasy, related by Ramsey as absolute fact, which involved three women and another, unnamed man. It made Vic a little queasy. Mac and the other guy, at least in Mac's version, had remained fastidiously separated by breasts and pussies. He grimaced at the language, quoted directly from Mr. Puerile himself; the guy had no respect for women.

        And not much respect for anyone else either, it seemed.

        Jane Marlins, the lead psychiatrist for the organization, had a different opinion, one that made Victor squirm less because it wasn't so vivid, but also made him uncomfortably sympathetic. Ramsey continues to seek the stability he never received as a child. His altered fixation on Li Ann places her in an archetypal sibling/mother role. He no longer seriously considers her a sexual object or resource, and in fact all indicators suggest that the number and frequency of his sexual liaisons with others has dropped off dramatically over the last ten months as he has turned more and more toward atypical self-gratification. He is adrift from his normal patterns and he has become unsatisfied with the casual approach to intercourse established in early years. Session summaries over the past several months show an increasingly obsessive pattern with respect to his partner, 15423/7 Mansfield, V. His recent reviews suggest a strong compulsion toward reliability, trust, and connection with an object outside himself in which he places great faith. This object is, obviously, Mansfield.

        Victor supposed he should be flattered. But hell, he was so fucking reliable he was pedantic--the very thing he thought Mac hated most about him, in fact.

        It was hard to imagine Mac mooning over him like a lovesick puppy. It was equally difficult to imagine Mac running around with some raging hard-on for him, especially when Mac had never even claimed such an inclination… we coulda double-dated her! Mac's words from one of the Director's dumber orders floated up in his mind, filled with outrage and prickly frustration. Shit.

        Ramsey's recent field reports suggest that his always-questionable attention span is wavering unreliably. While his survival instinct seems firmly intact, his reaction time to outside stresses has increased, as has his tendency toward work resistance. Evidence suggests that, if this trend continues, he may lose all effectiveness as a unit member and be useful only on solo assignments, as this tendency puts team efforts and teammates at an unnecessary risk.

        Ah, hell--he threw down the pages he was reading and sighed, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. The guy was lonely; Marlins had taken seven pages, a table and two charts to impart those four words.

        He didn't think the Director would separate the team. Results were still pretty good, though he himself had noticed a downward trend. Part of him was pleased to learn that Ramsey's crap was the cause; he had begun to suspect himself. But a greater part of him was just worried. After over a year, he still wasn't sure he liked Mac Ramsey, but he didn't want him kicked off the team.

        Every ideal he held dear maintained that you stuck with your partner, whether you liked them or not. But Mac was such a fuckin' kid sometimes. Victor supposed he couldn't blame the guy too much; from abandonment to criminal adoption to betrayal to prison to…this. And "this" was a half-life that was hard to cope with for anyone. Yeah, the action was nice. Yeah, the results were almost always for the greater good. But when you were required to cut the ties of your past, and you couldn't tell people what you did for a living, it was difficult to actually get to know anybody.

        He sighed again, and got up, pacing in front of his window and staring out at the city. He still had the other half of the file to read. His own half. He wasn't sure he wanted to, wasn't sure he wanted to deal with whatever they thought about him. He sighed again, staring morosely at the lights of moving cars, imagining normal, anonymous people leading normal, anonymous lives. Nobody poking around in their heads or their privacy. Nobody knowing them better than they knew themselves.

        That was the real problem; the psych people knew their jobs and knew their study subjects. They were more likely to be right about Victor Mansfield than Victor Mansfield was.

        You'd know if you were gay, wouldn't you? It wasn't something that would just sneak up on you. Was it? He wasn't sure he was ready to find that out about himself, and he deeply resented that someone else probably already knew.

        Adrenalin trickled through his system, an itchy, steady stream. He glanced back at the files, at the detritus of his dinner, and decided that he could put off the inevitable awhile longer. He grabbed a pair of shorts and a hooded jacket, tennis shoes and just the belt holster with a small S&W, and went out for a run.

        The cool night air felt great on his sweating skin, chilling him slightly, countering the heat that built inside him as he lengthened his stride in the third mile. Endorphins were starting to kick in, blowing the confusion out of his head with the precision of plastique charges. It was worth the pain in his shins as he ran hard on asphalt, his entire body coming into a focus that was like work, like the adrenalin-charged feel of bullets ionizing air beside his favorite head.

        Away from the Director's orders and insinuations, away from the reports and prying minds, he considered her orders: him and Mac. He couldn't go there. Instead, he went to safer pictures, things he had seen as a Vice cop. There were the transvestites, hairy-legged lumberjacks in frilly dresses and cheap lipstick. Then there were the pretty teenage boys, strung out on dope, the knees of their jeans muddy and crusted from sucking too many strangers in dark alleys--the memory hurt him as it always did. Those poor kids, their lives over before they had even started… He shook off the names, those faces; he would never join them. But so many others: the garden variety homosexual--sometimes married, sometimes not, often well off, sometimes not, rarely happy… at least not when he saw them. Granted, he was usually shaking them down or arresting them for something. Grown men holding hands, sometimes crying, sometimes so effeminate they made his skin crawl, or the men who flaunted themselves and made draggy shows out of public affection. He would never join those men, either.

        Shit. Any intelligent, reasoning man knew that gay sex wouldn't make him different. Victor's gut told him another story entirely, told him it would change him somehow, that it would show like a black eye or a herpes sore. That Li Ann would be able to see it, and that she'd think he was--what? Somebody who liked it up the ass? She liked it up the ass, for pete's sake. So what difference would it make to her, or anyone else, if they thought he was doing, well, anything, with another man? He coughed, embarrassed in the dark, with only himself and the sound of his feet pounding amongst the quiet trees.

        9:51 p.m.

        Victor sat on his sofa, empty coffee cup on the floor beside him, holding the leather binder gingerly in his lap. The information within was hard to swallow, and harder to ignore. He knew what his session summaries would say; hell, he'd been there. It was Marlins' reports that drew him in, made him wonder. Mansfield grows steadily more compromised as his participation in the agency continues. His altered fixation on Li Ann places her in a generalized sibling role which seems to have adequately resolved itself; his sexual interest in her has waned considerably. His reported lack of sexual activity seems consistent with his ethics, past patterns, and information gathered, where emotional bonds weigh more strongly than the physical. He is, however, showing signs of increasing depression, expressing images of entrapment and isolation. What the hell could they expect, given that the agency entrapped and isolated them? Session summaries suggest that 16328/7 Ramsey, M. has become increasingly important as Mansfield's memories of other core relationships diminish. That brought him up short. So Marlins, and therefore the Director, thought he liked the guy? How the hell had Marlins come up with that? They abraded each other, sandpaper on wood. The closest they came to friendly behavior was postponing fistfights until after a job. Well, and betting on which female agents could kick the shit out of which other female agents in a fight… posturing for kicks around Li Ann… talking about their dreams on stakeouts… having drinks together at their favorite bar--ohshit.

        When had that happened?

        Okay, fine, maybe they had learned to put up with each other, but that hardly meant there was some sort of sublimated sexual attraction. His eyes wandered back to the report. It is plausible that Mansfield maintains a sublimated sexual attraction for Ramsey, if only because his choices for intimacy have become so limited.

        Shit.

        So, Marlins thought he might be interested. The Director thought he was available. Ramsey thought--what? He tried again to imagine his partner pining for him, and it just didn't fit his mental picture of the man. If Ramsey wanted something, he tended to go after it. If there was one thing to be said for MacLeod Ramsey, it was that he was not the kind of guy who sat on his impulses. Well… he sniggered, juvenile and far past caring.

        Victor finished reading Marlins' report, squirming at more than one point, flushing at others he knew to be true. He picked up the telephone twice, once actually hitting the speed dial button for Mac's place before slamming the receiver back in its cradle. He had to figure this out, first.

        12:02 a.m.

        He had opted to sleep in clothes, feeling funny about being naked with this new information running through his brain. He had expected to actually sleep. Instead, he tossed, turned, and pondered. Ramsey wanting him. If it was just for some sort of locker-room circle jerk, he probably could do that. He was a normal man, and had managed to make anything seem sexy at one point or another in his life. Ramsey was no exception.

        He thought back to the last time he'd actually seen Mac naked. That would have been… yeah, the dislocated hip. All Victor had noticed was the spectacular bruising that covered his partner from runner's girdle to mid-thigh, and the grimace on Mac's face as the doctor rotated the joint. Ramsey had a healthy body; you had to have that, in this line of work. But a sexy one? The women certainly seemed to flock to him. Maybe it was the mouth--abruptly, uninvited, his dick twitched: lips full, throat deep--he gasped, cursed, and rolled away from the image, tangling himself in the sheets and nearly falling off the bed. "Shit!" He was not going to jerk off imagining head from his partner, he didn't care what his dick thought of the idea. It just wasn't decent.

        Besides, anything he imagined today, he might find himself doing tomorrow.

        Yuck.

        "Sleep, Mansfield," he ordered himself, curling into a tight ball. Ignoring the twitch at his groin. Picturing snow and the Prime Minister and cold showers. After far too long, it worked.

        11:58 a.m.

        Victor tried to look bored as Li Ann pulled up outside the agency's entrance. He had chickened out of going in by himself as soon as he saw Mac's Ferrari parked in the lot.

        "Hey, Victor. What's up?" Li Ann paused, looking around. "Where's Mac?"

        He shrugged, holding the door for her. "Inside, I guess. I just, uh, saw you coming up and figured I'd wait."

        "That's sweet." She patted his cheek, making him feel like her favored cocker spaniel. Actually, that wasn't a bad feeling.

        "Good morning, Victor, Li Ann," the Director said when they walked into the conference room, gratefully all business. Mac waved with a false, shit-eating grin, but said nothing.

        Sighing, Victor sat down in the chair farthest from the Director and picked up the file on the desk in front of him; the Queen? Oh, Nathan was gonna love this.

        "The royal visit is in three weeks, and we have information that a gang of female impersonators plans to replace her with a ringer."

        Next to him, Mac muttered, "Nathan's gonna love this." Victor suppressed a snort.

        "Shut up and pay attention, Ramsey," the director grated. "While your performance of late has been, shall we say 'original', it has hardly been inspired.

        "The gang is currently located in Toronto. Their leader, Joey McKinley, has been an activist for some cause or another for his entire adult life. Unfortunately for me, his causes have gotten more paranoid and more global with each passing year."

        "Oh, I don't know," Mac said, insouciant as always, "a queen going after another queen seems pretty normal to me."

        "Excuse me," the Director glared, "Was I using words of more than one syllable when I told you to shut up?"

        Mac's file hit the conference table with an audible crack. "What the hell did I do?" he demanded, and Victor could feel those brown eyes checking furtively his way. Victor colored, cleared his throat, and stared at the photo of McKinley until his eyes began to water.

        "You think I need a particular reason to be dissatisfied with you, Mr. Ramsey?" the Director asked.

        "Well usually you at least make up something…"

        "So how do I fit in?" Li Ann, drawing fire. Victor expelled a careful breath of relief.

        "You and Mac will be undercover--Mac, you'll be her gay lover, and Li Ann will pretend to be a drag queen."

        "Not much of a compliment there, huh, Li Ann?" Mac leered past the end of Victor's nose at Li Ann, while Vic kept staring at the photo.

        The Director ignored him this time, thank God. "Victor will play the estranged, blackmailer brother who wants to help Li Ann out of 'her' confused, dark life. Any questions?"

        Ramsey again. He must be really pissed, to be talking so much. "Isn't it more reasonable to send an actual man in to act as the female impersonator?"

        "Take a look at yourselves," the Director derided. "You could never pass for women. McKinley runs a very good show, actually; he would never hire either of you."

        "Oh, I dunno," Mac drawled, "I could see Vic in a dress. Something frilly, very Carol Brady of course--"

        "Listen, you--"

        "Shut up, both of you. Mac, please make an effort this morning; I didn't get much sleep last night and taking it out on you three is boring me to tears. And Victor, stop twitching."

        Victor felt himself flushing, and looked away from them both.

        And the job was on. Li Ann and Mac were whisked to a Toronto apartment with faked newspaper reviews following her into town, and Victor played in the archives doing research, fending off Nathan's psychoses and setting up his cover story. A gay boyfriend of a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman, and an estranged, homophobic brother… he wondered more than once if the Director hadn't set this whole assignment up just to make him and Mac stew in their own juices.

        She cornered him in the file room the day after Mac and Li Ann left town, sweeping in wearing knee boots and a French styled jacket dress that looked, like most things, damned good on her. "Well, Victor? How's it going?"

        What did it mean, he wondered, that he suddenly found the Director kind of sexy? Blatant look-at-me-I'm-straight rebellion? Probably. "Well, Nathan is going to turn up in a hole somewhere if he sneaks up on me one more time, or offers me another global conspiracy theory with my coffee. Other than that, everything's on schedule. I leave in four days for--"

        "I meant with the Ramsey matter."

        He tensed. "Oh."

        "Well?"

        "I haven't thought about it."

        A hand ran over his shoulder, fingernails making their presence known through his denim shirt. "I find that rather hard to believe."

        "I am on a case, you know," he evaded, shrugging out from under her hand.

        "You can multitask, you know," she countered.

        He slammed the filing cabinet shut, shoving past her to get to the desk. "But I haven't yet, all right?"

        "I'm running out of patience."

        "Work on it."

        "Trying to be funny? You know how displeased that makes me. And you are stuck here for the next four days. You can spend it alphabetizing data with Nathan, or you can have the time off after you finish your research; your choice."

        His head jerked up and he met her eyes, measuring… hell, she was serious. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to take things seriously. "Everybody but me thinks I'm all for the idea," he muttered.

        A well-manicured hand touched his shoulder, strayed down his arm. He resisted the urge to flinch. "And you don't. Victor, why don't you just trust the people who know what they're talking about?"

        "Because they're talking about me," he snapped.

        "That's right, they are. We go to a great deal of time and expense finding people like you, and Li Ann, and Mac. We go to a greater expense training and maintaining you. Mac is worthless to me if he can't function on the job, and his departure would damage this team. So, much as I despise it, I have to worry about all this," she shuddered, "touchy feely stuff." He couldn't help it; he snorted. So this was the Director in "mother" mode? It left a lot to be desired. "You would have saved me a great deal of trouble if you'd found your way to him on your own, you know."

        His blood pressure had spiked and was starting to slowly crawl down. He was in Wonderland, through the looking glass, and expecting sanity in this environment was counter-productive. "I'm so sorry I messed up your schedule. Did you have to cancel a manicure over this?"

        She raised her brows, mocking him. "Victor, I never cancel a manicure. Now be a big boy and take your medicine. I know how adaptable you can be." She hadn't said that to him in years, and with that memory came the realization that he had never in his life had sex with more of his co-workers. Shit.

        He felt his mouth opening and closing like a fish, but there just wasn't a comeback for that. "So what will Nathan and I be alphabetizing?" he asked, trying to surrender gracefully.

        "Never mind that. I need Nathan in working order, and I doubt he would be after three days with you. If you finish up your cover establishment today, you can come back here on Thursday at noon."

        By Wednesday morning, he was climbing the walls of his apartment. The Director had given him responsibility for Mac's and Li Ann's check-in calls: twice a day, for each partner, scheduled one hour and ten minutes apart.

        So he sat on his sofa, staring at a stupidly red phone with no dials, for a minimum of two hours and twenty-two minutes a day. It wouldn't be so bad if Mac had made even one of his last five scheduled calls. Every time the man was late, Vic would itch to hit the panic button. It was procedure, to rely on those calls when undercover. It was only to be skipped if you were busted, dead or had too many fingers broken to place the call.

        Mac probably did it on purpose.

        Victor knew better; when Mac had started with the program, the Director had given Mac to Dobrinsky for three full days every time he forgot a scheduled call-in. If Mac wasn't calling in, it was because… he wasn't paying attention.

        The phone rang at exactly 9:59 a.m. He jumped and grinned. "Wally's."

        "Hello, Wally. 'Weather All Clear'." Li Ann's voice had a smile in it.

        "Great. So, the job's going well?"

        "Yeah. Except for Mac, anyway. He's not very interested in this one."

        Victor sat up, felt himself tensing. "Anything wrong?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

        "No, no. Mac's just Mac. Maybe a little more irritating than usual."

        "Is that possible?"

        Li Ann's laughter rang like a bell. "You know what I mean. And the actual job is getting kind of fun. I started in the revue last night, with this pencil-thin moustache gangster number; they loved it!"

        "And, uh, Mac?"

        "Nothing. Pain in the butt, you know. I think the lack of eligible females is making him edgy." There was the smile, again; her voice was beautiful, richly expressive. "How about you?"

        "I'm fine. Trying to relax with my time off. Not doin' too well at it." She giggled, and he remembered an incredibly hot night when she was in Quebec and he was here. They had whispered, and insinuated, and finally started talking dirty, and just her voice had taken him to such a high… he had barely touched himself, barely needed to. He cleared his throat. "I'll be glad to join you guys tomorrow."

        "I'll be glad to have you. Even though the fun will end as soon as you show." Another giggle, though her tone was serious, and he smiled.

        "You're just going to miss being onstage."

        "Maybe. Maybe I'm just tired of shootouts."

        "Hey, it's a ring of gay male cross-dressers. Maybe we can just insult them," he grinned, baiting her.

        "Oh boy, Victor, are you in for another culture shock."

        "You're trying to tell me I'm unsophisticated again. You don't get to do that anymore, you know. Besides, I worked Vice. I know what I'm getting' into."

        "Then bring extra ammo; McKinley's a psycho."

        They rang off, and Victor sighed.

        He wasn't a stupid man. The Director seeming sexy, recurring memories of steamy moments with Li Ann, his growing obsession with any woman from his personal trainer to the underage girl at the McDonald's counter this morning, all of it was because of Ramsey. And while he supposed he should thank the guy for his recent sexual preoccupation (he'd been wondering, lately, if he was hitting a mid-life crisis or something), he still felt more inclined to punch him. They hadn't actually hit each other in ages, and right now, looking at his watch and knowing his partner wouldn't call on time, and that the extra minutes of waiting would increase his blood pressure and take years off his life, he missed those simple times.

        Face it, Moose, it's time to see if you can go the distance. And now, at 10:07 a.m., he had at least an hour and five minutes before he'd receive another phone call.

        He dawdled for five minutes, stuffing dirty clothes into the bathroom hamper, stacking magazines in the rack, seriously considering loading the dishwasher before finally forcing himself to the bathroom and running a bath. Stripping slowly, watching steam rise, he poured in some of those scented beads that smelled like the woods and made his skin feel like silk in the water. Eased in. Nudged his mind from the women who had crowded it these last few days toward MacLeod Ramsey.

        Closing his eyes, he let the steam and woodscent meander through his brain, waiting for something sexy to drift in. Ramsey. Something easy. A few beers after work, Mac sitting a little too close. The tab settled, Mac's hand on his wrist, making him pause. "You wanna go back to my place?"

        "For what?"

        Boyish grin, "Well… I can think of a couple of things. It's not like you've scored in here, is it?"

        "So I'll score there?"

        "Oh, I'd bet the bank on it."

        Mac had a nice voice, actually. Nice hands. His body was slim… and hairy… and completely unappealing. Victor opened his eyes and glared at the little yellow duck on the bathtub rim. He'd just have to get more specific.

        Mac in a cut-off sweatshirt and running pants, smiling. Hands reaching out to unbutton his jeans. Dropping to his knees like a supplicant, and that mouth opening, that body leaning forward… Victor smiled, eyes falling shut of their own accord, and reached blindly for the soapdish. And then the picture wavered. Mac looked up at him, grinned. "I never would have guessed you were queer, Victor." "Shut up and suck, Mac." "Oooh, macho too."

        Shit. Soap abandoned, he leaned back and pounded his head against the porcelain until his ears rang.

        Thursday.

        He had to stop in at the agency before heading for the airport; to his surprise the Director was waiting for him. "Performance anxiety, Victor?"

        He ground his teeth together, not even pretending to misunderstand. "You have bugs in my bathroom?"

        "I have bugs everywhere; it adds to my ambience of omniscience."

        "You are one sick employer."

        "Nonsense, Victor. I'm trying to look after your best interests."

        "Bullshit," he growled, stepping back to put some space between them. He wasn't prone to consider hitting a woman, but he was in hell, and normal restraints shouldn't have to apply. Besides, somehow the Director didn't qualify.

        A slight pause, that assessing look that reminded him of a snake watching a rat, and the director sighed. "You have a point. But I would do nothing that wasn't in my own best interests. It's coincidental, and fortunate, I think, that this is just what you need." She slid into a chair at the table and waved at the one nearest her, waiting until he surrendered and dropped into it. "Victor. I know your profile. I know what's good for you, and what isn't. Li Ann… wasn't. MacLeod Ramsey would be."

        His heart pounded hard against his ribs. "I'm straight, all right? Can we just try and factor that reality into the equation?"

        She sighed theatrically. "Sexuality is a state of mind. It isn't my fault you have a marked tendency toward boring social habits." He grimaced, didn't even dignify the jibe with an answer. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't find him attractive."

        The challenge called to mind Saturday's flash of mental porno, of Mac going down on him, but he looked at her anyway and said, "I'm not attracted to him."

        She raised her brows. "Really? I may have to fire someone…."

        "Look," he muttered, feeling a flush creep up his neck, "I've made the effort, all right? I tried yesterday, and it just--he just--I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you."

        "You're no longer constrained by the limits of the--admit it--very conservative club you once belonged to, Victor. Just try it. You may be surprised by what you find. And if you somehow can't…perform, well, then I'll have to do something else with Mr. Ramsey."

        "Mac's fine," he said, instinctively coming to a partner's defense.

        When she spoke again her voice was heavily laden with innuendo. "I'm under the impression that he's far more than just 'fine'."

        He glanced around the room, feeling the walls closing in.

        She leaned forward, collar sliding, milk-white cleavage coming in to view; he averted his eyes. "Surprise yourself, Victor. Surprise him. It'll do you both some good." He parsed the words, looking for the joke at his expense, the barb that was so typical. There was nothing.

        Six very long hours later he joined his partners in Toronto, rendezvousing at the nightclub Li Ann had infiltrated. He made the mistake of flirting with a beautiful woman who Mac then introduced as "John", and then he feigned fury to cover his very real embarrassment, grabbing Li Ann/Andrew and dragging her out of the club.

        The fake fight with Mac on the street, the first physical contact with his partner since the Director's bombshell, was blissfully innocent and actually entertaining, until the real drag queens joined in. Who'd have thought that guys in dresses could hit so hard? He said as much in the car as they made good their escape.

        "Vic, you're never gonna be open-minded, are you? They're guys, why shouldn't they hit like guys?"

        He hesitated before answering, turning Mac's words over in his mind. "I guess it was the heels that they obviously borrowed from the Director," he muttered, rotating his jaw to make sure everything was still properly attached.

        "Consider yourself lucky they weren't into kickboxing."

        "Ouch."

        "Okay guys, let's focus. Victor, what's the Director's take on this thing?"

        "It's definitely for real, and you can find a way to thank me for dealing with Nathan. This whole royal family thing has him swinging off the chandeliers. It got so bad I started slipping valium into his milk. Anyway, we have about three days left before the Director channels word to the Prime Minister to change the Queen's schedule, and you know she'll be pissed if she has to do that."

        "Oh, yeah. Well, let's go back to Mac's and my place and we'll fill you in on the operation here."

        The apartment was small and neat, though it was obvious the upkeep wasn't falling on MacLeod Ramsey's shoulders. Ramsey dropped onto the couch with a bag of ice for his face within seconds of their arrival, effectively ignoring the bookwork Li Ann and Victor tended to. Was this the shortening attention span Marlins had been talking about? Or was it the attention span Mac had always had? Victor couldn't really tell, and shelved the issue until after the case. Four men were the ringleaders for the gang, one pair of brothers and one pair of lovers. Li Ann's ethnicity was a definite drawback, but she had suggested a scam for a visiting Chinese delegation that had the cross-dressers' earrings twitching. Boring, simple work, actually--the only thing the gang really had going for it was the fifth man, who looked so much like Elizabeth, Victor promised himself to get a picture autographed to fuel Nathan's nightmares.

        "Can you guys shut up? I've got a splitting headache." It was Mac's first conversational volley since they'd arrived at the apartment.

        "Sorry if the work's bothering your nap, partner," Vic said, snapping the file shut. His eyes were crossing from boredom, anyway.

        "I can't go to sleep until you take me back to get my car. If you guys don't wrap it up, I'm gonna call a cab."

        "Oh." He stood, stretched, and fished his keys from his pants pocket. "We're done."

        "Finally."

        He made a quick date with Li Ann for another visible struggle that would get him introduced to the gang, and jangled his keys in the direction of the couch. "Let's go, partner."

        In the car, Victor decided to test the water a little. "The job bothering you?"

        "The job always bothers me."

        "I meant more than usual."

        "It's boring, stupid, and these people are a joke."

        "I dunno, a couple of them were kinda cute. Heck, that one guy…" he trailed off, offering Ramsey a grin, "I honest to god thought he was a woman."

        "That was pretty clear."

        "I guess it wouldn't bother you either way though, huh?" he asked, going for an 'I knew all along' casualness. Ramsey shrugged. "Unless, you know, the dress freaked you out."

        Ramsey frowned, shadows crossing the familiar face as streetlight streaked through the windows. "What're you talking about?"

        That brought him up short; Mac Ramsey was not stupid. So the Director hadn't even talked to him? Victor suppressed a grin, and valiantly squashed the urge to taunt, I've seen your files! I've seen your files! "Nothing. I just always figured you for an experimental type."

        "You figured right, but that's got nothin' to do with guys in dresses. Too fem for me."

        "Huh." He drove on in silence, worrying the problem over in his mind. After dropping Mac off a block from the bar, he had to admit he felt a hell of a lot safer, being the only one who knew about the Director's little scheme. Watching Ramsey saunter down the block, he tried again to imagine the man as a lover. Greedy and self-satisfying, probably. Nah, his ego wouldn't permit that; gotta make your partner happy so you feel macho in bed. Yeah, that was more Ramsey's style.

        He put the truck in second and pulled out into the night, thinking. Him and a guy. Him and MacLeod Ramsey. Naked Ramsey, naked him. Hard cocks…okay, that was weird. No breasts…even weirder, in its way. Big hands, callouses along the edges just like Li Ann's and his own. Hmmm. Taller. Equally strong. That was a little scary. Not that Mac would do anything, uh, inappropriate, but still… What would they do? Hand jobs? Blow jobs? He swallowed down the gag reflex and backed off from that image, fast. Ramsey's dick in his mouth? No fucking way.

        It was all so sterile, so passionless, worse than any cheap drunken fuck he had ever made the mistake of having. At least there had been some kind of actual interest, there. Some kind of basic human attraction. The only thing attractive about Mac was his ability to handle a gun.

        The next day, Victor got his formal introduction to Joey McKinley, the leader of the gang, and a surprising amount of information that dovetailed with the crap Nathan kept spouting. During a lull in the afternoon he asked Li Ann, "So is everybody in the world insane? Or is the royal family involved in a global conspiracy?"

        Li Ann, munching on fried rice, mumbled, "I'm going with 'everybody's insane'. The other stuff would keep me up nights."

        "Good idea."

        He reached out and picked up a bite of rice with his fingers. "Hey."

        "Whahh?"

        "What's Mac like in bed?"

        It took a few seconds for her choking to subside. "Excuse me?" she said, still wiping her eyes. "Did you just ask me…"

        "You've got rice on your chin, and yeah." As she wiped her face, her eyes widened, then narrowed. "It was just something he said. Got me thinking." Her eyes narrowed further. "Don't look at me like that!"

        She relaxed a little, almost-grinned. "Ask him yourself, he'd probably tell you."

        "Oh yeah, that's a conversation I can picture us having."

        She went back to eating rice, silent for so long that he decided she wasn't going to tell him, when the words started flowing. "I don't want you to get jealous."

        "I wouldn't," he lied honestly, already feeling his ego twinge at the idea that he would.

        "You're sure."

        "I am not gonna get jealous, all right?"

        "It's just that I've slept with both of you, and I care about both of you, and I don't want to cause any trouble."

        "You're not gonna cause any trouble." He flashed her his most inviting smile. "I'm just curious. C'mon."

        After a second she grinned back, her face taking on an irritatingly satisfied glow. "Well… he's fun. He likes to play. He's usually tender--though he'd probably deny that. He's attentive, he's romantic--though he'd definitely deny that. And," she giggled, "he'll try anything. Absolutely anything."

        "Ahh," he replied, trying to sound sophisticated.

        "It's not like he's a better lover than you, Vic." He recognized her feminine effort at reassurance, and barely suppressed a growl. "He's just different. Less intense, in a way. More, uh, diverse, maybe."

        More diverse, huh? Amoral prick. "Look, it's okay Li Ann. I don't care one way or the other, and I'm not jealous." Yeah, buddy, just keep telling yourself that. More diverse. What the hell did that mean? He smiled again, working hard for boyish charm. "I told you, I was just curious. Okay, well. I'll see you later." More diverse, my ass, he thought, turning for the door.

        The case would have closed smoothly, if Li Ann hadn't forgotten her fake penis. As it was, the case closed, and Victor, watching Li Ann nurse a strained shoulder, decided that would have to be good enough. They dragged themselves back into Headquarters exactly six days after their departure, and the Director, dressed almost like a normal person in a gray Armani suit, actually smiled at them. "Well, children, I suppose as long as I don't let anyone read the reports I can call this job a success. Take a few days off to lick your wounds. And Li Ann, would you like a counseling appointment to help you cope with being injured by that little old lady?"

        "I tripped, okay?" she muttered, while Victor and Mac chortled.

        "Whatever you need to tell yourself, dear. Now get out of here, all of you."

        Victor, the only one who had been willing to leave his wheels in long-term parking, played taxi and drove everybody home. "I am so tired," Li Ann muttered in the truck.

        "Yeah," Mac and Victor chorused.

        "And," she added, glaring over at Mac, "I am never sharing a place with you again."

        "Whatever."

        Victor counted two minutes of silence, three. "So," Li Ann started, "what are you guys gonna do with your days off?"

        "Why?" Mac asked, grinning at him via the rearview mirror.

        "I don't know, I just thought maybe…" she trailed off, her tone somewhere between bored and nonchalant. Vic glanced over his shoulder at Ramsey, grinning back.

        Mac piped up with, "Not two minutes ago you said you were sick of me."

        "No, I just said I didn't ever want to live with you. Never mind, I'm going to sleep all day and then find somebody to pamper me. Neither of you would do that, that's for sure."

        "You're right," they replied in chorus.

        The silence, blissfully, lasted this time until Vic dropped Li Ann at her apartment and Mac moved to the front seat of Vic's truck. "So what are you doing with your time off?" Vic asked.

        "Domestic chores. Laundry. Dry cleaning. Sex, if I'm lucky."

        Victor wondered if Mac was serious. The psych reports had said he wasn't really trawling, anymore, but that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't getting any. "You, uh, wanna go do something?"

        Mac dragged his sunglasses down his nose, assessed him with suspicious brown eyes. "Like what?"

        "Fishing?"

        "Nope."

        "There's this cabin up in--"

        "Huh uh."

        "Skiing?"

        The sunglasses came off and Mac smiled. "Where?"

        At 9:00 p.m. Vic pulled his truck into the parking space in front of a rented condo at Whistler. "They got any night skiing here?"

        "Yeah, but it's only until 11:00."

        Mac rubbed his hands together. "Perfect. Just enough time to get snow on my pants then pick up some action in the lodge."

        "Really? I was thinkin', build a fire, have a beer."

        Mac shrugged, pulling skis out of the truck bed. "Fine, if you want. Me, I want to ski."

        "I didn't say I wouldn't do it," Victor chided, feeling awkward. He'd felt awkward all day, in fact, and he mentally cursed the Director. He grabbed their bags and fished the condo key out of his pocket. "Come on, stud, let's find you a girl."

        The slopes were smooth and clean, a foot of fresh powder that rooster-tailed behind them as they destroyed a black diamond slalom course. Mac was twenty feet ahead of him, the long, lean body flashing into and out of the floodlights. The wind bit at the exposed parts of Vic's face, his legs burned brightly from the exertion, and his whole body felt deliciously alive. They crossed a dim patch to the beginners' course, coasting all the way back to the main lift. Braking at the lift line, they barely missed a novice whose skis had crossed, and laughed and joked on their way back up. "This, Victor, was one of your better ideas."

        "Yeah."

        "One more run from the top, I'll race you back to the lodge. Loser buys the beer."

        "Sounds great."

        And it really was a race, the floodlights barely keeping up with them, knees down and poles tucked, trees flashing by in a blur in the shadows beside the trails. "Woah!" he shouted, jubilant, finishing a good fifty feet ahead of his partner.

        "Okay, okay, one beer," Mac said, laughing as he skidded to a stop beside him. "Where did you learn to race like that?"

        "I was on the police force's downhill team. Come on."

        They racked skis and poles in an overnight locker and trudged into the lodge. Victor took a moment to spin around and appreciate the place: big, open timbers, noise and subdued lights and a fireplace that ran all along one wall. It was peaceful… or would have been, if he wasn't planning on making a fool of himself later. Mac bought him the promised Moosehead, and within minutes was in the thick of the sofas, trawling for snow bunnies. Mac actually picked up two girls, bringing a pert brunette back for him like a cat brings home a bird. Vic went with the flow for awhile, finishing another beer, and politely tried to excuse himself. "Well, we want to hit the slopes early tomorrow…"

        And the next thing he knew, the four of them were headed back to the condo.

        After more beer and a smaller fire, Victor tried again to get rid of the girls. His date, Anne, agreed quickly enough that bed was a great idea, and mentally Victor kicked himself. Mac smiled and waved goodnight. "We're gonna stay out here and enjoy the fire."

        Feeling far less enthusiastic about the very sweet attentions of this girl than he should have, Vic led her to his bedroom and wondered if there was any polite way out of this. She was nice, the mood was nice, but he was irked to have been outmaneuvered by Ramsey when he knew all of this was a sham.

        But Anne really was a sweet girl, and they necked and talked for a while as Victor tried to put his heart into it. After the sex he pulled on his shorts and excused himself to the john. He stepped out of the bedroom and froze; Mac was on the couch with his girl, naked, sweating, contorted into a position that made his hamstrings ache just to look at, with an idiot grin on his face.

        The scene hit him like porno, hollowing out his belly and groin. Jesus.

        A board must have creaked; Mac's head jerked, grin fading to the automatic alertness that surprise always gave people in their line of work. Mac relaxed when he recognized Victor at the door, shrugged, looking chagrinned but unembarrassed, and dragged the afghan off the back of the couch to cover them both. Victor shook his head, shocked, more shocked for being shocked in the first place, and slipped back into his room.

        "That was quick," Anne offered, smiling from under the covers. She had pulled the comforter up under her chin, and it made her look like a perky cheerleader.

        "They're, uh, still in the living room." He cleared his throat, making a face.

        "Oh, oh."

        "Yeah." He slid back under the covers before goosebumps set in. "I think we'd better give them a few minutes."

        He lifted his arm so Anne could cuddle up against him, and listened hard. Now that he was paying attention, he could hear the quiet grunts and groans out there. His partner's enthusiasm sure as hell didn't sound like a sham.

        He glanced over at Anne, feeling guilty; he didn't really want her here, but that wasn't her fault. Contrition drove him under the covers. He kissed down her body in the dark, wondering what it would be like if it was Ramsey under him. No luck; Anne was too female, plump and round with curves in all the right places. And it wasn't like he thought there was anything wrong with that.

        It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when Anne dragged on her snow suit, kissed him goodnight, and slipped out of the condo. The living room was empty when he headed for the can, and he resisted the urge to pause outside Mac's bedroom door like a suspicious father. This was ridiculous.

        Mac's date hadn't been as accommodating as Anne. She strolled into the kitchen at 7:30 the next morning, sleepy-eyed and yawning and wearing one of Mac's button down shirts, while he was scrambling eggs. "Is there any coffee?"

        If he hadn't started the pot already, he'd have told her 'no' just to get rid of her. She annoyed the shit out of him for delaying the inevitable. If he and Mac were going to do anything, it was going to be now, outside the long arm of the Agency, outside the Director's prying eyes and prodding words. This bitch was in his way.

        The fact that he'd forgotten her name wasn't helping his mood any, either.

        Over breakfast, Mac started making noises about spending the day with her, and Vic finally lost his patience. "We came up here to unwind, partner," he said pointedly, glaring at whatever-her-name-was.

        "Yeah?" Mac looked confused. "I'm unwinding."

        He threw his fork down and shoved his chair back. "Well in case you haven't noticed, I'm not. I'm gonna take a shower."

        He half expected Mac to be gone when he came out of the bathroom; he'd acted like an asshole. But no, Ramsey was sitting on the couch, hands clasped between his knees, half-dressed for the slopes in snow pants, turtleneck, and socks. The girl was nowhere to be seen, and her coat was gone. "What's going on, Vic?" he asked, not looking up.

        "Sorry. I don't know." He went straight for his bedroom to dress, but when he came out again Mac was still there. He hadn't even moved.

        "Wanna try that again?"

        Shit. "I don't know. I just thought, a little buddy weekend, you know?"

        "I thought that's what we were doing."

        "I didn't want the women."

        "Is there something you're not tellin' me here?"

        There would never be a better opening than that. He stared at Ramsey for a full minute, saying nothing, thinking nothing, then he bolted off the couch before he did something he couldn't stop. "I'm going out. I'll catch up with you this afternoon, say, 2:00?"

        "Wait a minute. You get me to dump my girl and then you decide you want time to yourself? What the hell is going on, Vic?"

        He was already heading toward the door, shoving his feet into ski boots and grabbing his coat. "As soon as I figure it out, I'll let you know. See you at two." The door slammed behind him and he moved as fast as the boots would allow, not knowing where he was going but damned sure what he was running from.

        It took almost an hour and four different lifts to get to the mountain's back face, where he skied alone and communed with the snow. He was acting like an idiot; he knew that. He just didn't know what to do about it. Mac and him. It still didn't make any sense: why he was considering it, why Mac wanted it, why the Director was pushing for it. But the silence helped. The day was calm and clear, the sun so bright his goggles barely cut the glare. Mac and him. It wasn't like it was an impossible scenario, he knew that now. But the 'what ifs' were killing him: what if he tried it and threw up; what if he couldn't go through with it at all; what if he had to confess that the Director was behind it. What if he did it, and liked it?

        He got back to the condo just after noon. Mac was still sitting on the couch. "You didn't go out?" he asked, stomping snow off his boots.

        "No. I've been thinking. Vic, I'm gonna tell you something, and I don't want you to take it the wrong way, okay?"

        "Okay."

        "You're straight, right?" When Vic just stood there, stunned, Mac started yammering. "I always thought you were straight. I mean, I know you're prissy and everything, but I always thought you were straight."

        Victor latched onto the one thing that could delay this scene, if even for a few seconds. "Prissy? I'm not prissy!"

        "C'mon, Vic; you cut the crust off your peanut butter sandwiches, man."

        "Oh, so if a guy doesn't like crust, he's prissy?"

        Mac exhaled hard. "You're prissy, Vic; that's not up for argument. What we're talking about is whether or not you're straight."

        He'd been wrong before; there would never be a better opening than this. But he wasn't prissy. He knelt to release the buckles on his boots, being careful to stay on the doormat so the snow wouldn't get on the carpet. He braced himself. "I always have been, yeah."

        Mac leapt off the couch, a coiled spring bouncing around the room now. "That's what I figured you'd say." He scrubbed at his forehead with both hands. "This is not good."

        That should have been his line. He stepped out of his boots, peeled off his socks, and breathed carefully, relieved. "Why?" he asked, mouth dry.

        "Because you and me, we're not right for each other, man. Look at us! Can you imagine how much worse it'll be if we're lovers?"

        Victor crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. Who was Mac trying to convince? Why? "Uh…"

        "Right. So forget about it. It is not a good idea."

        "But what if--"

        "Yeah?"

        "What if, well, you know, what if I…"

        Underneath the stress, Ramsey looked amused, damn him. "Look, I know I'm a phenomenally sexy guy. I'm not surprised you can't resist me; nobody else can, either."

        "You're an egomaniacal prick, you know that?"

        "Compliments will get you nowhere, Vic."

        Victor hung up his coat and headed for the bar, taking out a bottle at random and pouring to shots of… it was scotch. That'd work. He passed a glass to his partner.

        Ramsey swirled the scotch around for a moment, and sighed. "I'm not worth it, okay? Trust me. It's tough enough working with you now; we do this and it doesn't work, and you'll flinch every time I glance your way."

        "I do that now."

        "You know what I mean. I don't need you scared of me."

        "Don't flatter yourself, Mac. It'd take a lot more than sex to make me scared of you."

        The glass clinked on the end table, then Ramsey was on him like static electricity: an irremovable natural force. His hands came up in self-defense as overfull lips pressed hard against his, shocking him. He grabbed fabric, tried to shove, tried to keep himself from letting instinct win out, and ended up doing nothing as Mac's mouth worked over his own. When Ramsey finally pulled back an inch, Victor noticed he was panting, completely shaken. Okay, a man just kissed you. And you obviously liked it. That's no reason for hysterics.

        "I stand corrected," he breathed.

        Ramsey withdrew completely and retrieved his scotch glass off the table. Victor looked at him, felt the goosebumps that had risen in the wake of that mouth, felt the telltale stirrings of arousal and fear. Wondered what kind of prissy moron he was not to have noticed before that Mac wanted him for something other than sex. A man like Ramsey could get all the sex he wanted.

        He'd figured all he needed to do was give someone like Ramsey an opening, and the man would have him have him in bed before he could say "wait a minute". Mac was making a sincere effort to fend him off, apparently for his own good. Mac actually cared. "Let me ask you a question."

        "Yeah?" Wary, now.

        "Are you interested in me?"

        "I am not having this dumb-ass, touchy-feely conversation with you," Mac grated. "C'mon, let's go ski."

        "I'm serious, Mac."

        And Ramsey pinned him with a look so deep, so cold, it made his guts clench. "So am I, Vic. So am I. This is not up for discussion."

        "A simple 'yes' would have worked as well."

        "Fuck you!" And now Mac was the one grabbing his gear, heading for the door.

        "Mac, wait." This was all going to hell, and he didn't know how to, or even if he should, stop it.

        "For what? This is stupid. We came up here to decompress, so why can't we just fucking decompress, huh? Why do you always complicate everything?"

        "What are you so scared of?" Victor demanded, exasperated.

        Ski boots thunked as Mac buckled them down. "You wanna know?" he asked, his voice just this side of a shout. "You really wanna know?"

        "I said I did."

        "You, okay? This. Us. Are you happy now?"

        "You're worrying over nothing. It would be okay. We'd…we'd be okay."

        "You're straight, Vic. You're the straightest guy I know! For god's sake, orientation isn't something you just decide to change."

        Victor would have said the same himself, ten days ago. In fact, he had. But time spent thinking about it had brought him to the simple realization that maybe he was a prude, that he didn't want to lose his partner, and that Mac did have a really pretty mouth, and-- "I don't know what I am, anymore."

        They shared a look, a silence, then Mac grabbed his coat off the rack and muttered, "I'm outta here."

        It was Victor's turn to sit and simmer. He paced around the condo, did the dishes that Mac--predictably--hadn't touched, took a shower, then hung his snow gear up in the shower stall to dry. He watched TV, looked at the titles on the family-oriented VHS tapes and supermarket novels left to make the condo cozy. He forced himself to picture sex with MacLeod Ramsey. It was getting easier to do that. He drank his first, and then a second, scotch. He ate, and cleaned up again. He bit every one of his nails.

        It was dark when Mac finally returned, his face red from the cold, his eyes wary. "Tell me something," he started without preamble. "Why me? I mean, why me specifically?"

        "Because," he said, sighing heavily, wondering if there was a raise due him and how he'd feel if he took it, "I can't even imagine doing this with anybody else."

        Ramsey digested the information while he stripped off his gear. Vic waited. Ramsey went into his bedroom without another word, came back out holding a terrycloth robe. Vic still waited. Ramsey went into the shower and seconds later Vic heard the water running.

        "Don't get my stuff wet!" he yelled, inanely.

        Then he waited some more.

        When Ramsey finally came out of the bathroom, his hair was damp, his face was clean-shaven, and he was tightly belted into his robe. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, and Victor felt his stomach start to clench.

        "I'm gonna do you a favor, Vic," he said gently--too gently. Vic felt fear start to pound through his veins.

        "Should I get a camera?"

        "Only if you want to give the Director that special something for Christmas. Because I'm going to show you what it's like."

        He felt his mouth dry, his palms go damp with sweat. The clenching in his stomach knotted tightly. "Why?"

        "Because you're my partner, okay?" he snarled. "Because you're my partner and I care about you and--hell, come on." Mac closed in on him, and suddenly the picture of Ramsey with the woman on this very couch rose in his mind, and he clutched the cushions to keep from leaping away. That smile that played on Mac's lips still didn't touch his eyes, and Victor finally realized what he had gotten himself into. He and MacLeod Ramsey were about to do the wild thing, and there was nothing he could say now to stop it. Sorry, my mistake? He wondered if that would work, then closed his eyes and waited for the kiss.

        It still took him by surprise: gentle, tentative, the lips too full, the mouth too wide. Or was he just imagining the difference? What the fuck am I doing? Mac pulled away and he felt cool air against his now-moist lips. Too weird.

        "Come on."

        Ramsey went and stood by the bedroom door, arms folded across his chest, and Victor Mansfield used up every ounce of his courage just getting off the couch and crossing the room. He cursed the director, Ramsey and himself, calling up every piece of colorful invective he had ever heard before he came abreast of his partner. "It's gonna be okay," he muttered, more for himself than for Ramsey.

        Ramsey sobered, looked suddenly childlike--really childlike, not the childish he usually aimed for. "It's gonna be better than okay, Vic."

        Sighing, he crossed the threshold, and jerked when the door clicked shut behind them both. It was dark in the bedroom, and he heard a rustle, felt a breath of air as Mac strode past him toward the bed. The lamp came on, the quiet mechanical click almost giving him a heart attack, and soft light washed the room. Ramsey stood there, arms folded across his chest, looking nervous.

        And it was then that the wires began to trip for Victor Mansfield. He wasn't pure, not by any stretch of the imagination. But the best sex, the sex he remembered, was sex with someone who cared about him, and who he cared about. And here was his partner, trying to be smooth, worried as hell. There could only be one reason for that concern, and Vic nodded to himself, making his decision.

        "It's okay, Mac. I'm… I'm glad we're here. Let's just take it slow."

        "Uh, yeah." And MacLeod Ramsey stripped off his robe and stood there naked, his dick half-hard already. The air vacated the room as Victor's throat constricted; he could barely breathe. "Listen, Mac…" he stuttered, and Ramsey plastered on a fake, careless grin.

        "Change your mind, Vic?"

        "I don't know. I don't--"

        Ramsey reached for his robe, slipped it back on. "It's okay. I'm not offended. Forget about it."

        He couldn't remember a time when Mac had so openly tried to accommodate him. "I don't want to forget about it!"

        Ramsey sighed. "Look, can we just watch a movie, or something?"

        "Are you serious?" He was shaking, himself. "You can just put your clothes back on and pretend this didn't happen?"

        "Yeah."

        "Oh, well…okay then."

        They found a video store that stayed open late, rented Beautiful Girls and Chasing Amy and the NHL Sports Spectacular recap. They sat dressed in jeans and sweaters eating popcorn, making bad jokes about Uma Thurman, wincing at some spectacular hits recorded from various cup titles.

        It was like none of the other stuff had even happened.

        Mac commiserated with Amy, and Vic, sneaking peeks at his partner, understood Holden's confusion far too well. It was after midnight when the last credits rolled, and Mac stood and stretched. "I'm going to bed. You wanna hit the slopes tomorrow?"

        "Yeah." It had started snowing around 10:00; the powder would be fantastic.

        "Okay. Wake me up, maybe we can beat the crowds."

        "Sure. 'Night, Mac."

        "'Night, Vic."

        He sat on the couch long after Mac's bedroom door had closed, thinking about nothing. When he finally put himself to bed, however, he couldn't get his partner out of his head. Everything was different, now. This wasn't the cheap, zipless fuck he had so far been unable to imagine. It was something Victor Mansfield openly craved and hadn't had for a very long time. The fact that it came in very different packaging didn't even unsettle him, not when he remembered that vulnerability in his partner's eyes.

        And in the end, that vulnerability, that care, was more than enough. Touching his lips brought back the kiss, made his groin tingle. Mac was so gentle; he'd never have guessed, even after what Li Ann had told him. His brain helpfully supplied every kind image of Ramsey he remembered: smiles, relieved pats on the back, the very rare hug or touch when bullets had been a little too close, the bar tab Mac continually settled. Mac was his friend; that was all he'd really needed to learn.

        So why are you lying here, Moose? Go take care of your friend.

        He padded silently through the condo, chafing his bare, chilled arms. Silently he slipped into his partner's room, pulled off his tee shirt and dropped it by the door. He debated removing his longjohns, decided against it, and padded to the bed. He wasn't sure if it was trust or exhaustion, but Mac didn't wake until Victor had pulled back the covers and placed one knee on the mattress.

        Brief, urgent movement, then, "Shit! Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Mansfield?"

        And Victor smiled, amused. "Yeah."

        "What are you--"

        "Shh. Just relax. It's okay."

        And it was. Mac's bare skin was warm, gooseflesh rising as Victor pressed his own chilled body against it. "You're warm."

        "You're cold," Mac groused, slapping his hands away.

        Vic chuckled, sliding his arm around the narrow waist and settling in to cuddle. "Only on the outside."

        "Vic, if you start singing Air Supply, I'm outta here."

        "No worries, man; I can't carry a tune."

        "My point exactly."

        He laughed, feeling his breath explode against his passive partner's throat. Of course they'd insult each other in bed; why should here be any different? He spent a few quiet moments defining this very new body. The masculinity was amusing now, not threatening at all. Chest hair tickled his palm, made him grin. The long line of throat twitched under his lips, and when he slid a fingertip into the barely indented navel, Ramsey shuddered from chin to knee, a long, slow writhe that did wonderful things for Victor's imagination. He breathed in gently, smelling expensive shampoo and the familiar scent of skin. When had he identified that smell? How long had he known it?

        Sighing, he lifted his head in the dark, watching the slitted eyes glitter as he sought his partner's mouth. Mac's mouth was full against him, tentative; he felt like he was seducing a virgin, and grinned before pressing his tongue between parting lips. Beautiful non-friction, wet tongues and slick enameled teeth.

        It was still strange. He couldn't deny that. Mac was big, with a man's flatness and physical density. But Mac's lips were soft and full, and whatever had kept him so cold this last hour was melting a little under this first equal meeting of their mouths. And it wasn't like he was being asked to shoot anybody. This was just…whatever it was going to be.

        Still half-dressed, it was blessedly easy to ignore the erection he was sure waited for him. He focused on the kiss as he processed the knowledge that his partner might be in love with him. Because there wasn't a goddamned thing for Ramsey to fear about sex with a man. There was nothing to fear about an easy fuck, which was all Victor should have represented. But there was absolutely everything to fear when your feelings were engaged. Poor sonofabitch, he thought, and opened his mouth again, sought with his tongue, drew in a sharp, nervous breath at the tentative response he found. Mac's hands rose, slid along his back--big hands, their strength making him tense with some luscious combination of sex and adventure. They just stroked softly up and down, soothing and careful, always pausing just above his ass. He cradled his partner's head, stroking his thumbs along the wide jaw.

        Vic pushed his hands up into Mac's hair, looking for something familiar, feeling the coarse damp weight on his fingers. His body was settling down, shifting gears, and he figured half the battle was already won. So he kept doing what he knew how to do: putting a lover at ease, letting them know they were appreciated, that somebody was going to pay attention to them and give them what they wanted.

        It took a minute, but Mac started to relax a little; Victor could tell when his partner's natural style, the one he recognized from too many bars and too many operations, started to impose itself. The nudge of something hard along his thigh made him jerk in a stuttering breath, pulling air from Mac's lungs. But Mac only stared up in the darkness, said, "You're fuckin' nuts."

        "No shit," he agreed, believing it. He kissed Mac again, a part of him sitting back in wonder at his newfound versatility. That thought led his hand down the slim back, lower than he'd gone before; he felt Mac tense, felt the bulky muscles tighten under his kneading hand. Pleasure? Fear? Something else? He didn't know, didn't care. This was going to be easy.

        A butt was a butt, he decided, moving his hand over Mac's hip as their mouths continued to join. And yeah, so there was an erection down there, jumping right next to his forearm. So what. If he touched it, would Mac inhale sharply, groan? How would the man express his pleasure?

        There was only one way to find out.

        One finger, drawn carefully from base to crown, made Mac Ramsey seize up entirely, and little choking sounds escaped into Victor's mouth. Mac tilted his head away.

        "Slow down, Vic, okay? Just…"

        "Yeah," he breathed against the stubbled cheek. "Okay."

        "And get out of those stupid underwear," Mac added irritably.

        Victor chuckled, and did as he was told, and when he was naked Mac went on the offensive, pushing him onto his back and rolling atop him. And it was his turn to seize up and gasp, because Mac's cock was a hot velvet iron bar pressed against his, and it was good, better than he'd never been able to fantasize, better than innocent Anne and her soft round curves, because Mac wanted him here for more than pleasant distraction. Mac needed him here. He grabbed Mac's hips, humped up against him, heard their groans blend together, and stopped thinking altogether.

        Orgasm came quickly, brought on by grasping hands and licking tongues and the bruising thrust of hips. He cried out, arching up, hearing a silent stutter of air through the rush of his coming, feeling the added splash of someone else's semen on his belly. They rolled onto their sides, panting, staring at each other through the dimness.

        "Wow," Mac managed, and chuckled a little, like a happy kid. "Was it what you thought it'd be?" he whispered, still breathing heavily.

        "No," he whispered back, loathe to spoil this victory between them. "No, it was better. How about you?"

        "Mmm, lots better than I thought it would be."

        Vic chuckled; he was so relieved he couldn't even be offended. They'd be okay. Surreptitiously, he rubbed at a sore hipbone. Women had more padding down there; he wondered if he could convince Mac to put on some weight.

        Over the next two days they didn't get much skiing in, but they still burned off all the energy they needed to. Victor couldn't remember the last time he'd spent so long in bed.

        Mac had become more and more talkative as the weekend progressed, sharing stupid thoughts that sounded like secrets, dumb jokes, and a sensitivity in bed that frankly astounded Vic. Their first night had been almost innocently tame, but in the following day and a half during which they'd covered most of the ground that had terrified Victor, MacLeod Ramsey had proved himself to be a generous and gentle lover. He didn't push too hard, seemed to know how his partner was feeling, and honestly seemed to care. That caring had made so many things so easy.

        Victor now understood why Li Ann liked it up the ass, for example, and didn't mind so much that he shared her opinion. In fact, he was feeling so damned good about himself and this whole situation, he decided his gut had been right: sex with a guy did change you somehow. Just not necessarily for the worse.

        On Sunday, plodding around in their boxers, they started breakfast between stolen kisses and lewd suggestions about how to pass the time on future stakeouts.

        "I'm gonna buy the Director a thank-you card," Mac announced hollowly, his head buried in the refrigerator.

        "Huh?" Vic asked, uncomfortable about the fact that he'd caught himself staring at Ramsey's skinny butt again.

        "I said I'm gonna buy the Director a thank-you card," he said, turning from the fridge with eggs in both hands.

        "Oh." Still distracted, he finally thought to add, "Why?"

        "If she hadn't gotten on my ass about this, I'd never have known."

        Victor set the coffee pot down hard, feeling a sudden panicky sweat bead along his spine. "Known what?"

        "That you wanted me."

        Panic shifted to fury in the blink of an eye. "That I wanted you?" He was going to kill her. He was going to goddamned fucking kill her.

        He watched Mac tense and slowly pile the eggs on the counter by the stove. "What."

        Vic spoke carefully, choosing small words. "What did she tell you?"

        "C'mon, Vic, settle down. You know how she is."

        "What did she say to you?"

        "Nothing, I just--" the light dawned, and Mac's eyes narrowed. "She talked to you too?"

        "I asked you first," Vic grated.

        "Age before beauty."

        Great. One little casual comment, and two days of mind-blowing experimentation were swept out the window. "Could you for once act your age and not your IQ? What did she say to you?"

        Mac stared stubbornly, his lips compressed into a thin, hard line.

        They could do this for days, build a wall of silence that would be broken only on the job. They'd done it before. Vic stared across the space between them and debated letting it happen, measuring the benefits of soothing his suddenly nervous ego against the benefits of being the grown-up… and sighed. He took a breath for courage and decided to be the mature one. Again. "She told me you were putting the team at risk and that you'd gotten attached to me. That you needed to have sex with me," he muttered, unaccountably embarrassed. They were still naked from fucking, for Christ's sake.

        Mac continued to stare for a moment before turning toward the stove and the frying pan, breaking eggs one-handed on its rim with exaggerated care. "I'm gonna kill her."

        "Get in line. Now what did she tell you?"

        "She told me you were putting the team at risk because you'd gotten obsessed with me. That you wanted to fuck me. You needed a relationship, she said."

        Victor felt cold and hot of a sudden, and his mind blanked out completely. What had she been thinking? And what had he been thinking, to believe her? "So all that shit night before last, you trying to talk me out of this, was because you thought I wanted it?"

        "Hell yes!"

        Oh, God. She was probably sitting somewhere right now, laughing her ass off at them both and how easily she'd suckered them. "I never wanted you," he breathed, shock breaking through him like electric stun. "I never even thought about it."

        Mac's mouth tightened. "Don't shower me with compliments, okay?"

        "No! I didn't mean..."

        "I got what you meant, now just shut up and let's forget the whole thing."

        "Would you listen to me? I just--it's her, goddamn it. It's the Director. She played us both like cheap guitars."

        "So what else is new?" Mac asked bitterly, turning back toward the stove. "The bitch."

        "You said it."

        They stood in silence, Mac burning the eggs while Victor tried to figure out what to do next. He should stop, they should stop what they'd started, because if they didn't she'd win another round against them…. But it had been good. So different from what he'd expected, and in its own weird way, so much like what he wanted. He did thrive on relationships; she was right about that. But if she won… they won too. Was that so bad?

        He watched the stiff line of his partner's bare back, thought of how it had felt beneath his hands over the last two days. And he acknowledged both defeat and victory. "She gave you files from the psych department," he breathed, and watched the back of Mac's head bob up and down in an eerily familiar way. He swallowed, looked away, looked back. "She said she'd have to retire me if you didn't do something about it." Mac nodded again. "Well, she wasn't lying to both of us. Was she?"

        Mac's back stiffened even further, incredibly eloquent. "Well, was she? Did you want me, or not?"

        "I don't want to talk about this shit," Mac muttered.

        "I don't care what you want to talk about! We talk about it, or she wins. And maybe, maybe we both lose."

        Mac gave up pretending to cook, and took the frying pan off the burner. "What are you saying?"

        "Why do I have to be the one to say it?" he asked irritably.

        "Okay! Okay, fine. Yeah, I wanted you. Now who the hell does that help, because you sure as hell don't want me."

        "You can say that?" he asked, surprised in spite of himself. "After the last two days?"

        "You just said it."

        "No… no." He tried to think, tried to let go of everything he'd felt over the last three weeks and concentrate on the moment. "Maybe I didn't, before. But Mac, we… it was good, okay? It really was. And maybe she was right somehow."

        "Oh, you know how much she'll love hearing that," Mac said bitterly.

        Victor sidled up to his partner, almost smiling. He didn't know what the hell he was happy for, but it felt a lot better than the panic that had almost driven him out of here three minutes ago. It felt tons better than the fear he'd lived with for the last three weeks. "Maybe she should hear more than that, huh?"

        "What are you talking about?"

        He took the frying pan to the trash can and dumped the eggs, going to the refrigerator for the last three and starting breakfast again. "I'm just saying, she started this, but she doesn't have to finish it." He offered a sly smile as he broke new eggs into the pan. "Maybe we can give her more than she bargained for."

        "Like what?"

        "Like… everything." He chuckled. "Hell, maybe we have found the perfect way to survive those boring stake outs."

        Mac looked almost outraged. "She surveilles us, Vic! You're saying we should just go on with this?"

        "You bet your ass I am. As big and as loud as we can manage. Fuck her, anyway; she wanted this, but we're the ones who get it."

        A hand rested tentatively on his shoulder and he leaned into it. After a moment it started rubbing, massaging his neck, and he sighed at the already-familiar touch. "You're one sick prick," Mac said admiringly.

        "Yeah, but now I'm a happy prick," he offered, smiling again.

        "You're a crazy prick." Victor just leaned in and kissed him, pushing his tongue inside that mobile mouth, enjoying the warm taste of coffee. Mac pulled away after a moment, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "We'll make her crazy," he said with deep satisfaction.

        "We can only hope."

        Breakfast forgotten, they dragged each other into the living room and started another round. Victor wondered absently if she'd managed to follow them and bug them somehow, and just in case, he gave the ceiling light the finger before he rolled to his stomach and onto his partner. Mac was a crazy choice to trust his loyalty to, but he was a lot more sane a choice than the Director. And Mac wanted him. And Victor Mansfield found that was all he really cared about.

        It was nearly 10:15 when Mac and Vic strolled into the conference room the next morning. Li Ann was already there, drumming her lacquered fingernails on the lacquered tabletop. The Director was substantially more composed. "Good of you to join us, boys," she sneered.

        "Damned right it is," Mac replied, grinning broadly. "I didn't get any sleep at all last night."

        "So you two have finally worked out your similarities?" she asked, as Li Ann began to look confused.

        Vic was impressed by her air of indifference. "Yeah, no thanks to you," he replied, pulling Li Ann's chair, with Li Ann still in it, out of the center space and moving it to one end.

        "No thanks to me? Come now, Victor, I did everything but order you to handle this. No, wait," she added innocently, "I did that, too."

        "Hey!" Li Ann snapped, as Mac slid an empty chair into her old place. "What are you doing?"

        Over Li Ann's head Vic answered the director. "If you'd been honest, then I might've given you some credit--"

        "Honesty only works with you, Vic. It's pretty much wasted on Ramsey--a fact you'll do well to remember if you want this to work."

        "He's making room for me," Mac told Li Ann airily. He seated himself with theatrical care into the newly placed chair, and Vic dropped the fight to touch a hand to his partner's shoulder. Mac winked, so Vic slid into the chair at the end, settling into a sprawl that communicated equal parts satisfaction and exhaustion. He cast a sated eye on his boss, promising her more than she'd ever bargained for. He hoped.

        "I trust I won't have to lecture either of you boys about professionalism on the job?" she asked, ignoring his look.

        Mac laughed out loud. "Like you could?"

        Li Ann finally broke in. "What is going on?"

        Vic nodded toward Mac, inviting him to do his best. And of course, Mac did. "Vic and me are going on. And on, and on, and on," he said breathily. "He's like the Energizer bunny, Li Ann; I will never understand why you kicked him out of bed."

        She looked confused at first, then her mouth dropped open in shock. "You two? You're…"

        "Exercising our rights as adults," Vic said quietly, not quite challenging.

        "Exercise being the operative word," Mac added with a leer. "I'm gonna have to start taking naps if he doesn't ease off."

        "Victor… Mac?" Her voice came out in a squeak. "Mac? Victor?"

        "Yes, Li Ann," the Director said smoothly. "It was only a matter of time."

        "Time?" she repeated dumbly. "But you--" she looked toward Vic, and back to Mac, "You--"

        "Unlike some people, he couldn't resist my charms," Mac bragged.

        "Yeah, well," Vic parried, "Desperation brings out the worst in me. He just wanted me so badly, you know."

        "Yeah, that's it! I was bored with all the good sex I was getting, so I decided to try something different."

        "Are you two finished?" the Director snapped, trying to bring the meeting back to order.

        Victor looked to his partner, met the man's eyes and read all sorts of things in them, and smiled. "Not for awhile," he said softly. "Not for a long while."

        *end*

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