Pleasing Vic

Disclaimers: Vic Mackey and Shane Vendrell don't belong to me. I don't want them, actually, and I'm not at all sure how Shane ended up in my head. I make no money from this.

Classification: Slash (Vic/Shane)

Rating: NC-17

Notes: This is a first for me. It's a new fandom, and a new pairing, and it's not a crossover, and it's two characters I don't even find attractive, and it's dark (what else do you write, if you're writing this pairing?). But I woke up the morning after a recent episode, and it was in my head. Blame the cold I had, if you must.

Blame Rowan for the fact it's a little longer than it was. I didn't think I could get further into Shane's head, but she convinced me to try. Thanks muchly for the beta, sweetie! Thanks also to Rusty and Ardent for supporting me through my angst about writing it.

Spoilers: Everything through Partners.

Warning: Not exactly non-con, but straddling the line—no more than what you'd expect for this fandom, I wager.

Pleasing Vic

by shell

copyright 2003

Shane remembers what he did the first time. He turned in all of the drugs to evidence control instead of keeping some back for them to use. That was the first big mistake he made, the one he remembers best. There were others that followed—he arrested one of Vic's CIs once, he remembers that. He knows he's never been the smartest one in the squad—never will be. But he was the first, the first one Vic asked to join the Strike Team. He's been called an idiot more than once, but he's Vic Mackey's partner, and no one else can say that.

It started way before the Strike Team. Fuck, the first time was just a couple weeks after he'd been assigned to Vic. Back in the heady early days of their partnership, when Mackey was busy teaching the rookie detective what it meant to work narcotics, how to be the kind of cop who knew the job and how to get it done, rules be damned.

He'd been totally and completely blown away by Vic, by the mere idea of what he represented. The first couple days, he just watched—watched Vic work with his network of informants, intimidating and seducing them in turn. Watched Vic in his element—which turned out to be just about everywhere. Witnesses, informants, perps, and the rest of the cops in the squad—no one could stand in his way.

Those first couple days, Vic held back. Shane didn't realize it at the time, but Vic was watching him, feeling him out. Watching to see how Shane reacted when he got a little rough while handcuffing someone. Asking him questions like, how did he feel about the kind of money cops got paid, given the job they did. What did he think about the new regs on racial profiling. Testing him.

Then, on day three, Shane caught his first glimpse of the kind of cop his new partner really was. One of the local dealers was working on expanding his territory, and that included a new crack house across the street from a school. When it involved kids, there was no holding Vic back—that dealer was a bloody mess when Vic was done with him.

At first Shane was shocked—or so he told himself. He almost said something, but one look at Vic's face and he forgot that idea. Questioning Vic would only lead to getting beat down himself. It'd be with words rather than fists, but no less brutal. Besides, the discomfort, mild to begin with, was fading already. They were doing what needed to be done to protect kids. That was what counted.

The first time he beat up a drug dealer himself, a few days later, he knew there was more to it than protecting kids. He'd never felt that kind of power before, certainly not when he was walking a beat. This was what he was born to do, and he was more than grateful to Vic for showing him.

He dove into his new work with gusto, and every day, every week, Vic let him deeper into his world. Until he fucked up.

He didn't think, just went through the (until recently) normal routine, filling out the paperwork and dropping off the drugs at evidence control. He walked out of there, empty-handed, actually smiling, until he saw Vic and realized what he had done. Realized there would be hell to pay.

He knew Vic would punish him, knew he deserved it, and was determined to take it like a man. Right up until the minute Vic told him to get on his knees.

"What?" he'd asked, certain he couldn't have heard that right, and just as certain he had.

"On your knees, fuck-up! Don't make me tell you again."

"Why do I have to get on my knees, Vic?" Nervous now, hearing it in his voice, already moving towards the ground, because, nervous as he was, he knew better than to question Vic.

"How else are you going to suck my cock, Vendrell?"

"What?!" He'd started getting up, only to have Vic push him back down, hand firm on his shoulder.

"You heard me, asshole. Get to work."

"Come on, Vic," he whined, "you've got to be kidding me."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Vic said dangerously, his hand on his fly, opening the top button. "You fucked up, Shane, and it's my responsibility to make sure you never fuck up again. Now quit fucking around and get to it. We don't have a lot of time."

So he did it. He peeled down the zipper on Vic's tight, faded jeans, his hands shaking, wondering how his life had taken this bizarre turn. Then he stuck his hand gingerly into the opening in Vic's briefs and took what he found there, already growing, into his hand. Took it and brought it out to the light. Like Vic himself, it was shorter and thicker than his, but he pushed that thought out of his head. It's just like mine, he thought. Just do what I'd like, and get this over with.

He swallowed heavily, then bent his head, licking and sucking, feeling humiliated beyond anything he'd felt before. He tried to think of certain scenes from his favorite porn movies, for inspiration, but it didn't seem to help; he was convinced that this was the worst blow job anyone had ever given, and certainly the worst that Vic had ever received.

Just do it, he thought, suppressing thoughts of Nike commercials, going back to it with renewed vigor. Soon Vic was fucking his mouth, holding his head in place, and he was drooling all over and trying not to gag, and then Vic pulled away and came all over his face. He was grateful, that time, the first few times, that Vic didn't come in his mouth.

He didn't even notice how hard his own dick was—not until he got up from his knees and felt it pressing against his own tight jeans. He managed to ignore it, that day. And the next time.

Because there was a next time. There were always more fuck ups, more times he had to be punished, more times he dropped to his knees in front of this man, his partner, a man he respected, a man he was coming to love. Eventually he was making more mistakes, and even if he wasn't doing things deliberately, he was no longer being as careful as he should. Because he liked it, what he had to do when he fucked up.

Vic figured it out, of course, figured it out before Shane was even conscious of it. The next time he screwed up, talking too freely in front of the wrong suspect—or maybe it was beating someone where someone else might see them, or forgetting to pocket some of the evidence; he's not sure anymore—he went eagerly to Vic. He dropped to his knees only to be pulled upright by his hair.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Shane? Did I ask you to get down there?"

"No, boss." He'd already started calling Vic "boss," although the formation of the Strike Team was still a year away.

"Get out of my face, gay boy," Vic told him, but the insult didn't sting the way it should have.

A few days later, he did something Vic approved of—came up with an idea that ended up netting them ten grand, more or less. Vic slapped him on the back, then pulled him into a nearby alley and unbuttoned his fly. Shane went down on his knees again, grateful for the new arrangement.

Ever since then, it's happened when Vic is pleased. Shane works very hard to please Vic. He always did, of course.

It's always the same—an alley, the Strike Team office (with the doors locked, of course), somewhere with a decent chance no one will see them. And no one ever has, to Shane's knowledge. After he's done, after Vic's come (in his mouth now, always in his mouth, and Shane swallows every drop), he always gets up, goes to the john, and jerks off.

The only time that was different was after Terry. After they left the hospital, Vic took him into their office, locked the doors, and told him to take his pants off. Vic pulled out some lube, prepped Shane quickly but thoroughly, and fucked him over the table where they'd all played poker just a few days before. Shane'd had to clean his own come off the table after they were done.

He takes that memory out and savors it, now and again. He'd do anything for Vic—even before that, he would have done anything.

He's tried to get it out of his system. Tried whores and exotic dancers and Nice Girls and everything in between. Tried going to gay bars, across town, tried fucking gay boys, having fags suck him off. Even tried getting fucked a couple times, after Terry. It doesn't work. He gets off—fuck, Shane gets off easily, that's never been his problem—but it's not the same. It's Vic he needs.

It's Vic he loves.

He knows Vic knows. He knows they'll never talk about it, except in the most peripheral way, like when they talk about Vic teaching him to golf after they retire. Like the fact that the Strike Team is a team, but he's still Vic's partner.

He hates that faint hope he had when Vic told him Corinne left, hates the disappointment he felt seeing her at the hospital. He knows Vic loves his wife, is devoted to his family.

But she left, took the kids and left, after Vic's heroic job convincing his children there was nothing wrong, before they took him off to surgery. Corinne is gone, but Shane is still here. He's still at Vic's bedside, watching him sleep.

Shane reaches over and brushes his lips over Vic's forehead. He knows it's the only moment like this he'll ever have, and he's okay with that. He'll take what he can get.

THE END

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