Irish Coffee

by Gail

(gem225@hotmail.com)

JAG

Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer

Rating: NC-17

Clayton Webb and Clark Palmer spend New Year's Day together, and Clark finds he's not over the DSD yet.

Part 1 of the Nadir series, which is a sequel series to the Eclipse series and the WPs/Snapshots.

Disclaimer: I looked outside this morning, but no one had left these gorgeous and intelligent guys out with the paper, so I guess that they still don't belong to me. DPB and CBS are so much luckier than I am.

Background notes: David Stoner, who is referred to in this story, was Clayton Webb's mentor in the CIA until he was kidnapped. Webb found him, with Palmer's dubious help, right before Stoner was killed by members of a group with which Stoner was working. That was Webb and Palmer's first mission, and I wrote about it in Getting his hands dirty. In the Eclipse series, Palmer blackmailed Webb into bed by telling him he had a last message from Stoner, and Webb wasn't ready to deal with all his feelings about his mentor's death, all the guilt and anger and pain, so Webb slept with Palmer until he was ready to deal with Stoner's death, and afterwards, because he wanted to be with Palmer.

For dearest Tinnean. It was supposed to be for New Year's Day, 2001, but I'm slow and posted it on December 1, 2001. *g*

Alexandra beta'd the first draft, and Scarlet and Elizabeth beta'd a later version most kindly.

Irish Coffee

by Gail

New Year's Day with Clay. Just where I want to be. Coffee, the paper, some Christmas music on the stereo, Rabb engaged to that Meg, and Clay next to me, his hair falling over his forehead when I look. Yeah, this is the life.

I see him put down his mug and know that it's empty. Time to do what I've been planning.

"I'll get the coffee this time," I offer when he folds, then puts down his section of the paper. I reach for his mug.

He gives me a puzzled look, but doesn't argue. "Thank you."

He's back in the paper before I get into the kitchen, so it's easy to snag the bottle of Irish whiskey from the cabinet. I pour a short shot into each mug, then add the coffee, good and dark the way we both like it, then top it with whipped cream from the can I brought yesterday. He gave me a look when he saw me take it out of the bag, and I just smiled and let my eyes run over his body. He came to the wrong conclusion and told me that he was not going to let me put that on him. I gave him my best resigned look and told him that I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try, and he let it go after that. It's all right; I'm going to show him what I really got it for.

I pick up the mugs and carry them back into the living room. He looks up when I get near the couch, and the smile on his face when he sees what I've got makes the work and planning worthwhile.

"So that's what you decided to do with the whipped cream." He reaches for his mug, and I hand it to him. "Decadent."

"It's New Year's Day. If there's ever a time for decadence, this is it." I wonder if he'll let me watch even one college bowl game. Probably not, unless I beg, and then he might just tell me that if I prefer television to quiet, I can go home. The hell with college football. I'll catch the highlights on the sports news tomorrow.

"Indeed." He takes a sip that's all whipped cream. "Very good. Why don't you sit back down?"

I do, of course. I don't turn down invitations from Clay. This time I make sure that I sit closer to him. After all, he's put down the paper and is getting ready to enjoy something I made for him. I wait for him to notice I did something different.

He frowns at the next sip. Must have gotten some coffee. "Clark, did you put whiskey in this?"

I put on my most innocent expression, not that it's going to fool him. "It's Irish coffee, Clay. Isn't that part of it?"

For a moment I think he's going to tell me to take it away and get him some plain coffee, and I wouldn't blame him. I should know better than to try to fool him. But he nods after a moment, and smiles.

"All right, but don't put any whiskey in my next one. I don't want to get drunk this early." He puts his hand on my thigh, and I almost dump my coffee on myself. "You don't want that, do you, Clark? Not when we've got the whole day ahead of us?"

"No." I'd like to think I sound cool and collected, but I know better than that. With Clay, I sound like I feel. It's not a bad thing.

He smiles again and lifts his hand and goes back to reading his paper, and I sip my coffee as he sips his. When he's finished, he holds out his mug to me. That's right, Clay, I'll take care of it. I never mind waiting on you.

"Plain coffee this time." I want him to know I remember.

"With whipped cream," he adds, and I find myself grinning. So he likes that part. Great. I'll make sure to bring over whipped cream more often.

"Right, with whipped cream. Coming up." He's not mad at me, good. I had Clay mad at me for too damned long to want it again any time soon.

In the kitchen, I make both of our coffees without whiskey, since I'm damned well not going to drink if he's not going to. It might mean he wants to play later. I could go for that. I glance at the watch on my wrist, the one that he gave me for Christmas, and smile. He wants me here with him, belonging to him. And I do belong to him.

I bring out the fresh coffee, and he gives me a slow smile as I hand it to him. "Thank you. I did like the Irish coffee."

He's too close to an apology to suit me. Clay hates apologizing, and he doesn't have to worry about my feelings. I know him. I don't get pissed off if he doesn't like something. "Yeah, I know." I grin at him. "Drink your coffee and let me watch some football in peace."

I pick up the remote and switch on the TV, waiting for his reply. It comes after a moment.

"You want to watch football."

"Tradition, Clay. There's a sacred tradition of college football on New Year's Day." It's worth a shot, and I feel like teasing him a little. It reminds me that we're still together, that I don't have to be so goddamned careful any more, that I'm not blackmailing him to get here.

"I thought the good games were on later in the day," he surprises me by saying calmly. "And isn't the big one a few days from now?"

I stare at him. He knows that? How does he know that? He went to Harvard, for christ's sake, then to that cryptography school.

He's laughing, and it's at me. "But if you want to watch football all day, Clark, be my guest."

He's really surprising me, but that in itself shouldn't surprise me at all. I'm never going to know this man all the way, and that's the way it should be.

My turn to surprise him, I hope. I shut off the TV and put down the remote, then turn to face him. "Stay still," I murmur and hope that he'll do it.

He does. "What?"

"I have to do this."

And that's the only warning I give him before I lean over and run my tongue over his upper lip, where there's whipped cream lingering. Before I finish, he's got his hands on my arms, pulling me closer, and then his lips are over mine. I'll take this over... anything, I decide dizzily and run my hands over his back.

He breaks the kiss. "Back to bed?"

"Why not here?" I want to wipe out the last traces of Harmon Rabb. I know damned well that this is still the same couch he used to fuck Rabb, the same carpet he sucked Rabb off on. I want to get rid of them, but I'll settle for making some new memories. "Come on, Clay, I want you to fuck me here."

I give me my best come-on smile, but he's suddenly very quiet. "You know what happened." Damn. Fuck. "Don't try to deny it," he adds in a voice that's too tired and sad for me to bear. "You had a bug here?"

"Clay, come on. Stop this. I don't know what you're talking about. I just want you to fuck me." I have to convince him of this. I can't have him think that he has no secrets.

"I'm asking you not to lie to me, Clark."

Now I'm dead. I can't turn him down when he's asking. I close my eyes for strength. "I never bugged your place. Rabb went on about it after he got home. That's how I know."

I've got my eyes open again, so I see him nod. "Bet he wasn't too complimentary, was he?" He's got a wry note to his voice, so I shrug.

"You know Rabb. He wouldn't appreciate a supermodel if he got her in bed. He'd find something wrong."

"I'm sure." He takes a deep breath. "All right, Clark, if you want me to fuck you, get out of those clothes." He stands and starts stripping off his.

What? It was that easy? It can't be. "Clay, goddammit, get mad or something."

He's got his shirt off, and damn, maybe I should just let this go. He looks really good right now. "You want me to get mad at you?"

I do? I do. "Yeah. I fucked up. Didn't I?" What the hell is going on with me? I need to shut the fuck up, but this is Clay, and I lost that kind of control around him about the time he got over the Stoner thing. Some trade.

Clay sits back down. "I don't think you fucked up, Clark. You were spying on Rabb, not on me, and I know you wanted to get him." His mouth gets a wry twist when he says that. "I'm surprised you didn't go over and fuck him yourself."

"I thought about it," I admit. He just nods. "But it didn't seem like it would be that much fun."

His eyes have a distant look in them now. "Harm had his moments. I'm sure you could have found something to do with him."

"Clay, for god's sake, I don't want Rabb. I want you." He's back to staring at me, and I'm glad.

"All right." He takes a breath, so we're clearly not done yet. "Why did you want me to get mad at you? Do you know?"

It hangs between us. "The DSD," I say quietly and hope he'll let it go at that. "No big deal." I try to grin, but it doesn't work. I can tell from the pain in Clay's eyes. I hate when it's there because of me.

"The DSD," he says slowly. "You know that I don't know much about them."

"You don't know anything about them, Clay." I hope my eyes aren't showing my relief at that. I don't want him touched by them, their little games, their damned training. I've been fighting their training for as long as I've known what they were really trying to do to me: make me look to them for everything. I was young and stupid when I joined the DSD, and I'm still paying for that decision.

"You could tell me, if you liked." His voice is so calm. He doesn't know what he's asking.

"No." I'm too abrupt, but I don't care. "Just fuck me."

He stares at me a long time before he answers. "All right. If that's what you want."

He stands again when I nod. I'm limp now, but I don't care. I have to know where I am, and the way to do that is to have Clay fuck me, to have him make me his again. Damned DSD. I won't let them fuck this up. I need this. I need Clay.

He's beside me on the couch again. "I'm not going to do anything until you're desperate for it, Clark," he murmurs, and thank god, *he's* touching me, not some phantom of my damned past. I can see his face, smell him, feel his warm fingers on my chest. He plays with my nipples until I moan, then his fingers slide down my skin, making me squirm. I reach up and try to bring him down so that I can kiss him, but he pulls away. "Not yet. I want you really desperate. I want you to beg me, and you're not even close to that yet."

His fingers are so damned knowing; his voice is real, not some fantasy; and it doesn't take much to get me to beg, as long as I'm begging for him.

"Please, Clay. Please fuck me."

He laughs and keeps on with those feather touches that drive me crazy. "That's begging? Come on, Clark, I know what I want to hear. When you give it to me," he strokes a finger over my crotch, which jumps in response, "I'll give you what you want. But I can wait. I can wait a long time."

And damn him, he does. He takes his own damned time, and before we're finished, he's stripped me of my clothes, gotten me laid out on the couch like some kind of sacrificial offering, and I'm making noises I can hardly believe I'm capable of making, but hell, that seems to be what he wants, because he's still talking to me, low voice and sure voice and voice full of promise and desire, telling me that he's going to fuck me until I come, going to make sure I come so damned hard that I won't want any more for the rest of the day.

I don't care about that; I just want him to fuck me, and I moan to let him know that. Next thing I know he's putting cool lube on me. I never knew he had some in here.

"Thought I might need it with you around," he murmurs before I can think about asking, and I'm so damned glad that it's because of *me* that I relax even more. I'm so damned hard, and he won't even touch my cock. It's bobbing up against my belly, and I could get my hand down there and probably come with a few touches, but I won't. I want Clay to make me come. I want him to keep all those promises he's made me.

He's tugging me up and positioning me over the back of the couch. "Spread your legs, Clark," he orders, and I do.

Is this how he had Rabb? Maybe. But it doesn't matter. Right now it's how he has me. I feel the head of his cock press against me, and I don't even have to make myself relax; I just do, and it goes right in. The pain and the burn are nothing; this is Clay in me, the man I want for the rest of my life, sliding in even further, and I brace myself for the fucking he's going to give me. I hope I'll need bracing.

At first it's slow, but I feel his hand circle my cock and start pumping just before he starts fucking me harder. Yes, that's what I want, what I need. He's hitting that spot, and I can't last, but it doesn't matter, because neither can he. He's coming in me right after I spurt. I can feel it. God, can I feel it.

He pulls out as I slump, then he's pulling me up. "Back on the couch, please," he says gently, and of course I get myself back together and do it, with his help. "Is that better?" He puts my shirt in my hands, and I get it over my head and tug.

"Yeah. Thanks."

It's over. I'm fine. But figures, Clay hasn't forgotten how this started. His next comment proves that.

"You wanted me to talk about David Stoner. Do I need to find a way to blackmail you into talking about the DSD?"

Damn, I need him to let this go. "You can't blackmail me."

"I'll bet I could." He's sitting next to me, and those eyes of his are so warm and gentle on mine even though he's talking about blackmail. "I'll have to see what I can do."

"Just let it go, please?" I shouldn't be begging about this, he's stubborn, he'll be able to tell that this hurts like hell and matters and won't let it go, but he has to let it go, for god's sake. I'll handle this. I've been handling it.

I sound just like he must have sounded to himself when I brought up the Stoner thing. Fuck. I'm absolutely fucked. I wait for him to point that out to me, but he surprises me one more time by picking up the remote.

"What channels have games, anyway?" he says in a voice that's so normal. He's going to let it go. I'm safe.

"Just flip through the low ones," I tell him and reach for my pants. He got his back on when I wasn't paying attention.

He starts at one and works his way up. I knew he never watched TV, and that proves it. There isn't a channel one here in the US. But it doesn't take long for him to find a game, and I settle back to watch it with him. I pretend that I don't see him watching me. He'll stop. He'll forget that I got like this. I'll make him forget.

Damn, I wish I could.

The End