Title: Baby, Baby All the Time

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clark Palmer/Clayton Webb

Rating: NC-17

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: They still belong to Belisarius Productions. Just don't talk to me about justice, OK? However, David Brendan Cooper is mine.

Status: new/complete

Date: 2/02

Series/Sequel: This is two in the Mind Fuck series, and is Clayton Webb's POV of the events in Happy Birthday, Baby

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: Clay decides to take a DSD agent to dinner for his birthday

Warnings: m/m, language, AU. In this universe the DSD has not been disbanded and Clark did not go to Leavenworth. Spoilers for Webb of Lies

Notes: Revelations on a Sunday Afternoon, by Gail covers how Clark was able to get some of the personal information about Clay. It can be found on her site, http://members.freespeech.org/gem/work/new.html

Baby, Baby All the Time
By Tinnean

The knock on my office door broke my concentration. I'd been staring at the computer screen too long. I rubbed my eyes and sat back, calling, "Come."

David Brendan Cooper, one of the few agents I considered a friend, strolled in.

"David."

"Clay."

"I thought you were in London."

"I was. I just got back in. God, I'll be glad when they have the SSTs flying again." He looked tired.

"Have you been to bed at all?"

He shook his head. "I came in to clear up some loose ends, and I found this waiting for me. I thought you might want to see it." He dropped a sheet of paper onto the desk.

I examined his face. He had tight control of it, but I knew him too well not to see the concern he was trying not to betray. I lowered my eyes to the page and scanned the few lines rapidly. Then I reread them, more slowly this time.

"How did you get this?" After one of our recent Sunday morning horseback rides my mother had informed me that an old friend, who had been at Exeter with me, had called representing an alumnus magazine, and had arranged to meet her in person to interview her. 'This' was the very information she had given to 'Matt Robinson'. It also included that embarrassing skinny-dipping incident that had occurred just before graduation. Fortunately Mother had no idea that instead of using our towels, Matt and I had let the balmy evening air dry us off as we made love.

Cooper sighed. "I've got a contact in the DSD. Apparently he isn't too fond of Clark Palmer."

I laughed shortly. "Is anyone? Why?"

"Why did he establish contact?" The other agent shrugged. "My best guess is he wants Palmer's ass, and he's willing to go to bed with us to get it. Are you all right, Clay?"

God knows what I must have looked like. The sudden image of Clark Palmer, naked and in bed, his cock hard and glistening, had lodged itself in my mind, abruptly and for no apparent reason. We used terms like 'wanting someone's ass', and 'going to bed with someone' routinely. Why had it become literal?

I had started keeping more serious track of the DSD's best agent, right after that incident with the super conductor. Some of the time I actually knew where he was and what he was doing. Paul Candella, who never should have made it into the CIA, had been the one to shoot me on the Kamiko Maru.

Candella was the kind of CIA agent who gave spooks everywhere a bad name. He was so busy looking out for number one, playing both sides against the middle, that it never occurred to him he owed any one organization his loyalty.

I'd run across him once, in a men's room at State. I was washing my hands when he sauntered in as if he were cock of the walk. He paused and gave me a thorough once over that stripped me naked and categorized each of my physical qualities.

"I'm Candella, CIA," he announced, and made a big show of unzipping and taking out his dick, of which he seemed inordinately proud. "How'd you like this bad boy plowing your ass?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yeah, I knew you'd beg."

"You know, a remark like that could get you thrown out of the CIA," I said casually. I was certain he had no idea who I was.

"You'd have to tell, and I don't think you're the kind who would. I bet you can't get enough of it! I bet you get on your knees for anyone."

"In that case, I ought to introduce myself, don't you think? I'm Clayton Webb, State, *and* CIA."

"*You're* Clayton Webb? Oh, shit!" Candella turned his head to glare at me, as if it was my fault he had shot off his big mouth, and almost succeeded in pissing on his shoes. If I were someone like Clark Palmer, that would have made my day.

When Candella had been found in his car, dead of an apparent heart attack, rumors began flying around Langley. Lieutenant Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. of JAG was positive that Palmer had somehow been involved with it.

Of course, according to Rabb, Palmer was responsible for everything from the fall of the Roman Empire to the failure of the latest space shuttle to lift off.

I found myself thinking of Candella's death at odd times. He had no history of cardiac problems, but an autopsy revealed an extensive myopathy. Clark Palmer had been at a round table meeting, representing Trevor Wallace, head of the DSD. My own boss was there at the time, vouching for Palmer's presence. He couldn't have done it, but I, personally, had no doubt that somehow he had a hand in the spook's unlamented passing.

And now, after learning that Palmer had gone so far as to question my mother, I was beginning to wonder: had it been business? Or personal?

I licked my lips and shook myself out of my reverie. "A top DSD agent is compiling a file on me, D.B. Of course I'm concerned. Is this source reliable?"

"As reliable as anyone in that agency can be, Clay. You know the people they tend to attract are borderline at best!"

"This is true. Very well, thanks for bringing this to my attention. I'll look into it myself. You'll keep me posted if you hear anything else?"

"Sure thing, Clay." Cooper turned to leave. He paused at the door. "Clay, Michael Shaw, who's feeding me this information, is fairly low-level. If it ever gets back to Palmer that he's being sold out, I don't think the little prick will last much longer than the time it takes for Palmer to track him down."

"Then you'd better milk him for as much information as you can get on the DSD."

"That's the problem. All he wants to do is puke on Palmer. If I try to get anything else out of him, he's like the proverbial clam."

"Well, keep trying. It would be nice to be one step ahead of Palmer."

"Don't you mean, one step ahead of the DSD?"

I grinned sourly at my friend. "No, they aren't half the headache Palmer is!"

****

It had taken some time, but I had finally managed to discover and access the records I needed. If Clark Palmer were keeping a file on me, then it would behoove me to keep one on him. I already had the basic facts: father out of his life around the time he was twelve, shipped off to boarding school by an 'uncle'. His grades had been remarkable, and after graduation he'd gone on to a stint in the military, where apparently he'd risen in the ranks.

That didn't sound correct. Military discipline and Clark Palmer were two concepts that did not meld together. Something had to be missing.

Finally, buried under layers as tightly woven together as an onion, I found Clark Palmer's birth date. It was listed as February 25th, which was not what the DSD had on file. According to this transcript, he had shaved four years off his age as well.

Well, well. This was extremely interesting. Did the DSD's best agent suffer from gerascophobia, the fear of growing old? Even if it was just to avoid that agency's rather stringent retirement policy, this information gave me an edge.

How to use it? I sat back in my chair, folded my hands behind my head and examined the ceiling, letting random ideas bounce around my mind. A glance at the calendar solidified my plan, and I began to smile as I reached for my phone. This was a call best placed by myself.

"Defense Security Division. How may I direct your call?"

If that wasn't just like the DSD. The voice on the other end of the line was either a low-voiced woman, or a light-voiced man. Nothing was as it seemed with that organization.

"Clark Palmer, please. This is Clayton Webb." I didn't need to give my title. Even that rogue agency knew who I was.

"One moment, please, Deputy Director. I'll see if Mr. Palmer is available."

He didn't keep me waiting long. "Clark Palmer."

"Palmer, this is Clayton Webb."

"My, my," he said with a sneer that was vintage Clark Palmer. Oh, it was going to be so sweet taking him down. Abruptly, I saw myself flipping him onto my bed, and immobilizing him with the weight of my body. Where had that thought come from? I banished it to the recesses of my mind and concentrated on what Palmer was saying. "The CIA's golden boy is calling the DSD? To what do I owe this honor?"

"I need to see you." He was trying to get to me. I was as much the CIA's golden boy as he was the DSD's. I kept my tone bland. "Are you available for dinner?"

He cleared his throat. As much as he might want to conceal it, this had to be a surprise. Over the phone line I could hear Palmer thumbing the pages of his agenda.

"It looks like I'll be free after a 5 PM meeting. And don't bother asking who I'll be meeting, or why."

"Of course not, Clark. I know you wouldn't tell me, anyway." I made sure he could hear the amusement in my voice. "Would you meet me at Raphael's?" It was on my home ground, about a mile and a half from my townhouse in Alexandria.

"Certainly, Webb." He was smooth, never asking where the restaurant could be found, but I had no doubt whatsoever that he would find it. "What time?"

"Seven. Will that give you enough time?"

He was silent for a beat as he considered his five o'clock meeting. I knew he was going to ask to change the time. Sure enough, "Better make it eight."

"Fine." I made the word a caress. Before I was done I was going to have Clark Palmer so confused he wouldn't know which way was up. "I'll see you at Raphael's at eight, Clark." Quietly I disconnected the call, then dialed the trendy new restaurant to make reservations and order the meal in advance. I wanted nothing to interfere with this. He was going to get my complete, undivided attention.

****

I knew he'd keep me waiting. That's how it was done in the intelligence community. I lingered in the alcove that led to the rest rooms until I spotted his tall figure, then walked casually across the room as if I had just arrived myself, to meet him at the table that had been reserved for us. I smiled while I waited for him to take his seat. I knew after I saw his frown that I had succeeded in throwing him off kilter a bit; it was a smile I might offer when I intended to have my date for dessert.

When had I started thinking of Clark as someone I really did want to bed? I decided I'd start the ball in his court. "What's wrong, Clark? Difficult meeting?"

His hazel eyes, more brown than green just then, were considering, and for a moment I thought he wouldn't answer me, but then he nodded shortly. It became obvious he would say nothing more, going on the assumption that I was trying to worm information from him. That was what I loved best about working a DSD agent. Even when nothing was going on, they assumed something was.

I didn't push. Quite frankly, I didn't care who had come under Clark Palmer's tender ministrations. Anyone who did undoubtedly deserved whatever he got. "I took the liberty of ordering for us both when I made the reservations. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all."

The wine steward displayed the bottle of wine, and I took the glass he offered me. I went through the procedure of tasting it, then nodded my approval, smiled and swallowed. I had already selected it while I had been waiting for Clark to show up. "Yes, this Chardonnay is excellent. What, Clark?"

He was trying to keep his expression innocuous. "I've never seen that done before, Clay."

I knew he preferred Michelob, but one did not drink beer at one of the classier Italian restaurants in the Capital.

I poured a glass of the white wine and offered it to him. He raised it to his lips, his eyes watching mine. My disappointed expression was not altogether feigned.

"What?"

"Nothing, Clark. I was about to propose a toast, but it can wait if you'd rather."

He smiled. "Here's to the CIA, who takes it up the ass?"

The contents of the platter of antipasto the waiter was about to place between us nearly slid onto the table as the poor man choked down a gasp and turned a fiery red.

"Sorry, Webb. Guess you can dress me up, but you can't take me out." Although Palmer's grin was wicked, I could see a hint of ruefulness in his eyes.

Clark Palmer sorry that he had upset another human being? I didn't want to think he was concerned because the man was a civilian who had simply been caught in the crossfire.

Or did he think he had embarrassed me?

I was startled to feel myself harden, and it wasn't at the thought of a CIA agent taking it up the ass. Everyone thought because I was the son of Neville and Porter Webb that I had ice water in my veins, and I worked hard to maintain that image. But the crude phrase set me on fire, and I wanted to strip off Clark's trousers, bend him over the table, and fuck his brains out. "Wouldn't you like to find out, Clark? Well, perhaps another time."

That had come out of my mouth? Palmer looked startled. Since when did Clayton Webb flirt with men who had the reputation of being sociopaths?

Of course, that was merely Rabb's opinion of him.

I smiled and raised my glass. "Happy birthday, Clark. Many happy returns."

Palmer almost choked on his wine. "There must be some mistake, Webb. Today isn't my birthday."

"Isn't it?" I licked a drop of wine from my lips, unsmiling. I made the humor I saw in his reaction visible in my gaze. "My mistake."

He blushed. That hardassed DSD agent, the best they had to offer, actually turned red. I wondered if he realized it.

We began to help ourselves to the antipasto. Clark seemed to favor the roasted peppers, while I preferred the marinated artichoke hearts. When I offered him one he declined. "No, thanks, Webb. Those little hairs always get caught under my tongue, and it makes me crazy trying to get them out. I feel like a cat trying to hack up a hairball."

I touched my napkin to my lips to conceal my smile. I didn't know if he was trying to be witty or not, but I found myself...liking him! How in hell had that happened? Time for a change in subject. "There's a show opening at Kennedy Center. I saw it on Broadway with the same cast, and it's quite good." I sipped my wine. "Would you be interested in tickets, Clark? I would have no problem getting them for you."

I really didn't expect him to be interested. He brought his glass to his lips, and I could see he was enjoying the wine. That made me feel good, especially when I knew he hadn't expected to like it.

"I'd love it, Clay."

He looked dumbfounded. I dropped my gaze to the decimated platter and picked up a piece of proscuitto. Knowing what I did of Clark Palmer, he had to be thinking I'd put something in his wine. I'd considered it, knowing there was an antidote, so I could drink from the same bottle and lull his suspicions, but then dismissed it as too James Bond.

"Are you going to eat that last roasted pepper, Clark?"

I was sure he was going to say yes, but to my surprise he speared it with his fork and offered it to me. "Help yourself, Clay."

I leaned forward and took it between my lips, letting him feed me, which had definitely not been his intention. I kept my eyes on his, then slowly sat back.

His expression was unhappy, and he reached for his glass. I laid my fingers over his hand.

"I don't want you driving drunk, Clark."

He stared at the back of his hand, then looked away. But not quickly enough that I didn't see his tongue come out, licking his lips. Had I succeeded in making him nervous? I had certainly made myself nervous. My fingertips were tingling from where I had touched him, and I rubbed them together surreptitiously.

The first course was cleared away, and the pasta dish, penne a la vodka, was brought out. I began conversing about occurrences in the DC area, and of course Clark had no trouble contributing. His eyes were bright, and I wondered what was going on behind them.

After the pasta came the veal piccata, and the conversation flowed on. I was a little surprised at how much I was enjoying myself. And then Clark was neatly blotting his mouth and making noises about a pleasant evening.

"You're not leaving yet," I stated flatly.

"I'm not?"

"Clark, if I take you to an Italian restaurant, the least you can do is have the tiramasu."

Clark Palmer's expression was nonplussed, and I swallowed a grin. He was unable to tell if I was treating him as a date, or as a friend. Just when he was certain we were here as colleagues, I'd make a remark like the last one, and confuse him again.

The dessert was placed before us, as well as two of the tiny cups of espresso. "Anisette, signores?" the waiter queried.

I always had anisette in my espresso. It was a taste I had acquired while in the mountainous areas of Italy. Clark indicated he would have it also.

The tiramasu must have been too sweet for him, because after a bite or two he set it aside and concentrated on his espresso. He was lounging back in his chair, and I couldn't resist. I toed off my loafer and slid my foot into his lap, kneading his crotch with my heel.

One of the things I'd discovered about Clark Palmer was that he had a penchant for brunets, which he acted on from time to time, and I knew he wouldn't run screaming into the night because another man... because I made a discreet pass at him.

With each bite of dessert I took, I ground my heel more firmly against his hardening cock. His pupils were so dilated his eyes appeared black, and his lips were parted as he tried to control his breathing. His dick quivered beneath my sole, and I knew with just a little more judicious pressure I'd have him coming.

The thought made me so hot that I regretted the tablecloth that covered our table wasn't longer. If it had been, I would have made a pretense of dropping my napkin. Once under the table, I would have unzipped his trousers, taken his cock out, and licked the head and shaft with broad swipes of my tongue before swallowing it.

I wanted him in my mouth.

"What CIA shit is this about, Webb?"

"What makes you think this has anything to do with business?" I asked a little breathlessly.

"What did you put in the wine, Clay?"

"What would you have put in the wine, Clark?" I kept my tone cool, giving away nothing.

"*Fuck*!" He threw my foot off his lap and surged to his feet. "Good night, Webb."

I laughed softly as I watched him make his way toward the door. Abruptly he detoured, heading for the rest rooms. I made a snap decision. I wasn't ready for the game to be over just yet, so I slid my foot back into my shoe and rose to follow him.

I watched from the door as he washed his hands, then splashed some water over his face.

"Problem, Clark?"

He turned around, the grin on his face one that was guaranteed to scare people. That was Palmer, back to the wall, and ready to go down swinging. I grinned back at him, and glanced at the old man who was the washroom attendant, signaling I wanted him gone. As he scurried past me I slipped a couple of folded bills into his palm.

I locked the door and approached Palmer.

"What the fuck are you trying to pull here, Webb?"

I didn't answer. He backed away until the row of stalls prevented him from going any further. I was rather surprised he made no move to knock me out of his way and escape. He could have at any time; I wouldn't have stopped him.

I stroked my fingers down the front of his trousers, shaping his dick, and then I had his zipper lowered and his cock in my hand. I knew the way I liked it, and I jerked him off the same way, long and hard, short and light.

His eyes were almost wild, and that tipped me over. I dropped to my knees before him and took him into my mouth.

Jesus Christ, I'd never done that, sucked someone off in a men's room! Not even as a randy young man fresh out of college. The only thing that kept me halfway sane was the fact that Clark was looking as shell-shocked as I felt. He wound his fingers in my hair, and I thought for a moment that he would pull me off him, but then he began to fuck my mouth.

I pressed my tongue up against the underside of his shaft, let him feel the edges of my teeth. The pressure on my hair increased, and I had to look up into his eyes, which now seemed green.

I liked what he was doing. I made no effort to hide how much I liked it. Over and over he drove into my mouth; I wanted to hear him moan.

And then he came. He was slightly bitter. Taking him deeper into my throat I swallowed, and I finally did make him moan.

My mouth felt tender. I sat back on my heels, never taking my eyes from his, and touched my lips. His hands were unsteady as he attempted to get his cock back in his pants.

"I know you've got a file on me, Palmer. I don't know why yet. But I intend to find out." I got to my feet and walked to the door, unlocking it. "I *will* find out." I glanced at him over my shoulder. "Happy birthday, Clark."

I returned to the table. The waiter appeared at my shoulder. "Will the other gentleman be returning?"

"No."

"Would il signore care for more espresso?"

"Please." I was going to be up all night pondering my actions in the men's room. I might as well have the caffeine to blame. "And the check, also."

"Si." He returned quickly with a fresh cup and the bill. I glanced at it, then handed him a platinum credit card.

Something caused me to look toward the door. Palmer was standing there watching me. I touched my index finger to the lock of hair that swung over my forehead, and sent him a tiny salute.

His mouth twisted in a wry grin. He licked his forefinger, traced a one in the air, and was gone.

The waiter was back with the credit slip. I signed it and took my copy, then reached for my wallet. I always tipped cash.

His eyes widened. "Grazie, signore!"

"Prego."

I walked out into the damp February night. The doorman offered to whistle up a cab but I declined. My townhouse wasn't that far, and I could use the time it took to walk there for a little introspection, something I was fairly sure Clark Palmer was not into.

He would view my sucking him off in a men's room as my upping the level of the mind fuck game I was playing with him and dismiss the possibility it might be anything deeper.

The more I thought of it, me on my knees, his hands in my hair, his hips thrusting in sharp, jerky movements as I dragged that moan out of him, the harder I became. I increased my pace.

In spite of the chill night air, by the time I reached my townhouse a drop of perspiration was trickling along my jaw. I let myself in and ran up the stairs to my bedroom, shoving my trousers down off my hips and taking my cock in my hand.

I hunched over my bed, using the same strokes I had used on Clark, and climaxed rapidly.

"Shit." I'd come too fast to really enjoy it. I hadn't even taken the time to remove my suit jacket! I took a handful of tissues to wipe off my fingers, then undressed. A shower seemed like a good idea. I turned on the water and stepped under the hot spray.

The memory of Clark Palmer's moan filled my mind. I jerked off again.

~End~