Title: Soothe Me, Baby, Soothe Me

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clark Palmer/Michael Shaw

Rating: R

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: Does Belisarius Productions **really** think they can own someone like Clark Palmer? Well, **I** certainly won't be the one to tell him so. However, Michael Shaw, Wills Matheson and The Boss are all mine!

Status: new/complete

Date: 2/02

Series/Sequel: This is the fourth in the Mind Fuck series, and follows Peel Me a Grape.

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

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

Summary: Clark is aware someone is leaking information to Clayton Webb, and he intends to find out who.

Warnings: m/m, language, character death

Notes: Scarfing is not condoned by the management, and neither is drug abuse. Call me a spoilsport. This is for Gail, who beta's and cheers me on.

Soothe Me, Baby, Soothe Me
By Tinnean

I shouldn't have come in to work that day. I was feeling like shit. It couldn't be food poisoning; I was only trying to barf up a lung. So I figured it must be a reaction to the fucking flu shot The Boss insisted we all get.

I wouldn't have been surprised if Clayton Webb had something to do with getting a doctored vaccine sent to the DSD.

All right, I didn't really believe that. I leaned against the wall of the stall, trying to catch my breath before the heaves started again. I swallowed rapidly as saliva flooded my mouth. Webb wouldn't do something like that. He was a spook, but he was an honorable spook.

But he'd asked me to dinner, and then surprised the hell out of me by wishing me happy birthday. I still couldn't figure out how he had learned that February 25th was my real birthday, and not July 4th like everyone had in their files.

On top of that, he had followed me into the men's room, locked the door, and sucked me off. The memory of Webb on his knees before me, watching with satisfied eyes as he'd finally made me moan, was so hot I jerked off to it every night.

It didn't throw me off balance. I never permitted anything to make me lose control, but it was imperative that I find the leak in my department, or in the DSD. Someone had discovered the file I'd made on Clayton Webb, and had seen he'd gotten that information.

****

Going on the premise of hiding in plain sight, I had the file buried in the recesses of the computer in my office, surrounded by so many firewalls and fail safes that if anyone tried to access it, a DFWM worm was triggered. A little something I had come up with, it was so insidious it made the Nimda virus look like a stroll in the park. There had been no howls from the Internet community, so I knew my security hadn't been breached.

But there *had* been that afternoon when I was in the middle of updating the information I had gathered. I'd pretended to be an old classmate of Clay's who was doing an article about him for the Exeter alumnus newsletter, and had spoken with Webb's mother, Porter Webb, and her ... bodyguard, Markov; I'd gotten stories of his childhood, a look at his grades (*fuck*, he was one smart puppy!), even some pictures she allowed me to photograph. The Boss had called me into his office, and never mind ASAP, Palmer, get your ass in here *now*. I'd saved and left on the fly, sliding the disk under the blotter on my desk.

Mr. Wallace had a request for me. His opposite number in an antiterrorist organization that was located in Paris at the moment needed someone with my...abilities. Perhaps when the job was done I'd look up the valentine operative I had met the last time I had been in Paris. April. Such a soft month.

Such a soft mouth...

When I returned to my office, I had the uneasy feeling the disk wasn't exactly where I'd left it. I inserted it into the A drive. I knew I wasn't being exceptionally paranoid, even for me, when I pulled up the file menu and realized the disk had been copied.

So. Someone in the DSD thought he could stroll into my office, copy my files, and get away scott-free? I went ahead and reformatted the disk, wiping the information from it, and tossed it in with the stack that would be reused.

Shouldn't be a problem... *Wouldn't* be a problem. I'd take care of it. As the virus indicated, *nobody* fucked with me!

As soon as I got back from Paris, I was going hunting!

****

Once I was back home it didn't take long for me to plot my strategy, but before I could implement it, The Boss ordered those fucking flu shots, and now here I was in the men's room, puking up my guts.

I had just finished retching and was reaching for a handkerchief to wipe my face and mouth when the door to the restroom opened.

"Anyone in here, Michael?"

"Nah. No need to look. Palmer isn't in today. He's out sick, and he's the only one I'd check under the stalls for."

I bit down hard on my back teeth, fighting down a surge of nausea that would have given me away.

"Are you sure? He could be on his deathbed, and he'd *still* show up to work. The DSD is everything to Clark Palmer, friend, lover, wife! *And* he's one devious son of a bitch to boot!"

Shaw dismissed his friend's warning, deciding to show what a wit he was. "I think friend, lover, *husband* would be a better way to phrase it, Wills!" He giggled.

Well, he was half right.

"You like to live dangerously, don't you? I'd look anyway, if I were you."

"That's your problem, Wills. You're *not* me! I'm on the fast track to the top."

"Last time I looked, Palmer was still above you."

"Not for long, William, m'lad!"

"Michael, tell me you didn't have anything to do with Mr. Palmer getting sick!"

"Okay, I won't." But the smug tone in his voice said otherwise. I'd look into that. If I found Shaw was responsible for my wretched condition, he'd be begging to die by the time I got done with him!

"Jesus, Michael!" the other man growled. "You're going to get yourself killed!"

I heard the sound of zippers being undone and then the hiss as they relieved themselves. "I don't think so, Wills! I've got something on the high and mighty Mr. Clark Palmer that is guaranteed to get him tossed on that lily white ass of his!"

"I don't want to know! Palmer is one tough cookie. Even Mr. Wallace is careful around him."

Really? The Boss was a good man, unlike some of those shits who had overseen my department. There weren't many I'd put my neck in a noose for, but Trevor Wallace was one of the few.

"Yeah? Well, Wallace is a fool!"

"Michael!" The other voice was low, urgent. "This place could be bugged!"

"Not a chance! I scanned it myself earlier! And when that corner office of Palmer's belongs to me, maybe I'll let you come enjoy the view every once in a while! Hey, why don't you come by my office later? You can get under my desk and suck me off!" He chuckled. "I heard that's how Palmer *really* got to be a special agent! He isn't anything special!"

William Matheson moaned. "Oh, Michael, please be careful!"

The door shut behind them, and I leaned over the bowl to allow whatever remained in my stomach to spew up. Tears streamed down my cheeks from the force of my vomiting. I panted shallowly and wiped my face again.

So, Michael Shaw thought he had something on me? We'd just have to see about that, now wouldn't we?

****

It was so easy I was almost tempted to be ashamed of myself. Almost.

I'd gone to Shaw's office. Even in my most junior position at the DSD, my office had been larger than Shaw's.

"Yes, Palmer?" His tone was belligerent, and he didn't rise to acknowledge my senior status.

As senior special agent, I was entitled to be called Mr. Palmer. Only my equals (and let's face it, there were damn few of them) and my superiors called me Palmer. And Clayton Webb, when he wasn't calling me Clark, trying to confuse me.

I wondered how Shaw saw himself. *I* saw a young man of average height, average build, brown hair, brown eyes, nothing really special. But trying, oh, so hard to be more than he ever could be. I cleared my throat. "Something's going on here at the DSD, Shaw."

"What?"

My eyes darted around the small cubicle. "It ... wouldn't be safe to talk about it within these walls."

He lurched to his feet, his face getting pasty. "Are you saying my office is bugged!"

I shook my head. "No...I don't..." I drew in a deep breath. "I couldn't say, Shaw. I'm... I'm not sure what's happening, but I think I'm under surveill... I can't talk about it here! Please, you've got to meet me on the outside somewhere!" My voice had been getting strident, and with an effort I lowered it. I ran my hand through my hair, leaving it disheveled, and scrubbed my face, making sure I was starting to look distraught.

I shot a glance at him, wondering if I was overplaying my hand, but no, he seemed to be buying it.

"Where?"

"There's a little bar off Massachusetts Avenue. The Six Nine." I made it a point never to hit bars. When your old lady is a lush, you tend to avoid what made her that way. But I'd gone there every December 31st since I'd come to DC to ring in the New Year. Christ, how many years was that now?

"The Club Sixty-Nine?" In spite of his best efforts to conceal it, I had succeeded in impressing Shaw.

"Yes. If that's not suitable," I rushed to tell him, "we could go somewhere else, your choice!"

Triumphant color flooded his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed. "Oh, no. That's...that would be fine."

I sighed with faked relief. "Thank you. I'll meet you there after work, okay?"

"Yes, that'll be fine. Um, uh, can you give me directions?"

"Sure, Shaw." I gave him the address and the easiest way to get there. "I'll see you later. And...thanks!" I squeezed his arm, turned on my heel and hurried back to my own office.

Once there I sat before my computer, flexed my fingers, and got cracking. //Thought he had Clark Palmer behind the eight ball, did he?// If Rabb had seen the way I was grinning as I keyed in the misinformation, he would have recognized it as trouble. If Webb had seen it... I suddenly wondered if he would have tried to kiss it from my lips.

****

At night, in DC, you didn't use public transportation. You took a cab or you drove. I didn't expect to need a car.

I was sitting at the end of the bar. Waiting. Before me was a bottle of Michelob and a half-filled glass.

When I saw Shaw enter the bar and stand hesitantly in the doorway, I caught his attention, then signaled the bartender. He brought me a scotch on the rocks. I kept my eyes on Shaw, making sure he didn't see my hand linger over his drink, and by the time he reached me, everything was ready.

I examined him surreptitiously. There was a hectic flush on his cheeks now, different from the high color of earlier this afternoon. Then it had been the rush of power, but now... Someone, apparently, had hit 'reply to all' when sending an e-mail, and the details of Shaw's involvement with a CIA agent, *not* Webb, of course, had been sent to the head of every department in the DSD. He was in such deep shit he wouldn't even remember that I had asked him to meet me here because *I* had a problem. "I took the liberty of ordering you a scotch, Mikey. I can call you Mikey, can't I?" I offered him the drink.

"Thanks, Palmer." He took the glass and tossed down the amber liquid so fast he choked and his eyes teared up.

"Sorry. I should have told you to take it easy. This is the expensive stuff."

"No, 'sokay, just took me by surprise!" he gasped. He drew in a deep breath and mopped at his cheeks with his sleeve.

"Rough day?" I asked compassionately.

He finished the last of his drink and slid it on the bar. I nodded toward the bartender. "It was a bitch on wheels! I don't know what went wrong. The operations I've been charting...This morning they were perfect; this afternoon, they were all shot to shit!"

I rubbed his shoulder, a motion that started as soothing and went to sensuous. "That's...too bad, Mikey." My fingers dug into the muscles at the base of his neck, and he dropped his head and groaned.

The powder I had slipped into his drink was acting in record time, giving his libido a shove in the right direction. His eyes were closed, and his soft moans were lost in the general commotion of the after-work crowd at the bar. "Jesus, that feels good!"

"Hey," I said very quietly, so that he alone could hear. "How do you think I got to be a senior agent?"

He looked at me over his shoulder, his expression a little dazed. "How?" His voice was tight with excitement.

I leaned close enough so that my breath fanned over his mouth and ran my tongue over my lips. He watched avidly. "I got on my knees for them, Mikey. Want me to get on my knees for you?"

"Why...why would you do that?"

"It's called quid pro quo. You save my ass, I give you something in return." I leaned in even closer.

"I... I haven't done anything to save your ass."

"But you will, won't you, Mikey? You'll help me find out who's passing information about me to the CIA?"

Shaw licked his lips. "You'd give me your ass?" I could see the idea of having a senior agent made him seriously horny.

"If that's what you want."

He dragged his eyes up to mine. "Yes." That was all he said. "Yes."

I smiled and made my voice low and hot. "Let's go, then, baby." I pulled out some bills and left them on the bar.

He wavered for a second, and I wondered if it was the drug or the alcohol, or the combination of the two that was getting to him. I steadied him, then steered him toward the door. His car was parked around the corner, and it was a good thing I knew my way around the nightmare that was the Capital's traffic pattern.

I felt his jacket for the car key. It wasn't there. Then I had to pat down his trousers, which was where the jerk-off had it on a ring with his apartment key. I reached in, and he turned his body so that I got a handful of dick.

"All for you, honey," he murmured.

Yeah.

I tucked him into the passenger seat and buckled him up. Traffic was letting up, and I had no trouble in driving to the plain, uninspired apartment building that he called home. The drug was wearing off now, but I wasn't worried about that. I had something else up my sleeve.

Shaw still needed some help getting into the elevator. He slumped against the back wall while I pressed the button for the fourteenth floor.

"You really gonna let me fuck you, Palmer?"

"My ass or my mouth, Mikey. Whatever is your pleasure."

"I'm really good at fucking, you know."

I leaned against him and let him feel how ready I was. If I hadn't pictured having Webb in an elevator, I never would have gotten hard, but that was something the little prick here didn't need to know. "Are you?"

Shaw nodded. "I'm like a Hallmark card, when you care enough to give the very best!" He giggled.

Fuck, that was an annoying sound! My dick began to lose interest. Quickly I thought of Webb on his knees in that restroom, and sighed at the predictable results. I definitely had to find a way to disturb Clayton Webb as much as he disturbed me.

He was nuzzling sloppily against my neck, and his hands were reaching for my cock. The bastard would have had me unzipped and out in a public elevator.

"Not yet, baby." I manacled his wrists with one hand and urged him into the corridor.

We arrived outside his door; I slid the key into the lock, and finally got us inside.

His apartment was small, not much more than a studio. I sat him down in the breakfast nook. "I've got something really special here for you, Mikey." I took out a silver mirror and laid it on the table, then pulled a twist of paper from an envelope and shook out the powder it contained.

One of the many things I'd learned was that Michael Shaw had a fondness for nose candy.

I didn't even need to make a suggestion. Before I could put the envelope back in my jacket pocket he was diving into it, a finger pressed to one nostril, inhaling deeply. When he was done, he dampened a forefinger and wiped it over the metal, then licked the residue from his finger.

"Mmmm." His eyes slid closed as he savored the high. "My bedroom's through there," he gestured, and almost unbalanced himself. He rose to his feet and managed to make his way through the door without landing on his ass and possibly damaging his brains. I stopped him before he could fling himself backwards on the bed.

"You need to get naked, baby. Let me help you with that," I murmured. I stripped him of his clothes, then let him go. Shaw lay sprawled out. I observed him dispassionately as I removed my suit jacket and put on latex gloves. This was going to get messy.

There was lube in the night table beside the bed, and I squirted some into my palm. I started jerking him off, and he spread his legs wide and humped into my strokes.

"You like this, Mikey?"

"Oh, yes." He was lost in the power of the cocaine. It seemed a shame to waste such high quality stuff of him, but hey, whatever was needed to get the job done. "My friends call me Michael. Why do you call me Mikey?"

I wasn't about to tell him that Michael was the name of archangels, or of operatives who had proved themselves worthy of the name. Instead I answered his question with a question of my own.

"Ever scarf, Mikey?" I squeezed the base of his cock, delaying his climax.

For a second I thought it would shake the thrall of the drug from him. "Scarf? No. It's too dangerous." But he was looking regretful.

"Not if there's someone with you, watching over you. Then it's the greatest fucking orgasm of your life! Want to try it, Mikey? I'll be right here!"

He licked his lips. "And you'll suck me off?"

"Sure." I wiped off my hands with some tissues. It wouldn't do to get lubricant on anything. Then I took the long silk scarf I had brought with me and looped one end around the light fixture. Shaw was leaning up on his elbows, stroking his cock, watching as I carried a chair in from the other room. I helped him onto it and wrapped the other end of the scarf around his neck in a noose.

I went back to masturbating him. His head was flung back, his eyes were squeezed shut. "I'm...I'm...almost...almost there!" His mouth gaped wide as he drew in panting breaths.

And I released him and kicked the chair away.

I watched indifferently as his fingers scrabbled at his throat and his legs kicked spasmodically.

Before I left I made sure all traces of a second person having been in the apartment were erased.

****

Mr. Wallace stood beside me as we waited to view the body in the little funeral home in Alexandria. "Very sad, Palmer."

"Yes, sir. They're listing it as suicide?"

"Yes. The family was informed it was actually autoerotic asphyxiation, but...

"I understand, sir. It's easier for them to have people think their son's job just became too stressful for him to handle, and he hanged himself."

The Boss rested his hand on my shoulder as we stepped up to the casket. Whoever had prepared the body, hadn't done too good a job of it. The lips were pressed tightly together, and Shaw looked ... pissed. Mr. Wallace's lips moved silently, and I wondered if he was saying a brief prayer, or cursing the young agent under his breath.

We moved on to let William Matheson take our place. He was pale, and I wondered idly how the loss of his friend would affect his work. Matheson wasn't in my department, but perhaps I'd keep an eye on him.

There were other coworkers behind him. The DSD always made a good showing when one of our own passed on.

Shaw's parents were standing just to the side, a little distance away from the coffin, and Mr. Wallace paused by them. "Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, my deepest condolences. Michael was a good worker. He'll be missed."

Mr. Shaw accepted The Boss' hand. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much we appreciate everything your company has done to help us get through this very difficult time."

While Mr. Wallace embraced Mrs. Shaw, I shook her husband's hand and murmured some inane platitude. "We're having everyone back to the house after the cemetery. Would you two gentlemen be able to join us?"

I waited patiently to hear what The Boss said. Whatever he wanted was fine with me.

"Thank you so much. Of course I'll be there. I'm afraid Palmer will need to return to the office, however."

They were flattered that the head of the company was willing to see their son into the ground. Mrs. Shaw pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, and her eyes flooded with tears. We moved on, and they turned to William Matheson, who was struggling to keep from betraying his emotion.

Mr. Wallace touched my arm and walked out with me to the parking lot.

The Boss removed his glasses and polished them on a handkerchief. "I don't anticipate anything earth-shattering while I'm out of the office, Palmer, but you'll handle everything back in DC." It wasn't a question.

"Of course, sir."

"Good man." He patted my shoulder and went back into the cool, cloying atmosphere of the funeral home.

I couldn't prevent a shudder. The ceremony that surrounded the burial of the dead made me uncomfortable. I hoped I was taken out in the field when my time came. Or a high-speed car chase; that would be good. I knew there would be no mourners at my funeral. Although Rabb would probably show up, if only to make sure I really was dead.

Grinning, I turned to walk to my car, and was pulled up short by the sight of a figure at the far end of the parking lot.

What the fuck was Clayton Webb doing at the funeral of a DSD agent?

I sauntered across the black-topped area wondering if this was a figment of my imagination, but Webb remained where he was standing.

"Nice to see you again, Clark," he said before I could challenge his presence here.

"Webb." *Fuck*, he looked good. I wanted to shove him up against the tree he was standing in front of and trace the shape of his cock through his pants until I'd made him come. I wanted to wind my fingers in that dark hair of his and position his mouth just so, and... I cleared my throat. "Did you know Shaw?"

"Shaw?"

I gestured back toward the limos that had lined up in front of the funeral home. People were coming out now, waiting for the cortege to start for the cemetery.

"Ah. No, I didn't have the pleasure. Accept my condolences, please. It's difficult when someone so young passes on."

"If you didn't know the dearly departed, what are you doing here, Webb?"

"*Clay*. There's no need for formality between us, Clark. Not after our ... dinner on your birthday." His voice dropped, and he looked at me from under his lashes. "And that little episode in the men's room afterward."

"How did you find out about my birthday, Cl..." I caught myself. "...Webb?" I was not going to let him and his CIA ways get to me. I was *not*!

He stood there, shaking his head, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Clark, Clark, Clark!" he admonished. "You have to let me keep *some* little secrets. After all, I don't ask *you* how you found out that my mother's butler is really her bodyguard."

Fuck! How did he find out about that? No wonder he was coming after me!

Webb took a step toward me. He could have had a pistol in the hand he raised toward my face, but I was so intent on the way his eyes were gazing into mine that he could have blown my fucking head off, and I would have held still for it. Instead, his fingers touched my cheek, and I wanted to lean into them.

//Snap out of it, Palmer.// I scanned the area quickly, not permitting myself to relax until I was sure we were not being observed. //You are *not* seriously fucked!//

"Look, Webb, I have to get back to the Capital. Traffic is going to be a bitch, especially with all that construction going on around the Beltway. It's been... interesting talking to you, but like every CIA agent I've ever met, you're full of shit. I'll see you around. Maybe."

"Oh, count on it, Clark."

In spite of my best effort to resist, I glanced back over my shoulder at him, to see that small smile on his face.

Fuck, fuck, *fuck*! I was going to get to him if it was the last thing I did!

~End~