Party On! by Brenda Antrim (Rated NC17 for language and implied m/m sex, and ES - Extremely Silly - for improbable but enjoyable situations) A continuation, using the definition at its extreme, of Party at Vachon's. None of these characters belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended by the blatant misuse to which I intend to put them ... not that any of the copyright holders would ever admit to reading this, anyway. The cast has shifted focus, a necessary adjustment of time and interest, but the point of the tale is the same. Oh, you didn't know it had a point? Well, to be truthful, neither did I, but it is nice to dream.
Oh, and spoilers abound. As always. For everything.
Without further ado, on to the rampant silliness of the night ...
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
From Forever Knight : the ghosts of vampires past. Nick, Vachon and LaCroix are long gone, but their presence hovers in the ambiance. We're just borrowing Vachon's warehouse -- yes, I know, he lived in a church in the series, but he lives in a warehouse for the purpose of this story. Deal with it.
From The Sentinel : Detective James Ellison, a cop with hyperactive senses and a build that sends sensible women (and not a few men) into salivary nirvana. Sort of a Wall with Sex Appeal. Blair Sandburg, anthropology student, Guide to the Sentinel (that'd be Ellison, by the way) and Shaman of the Great City, who just happens to have a compact little body that gives even confirmed, voluntary celibates wet dreams, along with gorgeous blue eyes and a voice that sends shivers through corpses. Oh, that's right, Vachon and Nick aren't IN this one ...
From The X Files : Agent Fox Mulder, of the pouty lip and soulful eye (and lovely bod), with his enemy/ally/lover/Russian spy/Consortium turncoat/who knows what Chris Carter will decide next/sidekick Alex Krycek, who will double cross on a dime and look damned good doing it. Even one armed.
From Star Trek : Voyager : Chakotay, first officer, Maquis Captain, Tattoo-head, and shoulders-extraordinaire. Tom Paris, yet another blue-eyed babe (what is it with blue eyes and oozing sex appeal anyway?), with golden boy good looks and a mouth to match (not to mention inCREDible legs).
From The Professionals (courtesy of your standard, one size fits all universes time warp) : Bodie, the dark haired babe with the laser blue eyes, and Doyle, the moptop ragamuffin with the Most Fuckable Ass In Any Fandom, who suffers beautifully (can we say 'Hurt Me'?).
From Highlander : Methos, a five thousand year old Immortal with the rangy build of a greyhound and the experience to make history young again. Duncan MacLeod, the Scot Immortal who likes to run his hands down the curves of Death (very old Immortal joke)(around the bronze age, actually, but Cassandra isn't in this one, either -- THANK GOD).
From Due South : Benton Fraser, one very confused but still extremely adorable Canadian Mountie ... far from Chicago and even farther from the Yukon. But that's okay. Red suits him, anyway. And he does, eventually, get his man (yeah, I know that's not the motto, but Maintain the Right sounds a little odd in this context ...)
Party On (Party at Vachon's, Take Two)
On the seedy side of town, a long abandoned warehouse slowly sank into sad silence. Deprived of its occupants, missing the magic it had known for so short a period of time (cancelled on Christmas of all things!), hoping as hard as any inanimate hunk of concrete and steel could ever hope for a little life and laughter, it settled, and sighed, and wished.
In the center of the room, a voice could barely be heard. Laughter, faint as a memory, a man's strong voice, another's chiming in. Wound around it, dancing with the dust motes in the muted light falling through the broken windows, came more sighs, a moan interlaced here and there, another sound. Was that a sob? A groan? A plea?
Sound and diffused light swirled together, as memory and desire danced on the dreams of the empty afternoon. Eventually, softly as the sighs that were gradually dying away, the swirling motes coalesced into a violet whirl, spreading with the speed of thought throughout the echoing room, reaching to the far corners of the warehouse. From the shadows, the reflection of sapphire and sable brown eyes sparkled ... the glisten of white fangs appeared and disappeared ... and a strange sound shattered the gathering stillness.
"Chakotay to Voyager! Come in, Voyager!" A broad shouldered man in a red and black jumpsuit slapped frantically at his chest and pointed a small gray box with blinking lights at the shadows. The shadows were not impressed. Neither was his companion.
"I don't think we're in Kansas any more, Tonto," a blond Adonis with legs up to his neck in a matching jumpsuit drawled sarcastically.
"Enough with the movie Indian cracks, Paris," the first man growled back. His tone made it clear that this was a long standing argument, and that his patience was at an end. The blond was no more impressed than the shadows had been earlier.
"Looks pretty obvious to me, Chak." The muttered "can the stupid nicknames!" was also ignored, and he went on, gesturing vaguely around him with a matching blinking gray box. "We were on an unnamed M class planet," further ignoring the slightly louder "oh, so you're SPOCK now!" Paris continued determinedly, "investigating some anomalous readings, when we were hit with a wave of chroniton particles and sucked into a space time vortex. Happens about once a year, sometime around November, if we get lucky."
"And if we don't get lucky?" False interest in an equally falsely cheerful voice.
An eyebrow was twitching, making Chakotay's tattoo jump. Paris stared at it in some fascination before replying absently, "Oh, Q comes back and tries to jump Janeway's bones. Again."
The twitch intensified. The tattoo was writhing by this point, as Chakotay added teeth grinding to his facial tics. Several weeks on a garden planet and he hadn't gotten as far as first base with the woman ... but let an omnipotent being enter the picture and Kate became Lady Roundheels. He hadn't gotten any in way too long, and at this rate ...
Paris bent over to point his tricorder at an interesting patch of spider webs, muttering about deja vu, and more than the tattoo twitched. It really HAD been a long time. Before he could follow the thought to its logical conclusion and risk a broken arm by feeling up the delectable curve of ass less than five centimeters from his fingertips, the sound of running footsteps penetrated the warehouse walls. A shared glance, and the men melted into the shadows to see who was joining the party.
A dark haired man in a worn leather jacket and dirty black jeans barreled around the corner into the room. He skidded to a stop and stared wildly around at the cavernous place, shivering at the echoes and the memories the darkness brought to him. The left arm of the jacket ended abruptly halfway down his arm, pinned clumsily in place so that it didn't flap emptily.
At the sound of scuffling footsteps, he swung to meet the incoming threat. Another man, taller but not as broad through the shoulders, with a sulky looking mouth and haunted eyes, slid to a stop less than a foot away from the one armed man. He held out a hand in a strange gesture that was half supplication, half command.
"Don't fight me on this one, Krycek. It's the only chance you have!"
"It's no chance at all, goddamnit!" Krycek screamed back at him. "Don't be such a fucking asshole, Mulder! You take me in and I'll end up just like Cardinale, a puddle of grease on a cell floor somewhere!"
Mulder stepped forward. Krycek skittered back. A step. Two. A third. They abruptly stopped their strange shuffle, and stared around the room.
"Hey," Krycek asked uneasily. "Does this place look familiar to you?"
Before Mulder could access his eidetic memory and recall an orgy he had since convinced himself was a particularly vivid wet dream, an utterly alien sound caused them to freeze in place.
With an appropriate accompaniment of flashing lightning off of long, wicked blades, a tall skinny man with a prominent profile hoisting a broadsword and a shorter man with big brown eyes and a delicious chest wielding a katana whirled into the room. The choreography was dazzling, the footwork impressive. The repartee would no doubt have been breathtaking had they had the breath to make any. As it was, Methos muttered imprecations about "bloody damned barbers" and "stupid assed haircut" as MacLeod parried the flurry of blows and tried to defend his ridiculous short locks.
At the haircut remark, Mulder and Krycek stopped arguing and looked at one another in shock. Mulder's eyes fastened on the deep sable hair that had been sheared unbecomingly close to Alex's skull, and found himself nodding in agreement. Alex looked offended, and ran his remaining hand defensively over
his short buzz.
"Hey," he protested, "it's easier to take care of with only one hand!"
The plaintive cry disturbed the combatants' concentration, and Methos slipped through Duncan's defense, then through his ribcage.
"FUCK!" he growled, as Mac fell dead to the floor. That was NOT the way he had intended to finish the fight. While MacLeod at his feet had been the intended result, Methos had intended the other Immortal to be (1) naked, (2) supplicant, (3) horny and (4) alive. That he was none of these things was the fault of these two interfering *mortals*. Death raised his hazel eyes and prepared to rain down on the hapless head of one Alex Krycek. Before the sword could land, Blair Sandburg bounced in.
All three remaining living participants in the farce stopped mid-motion, as a relatively small (he hung out with tall guys) whirlwind spun into the middle of the action. In the shadows, intent brown and blue eyes were riveted to the new player.
Well, he WAS damned cute.
Totally oblivious, too.
"Is this where you heard it, man? And you say you smelled the blood---" Sandburg skipped to a sudden stop as his toe impacted with the inert corpse of one Duncan MacLeod. In a reversal of motion that would be a credit to any Warner Brothers animated creation, he managed to stop dead (pardon the pun), freeze for a split second, rotate on the impacting toe and head at high speed in the opposite direction.
Directly into Tom Paris' arms.
Blair did what any self respecting anthropologist with years of field experience in dangerous and unfamiliar territory would do. He shrieked. Lashed out with a fist. And cold-cocked the pilot.
Acting on protective instincts he hadn't realized he had, Chakotay grabbed the miniature dervish around the waist and hauled his surprisingly substantial body away from the now unconscious pilot. Blair went even further into overdrive, kicking backward with a lucky heel and catching the big Commander in the balls. A much higher than usual bellow followed that action, and Chakotay dropped Blair as quickly as he had picked him up. Suddenly, tenderly cradling his testicles became a top priority in his definitely disordered universe.
"Chief?" came a deeper bellowing cry, as Jim Ellison, Sentinel of the Great City, came barreling into the room. Enhanced sight immediately noticed his Guide's frazzled but unharmed appearance, vision sweeping to take in what appeared to be two corpses, three dazed bystanders (one curled around his own groin), and a tall guy with a broadsword. He immediately began to breathe deeply, murmuring "I am calm. I am calm" over and over in an increasingly panicky voice. His sight centered on the wavering edge of the sword, hanging mere inches from his beloved Guide's curly head, and the boundaries of the world began to gray out.
Blair saw his Sentinel sinking into a full scale zone out, and began to curse in an obscure dialect of Farsi he had learned during an expedition into the middle east some time ago. Unbeknownst to him, Methos was caught by the familiar language, and forgot all about his previous intention of cleaving the entire lot of them in twain. Resting his sword casually against his shoulder, he leaned forward in order to listen more closely.
Krycek, seeing the crazy guy with the sword was otherwise occupied, reached out and tugged at Mulder's sleeve. "Let's get the hell out of here, Fox."
Mouth open to remind Krycek, with a snarl, not to call him Fox, Mulder suddenly froze. A loud buzzing filled the room, and the dingy surroundings were suddenly brightened by what appeared to be a shimmering purple vortex of light spinning, off-center, in the middle of the room. He forgot what he was about to say and leaned forward, intent on the unexplained phenomenon, anxious to see what might be spit out of the swirl of light (maybe a girl with pigtails? He could hope. Although he wasn't quite sure what he'd do with her if he ever got her).
The couple that tumbled into the room, sprawled over Tom's slowly awakening form, were about as far from the youthful Samantha as it was possible to be and still be in the same species.
"Wot the bloody hell was THAT?" Could have been a screech, could have been a bellow. Came out a bit of both.
"'Ow the fuck should I know?" came the reasoned response, as the jeans and tee shirt clad man with the mop of auburn curls sought unsuccessfully to pull his gun from his shoulder holster, unwrap his legs from around his partner's waist, look every direction at once, and appear completely unfazed all at the same
time. Oddly enough, it worked.
Bodie straightened himself out from under his partner. "One minute we're snoggin' in the corner waiting for the action to start-"
"Thought it had, pretty well, at that," Doyle responded absently, staring bemusedly around at a plethora of gorgeous men and wondering how one kiss, no matter how mind-numbing, had landed them here. Bodie ignored him, as usual, and kept bitching.
"-and the next minute we're on our arses in the middle of the floor surrounded by ..." His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the broadsword. His muffled squeak yanked Doyle's attention from the good looking Indian with the very pained look on his face cupping an impressive basket in one large hand, and he cocked a brow at Bodie.
"What's up, mate?" As the words left his mouth, he saw the sword, too, and ground to a stop. Reaching once more for his gun, he was stopped in his tracks when the erstwhile corpse on the floor suddenly jerked and opened its eyes.
This was getting interesting.
Bodie, meanwhile, was distracted from both the broadsword and the reanimated corpse by the unmistakable signs of resuscitation coming from the tall blond he was currently sprawled over. Adorably fuzzy cerulean eyes opened and stared directly up into his own midnight orbs. It was a case of ocean drowning in ocean, and he found himself leaning forward, catching the half-opened mouth with his own. Sweet, incredibly sweet, and he delved deeper, unable to stop himself. Paris tried to protest, really he did, for very nearly a whole thirty seconds, before he gave in and opened his mouth wider. After all, for the Playboy of the Delta Quadrant (self-crowned), he hadn't gotten any in longer than Chakotay had. B'Elanna didn't really count, since it was all a case of Klingon hormones and sex with her was more a vertical fight than a horizontal tango. Really, Jeffries Tubes? Talk about a quickie. Before his brain could think of a single thing more to kvetch about, a tongue snaked halfway down his throat and tried to suck his tonsils out.
Fuck thinking. This boy was busy.
Methos glanced over his shoulder at MacLeod. Good. The Highlander was breathing again. He could safely ignore him, and follow up on this intriguing little bundle of energy with the unusual language capabilities. He tucked his sword in the magic Immortal sword pocket of his overcoat, flexed his knuckles and grinned with all the feral charm of a leopard scenting raw meat. "Hello, there," he breathed.
Blair looked over his shoulder and blanched. It was his turn to squeak. "Jim?" Luckily, when Methos sheathed his sword, it broke the zone out Ellison had been experiencing. Unluckily, the sheer impossibility of the sheathing itself created such a state of confusion in the detective's mind that he was literally paralyzed trying to make logical sense of how a five foot long broadsword could disappear into a trenchcoat without so much as causing the hemline to sag. Caught in this conundrum, he didn't hear his Guide's admittedly weak cry for help. As Blair was gathered up in long, leanly muscled arms and drawn into a breath-stealing embrace, Jim slipped into the shadowlands of a mental zone, wandering the spirit plane, trying to figure out what the HELL was going on.
He wasn't alone. Chakotay had had much too much to deal with lately. Janeway was being Ice Queen, B'Elanna was on a permanent rag, Harry was utterly unappealing, Tuvok was -- he was not going there, Tom wasn't biting (or even licking), and his balls felt like someone had lit a butane torch underneath them. In a desperate attempt to center himself, he had chanted like a crazed fiend and FORCED himself to seek his spirit guide.
The wolf was out to lunch.
Happily, the panther wasn't.
Watching from a safe distance, the sleek black jungle cat sighed at the insanity of the two legged denizens of its world. Deciding that enough was enough, and the Shaman had more than enough on (and in) his hands at the moment without having to deal with his Sentinel, the panther ambled over to the dazed detective standing befuddled in the middle of the misty walkway. With a smooth flick of its hips, the big cat caught the big man behind the knees and sent him crashing off the path into the small glade where Chakotay was cursing the lack of his wolf. Dazed amber eyes met equally dazed ice blue, and the wolf was forgotten. Strong arms corded around strong backs, and broad chests met as generous mouths meshed. Long legs wrapped around longer legs, and clothes melted away as passion took them to yet another plane.
The panther looked on for a moment, gave a resigned shrug of powerful shoulders, and headed back to the mist. It had a wolf to hunt down and eat.
Back in the physical world, events were paralleling those on the spiritual plane. Krycek took one look at the blond and the brunet writhing together in the middle of the floor, in the area where the funky purple haze had now dissipated, then glanced over to the massively built 'Jim' and the nearly as large Indian going at one another like starving animals in the corner. Equidistant between the two were a pair that caught and held his attention.
The tall guy who used to have a sword but apparently lost it was nuzzling and nipping all over the face and neck of one of the most genuinely edible young men he had ever seen. Weighing the odds (he had a healthy fear of edged tools ever since his last visit to the Siberian forest) he decided it was time to join the fun. Mulder was too busy staring at the guy on the floor to be bothered, so Krycek sidled up alongside the busily nibbling Methos and the writhing, sort-of-but-not-really-trying-to-escape Blair. Taking advantage of the firm grip Methos had on the young man, Alex deftly reached around and unfastened Blair's jeans, finding that they slid off quite easily. He shook his head while thanking his guardian demon. These cute guys today -- didn't realize how much easier it was to get stripped when they wore those baggy pants. The jeans fell ... and Krycek's brain cells burnt out in one all encompassing flare.
What an ass.
Methos looked up at the sensation of shifting material, noted Krycek's busy fingers and the resultant free access there now was to Sandburg's family jewels, and growled approval. Sticking his tongue back down the shorter man's throat, he maneuvered them both up into Krycek, who controlled their fall. By the time they landed, Blair didn't know which end was up, or in, or, well, both. And he really didn't care.
Duncan MacLeod looked around, vaguely puzzled. One minute he'd been fighting Methos, over his hair of all things, the next he was waking up from being killed (again) to find an orgy in progress. How did he always keep missing the good stuff? He was all the time getting involved with curses and death vendettas and crazed evil immies who wanted to take his head, but let a little old fashioned unrestrained sex take place and he was out cold as a cod.
Then he looked up.
And fell into the warmest, most glowing hazel green eyes he had ever seen, surrounded by lush long lashes, in the face of a born sensualist. A soft voice whispered, "I want to believe," and elegant hands reached out to cup his ribcage. Not recognizing that the awe in the deep voice was caused by his sudden return to life and magically healed wounds, caught up in the sounds and scents of rampant sex surrounding him, he gave into his own sensual nature and pulled the man over then under him, plundering the generous mouth and diving his hands into the loose dress pants. THIS was more LIKE it.
Mulder stiffened in shock. Then he remembered that the last time he had had sex had been with a vampire many many months ago and that Alex wasn't giving him any. Then other parts stiffened, and his poor beleaguered brain gave up the battle.
Ray Doyle stood in the middle of the wildest orgy he had ever seen, and whimpered. There he stood, possessing unarguably the sexiest ass in the group of admittedly sexy asses, and HE WASN'T GETTING ANY. Where was the justice? Where was the fairness? Where was BODIE?
Oh. Yeah. Wrapped around the blond. Happily pumping away. Moaning like a ghost in a Victorian Gothic.
The unexpected sound of a throat clearing took his attention from a delicious three headed (and five armed) lovemaking pile to the side of the room. A tall figure stood in the doorway, peering hesitantly at the frantic knots of coupling men filling the previously empty warehouse with the cacophony of vigorous sex. He was stunning in his dress red uniform, a bastion of calm in the sea of frenzied insanity all around them. Doyle picked his way around two pairs and a threesome, deftly avoiding arms and legs flung out in gay abandon, and managed not to appear too envious (or drool too obviously).
"Hallo," he smiled at the vision in red. Azure eyes stared solemnly back at him from an impossibly perfect face. The Mountie finally nodded, a small smile turning up one corner of his incredible mouth.
"Hello. I'm, er, looking for ..." The warm voice trailed off. The long throat convulsed slightly, and the man tried again. "My name is Benton Fraser. My partner, a Chicago homicide detective, appears to be mutating from one form to another at the whim of some entity that at the moment appears to be both invisible and capricious. I was sent here willy-nilly, on the supposition that I would find the latest incarnation of my partner in this place. Please, can you assist me?"
Earnest, pleading eyes stared into his own, and Doyle found his heart (not to mention vital organs some distance due south of that region) going out to the Canadian. Laying a steadying hand on one broad, red-serge covered shoulder, he began, "Maybe I can help. My name's Ray--"
Before he could complete the sentence, the handsome face lit up and Fraser exclaimed, "Great Scott! My luck really has turned!" Then he caught Doyle up in a full body hug and proceeded to kiss the thoughts clear out of his head. As leather accouterments and faded jeans, heavy wool coat and thin cotton tee shirt flew through the air, Doyle smiled into the warm curve of Fraser's neck and wiggled his butt further into the large hands clutching at it.
Seems the luck had turned for all of them.
In the far reaches of the room, shadows of sable and sapphire eyes gleamed, and silence gave way to magic.