------------------------------
Comfort
by Lianne Burwell
August 1998
------------------------------

Birkoff's eyes were glued to the computer monitor. Against the layout of 
the chemical warfare plant, the team was represented with glowing dots. 
Michael's team had successfully gotten through the outer defenses, and 
Nikita's team was waiting outside, in case of trouble.

Michael and his team were almost to the plant's nerve center when 
Birkoff's systems detected the silent alarm.

"Michael," he said into his mike. "You're about to have company."

"Understood," came the cool reply from his headset. Birkoff tapped into 
the security systems to monitor the hostile response. It was going to be 
too much for the Section team, he quickly saw.

"Michael, you have bogies coming up behind you. Five. Twelve more are on 
their way. Abort mission and get your team out of there."

"Understood," Michael repeated.

The dots representing the Section team started to move. Birkoff searched 
the plans looking for a safe way out. Unfortunately, the approaching 
guards had blocked off most of the possible escape routes. He was 
directing Michael and his team along one of the only open routes, while 
the rescue team was heading for the entrance, when he realized something 
he should have seen sooner.

"Michael, it's a trap," he barked into the mike. "They're herding your 
team into a trap. Hold position. Nikita's team is on their way to you. 
You just need to hold where you are for a few minutes, five at most."

"I hear you, Birkoff," Michael said, then there was a flash on the 
screen, and white noise over the headset.

"Michael? Michael! Answer me!" Out of the corner of his eye he could see 
Operations watching him from his office.

"Birkoff."

"Nikita, what happened?"

"There's been an explosion. We're moving into the area."

"Be careful."

Birkoff took a deep breath. Then another. Part of his mind wanted to shut 
down, but he didn't have the time. He had a rescue team to monitor. He was 
*not* to screw up with them as well.

* * * * *

It had been bad. Very bad. The passageway that Michael's team had been 
herded into was mined. As soon as the first operatives hit the middle of 
the rigged area, the bombs had gone off. The operative in the lead had 
been killed instantly. Not even enough remains left to identify. The next 
two had been killed, but were recognizable. Their bodies had been rigged 
to explode by Nikita's team. Never leave identifiable remains behind, if 
possible. Two operatives had been badly injured, too badly to move. A 
bullet between the eyes, and rigged with explosives as well. Of the 
entire team, Michael was the only survivor. He'd been at the very back of 
the group, guarding their escape against the nearly twenty well-armed men 
following them. The explosion had knocked him of his feet, dislocating 
his shoulder and spraining his wrist as he landed on it, but he had been 
mobile.

Several days later, he was healing, but not yet ready to go into the 
field, and the strain was showing.

* * * * *

"You wanted to see me, Madeline?"

"Yes, Birkoff," the auburn-haired woman said. "Come in. Close the door 
behind you."

Birkoff did as he was told, then sat in the one chair facing the 
profiler's desk. He was more than a little nervous. A summons from 
Section's profiler was not a welcome event. He wondered if it was because 
he had failed to see the trap before it was too late to save five Section 
operatives. He waited anxiously for the woman to speak.

"I'm concerned about Michael," she said.

Birkoff had to blink at that. It was not what he had expected to hear.

"He has not taken the loss of his team very well. He is showing signs of 
stress, and his normal outlet of the gym is not available to him. At 
least, not until he is healed enough that he does not risk causing 
himself permanent injury. He needs some... help"

All of the sudden, Birkoff realized where she was headed. She had sent 
Michael, on a handful of occasions, to 'help' *him* when she felt he was 
showing signs of stress. That help had usually taken the form of sex. 
Sometimes he wondered about that. Did she really believe that it was the 
best way to help, or did she monitor the 'therapy' sessions for her own 
amusement? He cut *that* line of thought off quickly. It was just a little 
*too* embarrassing to consider.

"Wouldn't Nikita be a better choice?" he asked, curious. He knew why she 
asked Michael to go to him, but why the other way around as well?

"Nikita just left on a mission. Besides, their current... relationship is 
a stable one. It would be disrupted if they were allowed to become 
lovers. No. The two of you have bedded each other before. You are the 
best choice."

Birkoff nodded, then stood to leave. As he reached the door, Madeline 
spoke again.

"Be careful, Birkoff. Michael is rather... volatile right now."

Birkoff swallowed, then nodded again.

* * * * *

Birkoff knocked on the apartment door, wondering if he really should be 
there, orders aside. He'd never seen Michael loose his temper, but the 
man had been walking on the edge for the last few days since the mission.

Michael was angry about the deaths of his team, but who did he blame? 
Himself? Section? Or Birkoff? He didn't have time to reconsider before 
the door opened.

Michael looked like hell. Well, actually he didn't, but the signs were 
disturbing to anyone who knew the man. The shadows under the eyes. The 
slightly puzzled expression. No one would look twice, out on the streets, 
but Birkoff was worried. As well, the normally well-dressed man was 
wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that looked like they'd 
been pulled out of a discard pile, ripped and threadbare.

"Madeline sent you," was the blunt statement. He nodded.

"Leave, Birkoff."

"No."

Michael stepped forward, one hand raised, and Birkoff flinched back, but 
refused to leave. Michael turned, and went back into the apartment. 
Birkoff slipped through the door, locking it behind himself. He tossed 
his jacket over the back of a chair, then followed Michael into the 
kitchen.

There was a bottle of alcohol open on the counter, and a half-filled glass 
next to it. Michael picked it up, looked into the amber liquid, then put 
the glass down without taking a sip. Birkoff gave a little sigh of relief 
at that. At least Michael wasn't drunk.

"You shouldn't be here."

Birkoff quickly ran through strategies in his mind. He decided to go for 
the most direct. "Why not? Because you want to have a wallow by yourself? 
Or because it's my fault that they died?" Suddenly needing a little Dutch 
courage himself, he snatched up Michael's glass and took a swallow. He 
gave a small gasp as the alcohol burned its way down his throat, then 
waited for Michael's response.

Michael shuddered, a full-bodied shudder, the way a horse does when a fly 
lands on its skin. A thoroughbred, of course. Birkoff held still, waiting 
for Michael to blow up.

"I don't blame you, Birkoff," Michael said, finally. "I was the team 
leader. I should have realized that it was a trap. It was my fault that 
five valuable operatives died."

"I was the one who could see the whole picture. I should have known that 
it was a trap the moment I realized that there was only one open path. 
I've monitored enough missions over the years to see a trap. I should 
have noticed it sooner, said something sooner." Birkoff was getting 
angrier and angrier. Why didn't Michael see that it wasn't his fault? It 
was Birkoff's fault.

Then he deflated. No wonder Madeline wanted him to do this. Michael 
wasn't the only one who was in pain over the disaster. They *both* needed 
this.

He walked over to the counter where Michael stood, facing away from him. 
He wrapped his arms around the bigger man's chest and felt the man tense 
up.

"No, it wasn't your fault or mine," he said, working to convince himself, 
as well as Michael. "We did the best we could, with what we had. You need 
to let go of it, Michael. We both do. Please, let me help."

He rubbed Michael's stomach, through the fabric of the t-shirt. Not 
trying to start anything, yet. Just being comforting. He rubbed his cheek 
against the stiff, muscular back. Suddenly he felt very tired. He hadn't 
slept well, himself, since the disastrous mission.

For long minutes, they just stood there, neither of them making any 
further moves. Then Michael gave a barely audible sigh, and the tension 
started to drain from his body. He turned in Birkoff's arms.

"Bir..."

Birkoff reached up and stopped the words with a finger to Michael's lips. 
Then he pulled the other man's head down a couple inches so that he could 
kiss him. It was a gentle kiss, a brotherly sort. Then, gradually he 
deepened it, slipping his tongue into Michael's mouth, then coaxing the 
other man's tongue back into his. 

Finally, he pulled away. "Bed," he said in a soft voice.

Michael just looked at him for a moment, then turned and walked away. 
Birkoff followed him as he led the way to the bedroom. Michael discarded 
his few clothes, then stood waiting.

Birkoff quickly stripped his own clothes off, then pushed Michael 
backwards, onto the bed. Flat on his back, the other man reached for him, 
but Birkoff gently took the wrists and pressed them into the bedspread, 
careful of the injured arm.

"No," he said. "Let me do this for you." The only response was a nod.

Satisfied, Birkoff went to work. His sexual experience was sketchy, to 
say the least. Once with Borne. A handful of times with Michael. A 
handful more with Gail, before she had decided that she wanted someone 
more... exciting. But Birkoff had an active fantasy life, and he indulged 
himself by doing all the things he had fantasized an unidentified lover 
doing to him.

Soft kisses were pressed against Michael's face. The brow, eyelids, 
cheeks, neck and lips were all given attention, eventually resulting in a 
sigh, and an even greater relaxation in the body beneath his. Gradually 
he worked his way down, raining more kisses on the firm flesh, decorated 
with scars.

When he reached the chest, he rubbed his cheek against the soft, almost 
invisible hairs that decorated it. Then he turned his attention to the 
nipples. He licked them, delicately, then blew air across them, watching 
them harden at the sensation. Then he fastened his lips around them, 
suckling softly, then nipping with his teeth. His actions were rewarded 
with a gasp, and an arching that pressed the nubs harder against his lips.

Eventually, he left them, and drifted south again, nibbling at the hard 
muscles of the flat stomach, and dipping his tongue into the navel they 
surrounded, resulting in a most undignified giggle from the 'man made 
from ice'. He paused, surprised at the reaction, then moved his fingers 
in a gentle glide across the ribcage. The result was a buck upwards, 
almost dislodging him, and a laugh.

Who would have guessed that Michael, the man feared by so many, was 
ticklish? Birkoff proceeded to take advantage of that knowledge, and soon 
Michael was writhing in his grasp, unable to stop laughing. Finally, the 
man retaliated, and Birkoff was pinned to the mattress, with a breathless 
Michael holding him down.

"No more ticking," Michael said. The first words he'd spoken since they'd 
come into the bedroom. The grief/anger so evident before was nowhere in 
his voice.

"No more tickling," Birkoff promised.

"And you tell no one." A faint tinge of menace.

"Just between us," Birkoff said with a smile. Besides, this knowledge was 
too valuable to spread around.

Obviously satisfied with the answer he had been given, Michael moved 
back, and let Birkoff maneuver him back into the position he'd been in 
before. Michael's erection had faded somewhat during the tickle fight, 
but Birkoff was able to quickly coax it back to life.

Bending his head, Birkoff started to lick at the hardened piece of flesh 
he held. With the tip of his tongue, he followed the path of the veins 
that ran along the full length of Michael's cock. Once he had explored 
every part of the surface, he tongued the slip at the tip, tasting the 
fluid gathering there, then rolled his lips ever his teeth, and slowly 
descended down on the erection.

He hadn't tried this, very often, but Michael responded quickly. He was 
on the razor's edge, and he soon grabbed onto Birkoff's skull, finding 
little purchase in the short hair, and thrust upwards, flooding Birkoff's 
mouth.

Michael subsided, melting into the mattress, and let go of Birkoff. He 
pulled away, gasping slightly. Michael pulled him up level, and brushed a 
hand across his face.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

It was inevitable that Michael would feel guilty about losing control. 
Birkoff silenced Michael with a kiss, then wrapped his arms around the 
man. His own erection was pressed against the other man's hip, but he 
held himself still, waiting for a sign from Michael. This was for him.

A few moments later he got that sign, when Michael rolled over to open 
the bedside table's drawer. He pulled out a familiar-looking tube and a 
condom and handed them to Birkoff.

Birkoff nodded, then rolled Michael onto his side. He wanted to take this 
slowly, but he was too needy by that point. Using the lubricant, he 
loosened Michael up, then rolled on the condom and coated himself, trying 
to keep from coming at the touch. Then he pushed his way in, one slow 
push.

Michael pushed back. "Harder," he said.

"No." Birkoff pulled back, then slowly pushed in again, biting his lip.

Michael might think he wanted it rough, but this wasn't supposed to be 
about what Michael wanted, but what he *needed*. Instead, Birkoff kept 
his movements slow and gentle. He didn't want this to be just sex. He 
wanted to express his... fondness for Michael. The friendship that had 
grown between them over the years. They'd both worked for Section for a 
long time, and Section did not like personal relationships, at least not 
involving field operatives. His relationship with Gail had been allowed, 
since they were both support.

But he... liked Michael. And he found he liked spending time with the man.

And he liked the way the man was reacting. The soft cries as he thrust, 
the feel of the resurgent erection against his stroking palm. He held 
onto his tenuous control until Michael climaxed again, and let it carry 
him away at the same time.

As he fell asleep, Birkoff wrapped his arms around his companion, feeling 
unusually protective. It was a nice feeling.

* * * * *

Several hours later, Michael woke. As usual, he was instantly aware of 
where he was, and who he was with.

Michael propped himself up on one arm, leaning over his bedmate. Asleep, 
Birkoff looked even younger than he was, deceptively frail. As he 
shifted, one of the young man's arms came around his waist to pull him in 
closer. He brushed his hand over the velvety-soft scalp. Idly, he 
wondered what Birkoff might look like with longer hair, what it would 
feel like between his fingers. Maybe shoulder-length, the same as his.

Birkoff sighed in his sleep, and cuddled a little closer. He pulled back, 
squashing the momentary lapse into sentimentalism. He would have to talk 
to Madeline. If this kept up, Birkoff would begin to form an emotional 
attachment to him, one that could be inconvenient.

Yes. He would talk to Madeline.

Soon. But not yet. Later.

THE END