Music by Te 12/98 Disclaimers: No one here belongs to me. I'm not entirely sure *who* they belong to, but it's certainly not me. (Maybe Alliance?) Spoilers: The Last Temptation of Vic, Drive, She Said. Ratings Note: R for poor language and some m/m interaction. Summary: Vic and Mac have a conversation. Author's Notes: A lengthy OaT marathon with Viridian and Dawn Sharon, *thanks* to Dawn Sharon, produced this. I don't think it's especially necessary to know the show to read this -- I sure as hell don't. Acknowledgments: To Sister Blue for trust, faith, and love. To Rae and Alicia for fine audiencing, to Dawn Sharon for many helpful suggestions, and to Spike for fine beta. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Music by Te thete1@earthlink.net ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Vic leaned back against his couch and closed his eyes. The shoes of the fisherman's wife *were* some jive ass slippers. He nearly choked on his beer snickering at himself, but he knew it wasn't just the impending inebriation that was allowing him to appreciate Mingus' vision. Mingus. Even the man's *name* suggested heavy substance abuse. His music was of that brand of proto-acid-jazz that, musical genius aside, probably *did* owe more to assorted opiates than any brand of classical training. And yet. And yet, midway through the lengthy opus, Victor always knew *precisely* what the fisherman's wife looked like (never the same twice), how the marriage had started out a poor man's storybook romance (more poignant than that of the rich man), what it was like raising those children while the fisherman was out on that boat, how the marriage crumbled when the man started drinking... And how those shoes were still absolutely beautiful if you knew how to look. Faded, re-soled a dozen times, broken to the shape of the woman's spreading foot, and the best damned dance shoes ever made. As usually happened, Vic found himself placing his free hand some inches away from his chest, pretending there was someone in his arms to dance with. He lacked the energy to stand and take the air companion on a whirl around the room this time, though, and just sitting on the couch, arm outstretched and alone... Well, it didn't take long before he started feeling decidedly odd. Vic desperately wanted there to be someone here who'd laugh at the title of this beautiful song with him, and then listen when he explained why he loved it so much, and then tell him what he hadn't heard. The urge to follow the thought to its natural conclusion -- no one will -- was strong. He couldn't think of *anyone* willing to just sit and listen, really *listen* to the Mingus, or anything else in his moldering -- their word -- collection. Li Ann had accused him of being in love with his obscurity, seeing a nobility in those artists too faded to make it to CD, or even audiocassette. The idea was an uncomfortable one, considering the apparently idiotic way he'd lived his life to this point, but, for the music at least, he could believe it was untrue. Or maybe it was just the comfort of knowing he could do absolutely nothing to save Mingus, (and Louis Jordan and Howling Wolf and all those others...) from time. Names are always forgotten, certain styles and melodies lose their appeal... There had always been a lassitude, a slowing and softening of tension at the thought of such inevitabilities. Life beyond the music allowed Vic no such comforts -- there was nothing quite so irrelevant that he could simply turn his back and walk away. He smiled at the thought, enjoying the idea of himself as world-weary romantic, aging gracefully, scarred more than the skin showed by his own firmly -- nobly -- held illusions. A glass of wine would, perhaps, be more appropriate for such fantasies, but the fisherman's wife was just getting to that last dance... And there was no question in Vic's mind that she had been ever faithful to her flawed man. He lifted the beer to her in salute, and tried to make her face solid enough in his mind that he'd be able to *see* her smile, as opposed to simply feeling it. Faith, loyalty, friendship if not love... Perfectly rational ideas, really. Didn't all humans require such things? The apes did... the apes banished those who failed the tests of community. It *wasn't* weak for him to want such things, though it had been perfectly stupid to seek them from criminals. There is no honor among thieves, and that was the reason they were often easy to catch. He had put his trust in a man who had claimed to want him as a friend, a real friend -- someone to touch and talk with, someone to share meals and... companionship. Vic had fallen hard for the myth of Old World Ideals, and had nearly been killed for it. He dearly wished he could believe The Director hadn't sent the others after him solely to keep hold to a favored possession. The others. Li Ann was a true professional. While she needed to believe in what she was doing, so long as she'd told herself there was good in her actions, they could be done with no other thought beyond whatever animal instincts her life with the Tang had provided her. It was easy to see how breaking up with him had improved her peace of mind. Mac was another professional, but.... It wasn't that he was even *half* so sure about himself as he would have others believe, it was just that Mac used that false arrogance to wound, and then had the nerve to wonder why he was alone. While Vic had been able to look past such things in others, the combination of obliviousness *and* hyper-confidence was a little too much to bear. Victor had no doubt the man would eventually succeed in his attempts to escape this approximation of life they led, if only because the Director would eventually grow sick of heading off the self-destruction. Victor was not so proud of himself that he couldn't see his estimation of the other man as being built at least partially on his *own* basic arrogance... but there was something to be said for the instinct toward emotional self-preservation he'd cultivated over time -- even though it only kicked in sporadically at best. It didn't stop him from looking forward, somewhat, to the regular attempts by the Director to make them Get Along, though. And it was wonderfully easy to tell himself it had more to do with wanting to improve himself -- the ability to be friends with anyone was something worth developing -- than with anything else. The song was over, and Vic started it over again. The good thing about songs over ten minutes long was that there was always an excuse to play them over and over again. No real frivolous indulgence in wanting to make sure one had caught all the nuances between minutes eight and eleven, after all. There was nothing justifiable in continuing to dwell on his lack of social life, though, so Vic turned on the TV (with the sound off) and tried to put the ESPN anchors into the world of jazz and melancholy. It was surprisingly easy, really. The patently false good cheer would make *anyone* look as though they led lives of quiet despair. He decided the slightly-more-blowdried one had just lost a custody battle, and that the other was a closet gambler, about to declare bankruptcy. The doorbell rang, and Vic seriously considered pretending not to be home. Nobody ever came over with *good* news, after all, but then he remembered the pizza he'd ordered three minutes into fisherman's first run, and Did Not Emit a long-suffering sigh as he rose to get it. Mac. Jesus. Vic found himself wondering bleakly why he couldn't conjure Li Ann, the Director, or even the restless corpse of that broken-down old Mafia don. "What the hell do you want?" The other man held up a six pack and grinned in that way someone had taught him how to do. Mac had an extremely generous mouth of that sort not specifically designed for sardonicism, but grinned like a clown -- false and just a little cruel. There were reasons Vic hated the circus. He breezed by Vic and settled on the couch. In *his* spot. Vic let himself sigh at that point and closed the door. Made a point of checking the new stereo to make sure there was nothing the other man could possibly enjoy. The next record was a collection of "ladies of jazz." Perfect. "Did the Director send you?" Mac opened one of his beers and took a long pull before speaking. "You got any chips?" "No, but there's a pizza--" Vic cut himself off with an internal shake. "Why are you here?" Mac rolled his eyes. "Because I felt like it." "I don't feel like *you*, Mac. Get the fuck out." "So you can sit here and depress yourself with this... whatever it is?" "It's called music, and why do you care?" "Look at it this way, semi-random bonding between us is precisely the sort of thing that'll keep the Director from shoving us into any more small spaces together. As for caring... can't a guy make small talk?" "Seems like it's the only sort of conversation you can handle." "Snipe at me all you want, but smile when you do it. You know we're under surveillance 24 hours a day." "What makes you think it doesn't include audio?" Easy shrug. "Does she strike you as the type to give a damn about what *anyone* says when they aren't speaking directly to her?" "Yes." "All right, you have a point. But only for people she *doesn't* trust." Vic let his half-finished beer tug him back to the couch, settled against the far arm. "I don't trust her as far as I can throw her." "She's pretty light, and whether or not *we* trust *her* is beside the point, Vic. She knows we can't do a damned thing to hurt her." There was a touch of bitterness in the subtly accented voice, and Vic couldn't help but agree. Silently. "I don't want you here." "Gonna throw me out bodily?" Vic closed his eyes, wondered what he'd done to deserve this, decided it must have been punishment for the moping. "Think, Mansfield: Dobrinsky." "He's not a bad guy..." "He's the Director's *tool*!" "So are we." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mac throw his hands up. There was a distinct and curious lack of drama in the gesture, though, and Vic turned a little to get a better look. By all appearances, the man was genuinely upset. "Look, Mac, I know what you're--" "That's such perfect Victor Mansfield. You couldn't agree with me if you tried, could you?" Vic shook his head and tried to come up with a response, but Mac didn't wait. "I thought you'd under-- Jesus *fuck*, Vic, it's just another leash. I *know* you know what I'm talking about, yet you can just sit here and point out where I'm wrong. When did you decide anything at all was better than me, anyway? Where's that famed soft heart of yours?" Somewhere you're not. But it wasn't quite true, so he didn't bother to say it. There was always a chance the man would give him another opening for it, somewhere down the line. "How much did you have to drink before you came here?" Mildly hysterical giggle. "Nothing at all, nothing at all... or maybe just a few shots of... something. I'm trying to *bond* here, man! Join in! Finish that beer and have another! We're men, right? It's what we do." He hadn't thought it was possible, but the encounter had gotten even more uncomfortable. He found himself searching Mac's eyes but the man was staring through him, and smiling about it. Vic picked up his beer and downed it. There didn't seem to be other, more rational options. Mac nodded at him and immediately handed him another, top twisted off with casual thoughtfulness. Vic resisted the urge to point out that he could've done it himself, and wondered why he was trying so hard to piss the other man off. It didn't take especially long to figure out that he wanted to keep things at that imitation of normality they'd achieved over the months of partnership. Nothing justifiable in that, either. He reached out tentatively, had his hand smacked away for his trouble. Well, he'd *wanted* something closer to normal for them. "Mac..." "Don't. Just don't. Keep drinking. Call up that pizza place and threaten them with our Shadowy Government selves. Tell me what this song is. Something." Vic watched the other man for some clue beyond 'moderately inebriated and bitter,' gave up when Mac simply smirked at him and gestured at Vic's beer with his own. "The song is called... The Fisherman's Wife. By Mingus." He bit his cheek at the urge to share the whole title, bit it again at the fact he didn't. "It isn't bad." Vic tensed, bracing himself for mockery and lining up possible retorts. Mac snorted at him. "I mean it. You can tell he gives a damn, though I have no fucking clue what fishermen have to do with it. At least there're no annoying lyrics." "Yeah, lyrics wouldn't be good for this." "This from a man who listens to people wailing about 'spoonfuls of your precious love?'" "That's a good fucking song." "The words are childish, unoriginal, and stupid." "I've seen your CD tower. You own the soundtrack to Mortal Kombat." A dismissive wave that came close to spilling Vic's beer. "We're not talking about *my* music. And the lyrics are *painful*." "But it's rarely *about* the lyrics. It's the rhythm, the emotion--" Mac slammed his beer down and seemed to *bounce* himself closer. Vic's eyes crossed briefly at the finger in his face before he refocused on Mac's eyes, barely a foot away. "Yes! That's it!" "What's it?" "The rhythm and emotion.... That's what *my* music is about." "Your music..." "Yeah, I know, in twenty-five years or so you might find it worth listening to." "That's not true--" "OK, in twenty-five years you may buy a CD burner when all that vinyl *actively* starts to crumble, but that's not the point. The *point* is the rhythm and emotion -- in my music, like in this song, it's *pure*--" "What's a CD burner?" "You're determined to fuck this up, aren't you?" "I always thought bonding should involve more drinking and less talking." "Then drink." "You gonna move outta my way?" Mac smiled, and pulled back approximately three inches. The man was up on one knee, braced above him by one arm pressing the back of the couch into submission. This was getting to be obvious. Vic maneuvered his beer between them, tilted his head back and drank. When he looked forward again, he wasn't at all surprised to see Mac only tearing his gaze away from his throat when he smacked his lips. "This isn't going to happen, Mac." And Mac promptly kissed him. Kissing wasn't really the right word for it. Mac started out by licking the beer from Vic's lips, and only when Vic started to protest did Mac shove his tongue down his throat. Vic couldn't help but decide that this was one of the proper purposes for that mouth. No sound but the wet messiness of a truly good kiss and the slow wind-down of Mingus on the stereo. And when the doorbell rang, Vic was grateful for the excuse to roll out from under the man to make his escape. He heard Mac's body hit the couch with a thump, but didn't turn. And steadfastly didn't adjust his pants. The delivery girl positively leered at his crotch, and tried to peer around him. Vic had to ditch her a lot sooner than he'd wished. "Pizza's here..." "No shit. Come back here, Vic." He met the other man's eyes, finally. Found them glazed and far too focused. "Sausage and peppers?" Even he thought the protest was, at best, laughable. "Vic..." The irritatingly smooth low tenor had grown a husk that made Vic's jeans terribly uncomfortable. "You didn't have a damned thing to drink before you came here, did you?" Slow smile. "How do you want me to answer that?" There were too many ways to take that. Another mindfuck from the other man, yes, but the want in his eyes was obvious and flattering. Vic had known for years that being wanted was the easiest way to make him want. "I want you to stop pretending it's a good idea for us to fuck." "And I want you to stop pretending that I'm so fucking *different* from the rest of the world." "What are you talking about?" "Come here and I'll tell you." Vic felt the doorknob dig a little into his spine, only realizing at that point that he'd been retreating from a man who'd never made a move toward him. Mac had found a way to stake a claim to *his* space, and that wasn't tolerable. Vic shook himself internally and walked a little closer, dropping the pizza on the table. "You're usually better at manipulation." "And you're usually not afraid of me." Vic snorted. "I'm not afraid of you. I'm distinctly uninterested in fucking you." "Then come over here and knock the shit outta me if I get fresh." "That's a really sick way to seduce someone." Mac leaned back and spread his legs. "Tell me that surprises you." He didn't smile. "Why this? Why now?" "Because I want to suck your cock and, for fucking *once*, there's no one shooting at us." Vic shivered. There was nothing in Mac's voice to suggest that he *didn't* want to do precisely that. "That's the only reason you didn't offer before?" "No, it isn't, but it's a good enough reason for now. Come here." "You're lonely, and figured out that I was, too." Mac shrugged. "It's always fascinating to see you show signs of insight." "You're not going to piss me off into having sex with you, and loneliness is no good reason for it, either." "Isn't it? Why the hell *can't* we keep each other company in the camera's eye?" "Because that's something friends do." Mac turned away for a moment, mouth twisting before throwing himself off the couch and into Vic's space. Vic held his ground this time, and it took some effort *not* to kiss the other man, if only to avoid the words he knew were coming next. His breath was sweet with expensive beer, which made Vic thirsty for a taste, even though he knew it wouldn't do anything for his dry mouth. "You answered your own question, you know. What *was* I talking about when I told you that you saw me as essentially different. Do you really want to know, Vic?" "I already know." Closer still. "Do you?" Opening his mouth would be pure invitation for contact at this point. Vic nodded instead. Mac shook his head, flashed one of the familiar clown- grins. "So you know full well that, some time in the not- too-distant past, you made a decision that I wasn't worthy of... another chance. "You found yourself entangled with us and did the best you could to survive. Never tried *too* hard to escape -- you had Li Ann -- but, generally, settled in. We bristled at each other like schoolboys, and because neither of us made anything like an effort to make us *more* than that, we'll never *be* more. Right?" Vic didn't answer. "Is that a yes? Had you decided that you've been noble long enough that you could afford a little vacation from it, Vic?" The smile had long since lenghthened into ruefulness, and, after a long look, Mac turned to leave. Vic felt shell-shocked, knew that all this would have to be sorted out, but settled for just trying to keep the man *there*. "Why would you even *want* to be one of my... causes? Have you noticed that they tend to come to bad ends?" Brief bark of laughter. Vic watched it shake lightly at the other man's shoulders and back. "You never come out all that well at the end, either." "No, no I don't. You're no cause and I'm not your hero." "And you wonder why I have problems with lyrics." "Mac--" The other man turned to face him, scrubbed long pale fingers through his hair. There was a brutal spareness to Mac's face when he lacked the animation of mischief. It was terrifying to have the face behind the masks be so blandly dull. Attractive, yes, but lifeless without the game. "What is it, Vic? You're succeeding at chasing me out the door. Your original plan is coming to fruition, at last." The voice was tired, and Vic felt like a heel. "Mac, you were right. I was... I *am* trying to make sure I never see you as anything but an immature case snafu about to happen. And I know it isn't true, but --" "But you're sick and fucking tired of leading your oblivious disciples to the Promised Land of your precious mental health. I know. I know. There was a time... It doesn't matter. Afternoon meeting to--" Vic cut the other man off with the kiss *he* wanted to give, direct and brutal, in focus rather than force. Mac stiffened in his arms but didn't resist. Good enough for now, and Vic pulled back again, brushing bruised lips dry before settling both hands on the other man's shoulders. He didn't let his hips lose contact, though. "I do want you, Mac. You know that... Christ, we can *both* feel that." "But." "But I don't want to do this with someone who isn't a friend." "I can think of ways we can get to know each other..." "Mac." "I know, I know. No sex because we can't be friends." "No, dammit! No sex because we *aren't* friends. Yet." Mac tilted his head to the side and studied him for a long moment. "Isn't it just another project? Socialize lonely little Mac to the point at which he'll be livable, sic the result on an unsuspecting world?" Vic couldn't help but smile at the thought. "In my book, it stopped being a project the minute I realized I could have you in my bed." "On your couch, against this door..." "Mac, please." "God, I want to hear you say that again and again. But shouldn't pacts like these be settled with something?" "A toast?" "I was thinking of blowing you, but a toast would be fine as well, I suppose." Vic's laugh didn't surprise him quite enough, nor did the fact that he was the one leading them both back to beer and the couch. He opened two new ones, handed one off to his companion with a flourish. "What shall we toast to, Vic?" "To male bonding, and the sex to which it must inevitably lead." "Hear fucking hear." And Vic clicked the stereo off with the remote, spread one arm along the length of the couch, and gestured to Mac to raise the volume on the television. "ESPN? What's the point?" "Sports, commentary, and happy anchors." "They don't look too happy to *me*. That one with the hair looks like he's been sporting a wedgie since sometime around grade school. And the other one is trying to hide a desperate addiction to roller derby." Vic let himself laugh and threw his feet up on the coffee table, Mac following suit almost immediately. "It really is better to music." "Most things are, I've found." A shared look, a smile, a promise that it was up to Vic to decide how far was too far in this particular aspect of their shaky relationship, and that Mac would find a way to even the score as quickly as humanly possible. It was a difficult look to break, and so Vic just opened his mouth in the hopes that something appropriate would come out. "Go ahead and change the channel if you want. The remote is yours for the evening." The instinct to slap himself for that was muted, and wilted altogether in Mac's happy smile. This was the sort of trouble Vic lived to get into, after all. Or, at least it seemed that way until Mac found a station playing nothing but modern dance music while several dozen alien-looking young humanoids flung themselves around with apparently no interest in the-- "Remember, Vic: Rhythm. Emotion." "Purity?" The camera panned to get a view under one whirling skirt. On a man. Maybe. "Well, the music is pretty pure..." "Uh, huh." Mac thwapped him with the remote in that good-natured way that would leave a diffuse bruise, as opposed to a pin- pointed one. Vic bent down to get a couple of pieces of pizza, tearing one off for Mac, not responding to the briefly unnecessary caress of fingers during the pizza transference, and closed his eyes. Listened for the purity. And tried not to use his imminent spreading bruise as a metaphor for this new... whatever it was. ~~~~ End. ~~~~ I'm pretty sure I forgot to thank Dawn Sharon for all her helpful comments, and Nonie for being so damned inspiring with "Lone Primate." Mea culpa. Feel free to punish me. Te