Title: Peel Me a Grape

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG/La Femme Nikita

Pairing: Clark Palmer/Michael Samuelle

Rating: NC-17

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: Belisarius Productions claims they own the boys from JAG. Fireworks and Warner say all things LFN belong to them. I'm just borrowing them, honest!

Status: new/complete

Date: 2/02

Series/Sequel: This is part three in the Mind Fuck series, and follows Baby, Baby All the Time.

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: While on an assignment in Paris, Clark finds time to spend with a friend.

Warnings: m/m, language, minor spoiler for Imposter

Notes: Palmer's and Samuelle's first meeting is chronicled in April in Paris and its sequel, We Only See What We Want to See, which are up on my webpage. This is for Gail, with thanks for the ideas, and the beta.

Peel Me a Grape
by Tinnean

"Palmer!" My name over the intercomm.

"Sir?" The Boss rarely summoned anyone personally. Even a senior agent such as myself usually was called to his presence by his secretary.

"My office. Now." I hadn't heard that tone in his voice in a very long time. If I read it correctly, and I was never wrong, someone had pissed off the head of the DSD, and I was going to get to teach him manners.

"Yes, sir!"

I had just finished loading some new information into my personal file on Clayton Webb, Deputy Director of the CIA, but I wouldn't have time to reformat the disk, wiping it clean. I saved and closed the program, and slid the floppy under my desk blotter. It would be safe enough there. No one entered my office uninvited.

Mr. Wallace looked up as I entered. "Palmer."

I made sure the door was closed, then walked up to that desk of his that had seemed the size of a football field the first time I had been called to his office as a junior agent. I'd been cool and relaxed then. I was cool and relaxed now. "Mr. Wallace?"

His eyes were flat, and there was an unhappy twist to his lips. I drew in a deep breath, and let it out soundlessly, and wondered who I was going to have to kill.

The Boss drummed his manicured fingernails on the arm of his chair. "You're familiar with Paul Wolfe?" He named the head of a covert antiterrorist organization that was currently housed somewhere in Paris.

"I've heard of him, sir." I'd also dealt with a couple of his people.

"I owe him, Clark." I swallowed. This was fucking serious. The Boss never called me by my first name. Never. "We were prisoners of war in Viet Nam, and he saved my life. He's calling in that favor now."

"What can I do to help, Mr. Wallace?"

He handed me a scrap of paper. "Memorize this and destroy it. Paul Wolfe will be at that address for exactly one hour. If you miss that window of opportunity, you'll need to contact him at that phone number to set up another meeting. Oh, and eating this will not be necessary, Clark."

"And here I thought I was actually going to get to play James Bond."

"Palmer..."

"Sorry, sir." But I'd got him to grin.

"You don't ask me why Paul Wolfe doesn't have his own people handle this."

"I assumed he did not want his organization to be implicated if there were any repercussions. As an unknown quantity, I would not be traced back to Section."

"But you could be traced back to the DSD?" he asked sharply.

"Of course not, sir. Aren't I the best you've got? Didn't Sabatino Geralamo have a heart attack on the dance floor at his daughter's wedding?"

The Boss smiled at the seeming non sequitur. "You always do excellent work, Palmer." He took an airline ticket from his desk drawer. "You'll catch the 7:20 flight out of Dulles. It should get you into Charles De Gaulle Airport around 8:35 tomorrow morning." He caught the look on my face. "Would you like me to lean on the French government and see if I can get the SSTs running again?"

"I'd appreciate it, sir!" I said dryly.

He gave a gentlemanly huff of laughter. "Clear off your desk, Palmer, and take the rest of the afternoon off. I don't want you missing that flight."

"Yes, sir!" I paused at the door. "Just one thing, Mr. Wallace. How far do you want me to go?"

His gaze was contemplative. "It's really Paul Wolfe's call. He'll fill you in on all the details, and will let you know how thorough he wants you to be. Other than that, I trust to your discretion, and I've already informed him that he should also."

I was smiling as I walked down the corridor. By tomorrow morning, I would be in Paris. And once this little job was completed, maybe I'd have a chance to see Michael Samuelle, the operative I'd met there a few years ago.

Michael was an extremely talented lover. Once I was buried in his body, I had no doubt I'd forget all about Clayton Webb.

My smile faded, and I went on full alert. The door to my office was slightly ajar. I examined it for a moment, then pushed it open and stood there, letting my eyes rove over the room. Everything seemed in place. I approached my desk. Nothing seemed to be disturbed.

I sat down and reached for the disk I had slipped under the blotter. Odd. I thought I had put it more to the right, but I found it in the center. The worry hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. I inserted the disk in my A drive and clicked on File. The box dropped down, and I stared at it.

Someone had come into my office and made a copy of this disk. The information on it was innocuous, just some details I had gotten from Clayton Webb's mother when I 'interviewed' her for the Exeter alumnus newsletter. It was a good thing that picture she compared me with didn't give any indication of height. The real Matt Robinson was about four inches shorter than I was, closer to Webb's 5'10".

Someone in the DSD was spying on me? A spook in my own backyard? I could feel the tension in my jaw as I clenched my teeth in irritation.

I concentrated on relaxing. There would be no problem talking my way out of questions about this, if I even *were* questioned. I had learned early on to lie like a rug, and it often came in handy.

And the best way to lie was by telling the truth. I put that worry aside. I needed to get home and pack.

I right-clicked on the computer icon and set about reformatting the disk, wiping it clean of all information.

****

We were somewhere in Calais, in a warehouse that had been abandoned for quite some time. The figure slumped in the chair was just regaining consciousness. I removed the protective gloves I had covering my hands and flexed my fingers. "The man whose computer program you fucked with doesn't want you dead. You should be grateful for that."

His eyes managed to convey his disbelief, and I grinned at him and squatted down in front of him.

"I know a lot of ways to kill a man, and forty-five of them take a very long time. If it was my choice, I would have had you begging me to put you out of your misery long before now." I shoved his head back.

Tears streaked his cheeks, and his breath hitched. I imagined his throat was quite sore from his screams. They had started as soon as I broke his first finger. I didn't think the others would heal soundly enough for him to ever use a keyboard again.

I stood up and observed him dispassionately. He wouldn't have died well at all.

"You should be able to get yourself loose in a quarter hour, if you concentrate and breathe through the pain. I wouldn't dawdle, though. The explosives are set to go off thirty minutes from now."

There was a faint hissing sound as he pissed his pants.

Of course there really weren't any explosives. Paul Wolfe wanted the man left alive. I didn't think it was a smart move, but it was his call.

I walked out happy. I had done my job.

****

It was still too chilly in Paris to sit at one of the outdoor tables. I hated the cold, so I waited inside for my friend to show up. If he was able to get free, he promised to meet me in this place in time for dinner.

My thoughts were once again on Clayton Webb. I was spending entirely too much time thinking about him, but I was sure that once I'd had Michael Samuelle in my bed again, the level 5 cold op and one-time valentine operative would wipe away all thoughts of Clayton Webb as easily as I'd wiped that disk.

Something hard was being pressed into my spine, and I stiffened, furious with myself. I never let my thoughts wander, and now here I had let someone get the drop on me.

"Ah, cher homme," the soft voice whispered, "if I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead now!" Warm lips touched the back of my neck in a brief caress.

"You think so, Michael?" I could not afford to let anyone, not even him, know of this...whatever the fuck it was that I had developed for a CIA spook. My expression revealed nothing but amusement as I turned to face him and saw him cocking the finger he had dug into my back at me.

"But of course!" He was so French. He seated himself opposite me, so that we both had an area of the restaurant under surveillance.

"How have you been, my friend?" I passed him the menu, which he glanced at indifferently.

"Well, mon cher Clark. I have been given a young blonde to mentor. She has fallen in love with me, I think. I know she wants to sleep with me."

"Merde!"

He shrugged, a typically Gallic gesture. "There will be time enough to worry if she survives her training."

"Your organization is almost as rigorous as mine when it comes to training." The waiter appeared at my shoulder.

"I know what is good here, Clark. Shall I order for us both?"

I remembered another dinner where someone had ordered for me, and I frowned, but let Michael choose the meal.

"Vous avez Michelob? Bon, pour deux, s'il vous plait. And we will have Soupe a la Oignon Gratinee, and then bifteck, rare. Mon ami?"

This time I shrugged. French onion soup sounded good, but I wanted Michael in bed more than I wanted the steak. Maybe having the Frenchman under me would take my mind off Clayton Webb.

Michael arched his eyebrow when I murmured my suggestion to him, although his mouth curved in a sensuous grin, and my cock twitched with interest. I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn't fixated on that hazel-eyed spook! I knew I wasn't! I grinned back at my friend and licked my lips. Michael's grey-green eyes grew sultry. After dinner, *he* was going to be dessert.

****

"Operations is very pleased with you, Clark." Michael was languidly removing his black shirt. Beneath it, he wore nothing except a medallion I had sent him as a token of esteem. I was pleased that he wore it. "If you ever decide you are tired of DSD regulations, he would be more than happy to see that an opening became available for you in Section One."

"Thank you, Michael. I'm content with where I am."

"Still, if you ever change your mind?"

I left my own shirt half unbuttoned and crossed the room to where he stood. He was shorter than I, and I had to lean forward to fasten my lips to his. I wouldn't have had to bend so far with Clayton Webb.

*Fuck*! I growled under my breath and took Michael's mouth more savagely than I intended. But Michael was no shrinking violet. He enjoyed it when I got rough. He bit at my lips, the sounds he was making heading right to my dick.

I backed away a step and tore off my clothes, not caring if I ripped buttonholes. It was very reminiscent of the first time I had had Michael, and the memory of those two, torrid weeks had me on the verge of coming too soon. I reached into my pants and squeezed the base of my cock.

Michael had just unfastened his trousers. I pushed him back onto the bed. "On your belly, Michael!" His eyes glowed with lust, and he obeyed my order, leaving me to yank off his pants. I shoved his knees up under him, parted his ass cheeks and licked the sensitive skin from behind his balls to his hole.

"Clark!" he shouted hoarsely as my tongue stabbed into him.

"How long has it been, Michael? Has that blonde of yours been able to give you this?"

"Nikita would never do this for me!" he groaned as I bit and sucked the curve of his ass, both of us knowing I would leave bruises, neither of us caring. I squeezed lubricant onto my fingers. He readily accepted two of them, and I knew it wouldn't take long to prepare him.

I tore open a condom packet, smoothed on the sheath and slicked it with more of the lube.

"Vite, mon ami, vite!" His legs were spread wide, offering me whatever I might want to take from him.

I fitted my cock to his hole and pushed steadily into him. "Is this quickly enough for you, Michael?" Maybe Nikita wasn't giving him this, but I didn't doubt someone was. He had no trouble in accepting my length.

Briefly I wondered who it might be. I wasn't jealous; we were just friends who fucked when we had the opportunity, which was too seldom. I just hoped whoever he took to his bed made him happy.

He was happy now; he moaned as I found his prostate and set up a hard, fast rhythm at an angle that was guaranteed to have him begging me to let him come.

"Clark, mon Dieu, cher homme. S'il vous plait!"

My lips parted in a strained grin. I knew I could make him beg. I reached under him and took his oozing cock in my hand, smearing pre come over his shaft as I began to jerk him off.

His compact body was shaking beneath me, and I knew without him telling me he was about to come. I was almost there myself. All it took was one last stroke of my hand on his dick, and the inner muscles of his hot channel clamped down on me. My balls drew up tight to my body, and I cried out.

I kept him where he was, enjoying the snug warmth, then eased us to our sides. Michael murmured something, but I yawned and cradled him closer to me. I never slept well on transatlantic flights, and it was catching up with me now.

"Don't let me sleep too long, Michael." I yawned again, starting the slide into a light slumber. "I'll definitely want you again!"

****

I stretched and rolled over to find myself confronted by the somber gaze of the level 5 operative. "Is something wrong?"

"Je m'appelle Michel, the last time I looked, Clark."

"Excusez-moi?" What was my friend talking about?

"When you came? You called out someone else's name." He didn't look angry, merely meditative.

"I...uh...I did?" Please tell me I did not call for...

"Clay, cher homme. You cried out for Clay."

*Fuck*! I sat up, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. "I'm sorry, Michael. That was...that was a shitty thing to do."

"Clark, mon ami. Ecoutez. Listen to me. In our profession, death walks always at our shoulders. I do not begrudge any warmth you may find."

"No, Michael. You don't understand. There's no warmth between us. Clayton Webb is fucking CIA."

"But you are fascinated by him, non?"

"No. NO."

"No?" he echoed. "Perhaps you would care to explain this to me?" He held up a copy of one of the photos Porter Webb had permitted me to take when she thought I was Matt Robinson. On the back scrawled in my handwriting was the inscription I had read on the original. 'Clayton atop Jack Be Nimble, South Hampton trials, June 1981.'

"You've been snooping in my wallet, Samuelle? I've killed men for less!"

His glance was amused. "Have you, mon ami? Clark, you are my friend, and I am concerned. You turn down a steak to rush me into bed, you're rougher than I recall. Oh, I did not mind, cher homme," he hurried to assure me. "In fact if he is the one who inspired you to such heights, I think I will have to come to Washington, DC and see if I can persuade him to sample my bed."

I reacted without thinking. "You go near him, Samuelle, and I'll kill you!"

"That is the second time in less than five minutes that you have threatened me with death, Clark. Your behavior is very similar to someone who is, if I may venture to say so without incurring a third death threat, obsessed."

"I. Am. Not. Obsessed!"

Michael left the chair and sat beside me on the bed. "Cher homme," he murmured softly. He slid his arm around my shoulder and held the picture before me. Clay would have been about sixteen when this image was captured. He was crouching over his horse's neck, the reins gripped tightly in his fists, his teenaged butt off the saddle as they sailed over a water jump.

I took the picture from Michael and ran my finger over that firm, young ass. "Oh, fuck," I moaned. "Obsessed! With a fucking CIA spook!"

"It sounds so to me, my very dear friend. Perhaps you need to fuck him. This has been known to satisfy the obsession."

"He's already sucked me off in the men's room of a restaurant," I said glumly. I didn't realize I had spoken aloud until I felt Michael's shoulders shaking in muffled laughter. Ah, fucking hell! I hadn't meant to tell anyone about that, ever.

"Vraiment?" He struggled to control his amusement. "Then it seems to me, cher homme, that it might be time for you to repay the favor." He rose and went to a small table that had been set up with a couple of champagne flutes and some fruit. "I ordered room service," he said in answer to my curious gaze. I joined him, and Michael handed me a glass. "Bon chance, mon ami."

I took a sip, then set the glass down. Champagne always made me horny. I selected a plump, wine dark grape instead, and peeled the skin from it.

"Would you sleep with Nikita, if it would cure her of her obsession with you?"

"Of course not, Clark. That obsession makes it easier to control her. Section would not be pleased if I did anything to interfere with their plans."

I didn't care how Section managed their personnel problems; I had other things on my mind. "So if I fuck Clayton Webb, I won't be obsessed with him anymore." I popped the grape in my mouth and spit the seeds into my palm. And the more I thought of shoving my dick in Webb's tight CIA ass, the better that sounded to me.

I reached for another grape. Once I got back to DC, I'd track down the asshole who thought he could spy on me in my own company. I'd take him out with extreme prejudice.

And then I'd turn my attention to the Deputy Director of the CIA. I'd show Clayton Webb how we did it in the DSD. I'd make him beg the way I had the level 5 cold op begging. I'd get him out of my system once and for all.

I reached for my glass of champagne.

Webb thought he could get to me? Not fucking likely!


~End~