Title: Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer

Rating: R

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: How many times are you going to make me admit that Belisarius Productions has dibs on them? It is not kind to mock the deprived.

Status: new/complete

Date: 3/02

Series/Sequel: This is part 8 of the Mind Fuck series, and follows Charmed, Charmed Life

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: What Clark was up to while Clay was in Langley.

Warnings: m/m

Notes: Thanks to Gail for the beta, and the fascinating information about silk pajamas.

Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me
by Tinnean

I'd set the trap. Now it remained to be seen if the prey would take the bait.

****

The sky was lightening by the time I got home from Clayton Webb's townhouse, but it was still too early for anyone to be leaving for work. I took the stairs up to my apartment on the fifth floor. It was good exercise, and no one ever saw me.

I checked my door, making sure the usual security precautions hadn't been disturbed. The almost invisible thread that ran from the bottom of the door to the frame was unbroken.

Nevertheless, when I let myself in, I was still ready to reach for the Glock I wore at my back. I didn't relax until I was certain my apartment was empty. Only then did I re-engage the six locks I had on the door. If they weren't turned in a specific pattern, the door would explode. Maybe I was paranoid, but I was still alive.

When I'd first been recruited by the DSD, I'd lived in a studio apartment in one of the less savory districts of DC. The open floor plan had been ideal. There was no way in hell anyone could creep up on me.

My neighbors were rentboys, who peddled their asses. They'd been hostile until they realized I wasn't about to set myself up in competition with them. I had been flattered, in a backhanded kind of way.

The year I'd turned thirty, I'd decided it was time to find a more upscale neighborhood. It had taken me some time to find living quarters that met all the requirements I'd opted for, but this apartment house in Forest Heights was perfect.

Even more so now. It was right across the Potomac from Alexandria.

****

I stowed my duffel in the closet by the door and removed my holster. Time to make a phone call. I dialed Webb's office number from memory. Janet Watson, his secretary wouldn't be in until 8:30, so I knew I'd get her voice mail. I waited for the tone, then began to speak.

"Janet." I made a production of yawning. "I'm back from Europe and really jet lagged. Reschedule all my appointments for today. I'm taking the day off. Thanks, Janet."

I hung up the phone, grinning as I imagined Clayton Webb waking up late. I'd deliberately turned off his alarm. He was going to be so pissed.

My usually nonexistent conscience started pinching at me. The pajamas I had cut up had looked and felt expensive. It might be a good idea to replace them.

I pulled the shirt I was wearing off over my head, freezing at the scent that engulfed me. Webb's scent, picked up while I'd been rubbing myself up and down his body. I buried my face in the shirt and inhaled deeply.

Oh, fuck. I stroked it, then folded it and put it in the bottom drawer of my night table.

It had been a long night. I stripped off the rest of my clothes and took a quick shower, then set my alarm and climbed into bed. It was going to be a long day.

****

Beau Brummel was one of those exclusive shops that smell of money. The atmosphere was cool, and the lighting subdued. Scattered around being unobtrusive were salespeople dressed in sedate refinement.

"May I help you, sir?" The woman wore an elegant patterned grey suit with a lavender jabot at her throat.

"I'm looking for pajamas."

"Certainly. Cotton? Linen? Silk?"

Fuck. I could go into Sears and pick up a package without having to make all these decisions. "Silk, please."

She smiled and led me to an alcove that had drawers built into the walls. "Size?"

"Size?" Shit. What size would Webb wear? "He, uh...he comes up to about here on me." I had my hand just above my chin. "And he's... uh...he's well built. Not muscle bound, but..."

"I understand." She smiled at me and opened a drawer, taking out a pair of red and green pajamas.

"No!" I said, a little too vehemently. "He'd look like a fu...like a Christmas tree!"

Her smile broadened. "Perhaps you might tell me the colors you prefer?" she asked as she replaced the garish outfit.

"Well, not red and green! Oh!" The pair she presented me was a bright, verdant green and deep purple embossed on black. "This is perf ... fine!" I stroked my fingers across them. "I'll take these!"

"These are our most expensive line, sir," she said gently.

"Doesn't matter."

She told me how much they were, and I reached for my wallet.

"Would you care to include a gift card, sir?"

I nodded and gave the message some thought. And then I smiled. I took my pen from my inner pocket and scrawled across the grey square, 'Hi, baby. Sorry about ruining those nice pajamas. This should make up for it. C.' I handed her the cash.

While I was waiting for the very helpful saleswoman to ring up the purchase, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed his private number. I was taking a chance on waking him, but somehow I knew he could most likely get by with as little sleep as I, and would probably be up by this time.

The phone rang three times, and then, "Webb. Go." I swallowed a laugh. His greeting was the same as mine. But I was frowning as I put my phone away. Had he gone in to work anyway, after I'd gone to the trouble of getting him the day off? Damned, conscientious CIA spook.

"Don't wrap that yet; I want to include another note." I was grinning broadly by the time I finished this one, and I slid the note into the pocket of the pajama top.

Competently, she folded over tissue paper and tore off a sheet of wrapping paper. When she was done, I slid the envelope with my first message under the ribbon.

"Here you are, sir. Thank you so much for shopping with us. Do, please, come again."

I took the package from the woman, nodded politely, and left. It wasn't likely I'd be back. These pajamas had cost more than I'd ever spent on a single item of clothing. Except that Fumagalli tux Mr. Wallace had insisted I'd need. But I got hard, just thinking of Clay wearing them. And harder thinking of stripping them off him.

I drove to Alexandria via the 395, stopping to pick up some soup. From what I had learned of Clayton Webb, he'd work straight through dinner, and I didn't remember anything very appetizing in his refrigerator.

Just a couple more things to do before I pulled into his driveway. I stopped at a rest area and went into the men's room, carrying the dufflebag. I shut myself into the handicapped stall and took off my suit jacket. It would shed wrinkles, but I still folded it as neatly as possible and put it into the bag, then climbed into a pair of carharts, work coveralls. I shrugged it over my shoulders, got my arms into the sleeves and zipped it up.

Across the back was the name of a nationally known exterminating company, and in the trunk of my car were magnetized commercial signs. I opened the trunk, tossed the bag in and took out the signs, which were slapped on the driver's and passenger's side doors.

I drove down Webb's street slowly. Further down the block I could see the maid service truck just pulling away from his house, and I prided myself on my timing. I parked at the curb, made sure the package was concealed in the tool bag that was slung over my shoulder, and strode purposefully up the walk. It always paid to look as if you belonged.

With a finger on the bell, I gazed around, my expression bored. No yuppie mom wheeled her rug rat along the walk. No senior walked his yappy little pooch. No curtains fluttered, hinting of nosey neighbors.

I by-passed Clay's security system again, and let myself into his house. The odor of furniture polish lingered. I could never see the point in dusting. A couple of months later, you'd only have to do it all over again. I took the package out of the bag and placed it on the table by the door.

The soup went into the fridge, along with another note. I wondered if Clay would keep it, then laughed at myself for the sentimental thought.

The photo of that woman was smiling stupidly at me. If Clay felt he needed something like that to throw off suspicions, I'd find something worthy of him. Someone who worked at the DSD looked like a young Ingrid Bergman. I'd see if I could get her to pose for me. I put the picture face down and went up to Clay's bedroom.

The bed was made, smooth and without a wrinkle, and I was sure he had hidden all evidence of our little escapade before the cleaning people showed up.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from that bed. Slowly I stripped off the coveralls, then set up the camera and equipment, which had been in the tool bag. As I loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt to the middle of my breastbone, I wondered where he would have put the handcuffs. I'd been thinking of this all afternoon. I decided I'd try the desk first.

A master key on my key ring fit into the lock of the middle drawer and turned sweetly, and I pulled it out. There were the cuffs, the note, and my handkerchief. I hadn't been sure if he would keep that, or throw it away. The odor of come rose out of the drawer.

I closed the cuff around my left wrist and unzipped my trousers. By the time I had the timer set on the camera, I was fully aroused. I settled myself on Clay's bed, resting my free hand on my cock.

It would have been even better if it were Clay's hand. With that thought, I smiled, my eyes on the camera, and the flash went off. The square exposure emerged and hung there, but I couldn't take my hand off my dick. I pumped it, rubbed the pad of my thumb over the tip, tried to reach down with my left hand, forgetting it was cuffed to the headboard. The metal bit into my wrist, merging with the uncontrolled pleasure. My heels dug into the bedspread, I arched up and came, splattering the front of my trousers with the white liquid.

"Jesus!" I rolled onto my stomach, my hips rocking against the soft material of the comforter. I hadn't intended... I bit down on the pillow and shivered. "Jesus!"

I finally caught my breath. "Jesus, how the fuck did that happen?" I felt for my keys and got out of the handcuff. The skin around my wrist was abraded, and drops of blood were beading to the surface. "Fuck!"

Well, the one good thing was that I'd been jerking off so much my balls were almost empty, and my trousers had absorbed most of it.

I got off the bed and went into the bathroom to clean myself up. Once I had myself together, unlocked the cuffs and put them back in the drawer, along with another note. //One horse to me, Webb!// Clay was going to hate me when he read that.

****

People only see what they want to see. I'd learned that for myself in Paris, when I'd assumed Michael Samuelle was a hustler because I'd wanted to fuck him so badly, and it was easier to think I could buy him. There would be no strings.

No one challenged me when I left Webb's townhouse. All they saw was someone who got rid of bugs.

I used a different rest stop to change out of the work clothes and remove the company signs.

By the time I got home, I realized it was no longer a game for me. It was fucking serious.

//Okay, Palmer. Clayton Webb is CIA. *You're* DSD. The DSD *always* comes out on top! Always.//


~End~