Title: In the Lion's Den

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

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

Rating: R

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: Y'know, this is getting so ten minutes ago: Clayton Webb and Clark Palmer were created by Donald Bellisario, okay? But I'm sure I would have thought of them eventually. Wills and Sweetcheeks are mine.

Status: new/complete

Date: 5/02

Series/Sequel: This is part twelve of the Mind Fuck series, and follows Mother Said There'd Be Days Like This

Other Web Site: http://www.angelfire.com/fl5/tinnssinns
http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel

Archive: OK, I surrender. Yes to all the list archives. (I'm so easy!)

Summary: Wills Matheson learns some interesting things about Clark Palmer, his trainer. And about himself as well.

Warnings: m/m

Notes: #### again denotes change of POV. If you go to room 412 in Washington Hospital, it will not be the room or the unit that Pretty Boy occupied. That institution has been the innocent victim of a drive-by slashing. Thanks to Gail for the help, the beta, the memories... oops, sorry, wrong song.

In the Lion's Den
by Tinnean

Of all the agents in the Defense Security Division, Clark Palmer was the best. He ran missions that no one believed could be successfully completed, and he made them look easy.

Palmer drove that Naval commander over at JAG crazy wondering what he would do next.

The CIA kept a weather eye on him.

And he was the man who was going to train me to be even better than I was.

I focused everything on doing my job right and getting it done. It meant too much to me to waste my time and energy on relationships. If I needed to get laid that badly, the DSD had a list of phone numbers of ladies who were available.

As for men, well, Michael Shaw was the only man I'd ever fooled around with. We'd jerked each other off and given mutual blowjobs on occasion. It had never gone further than that. Once we'd graduated from college even that stopped.

Lately, however, I found my dreams were filled with the images of male bodies, sweaty and naked, wrestling over my bed, my legs forced apart and a thick, anonymous cock pushed smoothly into my ass while another fucked my mouth. I'd wake up with a moan, on the verge of climaxing.

I wasn't surprised when I learned that I'd been promoted to Clark Palmer's position; I was a good agent. What did surprise me was my body's reaction to him. My cock had gotten hard. I'd wanted his hands on me, stroking over my skin, exploring the planes and crevices of my body.

I knew it would never happen, certainly not with Mr. Palmer, and I buried the fantasy deep in my subconscious, only to have it resurface the next night.

****

"Hey, Matheson!" Jake Howard hailed me as I was coming back from a dinner break, and I didn't pay him too much mind. Mr. Palmer hadn't said anything about me having to work late, but I wanted to have the exercises he had selected for me completed before I presented myself in his office tomorrow morning. "The Man bought the farm!"

"What did you just say?" I had to have misheard him.

"Palmer's dead!"

I stared at the other agent. "No, that isn't true!"

"Yep. Just got the word from upstairs. Seems the fucker blew himself up opening his own front door!"

"Howard, are you mental? This is Clark Palmer we're talking about! He'd never do anything that idiotic!"

He shrugged. "I'm just telling you what the skinny is. Looks like you'll be replacing Palmer sooner than anyone expected. Good luck, man!" He rushed on down the corridor to spread the news.

I went in the other direction, to Mr. Palmer's new office. His secretary sat stone-faced at her computer, her fingers flashing over the keyboard. Didn't the woman ever go home? "Ms. Parker?"

She tipped her head slightly toward me, the only indication she gave that she even knew I was there.

"I don't believe it." I stated it flatly, and she finally turned to face me. She was pale, but otherwise composed. "I'm going up to talk to Mr. Wallace."

"Very good, sir," she murmured, and went back to typing a report. Before I could leave, however, she paused. "You'll let me know?"

"Yes." I jogged to the end of the corridor where the elevators were, and took the first one that stopped up to the floor that housed Admin.

The harpy who usually stood guard at Mr. Wallace's door was not there. I knocked firmly and learned the reason she wasn't outside was because she was inside, making sure the high ranking department heads who were gathered in clusters had food and drink. Had I interrupted a council of war?

"Matheson." I was flattered that The Boss recognized me. "It's just as well you're here. You were his trainee."

"I still am, sir. I don't believe that was Clark Palmer who was killed."

"Then who would you suggest it might be?" a senior director sniped. I seemed to remember that he was another one of those who had never been in the field. "That sociopathic son of a bitch never had visitors!"

"You know that for a fact, sir?" I asked hostilely, and he scowled.

"It's impossible to find out anything about him, but to our best knowledge..."

I returned his scowl. "Well, that's a bullshit answer! Clark Palmer *isn't* dead!"

That earned me glares from everyone except Mr. Wallace, who was on the phone. "Because you don't want him to be dead?" The senior director of in-house security spoke softly, but his words insinuated something dirty.

I turned pale and tried to fade into the woodwork, not wanting to call further attention to myself, but I became more and more distressed. A team of DSD forensics experts had been dispatched to Mr. Palmer's apartment, and they would gather whatever evidence they could find.

The body had already been removed to the District morgue, and the police had been carefully offered a number of red herrings. The DSD saw to their own.

Mr. Wallace switched his call to speakerphone, and descriptions of the destruction caused by the explosion poured into the room, causing his mouth to grow tighter and tighter. He listened grimly as his administrative officials pontificated over the death of the best agent the agency had ever turned out. I eased over to where he stood.

"Excuse me, sir. Has anyone tried to get in touch with Mr. Palmer?"

"What?"

"Has..."

He waved away my words and arched an eyebrow at the other men. They all looked away, uncomfortable. I reached for my cell phone and hit speed dial for Mr. Palmer's number.

"Palmer."

I almost choked as my breath snagged in my throat. "Mr. Palmer? You're alive?"

"Last time I looked," he growled. "Matheson? What the fuck is this all about?"

"Sorry, sir. There's been an explosion at your apartment. Where are you, sir?"

"I'm visiting with a sick friend."

"A sick friend?" It never dawned on me that Mr. Palmer might know anyone outside the DSD. I faced the director who swore Mr. Palmer never had visitors. He sniffed and stalked toward the door, followed by the other men.

"Contrary to popular belief, Matheson, I *do* have friends." Was the man psychic? "What's the damage?"

"One dead, sir. The body found was badly burned; it was assumed to be yours. I knew it couldn't be!"

"Fuck the body." I could feel his contained fury. He was very controlled. No one ever saw him sweat. "If someone was trying to get into my apartment, they got what they deserved. How much damage was done to my apartment?"

"Your living room is pretty much toast, sir," I informed him reluctantly. "No pun intended."

"Fuck," he snarled in my ear, and I winced.

Mr. Wallace held his palm out, and I handed him my phone. "Palmer? Thank God!" I was shocked by the emotion in The Boss' voice, and turned away so he wouldn't realize I had witnessed what he would clearly view as a weakness. He cleared his throat. "It seems Matheson was correct in his hypothesis. You *wouldn't* do something as stupid as blowing yourself up with your own front door." He listened as the deputy director said something, then assured him, "You did an excellent job, Mr. Palmer. The damage isn't as extensive as one might have expected. I have our own forensics people over there gathering evidence."

The low-voiced conversation continued, and he paced to the far end of the room and back. I went to his desk and used his phone to dial my trainer's extension.

"Mr. Palmer's office. How may I help you?"

"Ms. Parker, it's Matheson. I just wanted you to know he's alive."

There was a long moment of silence on the other end. "Thank you, Mr. Matheson." She hung up.

I stared at the phone, stunned that she would accord me the measure of respect usually reserved for only the more senior members of the DSD. Even Mr. Palmer had been referred to as simply Palmer until just recently.

Abruptly Mr. Wallace's voice rose. "Fuck." I stared in disbelief. The head of the DSD *never* swore, *never* displayed any emotion to speak of. He let out a soft breath and waved me over to him. "I was afraid of that. Very well, Mr. Palmer. I'll send Matheson to meet you at the morgue. You will have a full report on my desk as soon as you've got all the facts."

Mr. Wallace thumbed off the phone and returned it to me. "Mr. Palmer seems to think the instigator of this whole mess is most likely Robert Sperling. I'm inclined to agree with him. Meet Mr. Palmer at the District morgue. I needn't tell you to assist in any way possible, need I?"

"No, sir!"

"Excellent. Now, go."

I stopped at my office to retrieve my overcoat and the keys to the company car that I had been assigned, and then headed down to the parking garage. I'd been to the morgue, only too recently, having been summoned there to identify my friend's body. Traffic was light, and I was able to reach the depressing building before my trainer. I waited at the front entrance, but I didn't have to wait long.

His car, the same make but a newer model than mine, wheeled into a handicapped spot, and Clark Palmer got out, irritation in every line of his body. I licked my lips, glad the still brisk weather necessitated the use of an overcoat; it hid the hard-on I was suddenly sporting. I'd come to realize that it was a man I wanted, not specifically Mr. Palmer, and that was a relief, but it still would have been embarrassing to try to explain that.

He gave me a terse nod, and I fell into step beside him. "How's your friend, sir?"

"He'll live, but he looks like death warmed over. His ribs are broken, his lung's collapsed, and his scalp has been torn. Pretty Boy does not measure up to his name," he said grimly.

"Rival gang, Mr. Palmer?"

"No, that bastard, Sperling. Pretty Boy thought he was meeting a john. The son of a bitch beat hell out of his face." His eyes were flat. "You have a problem with what my friend does for a living, Matheson?"

"No, sir!" But I wondered what they might talk about. The best way to blow a guy, literally?

"Good." He bypassed the elevators. "Something you might want to keep in mind: the stairs are usually safer."

What did he do in a building like the Washington Monument, which was over five hundred fifty-five feet high? I didn't ask.

We took the stairs to the lower level where the bodies were kept in refrigerated drawers.

The lighting was reduced as always after hours in government buildings, and the long corridor was dimly lit. There were a number of rooms that opened off it. Mr. Palmer knew where he was going. He shoved open the first door and strode in, but the room wasn't empty. Three men stood around one of the drawers, two dressed in outerwear, and the third in a lab coat. The technician was speaking.

"The apparent lack of height is illusory. Firstly, the body is supine. Secondly, the extensive loss of body fluids makes it seem smaller."

"I'm sorry; I can't believe that's Clark Palmer," the shorter man said, shaking his head.

"That's because that isn't me," Mr. Palmer growled, and they wheeled to face us as we walked toward them. "Deputy Director Webb. Disappointed?"

*This* was Clayton Webb, this compactly built man? From the tales I had heard about him, I would have thought he'd have been ... bigger. One expression after another chased itself across his face, and then vanished, replaced by blank indifference.

"Glad to know it wasn't you, Palmer." I got a look at his hazel eyes, and he was telling the truth; he really was glad Mr. Palmer wasn't lying on that slab. "Let's go, D.B. Good night, gentlemen."

Mr. Palmer stared after him, and I thought I saw a touch of regret. I blinked in confusion. How could my trainer *care* what the fucking CIA thought about him?

Mr. Webb shouldered his way out the door, and the other agent curled his lip at us before following him out.

Mr. Palmer walked to the open drawer and looked down at what it held, and I knew I had misread the situation. The man standing there had dismissed the spooks and was cataloguing each injury the body had sustained. I joined him but had to look away, biting down on my back teeth and swallowing hard. The remains were not pretty.

"Will you be doing the autopsy?" he asked the man in the lab coat.

"No. Dr. Schmidt will be coming in to perform it, probably around 8 AM, unless something else comes up."

Mr. Palmer looked at his watch. "I'll be back in time for it." He walked toward the door, and I got the strongest impression that he had forgotten completely about me. In the corridor, he took out his phone. I wondered who he was calling this time of night. Maybe that 'sick friend'? "You there? Listen, I can explain..." But then he seemed to think better of it. "Never mind."

"Mr. Palmer?" I reached him as he started up the stairs. "Do you need a place to stay, sir? You're more than welcome to spend the night with me." I closed my eyes in embarrassment. //Brilliant, Matheson, really brilliant! Why don't you just come right out and ask him to take you to bed?// "Oh, fuck, sir, I meant at my apartment..."

"I got what you meant, Matheson, and I appreciate the offer. I'm good, though."

"I'm just over there, Mr. Palmer." My breath was a plume of white mist. The temperature had dropped. I pointed to where I was parked.

He nodded. "I'm in handicapped." He paused before he got in his car. "When you get in to work in the morning, remember to put in a request for a tag. You never know when it'll come in handy."

"Yes, sir." Why was he just standing there? Why was *I* just standing there? I started to cross the lot to my car.

"Matheson."

"Sir?"

"Thanks. For not thinking I'd be so stupid as to blow myself up with my own booby trap."

I just barely kept my jaw from dropping open. The man who never said 'please', 'sorry', or 'thanks' had thanked me. I shifted from one foot to the other. "They'd have gotten it eventually."

"Yeah. When I came walking in. Good night, Matheson."

"Good night, Mr. Palmer." I knew he was watching as I went to my car, so I drove out of the lot and down the street, then edged to the curb and parked where I wouldn't be seen. I killed the lights and ignition. And I waited.

Part 2

After a few minutes his car appeared, and I followed him. I didn't know where we were going, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep if I hadn't made certain he would be all right.

It was difficult tailing him this time of night. The traffic was sparse, and I had to stay at least a block and a half behind him. But he didn't notice. I wondered about that. Was he so distracted by the events of this day that he'd let his guard down and wasn't aware he was being followed? No one ever figured Clark Palmer as the kind of man who cared enough about anyone to befriend them.

I was surprised to see him turn into the parking pavilion of Washington Hospital. I switched off my headlights and drove after him as he headed for the below ground parking, keeping the red of his taillights just in sight.

And then I lost him. I swore under my breath and let the car continue rolling down the aisle, trying to spot him.

A tap on the passenger side window caused me to jump. I was reaching for my weapon when I saw who it was, and I slumped dejectedly. I should have known that someone as canny as Mr. Palmer would be aware he was being followed, no matter what else might be on his mind. I put the car in neutral, rolled down the window and waited while he walked around to my side.

"Lost, Matheson?"

"Uh ... no, sir."

"Care to tell me what you're doing here, then?"

"Sorry, sir. I know it isn't my place, but I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm okay." Stubbornly I left the car idling, and he frowned and hit the roof gently with his clenched fist. "All right, I'm right over there. Take the next spot."

His tone told me nothing. I eased my car forward and swung it into the spot beside his. A quick look in the rearview mirror showed him waiting in the aisle. I couldn't distinguish his expression, but I didn't imagine it was too pleased. I got out, fully expecting him to break my nose. An agent, even if he was on the fast track to promotion to special agent, did not presume to openly defy his superior.

His gaze was cool. He turned and walked away. I held myself stiffly, not moving until he glanced over his shoulder at me.

"Don't just stand there, Matheson. I have to take care of this, and then you can explain why you felt the need to baby-sit me."

"Yes, sir." I hurried after him. I wasn't familiar with the emergency department of Washington Hospital. The few times I'd been injured in the line of duty, I'd seen doctors who worked out of the DSD. Mr. Palmer, however, seemed to know where he was going.

He crossed to a curtained area and thrust the drapes aside. "Fuck. Haven't they found a bed for him yet?" Mr. Palmer looked furious, and I was grateful that glare was not directed at me.

Slumped in a chair was a good-looking young man with reddish curly hair. His light brown eyes were tired. He shook his head, a finger raised to his lips. On the bed were two figures, one with disheveled white hair who was sleeping with his thumb in his mouth. The other, obviously the patient, was drowsily stroking the spiky strands. He had been severely beaten. "'Sokay, baby," he said.

Baby? I looked around, wondering who he was calling 'baby'.

"It's *not* okay!" Mr. Palmer snarled, and I realized with a sense of shock it was he. "You've been down here for hours. I'm not leaving until I get you settled!"

The injured man closed his eyes with a sigh. "You always make such a big thing out of everything, baby," he murmured.

"Palm's so protective of Pretty Boy, you know." The red-haired man looked me up and down, then stood and extended his hand. We were about the same height, and I realized the stonewashed jeans he was wearing were indecently tight. The fly molded over his dick like a second skin, and it didn't seem as if he had anything on under that denim. "I'm Sweetcheeks and that's Spike. I run this menagerie, as much as these two will allow."

"And when are you going to give it up? This life is getting downright dangerous. This is Matheson," Mr. Palmer added negligently as he pulled out his cell phone. "He's with me."

Sweetcheeks seemed intrigued by that, and I wondered why. I returned his grip. His middle finger tickled my palm, and I shivered as if I'd grasped a live wire. I released his hand quickly, and he sat back down, not even trying to hide his smile. Oh course, Mr. Palmer noticed. Nothing escaped him. He arched an eyebrow, and I could feel a tide of red start at my collar and flow to my hairline.

I drew in a breath to explain, although I had no clue what I would be explaining, when someone paused by the opening of the curtains.

"I'm sorry, sir, use of cell phones..." The little man with the clipboard gazed at my trainer with horror. "Oh *no*! Not you again!"

His eyes darted to the security guard who was at the far end of the room, chatting with some D.C. police, but I moved before he could summon him. I slung my arm over the little man's shoulder, glanced at his nametag and urged him away from the bed. "Hi. Edgar?" I made my voice friendly. "Why don't you point me in the direction of the cafeteria, and I'll buy you a cup of coffee?"

"The cafeteria is closed this time of night!"

"Then we'll just go for a little walk."

"Well... I... That is... I..." I walked him in the opposite direction.

My trainer's eyes appeared green, and he gave me an almost smile, then turned to speak into his phone. "Senator? It's..."

The rest of the conversation was lost as I strolled with the little man out into the corridor. I kept him close to my side and leaned down to murmur confidentially, "The gentleman in there has friends in very high places. If he's worried with inconsequential matters, people lose their ... jobs. You like your ... job, don't you, Edgar?"

"Are you threatening me?"

"I wouldn't dream of it." I smiled at him, and he turned pale. "But a wise man knows when to press, and when to back off. What do you think you should do?"

He swallowed repeatedly. "If ... if you'll excuse me? I'm not feeling very well." His gait was unsteady as he made his way down the corridor.

I wasn't on the same level as my trainer, but I would be. I returned to the bay where Mr. Palmer's friend was. The phone conversation had been completed, and Mr. Palmer eyed me steadily. "Some men just shouldn't work around sick people," I said, shaking my head sadly. "Edgar was feeling a little queasy; he's decided to go home early."

Mr. Palmer grinned in approval. "Nice work, Matheson." He shook Spike awake. "They've found a bed for Pretty Boy. Go wait out in the lobby until they've transferred him."

Sweetcheeks stared at my mouth, and I licked my lips and stared back a challenge at him. And then the corner of his mouth curled up in a grin. "Palm, I'm going down to get some coffee. Mind if I bring your boy along with me?" He ran his fingers up my arm, closed them over my bicep. I glanced at Mr. Palmer.

"Go ahead, but I expect him back in one piece, Sweetcheeks."

"Sure thing, Palm. I won't even dent the suit," he laughed.

We walked out into the corridor and headed for the bank of elevators. "Mr. Palmer says stairs are safer." Sweetcheeks nodded, and we bypassed the elevators and took the stairs.

He led the way to a row of vending machines. I fished for some change and inserted the coins into the slot. A paper cup dropped down and began to fill with the black sludge that was all that remained at this time of night. I handed it to the other man, then put in more coins for a second cup.

"Thanks. Milk?" He took a 'Moos,' one of those little containers that held liquid creamer, from the counter that had them scattered all over it, as well as sugar and sugar substitutes, and stirrers, and poured it into his cup in a vain attempt to make the coffee more palatable.

"Milk's for wusses," I remarked casually, slanting a glance at him.

"Are you calling me a wuss?"

"I'm certainly not calling you Sweetcheeks."

"Oh?" His voice became frigid. "Mind telling me why? You think it makes me sound like a rentboy?"

Obviously I had touched a sore spot. "No. It makes you sound like my boyfriend." I found a position against the wall that gave me a broad view of the entire corridor, and leaned back and raised the cup to my lips. It took a supreme act of will not to grimace, but something must have shown in my face, because he laughed softly.

"Hospital coffee sucks, man." He stood next to me. I was surprised to see he stayed out of my field of vision. How did he know to do that? "You really call your boyfriends 'sweetcheeks'?" I gave him a look I had seen Mr. Palmer use, and he raised a hand as if to ward off a blow. "Pax, Matheson." I lowered my eyes to the dark liquid in my cup and kept them there, waiting to see what he would do. "Theo. My name is Theo."

"Theo. Nice name."

He shrugged. "I haven't used it since I was a fifteen."

"When was that? A couple of years ago?"

"More like a dozen." He ignored the surprised look on my face. "So, you gonna tell me your name?"

"You know my name. Matheson."

Theo took the cup from my hand and threw it along with his into a trash pail a few feet away. When he returned, it was to stand in front of me. My gaze swept the corridor, making sure it was empty.

He threaded his fingers through my hair. "I don't intend to call you by your last name when I kiss you."

"You ... you want to kiss me?" He nodded, and I licked my lips again. "William."

"William? Billy? ...Wills?" He reached into my overcoat, unbuttoned my jacket and rubbed his palms over my torso. His lips found mine, and I tried to keep my eyes open. I really tried.

My eyes shut, my mouth opened, and for the first time in my life, I kissed a guy.

####

"Spike." I stood over the youngest rentboy as he sat slouched on a seat in the lobby, dozing again. Usually he had no problem keeping late hours, but this had been a day of stress and anxiety, and the kid was wiped. "Sweetcheeks and Matheson went down to the cafeteria. Find them and tell them to come up to room 412."

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and yawned as he got to his feet. "Okay, Palm. See you up there."

I went back to the emergency department and kept a sharp eye on the orderlies who would be moving Pretty Boy to his room. They knew their job, though, and I didn't have to threaten anyone for doing something ass-ways. Pretty Boy was maneuvered carefully onto a gurney and rolled into an elevator.

I hesitated, then followed him into it and stood in the far corner, my hand under my jacket, my eyes coolly ranging over the occupants of the car, ready to pull my Glock free if it should prove necessary.

There was no call for it, and we reached the fourth floor without any incident. 412 was a semi-private room. The bed by the door was already occupied, and I frowned. This was a lose/lose situation. While the position by the window might have been safer in terms of getting the drop on anyone who entered the room, there was still the problem of getting past them to the door.

I'd have to see about getting Pretty Boy transferred to a private room.

A nurse made sure he was settled comfortably, the drainage container was functioning properly, and his vital signs were within normal range. She smiled at me. "I'm Terri, the night nurse. You're not supposed to stay, but if you promise to leave within the half hour, I'll look the other way."

She rolled him until the johnny gown fell open and his right butt cheek was exposed. "Dilaudid," she explained as she wiped the area with an alcohol swab and injected him with the pain medication.

"Ow! Palm!" Pretty Boy shifted uncomfortably.

"Don't be such a baby! That didn't hurt!"

"Easy for you to say. It wasn't your ass she jabbed with that knitting needle!"

The nurse raised the bed rails and smiled. "Not too long, remember." She left.

Pretty Boy tried to find a position that didn't hurt. "Fuck. Now everything hurts! My ass, my ribs, my head! Oh, yeah, laugh it up, fuzzy!"

"Sorry, baby. I'm just glad you're alive to piss and moan."

"Yeah?" He was starting to get sleepy. Narcotics hit some people that way. "You'll see I get TV?"

"You got it."

The other three walked in just then, panting slightly, and I noticed Matheson's overcoat was unbuttoned, and his suit jacket was buttoned wrong. Spike was pouting. "He made us take the stairs!" he groused, glaring at my trainee. "And they were making out down there!"

I cocked an eyebrow at Sweetcheeks, and he grinned. "I only dented his suit a *little*, Palm," he assured me, stroking his hands over the front of Matheson's jacket, refastening it so all the buttons and buttonholes were now aligned. Matheson turned bright red, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Okay, pay attention. I've got to go; tomorrow is a work day. Pretty Boy just had some choice drugs, and he's about out of it. Do you two need a lift?"

Sweetcheeks glanced at Matheson. "We're good, Palm."

"Don't keep him up too late. Matheson, I won't be in until after the autopsy..."

He interrupted me. "Excuse me, sir. May I join you?"

I eyed him thoughtfully. "All right, but if you throw up, I'm docking you." I didn't say for behavior unbecoming a DSD agent, but he knew what I meant. "Meet me at the morgue at 7:30." And I didn't tell him not to make me wait; he was DSD, and he wasn't stupid. I headed for the door.

"Palm." Sweetcheeks grabbed me in a rib-crushing hug. "*Thank* you!" he said softly in my ear. "For being here for Pretty Boy. For all you've done."

He let me go, and I straightened my jacket. "Yeah, whatever. Matheson!"

"Mr. Palmer?"

"You didn't see that."

"See what, sir? I'm sorry, I was just reading this patient bill of rights on the hospital wall."

I snorted and walked out.

****

It was like probing a sore tooth or picking at a scab. I knew it would do no good, and I knew it would hurt like a mother, but I had to see for myself.

A temporary door had been put in place, but I had no problem letting myself
in.

I stood in the doorway, looking at the wreck that was my living room. The odor of cordite was still thick in the air, along with the lingering smell of charred flesh. The fire department had gone to hell with themselves with their fire hoses. My carpet squished under my shoes.

In the corner, all that was left of Sam was a puddle of melted metal. The case above the television hung at a crazy angle, the glass shattered, but at least the sword appeared undamaged.

Fuck. It was just a hunk of bronze. I could get it replaced any time. I turned on my heel and strode into the bedroom. On the top shelf in the closet was an overnight bag. I pulled it down and tossed it on the bed. Underwear, shirt, shoes, socks, they all smelled of smoke, but they'd have to do. I packed them and went back into the hall, then left my apartment, making sure to lock the door behind me.

Now that things had quieted down a bit, my stomach was making hungry noises. I hadn't eaten since breakfast; I'd intended to snack on something from Webb's refrigerator while I was in his townhouse, but that plan had been shot to shit when Sperling sent Pretty Boy to the hospital. I checked the time. McDonald's was closed, and the places that I knew were still open were further than I cared to drive. I'd have to settle for something from a vending machine at the motel.

I went down to the parking garage, unlocked my car and threw the overnighter onto the front seat. As I slid in beside it my phone rang, and I pulled it from my jacket pocket. "Palmer."

"So. Do you have a place to stay?"

I dug the heel of my hand into my eyes. "Webb? No, I was just going to find a motel."

"Where are you now?"

"Just outside my place. What's left of it, I should say."

He was silent for a moment. "That could have been you on that slab in the morgue."

"And probably one day it will be me. But not because I couldn't disarm my own fucking door! Listen, I've got to get going, Webb. Did you call for a reason?"

"Yes. No. I... I am glad that wasn't you."

I remembered the anger in his eyes before he'd blanked it. And I remembered my Uncle Steve reacting something like that when I'd dashed out between a couple of parked cars. He'd grabbed my arm, yanked me back onto the sidewalk, and whaled the tar out of my skinny, five-year-old backside.

Had Webb called because he was concerned? I started to smile. It had been a long time since someone had called to see how I was. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us, and the cocksucker it happened to couldn't have been more deserving."

"You know who it was?"

//You stupid fuck! He only called to see if he could sucker you into revealing who it was in the morgue. Not because he cared about you!// Well, not fucking likely. "Webb--"

"You're not going to tell me who it was. Fine. Come on over. I'll make you a sandwich and some coffee. You can crash in my spare bedroom."

I was dead tired, I was starving, I smelled of smoke, and my shoes made disgusting, squeaking sounds. But I was still sharp enough not to give the CIA any information.

And a bed in Clayton Webb's townhouse had to be better than anything the motels in the area could offer. "Now, that's an offer I can't refuse," I told him.

He sighed. "And Clark, drive carefully, all right? Don't get yourself killed." It almost sounded as if he was glad I'd be staying with him.

I laughed softly. "Sure thing, baby."

"I don't suppose it would do any good if I asked you not to call me 'baby'."

"No." 'Baby' kept it impersonal. No way was I letting Clayton Webb get close to me.

"I didn't think so. I'll see you soon, Clark." He hung up.

I stared at my phone, listening to the drone of the dial tone, then snapped it shut and put it back in my pocket. I started the car and drove out onto the street.

~End~