Jim’s keys landed in the basket by the door with an audible click. It was the first sound to break the silence between three of the men who had just entered the loft. The fourth was singing quietly to himself, and had been for some time.

"I swear to God," hissed the biggest of the three, "if I hear one more chorus of ‘Stand By Your Man’, I’m gonna kill him."

The second largest of the men gurgled. It couldn’t quite be called a laugh, so much of it had been swallowed, but it earned a slight twitch from the bigger man’s lips.

The smallest of the three, who was holding the singer’s hand and supporting most of his weight, said, "Help me out here guys. Can we get him to the couch."

Blair’s fingers were beginning to turn blue. Mac had become fascinated by his hands about halfway through dinner, and had been clutching one or the other of them ever since. Mac’s free hand had never been without a glass of whiskey. Mac could see that his date’s fingers were changing colour, and tried to ease his own grip without falling over. I wonder which is bluer, he thought, his fingers or my balls? Another giggle escaped his lips. A sudden thought sobered him, or at least as much as a man who has drunk three-quarters of a bottle of whiskey can be sobered by just a thought. Did I say "my date"? Hey, I’m only holding his hand so I can stay upright.

"No one’s doubting that," growled Jim.

Shit, did I say that out loud?

"Yes, you did," said Vic. There was another gurgle from that quarter.

But I like his hands. They’re so him. Busy. Kind. Talkative. Quite strong really. Nobody’s saying anything. Good. Can’t have said that out loud. I wonder what his fingers taste like? I could suck one. No one would notice. He would notice of course. Unless I was doing it wrong. When did they all get taller? Fucking giants.

"You’re sitting down," whispered Blair

Oh, that’s alright then. Shit. Men dancing together. They must be really horny. Look quite good together. Who’d have guessed.

"No one’s dancing," said Vic in his smooth, soothing voice. The room’s just moving around a bit for you. Drink this."

"Wassit?"

"Water. If you don’t rehydrate, you’re going to have the worst hangover ever tomorrow."

"Nah. Never get hangovers. You know. Concrete insides."

Suddenly, the room stopped spinning because he was being held in an iron grip, and the water was being forced between his lips. He swallowed as fast as he could, but some dribbled down his chin, even so.

"Thas nice."

"What is?"

"Two strong arms to protect me now. Rymics."

"Fuck". Jim let Mac go as if he had been burned.

"Rymics?" asked Vic, refilling the glass with water in the kitchen.

"I think he means the Eurythmics," said Blair with a smile.

The smile was framed by a halo of hair. It really glows, thought Mac. "My angel," he murmured.

It’s me that’s going to be sick," muttered Jim. "Get that water over here, get him a bucket, and then we’re going to bed. Nice company you’ve been keeping in Vancouver sweetheart."

Did he just call me sweetheart? thought Mac blearily. That can’t be right. "Yes I have," he replied. "But don’t call me sweetheart."

The look of disgust on Jim’s face was very familiar to Mac. He felt that he had been seeing it or its buddies for most of his life. "Not on the first date," he added.

Blair was laughing. He’d thrown back his hair. Both hands were in motion. How could a man be so beautiful?

"Don’t call me sweetheart, asshole," said Vic, and he punched the large detective on the arm.

"Thas gotta hurt," said Mac. Blair was grinning. It suited him. "Suits ya," Mac muttered.

Blair gave him a strange look. "Where’s he going to sleep?" he asked of nobody in particular.

"Right here," said Jim, punctuating his comment with a hand on Mac’s chest that literally thrust him into the cushions. Mac groaned.

"Thas gotta hurt," mimicked Vic. It seemed that he hadn’t stopped smiling all evening. When did Vic become a smiler?

"No hangover. Never get ‘em. Never disappointed a lady either." He leered at Blair.

The anthropologist gave him what he was starting to think of as a Vic smile, and squeezed his hand. "I’m sure you haven’t," he murmured.

Jim’s head whipped around as if he had been sucker punched. He fixed his eyes on Blair for a moment, who seemed oblivious, and then turned them on Mac.

"Sometimes, is har t’ba woman," sang Mac. "Gin all ya luv t’jes one man."

Blair started to laugh again. He still hadn’t let go of Mac’s hand. Mac was fairly certain that it was now Blair holding his hand, rather than the other way round. When did that happen? He risked a peek to his left. No, the Ellison stare was still firmly on him. The bigger man looked like a slab of granite, with an accusing glare fixed on his unwelcome guest.

"J’accuse," Mac whispered to Blair, flipping his head at Jim in what was supposed to be a subtle gesture. It wasn’t, and the room started to spin again.

"Come on sweetheart," said Vic, tugging Jim’s hand, "let’s go to bed."

Ellison didn’t move, even though Vic appeared to be applying more and more serious manpower to the task. For a moment, nobody was moving and both sets of men were holding hands. "This is just weird," said Mac, and closed his eyes to go to sleep.

He thought he heard someone, probably Blair, say "I’ll get him a blanket." The voice seemed to be a long way away. The pressure on his fingers, though, that was like a thousand hot needles stabbing his hand, a symphony of fire. Mac remembered sitting on a beach in Vancouver, watching the fireworks, thinking that nobody could do it better than the Chinese. Blair could though, he thought. Am I turning queer? Is this what it’s like? A thousand tiny needles of fire from a magic hand. Am I a poetic drunk, or what?

Unfortunately, since he tried to say it out loud but could no longer move his tongue, he decided that he must be more drunk than poetic. Oh well, at least that solved the problem of whether or not he was going to have to give head. Blair couldn’t expect it if he couldn’t move his tongue. But what if Blair did it to him? If his fingers were like needles of fire, what would his lips and tongue be like? A shiver coursed through Mac. How could he be so drunk, so horny, so unable to move? Another shiver.

"He’s cold," said Blair. "I’m gonna get him a blanket." It was the last thing that Mac heard for some time.

********************************************************************

It must have been the groans that woke him. Quiet groans, the sound of flesh slapping on flesh, quiet sighs of pleasure. The noises seemed to be coming from up above. Shit. Were people having sex on his roof? Mac tried to roll over and fell off the couch. What couch? Memory came flooding back as he lay on the floor of Jim’s loft. And the sounds were coming from up those stairs. Jim’s bedroom. Jim and Vic. He so did not want to deal with this now. Or ever.

Mac wondered if you could still be drunk and yet feel sorrier for yourself than you did when you were sober. Actually, he knew the answer to that, which was: now is not the time for introspection. His ass hurt (the floor), his head hurt (the whiskey), his soul hurt (the sounds from upstairs). Wait a minute. His soul hurt? Since when did he have a soul? Why couldn’t he just be happy for Vic, instead of so angry that his fingers were trying to dig through the loft’s carpet and into the floorboards below. Why couldn’t he be indifferent to Vic and Jim, instead of sporting enough wood to supply a paper mill and still furnish a good sized home?

The sounds of two men having sex were turning him on. And yet the thought that a man was doing things to Vic, his friend, his partner, made him taste bile in his throat. The memory of Blair’s hair and hands, his smile and laugh, ghosted through the air as well. How could he feel so many things at once? He was more used to feeling nothing; as with hangovers, he didn’t do feelings. But he could certainly feel his ass. Was he going to lie on the floor for the rest of the night?

A man could think about things too much, he decided. Blair was beautiful, his bedroom was closer than the Jim-Vic den of hell, and there were no noises coming from it. What more incentive did he need?

Mac rose to his feet, steady and graceful as if sober, and moved towards Blair’s bedroom. Yes, he thought as he moved successfully, I am a lot less drunk.

Each step seemed to be punctuated by a groan from above. Thoughts of Blair, lying asleep, his hair spread out, his hands open in welcome, alternated with thoughts of Ellison in irons, his head bowed, his hands clenched as he was transported on the convict ships of old. Where did that image come from? Hell, he decided, it’s the romantic in me.

Grinning in spite of everything, Mac slid the door to Blair’s bedroom open and stepped inside. It never occurred to him that he might be rejected. No one had ever said no to him before, except for Li Ann, and even that had been after she had thought him dead and had given her heart to another. If she had one. And that other was lying upstairs, being pounded into the bed by a huge male detective. Go figure. Or was it the other way round?

Shaking his head, Mac made out the form of Blair sleeping in the bed across from him. It did not quite meet his fantasy. Blair’s hair was spread out on the pillow but his hands were nowhere to be seen. In fact, little more could be made out than a nose, since the sleeping man was cocooned in blankets and clearly felt the cold. Not tonight. Mac would make sure he got so warm that he never felt the cold again. More romance. Mac chuckled.

"Mac?" came a sleepy voice from under the mountain of blankets.

"Right here baby," Mac purred. All his seduction techniques came on line without a thought. It couldn’t be all that different with a man, could it? He walked slowly over towards the bed, shedding clothing as he did, wondering (with part of his mind) whether whiskey stains could be removed by dry cleaning.

"Are you sure you know what you’re doing?"

Mac paused in the act of removing his boxers. His large, heavy erection was already swinging free, beginning to point towards the ceiling and the objects of his wrath. Was he doing something wrong? Already? They hadn’t even begun.

"What do you mean baby?" It came out in a husky tone. "Is there something you don’t want me to do?"

Blair’s eyes, which he could now make out in the faint moonlight, looked a little puzzled. "I mean, are you sure you want to do this? I kinda got the impression from Vic that you were straight. And I don’t really want to go to bed with a tipsy stud and wake up with a sober secret agent. With a gun."

Mac grinned. "Only one weapon here baby. And it’s gonna be just as pleased to see you by daylight."

Blair laughed. Mac liked to hear that. Wanted to hear it again. But there were other things he wanted first. He pulled the blankets back and exposed the anthropologist’s body, but he tried not to look too closely. He wanted Blair, at least he thought he wanted Blair, but what if he freaked out at the absence of breasts?

The incongruity of that struck him, even as he moved in to kiss the parted lips smiling up at him. Why was he doing this, if he couldn’t look at Blair’s body? Their lips touched once, lightly, twice, a third time. Blair tasted of toothpaste and man. If the anthropologist objected to the taste of stale whiskey, he gave no sign of it. "Oh Mac," he whispered, and the kisses became more intense. Mac’s erection poked Blair hard in the leg, surprising another laugh out of the young man, even as they kissed.

"See what you do to me baby," whispered Mac, even as a voice was screaming in his head: why are you doing this? The voice sounded like Vic. He was used to ignoring Vic.

"Mac?" whispered Blair between kisses.

"Yes baby?"

"Don’t call me baby."

And then they were both laughing, breathless, rolling around on the bed, stealing kisses and touching each other. Mac was used to leisurely foreplay. Blair, on the other hand, seemed to know all too well that this might be a one shot deal. He was determined to get what he needed, and get it good, if his intensity was anything to go by. "Mac," he hissed, "condoms. Bathroom. Top shelf."

"You don’t have them in your room?" asked Mac.

"I’m not supposed to have sex in here. House Rule no 69. Jim doesn’t take kindly to me breaking his rules."

"I break all the rules baby," murmured Mac, kissing Blair breathless, stroking his flat chest, even reaching between his legs to feel the springy hardness there. He was touching another man’s cock. For the first time. Well, almost the first time, unless you counted his Tang family initiation. That Michael had been a sick fuck. Are you any better, whispered a voice in his head, screwing this kid to get back at his bastard partner and your bastard ex-friend?

"Mac…"

"I know, bathroom, cupboard, top shelf…"

"No, don’t call me baby."

Mac laughed, kissing Blair’s nipples, tonguing them like he would a woman’s. Blair groaned, clearly wanting it, clearly enjoying it, wanting Mac, enjoying Mac. Oh yes, he was going to do this alright, no question about it. And because he wanted to, they both wanted to.

Blair’s hands were reaching between them, grasping his cock, pumping it. No whiskey dick there, thought Mac proudly, nothing but prime Vancouver meat. But if he didn’t want this party over before it had started, the kid was going to have to be a bit less energetic.

Mac wrenched away. "Bathroom," he gasped, and was gone. He could see the loss in Blair’s eyes even as he turned for the door. Shit. What was he doing to this kid? To himself?

Mac made his way across the living room by feel and the small amount of moonlight that crept in from above. The noises upstairs had stopped, their makers probably sleeping sated in each other’s arms. Mac felt another surge of ugly rage, so strong that it churned his stomach, joining the whiskey, the arousal, and the other poisons coursing through his system. Why? Why was he doing this? Why did he feel so goddamned angry that he wanted to spit, to spit at Vic and Jim, to spit Blair with his cock?

At last, the bathroom. He closed the door, switched on the light, and reached for the cupboard. As he found the packet of condoms on the top shelf, a voice hissed behind him: "What the fuck do you think you’re doing?"

Mac whirled, lightning fast, ready for fight or flight. No whiskey, no lust, no anger could make him less than fast, less than graceful, or more ready to kill. He faced Jim Ellison, who had been standing in the bathroom in the dark, waiting for him. How did he know? wondered Mac with the detached part of his mind, as his body assumed a fighting stance. The detective didn’t move, looking instead like he was carved from granite, his jaw working, his fists clenched, his whole stillness radiating an anger that Mac felt gave him no weakness to exploit, no leeway for the first blow.

"If you hurt my little buddy, I’m gonna rip you a new asshole."

The words were cold, measured, and yet faintly ridiculous.

"Your little buddy?" said Mac in astonishment. What was this? Family farce? "Who is he, Gilligan?"

Jim’s clenched fist raised up level with Mac’s face, so slowly that the agency’s self-proclaimed best agent wondered if it was really moving at all. Deciding to add fuel to the flames, Mac, who was starting to enjoy himself, added: "You know, a few more pounds and you could be the skipper. Best you lay off the donuts for a while, chief."

Jim looked angrier, if that was possible. Mac wondered if it was his levity, the insult to the man’s weight, or his use of Blair’s nickname that had enraged the detective more. There it was. A lightning glance down at his own stomach. If Mac hadn’t been watching for it, he might have missed it. His own grin broadened. So the mighty Ellison was worried about his weight, was he? Getting a bit heavy to lie on Vic, was he? That thought drove out his amusement, never far from the surface, and brought back his own anger.

"Last time I looked, Blair wasn’t a little boy. Definitely not a little boy." He gave a throaty chuckle, and the detective looked at him as if he wanted to kill him, to choke out his life with his bare hands. Mac was used to getting looks like that; it didn’t phase him.

"He’s not a boy, you’re right," said Jim, actually trying to engage with him, Mac realised. He could almost see the change of expression, the wheels turning in the other man’s head. Ah well, we can’t all be lightning of wit.

"Blair is a lonely, vulnerable young man who is confused and hurting at the moment. And sleeping with Vic’s partner and friend is not going to help him. It’s going to hurt him and the fallout will hurt Vic. Is that what you want?"

And there it was, laid out on a platter for him. How much of it was true? How much of it was self-serving? Did he want to hurt Blair? Hurt Vic? (Hurt Jim, though the big man hadn’t thrown that one at him.)

"It’s just a fuck," he said reasonably. "He wants a bit of comfort, a warm body, and (unless I’m very much mistaken) a really good pounding from a man who knows what he’s doing. And I know. What I’m doing, that is."

"Do you?" It was almost a whisper. That was the second time someone had asked him that tonight. He felt sick, suddenly, standing there in the light with no clothes on, holding a box of condoms in one hand, fighting the nausea of too much whiskey and too much confusion, facing down a dangerous man in cheap pyjamas who had just given his best friend the fucking of his life. And he was his best friend. Vic is my best friend, he reminded himself. Even if I’m angry with him for sleeping with this asshole. Even if I hate him for leaving me, abandoning our partnership, making it so that I can’t work, almost getting me killed.

And in the end, that was what this stupid confrontation in an ugly bathroom boiled down to. It was about Vic. Not about Jim, not about Blair, not about himself even. It was about Vic. It had always been about Vic. His stomach heaved at the thought.

Jim watched without obvious expression as Mac threw up in his toilet. When he had finished, and had rinsed his mouth out at the sink, he turned to find Jim still watching him, still motionless, still guarding what was his. "Okay," he said.

"Okay what?" said Jim, obviously confused.

"I won’t do it. I can’t do it," he snapped.

"Have you changed your mind Mac?" came an anxious voice from the other side of the bathroom door. "What won’t you do? Why are you talking to yourself?"

Jim’s expression changed from granite to pleading in a heartbeat. Please don’t tell him, those ice blue eyes were begging. Suddenly, dizzyingly, the big detective was at his mercy. All he had to do was open the door, for Blair and Jim to taste each other’s betrayal, to wound each other past forgiving.

The thought gave him no pleasure. He felt again the touch of those fingers on his hand, saw again the look in Blair’s eyes, felt again what for a brief instant he had allowed himself to feel touching another man’s body. Mac’s guts heaved and he barely made it to the toilet, retching and gasping. Jim remained still, a statue, implacable.

"Mac, are you alright?" came the urgent whisper from outside the door.

"I’m sorry Blair," he said softly, not meeting Jim’s eyes or looking at him at all. "It looks like I’m going to be in here for a while." He managed a watery chuckle. "Must have been something I drank."

"Oh fuck," came the annoyed response.

"Not tonight baby," he gasped, and then pretended to throw up again for good measure. His one hope was that the smell was making Jim feel as sick as he was – there was certainly less colour in the detective’s face than there had been before. Still, he thought objectively for a moment, it was red with anger before.

"I’ll see you in the morning then," said Blair, his disappointment obvious. "If you feel better, you know where to find me!"

Both men listened to the silence for a while, presuming that Blair had returned to his room, both trained never to take anything for granted.

"Looks like you’re spending the night in here then," whispered Jim. There was no gratitude, no softening in his look. But then, he reached out and gave Mac’s hand a quick squeeze. Mac looked down, uncertain for a minute, and then grinned wickedly, saying "I don’t suppose there’s room for me upstairs."

"He will always have room for you," said Jim quietly, and turned and left the bathroom, closing the door on his way out.

Mac sat down next to the toilet, his head resting on the seat. How long till morning? he wondered.