"We won! And hell, this is more than I started with. I'll do it again." Trumbo stabbed the air between the two of them with his forefinger and gave a fierce smile. "Better this time."

"I'll bet you do." Mac's mouth quirked as he lounged back against the wall and breathed deeply. Trumbo's face was blazing with a mixture of naked triumph, relief, determination - the most passion he'd seen there since he'd arrived, just about. Trumbo was vibrating with energy, plotting his response to the challenge already: vital, alive - and as attractive as all hell. Mac's gut tightened in a familiar squirm of appreciation as the thought occurred to him: Trumbo, on a high, was one fine looking guy.

Thinking about it, he'd been getting little hits from him since he'd been here. Nothing too overt, just -- little blips on the radar, from his uncompromising arrogance when they'd first met, to the fact that when he'd decked the man and was straddling him on the ground, the expression in his eyes had been one that he recognised. For a moment there had been a spark of arousal in those eyes. Oh yeah, he'd definitely seen that. Only for a split second before Trumbo had slumped into acceptance and Mac had rolled off him, but for that split second, oh man…

Maybe Trumbo wasn't immune to a cheap thrill despite his curmudgeonly attitude and that was all it was. Or just maybe...

The idea of bedding Trumbo was by no means unattractive. But that was as far as it went. Mentally he filed it under 'pie in the sky': Trumbo was way too uptight to give in to a passing impulse. And he wasn't real big on the whole give and take thing.

He pulled himself together with a small smile and chalked the squirming in his gut up to his narrow escape.

"C'mon." Trumbo cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. "We need to get cleaned up." He turned and hobbled in the direction of the verandah.

"We should get that ankle of yours strapped up too, before it swells up too bad, and get your weight off it. You got anything we can use?"

"I'd imagine there's something somewhere around." Trumbo stumbled a little and Mac slung an arm around his shoulders to steady him. Once again he felt the sinewy strength in the man's wiry frame, but only for a moment, as Trumbo stiffened in his grip and pulled away.

Mac stopped walking, grabbing Trumbo's arm and forcing him to an abrupt halt.

"Do me a favour, stop being so pig-headed? It's okay to accept help once in a while, you know."

Trumbo looked him in the face, chin jutting aggressively, instinctively ready to argue about it, before his expression relaxed a little and something like warmth softened it.

"I guess you're right. We kind of proved that already today, didn't we? My apologies, MacGyver. I am unused to relying on anyone except myself and some habits are difficult to break. I've been going my own way for a long time. "

Mac gave a lopsided smile and said nothing. But this time, when he put his arm back around Trumbo's shoulder, he didn't resist. Though he was as taut as piano wire under Mac's casual hold, thrumming with pent up emotion.

In the kitchen, Trumbo eased into a battered wooden chair with a half stifled sigh of relief. Mac winced in sympathy. "Bad?"

"I've had worse," Trumbo replied with a small shake of his head. His attempt at nonchalance would have come off if Mac hadn't spotted the fine tremor of his hand as he ran it over his face. With a sudden, uncharacteristic admission of weakness Trumbo added, "It was a simple wrench, but maybe I've been pushing it a little too much. You're right, it does need to be strapped, or it might get uncomfortable."

"Where will I find the stuff to do it?" Mac snagged a stool as he asked the question, sliding it towards Trumbo's injured leg. Trumbo raised his leg and propped it on the stool with a small grimace and a half shrug.

"In the bunkhouse, possibly." He indicated the general direction with a hunch of his shoulder. "Or," he added indifferently, closing his eyes, "you might need to improvise. That seems to be something you do quite well."

Mac grinned at the remark. "Yeah, that has been said from time to time. If you're okay there for now, I'll go get cleaned up and changed first, then scrounge around 'til I find something." He plucked at his wet, filthy shirt with distaste. It felt clammy and gritty against his skin. "I'm in no condition to start doctoring right now. Meanwhile, you can get those boots of yours off."

He got no verbal answer, just a short, sharp nod of Trumbo's head as he gripped the arms of the chair and eased himself more upright. Mac sighed quietly to himself as he turned away: the stiff-necked bastard was withdrawing into himself again.

He had more to sigh about when he got to the bathroom: the sink faucet stayed stubbornly dry. Still, he'd spotted an old fashioned pump in the compound - manual pump, so a back-up water source, maybe? It was worth a shot. He gathered up a towel, clean pants and shirt and dry sneakers and headed outside.

The pump was stiff when he tried moving the handle, needing some kind of lube. The only machine grease he could think of was back down at the river, and he wasn't about to waste his time slithering back down there through the devastation surrounding the compound. There had to be something else around that he could use, probably in the kitchen. He went back inside, glancing over at Trumbo as he did so. He was still sitting in the chair, foot raised. His eyes were closed and his mouth was pinched in an expression of discomfort but he still maintained a distanced air about him, even in comparative repose. Mac shrugged mentally and his mouth twisted in a wry grimace - Trumbo probably wasn't going to be the ideal patient.

C'mon, MacGyver, back on topic here, he thought to himself. You're never gonna to find out what kind of a patient he makes if you don't get that pump working and get yourself cleaned up.

Nothing was immediately obvious in the kitchen, so Mac headed for the fridge to start his search. The slab of butter sitting inside wasn't ideal, but it would possibly do the job. He hooked off a small piece with his little finger and tasted. Good, unsalted. It would definitely do the job. He dumped it on the table, hacked off a chunk with his knife and went outside again.

Some patient greasing and working it in later, the pump grudgingly shifted, becoming easier as Mac worked the handle. The resulting stream of water wasn't up to the standard of a hot shower, but it would do. Mac stripped off and cleaned up, gasping as he sluiced the cold water over his back and it trickled down over his spine. Finally, clean, towelled off and dressed again, he headed for the bunkhouse. Rummaging around, he found an old sheet and ripped it into strips then headed back to Trumbo, pausing at the pump to rinse out the battered old pitcher he'd found and fill it with icy water.

Back in the kitchen, Trumbo was struggling with his riding boots. One long, supple boot lay on the floor, but the one on his injured leg wasn't about to cooperate.

"Damn it," Trumbo muttered through gritted teeth. "I can't get this off at all. I can't get the angle right." There was a fine sheen of sweat on his face, evidence of the struggle he'd been having, or evidence that he was in pain, Mac wasn't quite sure which.

"I could cut it off for you," he said.

"No. I'll need it, I don't have another pair."

Mac squatted down in front of him. "Lift your leg. I'll have a try."

He grabbed the boot above and below the injured ankle, inwardly smiling at himself as part of his mind mechanically catalogued the buttery feel of the fine leather and noted its quality, and started to tug. Above him he heard a sharp gasp and he winced in sympathy. "Sorry. I'll need to pull a bit harder if this is going to come off."

Trumbo nodded, lips pressed hard together, as he tried again. And failed again.

Mac sank back on his haunches, hands on his thighs, lips tightened in exasperation.

"Well that isn't going to work. Guess we need more leverage."

He rose to his feet and turned, swinging his foot up and over to straddle Trumbo's leg, grasping the boot firmly by the ankle, and tugged sharply. No result. The damned boot wasn't about to come off any time soon.

"Push against me."

Trumbo planted his socked foot firmly against Mac's ass and shoved. Still nothing.

"Harder."

Trumbo grunted with effort as he gave an almighty shove. It was stronger than Mac had bargained for and he couldn't save himself from falling forward, landing on his hands and knees. But at least the boot was off. From behind him he heard a choked, "God! I'm sorry!" and the beginnings of a chuckle. He started to laugh himself, and looked back over his shoulder.

And watched the laughter die in Trumbo's face as the atmosphere became charged. Mac felt the laughter slide off his own face as they stared at each other. A pulse was jumping erratically under Trumbo's jaw and, somewhere beneath the level of conscious thought, Mac noted that he obviously wasn't feeling as indifferent as he looked. Heat washed over him as he pursued the idea to its obvious conclusion and saw himself in his mind's eye, on all fours on the floor, ass waving in the air, still clutching one riding boot in his hand.

Mac felt his colour rise under the steady scrutiny as his dick started to fill. His eyes flicked to Trumbo's crotch. Yeah, Trumbo was on the same page. Mac caught his bottom lip between his teeth, smiled and cocked his head.

"We better get that ankle strapped." Before we take this any further hung in the air between them, unsaid but still loud in the silence. Trumbo's level stare didn't waver as he nodded his head sharply, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Mac's belly contract, made his movements feel over-large and clumsy as he put down the damned boot and turned to start doctoring.

It was achingly erotic to be kneeling in front of Trumbo, one of his long, elegant feet in his lap. It still smelled faintly of leather and the skin was soft and smooth under his probing fingertips, satin heat over hard sinew, phallic and arousing. Mac was acutely aware of his pulse, beating time through his cock as he bent to his task.

When he sneaked a glance, it was obvious that Trumbo was enjoying it too. His mouth still had its usual sardonic twist, but there was heat behind the expression in his eyes as he stared down at Mac on the floor in front of him. And Mac knew right then that this was going to be good, that Trumbo was going to fuck him real sweet. He took his time, carefully deliberate in his movements as he looped the makeshift bandage over and around, fingers occasionally trailing over the arch of Trumbo's foot in a calculated tease.

"There, that should do it." Mac tied the bandage off neatly and finally looked up. "How does that feel?"

In his lap, Trumbo's foot flexed, toes arching towards Mac's groin, a fleeting grind that made sparks fly along his nerves and brought another flush to his face. "Good. That feels good. Thank you, MacGyver."

Their eyes locked as Trumbo eased forward out of the chair and Mac knelt up to meet him half way. The kiss surprised the hell out of Mac: Trumbo was tentative, almost diffident, as if still unsure this was going anywhere. And then it occurred to him that maybe it was just lack of practice. He butted his tongue against Trumbo's lips, ran it around them, butted them again, encouraging and teasing, until Trumbo's lips parted and his tongue came alive against Mac's.

Much, much better. The narrow lips under his were surprisingly pliable and Trumbo's tongue was warm and thick as it wormed its way around his. Trumbo smelled musky-sweet and sweat-sharp, and Mac breathed deeply, breaking off the kiss to lick a sticky trail down Trumbo's neck, relishing the double hit of taste and smell together.

Trumbo grasped his shoulders strongly, arching his neck towards Mac's mouth, momentarily lost. But only briefly: he pulled back to look Mac in the eye, fingers tightening over muscle almost to the point of pain. His expression was hard, almost resentful - but he couldn't completely quell the heat behind his gaze.

"Damn you, MacGyver," he muttered softly, "I thought I was over needing anything but my own right hand."

Mac's hand crept down over Trumbo's belly, to palm the growing bulge at his crotch.

"Seems to me like you've been wrong before about needing things, Mr. Trumbo." The stress Mac put on the honorific was both a salute and a challenge.

Mac made his touch firmer, more insistent, and the bulge under his hand hardened. Trumbo's eyes fluttered partway shut and his colour rose. His eyes darkened and his mouth twisted into an expression of wry acceptance as he gave a slight nod.

"It seems you might be right again, MacGyver."

His hand shot up and grabbed the back of Mac's neck and he bent his head to kiss him again, this time with bruising urgency and the suspicion of teeth. Pleasure bloomed at the back of Mac's brain. Oh yeah, this was more like it. Enthusiasm, the greatest aphrodisiac on the planet.

Trumbo was really hitting his groove. His mouth over Mac's was strong and wet. His hands were everywhere, under Mac's shirt, down to the waistband of his pants, scrabbling at belt and button and zip, diving down over Mac's ass to haul him in closer.

And then just as suddenly as he'd exploded, he lost momentum. Helluva time to back down, pal. The wry thought popped into Mac's head unbidden, but he didn't stop to analyse. He grabbed control of the kiss, pushing back a little, getting his hands between them and starting with Trumbo's shirt buttons, worked his way down. He didn't falter when he got to the waistband of the riding breeches, loosening it and taking down the zip, hooking Trumbo's shorts down at the front and leaving them under his balls. He stopped to explore the sac, velvet-soft, crumpled skin contrasting with sparse, crisp hairs under the pads of his fingers, then ran his hand up and over the smooth, hot, satiny dick that jerked forward to meet his touch.

It was as if he'd tripped a switch. Trumbo pushed at Mac's chest, urging him to sit back without words. As Mac moved, he started on Mac's shirt buttons, still pushing each time he tackled one, until Mac got the message and stretched out on the floor, raised up on his elbows. As his shirt fell open, Trumbo ambushed a newly exposed nipple with a satisfied grunt. Mac felt him smiling against his skin at his arching response to the sharp catch of teeth and the soothing lick that followed it. Trumbo did it again, and again, alternating from side to side, until the edge of pain dissolved into unalloyed pleasure that sent Mac's dick jerking and his head drooping toward his shoulder blades, before he moved on.

Mac raised his head again to watch as Trumbo nipped and tongued his way down his torso, that hot, insistent tongue dragging against his skin and leaving behind the cool prickle of drying spit as it trailed down. All the while, long, warm fingers caged his shaft, not moving yet but holding him firmly. A small, anticipatory smile played around the corners of his mouth as he watched. His dick struggled against the confines of those fingers as they tightened around him, and he gradually sagged back to the floor, smile still in place, as Trumbo moved closer to trailing his tongue over something that really mattered.

When Trumbo took the head of his cock into his mouth, Mac couldn't suppress the huff of satisfaction that leaked from deep in his chest. Again he felt Trumbo's lips move in a smile before he tightened them and took Mac in with a rapid bob of his head. Suction and heat, and his dick bumping the back of Trumbo's throat: he could feel his eyes rolling back in their sockets. Too much of that and he'd come far too soon. He stood it for as long as he could, then grabbed Trumbo's head in both hands and urged him upwards. When Trumbo's eyes met his, Mac kept on pulling.

With a quick, fierce grin, Trumbo got it. He crawled up Mac's body until he was straddling his chest, his cock tantalisingly close to Mac's lips. Mac opened his mouth as Trumbo took his dick in hand and swiped it over Mac's lips. A couple of passes, enough for Mac to get an enticing taste of him, and he pushed slowly forward, feeding his dick inch by inch into Mac's enthusiastic mouth.

Bliss. The controlled, jabbing thrusts; the heat and weight of hard cock on his tongue; the taste of musk; the smell of sweat and the feel of Trumbo's firm, tight ass giving under fingers. He hummed his pleasure around Trumbo's cock as he explored, tonguing the soft, smooth head, sliding his lips tight along the veined shaft, caressing the little bundle of nerves under the crown until he felt the acrid catch of pre-come at the back of his throat.

With one last long, luxurious slide of his lips, Mac drew his head back. "What do you want, Trumbo?" he asked softly.

Trumbo sat back on his haunches over Mac's thighs. He ran his hands over Mac's sides and belly, up once to his nipples and then back down again, smoothing his thumbs in over the bony hips, coming to rest on the creases between thighs and groin and kneading hypnotically. His fingers dug deep and Mac arched and clenched, pleasure rippling along his spine and into his balls, nerve ends fizzing with promise.

"I want to fuck you. Do you do that?"

The question was abrupt, the startling echo in it of the arrogance he'd shown when they'd met first at odds with the deference implied by the question. The contrast made his spine crawl with wanting. He wanted to turn the tables, push this guy down on the floor and yank off his pants then fuck him 'til he begged, wipe that arrogance right out of his system. But he forced himself instead to smile gently and reply, "Yeah, I do that."

And truthfully, looking at Trumbo's deliciously long, slender cock poking out proud and beautiful over the squash of his balls where they were pushed up and out by the waistband of his shorts, it wouldn't be a hardship. His asshole twitched with anticipation. Mac wanted that cock.

He nudged up with his thighs and Trumbo swung off him, leaving him the space to kick out of his pants and get to his feet.

From the floor, Trumbo looked up at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Lube. We need lube," Mac replied. He looked around, shedding his shirt: Think, MacGyver. There has to be something. Obvious really, when he concentrated on options. The butter still stood where he'd left it on the kitchen table, glistening in the heat of the room. Why not? It was good enough for Brando. He snagged it and turned back as Trumbo snickered, easing himself out of his own pants and tossing them to one side.

"Improvising again? You're a resourceful man, MacGyver."

Mac chuckled. "Yeah." And, pushing the dish along the floor to Trumbo, knelt back down in front of him again, forearms on the floor and ass in the air, and waited.

Man, that felt weird, that first dollop of butter smeared over his ass. Cool, dragging slightly before it warmed and loosened as the heat of his body kicked in. Trumbo's finger finally slipped in smooth and easy, no effort at all, as the butter reached body heat; then his thumbs, working the muscle, encouraging it to give. Next the crown of his dick, trailing down Mac's ass crack and butting up against the ring that now opened easily. Finally the bliss of a long, smooth slide in, the pressure, the fullness, the sweetness of a shaft gliding easily over his gland, forward and slowly back again; a circuit of pure pleasure, ass to balls to dick, to ass again. Mac's body tensed of its own volition and he arched his back and sighed, then dropped his head to his hands and settled in for a long ride.

And he got one. Trumbo knew how to work an ass. Everything about the man was tightly controlled, including his fucking, and for once, it worked in his favour. The pleasure of the fluid, easy rhythm Trumbo set up was intense, but not too intense; all the way in, most of the way out, all the way in again, stretching the muscle. Every so often, Trumbo corkscrewed his hips, angling his cock head to push against Mac's prostate, dragging the tails of his shirt over Mac's flanks and his balls along the backs of his thighs, lighting firecrackers in Mac's belly and groin.

Oh yeah, it was good. But he wanted his turn in the driving seat. And he wanted to see how Trumbo came. A touch on one of the hands gripping his hips was enough: when Trumbo stopped, Mac drew forward. Smiling, he turned and pushed Trumbo in the middle of his chest, indicating without words that he was to lie down. When Trumbo eased onto his back, Mac straddled him, feet flat on the floor, and folded down into a squat. This time, Trumbo was ahead of him, holding his cock straight up for Mac to find the angle and ease onto it.

Better. Much better. Supporting his weight on one arm, Mac canted his hips until Trumbo's cock was finding his sweet spot every time. Trumbo was moving smooth and slow, head back and eyes closed, a small, tight smile hovering around his lips. The minute, rhythmic flexing of his hips, rising to meet Mac on his down thrusts, sent intense, luscious pulses of pleasure rolling up Mac's spine, doubled as his dick slip-slid along the groove between the man's hard abs. It was hurtling him towards climax: he felt his balls tighten, draw up close to his body. Too soon. Trumbo was close too, but not right at the edge.

His free hand came up to feather over Trumbo's nipples, now stiffened into small, solid points. At the same moment he tightened his ass and bore down, hard. And there, that was it; that was what he'd wanted to see all along. Trumbo gasped, a short, choked-off couple of syllables that might have been 'god yes' and might have been 'god damn it', and stiffened under him as he finally lost it, eyes flying open and then fluttering shut, the tendons of his neck standing out in sharp relief. Trumbo flushed deep scarlet, the colour seeping down to stain his shoulders and chest, and gasped again, breath without sound, hips stuttering in their rhythm. His cock pulsed and swelled as his stomach muscles snapped tight and his hips surged up, urgent now. Two sharp, mindless thrusts as his body tensed and strained, and Mac felt the heat and rush of him coming deep in his gut.

At that Mac let his mind turn inwards to ride the wave he could feel cresting in his balls and at the base of his spine. He closed his eyes as his focus narrowed and didn't watch his come spurting over Trumbo's belly. Instead his mind's eye focussed on the cameo of Trumbo, stripped down, truly naked, control snapped and discarded like a broken toy.

Trumbo was the first to stir, shifting purposefully under him without a word. And man, how the hell he'd managed to recover his characteristic 'touch me not' expression lying mostly naked and come-spattered between Mac's thighs, beat him to know. Mac swung off him to sit on the floor as Trumbo sat up to strip off his shirt and wipe it across his belly and groin. Then he tossed it to Mac as he got to his feet.

"Here."

"Thanks." Mac wrinkled his nose as he swiped ineffectually at the runoff. "I could sure use a long shower." He grinned at Trumbo. "I think I've got me a pump to fix. Again." At Trumbo's enquiring look, he expanded, "No water in the bathroom."

Trumbo nodded, a sharp downward inclination of his chin. And suddenly smiled a genuine, open smile, as he extended his hand to haul Mac to his feet. "You do that, MacGyver. I'll check on the generator. If we're still in business, that shower will be a hot one. For two."

Mac smiled broadly back at him. "You bet."

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