The Professionals Circuit Archive - Party On!       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 ...) 

Onward, HO! 

******

*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. 

Knives? 

BIG knives? 

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. 

Mulder squeaked. 

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. 

Bastard. 

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. 

-- THE END --

   Archive Home