Title: A Tequila Sort of Day

Author: Anne Higgins

Fandom: JAG

Paring: Harm Rabb/Clayton Webb

Rating: NC17

Category: Mac-Got-Married AU, First Time

Archive: Yes, to this list's archives. All others, please ask.

Disclaimers: Not mine.

Warnings: Mildly kinky, but for crying out loud, the guy's name is Harm!

Summary: In this version of the universe, there was nothing wrong with Harm's tomcat as he flew back to DC, so he didn't go splash and the wedding happened. Harm goes off to sulk afterwards.

Note: I want to think Gail for helping me discover the joys of Webb through both her stories and her correspondence. While my idea of Webb decided to be very different from hers, he wouldn't exist at all if not for Gail.

A Tequila Sort of Day
By Anne Higgins

'Terrific.' Commander Harmon Rabb glared at the torrent of rain separating him from the refuge of his car. He either got soaked or went back to the reception. No real choice. He'd felt more at ease in the middle of a hostile country than he did at his best friend's wedding. Of course, the other guests could have taught the Iraqi government a thing or two about constant surveillance.

He would have sworn there was never a moment - including during the ceremony - when at least a dozen eyes weren't tracking his every twitch. And if there hadn't been a collective sigh of relief when he'd not spoken up after the 'does anyone here object' bit, he'd eat his gold wings.

A particularly sappy song sounded from the room he'd abandoned. He shuddered, convinced himself the rain had let up enough and made a run for freedom. Five seconds later he had more in common with a drowned rat than a naval officer, but he was safely inside the refuge of his car. Finally, he could relax. He sighed with relief as the 'yes, I am having a wonderful time' smile he'd held for the last three hours slid from his face. Face felt almost frozen, but the current ache in his muscles was far better than the worried looks he'd gotten whenever he'd slipped his expression into neutral. Although it hadn't saved him from yet another fight with Renee. He was making his escape from her as much as from the reception. Hell of a place to end a relationship, but at least it was over. He couldn't take any more paranoia about his relationship with Mac.

What was the problem, damnit? Mac had made her decision and she could damned well live with it. 'And that attitude might be why every one was waiting for you to screw things up.' Harm glowered at himself. His inner voice, Renee and the other guests were all on the wrong track. He'd had more than one opportunity to upset the nuptials of Sarah Mackenzie and Mic Brumby. Hell, if he'd done what he wanted to and stayed on the Seahawk for another couple of days, his absence at the wedding would probably have been enough to make the already commitment-shy bride do something worth canceling the wedding over.

Having made the ultimate sacrifice for Mac -- giving up extra flight time -- he thought he'd earned some slack in the 'will he or won't he mess things up' betting pool. Well, he'd fooled everyone. Not that he didn't think Mac had made a huge mistake. Six months, a year tops and he figured Mic would head for the proverbial hills. Fine. He'd comfort the abandoned wife, endure the fresh round of gossip it would provoke, but he was not going through this again.

'Next time she gets married, I'm staying out of town.' A flash of lightening and a particularly loud boom of thunder made him narrow his eyes. It seemed even Mother Nature was warning him not to rock the marital bliss boat. 'Right. They'll live happily ever after. Got the message.'

Just in case he hadn't, the downpour turned into a torrent, making it damned difficult to see the road. He sighed, knowing he shouldn't be driving in his state. He wasn't drunk, but he'd had a scotch to start the evening and his head was a very busy place tonight. And speaking of a drink, he could sure use one.

A left and two rights got him that much closer to home, but it really was difficult to see, and O'Malley's Pub was on the next block. Warm food, cold beer and enough cash in his wallet to call a cab when he got bored.

Decision made, he parked the car and made another fast dash through the rain. He shed most of the wet cloth weighing him down by taking off his overcoat and cover, but his shoes would never be the same. Had doubts about the trousers, too. Still his dry cleaner had gotten a lot worse than muddy water out of his dress whites.

"Bowl of your vegetarian chili," he ordered, sitting down at the bar and unfastening the top few buttons of his uniform. Ah, bliss. "And a shot of tequila."

'Uh oh, time to go.'

"Lime and salt?"

'No, changed my mind, have to leave.' "Yeah," he answered, ruthlessly squashing his inner voice. It was on the wrong track tonight anyway. He was here to sit out a cloud burst. Maybe mourn losing the girl. (Although opinions differed on which one.) And eat. The wedding lunch
hadn't come close to filling him up and the cake hadn't appealed any more than the argument Renee had served with it. He happened to like tequila with chili. 'Among other things.' Shut. Up. He'd lost Mac. The woman everyone, including Renee, was certain was the love of his life. Surely such a situation called for too much to drink. 'Then drink bourbon or beer. Anything besides tequila.'

Harm scoffed at himself. He refused to be intimidated by a liquor. Even if it might be smarter- 'Oh, all right!' He opened his mouth to change his order, but the bartender set a shot glass in front of him.

Providence. Harm approved and slammed back the first shot before his conscience could interfere with his logic. 'Damn, that was good.' He loved tequila. Didn't know why two unfortunate incidents should keep him from drinking it.

"You want another?" the bartender asked?

Harm nodded. Why not? He was celebrating. Mourning. He meant mourning. He'd lost Mac. She'd taken a good hard look at him and had the sense to move on. Definitely cel- mourning. "And keep 'em coming."

*

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, four. Harm began to track the evening by the number of shot glasses in front of him. He found it amusing in a way. Who needed Mac and her incredible sense of time when there were more concrete ways of placing things?

The chili came between shot glass two and three. He finished it between four and five. At just past six, he stopped mourning and started studying his surroundings for companionship, but the pickings were slim.

Around halfway to his mouth on number seven, Lieutenants Bud Roberts and Harriett Sims invaded his sanctuary. Just what he needed, another happily married set of colleagues.

The annoying duo kept him from drinking number eight and insisted on consoling him. He tried to tolerate it with good grace. They meant well, but they kept at it until the tequila buzz threatened to wane. Damn, his metabolism anyway.

He snapped when the bartender set a cup of coffee in front of him. "Look, I appreciate the effort, but it's wasted. I like tequila. Go pester some bourbon drinker." His mind raced through a list of bourbon lovers who might be in mourning over the lovely Mac no longer being available. He grinned as a suitable candidate leapt to mind.

*

Clayton Webb gave momentary thanks to the joys of an attached garage and walked into his condo without so much as a faint dampness clinging to him. Reason number 306 for being glad he hadn't gone to the wedding.

He took off his dry overcoat and poured himself an equally dry glass of white wine to toast his wisdom. Instead of sitting through a tedious ceremony and a dull reception, he had gone into the office.

Attached garage to parking garage. And he'd had to work. On a Saturday. He often did. Nature of his job. Any day, any hour, he could be working. It was the excuse he'd given Mac when he'd declined attending the reception. At the last minute he'd decided it was a good enough reason to avoid the wedding itself as well. He'd had to work.

A few hours going through files on a situation brewing. A minor one. It could have waited until evening or the next day, but he'd reminded himself minor problems could become major ones, and headed for the office instead of the church. As it turned out the minor situation had turned into a non-situation even as he'd read up on it. So he came home. Shoes dry. Clothes as neat and clean as when he'd left.

And he hadn't had to avoid watching Harm pretending his heart wasn't breaking. Reason number one for not playing friend of the bride. Clay didn't avoid knowing that. Lies were something he used as weapons against others. He didn't tell them to himself.

He wanted Harm. Why wouldn't he? Harm was a handsome man with a smile that had a habit of making Clay's knees weak. He was also one annoying son of a bitch. No one got under his skin like Commander Rabb did. Given the long list of slimy politicians and despotic lackeys Clay dealt with in the course of any given day, that was saying a lot.

Clay figured it was the best indicator he had of how close he was to doing something stupid like falling in love. He did think he wasn't quite there. He knew the important things about Harm. His code of behavior, how he upheld it, when he could count on Harm being for him and when he would be against him.

Thanks to CIA efficiency and Harm's tendency to get into trouble, Clay had even read through a dossier full of details about Harm's life that the man himself had probably forgotten. But their encounters hadn't given him the luxury of discovering the little things about Harm in their own time.

That's where love came from. Knowing what Harm's favorite restaurant was because he always conned Clay into taking him there, not because he'd read about it. Among other things. No, Harm's file was definitely not the stuff of fantasies. Or at least not Clay's. Those tended to revolve around one of their shouting matches taking an interesting turn.

He smiled slightly. Never certain which he enjoyed the most - the sex or the idea of getting the last word. Shaking his head at himself, he headed for the bedroom to change. Contrary to popular belief, he did not lounge around his house in a suit. He wouldn't even wear one to the office on Saturdays if it wasn't for the problem of impromptu calls to brief VIPs, including the President, at the most inconvenient times. Easier to wear a suit than to second guess things.

Almost to prove to himself he could do casual, he was eyeing his scruffiest set of sweats when the phone rang. He signed. So much for the non-situation. Must have managed to warm up again. He flipped open his cell phone and answered, "Webb."

"Claaaayyyy."

He blinked, his mind briefly seizing up at trying to place the voice with the tone, but no, that did sound like -- "Harm?"

"Yeah. Got some people need you."

Slur. Sing-song lilt. Drunk. "Harm, where are you?"

"O'Malley's. Ya comin'?"

He jerked his Dockers off the hanger and pulled them on. "Harm, why are you drunk?"

"Celebratin'."

Celebrating? "You're supposed to be at a wedding."

Harm made a sound of disgust. "Did the friend thing long enough. Want to do the tequila thing now."

Tequila? Wasn't that what- Oh, shit. "Harm, listen to me. You have to stop drinking."

"Don't want to. I. Am. Tequila!" Giggles followed the proclamation.

Clay juggled the phone as he yanked on a dark blue sweatshirt. "Damnit, Harm, you're too close to home." Hell, given he'd been to a wedding he was probably still in his uniform. "You can't do this."

"Want to."

Given the shoe-killing weather outside, he pulled on trainers instead of his expensive leather loafers, then snatched up his London Fog and ran for his car. "Harm-"

"Don't want to talk to you. Talk to bourbon drinkers."

"What? Harm? Don't hang up!" Busy cursing how long it took an automatic garage door to open, he almost jumped when a different voice answered him.

"Mr. Webb?"

"Lt. Simms?" Maybe the situation wasn't as bad as he thought. Good thing. The rain hit his car like a wall of water. No way he could race to the rescue this time.

"Yes, sir."

"What the hell is going on?" he asked, switching his phone over to the speaker option. Both hands on the wheel tonight.

"I'm not sure, sir. Commander Rabb let early, so when Bud and I saw his car in the parking lot, we thought we should check on him."

Just in the nick of time from the sound of things.

"He started talking about how we didn't need to worry because he's drinking tequila and he'd get us a bourbon drinker to fuss over. Then he called you"

Clay's head hurt. This was worse than one of his mother's ciphers, but he thought he had the jest of Rabb's little code. "All right, I'm on my way. Just stay with him until I get there."

"We'll try, sir, but-"

"Lt., I don't care if you have to do a lap dance for him. Keep him there!" he snapped, then hung up on her, so he could concentrate on his driving.

Damn, this weather. And damn Harmon Rabb and his lousy sense of timing. Of all nights to decide to peek out of his precious closet. Its existence was in the file Clay disliked so much. Twice when away from DC, Harm had celebrated the end of a case by getting smashed on tequila. Both times he'd ended up taking a man back to his hotel to continue the party.

The rest was supposition, but the most likely scenario was something the don't ask/don't tell boys wouldn't approve of. Neither did Clay. He'd never had much interest in closets or using women to hide behind. Although he had to admit Harm had seemed legitimately upset the few times Clay had been around to witness the end of one of his heterosexual relationships.

Odds were good Harm was so deeply in denial he really didn't know what was going on inside his head. Clay really wasn't up to being the one to make him face reality. Although he wouldn't mind being the one to come along a year or two later.

He sighed. This night was not going to go well. Not many times he could say this, but tonight he was in over his head. A pity about that 'almost in love' thing. Otherwise he might have been able to spend the night with a good book and let Harm's denial hit the proverbial fan full force. Might have even been able to enjoy helping him pick up the pieces somewhere along the line. Shit.

Almost as if to confirm his dire predictions for the evening, the phone rang again. He sighed heavily and switched on the speaker. "Webb."

"I'm sorry, sir," Lt. Simms told him. "But he wants to go to some tequila bar, and well-"

His mind flashed to the image of Lts. Roberts and Simms trying to stop a man Harm's size from doing something he was determined to do. Not a pretty picture. Or a potentially successful one.

Shit. "All right, Lt. Give the phone to him, and if he doesn't hang up on me, you and your husband can go."

"Sir? I don't think-"

"Not the best of nights for thinking, Lt. Just do it."

"Yes, sir."

He could hear the muffled sounds of arguing while he had a fight with himself over the rank stupidity of what he was about to do. Still not too late to head home to that good book..

"What?" Harm's voice snapped through the speaker.

Clay did not believe he was going to do what he was about to do. "I drink tequila, Harm." Yeah, he did it.

A moment of silence, then, "You do?"

"All the time. Never drink anything else."

Another pause. "Lying."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes. Saw the photo."

"Photo?"

"Blonde."

Oh, her. "My first cousin." His mother had taken it upon herself to put the framed photo in his home while he was playing dead. They'd both known others would search his condo, and she wanted to play a few games herself. "Not a girlfr- a glass of bourbon. I've never had a taste for
that."

"Really?"

"Really. And I." Oh, shit. "I like your smile."

"You do?"

He sighed again. "Yes."

"Good."

Arrogant bastard. Why was he doing this again? "Harm, are the lieutenants still around?"

"Yes."

"We need to get rid of them if we're going to talk about drinking."

"How?"

"Promise to wait for me."

"Don't want to."

"Me or Bud, Harm," Clay reminded him, then flinched at the implication.

Fortunately, Harm's thoughts slipped into the same gutter. "Don't want Bud."

"Me, then."

"Umm, okay."

Such enthusiasm could man's head swell, but only if he was beating it against a brick wall. "Say it."

A gusting sigh, then, "Okay, I'll be a good boy and wait for you."

"Promise."

"I promise I'll wait for you."

God, if that wasn't the sort of statement to build a rich fantasy life around, Clay didn't know what was.

Again he was treated to a muffled conversation, then, "They're going."

Clay didn't know whether to be annoyed at their stupidity or pleased by the trust Harm's friends placed in him. "Order yourself a cup of coffee, Harm. I should be there in thirty minutes." More like twenty, but better to over-estimate than under.

"No coffee," he answered, then Clay heard him order another shot of tequila.

"Harm, you don't need to drink anymore."

"Have to. Go back to bourbon if don't."

Knowing it would only make him hang up, he resisted the urge to suggest that might be for the best. Instead, he kept Harm talking for the rest of the drive. Nonsense conversation about drinking and smiles, nothing that could get either of them into much trouble if overheard or, worse, monitored.

Harm had two more shots while they talked and was downing a third when Clay walked in. Anyone else would have undoubtedly passed out by then. But Harm was a big man with an athlete's metabolism. He could get away with a lot more.

Clay paid the bar tab, then took hold of Harm's elbow. "Come on, I'll get you home."

Bleary, yet bright eyes looked up at him, then Harm rose with the gentle tug Clay gave his arm. Conscious or not, his charge was none too steady on his feet. Too drunk for most men to perform.

Clay didn't know whether to be relieved or not. Then again, Harm had probably managed both the sex and convenient blackouts twice before.

He cursed when they got outside. Things had gone from downpour to monsoon in the few minutes it had taken him to run from the car to the bar. "Can't say I care much for your timing, Harm."

Harm pressed up against him then purred, "Go back inside? Take me over the bar."

Not an image Clay needed. He tightened his grip on Harm and resigned himself to getting soaked. "Come on. Maybe the rain will sober you up."

No such luck. A drunk, wet Harm was as amorous as a dry one. Not the best development given the state of the roads. Twice Clay had to slap a wandering hand off his thigh. The third time it started toward his groin, he snapped, "Damnit, Rabb, hands off! You want to get us both killed?"

Harm glared at him. "Fine. Get out here," he declared and tried to open the door.

Clay rolled his eyes and let Harm keep himself occupied with figuring out how to unlock the door. Not possible since Webb had tripped the master lock. The button on his door was the only one that would work until he decided otherwise.

Thirty minutes later he pulled into Harm's allocated parking spot outside of his apartment building. Clay sighed and took a moment to stretch his neck and shoulders. Didn't do much for the tension caused by driving when no sane person would be on the roads. Head hurt too. It
didn't put him in the best of moods when Harm poked him.

"Let me out!"

He should. Just unlock the door and let him go. Harm was a big boy. Drunk or not, he had the right to make his own decisions. Clay could go home and climb into a snifter of brandy. Of course that would mean more driving in the rain. He'd had more than enough of that for one night.

Trusting his drunken passenger couldn't manage the seatbelt before he could make it around the other side of the car, he tripped the lock. Bracing himself, Clay stepped out into the cold rain one more time.

He ended up having to open the door and release the seatbelt. Harm let him help him out, but tried to pull away once he'd gotten to his feet. "Let go!"

Clay obliged, and Harm staggered. Despite his worst instincts, Clay caught hold of him before he could fall on his ass. "Inside," he shouted over the rain. "Now!"

Leaning on him, but grumbling all the way, Harm obeyed and didn't try to pull away again until they were inside Harm's apartment.

This time when Harm jerked, Clay let him hit the carpet.

He ignored the indignant sputters coming from the floor and turned his attention to getting rid of the wet clinging to him. Coat, shoes and socks off. Needed a towel next and Harm had to have something around here he could wear while his pants dried.

The towel was easy enough and rooting around located a pair of sweatpants with elastic around the ankles and a drawstring at the waist. Wouldn't win him any fashion awards, but it was dry and wouldn't drag on the floor. Just his luck to play knight-in-shining armor to a guy who was bigger and taller.

His own comfort seen to, he decided his 'damsel' needed looking after and snagged another towel.

Harm was still in the middle of the floor where he'd left him, but he'd managed to sit up and had drawn his legs up to his chest. His head was resting on his knees, and he didn't bother to lift it when Clay squatted next to him.

"Come on, Harm, let's get you dry," Clay said, draping the towel around Harm's neck.

"Go 'way."

"Harm, I'm not in the mood for this."

"Don't care. Lied to me."

It was tempting to admit he hadn't and let things happen, but even if the rain hadn't cooled Harm's libido, it had restored Clay's common sense. To use Harm's metaphor, Clay wasn't a casual drinker. He practiced the same serial monogamy with men Harm did with women. Only it wasn't Clay's repressed sexuality that kept ruining his relationships. It was his job. Bad hours, long unexplained absences and uncertainty about his fate weren't what most people looked for in a mate. Pity Rabb was so deeply entrenched in that closet. It hadn't missed Clay's notice they were well suited for one another. And he did love Harm's smile.

"Sorry about that, Rabb," he said, heading for the kitchen area. Time for something hot to get the damp out of his bones. "But you'll thank me in the morning."

"Won't remember in the morning."

"That's convenient," he muttered, getting out a cup and a bag of herbal tea. 'Manners, Clay.' He could almost hear his mother's voice. "You want anything?"

"Yes."

"Coffee, tea or hot chocolate?" he asked listing the choices he found in the cupboard.

"Tequila," came the answer, and Clay whirled around at the sound of a cabinet opening.

Harm toasted him with a bottle of the blasted stuff, then took a big swig of it.

Clay was across the room in an instant. "Give me that."

"No. Mine." He hugged the bottle close to his chest.

"Damnit, Rabb."

A sly look Clay had learned to dread snaked across Harm's face. "Trade for kiss."

Shit. "Thought we agreed I'm a lying, bourbon drinker."

"S'okay. Me, too. Most of time. Kiss."

"Just give me the bottle."

Harm shook his head, then took another swig.

"Damnit, Harm, don't make me hurt you."

Harm laughed. Stupid sap actually seemed to think the differences in their sizes gave him an advantage. All it meant was Clay would have to do some damage to win. Not something he was normally willing to do, but he didn't want Harm to keep drinking. At best he'd have a sick roommate for the night. At worst they could end up in the ER getting Harm's stomach pumped. And Clay did not want to go out again.

"I mean it, Harm. Give me the bottle or things are going to get nasty."

"Watcha gonna do? Spank me?"

"Don't tempt me," was out of his mouth before he could think to hold his tongue.

Harm smirked. "Like to see you try."

As quickly and easily as Harm tended to get under his skin, Clay might have fallen for it, but the sly look was back. Thing was, it was equally clear that Harm wasn't going to give up.

Clay would have to spend the rest of the evening trying to keep Harm at bay and his own temper in check. Couldn't really see that happening. "Is that what you want me to do, Harm?" he asked, running his finger along Harm's jaw. "Spank you?"

Harm nodded. "Dream about it. Get you mad and you," his voice trailed off, but he looked lost in a dream.

He leaned close and caressed Harm's ear with his lips. "I've had that dream. Frequently."

Harm grinned. "Fight a lot."

"We do."

"Sorta like you, you know."

"I sort of like you, too."

"Enough to share a dream?"

Clay had to smile, then he pressed his lips to Harm's temple. "Dreams can disappoint."

Harm shrugged. "Won't know unless we try."

"Well argued, councilor," Clay muttered.

The cocky grin he was so familiar with lit up Harm's face. "Even better when sober."

"Hmm. On your hands and knees, Commander."

"Yes, sir," he whispered, his long body unfolding, then shifting around into the requested position.

Clay's mouth went dry at the sight of one gorgeous ass being offered up to him. "You drive me crazy, you know that Rabb?" He reached around and unfastened Harm's trousers.

"Mmm, it's fun."

"Always make me do things the hard way."

"Best way."

Clay gave him a swat and Harm jerked at the impact. A tug pulled trousers and underwear down around Harm's thighs. Clay had to take a second to admire the view, then he went back to the game. "Your way."

"'s what I said."

He used the flash of irritation to guide him and landed a fast succession of blows on Harm's ass. Red flesh and a squirming body rewarded him. He paused a moment, giving Harm time to reconsider.

Instead Harm shoved his hips backward asking for more.

His hand smacked downward again. "Always so quick to demand what I shouldn't give."

"Want to."

"Yes, whatever Harmon Rabb wants he gets."

"No. You want." His voice was a ragged gasp, but it was the words not the sound that made Clay frown.

His hand didn't let up. "No, I don't."

"Yes. I'm .excuse."

"I know my duty."

"Price too high some. times."

He stopped and pulled Harm around to look at him. A beautiful tear-streaked face stared at him. "What are you saying?"

Harm whimpered and clung to him. Clay petted him, soothed him, but he also insisted, "Harm, answer me."

"Better hate me, than self."

It didn't work that way. Clay lost more sleep over the extra risks he took to appease Harm than the difficult choices his job often forced him to make. But it touched him Harm worried about him. He shook his head. Sometimes even a spy could miss the obvious. "Harm, how long have you been in love with me?"

He snuggled closer.

"Harm?"

"Don't when 'm sober."

"And when you're drunk?"

"Stupid bow tie."

Bow tie? The only time he wore those was with a tux or when he took his mother dancing. Memory stirred with the body squirming in his arms. "Harm, you don't mean way back when the Admiral was taken hostage in his office, do you?"

"So cute."

But that was only the second time they'd crossed paths. "You feel things too quickly."

"Always there when need you."

True enough, even if it usually was against his better judgment. "I'm not the only one."

"Love all of them. Tie made me want you."

Clay smiled, understanding enough to feel reassured. Want, need, love and tequila were all mixed up inside Harm's head. He pressed a kiss to the dark hair. "How about we go to bed?"

"Gonna make love to me?"

"Yes."

Harm shivered and held on tighter.

"What's wrong?"

"Scared."

Made sense. Harm had never been with a man he knew. The answer as well as the problem. "You won't remember."

"Oh, yeah." Harm smiled and let Clay get them both to their feet. There ended his helpfulness. He wanted to kiss and cuddle all the way to the bed, making it difficult to get him stripped off. Typical. 'Rabb wants and Webb makes the best of it.'

Clay guessed he had been telling himself a small, but important lie. He wasn't on the brink of falling in love with Harm. Somehow he'd fallen a long time ago. Maybe as long ago as when Harm thought he was dealing with some blowhard from State and still set aside his pride to ask for help. Even if he had masked in extortion.

Clay used lotion to prepare his way, and muscles made slack with alcohol accepted him easily enough. "Damn, you, Rabb," he whispered as Harm writhed beneath and around him.

"Harder." He whimpered each time Clay pushed into his battered ass, but on every backstroke Clay, Harm tried to follow. Gave every impression of a man who wanted to keep Clay inside him forever.

It was exhausting thought. Clay had to go at him harder than he normally liked it. Even with his flesh sensitized by a through spanking, it was obvious subtlety was lost on Harm's pickled nerves. Clay got him off through stamina and a very determined assault on Harm's prostate.

When Harm finally came, Clay's own climax was as much collapse as release. 'How romantic,' he thought panting against the larger body sprawled beneath him.

Harm shifted dislodging Clay's spent cock, then squirmed around until he could cuddle up against Clay.

A deep, hard kiss made Clay force open eyes he would have sworn were set on staying closed for at least a week. "What?" he demanded once his lips were freed.

"Love you."

"Right. Love you, too. Did you want salt and lime with your tequila?"

Harm shook his head, then curled around enough to use Clay's shoulder as a pillow. "Staying?"

Clay found the energy to give the window and the rain pounding the street beyond a pointed look. "I am not going out into that again."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Won't remember in the morning."

"You've mentioned that a couple of times."

"You'll be here to remind me."

Clay groaned. Now there was a something forward to - dragging a naval officer out of his closet. No doubt kicking and screaming all the way. He sighed. If nothing else, it should prove very interesting.

End