December 23, 2001

Disclaimer: It's all Ces' fault. I have no idea who owns this show. This is one of the Canadian shacks. I honestly can't remember who edited which shack, so thanks to the hive mind. Do not archive this without permission.

Shack 87

"This is not a stakeout."

"It's a stakeout."

"This is not a stakeout."

"It's a—" Victor resisted the urge to slap his partner. Barely. "Why isn't this a stakeout? Not enough donuts for you?"

Mac rolled his eyes. "What, exactly, are we staking out here? Are we waiting for the lichen to do something criminal? A caribou uprising? Fifty Mounties to do a ride-by striptease?"

"The Director said—"

"I think she just wanted us out of her hair. Did you see the way she looked at that guy from the French agency?"

Victor stared. "Why would she want us out of the way for that?"

Mac stared back. "Because the guy from the French agency was checking out your ass, dumbass."

"He wasn't," Vic denied automatically. Then he rolled one shoulder, trying to make sure his shirt was hanging down. "If he was... doing that, why would it help to get us out of the way? Won't he just go for Dobrinsky?"

They looked at each other, and both shuddered.

"Don't say things like that again. I might not make it out of here before I throw up." Mac sat down on the cabin's one rickety stool and stretched his legs out. "There are people who like both men and women, Vic. I realize it doesn't go with your rigidly dualistic world-view, but then, very little does except jeans and pickup trucks."

Vic snorted. "Like you're so open-minded. When that guy in the pink bunny costume patted your ass, you hid behind Li Ann."

"Vic, for fuck's sake, he was uglier than a third world civil war, and the bunny suit wasn't exactly doing anything for his figure. I'm open-minded, not brain-dead."

Vic shuffled his feet. "You are?"

Mac blinked, then shifted on his stool and stared out the window. "Brain-dead?"

"Open-minded." Vic dug his hands into his pockets. "About things like that."

"Maybe I am." Mac squared his shoulders. "If you're going to freak out, make it entertaining. I'm about to die of boredom here."

"No, I'm not. I just." There was nothing outside the window. Not even a caribou. "I don't think I get it."

"No one said you had to get it. You can spend your whole life not getting it. And not getting any, but that might just be because of your abysmal fashion sense."

Vic looked at Mac, who was balancing the stool on two legs. He bent forward and pressed his lips to Mac's.

Mac lost his balance, and the stool crashed backwards. "Ow! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Vic shrugged. "I still don't get it."

Mac got up off the floor. His expensive pants were smudged with dust and soot, and there was a dangerous light in his eyes. "You know, you're really asking for it." He darted forward and pressed Vic into the wall. His mouth was hard at first, and then it softened.

Outside the window, fifty Mounties rode past.

Vic shook his head and pushed Mac away with one hand, but not very far. "Okay," he said. "I think I get it."

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