Mac glanced around the breakfast table. His headache was almost gone, and the loose-fitting robe kept him warm in the chilly air of the loft. Everyone looked relaxed; it was almost as if the whiskey-drenched evening had never been. Mac shook himself and stretched, languorous as a big cat.

Jim was seated opposite him, granite features relaxed in a smile of appreciation as he wolfed down pancakes, bacon, mushrooms, and tomatoes.

"It’s not often," he had whispered in an aside to Mac, "that Blair lets me eat bacon."

Mac had looked at him with a puzzled frown, unsure of how to respond to the unexpected camaraderie, and even less sure of who was really in charge at the loft. Mac liked to know his place in the hierarchy, if only so he knew what to rebel against.

Vic was seated next to Jim. Practically in his damn lap, thought Mac, not that it bothered him. Both boyfriends were already dressed, Jim in a cheap looking work suit (good enough for the police, Mac supposed), and Vic in casual day wear. As though he were a corporate wife, off for a day of shopping or a round of golf. Was that the sound of his own teeth grinding?

Blair was in the kitchen, humming over a frying pan, flipping pancakes and cracking eggs, never still, never silent. Mac smiled. It felt good to have someone cooking for him again. Made the world seem a little better, a little more as it should be.

"How do you like your eggs?" asked Blair, giving Mac such a look of attention that he had the absurd feeling that nothing was more important than his answer to this question. He found that he liked it, liked being the subject of such focus, such attention. He smiled again and was about to answer when Jim interrupted.

"Hurry it up, Sandburg, we’ve got to be at the bullpen in less than an hour. Simon will string us up if we’re late. We have to look into those new leads on the Falzone case. Do you need to go into the university today?"

"Fried or scrambled, sunny side up or miniature golf balls?" said Blair, as though the big detective hadn’t spoken.

Mac could see Jim’s features tighten out of the corner of one eye.

"Fried, sunny side up, thanks," said Mac, with a smile only partially intended for Blair. Who would have thought that he’d do so much smiling on this morning of mornings?

"Okay," said Blair, dropping the eggs in the frying pan, worrying them with a spatula as though they concealed the meaning of life, or at least the secret to writing a good thesis. Mac wondered how much graduate students got paid.

"We need to be at the bullpen in less than an hour," Jim repeated, with rocks in his voice. Mac’s smile grew wider.

"I like them just so, in the centre of well-done toast, with a strip of bacon on each side," he offered.

"Coming right up," said Blair. Mac just knew that he was about to start whistling.

"What shall we do today Mac?" Vic entered the lists.

As Mac looked at him, startled, he realised that he had almost forgotten that Vic was present. But that wasn’t possible, was it? His errant partner was the whole reason for his being here.

Blair was suddenly at his side with a plate full of eggs, toast, and bacon. "Would you like a side order of oysters with that?" he asked with a sly smile.

Mac choked on his coffee, causing Vic to look at him with curious concern. Jim, on the other hand, was only too happy to pound him on the back with a meaty fist till the choking stopped – and perhaps even a little after. Mac was sure that he would have bruises. Bruises on his back from Vic’s cop boyfriend. Shit. Mac shivered and took the plate from Blair, casting him a watery smile. Vic continued to look concerned. Mac knew that look of old. The other man was going to try to talk to him, he just knew it.

"I have the day off," continued Vic. "I thought we could go out, take in the sights of Cascade, have a fancy lunch somewhere. Reminisce about the bad old days. What do you think?"

"I feel like I should spend the day in bed," said Mac, suddenly sick to his stomach at the thought of a whole day with Vic, talking but not talking, reminding him of everything that was missing from Vancouver. But that was why he had come to Cascade wasn’t it? To check out the competition. The new partner and the new city. And to talk him into coming home. How was he going to do that, when serious talk was not exactly his forte?

"That’s not an option," said Jim flatly.

Mac looked at him in some confusion. He wasn’t thinking aloud again, was he? That was one of the things that had scared him the most last night. The whiskey-induced inability to control his tongue. For Mac, the definition of danger in its purest form was to reveal too much, say too much, let the wrong people in. Like Jim. Or Blair? Certainly Vic.

Everyone seemed to be looking at him expectantly. Mac pushed his plate away and inquired, "What’s not an option?"

"Spending the day in bed," said Jim, back to his I’m-talking-to-a-slow-child routine. "You need to get out." And not spend the day in bed while my boyfriend is in the same apartment, seemed to come across as clearly as if Jim was the one now thinking aloud. "Get some fresh air and exercise. Well, not too much exercise," he amended. And blushed. Slowly.

Mac watched Jim as if he were some kind of celestial phenomenon. He noticed a similar look on Blair’s face. Vic was also looking at Jim, but not as if he found such phenomena pleasing.

Vic cleared his throat. "If you don’t feel up to going out, we can spend the day here, hanging out." He was speaking to Mac but his eyes never wavered from Jim’s face.

Mac suddenly thought of the advantages of sight-seeing, and all the opportunities that could be found to avoid conversation on a day out. Not like hanging around the loft, nothing to do but stare at each other and talk. Well, there was something else that men got up to in this particular loft.

It was Mac’s turn to blush, and he shoveled a large mouthful of bacon and eggs into his face, to distract himself from the unwanted heat. Vic was still staring at Jim anyway. At this point, it was unlikely that he would have noticed if Mac stripped naked and danced the can can. Gulping his coffee, the erotic image blazing in his mind, Mac contemplated the sexiness of his own dancing while the cop boyfriends tried to out-stare each other. Yeah. He was hot. And a good dancer. Women wanted him. Lots of women.

"Would you like some more bacon?" asked a soft voice at his ear. Mac started. When did Blair get so close? Shit, his reflexes were worth nothing these days. Damn Vic. Damn him to hell.

"Yes please," he said politely.

"Coming right up," said Blair. "Besides," he continued, "Nobody gets to spend the day in my bed if I’m not there too."

There was a rich, throaty tone to this statement. Mac glanced at Blair, his coffee and eggs forgotten. Why was it so fucking hot in here? Did Ellison not have to pay heating bills?

"Are you ready to go chief?" asked Jim, still not taking his eyes from his boyfriend’s face. Mac felt an irresistible temptation to giggle and wave his hand between the two sets of angry eyes. Intensity always made him uncomfortable, especially other people’s. What sort of relationship did they have, these two men, he wondered. Did they trust each other? Or was it just that Jim didn’t trust Mac? Fuck, Jim was right not to trust Mac, but he couldn’t know that, could he?

Suddenly, Vic smiled and said, "I might take Mac dancing."

Jim convulsed with laughter, his harsh features smoothing out into a relaxed grin. Like a kick in the guts, Mac suddenly saw what the competition was all about. Fuck. How was he supposed to compete with that? Sex and a life with Jim versus risking his neck for the Agency and a quiet beer with Mac afterwards. Double fuck. Mac knew which he would choose if he was Vic.

"Sandburg can tell you the hottest gay clubs for an afternoon on the town," said Jim, his grin getting broader, if that was possible. Even those granite eyes were smiling.

"Thanks," said Vic. "Of course, since the action there doesn’t start till midnight, what do we do in the meantime?"

Mac was startled when Blair dropped more bacon on his plate. How did the guy manage to keep sneaking up on him like that, getting past all his defenses?

Jim opened his mouth to speak.

"I know, I know," said Blair, "time to go."

Jim’s mouth snapped shut. "You read my mind chief," he grinned, standing up and tousling Blair’s hair in one fluid motion.

Mac bit his fork. Vic continued to smile.

"Enjoy your breakfast," said Blair, turning back to Mac. "I’m gonna cook dinner tonight. What do you like?"

"Hey Sandburg, what about lasagna with mushrooms and garlic, I love that," said Jim, grabbing his jacket from the stand in the corner.

"What do you like, secret agent dude?" Blair asked again, his eyes fixed on Mac.

Mac snorted. Secret Agent Dude. Blair was what, 12 years old?

"I hate lasagna," he said with a smirk. "Are you familiar with Hong Kong cuisine?"

"Sure, you name it, I can cook it," the anthropologist replied.

"Surprise me," Mac grinned.

"I might just do that," said Blair, making Mac the focus of a serious leer.

"No oysters though," Mac added.

He surprised a bark of laughter out of Blair, as Jim thrust his coat at the younger man and hustled him towards the door.

On the way, Jim dropped a quick kiss on Vic’s lips. It was the first real PDA that Mac had seen. Hell, there had been more touching between himself and Blair than the two official boyfriends. There were no fireworks, no incendiary passions, no tongues. But there was a subtle intimacy in the kiss, a familiarity, an air of assurance that kicked at Mac’s waning self-confidence. That wasn’t the sort of kiss that suggested anyone would be leaving any time soon.

But someone was leaving. Two someones, in fact. All at once, Mac realised that Jim and Blair were about to leave him alone with Vic. Shit. Blair was already going out the door.

"Scallions," he blurted, a call born of desperation.

"What?" said Jim in a confused tone, his hand still resting on Vic’s shoulder.

"I don’t like scallions. There are other things…"

Did he look pitiful? He kinda hoped so. Vic might go easier on him if he did.

Vic’s hand reached up and touched Jim’s briefly before the detective moved towards the door. Just a fleeting touch. It reeked of domesticity. Mac wanted to throw up.

"Eat your breakfast," said Vic kindly as the door closed on Mac’s last hope. "Guests do the dishes – house rule," he added sweetly. Mac was not fooled. There was steel in his erstwhile partner.

"And then you and I are going to have a talk." Oh yes, a lot of steel.

"Can’t we be like the socially adept virgins?" Mac asked around a mouthful of bacon.

"What?" said Vic, his usual I’m-talking-with-Mac expression of bemusement on his face.

Mac felt better. His ability to confuse his partner with bullshit was going to get him through this.

"You know, not do it, but tell everyone else that we did."

Vic had the nicest laugh. He missed it. Could have done without the words that followed though.

"We’re friends Mac. Friends talk. We. Are. Going. To Talk."

"No they don’t," said Mac.

"What?" It was a word that Vic was used to saying around his former partner.

"Talk. Not. All. Friends. Talk. You know, it’s like kissing cousins. Some do, some don’t. Some cousins are kissing cousins. The rest aren’t. Some friends are talking friends. We’re not."

"So you’re saying I have to kiss you to get you to talk?" Vic’s grin took no prisoners.

Mac choked on his last mouthful of coffee. That was *so* not the direction that he wanted this conversation to go in. Or did he?

Vic waited politely for him to finish choking. Then his hand shot out and grabbed Mac by the throat. And began to squeeze. Hard.

"We are going to talk," he said softly, fingers still squeezing. Mac’s own hands were scrabbling ineffectually to break this iron grip, but they were too late to get a purchase. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way." The tone was polite, the fingers were not. "Either way is fine by me. But we are going to talk. If I have to beat you. If I have to kick your ass. If I have to break every one of your candy-ass ribs. We. Are. Going. To Talk."

He punctuated his last words by giving Mac a shake that rattled every bone in his body.

"Now you can nod in agreement with me, or I’m going to keep doing this for as long as it takes. What’s it going to be?"

By dint of applying all the pressure he could on his abused neck, Mac managed to nod.

"Very good. That was your first right answer today."

Vic released him, and watched with every appearance of calm while Mac recovered his breath and massaged his sore throat.

"Shit, Vic. What do you do for foreplay?" he croaked. Probably not a wise choice of words in the circumstances, but he was a bit thrown. He had almost forgotten Vic’s temper, his low threshold for bullshit.

"I apply equal pressure to other areas," Vic responded. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Mac realised that he had an erection. Fuck. When did that happen? Must have been a result of the choking, he rationalised.

"Let’s get some more coffee. Lubricate that throat of yours for talking, hmmn?" purred Vic.

Mac did NOT want to stand up. Not in his current predicament.

"You get it. I’m gonna take a moment to recover from my maniac former partner’s attempt to strangle me."

"Oh that wasn’t an attempt to strangle you Mac. But if you annoy me enough, you may find out what that’s like."

Mac was less light headed now, he had a full stomach after losing last night’s dinner, and his headache was almost gone. Yep, physically he was feeling better. He could take Vic, he thought, as the other man moved into the kitchen and began to pour coffee. Beat that self-satisfied smirk off his face. But could he trust himself to touch Vic? To touch him, even in that way, and not get hard? This was so humiliating. Worse than waking up in the bed of a man he’d only met the night before, questioning his own sexuality.

Had he had a worse day in his entire life? Ugly though it was, he would much rather be surrounded by fake columns in the Colonnade Room than trapped in this apartment with Vic. If worst came to worst, he could always have impaled himself on the statuary.

"Coffee," said Vic, banging a cup down in front of him. Mac jumped.

"Shit Mac, calm down. We’re just gonna have a conversation. People do it every day. Don’t get your Speedos in a knot. There’s nothing to it."

"We’re not people," argued Mac, and then stopped. It sounded stupid, even to him.

"Yes we are," replied Vic earnestly. "We are adult human beings and we can manage one goddamned conversation. It’s not as if we have to do it ever again. But just once, I want to know what’s going on in that head of yours. You turn up here, you act like you hate me, you act like you hate Jim, you try to get in Blair’s pants as though you weren’t a card carrying heterosexual, you hint that your life is in danger back home, you drink yourself into a coma, and then you want to carry on as if nothing’s happened."

Vic paused, as though considering the wisdom of beginning a conversation with a series of accusations.

When he didn’t continue, Mac tried hanging his head and using his whipped puppy expression. That often worked on Vic.

Not this time. He saw the danger light in the other man’s eyes.

"Which rib shall I start with?" inquired his friend.

Suddenly, the thought that Vic could hurt him, could actually bring himself to hurt *him*, filled Mac with last night’s burning rage. He leapt across the table, scattering plates and cups, his fingers jabbing at Vic’s exposed throat. Vic stood up, his chair falling backwards, trying to brace himself against Mac’s momentum and prevent any blows from scoring. They fell backwards on the loft floor, the impact knocking the breath out of Vic. Cushioned by his friend’s body, Mac managed to get in a good smack to Vic’s head before his partner threw him. Both were on their feet in a second, circling, circling, looking for a moment’s weakness, hands ready to inflict pain, to cause damage.

"Why are you so angry at me?" Vic hissed. There was almost a quaver in his voice, a tone that Mac had never heard there before.

"I don’t know!" he shouted in frustration. "But I want to fucking kill you!"

Vic’s arms dropped to his sides then. A peculiar look crossed his face. Mac couldn’t understand it, could barely think at all through the red rage that enveloped his brain, clouded his eyes. Almost as though he was watching someone else through a red film, someone he didn’t like very much, he saw his own fist connecting with Vic’s face.

But Vic wasn’t there any more. He must have counted on Mac’s anger to make him careless, presenting him with an obvious target and then somehow getting out of the way of a very clumsy blow. Mac couldn’t think, couldn’t talk, just wanted to kill. Or cry. Not even he knew which. It was almost a relief when Vic got him in a hammer lock. The decision was out of his hands. He wasn’t going to kill his best friend. His only friend. He was going to be killed by him instead.

Mac went limp, the fight gone out of him with that thought. The rage was gone, its red strength, and there was nothing left. He was empty, an empty empty man.

For a moment, there was no sound but the wheezing of a man fighting for breath. Mac was out of shape, slow in reflexes, clumsy, sick in body, sick at heart. Vic had taken him as easily as if he had been a little girl. It was the crowning irony of a very ironic morning.

Even now, Mac’s sense of humour wouldn’t let him give up entirely. When all strength was gone, he was always going to be able to make a joke.

"Was it good for you?" he inquired politely. The effect was spoilt a little by his ragged breathing.

"I’ve had better," came the laconic response.

Mac’s laugh was weak. Vic did not loosen his hold. Even so, trapped and immobilised as he was, it felt like an embrace to Mac. Perhaps, even if they couldn’t make the words, their bodies could do the talking. It felt good to lie there in Vic’s arms, waiting for him to decide what to do. All the power was Vic’s. It always had been. Mac didn’t even care that he had an erection again. He was past caring about anything, he decided. Anything at all.

"Why are you so angry at me?" Vic repeated his question, his arms holding Mac in a death grip, their eyes hidden from each other’s view.

This was an uncomfortable position from which to confront the meaning of his life. Mac said so, and Vic laughed, still not relaxing his hold by so much as a fraction.

"Talk to me," he shook Mac like a rag doll, frustration practically screaming behind his clipped vowels.

"You left me," said Mac. He didn’t know where the words came from. He made no conscious decision to say them. "You were my family, and you left me." He could hear his own desolation so clearly that he wondered if it was someone else speaking, someone else who was feeling these things.

Vic gave a strangled gasp. He let go suddenly, and Mac fell forward on the floor. He just lay there, not willing to turn over, unable to meet Vic’s eyes.

"You were my family. Just you. My only family. And you left me." It seemed that he was bleeding, hemorrhaging, the words wouldn’t stop. "The only one left. And you left me. Left me."

Vic was making a strange, gurgling sound. Mac couldn’t look. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Mac. Mac. Fuck."

As responses went, it lacked something in articulation. Mac had no strength to laugh. He just lay there, waiting for the world to end.

A tentative touch on his shoulder. Slowly, a hand started to rub his back. Vic was trying to talk to him with his body again. Sometimes, it was the only language that Mac could understand. The hand continued to rub as he lay there in silence. This was new too, like the smiling – Vic had never touched him much in the old days. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

Later, Mac wasn’t sure how much later, a voice began to speak above him. The hand continued to make slow gentle rubbing motions on his back, teasing his clenched muscles to relax, soothing his shattered soul.

"I don’t know how to fix this Mac. You used to really fuck me off, you know? And yet I always relied on you. Always trusted you. Always. But when you got back together with Li Ann, that was the end of things for me. I couldn’t be there any more, couldn’t do the same old life and limb thing. And I met Jim. He’s – well, he’s an amazing man. He, I don’t know how to say this, I’m not good with words like you."

Mac managed a watery chuckle. Both hands were rubbing him now.

"But it’s like, I don’t know, like he completes me. I feel that way when I’m with him. And he’s amazing in the sack. You probably didn’t want to know that. Sorry."

Mac felt as though there was something he had to say, even though all the words had gone.

"I didn’t," he managed.

The hands never paused. "Didn’t what?" whispered Vic.

He tried again. "I didn’t get back together with Li Ann. She pity fucked me a few times. That’s all. I had to let her tie me up. Didn’t like that."

Vic was silent. "No. Neither did I," he responded eventually.

Both men were quiet for a long time then. Just a floor, a broken man, and a pair of soothing hands.

"I wonder what Blair’s gonna cook you? He’s a great guy, you know."

"I do not need a second-hand pity fuck from you," said Mac, some of the fury back in his voice.

He could almost feel Vic smiling above him, approving that he wasn’t dead, that there was still fight left in him.

"What about from Jim?" asked Vic.

Mac started to laugh, he couldn’t help himself. "You are such an asshole," he said.

Vic pinched his butt, hard. "You’re the asshole Mac. You’ve made a career out of it, remember?"

Mac shrugged. He couldn’t deny it.

"I’m setting up a PI business," said Vic tentatively. "I hope to work closely with the Cascade PD. Very closely."

Mac chortled. Vic continued to rub his tired back.

"I’m gonna need a partner. Someone to watch my back. Someone I trust. Someone I – like. I wonder if I should advertise in the Vancouver dailies?"

"You can get all sorts of losers through the papers man," said Mac. There was a quality of hope in his voice like there might still be a tomorrow. "Nah, you want to go by word of mouth. Get someone you know. Yeah, that could work."

Was it really that easy? He decided that it could be, that it had to be.

"And what do we do about this?" Vic asked, grasping Mac’s erection suddenly through his sweat pants and robe.

Not so easy after all.

"What we always do," said Mac, amazed at how calm his voice sounded while his best friend groped his cock. "Make it the boss."

Vic laughed so hard that Mac was sure he was gonna hurt something. So long as it wasn’t the errant erection, still trapped in his very firm grip.

Vic relinquished the prize and Mac rolled over finally, looking Vic in the eye for the first time in a long while, for the first time since Vic said that he was leaving Vancouver.

"Shall we talk about pay and benefits?" he inquired.

"Not without my lawyer," responded Vic, standing up, extending a hand to pull Mac to his feet. Somehow, Mac found himself in a loose embrace, with Vic’s arms around him lightly and his head on Vic’s shoulder.

"I really didn’t miss you at all you know," said Vic.

"I’m more interested in a coffee," replied Mac.

The two men pulled apart and walked over to the kitchen and the coffee pot. Mac had the uncomfortable feeling that Vic now understood him better than anyone else had in his whole life. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Fuck, he was never sure how he felt about anything.

One thing was certain, he was so drained that he needed to sit down. Now. He tottered to his chair at the table, looking without comprehension at the spilled cups, the scattered plates. Vic brought him a coffee and sat down opposite him again, as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Shit, perhaps this sort of thing happened in the loft all the time. What was he letting himself in for?

He sipped his coffee, waves of exhaustion, waves of nausea spreading over him. This was reaction, he knew – or at least, he thought he knew, he’d heard about it anyway.

He was moving to Cascade. He had a new job. He had Vic – sort of.

"Vic," he said solemnly, looking up at his friend’s face.

"Yes Mac?" came the edgy response.

"I wonder what Blair can do with noodles?"