The Colonnade Room! Who came up with these ideas? Mac shuddered as he looked around at the décor; fake Roman columns and pilasters stretching out towards what looked like – no – yes, garish frescoes of cavorting nymphs. And this was supposed to be Cascade’s best restaurant? What a pissant little place. It had been a short flight from Vancouver but already Mac was wishing that he was home.

Home? Mac stopped short in the vestibule, causing a middle-aged couple behind him to collide with a faux-marble fountain. He barely noticed. When had he started to think of Vancouver as home? Sure, he liked its skyline, its brashness, its vibrancy, but wasn’t home really Hong Kong and the Tang family? Home is where the heart is, an annoying voice whispered in his ear. That voice usually sounded like Vic. And Li Ann was in Vancouver. Great, another thing to feel depressed about when he was already under the spell of wall-to-wall monstrosities that no self-respecting Roman would have on his worst enemy’s tomb.

"Ellison party," he said at the desk. The maitre d’ looked up, and then up into Mac’s eyes, glanced back down at his suit, smiled, and said, "Certainly sir. This way." Mac felt better already. There was nothing like a little appreciation, even if it did come from a fag.

Shit. Better not use that word tonight. He was, after all, here to meet Vic’s cop boyfriend. Vic had a boyfriend. He said the word to himself over and over, as they threaded their way through the columns. "Boyfriend".

He had, over the years, started to see more and more of himself in Vic. Vic’s opinions. Vic’s likes. Vic’s dislikes. They both loved Li Ann, ice hockey, a good fight, a good cause (or at least taking down slime balls). He had started to think of them as quite alike. No telling if Vic thought so – no telling what Vic thought at all, really. And now Vic had a boyfriend.

Shit. Not so similar after all.

He used to finish Vic’s sentences for him, to anticipate him, to know what he was thinking before the other man did. But now he wondered. Wondered whether Vic had known all along what Mac had wanted to say, and started the words that allowed him to say it. Had he ever really known Vic at all? How could he have known Vic and not known this about him? And did that mean he didn’t really know himself?

"I’ll have a whiskey," he blurted to the maitre d’. If the man thought it a bit odd to get a drink order before they even reached the table, he gave no sign of it.

"Certainly sir," he said, with a sidelong glance and another smile. Mac felt a little better.

"Make it a double," he said, just to make sure. Perhaps he could get through this evening after all.

And as if thinking about him had conjured him up, there he was. Vic. Sitting at a marble table – oh god! Even the seats were fake marble. Mac eyed the thin cushion accusingly. The last thing he wanted tonight was a sore ass. He was suddenly hit by the thought that Vic might already have one. It was with insane laughter in his eyes that he turned to weigh up the man seated next to Vic in their fake marble booth. Tall. Rugged. Doesn’t suffer fools. The ice blue eyes proclaimed that Mac was going to be found wanting.

"No ice in that whiskey," Mac whispered. If he had hoped for another appreciative smile, he was to be disappointed. The maitre d’s eyes were pinned on Vic’s companion, devouring him with an intensity that boded well for good service later. What was the man’s name? Jim. That was it. Detective Jim Ellison, no fucking less, Cascade PD.

Jim. The name tasted sour in his mouth and he hoped that his whiskey would come soon. A good, solid, meaty name. Typical cop’s name. You could rely on a Jim. Salt of the earth. Meaty? Mac did a double take. Where did that come from?

As he did so, he noticed a third person on his side of the booth, facing the others. Mac relaxed. They had brought a woman along for his date. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be such a disaster after all. He could flirt with the woman – what woman alive didn’t want to flirt with him? – and ignore the two men, doing whatever it was that boyfriends did when they ate in public.

She was a brunette, with a glorious cascade of curls. Mac smirked at his own little joke. Perhaps Cascade wouldn’t be such a trial after all. She had a nice trim body, from what he could see – the nasty marble bench and table hid altogether too much from view. Mac hoped that she was pretty – but at the moment, he was prepared to settle for a table leg, so long as he didn’t have to spend an entire evening watching Vic make eyes at his meaty boyfriend. Shit.

Shaking himself, and putting on his most charming smile (for the woman, not the cop boyfriend), Mac strode past the sculpted fauns and slid into his seat next to the woman.

"Mac," said Vic, who hadn’t noticed his slow approach to the table. Jim, who had been monitoring his progress across the room, gave him a curt nod, stuck out his fist, and said "Ellison."

"Mac," said Vic, "I would like you to meet Jim Ellison." Very formal. As though they hadn’t watched each other’s backs, watched each other bleed.

Mac took the outstretched hand and pumped it. This was not the time for a pissing contest. He made no effort to make the handshake anything other than a polite acknowledgement. But he wanted to, which didn’t surprise him.

"And Jim’s roommate, Blair Sandburg," Vic continued, carefully not watching Jim grip Mac’s hand – or perhaps there was something genuinely interesting on Blair’s side of the table.

Mac turned, his smile performing as it had in a hundred other seductions.

"Whiskey," was his first word to his dining companions.

Blair was a man. A long-haired one, certainly, a slender one perhaps, a pretty one even, but definitely a man. Can one evening last a hundred years? Mac asked himself as he took Blair’s hand. Why was the cop boyfriend’s roommate looking at him in an odd way. Oh yeah. Perhaps he shouldn’t have made the handshake quite so manly. Blair winced and said, "Hi dude. Welcome to the city of Cascade and its 1001 delights."

"And you’ve sampled all of them, haven’t you Sandburg?" barked Ellison. Mac looked at him in some confusion. Was this small talk or censure?

"Your whiskey, sir," said a voice at his shoulder.

"Thanks," he croaked, and took a gulp. The appreciative smile was back. Mac sat a little straighter against the upright marble back of his seat. Could they make these seats any more uncomfortable?

"Metaphor," he said, without thinking, to the rest of the table. Jim and Vic were looking at him uncertainly. Blair grinned. "The drink, the pleasures, or Cascade?" he demanded, eyes alight. Blair clearly had a taste for obscure conversation.

"The seats," Mac replied, again without thinking. Oh shit. He had to get his tongue, himself, and the whole miserable evening back under some semblance of control. Why was he so miserable? Time for some self-discipline, he decided as he downed the rest of his whiskey. Since the waiter hadn’t actually had time to move away, Mac was able to order another. His companions ordered drinks, and Mac held a hastily grabbed menu in front of himself, as though for protection.

Vic’s cop boyfriend was eyeing him. Shit. What if he was checking Mac out? And he’d agreed to stay with them. Oh my god. What if the bathroom didn’t lock?

"Lobster," said Jim decisively.

"Urk?" was Mac’s response. Where was that second whiskey?

"The Colonnade Room’s specialty is lobster. It’s great." Jim was looking at Mac’s menu, which he was still holding in front of him, and speaking slowly and carefully, as though to a deranged child. Perhaps he always talks like that. That must bug the fuck out of Vic. How can he go from mercurial to plodding, from the hare to the tortoise? Why isn’t he back in Vancouver, where he belongs?

Because Jim’s a cop, Mac wondered, the real McCoy, not the slave of a shadowy government agency? To serve and protect, and all that. Just like Vic had been, before the fall.

"Like will find like, and measure still for measure," he chortled around the rim of his glass, wondering whether he could blame his runaway tongue on the whiskey. Nope, probably not.

The glass remained empty, no matter how hard he stared at it.

"That’s Shakespeare, right?" asked Blair, smiling with enthusiasm. "I love that play. At least I do if I’m thinking of the right one. Not sure if you got the quote right though." He grinned around the table, as though sharing a private joke.

Nobody answered him. Blair started to shred his paper napkin, looking a little crestfallen.

"How’s Li Ann?" asked Vic, looking at Mac with that serious gaze, the one that made you feel like you weren’t just a piece of Hong Kong gangland filth, but a human being, someone who mattered, someone who people like Vic could give a shit about.

"She’s great. She’s working well with our new partner, Leslie. Leslie’s a woman. One of those unisex names. You know. Like Blair."

Blair looked a little puzzled.

"Yep. It’s babes all round at the Agency at the moment. Knee deep in them. Wish you were there?" Was that chortle really coming from his own mouth?

"I’m quite happy where I am thanks," said Vic. He didn’t do anything obvious like touch Jim or fondle him. But he did look at him. He used to look at Li Ann like that. Just a slight, gentle warming of those calm eyes. Just a look. He had never looked at Mac like that. Not that Mac would have wanted him to, of course. Where was that fucking whiskey?

"I love Vancouver," Blair entered the conversational lists.

"Save that thought Sandburg," said Jim. "I’m ready to order."

Mac stiffened, looking from one roommate to the other uncertainly. The bigger man certainly seemed to boss the smaller one around. Playground pecking order? Does he boss Vic around? Would Vic let him? Vic had certainly never let Mac.

"What do you say to a nice juicy steak, rare, with baked potatoes and a salad?" Vic asked of the room in general. Mac wasn’t sure if this was a suggestion or the first line of a joke. "I’d say, prepare to be boarded," he said with a grin.

"You’d be the one doing the boarding, would you?" said Jim. It was said in a very even tone, no hint of what the other man was thinking. Mac stiffened anyway, sure that he had been insulted, but after days of not really eating properly, even just one whiskey was enough to fog his mind a little.

"Man," said Blair, wagging a finger at Ellison, "don’t you even think about red meat. You know what that stuff does to your insides."

Jim’s face softened with a small smile, and he turned to Vic and winked. Mac grasped his second whiskey, which seemed to have appeared from nowhere, and took a healthy swallow.

"Alright chief, lobster it is."

The waiter poured white wine, a nice chardonnay, and Mac took a gulp of that as well. One way or another, he was going to get through tonight.

"I’ll have the chicken," he heard himself say.

Jim smirked.

Mac had never believed in the stories of hate at first sight. He was beginning to wonder whether he hadn’t been a little hasty.

"I think I’ll have the vegetarian lasagna," said Blair. All three turned to look at Vic.

"I might get the pork," he said.

"I can almost guarantee it," Jim murmured. He had a wicked grin. Vic’s answering smile was like a revelation to Mac.

Shit. He’s happy. I’ve never seen him happy. All those years and I never once saw him happy.

"Can I get another whiskey?" he asked, actually grabbing the waiter by the arm.

"Shall I bring sir the bottle?" asked the offended man, with a sarcasm that might have quelled a lesser man.

"Great idea," said Mac. He was sure that his head was nodding like a pendulum on speed. "Bring the bottle. One should do."

"He’s from Hong Kong," said Vic to the waiter, as though in explanation.

"Ah," said the waiter, and moved off rapidly, perhaps with visions of triads in his head.

"How long can you stay, Mac?" Vic was looking at him again. Mac looked steadily at the table cloth. Blair’s hand strayed into his line of sight. It was a nice hand. Shapely. Strong-looking fingers. An expressive hand. He just knew that Blair would wave that hand when he got excited about something and wanted to make a point. Suddenly, he wanted to see that.

"I’m not sure," he said. "The Director said that I could take two weeks if I wanted, but she made it sound like she wasn’t sure she wants me back." He hadn’t realised that that would sound quite so sad. As though he cared. He really cared.

"What’s going on?" asked Vic. All teasing was gone. No smiles. No winks. This was serious Vic. The Vic he relied on to watch his back. His Vic.

"It’s not the same without you." He hadn’t intended to say that. A drop of condensation rolled down his wine glass. He watched it drop onto his hand like a tear. Watched it as though it was the most important thing in the world. "Leslie and Li Ann, they click. They seem to read each other’s minds. They work together like clock work." Just like we did. He couldn’t say the words. "I’m not sure that there’s room for a third in this supposed triad. The director…" He stopped. What was he doing, saying this in front of these strangers. Vic’s cop boyfriend and his roommate with the hands.

"Hey man, that sucks." Blair. "I know what it’s like to be the third wheel, and it really really…" He suddenly stopped as though he also had said something he hadn’t meant to.

"I hope the lobster is fresh," said Jim. "I could tell that the tank wasn’t…" He also seemed to run out of steam suddenly. Blair looked up with interest. "Hey man, were you able to see…" Inevitably, it seemed, another conversation ground to a halt. Fuck, would someone just finish a sentence! Mac felt like he was being suffocated. He poured himself another whiskey.

"That’s your fifth," said Vic. At last, a whole sentence. A pity that it appeared to be at Mac’s expense.

"Whiskey goes well with chicken," he heard himself say. He pretended not to hear Jim’s answering snort. He wondered what Jim would look like if his fresh and biting lobster was stuffed up his ass? It would have long pincers, he decided. Mac smiled. Vic looked a little taken aback at the quality of that smile.

"We can talk about the Agency later," Vic offered. "I want to catch up with you." He had that sincere look. It was lie, wasn’t it? Otherwise, he would be in Vancouver where he belonged, and Mac wouldn’t be a left-over agent without a partner, drinking himself into a stupor in a fake Roman villa because his best friend had walked out on him.

"Whatever happened to the fucking Romans, anyway?" His words were clipped and precise, not even a hint of a slur.

Blair knew a conversational opportunity when he saw one. "The Germanic peoples, sometimes called barbarians by those who felt themselves superior, invaded most of the western empire in the so-called Dark Ages. You can imagine the mentality of the academics that called such exciting times the Dark Ages. Of course, Rome survived in the Church. The popes basically became rulers of a whole new kind of empire…."

Mac had been right. He did have expressive hands. While Blair’s voice enfolded him like liquid chocolate, the hands did a little dance of joy, as though they reflected all the life that was present in this improbable room, sucked it out of the air. And the light from the fake candles seemed to glint in all that hair. Cascade’s finest rooms with Cascade’s finest cascade. Please tell me that I didn’t just giggle, he thought.

"That sort of combat was amazing. And to think that God was supposed to judge by…" Every now and then, Mac sipped some more wine and focused on the voice. He could get through this evening. He could. Just don’t look at Vic. How hard could that be?

"Your chicken sir," came a voice at his shoulder. Mac, feeling a little more kindly disposed towards a world that contained Blair’s hands, managed a smile of thanks for the waiter.

They might not be able to hold a conversation, but all four of them could eat.

"The lobster’s not fresh," said Jim. Mac had been able to judge within a milli-second when he would say it. He surveyed Jim with a sour look. What did Vic see in him? Sure, he was handsome if you liked that rugged, cast-iron look. He supposed that Vic did. His body was certainly muscular, buffed in a gym. Mac found himself wondering if he could take him. Then he found himself wondering whether Vic had done so, and in quite a different way. He made a short choking sound. Was alcohol a sufficient explanation for his sudden flush? God he hoped so.

Suddenly, Blair’s hand was on his arm. He looked at those expressive fingers, gently squeezing him. He looked up into Blair’s eyes. Mac had never seen such a look of sympathy directed at him in all his life. He had grown up in a harsh world. His "family" was a tough one, the Agency equally so. Vic, Li Ann, the people dearest to him, never lost their veneer of steel, their edge, even when he felt most strongly that they cared about him. Suddenly, Mac wondered what it would be like to sleep with someone who couldn’t beat him up. He smiled at Blair. Tonight, he decided, he was going to find out.