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. <g>

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