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Where the Wild Things Are	By : Nightspore Category: 1 through F > Charlie's Angels (All) > Charlie's Angels (All) Views: 4475 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlies Angels, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Where the Wild Things Are
- 1
WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

This chapter is from the
backwards-running backstory of SHADOW OF THE THIN MAN (at fanfiction.net), and
would have taken place after (in proper chronological order, right before) the
death of Wade Kumar. Why was eleteletSeveSeveral reasons. The characters were
explored to more depth, but there was enough going on in this vein in other
scenes that this seemed like I was repeating lf. lf. Also, it's very explicit,
whereas I liked McCadden's exact relationship with the Thin Man to be more
subtle. It would have bumped the rating from a PG-13 to a definate R. This was
one of the earlier chapters I brainstormed, and when I was putting everything
together in the flow chart, the story originally ran to only eight chapters. I
decided I had to add the scene with Wun Lu-Pei because it told how the Loner
and Vivian first met and the nature of their relationship, and I split a single
very long chapter into two (which became the early scenes in Rockville: the one
where Swayne sees the Loner reaching out for McCadden and the 'killer instinct'
one). This forced me to write more forestory stuff than I wanted to. I needed
certain events and descriptions in the matching backstory/forestory pieces to
happen together because I was trying to rhyme past and present events, and
something had to go. It was this chapter. Still, I put quite a bit of effort
into it, and I think it's an interesting read if one happens to have a high
slash tolerance and an deeper interest in the Loner and McCadden. So here it
is, the director's cut version:

The Loner paced his room,
furious. Someone had come in while he was gone. Someone had moved things
around. McCadden must have hired a new person to clean. He bent down, sniffing
the headrest of a chair. Yes, yes. Someone new had been sitting there. An
unfamiliar, oily human stench, made doubly unpleasant by the alcoholic sting of
too much hair spray and perfume. McCadden usually left explicit instructions
for the cleaning staff not tor anr anything stronscenscented - no deodorant, no
perfume, no hair spray or make-up. This new one had not been paying attention.
The old one must finally have been scared off by finding the little bones he
left around the place, cracked in half and sucked clean of the marrow. Those
were gone, too.
He went to the ow. ow. He hated
the thought of someone entering when he was not there. It made him feel
trapped. This was supposed to be his home, his place alone.
His eyes closed, and he summoned
the calming memory of the first day McCadden haoughought him here. He'd enjoyed
the car ride. It was so rare to be out in the daylight, leaving Mayhew and his
attendants far behind. McCadden drove fast, taking turns hard at the last
moment, the inertia hurling the Loner around on the seat. The
tarmac-and-gasoline scented air blasted in through the open windows, clawing
through his hair and beating on his upturned face almost too forcefully for him
to draw breath. It was extremely exciting, slightly frightening. McCadden was
in control of the car, for once physically as well as emotionally in control of
the Loner, too.
McCadden spoke to him, but the
Loner let himself be entranced by the rhythm of his voice, not really hearing
the words. It was enough to be out in the warm sunshine and fresh air, racing
along at insane speeds, with McCadden's hand gripping the gearshift, his
knuckles brushing the Loner's thigh as he shifted.>
McCadden's Viper V-10 was a
stripped down, supercharged model. The heat from the oversized engine suffused
the unairconditioned cockpit, its vibrations threatening to shake the rest of
the car apart. McCadden grinned and gunned the Viper's motor. They crested a
hill, the engine roaring. The Loner's stomach rolled at the moment of
suspension. He threw back his head and laughed, the unpractised sounds tearing
out of him in ragged gulps like sobs.
When the ride ended, the Loner
could barely walk. He had only ever ridden in the transport van, a modified
Dodge Ram with the cargo area reinforced by steel bars and heavy padding, the
windows plated over. He staggered as he got out and leaned on the car,
breathless.
McCadden was talking again, but
the Loner stroked the car's burning hood with the flat of his palm, wholly
fascinated by his distorted reflection in the gold-flecked black paint. He
might easily have stood there all day, turning his head and watching his
features warp, rubbing his hand on the slick hardness, but McCadden said
sharply, "What do you think?"
With an effort, he tore his
attention away from the car.
"It's your new home,"
McCadden repeated patiently, searching for the kindling light in the Loner's
eyes that might signal comprehension.

He referred to the long, low
building before them. When McCadden bought the land it had been operated as a
small eight room motel. He'd had the place cleaout out but never did anything
else with it. From the outside it still looked like a motel, although most of
the doors and windows had been sealed off in matching bland adobe. But it had
been completely restored inside, converted into a little house.
"No more lab. No more
restraints. You're going to live here now. See over there? That house up on the
cliff is mine. And over there, past that fence, that's my land. Two hundred
acres of pure desert wilderness, my friend. The conservationists love ol' Eric
Knox. You can go out there anytime you want at night."
McCadden unlocked the door
slowly so the Loner could see how the key mechanism worked. "Come on in,
look around."
The Loner was overwhelmed.
McCadden had filled the place with antique furniture, polished mahogany carved
into fantastic floral patterns, upholstered in richly brocaded fabrics and
distressed leather. It was murkily lit and deeply shadowed, the scant illumination
filtered through the smoky glass of authentic Tiffany lamps.
McCadden sat down on an
overstuffed chair and watched the Loner prowl around, touching and sniffing
everything. The man looked perfect.
It was just as he'd imagined. The Loner's ivory-fair, aquiline features and the
dark, severely tailored suit McCadden had chosen to set them off fitted his
creation in with the decor like a jewel in a setting.
The profusion of textures and
colors was bewildering after the stark, antiseptic confines of the lab. The
Loner was ignorant of its value but assaulted by the pure sensory overload. In
a sort of hysteria, he went from room to room, trying to take it all in at
once. He ran his hands across the landscape of fabric, the smooth wood and
chilly brass, leaving his own scent behind to claim it, his breath coming in
excited gasps. The Loner struggled to understand what he had done to deserve
such riches.
A mockingbird rattled out its
stolen call and the Loner opened his eyes again. Someone was approaching. After
long experience, he knew it was only the man with his dinner. Still, he choked
off an involuntary snarl as the man entered his territory. He'd already had
enough stress for one day.
The man left the tray at the
edge of the porch and retreated. The Loner waited until even his vision could
not pick the man out from the shadows at the end of the long drive, then went
out to retrieve it. He grimaced at the smell of the man's hands smeared on the
outside of the container. If the man would only wear gloves, it would be so
much better. He wished he had some way of communicating his distaste to
McCadden. Despite this, he took it inside. It had been an eventful day, and his
stomach was grinding on itself.
He opened the sealed container
and grimaced again. The two rabbit carcasses were skinned, the heads and feet
removed, the inner organs gone. Boring. He touched one, then brought his wet
fingers to his mouth and breathed in hard. The sealed tray had kept them warmed
to body temperature, but he could detect the rancid taint of long
refrigeration. They had been frozen and reheated.
In a spasm of insulted disgust,
the Loner threw open the door and hurled the tray out. He was hungry, but not
nearly that hungry.
A soft, mocking voice called
from the dark, "What's wrong, sir? Would you like to speak with the
chef?"
McCadden.
The Loner's temper tantrum
subsided immediately. Of course he was overjoyed to see McCadden. But he had
been bad today. Ever since the incident, he'd been dreading the inevitable
punishment.
It was well known that McCadden
- or Eric Knox, as the world knew him - carried the alpha copies of his
software on his person at all times. He trusted no one besides himself.
Unfortunately, this paranoia made him a prime target for attacks.
Earlier tonight he had escorted
Hannah Steren, the young, upcoming actress starring in Pressure Point to the premiere of his company's newest video game
release. Trag atg at a discreet distance came the Loner.
The Loner's ghost-pale face and
stickbug build make him appear delicate, almost sickly. The three men who
jumped them as McCadden got out of his car did not take him seriously as a
threat. That was the last mistake they ever made.
The first one surged past the
Loner, bushing him aside as he reached for McCadden. Calmly, the Loner grabbed
the attacker's arm and twisted it up and back. The man screamed as his humerus
was wrenched from the socket and the tendons in his elbow tore as his arm was
forced to bend in ways nature never intended. The expression on the Loner's
face never changed.
One of the other men grabbed
McCadden as his companion turned on the Loner.
The assassin unsheathed the
narrow sword concealed in his walking stick and slashed at the man's face.
The goon caught the Loner's
sword between his palms and twisted it out of his grip. McCadden was impressed
despite himself. Clearly these men had some training and an idea of what to
expect.
They could not possibly have
expected anything like the Loner, however. The goon punched at him with his
free hand, and the Loner leapt up and over it. He landed on the man's shoulders
and for an instant supported himself there in a handstand that would have
impressed a circus acrobat. Then the Loner swung down behind him, completing
the handspring, driving his heels neatly into the man's kidneys. The goon
grunted, but managed to turn and bring the sword to bear. He'd forgotten about
the cane-sheath the man still gripped in his left hand. The Loner swung it
against his opponent's thick head. The goon still managed to stay upright,
flailing with his stolen sword, although his vision obviously too blurred to
allow him to aim. By sheer chance, he caught the Loner's left leg, slicing a
long gash down the man's calf.
The Loner hissed in pain.
Ducking under the man's next swing, he brought his hand up hard under the
goon's chin. The force of the blow popped the man's skull right off the topmost
cervical vertebrae, severing the spinal cord and killing him instantly. The
Loner reclaimed his sword from the man's death grip and turned back to McCadden
and his captor.
"Oh, shit, oh holy
shit." The last goon released McCadden, shoving him away. He stumbled and
fell as the Loner darted past him. McCadden didn't see what happened to the
last attacker, but heard a meaty splash like someone dropping a full bucket of
chum on the deck. When he looked around, the last goon was twitching in a wide
pool of his own gushing fluids, his hands futilely trying to stuff back the
formerly-inner organs the Loner had unpacked with a single sword stroke.
The whole thing was over in
moments. The Loner limped over and knelt at McCadden's side. He exhaled with a
querulous, drawn-out aaaaaaah sound,
brushing McCadden's cheek with the back of his hand.
"I'm all right. Just a
little roughed up."
"Oh, god, John, what's
going on," Hannah moaned in terror and clung to him.
The Loner oriented on her,
dropping down to balance on his knuckles. She was hanging on McCadden, shaking
him in a frenzy of terror. To the Loner's eyes she was a threat no different
than the goons.
"No, no!" McCadden
said. But it was too late.
The Loner sprang across him and
bit deeply into the girl's bare shoulder.
Now, the Loner stood aside as
McCadden entered his home, trembling with the uneasy chemical cocktail of
excitement and dread washing through his system.
He had stopped himself after
that one bite, but McCadden was still upset with him. He'd ordered the Loner
away and drove the weeping, hysterical girl to the hospital. It took an hour
and more than a few Valiums to convince Hannah she'd imagined the man's feral
attack. His own men, alerted by a phone call, arrived to clean up the mess.
By then the Loner was long gone,
retreated to his isolated home. There was a first aid kit under the sink of the
bathroom, and he clumsily wrapped his oozing cut in yards of gauze. It throbbed
every time he moved, but he healed fast. In a few days it would be no more than
a pale scar, then fade utterly.
He had then curled up in the
overstuffed armchair, his face pressed into the nubbly fabric, straining to
catch a comforting trace of McCadden's scent from his last visit. It was an
ingrained habit.
McCadden had stayed with him
through that long first night at the new house. The Loner's nerves were
exhausted by overstimulation of the ride and his new environment, and he
dreamed again and again with an unusual intensity that shocked him awake.
McCadden was always there, sprawled out in that chair which he'd dragged in
beside the Loner's bed, comforting him with a soft hand pressed to his forehead
and cool sips of water. His scent had suffused the room over the long night,
making it feel more like familiar territory.
When he woke in the morning,
however, McCadden was gone. He searched for him throughout the small house for
almost a half hour, growing more and more frantic, until it suddenly occurred
to him to go outside. This had never been an option before.
He'd paused on the threshold,
struck by the enormity of the outdoors. McCadden had left at dawn, and the
freshness of his trail evaporated with the morning dew. Crazed, the Loner
searched in ever-widening circles, thrashing through the chaparral and sage
unheeding of how it tore his clothes and flesh. He'd finally struck a promising
trail at the base of the cliff. The simple concept of walking up to the house
was not obvious to him. Instead he backtracked and circled again and again,
tryin pie piece together the trail torn by eddies of wind. McCadden looked up
from his dinner that evening to see the Loner's bleeding, wild-eyed face
pressed against his window. He took the young man back down to his own house,
cleaned him up and gave him a talking-to. The Loner was chastened to learn he
was expected to stay in the house alone. That was when he first sought out the
chair and the scant comfort it offered.
And now McCadden was here in the
flesh, settling down again into his favorite chair.
"What are we going to do
with you, huh, kid? You've got to realize not everyone in the world is trying
to kill me. Once in a while you've got to just be calm." He cocked his
head, enjoying the sight of the Loner's wretched expression as he huddled on
the rug at his feet. He wasn't mad, not really. The Loner's overenthusiasm was
understandable and to a certain degree excusable. He had done an amazing job
fighting off those three men on his own, better than McCadden could have
dreamed. But it was simply too much fun to watch his tame monster grovel than
to not let this drag on a bit.
"What, oh, what, are we
going to do with you," he sang lightly.
The Loner reached out and twined
his fingers in McCadden's untied shoelace. He risked an upwards glance and,
seeing no immediate threat, edged closer until he could rest his sharp chin on
McCadden's knee.
It was all part of the game
McCadden liked to play with him. The rules were simple.
They first played a few months
ago, when McCadden began training him to go out. Left to his own devices, the
Loner stayed as close to McCadden as he was allowed and sought direct physical
contact at all times. His excessive clinginess needed to be suppressed if he
was ever to appear normal in public. McCadden started just by removing the
Loner's hands from his arm and telling him "No" when the young man
tried to replace them. If he could resist the urge to touch, McCadden would
reward him with a quick caress. The periods of hands-off and the distance away
grew longer. Mayhew reported the Loner seemed calmer when he wasn't there, even
though it was still taking one's life in to one's own hands for anyone besides
McCadden himself to touch him.
After the incident the second
day at the new house, McCadden stayed away three full days, letting the Loner
stew in his own juices, hopefully allowing the idea that he was not allowed up
to the main house to sink fully in. When he did return, the Loner was
pathetically grateful. He did something McCadden had never seen him do before:
bowing his fierce head, the Loner crouched in total submission before him.
It was as irresistible now as it
had been the first time. McCadden rewarded his truly extraordinary good
behavior . . . and got a little too
caught up in it himself. The days had been unseasonably warm, and of course the
Loner had no idea how to work the air conditioning controls. Instead, he had
removed most of his suit, leaving on only his breifs and the unbuttoned shirt
that clung damply to his back. His sleek muscles were taut, lightly sheened
with sweat. McCadden's stroking hands ran lightly down the knobs of the Loner's
spine, and the man shuddered convulsively, throwing his head back. His face had
the distant, rapt look of one of the faithful in an old painting, kneeling
before the Archangel Gabriel.
McCadden kneaded the back of the
young man's neck, tugged on his earlobe, combed his fingers roughly through his
hair, hitting all the pleasure points he'd mapped out during the Loner's long
training.
He slid off the chair to crouch
beside the man, his hands straying lower. The Loner was built like a greyhound,
a deep chest hard with angular bone and lean, close-packed muscle and tucked-in
belly heaving with his gasping breaths. McCadden stroked his fine, downy flanks,
and the Loner nuzzled his face into the juncture of McCadden's neck and
shoulder. He bit down as gently as he possibly could, careful not to break
McCadden's tender skin with his inhumanly sharp teeth.
The Loner had never reciprocated
his caresses before, simply absorbed them. Encouraged, McCadden pushed his head
aside and backed away. The Loner moved to follow him.
"No," he said. A
wounded expression flashed across the Loner's thin face before settling into
its customary emotionless stare.
Then, "Come on, come
on." Hesitantly, the Loner crept forward. McCadden drew him into another
embrace, rubbing his hands over the Loner's silken skin, waiting til the man
was shaking like a leaf and breathing in low groans before pulling away once
again. This time, the Loner pounced after him, growling deep in his throat.
"NO!"
The Loner's growl cut off
abruptly as he tumbled to a stop. He turned on himself, biting at his forearms
in a flurry of displacement activity. McCadden watched, fascinated, as the
Loner tore his own flesh. Then he called for him once more . . . and felt a
familiar warm, tight heaviness in his crotch. He was getting a hard on.
He had never had these impulses
before. Up til now, he had always been a strict heterosexual. But the Loner
wasn't really a man. He was a
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Where the Wild Things Are