JAG

Title: Hours and Minutes of Uncertainty 

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean 

Fandom: JAG 

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer, Wills Matheson/Sweetcheeks 

Rating: NC-17 

Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing them from Gail. Oh, all right, be that way.
Bellisario has dibs. I'm **still** just borrowing them. Wills and Sweetcheeks, however, are mine. 

Status: new/complete 

Date: 7/02 

Series/Sequel: This is part 15 of the Mind Fuck series, and follows Cool and Sweet as Homemade Sin

Summary: Just a typical Saturday for the DSD. 

Warnings: m/m 

Notes: Metrorail is part of Washington’s Metropolitan Area Transportation Authority. #### represents change of POV. This is for Greg, who needs to have the demon spawn destroyed. Clark’s working on it! Thanks to Wolfsbride, for being the fur beneath my hand. And as always, to Gail, who inspires, and then does the best job of beta-ing.

Hours and Minutes of Uncertainty

Part 1

I sat at the breakfast table, my socked feet up on the other chair, watching as Sweetcheeks poured batter into the waffle iron. The coffee he had brewed was hazelnut from The Coffee Beanery, freshly ground. I took a sip and slid lower in my chair. There was a pleasurable ache deep in my ass, and my cock was half hard. “You’re a wonder, Theo.” 

He smiled at me over his shoulder and put a small pitcher of syrup into the microwave to warm. “Why? Because I like to cook?” 

Because he was doing this for me, but I said nothing, just returned his smile and took another sip. 

“I’m glad Palm changed the time of your meeting.” 

I went very still. “I said nothing about who I have to meet.” 

“No, but I’ve heard the way you address him. It had to be Palm.” 

I didn’t respond to that aloud, but wondered if Mr. Palmer had ever considered recruiting the rentboy to the DSD. Theo was nothing if not on the ball. 

Mr. Palmer had called the night before, managing to catch us just after we’d returned to the rentboy’s apartment after a quiet dinner in a family-style restaurant. Coming in from a job in Boston, I hadn’t had time to make reservations for some place fancy. 

Sweetcheeks had let me crowd him against a wall in the living room. His thigh was high between my legs, and I rode it hard, rubbing my dick against it. I’d been wanting this since he’d come to pick me up at the airport. I’d imprisoned his hands by his head and was frantically biting at his mouth, almost on the verge of climaxing, when my cell phone rang. 

I didn’t even think of not answering. “Matheson,” I panted. 

“Palmer.” Fuck. “My office, tomorrow morning.” Fuck. 

“Tomorrow is Saturday, sir.” If my mind hadn’t been so fogged with lust, I never would have made such an obvious statement. 

“Yeah. What’s your point?” 

“No point, sir. Eight o’clock?” If he was calling at this time of night, it stood to reason he’d want an early meeting. 

“Ah, Wills, no! I was gonna make you breakfast…” The rentboy was behind me, sliding my jacket off my shoulders, nipping at my throat. His warm palms slid up and down my chest, and he began to unbutton my shirt. 

“I’m sorry, Theo.” I covered the receiver. “Stop that! You want to get my ass…” I managed to swallow a groan. 

“Yeah, tough guy. I want your ass!” He went back to sucking the skin on the side of my neck. 

“Matheson.” My superior sounded impatient. Oh, jesus, had he heard me? What was I thinking of? He was Clark Palmer. Of course he had heard me. “Make it ten.” He hung up, and I barely had time to shut my phone. I locked my knees, but it was touch and go as to whether I would remain standing when Theo unzipped my trousers, and had my dick out of my shorts and in his mouth. 

The phone fell out of my hand. Fortunately there was the wall behind me, and it kept me upright. This was too new, too special, and I knew I was going to come too some. I squeezed my eyes shut. While one part of my brain became busy trying to extract the square root of some random number, another, baser, part was reveling in what Theo made me feel. 

Abruptly, Theo pulled his mouth off my dick. Breathless, I stared down at him as he knelt before me, his lips slightly swollen, my cock glistening with pre come and spit, and I moaned. “Wills,” he growled, “what the fuck are you doing?” 

“I… I was figuring out the square root of… of a number.” 

“Why the fuck why?” He looked hurt. 

“Didn’t… didn’t want to… to come too fast.” 

“What number, Wills?” 

“Four… four hundred seventy-four.” 

His grin was rapacious. “Twenty-one point seventy-five. And change.” Theo yanked down my pants and swallowed my cock to the root. He reached past my balls to press against my anus, and I was coming so hard I almost passed out. 

“Fuck, Theo!” I groaned as I slid to the floor. “Fuck!” 

“Yeah, tough guy! I’m going to!” 

**** 

Since my car was in the parking lot of the DSD building, Theo drove me to work. Before I could open the car door and slide out, he pulled me to him for a brief kiss. "Come back to my place tonight?" I nodded, wanting nothing more than to deepen the kiss, but this wasn't the best place for public displays of affection. He stroked my hair. "Go on to work." 

I got out of the car and watched as he drove off, then went into the nondescript building. It was ten on the dot when I tapped at the door to Mr. Palmer's office. 

“Come in.” 

I looked to see if he wanted it closed behind me. At his nod, I shut it and crossed to stand before his desk. His eyes were cool as he waved me toward a chair, then went back to his monitor. I sat, flinching a bit, then forced myself to sit still. I waited for him to tell me why he had called me in on this Saturday morning, and took the opportunity to examine him unobserved. 

He was dressed more casually than I had ever seen him, in slacks and an open-necked Henley. Just to the side of his adam's apple was a bruise. It took me a second to realize it was a love bite. I coughed lightly, forcing my eyes off that spot, my fingers wandering to an identical mark on my neck. Mr. Palmer having a life outside the DSD. What a concept! 

“All right, Matheson,” Mr. Palmer started. I jumped, and he frowned. 

“Sorry, sir.” I braced myself for a dressing down, and was shocked when he waved my distraction aside. The new deputy director of interior affairs was known to have little patience for inattention. If he was willing to overlook my bemusement, he must be feeling decidedly mellow! Determinedly, I did not think of what could have made him so mellow. 

“How was your trip to Boston?” 

“Uneventful, sir. I met with the hacker, and he’s been taken out of the equation.” 

Mr. Palmer stared at me, his expression anything but pleased. "Are you deliberately being coy with me?" 

I felt myself go pale. I shook my head and kept my mouth shut. I didn't know how I had fucked up. 

"Who was your trainer, Matheson?" 

"Um… Mr. Adams, sir." 

"Adams? James ‘Bond' Adams?" 

I moistened my lips. "Yes, sir." Mr. Adams had always insisted we couch our responses ambiguously, and I knew that some of the other, more senior agents, had mocked him behind his back, hence the nickname, James Bond. 

Mr. Palmer ran an impatient hand through his hair, and my gut tightened. I wondered if he was about to tell me I had blown my first mission, that I didn't have the stuff to follow in his footsteps. "Matheson." If I expected him to criticize my former mentor, I was wrong. Clark Palmer had never been part of the group that had done that. Come to think of it, he didn't belong to any of the factions that tended to second-guess the activities of other agents. "We're in DSD headquarters. If there's a safer place to speak plainly, I don't know of it. Now tell me in words of one syllable: is the geek dead?" 

"Yes, sir. I blew out the back of his head. I also left a suicide message on his monitor." 

"That was a nice touch." Mr. Palmer’s eyes glinted with satisfaction. "More importantly, the authorities bought it. You did a good job." I tried not to let him see how relieved I was. He turned to his monitor, moved his mouse and hit a key. "I have another job for you. This will be a simple tail.” He got to his feet and crossed to where his printer was hissing quietly as the features of a young woman were gradually revealed. “This is Diane Coyne. She’s an intern on Senator Franklin’s staff.” 

He took the paper from the tray and handed it to me. I examined it carefully. She was in her early twenties and looked almost anorexic. Her hair was a mousy brown and her eyes a pale blue. She wore large-framed glasses that seemed to dwarf her features. The lavender-tinted lenses did nothing for her complexion, and in fact made her appear sickly. 

"I want to be kept aware of her activities until she boards a jet bound for home. Senator Franklin is having someone in his office work on getting her out of the Capital before the beginning of the week. And I want to know if she meets with Daren Curtin.” 

“Daren Curtin, sir?” The name didn’t mean anything to me. 

“He’s the one who is behind this plot to make the DSD lose our funding.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Matheson, I just want you to watch her. She is not to be erased.” He waited until I nodded agreement. “Very well. You have my cell phone number.” He dismissed me, and I went to my own office. I peeled off my suit jacket, logged on to my computer and accessed the folder that contained all the background data on Senator Franklin's staff. 

I scrolled through the names and finally found her profile. Diane Coyne, age twenty-two. Graduated the preceding May from Bryn Mawr with a double major in creative writing and classical and Near Eastern archeology.  My jaw dropped when I read that. Wouldn't economics, or maybe political science, have been more germane to a career in the public sector? A notation indicated that her father, Alvin Coyne, was a close, personal friend of Senator Franklin. 

Ah. Got it. That was why she had been given the position of junior intern. And that was why Mr. Palmer didn’t want her to simply vanish. 

I scrolled further down. She had dated a Korean her freshman year, a Native American when she was a sophomore, a Greek… Hmm, a Greek? Now that was interesting. I wondered what he had taught her. Obviously, she hadn’t thought much of it. Her senior year she had dated a woman! 

According to a recent addition to her dossier, she had been seeing a computer analyst since the beginning of the year. Was that what they called it these days? I gazed at the grainy photo that had been scanned into her file and felt a jolt. The name was the one Mr. Palmer had mentioned, but the face! I had seen him once, when my friend Michael Shaw invited me to join him and his friends for a night out on the town. 

What the fuck had Michael been involved in? I buzzed straight through to Mr. Palmer’s office. 

“Yeah?” his voice growled in my ear. 

“Sir, this Daren Curtin. I’ve seen him before. Michael knew him. Michael Shaw. I don’t know how friendly they were; that was around SuperBowl time in January.” 

“You’ve confirmed the connection. Nice work, Matheson.” 

“Thank you, sir. He didn’t see me, there were too many people milling around at the time. The only reason why I noticed him was because of the jacket he wore. It was for the New England Patriots.” The Rams had been heavily favored, and everyone else was wearing stuff with St. Louis logos. 

“Very nice work.” He hung up. 

I was grinning stupidly, prouder than if I had won the lottery, and went back to work. I had no doubt Mr. Palmer would deal with Daren Curtin. Meanwhile, I had to deal with his girlfriend. 

It seemed she was a creature of habit. Every Saturday she went shopping, at either The Shops at Georgetown Park, Union Station Store, or Rhode Island Avenue Shopping Center, the three biggest malls in the DC area. She’d be going to Union Station today. 

I glanced at my watch. It was almost eleven. Although the stores opened at ten, she liked to make a late start and spend the entire day there. I took out my PDA and keyed in her address. She was sharing an apartment with two other girls who interned for… Senator Wexler. Very interesting. The Senator was also on the appropriations committee. I took a couple of minutes to upload their information into my PDA and then shut down my computer. 

I’d have just enough time to make it home, shower, and change into casual clothing before finding a parking spot near her apartment complex. She’d be taking the Metrorail. Her file indicated she used the Metro to get to work, and she had a twenty-eight day fast pass, which gave her unlimited travel. I needed to be at the stop to buy my pass before she arrived. 

**** 

The weather was warm for this time of April, and I wore a Georgetown U. sweatshirt over a pair of soft, faded jeans and Jordache running shoes that were well-broken in. My hair was slicked back, not my usual style, and I had gelled it to keep it that way. As long as no one bothered to look into my eyes, I appeared to be a college student. Even as a college student, however, I wasn't young enough to just go to the Mall to hang out. I knew it was likely that I'd have to make some purchases, and I carried a good deal of cash in my wallet. I didn't want to leave a paper trail if I could help it. 

I was in the Metro car right behind hers, and by lounging near the doorway that led to the short space between the two cars; I was able to keep a discreet eye on her. She got out when the train pulled into the Massachusetts Avenue station, and I was eight paces to her rear. 

The first shop she went into was Victoria's Secret. I could feel color rush into my cheeks. I didn't have a girlfriend to buy something frilly for, and I didn't think that they carried anything suitable for Theo. He might be able to get away with wearing net, but lace was just a little too over the top for him. 

While Diane Coyne entered a fitting room to try on some rather heavily padded, underwire bras, I wandered through the front of the store. One of the salesladies approached me. "Can I help you?" she asked coolly. 

I was standing before a display of peignoirs, surreptitiously glancing toward the fitting room, and I smiled at her, giving her my best sheepish look. "Please? I need to find something for my mom, but … um…" I tried to appear adorably helpless as I gestured toward the short, satin robes. They were beautiful, a shimmering rose pink with matching lace inserts at the neckline, but not something a guy bought for his mother, not even his stepmother. 

She returned my smile with more warmth, now that she knew I wasn’t some pervert who got off fingering ladies’ unmentionables. "Of course. We have some lovely terrycloth robes.” She led me to a table where a headless mannequin was perched, draped in pale aqua. The lapels were decorated with coral-colored, satin appliqués. 

“I like the color of this one very much.” I didn’t say it would bring out the warmth of her eyes; how many college kids paid that much attention to their moms? 

“A nice choice, sir. The size?” 

My brow furrowed as I tried to picture Jill, my father’s petite wife. “Small, I think. This will be perfect.” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Diane Coyne emerge from the fitting room. She was giggling, “Oh, I like the way this one makes me look! Now do you have it in black with a front clasp?” 

How the fuck long was this going to take her? I sighed silently as the woman who was helping me took my money. She put the robe in a bag with the store logo splashed across the side, and handed me my change and the receipt. I walked out to the store across from Victoria’s Secret, watching the entrance through the window’s reflection. 

And I regretted that Mr. Palmer wouldn’t let me kill her. 

**** 

If they made shopping an Olympic sport, she would have taken the gold, no question. By the time she made her way to B. Smith’s, the restaurant on the main floor of the station, it was after five, and my ass was dragging. 

I recognized the man who greeted her at the entrance to the restaurant: Daren Curtin, the shithead who was stupidly making things difficult for the DSD, and by extension for Mr. Palmer.  I was close enough to hear her squeal, “Daren!” She threw herself into his arms, hitting him with her packages, and he grimaced, unseen by her. 

“Hi, DeeDee,” he murmured. “Come on, they’re holding a table for me.” 

While a hostess showed them to their table, I waited patiently at her station, making a note of where they sat. Fortunately, the restaurant wasn’t too crowded, most of the dinner patrons not having arrived. B. Smith’s had just reopened after closing at four to prepare for the evening rush. 

I was led to a table that was a few spots down from where the couple sat perusing a menu and sank down gratefully into my seat. I’d bought a pretzel earlier in the afternoon, but I was starved. The ache in my ass was no longer there, and I found I missed the reminder of what Theo had done to me. My waiter approached with a huge smile, eying my sweatshirt. “You go to Georgetown, man? How cool is that? I’m taking cognitive science there! Maybe… uh… maybe later we could get together to talk about classes? I get off at midnight.” 

“I don’t go to Georgetown,” I told him, putting a touch of regret in my voice. “This shirt is my boyfriend’s.”

He sighed. “Bummer. Can I bring you a beverage?” 

“Ice water with lemon, please?” They had no beer, and I didn’t want to take a chance on wine or one of their specialty drinks. I glanced briefly at the menu, then closed it. “And I’d like the Jambalaya.” 

“Why are all the cute ones taken?” he bemoaned, shaking his head. He took the menu and hurried off to place my order. 

The opening bars of My Heart Will Go On suddenly filled that part of B. Smith’s, and I wondered what fuck had programmed their cell phone to play the sickly sweet love theme from Titanic. Maybe I could find a reason to go to Canada and pay a visit to the singer who had flooded the airwaves with her version of that song. Then I heard Diane Coyne’s rather strident, “Hello?” 

I really regretted Mr. Palmer wouldn’t let me kill her. I listened in, not that I had much choice. She made no effort to lower her voice. 

“Senator Franklin! Is something wrong?”  “You want me where?” “Ooo, Daren! I’m going to be on Senator Franklin’s committee to re-elect!” “Your secretary made my flight arrangements? Already? But I’m having dinner with my… Oh, okay, Senator, I understand you need me there as soon as possible. I’ll go right home and pack, but what about the rest of my things?” “Your secretary will see that everything else is sent? Kewlness! Bye bye.” She snapped her phone shut. “Sweetie, I have to go!” 

I risked a glance at Curtin. He looked as if he’d like nothing better than to shoot her also. 

“Deedles,” he started to protest. “We haven’t even eaten! Can’t you at least…” 

She shook her head and looked around, trying to find their waitress. “Yoo hoo! Miss! I’d like this to go, please!” ‘This’ was the twenty-ounce Porterhouse steak and Asiago-Parmesan mashed potatoes. Curtin’s expression was dark. I’d be pissed too. That sucker was the most expensive item on the menu, and I was willing to bet he had almost swallowed his tongue when she ordered it. He had probably permitted it, hoping to get lucky. 

I wondered if I brought Theo to this place and ordered him the Porterhouse, if I’d get lucky. I’d let him have my ass, and I figured it was my turn to have his. My waiter, who was just placing the Jambalaya in front of me and saw my hungry grin, sighed again. “They’re always taken!” 

**** 

I waited until I was in the Metrorail station before pulling out my cell phone and calling Mr. Palmer. Because it was so early on a Saturday evening, I knew the odds of my conversation being overheard were minimal. Still, I kept it innocuous. 

He answered on the first ring. “Palmer.” 

“Matheson, sir. I’ve finished shopping.” 

“Yes? Our sick friend would love to see what you bought.” 

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” 

On the train ride back to my car, I accessed flight data on my PDA and was interested to see that the only jet out to the Senator’s home state was at 9:45 the following morning. Unless Daren Curtin went over to spend the night with her, it didn’t look as if Diane Coyne would have an opportunity to meet with her lover before she left. 

Would Mr. Palmer want me to listen in to the bugs that had been planted in her apartment, or would he have someone else take care of that? I dismissed the worry. He’d let me know soon enough. Half an hour later I walked into Pretty Boy’s hospital room, to find his bed occupied by an old man with thin, greying hair. A number of people were gathered around his bedside, and they watched as I came to an abrupt halt. “Sorry.” 

I strode to the nurses’ station. “Where’s … Um, the occupant of room 412?” 

“Hmmm? He’s been transferred to a private room, 420. It’s just down the hall.” The ward clerk gestured vaguely in the general direction, and I left while he was on the phone with the pharmacy. “No, I’m telling you, it can’t be a suppository! The medication is supposed to be given orally! Yeah, well, you come up here and administer it, then!” 

I found 420 and entered. It was a long, narrow room with a door about halfway along one wall that opened into the john, which had its own shower. The bed was against the opposite wall. At the far end was a window; the blinds were cracked, and light from the hospital security lights filtered through. The only other illumination was from the television. The four men in the room were staring up at the screen watching Entertainment Tonight. Three of them seemed enthralled, but the fourth watched briefly, then brought his attention back to the door. 

It suddenly hit me that these men were friends of Mr. Palmer’s, that in spite of the lengths he might go to deny it, he would guard them and keep them safe. I tucked that bit of information away, slightly envious. I’d never had a friend who would watch my back like that. 

An actor known for his extremely macho roles spoke with the weekend host. “This movie has a very strong message to impart,” he was saying earnestly about his latest project. “Our young people need to see this. The role our military plays is vital, and I feel very privileged to have been chosen to portray this character.” 

“He’s just so gorgeous,” Spike sighed. “I’d love to have him do me!” 

“I did him!” The man in the bed laughed softly. 

I looked again at the man on the screen.  He didn’t do anything for me. 

A low whistle brought my head around. Theo had seen me and was studying the way I was dressed with interested speculation, and my cock started to harden. “I can get you two and a half bills an hour, right now, no questions asked!” 

“What?” 

“You didn’t need to take me literally, Matheson.” Mr. Palmer’s voice was dry. 

“What? Sorry, sir. Excuse me?” I followed his gaze down to the bags in my hand. I had brought them up to the rentboy’s fourth floor hospital room with me. “Oh, uh…” I could feel the blood rush up into my cheeks.

Just then a resident in green scrubs and white lab coat walked in, flipping on the light switch by the door. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’ll need you to leave for a few minutes. I’m going to check Mr. Stark’s dressing and chest tube.” 

“Mr. who? Oh, Pretty Boy! Um, yes, ma’am.” Spike was reluctant to leave, but Theo shepherded the youngest member of their stable out into the corridor. 

He winked at me in passing. “I like the way you’ve done your hair!” 

The blush had been just starting to recede, and it swept over my cheeks again. 

“Matheson. With me.” I followed Mr. Palmer as he walked out the door and went in the opposite direction. When he was sure we were alone, he nodded and said, “All right. What did you learn?” 

She had fucking weird taste in clothing, is what I’d learned. I shuddered as I thought of The White House/Black Market. The various shades of white had given me a headache, while the blacks had simply depressed me. “Senator Franklin got in touch with her while she was having dinner with the demon spawn.” 

“With who?” 

“Sorry, sir.” But he could see I wasn’t, not really. “Daren Curtin.” I could have spent the day in bed with Theo if it hadn’t been for Daren Curtin. Business was business, but this wasn’t a foreign agency threatening the security of the country; this was a freelance operative fuck who had a personal agenda against the DSD. “Anyway, the Senator is having her flown home tomorrow. She’s at her apartment now packing.” 

“Good work.” Mr. Palmer regarded me contemplatively, examining the jeans, sweatshirt and running shoes, and my slicked back hair, but said nothing about it. He noticed that I was chewing my lip. “Problem, Matheson?” 

“No, sir. Just a question, if you don’t mind?” I took his silence as permission to continue. “What is cognitive science?” 

He looked at me. “You know what science is, don’t you?” 

“Well, yes, sir.” 

“Okay. And cognitive?” 

“Um, something to do with thought?” 

“There you go, then.” Apparently he felt that answered my question. “Take the rest of the night off. I’ll have Browne keep the girl under surveillance.” Mr. Palmer must have seen the confusion in my face, because he smiled, just a lightening of the expression around his eyes. “It’s called delegating, Matheson, and if you live up to your promise, and if you survive, this is what you’ll be doing one day.” He went back to the room. 

Spike was hovering over the man in the bed, who looked a little pale and sweaty. The resident was straightening the sheet that covered Pretty Boy. “Your tube is still draining, Mr. Stark, but your vitals are stable, and I’m sure your doctor will be very pleased with your progress.” She nodded politely. “Good evening, gentlemen.” 

Mr. Palmer walked over to the bed. “I have to leave, Pretty Boy. I’ll be in sometime tomorrow to see you, but I have plans for the afternoon, so I’ll probably be in late.” 

“No, Palm, that’s okay.” He spoke softly, but I had no trouble distinguishing his words.  “You’ve been taking care of so much, it’s all right if you miss a day. If there’s anything I can do to repay you…” His grip tightened on Mr. Palmer’s wrist. “Thank you. Thank you!” 

Mr. Palmer’s hand came up to cover Pretty Boy’s. “You’re welcome. If you really want to do something for me, keep an ear out for a vacant apartment. That fuck of a complex manager is throwing me out!” 

“I should have realized you’d need to look for another apartment. They get kind of testy when you blow up their rentals!” Mr. Palmer looked affronted, and the man in the bed laughed softly, then winced as the sutures in his chest pulled. “Your old apartment above us is for rent again, if you want to take it for a while.” 

“It’s empty, or are you going to evict someone?” 

I looked curiously at Theo, and he edged closer to me. “We own the building. One of our clients was in stocks, and he got us some great tips.” 

“You have money?” I felt my gut clench. I’d been daydreaming of taking Sweetcheeks away from all that, but if he had money, and still peddled his ass… 

His expression became cautious. “Some. I mean, we’re not Trump, or anything, but we do pretty good.” 

“Yeah.” I turned away from him. “Mr. Palmer, is it all right if I leave now?” 

“No.” Flatly, no embellishments. I fumed in silence, but made sure I kept my face blank. “Spike and Sweetcheeks will need a ride home.” He waited until I nodded my reluctant acquiescence. “I’ll most likely accept your offer, Pretty Boy. It took me a long time to find what I was looking for the first time. And DC is even more crowded now. Thanks, Pretty Boy.” He cleared his throat and made a show of looking at his watch. “I want to stop at my place and pack some things. You have my number if you need me. Matheson. Why don’t you display your booty?” 

“Excuse me? Oh, you mean what I bought. Yes, sir. Of course.” I knew I had to be blushing furiously. 

He left, shaking his head. 

Spike looked interested. “You went shopping? Where?” 

“Um, Union Station.” I thrust the bag from Sam Goody’s at him. “Here, you may as well have this.” 

He peered into the bag, then pulled out the CDs. “Metallica? Black Sabbath? Def Leppard?” I was about to apologize. To avoid drawing attention to myself, I’d been browsing the stacks, and selected the groups at random. “Ooh! Twisted Sister! Man, this is so cool! I love the oldies!” 

Pretty Boy laughed at my expression. “Makes you feel old, doesn’t he? What do you say, baby?” 

“Thank you, sir,” the youngest rentboy recited dutifully. That really made me feel old. 

“Don’t mention it,” I mumbled, glad that at least he wasn’t going to offer sex in exchange. 

“What else did you get?” 

They wanted to see what I had purchased? I shrugged and displayed the bathrobe I’d picked out from Victoria’s Secret. Theo admired my taste, but I was still cool to him, and he regarded me curiously. 

“Excuse us a minute, guys.” He pushed me into the bathroom and shut the door behind us. “Okay, Wills, what’s got your shorts in a twist? I thought you were okay with my profession.” 

I looked anywhere but his eyes. “I was. Until I found out you didn’t have to do this!” I ran a hand through my hair, regarding the gel that came off in my palm with distaste. “If you really had to sell your tail to survive, I could accept it, really I could! I wouldn’t like it, but… Look. This is my problem. Just give me some space. I need a couple of days to deal with it, okay?” 

“No. It’s not just your problem, I won’t give you any space, and it’s not okay. It bothers you that much that I do this? Fine. I’ll stop.” 

I blinked in confusion. “Just like that?” 

“No, not just like that.” He waited expectantly. It took a few minutes, but the light finally dawned. Slowly I began to smile. 

“Theo. I don’t want you to hustle any more. Would you please stop?” 

His lips found mine. “Yes,” he sighed against them. He pulled back slightly. “I want you to know something.” 

“What?” I didn’t really care. I had my fingers buried in his hair and nuzzled the line of his throat to his chin. 

“I never… oh, god, that feels good, Wills! I never kissed any of them.” 

“Really? Good. Otherwise I’d have had to go find them and kill them.” He started to laugh, and then his expression froze. “Just kidding,” I murmured, and he relaxed. 

But I wasn't kidding. 

#### 

I was simmering the tomato, onion and butter mixture when I heard the key in the door, and Clark Palmer walked into my house. I glanced at the clock on the wall above the arch that led into the formal dining room. We were both used to working long hours, but this was a Saturday; he had left before eight this morning, and it was almost nine now. 

Over his shoulder was a duffle with fresh clothes, I imagined. In his left hand was a shopping bag, but before I could give it more than cursory attention, I was distracted by what he carried in his right hand: a rather battered sword. I realized it had to be Basil Rathbone’s sword, which had been in a case above his large-screen TV. 

The case had been badly shattered; I had seen that for myself when I’d paid a clandestine visit to Clark’s apartment to see the damage for myself. Never let it be said that the CIA didn’t have a way of opening locked doors that rivaled the DSD. I found it rather telling that of everything he could retrieve, he brought that with him. 

He saw me watching him, and smiled faintly. “I’m just going to bring this up to my room, and then I’ll be right down. What’s for dinner? Something smells really good.” 

I’d told him that morning, when I’d given him a key so he wouldn’t have to continually break into my house, that we’d be eating in, I’d make something. 

“Rigatoni alla Vodka.” I had bought the rigatoni at a small Italian specialty shop in downtown Alexandria. It was made fresh daily; the crushed tomatoes that I was using for the sauce were also fresh. “There’s no rush, I’ll need to add the vodka and simmer this another twenty minutes. Why don’t you have a shower in the meantime?” 

“Good idea.” 

“Clark.” 

“Hmmm?” He paused at the bottom of the stairs, and I was startled by how tired he looked. 

I scrambled for something to say, and finally gestured to the sword. “You ever use that thing?” 

“Not this one, no. But I have fenced.” He raised his right hand carefully, touching a spot just below his left shoulder. “Want a match sometime?” I raised my eyebrow at him. “I’ll spot you half the bouts!” 

“You’re that sure of yourself, Clark?” 

The look he gave me clearly questioned my intelligence. “I’m that good, Clay!” 

I was not about to let him have the last word again. “Clark. Don’t dawdle, or you’ll get what the littlest pig got.” 

He gave me a look over his shoulder and went on up the stairs, but his soft laugh drifted back. 

**** 

Dinner was finished, the dishes rinsed and stacked in the dishwasher; the house was buttoned up tight. Palmer followed me up the stairs, and I could feel his eyes on my ass.  All right, I wondered. Did I invite the DSD agent to spend the night in my bed? Did I drag him into my room after me? 

The question became moot when I opened the door and saw what was laid out on my bed. Another pair of silk pajamas, to replace the pair he had ripped from me. “Clark…” 

He was right behind me. “I told you I’d buy you another pair.” 

I slid my hand around his neck and pulled him close to me. With our lips just a breath apart, I looked into his eyes, the color almost swamped now by the pupils, which had expanded to the point where there was only a slim ring of hazel. There was heat there, fire and passion and...  

He groaned and kissed me, and I was unable to keep my eyes open any longer. His lips grazed over my cheek to my ear, and then down the line of my throat to where my neck and shoulder joined. 

"You promised me long and slow and easy..." I whispered, shivering as my cock swelled. I could feel his cock nudging my groin.
"I did, didn't I?" Clark licked my lips, then stepped back just enough to get his arms between us, gripping the hem of the sweater he wore and pulling it up and off.  "Guess I'll have to keep my promise." 

I worked for State; I was a deputy director of counter intelligence for the CIA. How the fuck did he get me naked and flat on my back on my bed without me being aware of it? The covers had been flung back, and with them went my pajamas. While one hand toyed with my nipples, leaving me shivering and gasping, Clark’s other hand stroked my dick, gently scraping the length with his nails. His teeth worried a patch of skin under my jaw. I was incoherent. 

“Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me how you want it.” 

What I wanted? Him, inside me. Forever. I didn’t even give a thought to how dangerous that could be for me. “Fuck me,” I begged. “Now! Supplies …” I moaned, unable to think where they were. In the night table? In the bathroom? In… 

“Right here, baby.” The next thing I knew, fingers slicked with lube were stroking across my hole, pressing in deeper and deeper with each pass. 

I was sweating and panting and writhing under him, trying to crawl under his skin. He kneed my thighs apart, but it wasn’t far enough for me. I rocked my hips up at the same time that he positioned his cock at the entrance to my body. “Clay, no, not yet!” The flared head slid past my sphincter and all the way in, lodging against my prostate.  We groaned in unison. 

Clark held himself still. He wedged his shoulders behind my knees and laid his weight on my torso, imprisoning my cock between us. But he didn’t move. Minute shivers rippled over my skin. In desperation, I clamped inner muscles down on his dick, rhythmically squeezing it. 

“Fuck, baby! I’m trying to make this last!” 

I bit his chest, and he growled a warning. “Fuck me!” I demanded, and he laughed softly, his breath teasing my ear. 

“Long and slow and easy, Clay.” 

I went a little crazy. I hooked my ankles together, concentrated the way I would when I was setting one of my mounts for a jump, and then rolled. The abrupt movement took Clark by surprise, and I sat astride his hips, feeling his cock deep in my bowels and bit down hard on my lip, just containing a whimper.   

My eyes glittered. “Giddy-up, baby!” I rose up onto my knees, as if I was posting to a trot, and then sank back down. I had always been an Olympic class rider. 

Clark’s responses were highly vocal, but non-verbal. I leaned forward and twined my fingers with his, taking his mouth in kisses that ranged from wild to tender and back again. 

But my control over him was illusory. In a flurry of arms and legs, I found myself on my back again, sprawled beneath him. But this time long and slow and easy had gone out the window. Clark pounded into me as if we were racing toward a finish line, and he poured hot, dark, sexual words into my ear. He freed a hand and got his fingers on my nipple, twisting it with enough force to drag me under and then hurl me into a storm surge of a climax that left me breathless and battered. 

With a shudder, Clark began to come. I could feel his cock pulsing in my passage as he filled the sheath with his hot semen. 

When he finally caught his breath, this time it was Clark who went into the bathroom to dispose of the condom and find a washcloth. I stretched luxuriously as he wiped my body clean. At his urging I turned onto my side, and he examined me for tears. Gently he slapped my rump. “You’re okay.” He went to the switch by the door and snapped off the light. Moonlight spilled into the room. 

“I’m better than okay, Clark. Now hurry up and come back to bed.” I thought I heard him mutter something about ‘pushy CIA’, but then he was climbing in behind me, spooning along the line of my back. One arm slid under my head and pillowed it, while the other wound over my waist, keeping me firm against him. 

“Be nice if we could spend tomorrow morning in bed, doing this again. And again.” 

“I go riding with Mother on Sunday.” 

“Fuck. You’re right.” His grip tightened for a moment, and then relaxed. “You’re right.” He would have turned away from me, but I stopped him. 

“Clark. I don’t have to meet Mother until eleven.” I twisted to face him. “And you promised to go to the museum with me in the afternoon. You’re not going to break your promise, are you?” 

I thought he looked relieved, but the light was so dim that I could have been wrong.  

“I’m DSD, Clay. We never break our promises!” 

“Sure, Clark.” 

His hand cupped my cheek, and he brought my mouth to his. “Clay, I never break a promise.” 

I drew in a deep breath. The lingering odor of our lovemaking was heavy in the bed. I reached for the covers and pulled them over us, and within minutes we were asleep.

~End~

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