Title: Facing it all

Author/pseudonym: Gail

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Harmon Rabb/Clayton Webb

Rating: NC-17

Status: new/complete

Archive: WWOMB, CKOS, Rareslash Archive yes. Everyone else please ask first.

Series/Sequel: Harm's side of the Equinox series by Mareen, just after part 3.

Disclaimers: Neither of these characters belong to me. They belong to CBS and Belisarius Productions. I'm just borrowing them, and they'll be fine when they come back, with no memory of this at all.

Notes: The dialogue is taken entirely from Parts 2 & 3 of the Equinox series by Mareen, without whom there would be no story. Thank you.

Facing It All

by Gail

I can't figure out what to do next. And there's no one I can talk to. Not even him. He made that clear that night. Maybe if I went over to his place...but that's just hoping somehow he'll make it easy for me. And I don't really deserve that kind of help. Not after how I treated him. No, I have to figure this out on my own.

And he might not let me in this time. There might be someone else in the living room with him, on his carpet. The carpet that has drops of his come, and my sweat, in its fabric. Or in his bed, a place I never got to go.

I can't do this to myself. I can't think about that.

I have to find a way. He deserves better, more. He deserves the truth, and I haven't given that to him yet.

But I have to be honest with myself first. Because I deserve it too. Need it. Because if I don't know what's going on in my head, I'll never be able to make him see.

That's been a lot of the trouble. I haven't known. I haven't let myself know. Not even the last time I ended up at his place.

I've known Clayton Webb for a long time. There were cases I was working on, situations, that had him involved. We had our differences. They got worked out, and we ended up on the same side. And I started going to him when I needed help. Information. He had it. I didn't. I needed it to do what I thought was right. That simple.

He always said yes. I never thought anything about that, even when I got to counting on it. After all, who was I? A JAG lawyer. I had no power over him. He could always say no.

But he didn't. And I started pushing him, judging him, and letting him see it all. He didn't like it, I knew that much, but I thought in a way, he did. I gave him an excuse to do the right thing, for the right reasons. Me. Harmon Rabb.

And I liked the power it gave me. The power over him. I know that now. I had my own source, and I loved it.

I didn't let myself know that, though. I just thought I was serving my country, living up to my oath as an officer.

He knew what I was doing before I did. I wish I hadn't pushed him so far. I hurt him. I never wanted to do that.

But then there was so much that happened that I never wanted. Or thought I did.

Until the time he said no to me, I thought Clayton Webb was like me. He was dedicated to his work, but he had his life outside of work. Complete with love and sex with whatever partners he chose, and chose him. No problems I could see. Maybe I was just blind. Maybe I didn't want to know.

But then he said no, and told me to leave. And I knew he meant it. I knew, too, that he was angry with me. Angry, and I didn't know why.

And then I got all of what he'd said, and I did. "I'm tired of letting you use my feelings for you against me, for the good of *your* purposes only," he said. And I saw the rest of it, the part he hadn't said, in his eyes. Maybe I had known all along. He wanted me. But he told me to leave, and he meant that.

I still can't explain what I did next. Touching his cheek. Did I think I could sway him that way? Or did I go for the one thing I'd never tried when it was right in front of me? I'd never thought I'd want a man, but there he was, and my hand felt so good on his cheek. And he liked it, too.

Maybe all I was doing was seeing the way I could get to him. Seeing a chance to the information.

I still don't know.

But when he made the next move, pushed me against the wall, kissed me, I found out that I wasn't the straight guy I'd thought. I wanted him to take over, to show me what it was like with a man. A walk on the wild side? I don't know that either.

God, I get tired of thinking that. But it's the truth, and the truth is what I believe in. The truth is why I'm in this profession, in this life. And the truth is the only thing that's going to get me through this.

He pushed me to the floor of the living room, and I let him. His show, his house, his rules. As he stripped himself, then me, I could only look at his face. It was so intense, so full of suffering, so full of passion, all things I thought he could only be when the fate of the country was involved. All I knew was that I wanted to touch him, see and hear him when he came. Give him something back for all the pain I'd caused him by my stupidity, my thoughtlessness, my need to be a hero, to be right. To be the only one who was right.

I didn't know what would happen after he came. Maybe that meant it was over, maybe he'd take what I gave and want to show me what it was like to want, to need. I knew I'd go along with whatever he decided. I owed it to him.

What it meant was the most incredible, long, exquisite attention I'd ever gotten from anyone. Until I had to beg him for more. For an end.

And that was even better.

He made it, me, last so much longer than I thought I could. He made me scream.

I'm not quiet when I come. I learned early on to make sure I had a pillow to muffle my cries. It's no fun having your mother send your stepfather up to see if you're all right and have him walk in on you playing with yourself. Frank took it well, turning and closing the door behind him, and neither he nor Mom ever mentioned it, but I never made that mistake again. Either I waited until I was sure I was alone, or I used the pillow. But I hope he had soundproofing. I was loud enough that even I could hear it. And that's loud for me.

I don't know what I expected after it was over. He left me lying on the floor, barely a glance, not a word, while he dressed. Maybe I thought he'd thank me, talk about getting some food, since his was burnt, ask what time I had to be at work in the morning. Want me to stay, even try it again. I waited to hear. What he said was: "You'll get the information you need tomorrow."

And the worse thing, the thing I have to face now, is that when I heard that, I was glad. So I did do it to get the information. That time. But I'll give myself this much, I told him I'd call. I think I meant to tell him it wasn't just about the information, that I'd enjoyed it. That I might even want to do it again. Oh, how arrogant. That I would want it again. That he could wait until I made up my mind. That he had no say in the decision. It was all mine to make. Damn.

He wanted me to go. He was through with me. I wanted to tell him he was a good person, that I liked him, that he mattered to me. But I didn't. He wanted me out of there. And I was...ashamed. Of how much I'd liked it. Of how I already was thinking about what we would do the next time, and in the next minute, of how there could never be another time. Of how I'd betrayed my uniform, my country, everything I held dear. And of how he'd managed to shut me out without any kind of trouble at all. I didn't know the rules of this game, and his eyes were closed and cold. He didn't want me there.

So I took my cover and left.

I put the whole episode away, pushed every thought about Clayton Webb and that encounter out of my mind. I had a mission to perform, and I channeled everything I had into that. I saw him once, but I couldn't face him. Seeing him brought all the confusion and lust right back, and this was out in public. I didn't know what I'd do, and I ran, well, walked quickly away.

I regret that now. It was the wrong thing to do. He'd put himself on the line for me time and again, and now I couldn't even talk to him. I couldn't face all that yet. I told myself, when I get back. And ignored the part of me that insisted: now. You may not come back from this one. Or when you do, it may be too late to fix this.

I did come back, though. Everything fine, the mission a success. And when I did, I started thinking about it, him, right away. And I pushed it away again and again. Worked, smiled at women, found one or two who'd come to my bed, or take me to theirs. And thought I was doing just fine, until I found myself soaked at his door. Oh, yes, doing really fine. Out for hours. And I'm supposed to be intelligent. Not about this, obviously. I still didn't know what to say, but by then I did know that I had to see him. I had to see...something. If he hated me, maybe. If he could forgive me for walking away at the banquet. If he still wanted me. And if I had the courage to let him know I wanted him, wanted more. Yes, that was there, just buried so deep I couldn't find it even when I saw his face. His hard face.

I didn't think he was going to let me in. He looked like all he wanted to do was slam the door on me. But he didn't. So I followed him inside and took the towel he offered with all the grace I could muster, which turned out to be a nod. Being there was harder than I'd thought it would be. Seeing him was even harder. I couldn't stop remembering the last time I was there, all the things we'd done, and he looked as though he could care less. Harmon Rabb in his house, Harmon Rabb at the bottom of the ocean. Same difference.

I wanted there to be a difference. I was there to talk to him, I told myself. To make things right. But I couldn't say a damned word. He got me coffee, and ended up standing right where my body had been. Where I'd come from his mouth on me. Where I'd screamed. And his eyes said very clearly, yes, right there I made you scream. Want it again? At least that's what I think they said. Maybe it's just what I wanted to see. But then there was contempt there too, and distance, and anger. And funny as it might sound, the anger gave me courage. It showed me I'd mattered a little to him. You didn't get angry at someone who didn't matter. Waste of energy, of emotion. And Clayton Webb was certainly someone who didn't believe in waste.

I still didn't know where to start, and he ended up speaking first. "I really wonder why you are doing it." He sat opposite me, the coffee table between us. Did he want to be there because he didn't want my body near his? Or to be able to see my face while he questioned me?

"What do you mean?" Was he asking about me coming there?

No. "Putting your life in danger over and over again for other people. Because, in the end, you are usually left with nothing. You never get anything out of what you do for other people." No. I had the satisfaction, the joy, of serving my country. Of doing the right thing. Of helping people. That was something. But that wasn't what I wanted to talk about. So I did some pushing of my own. He wasn't going to get away with making this a talk about my problems, or the ones he thought I had.

So I planted my barb. "You've done the same thing." Let him answer that. I was getting angry. "Haven't you, Webb?"

It didn't affect him at all. "Yes, but I did get something in return last time. Something that paid me well for all these times I got nothing in return." His voice was so cool, and I was getting hard just thinking about it. And not wanting to. "Whereas you..." And he stopped. What the hell did that mean?

Except I knew. And my anger spiraled up, almost out of control. Whereas I gave myself to him and enjoyed every damned second of it. And he knew I hadn't wanted to. That I had never thought of it before that night in his kitchen. That's what he said.

I couldn't even control the simple action of putting my cup back on the table. It thumped down. It took me a while to calm, but I did. And he enjoyed my struggle to control myself. I saw it in his eyes.

"Good answer, Webb." My smile was forced, and I knew he knew that. Now what? I was stuck.

"So why do it?" Was he trying to get me to say that time on the carpet hadn't been worth what I got? Or that it had been? Either way, I wasn't going to give him that answer.

"Pure stupidity?" I was sure that answer would disarm him, turn him in another direction, but he didn't say a word. And I realized it was up to me now. "You want to know why I am here, don't you?" I wasn't going to leave until we'd settled this. And the bulge in my pants told me I wanted more than just settling, but I wasn't going to pay attention to that yet. I needed better information. And he was always the one to go to for that. I almost smiled then. Back on familiar ground.

"It would clarify things a lot, yes." He wasn't going to give me an inch. Well, I hadn't gone to law school for nothing. I'd argued before tougher judges than Clayton Webb. Although I couldn't think of any then.

"I don't know myself. I was coming home this morning," would he ask me from where? I hoped not. The last thing I wanted to tell him is that I spent the night with a woman whose name I couldn't even remember now, and didn't care to try, "and then I was in my apartment and I was just so restless." All the truth. I wasn't going to lie to him. "Just didn't know what to do with myself. So I decided to go for a walk." I waited.

"It's raining outside, Rabb. And you didn't wear your jacket."

His voice was cold. But his eyes had a look as though the fact that I had gotten wet and cold mattered to him. Which did I believe?

"It wasn't raining when I left. Must have been hours ago." I stood up. I couldn't stay on that couch. I looked over his paintings, his books. He had wonderful taste. I wanted to ask about them, tell him they were beautiful, but that might have derailed the conversation. And I knew if that happened, we might never talk.

"I don't know how I ended up here," I said again, and added something about just getting there. "Sounds stupid when you're thinking about it, doesn't it?" Let him agree. I wanted to hear it.

And he did. I smiled. It was good to know I could count on him. I hadn't been sure.

"Thanks. I appreciate hearing the truth." And I was ready to give him what I had of it, too. Give him what I thought he wanted, what I knew I wanted. I just didn't know how to start. Go over to him again? Not yet. He was too nervous suddenly, closing off from me. And that I wasn't going to let happen. Uncharted waters, but I was going to explore them with him. If not him, then no one. And I'd been told I was a stubborn bastard more than once. Let Clayton Webb deal with that side of me. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to, but I'll bet he'd never thought it would be over this issue.

He stood up. Was he going to leave? Not if I had anything to say about it. I didn't know what my eyes were telling him but it was working. He didn't move.

"I always like hearing the truth. Can accept it, too." I wanted him to talk to me. Tell me how he saw me. Say something that wasn't fencing.

"The truth? What part of it?"

All right, I'd spell it out. "Whatever part you have for me."

And his eyes had anger, and I wished I hadn't pushed. Again. When was I going to learn? Clayton Webb did not like being pushed. Even by me.

"You are ashamed." Angry, and he wanted to hurt me. But that wouldn't do it.

"I was, yes. At first." Not any more.

"You believe you aren't any more?" And he almost laughed at me. Did he know something I didn't?

"I don't know. Maybe I am." I hated to say that. I wanted to be sure. But I still had my doubts, curled up inside of me, waiting for the hard-on to go. Maybe not even waiting until then. "I am not sure of anything any more."

"Cut the crap, Rabb!"

Damn him. I was there, trying to talk, and he was shutting me out. I'd break his face if I had to to get him to listen to me.

"What do you mean? What do you want >from me? What do you want me to say?" The questions spilled out, even though I knew he'd never answer them. Not Clayton Webb, CIA agent. He had to hide, had to play spy games. Well, I'd gotten through them once. I knew I could do it again.

He protested, told me to leave. Said I didn't even know why I was there.

But I knew. I looked him up and down, letting all the heat that was in my body show through my eyes. I knew I should say, "Clayton, I want you." That simple. But I couldn't.

He turned to leave, and I was trying to make myself say the words. And then he stopped.

"This is absurd!" I wasn't sure what he meant. That I wanted this, or that he wanted it. And I didn't care. I just wanted that chance, with him.

All I could say was: "Please." I was reduced to that, to begging. And then to more.

I went to him, started touching him again. His shoulder this time. He had his back to me, and I didn't know if he wanted me or not. All I knew was that I wanted him. Even though I didn't want to. And that I wasn't going to leave until I had him again. No matter what that meant.

"You can't be serious." He thought I was playing with him. And maybe I was, in a way I didn't, and still don't, understand. But I wanted him. I wanted more. And he was the only one who could give that to me.

I got in front of him so that he could see my face. Maybe he'd see whatever truth I had for him in there. I still couldn't manage any word other than "please."

But it worked. His eyes changed, from harshness and confusion to invitation. And I took it.

I couldn't say the words, but I could tell him in another way, with my lips on his body.

I kissed his skin, pale and textured, >from his neck to as far into the opening in his shirt as I could reach, then settled for kissing through his shirt. It would have been a simple act to undo the buttons, but I wanted to take it slow this time. Enjoy it. And I was.

I couldn't bend any more and keep kissing him, and I wasn't going to get on my knees. We were equals, maybe even friends. So I straightened, and let my hands do the work.

I pulled his shirt out and let my hands slide underneath, onto his skin. It was nothing like touching a woman and it was everything like that. It was an experience all its own, and I was enjoying it.

I might have just stayed there, touching him, but he had other ideas. He grabbed my hands, held them away from his body, and met my eyes. I tried to read what was in his, but I couldn't.

So I touched him again. This time, on his shoulder, then my fingers in his hair. And I waited to see what he would do.

He smiled and reached out to me. His hand burned on my neck as he guided my face down to his.

I was ready for this. And I showed him. Last time he'd forced open my lips. This time, he didn't have to.

I found myself taking over, kissing him hard and long and slow, losing myself in the feel of his lips, his tongue, the cavern of his mouth. Oh, I wanted this so much. I wanted to grind up against him, work my hips against his, get some relief for the hard-on I had.

But as I was about to put my arm around him and pull him against me, he stopped the kiss and pushed me away. I just breathed.

"Turn around."

Could I let him penetrate me? If not, I needed to say so now. I was sure of that. But I'd started this, and if I turned him down, I might never get the chance again. And I knew I wanted it. This was Clayton Webb, a good man. I could trust him now. And if I couldn't, well, I still knew how to fight. I could choose to stop. But I'd give him, this, a fair shot. I wanted more.

And I turned around and felt his fingers trace down my spine, reassuring me. He was gentle. He was there. And I sighed.

"Take off your shirt."

That I could do, too. It came off in a quick grab and pull. I was trembling. Not scared, but wound up, waiting to see what would happen.

He touched my back, still gently, but it made me want more. Then he kissed the skin he'd touched, and I groaned. Getting loud again, I remember thinking. And pushing away any more thoughts for the reward of his fingers on my skin, reaching places I didn't know wanted touching. My cock was straining against my pants.

Maybe it was then I really lost any chance to stop him doing anything he wanted. I think it was. Because any fears I'd had drained out of me, and what replaced them with a hunger and a desperation that I'd never felt before, not with any woman. And he was the one who knew what would satisfy that need. And there was only one thought in my mind, aside from that one, as his fingers worked under my waistband.

I finally managed to say it.

"Take them off."

I had to repeat it a few times. Maybe Clayton was caught up in his own madness. But finally he reached out and helped me out of shoes, socks, underwear, and pants, and then finally, finally, I was naked. With my back to him, my hands on the back of the couch. Waiting for what he was going to do next.

I don't know now why I didn't just take them off myself. Somehow I'd given up control to him somewhere along the line. Maybe that's just how I needed to handle it? Feel like *he* was doing this to *me*, that I had no choice any more.

Whatever works. And that did.

His fingers, his lips, his tongue were all over me, and finally in me, hurting at first, then turning into something I could imagine wanting. And then I didn't have to imagine. I spread my legs to get more. I could hear something over my sounds and it was growling. I made Clayton Webb growl. The sound only added to my desperation. And arousal. I had to come.

It was like he read my mind, his hand closing around my shaft and stroking it, driving me over the edge into an orgasm. I was still working on breathing when I felt his fingers inside me again.

But this time, it had to be for him, because the fingers were slippery, and I realized with what. My come.

"Oh god." It's all I could say. I wanted him inside me, I wanted it so much, and I wanted to show him that. So I pushed my body down more, bracing myself, using the couch for support. I didn't know what it was going to be, but I wanted to be ready for it.

I was glad of my forethought. Because it hurt like hell. I cradled my head in my arms and tried to hold on. He took it slow, and I'm sure he was as gentle as any man, or woman, could want, but I knew I was going to be feeling this for a long time, and I was glad that I didn't have a physical scheduled in the near future. The last thing I needed was to explain to a doctor why those muscles were sore. I pushed that away and tried to breathe. I needed more air, and my muscles were as rigid as when I knew the plane was going to go down, because of my faulty eyesight. I pushed that away, too.

After a time, he stopped pushing, and I felt his hands moving instead, stroking my body. Oh, yes. Clayton the trained rider, gentling the horse. I wanted to laugh but I couldn't. And I needed the time, the reassurance.

The pain eased into a feeling of fullness, my panting turned into more regular breathing, and Clayton still held still. I knew what I had to do. Give him permission.

"Yes." And I was sure he was smiling then.

Even when he started moving, he still took it slow. I gritted my teeth and held on as the pain came back, although to a lesser degree. I wasn't going to want this again, I was sure.

And then I wasn't sure. There was something about having to do nothing that felt good. It was something I had only had when a woman got on top of me, and then there was still the pressure of getting her to come, of satisfying her. There was no pressure here. I was bent over a couch, and there was nothing I could do except be there.

And being there began to feel much more pleasant. Maybe it's that I relaxed. I wasn't exactly in the most analytical mind set.

He kept going, and it was feeling more and more warm, more exciting, when I thought of something I could do, something I loved having a woman do when I was inside her. I tensed my muscles around his cock, and he let out a loud groan. It was worth the moment of pain to hear him.

I felt him against my body, his fingers on my shoulder. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"Yes."

"Good."

My lips stretched in a smile. I'd surprised him. I could hear it in his voice, both times he spoke. Then, as he kept moving, I found myself groaning, louder and louder, and my cock, which hadn't been involved for a while, was stirring. His stroke changed to a faster one, and there was a flash inside me that was incredible, pleasure bursting through me. I was hard again, and when he did that again, I got harder still.

I was thinking about reaching down to touch myself when he stopped. Buried inside me, but still. I was panting, no clue at all as to why now.

Then he decided to up the ante. "Say my name."

What the hell? I was ready, he had to be, and he wanted to know if I knew whose hard-on I had in my ass? This had to be some kind of control thing. But I was too far gone to care. "Please." I tried that again, but this time he wasn't buying it.

"I will stop."

I didn't try to decide if he meant it. He needed to hear me say his name. I was opening my mouth when he spoke again, sharper.

"My name."

And I said it. "Webb. Clayton Webb." I wanted him to keep going, needed him to.

And he did, with a fierceness that would have hurt if I hadn't been so ready. All the way out, then hard back in. I know I screamed then, from pleasure so total I never would have believed it was possible. He said something, but I couldn't catch it, and kept moving. Soon I was shooting at the same time that he buried himself in me, and all in a silence I knew had to be in my mind. I could feel my throat strain with my scream. I just couldn't hear it.

The next thing I remember is the feeling of sweat on my body and the chill of it drying. When I could move, I reached for my clothes. I could see he was back into his.

He didn't look at all like the Clayton Webb the intelligence community knew. Wrinkled, shirt sweated through, face still flushed. I'm glad I saw him that way. Because his eyes had a very clear message for me when I finally lifted mine.

I was dismissed.

I should have known. Webb gets what he wants, then it's over. I said something about cuddling, what I don't know. He must have thought it was stupid, because his retort was acid.

"They don't teach cuddling at Langley, Rabb."

Was everything about Langley? I wanted to ask that, but it was pretty clear what the answer to that one was. Yes. I looked at him, and his face was as cold as his eyes were, had been. I hope he saw the anger in mine, but he probably thought I regretted what just happened. I did, but not for the same reasons he probably thought. I regretted it because it didn't mean a thing to him. Because it didn't matter if it was me over that couch or the guy who delivered his mail. Just another body to use to get himself off. Nice thing to find out.

I had to get out of there. He wouldn't let me stay. Didn't want me to.

"You can't run from it." His voice was cold. I was running?

"Neither can you." He didn't want to talk. And I couldn't stay. I didn't even know if I could make it home, but to be in that place one more minute, with that man who veered from cold to hot and never said a damned word to tell me anything, was out of the question. I was glad right then that I hadn't had anything like a handkerchief or some tissues to mop off my come from his couch. Let him deal with that. But he'd probably just leave it to the cleaning person. Cold bastard.

When I got outside, this time feeling the rain hit my arms, my head, my whole body, I hoped for just one moment he'd call me back, even if it was just to offer me a ride.

He didn't.

So now I sit here, finally able to think about it with some detachment, trying to find more truth. Trying to figure out what to do. Because I won't run away. Even though he is, and has, and more than likely will again.

I felt guilty before. I'd treated him badly, made him feel like he'd been used. But the guilt is fading. I've paid for that in full. The first time just happened, but I don't regret it. I went back for more. And that time, the second time, Clayton Webb used me back. What else can I think? He won't say anything, and it's the only reasonable conclusion. And my anger at that, and at his silence, is growing. Three weeks of silence.

I need information again, about a case and about him. I'll go see him tomorrow. But not at his home. At State. Maybe there, at his office he'll feel safe, in control. Say something to make me understand what the hell is going on with him, something to put this whatever we have back on a level so I'll be able to say those words I never got out.

Clayton, I want you.

Because I do. I still do.

Truth at last.

=30=