InsaneJournal

Section 2 (Instalment 3, Done)
Word count: 2 121


For somebody who wanted, attempted, to live life as much, as fully, as Max did, working for Stephen LaMarck as he did was a treat of its own, even without the added personal relationship which, definitely, added to the richness of his life. (Heh. Even Dia he'd first seen thanks to Stephen and Solace, technically. And had not been able to just walk past, to forget, because of them too. And he was glad for that, since she was, and ever would be, his light. The pure touch that made his life somehow mean more than a scraping of battles, fights, and losses, with added intimacy and even love for somebody who also belonged to another. Solace and Claudia. Their strength, their refuge when things went off. All of them together. They did make a hell of a team, all four or in any small combination. Amused, Max decided that the most frightening - and lovely, at the same time - subset had been when both their wives had been pregnant. Just... irresistible.)

There were the normal missions, the jobs that he first hired him to do, the runs though places, convoy, protection of items. Protection of Stephen on his various negotiations, or going through hostile territory or similar situations, where somebody of his financial and other influence would be in danger for just entering or passing through. Those had ended up in anything from complete (and yes, the kind of thing that got him to occasionally appreciate people's definition of 'boring') success, no attacks, no harm done, nothing wrong happening to anybody, to almost complete defeats. People lost, items lost, running fast and hard instead of staying to fight - through normal roads and even through the Nevernever, with all the danger that implied. And everything in-between. Mishaps, mistakes, misfits, everything of the sort. Sometimes it was a close win. So close that he and Stephen and various others had to patch each other up. Bandages, popping dislocated joints back into place, occasionally splinting bone breaks, sewing up cuts - or scratches, or bits. Antidotes as they could come up with in the field. Anything to last them to getting to either professional help or home - and, well, better patched up than giving much reason to Sol or Dia to worry.

Not that they didn't worry anyway. But generally.

Then there were other ... occasions. Like bodyguard on posh arrangements. Parties. The first time Stephen had made him tux up, er, suit up, the strange, uncomfortable feel of the clothing made him feel absolutely ridiculous. Even if, judging by the looks of appreciation he received, the overall effect couldn't have been that bad. (Later on, both Dia and Stephen would remark on liking the sight of him dressed up to the nines. Then again, by later on, he'd gotten used to the tux and all.) For most of those posh occasions, there was little chance to play up on those appreciative reactions, being on the job and all. And he did know how to focus and well, and how to separate distractions from what he was doing. Almost preternaturally so, but it was, in fact, all discipline. Self-discipline. One of the major reasons why Stephen did trust him so.

Not that there weren't occasions when dressing up didn't mean fun altogether. Like Stephen and Solace's wedding. Which he had a decent view of, being best man and everything. For his own, he didn't opt for a tux. With his wife-to-be's beaming approval and his boss's never-ending amusement, he wore a kilt for that. His choice. Always, everything, his choice.

And then there were the times when they were actually planning on runs. With Stephen's business partners or with some of the rest of the Archer Imports employees, security or otherwise. Or just the two of them, running ideas through each other, brainstorming-style or just thinking then through, bouncing judgment of things off the other, trusting the difference in the way they thought, trusting the fact that the other wouldn't dismiss the thought as empty without considering it. Knowing that the feedback received would be decent. Knowing that they could trust each other and complement each other's experience. Totally as things like that should go, honestly.

So many different things, and places, that he got to know just with his work there. And people, all sorts of people. And all sorts of trouble that they, um, not exactly got up to, they didn't really go attacking people just for the sake of it. But different sorts of trouble Stephen and his work attracted and how to deal with it. And that was just, merely, the work side of it.

The personal side...

Max's preference for both sexes wasn't exactly a popular choice, for a long while. But he did enjoy all kinds of combinations and appreciate a handsome face or a good body, regardless of the actual equipment variety. It was how he was; at one point around the turn of the millennium increased awareness let him know that he wasn't the only one, and also that some people weren't ready for that kind of attitude, and possibly never would be. Then again, their children, and their children's children? That story was something entirely else. The fact of the matter was that Max wasn't a fighter for political rights. As long as he could make his choices, he was fine - and really, he had been, and would be, called (and treated as) a lot worse than 'fag'. But choices there always were, always. He'd learned about that back at Helena's establishment. He would also be the last person to press attention where it seemed unwanted.

Which was why it took a random girl they both hit on suggesting a joint effort for him to display his appreciation for Stephen, even with barely more than a look - and agreement to the suggestion - years after their first meeting, mind you. And appreciation he always had for the quick, elegant, capable shorter man, his slim body whip-tight with wiry muscles and his dark eyes, even when cold, distant, and calculating - alive enough to not miss any detail willingly. The bright smile, flashing white teeth against pale olive skin; the strong precise fingers similarly fascinating when running through the dark curly hair in agitation when he allowed himself that, or gripped around the hilt of his blades - knives, or twin swords, that he was expert at handling.

And that made him think of the hours upon hours of sparring. His mentor had not managed to interest him in the study of swordplay. His boss, on the other hand, had - and taught him unto levels of proficiency that Max wasn't sure he needed, but definitely appreciated during the times of actual combat. The hours of sparring that had ranged through so much. From teaching, to experimenting with new techniques, to simply keeping each other in shape, to outlet of anger (like that time when Stephen possibly would have been dangerous to himself if left alone, burdens of the past crashing over his head unexpectedly, unwelcome and weighty), to, well, strip sparring. Although that one they really didn't do in the gym at the offices building of the company. It wouldn't be good for morale or anything. Or privacy. But of course, those last two came later, after they had started sharing more of their lives.

Sparring, work, planning, knowing how each other thought, drinks, parties, clubs. All of these had gotten them closer, and when Stephen had decided to treat Solace introducing a variation to their occasional invite to a third to their bed (which, mind you, was more of a suggestion than unalterable location) by allowing for a man to join them, it had been Max. It had not been the last time he joined them; and with time, Stephen relaxed enough to allow for touches, for stimulation, for pleasure and passion bestowed directly by his taller friend.

Eventually, when Dia appeared in their lives, threesomes melted painlessly into foursomes occasionally, and any other combination. Privately, behind closed doors - so to speak - but part of each other's lives that none of them was willing to part with at all. So they hadn't, so many ways. First sharing sex, then growing it into love. (Well, Stephen and Sol had a head start between them. Neither of the other two was likely to begrudge it to them, quite the opposite really. Max was more than a little glad for his friend, for how he had opened. And then one day Dia was more than a partner; and one day Stephen was more than a friend, boss, anything that they had been until then.

Max was a man of Stephen's alright. In fact, he was Stephen's man. There to back him up in anything, everything. Work, life, family, whatever was needed.

And Stephen was there for him too.

The time when Dia had been briefly kidnapped swam up in Max's mind, and his hands tightened around the wheel in remembered fear and anger. She had been supposed to be safe. And then she was gone. And he'd gone after her and gotten her out within hours and they wouldn't let him stay at the hospital with her overnight, and he couldn't return to their place, empty without her because he had not managed to guard her safety properly. So he had shown up, in the middle of the night, tired and dishevelled and wild-eyed at the de la Marck residence, and Stephen had only needed a few words to understand. And then he'd held him almost like a little child, just there, until Max had managed to regain enough of his usual self to stop clutching. Because something had happened which was bad, and hadn't been supposed to happen, and there was somebody to stop the tilting, to stop the spinning of everything out of control. Somebody who was there, even if, later, Max was aware he must have been frightened all on his own. No wisecracks. No usual flow of words, of information, of analysis. No dignity, not even the usual acceptance of things, even if the event was already over. Nor, even, and that might have been as startling, the touches and drive of intimacy that the rooms of this house had witnessed so many times before.

Simply the need of a physical presence who was completely trusted - and Stephen offered just that, right then. Then quiet discussion, when the first waves of post-adrenaline shock had worn out and he was willing to speak again. Touch, always touch, whether staying on the couch, or looking at the couple of small cuts and bruises Max had procured, and running him through a hot shower to help ease away the shivering. Then holding him, simply holding him again until it was time when he could go to the hospital and see his wife again and felt guilty that he'd kept his boss from getting any sleep but he couldn't have stood being alone, and the guilt was very much overshadowed by gratitude. And he'd been gone quickly.

It had, after all, taken that kind of having somebody there to remember, for example, to call Dia's father and stepmother about the whole incident. Maybe better that way, they caught up with them at home and Simon Pietrovitch didn't even get to threaten to tear off his head with bare hands for getting his oldest daughter into trouble.

Eventually Dia slept, as the doctors had recommended (or rather, told them to expect a lot of, to begin with), and she had had family to tend to her and call him when she woke up so he ended up at work, and Stephen almost kicked him back out again. But he'd needed something to do, somewhere to use up all the not-well that he was feeling, and he might at least do something useful, rather than blow up electric bulbs at home and get on his parents-in-law's nerves. And they would call him. And the frankness and self-awareness about it had told his boss enough to trust him with knowing enough to be responsible. Not OK, no, but he hadn't claimed that.

That had been decades ago now. Children (that they had all raised together, in their way), grandchildren, and more, between then and now. The memory, for all the recollected fury, made him smile. Because Stephen de la Marck wanted the best of his people, all of them - handpicked or not. But he always gave the best too.

So he had his chief body-guard's loyalty, conscious, aware, and full.

That's how it was supposed to be anyway, wasn't it.

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