Title: Why Should I Care

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer, Clark Palmer/Wills Matheson, Wills Matheson/Michael Shaw

Rating: NC-17

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: No, they still belong to Belisarius Productions. Thank you so much for asking. However, Matheson and Shaw, as well as The Boss, are mine.

Status: new/complete

Date: 3/02

Series/Sequel: This is part nine (I didn't even think there'd be a **two**!) of the Mind Fuck series, and follows Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.

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's supposed to make the next move, but he hasn't, and Clark's starting to worry. Oh, wait a second, no, he's not. Palmer doesn't do worry.

Warnings: m/m, spoilers for Imposter, Webb of Lies.

Notes: Please keep in mind that Clark Palmer is not the most politically correct of men? There really is a story called The Strange Case of the Iron Dog, although I've taken considerable liberties with it. However, the very last line of that story is exactly as I've written it. Thanks, as always, to Gail for the introduction to these gorgeous guys, for the brainstorming, and for the fantastic beta.

Why Should I Care
by Tinnean

I don't know why I hadn't thought of this before, I thought to myself as I mixed the ingredients for the latex appliances that I would apply to alter my features.

//Sure you do,// that annoying little voice in the back of my mind sneered. It was becoming more vociferous as time passed. //You've become so besotted with that CIA spook, you're lucky you can find your ass with two hands and a road map! Look at you! Passing up a perfectly good opportunity to plant bugs in Webb's townhouse. Aren't you ashamed?//

Go to fucking hell! I ordered it.

//You say that a lot, don't you?// The voice fell silent, but I could still hear it gloating. When had I lost control?

When I agreed to go to fucking dinner with Webb. *How* had he learned it was my birthday? I still hadn't discovered what CIA tricks he'd pulled.

I stood at the island that separated my kitchen from the living area, and began to pour the mixture into the mold.

The mold had been made originally when I'd needed to get to that asshole colonel who was about to sell out the DSD. Shave a little off the nose here, add a little to the chin there, and instead of Harmon Rabb I would look like Dwayne Lester, who pushed a broom in Langley.

The timer for the oven dinged, signaling it had been preheated to the correct temperature, and I placed the mold on a cookie sheet and slid it into the oven. Once the timer was reset, and I'd cleaned up the kitchen, I went into the bathroom and took a hot shower.

I was going to pay a visit to Langley and see if I could dig up anything on Webb in his own office.

****

If anyone looked into the employment records of Dwayne J. Lester, they would have learned that he'd barely made it out of high school. He'd last worked in a healthcare facility in the private sector, in a janitorial capacity, but his job had become redundant when the laboratory had been acquired by another. He was a hard worker, although a dim bulb if ever there was one, with an IQ about par with a bunch of broccoli. Dwayne had enough smarts to work for the maintenance department of the CIA emptying trash cans, but that was about as far as his intelligence went.

I was dressed in blue twill trousers, a chambray shirt with my name tag clipped to a breast pocket, and those ugly ass J C work boots, standard uniform for that department. The picture on the ID matched the face I wore, down to the vague expression in the pale eyes. Ah, the wonder of contact lenses! To all intents and purposes, I was Dwayne Lester.

Fucking idiots. Couldn't see that the wolf was in with the sheep! These people worked for the CIA because there was no way in fucking hell that the DSD would ever have even considered them!

None of them paid the least bit of attention to me, which was good for me, of course, but I still couldn't believe how sloppy their attitude was!

It was late afternoon. I trundled that cumbersome, canvas-lined cart ahead of me through the halls of Langley, going into each office and dumping the wastebaskets. Of course I wore gloves: to protect my hands, since those CIA assholes threw out some weird shit, and to prevent any fingerprints from being left behind.

Methodically I worked my way down the corridor to Webb's office. I pushed the outer door open. His secretary was away from her desk, having gotten an urgent summons from a friend at the other end of the building. Her trash basket was filled with post-its and crumpled notes. I took it from under her desk and carried it out to my bin, emptying it in a special container I had
hidden there.

If she had been my secretary, this would have cost her her job. We shredded everything in the DSD, and the hard drives of every drone's computer were swept clean each night.

I replaced it and approached Webb's door. It was shut, but I could hear the murmur of voices through it. Fuck. He was usually out of the office this time of day.

I could feel a trickle of sweat start down my spine. I knocked on the door, and waited for permission to enter.

The door was opened by a man with light brown hair, a few inches shorter than my 6'2", but because of the slouch I had adopted, our eyes were level. His eyes were an unusual aquamarine, and his features were classic, from his perfectly sculpted nose to his square jaw. Who was this asshole? And what was his connection to Webb? "Yes?" he demanded impatiently.

"Ah'm just here to empty the trash, suh." I kept my voice soft and Southern.

"D. B., let the man do his job," Webb said, just behind him, and in spite of myself, I was half hard. "Sorry," he peered at my tag, "Dwayne. You're a little early today, aren't you? The cleaning crew usually comes by after six."

I kept my head down and my eyes averted. He would never know it was me, but if I looked into his eyes, I wasn't sure if I could hide the desire in mine. My cock was already straining the zipper of my work pants, and I had to angle my body so it wasn't obvious. "Yes, suh. Ah gotta see my mama in the hospital, so the boss said Ah could leave early if Ah got my work done."

"Go ahead." He waved me into his office. I used the training I had perfected during my early years in the DSD and slouched to his desk. The two men began conversing in low tones, but not so low that I couldn't distinguish what they were saying.

"I need to arrange to have my house swept for bugs, D. B. "

"Didn't the Company just do your place?" One thing the CIA had in common with the DSD, the only thing in common, actually, were the staggered sweeps of agents' homes for any surveillance devices.

I could see Clay nod out of the corner of my eye. I bent over and got the wastebasket from under his desk. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it tousled. I swallowed, glad of the latex that covered my face. Without it I had no doubt I would have given myself away.

And if this D. B. wasn't in the same room with us, I would have said, "Fuck the whole thing!", locked Clay's door and had him over his desk, no matter what it might have wound up costing me.

Wait a second. D. B.? Fuck! Was this the same Agent Cooper that Shaw had been passing information to? I'd gotten to the little shit's computer before DSD security and had carefully removed anything relevant to me.

"Palmer broke into my house twice, D. B.! *Twice*!" Clay was looking disgruntled. "And you know why?" I almost choked. Clay was going to tell someone he worked with that I had cuffed him to his bed and sucked him off? I took my time replacing the wastebasket, then took out a cloth and began to dust. Fuck, I hated dusting. "He didn't like JessicaTheDumbBlonde!"

Cooper started laughing. "That picture in your music room? Well, I've always told you anyone with half a brain would be able to figure out she wasn't someone you were attracted to."

"Yes, well Rabb never questioned it."

"I said anyone with half a brain." He looked thoughtful. "And we all know that Clark Palmer is not stupid. He doesn't like anyone playing him for a fool. Why did he go to your house in the first place, Clay?"

Webb was suddenly looking discomfited. "Who knows," he shrugged. "Has anyone been able to figure out the workings of Clark Palmer's brain? I can't believe he was able to disarm my security system! Do you know, he left me a note that suggested I get a refund? Fucking smart ass!"

"So what are you going to do, Clay?"

I couldn't linger any longer without drawing attention to myself. "Ah'll be goin' now, suh," I said, and he nodded, but as I closed the door I heard him say,

"What am I going to do? I'm going to get the biggest, most vicious fucking dog I can find! And the next time Clark Palmer breaks into my house, I hope the dog bites his ass!"

//Oh yeah, Webb. You get a dog, and when I come visiting again, you can bet your ass I'll have something special for Cujo!//

Keeping a blank look on my face, I pushed the cart on down the corridor. There were a few more offices on this floor that needed to be done before I headed for the freight elevator. Somebody was going to find his job cut in half tonight, but I didn't think he'd complain to anyone. I glanced at my watch. By the time the night crew came on, I'd be long gone.

// Ball's in your court now, Webb.//

****

The ball just lay there. Son of a bitch didn't do anything. No emails, no phone calls, no midnight visits. Well, that was more my MO than his, anyway.

All was quiet on the Clayton Webb front.

//Wasn't he supposed to make a move by now, smart guy?//

I'm lulling him into a false sense of security, I informed that fucking little voice.

//Right, hot shot! Try telling it to Rabb! That's a line *he'd* have no trouble buying!//

With a growl, I stuffed Jiminy Cricket into a mental closet and slammed the door on him. I wouldn't make another move until at least the end of the week.

Meanwhile, there was still work.

I'd finally had some spare time and was going through the intelligence the late, unlamented Michael Shaw had passed to the CIA. I wasn't happy that it was all about me, but since it was, and since I had dealt with it, I didn't feel it was necessary to inform my immediate superior about the leak. Especially when my immediate superior was an asshole who was no longer in the DC office.

My intercomm came to life. "Mr. Palmer." It was my secretary. "I have Mr. Wallace on line one."

"Thank you, Ms. Parker." I chewed on my lip, then picked up the phone. "Yes, sir?"

"My office."

"Yes, sir." I'd been expecting this call from The Boss.

This time after I'd saved and closed the program, I slid the disk into my pocket. Aside from the usual firewalls, all the files in my computer were password protected, and all the drawers in my desk were locked. I wasn't taking any more chances.

I strolled down the hallway, then glanced casually around, making sure the area was secure before I opened the door to the stairwell and trotted up to the floor that contained Admin, and I stepped out, facing the long hall that led to Mr. Wallace's office. Standing there dithering would not get this interview over any faster. His secretary, an older woman who was as married to the job as any of us, nodded at me before returning to her computer. I walked to The Boss' door, tapped on it briskly, and waited for permission to enter.

"Come in," he called, his voice deep and sepulchral. I ran a quick hand over my hair and opened the door. It was impossible to read the expression in his eyes, which were screened by the glare reflected off the lenses of the glasses he wore. There was a thick hard copy file before him on his desk. "If you'll take a seat, Mr. Palmer?"

I crossed the plush carpet and sat down across from Trevor Wallace. Once I had my ass in that chair I didn't move again. I didn't fidget, I didn't cross and uncross my legs; I kept my gaze directed at him and made sure none of the concern I was feeling was reflected on my face.

The Boss went back to reading the pages before him. "You've been with us for quite a few years, now, Mr. Palmer." He looked at me, a steel grey eyebrow climbing up toward his hairline. "I've watched you hone your skills over the years. Each mission, each operation you've been assigned, I've seen you stretch your boundaries."

He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, pacing around that huge desk and coming to stand before me. He leaned back against it and crossed his arms over his chest. "You are indeed a forensic artist, and your presence in the field will be missed, Mr. Palmer."

I kept my breathing slow and even, while my insides felt as if they were turning to water. "It's my age, sir?"

"Age, Mr. Palmer. DSD policy, as you well know, is to retire active agents from the field at the age of thirty-five. I managed to stretch things, because of your very impressive record, but even I can only do so much. Yes, Mr. Palmer."

"I see." I had known, from the moment I'd been recruited shortly before my hitch in the army had been completed, that if I survived I would face this day. Not many DSD agents lived to worry about it. The attrition rate was exceptionally high. "May I ask what my options are?"

"Option, singular, Mr. Palmer. You will replace Sperling as head of your department."

Unobtrusively, I released the breath I had been holding. "Yes, sir."

"You'll be moving to your new office, which, as you know, will be right down the hall from your old one." Department heads remained accessible to their people. Not that that shit, Sperling, was ever around if you needed him. The Boss extended his hand and I rose to accept it. Fortunately, my palm was dry and I didn't need to wipe it on my thigh. "You've more than lived up to the promise I always saw in you, Mr. Palmer."

"Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me." It did, but I was regretting the fact that I would no longer be out in the field.

"I wouldn't get too comfortable with the desk job just yet, Mr. Palmer. You'll need to train someone to replace you."

"Of course, sir. Did you have someone in mind?"

"I've had my eye on a young agent who seems likely." He smiled, a shark's grin. "With the right kind of cultivation, he just might fill your shoes."

Not fucking likely, but I simply returned his smile, nodded and said nothing.

He waited a beat, then informed me who my replacement was to be. "William Matheson. Do you know him?"

I kept my face blank, but it was a struggle. "I believe I saw him at Agent Shaw's funeral. He isn't in my department." Matheson hadn't plotted with Mikey Shaw to aid his friend in taking my corner office, not that I was able to discover. It was a little ironic that Matheson would succeed where Shaw had failed.

But the life of a DSD agent was precarious at best. If Matheson revealed the least suspicion that his friend had not died accidentally, then The Boss would be looking for someone else to replace me amazingly quickly.

"A very sad occasion," Mr. Wallace was saying, unaware that I had been following my own train of thought. "I could never understand experimenting with such a deadly form of self-gratification!"

"He was very young, sir," I murmured, "and very inexperienced."

The Boss snorted. "Well, he paid the price for it. And my opinion of that affair goes no further than this office, Mr. Palmer."

I was shocked. "Of course, sir! That went without saying!"

"In that case, I apologize." He dismissed the late agent, returned to his chair and settled himself comfortably. "You will receive a raise retroactive to the beginning of the month." The figure he named had me blinking. I already made much more than enough to cover my living expenses and since I had no one except myself to spend it on, I had an extremely healthy bank balance, as well as T-bills accumulating interest in a safety box. And in a numbered offshore account was what I liked to call my F.Y. fund, slated for the time when I'd need to make a fast getaway. "Congratulations, Mr. Palmer. Not many agents make it to this level. Now, I believe you'll find that Agent Matheson will be waiting to discuss his change in status in your former office. Good afternoon."

He offered me his hand a final time, and I shook it, murmuring thanks, then turned and left his office. I really didn't want to be a desk jockey; I much preferred being out in the field, but being head of my department, perhaps I could find excuses to keep my hand in.

I took my time returning to my office. My *former* office. Ms. Parker looked up from her computer. "Oh, Mr. Palmer, I heard the good news! Congratulations!" Her facade was politely interested, but she had been my secretary for the last ten years, and I could read her. She was going to miss working with me. "I was just at the supply room, and I got the boxes you'll need to empty your desk and filing cabinet. I know you'll want to do that yourself."

"Thank you, Ms. Parker. Make sure you have enough boxes for your things. You're with me." She knew how I liked things done, and besides, she was dating someone from State, someone who had a tendency to babble when he was sexually sated, and Ms. Parker always shared the information she gathered. She was DSD to the core. Too bad she was a woman. She would have made an excellent agent.

A smile bloomed on her face. "Yes, sir!"

"Oh, and Ms. Parker? See about getting someone from the typing pool for Matheson. No need assigning someone permanently, until we find out how he'll do."

"Yes, sir!" She hurried to obey me, and I went into my office.

William Matheson was standing before the window, looking out. "Nice view, isn't it?" I murmured.

Part 2

"Hey, Matheson!" Jake Howard, who had been recruited at the same time as Michael Shaw and I, stood at the edge of the pool. "Get your ass out of the water and down to Personnel!" The pool was off the gymnasium, one floor below Administration in the building that contained DSD offices.

I waved to let him know I'd heard him, and swam to the shallow end. As I climbed out he tossed me a towel. "You lucky son of a bitch! Word is you're in line to become Mr. Palmer's material."

"Yeah, lucky. That's me."

"What's wrong with you, Matheson? Anyone would think you'd lost your best friend! Oh, shit! Listen, Wills, that was just a figure of speech."

My face felt frozen. "Fuck you and the sway-backed, flea-bitten horse you rode in on," I said flatly and strode past him to the locker room. I showered just enough to wash off the chlorine of the pool water, and then hurriedly dressed.

Since my friend Michael's death, I'd spent at least an hour every afternoon before I left the DSD building swimming laps, hoping I'd be exhausted enough to sleep through the night once more.

Michael Shaw and I had first met in the sixth grade. We had been new kids in a new school in a new city. "That's a pretty scanky hat you're wearing," he'd said, referring to my NY Yankee's cap.

"Yeah, well the Mets suck canal water!" I'd sneered at him, knocking off the baseball cap he wore.

But then the Boston kids had come in, with BoSox logos all over everything. It was us against them, and the start of our friendship.

From junior high we'd gone on to the same high school, and then roomed together in college. That was where our relationship had... broadened. We'd come home from a beer blast, so wasted we'd had to prop each other up, making it no further than my bed. I woke up to find him sucking my dick. I'd cried out and arched and poured myself into his mouth. And when I'd caught my breath, I'd returned the favor.

"Hey, Wills," Michael had groaned the next morning. "I was pretty fucking drunk last night."

I couldn't even get my eyes opened. "So was I."

"And if my girlfriend had been here instead of you, I would have boinked her brains out."

"'Boinked', Michael? We're college men. We don't boink. We fuck!"

He tried to blink the confusion out of his eyes. "Oh, okay. I would have fucked her brains out, then."

"Sounds good to me. Next time we'll both fuck her brains out. Right now, I'm going back to sleep." And that was it. We never spoke of it again.

But, occasionally, when we'd had too much to drink, or when Michael had taken one toke too many of marijuana, we'd suck or jerk each other off. Never anything more than that, and even that ceased once we'd graduated.

After college, I'd been offered a position with the Bradenhurst Corporation. Somehow, Michael managed to charm his way in as well. We had no idea that was the DSD training ground, until a couple of men came to see me with a very intriguing offer. I made the transfer to DC, and Michael came along with me.

"Hey, Wills, want to join us tonight?" His eyes had a strange glitter to them. We worked in different departments, and didn't see each other as frequently as we had.

"Uh, sorry, Michael, my folks are in town, and I promised to show them the sights." Silently I blessed the fact that my father and stepmother had flown in for a long weekend. I didn't like the crowd my friend was hanging out with.

"Your loss, pal," he shrugged, and walked off.

It was one of the few times we were together when we happened to see Clark Palmer coming in to make a report. His shirt hung open, revealing a Kevlar vest that was pocked with bullet holes. He looked tired, but under it all was a sense of triumph. Later, we learned that he had managed to outsmart some CIA assholes and delivered a superconductor to R&D.

Michael's eyes grew avid. He still denied any interest in men, but I could see there was something about the older man that challenged my friend.

"I'm gonna get him, Wills!" Michael murmured as we watched Clark Palmer disappear into his corner office. "And I'm gonna get that office, too!"

Of course, Palmer never noticed Michael Shaw. He was a loner, and his reputation was legend. My friend grew bitter. Perhaps I should have worried about him, but he was a grown man, and our assignments took us in different directions. From time to time we'd run into each other in the men's room, and if we were alone, he'd tease me about crawling under his desk and sucking him off. Sometimes, I'd tease him back.

Michael's behavior became more and more erratic, and finally I realized I'd have to intervene. But before I could, he was dead.

I ran a hand over my face as I waited for the elevator to take me up to Personnel. How could Michael have been so stupid to mix cocaine with autoeroticism? And if he had to do that, why hadn't he asked me to be there with him?

A soft ping signaled the arrival of the elevator, and I stepped into it, focusing on the coming meeting. Was the scuttlebutt right? Was I about to be trained by the very man Michael Shaw dreamed of fucking, and fucking over?

****

Mr. Palmer's secretary smiled when I approached her desk, but it didn't reach her eyes. Jesus, she was almost as scary as her boss!

"You can wait for Mr. Palmer in his office, Mr. Matheson. He should be returning shortly."

I almost expected her to order me not to touch anything. Would the senior agent take her with him? I hoped so. If I had to face her every day, I was pretty certain I'd wind up with a stress ulcer.

The office contained only a decent sized desk and chair, and a file cabinet in the far corner. Otherwise it was bare of any other furniture. There wasn't even a plant at the window, that corner window that Michael had coveted.

I was mesmerized by that desk, though...

~~~~

Clark Palmer entered his office, and when he saw me hovering, his eyes grew hot. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor. As if in a dream, I dropped to my knees and crawled to the spot before his feet. His fingers threaded through my hair, then tightened and yanked my face against his crotch. My lips parted, and he shuddered as my hot breath dampened the front of his trousers.

"Suck me," he ordered.

I unzipped his fly and took out his cock, which was already hardening. The head was flushed, and I licked the drop of pre come that had beaded there. My lips parted, and he thrust past them; I found myself with a mouthful of cock.

His hands held my head still, and his hips rocked as he fucked my mouth. I could barely breathe, and my whimpers vibrated around his dick. I tried to swallow more of him, but he pulled out of my mouth. He dragged me to my feet and spun me around, shoving me forward until I was stopped by the desk.

"Open your pants." His voice was harsh, and my hands trembled as I hastened to obey him. "Spread your legs." He kicked them further apart, and my trousers and shorts caught at my knees.

Mr. Palmer pushed my shoulders down until they were on the desk, and then grabbed my ass cheeks and parted them. A blunt finger probed my hole. I flinched, and the finger was withdrawn. When it returned, it was coated with some slick stuff and slid easily past the ring of muscle. I gasped and jerked. "Hold still," he hissed. "Don't make this worse than it has to be!"

Shivering, I had to let him finger-fuck me. And then he hit my prostate, and I *wanted* him to finger-fuck me. I wanted more, even though I had never been penetrated before. I bit my lips to keep the moans contained. When he removed those fingers, I tried to calm my breathing, to stand up.

"I don't remember giving you permission to move, Matheson." His voice was a sneer, and his palm landed hard on my right ass cheek, and a whimper escaped. For a second I was free of his grip, but I couldn't move, didn't even think of moving. Suddenly both his hands were on my shoulders, forcing them back to the desk, and his cock was at my opening, pushing steadily until the head had stretched me to accept it.

The pressure was unbelievable. It felt as if a stallion was mounting me, thrusting its enormous prick into my bowels. A groan was startled out of me as he crossed my prostate, and when he withdrew, he crossed it again. My ass burned, spasming around the cock that was buried in it, and my dick was so hard a breeze would cause me to come. My fingers clenched on the desk, digging into the blotter. I couldn't move; Mr. Palmer wouldn't let me.

With a growl, he began to come, and I felt his heat filling me. "Please!" I whispered. "I need to come!"

Clark Palmer reached around to take my dick in his hand, and...

~~~~

And the sound of the door opening broke into my daydream.

####

William Matheson was standing before the window, looking out. "Nice view, isn't it?" I murmured.

His face was flushed when he turned toward me, but he rapidly paled. He was sporting an impressive hard on that deflated almost immediately. What was going on behind that bland facade? "Mr. Palmer," he said, his voice sounding strained. His eyes looked everywhere except into mine, and he shifted from one foot to another.

I picked up the receiver of my telephone and placed a call to Maintenance, keeping my eyes on him the entire time. "This is Palmer on seven. I need my hard drive moved to Sperling's office. Yes, that's on seven also. Yes, immediately. Thanks." I propped a hip against a corner of my... the desk. "Looks like we're going to be working together fairly closely, Matheson."

His complexion became muddy. "Sir, I..."

I cocked an eyebrow at him and took a small knife out of my jacket pocket. I opened it up and began paring my nails.

He was a good looking young man, and if it wasn't my own policy not to shit where I ate, I would have taken great pleasure in stripping his pants down his long legs and fucking him over my...*his* desk.

"Mr. Palmer, before we do anything else, I'd like to speak with you about something personal. If you wouldn't mind?"

I nodded, and I could see my silence made him nervous. Tough shit. If he were to survive, he'd have to learn to conceal that better.

He licked his lips. "A few days before Michael Shaw's... death... I learned he was doing something not in the best interests of the DSD. Or you, sir. I sent you a message, asking to meet with you, but you were out of the office and never got back to me. If Michael hadn't died, I would have pursued it more vigorously, but as it was, I didn't think it mattered much any more."

I had been in France at the time, hauling Section One's ashes out of the fire. After I returned, Shaw had that fatal experience with autoerotic asphyxiation.

I remembered how devastated Matheson had looked paying his respects the day of Mikey's burial. "You were close friends?"

He nodded, the curve of his upper lip taking a downturn, and drawing attention to the plump lower lip that seemed to beg to be nibbled on. Silently I cursed my own policy. "He'd gotten in with a bad crowd, Mr. Palmer. Not that I'm trying to excuse him, you understand."

"Sure. So what, exactly, was your friend doing that wasn't in the DSD's interest?"

William Matheson's eyes were the brown of bittersweet chocolate. "He was passing information about you to the CIA, sir. Nothing about the DSD, I swear," he rushed on. "But he wanted you... Oh Jesus, I'm sorry, Mr. Palmer. I don't know if you need to hear that or not."

"Matheson, as long as an agent's sexual orientation doesn't get *me* killed, he could hump sheep for all I care." I rubbed a finger over my temple. "You're telling me he had a letch for me?"

He studied the floor as if it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. "I... I wouldn't put it that way, sir. He was attracted to power, yes, but you never gave him any indication you... um... sailed that side of the lake, so to speak? But I think he had a letch for your office."

I burst into disbelieving laughter. "What? He wanted my *office*?" I started assembling a box. "Listen, I've got to pack. Get some boxes from Ms. Parker. She's seeing about a secretary for you until you can select one on your own. Oh, and don't forget to either have your computer transferred with you, or requisition a new one. I'll give you the rest of today to get yourself settled in here. Tomorrow morning I'll expect you in my office." He lingered at the door. "Was there something else, Matheson?"

He turned a dull red and swallowed. "I don't want you to think I'm sucking up or anything, sir. But it will be an honor to be taught by you. I promise not to fuck up." The door closed before I could respond to that.

Fuck. I didn't want to like him. I mean, he'd let someone like that cocksucking prick, Shaw, get close to him. You never let anyone get close to you.

I pulled my key ring out of my pocket. As I was about to unlock my desk, a tiny silver key caught the light and reflected it for just a moment. Goddammit, the key to the cuffs I'd left in Webb's bedroom. I rubbed my left wrist, the discomfort as phantom as the marks left behind were becoming.

Fuck!

I packed up everything and transported it to the other end of the seventh floor, to Sperling's former office. He was a pencil pusher, who'd never been out in the field. By playing it safe and kissing the right ass, he'd managed to keep his position. He'd played it too safe, though, and his actions a few years earlier had cost me a good team. I'd had him targeted for an early retirement, and just bided my time since then. How serendipitous that the scumbag had tendencies that made him fall into my palm like an overripe plum.

The office had a closet in one wall, which mine didn't. I had to shift and stack Sperling's crap in order to make room for all the boxes of my own files. The asshole never threw anything out, including take out menus and office memos from ten years ago. In spite of my best efforts, my temper grew ragged. I locked the closet. Time enough to go through that shithead's records in the morning. Right then I needed to work off the tension that was crawling under my skin.

I headed for the gym up on the floor just below Admin. As it turned out, I could have made a wiser choice.

Part 3

American Movie Classics was running a swashbuckler marathon, and I settled in to watch Basil Rathbone, this time portraying Guy of Gisbourne, dueling with Robin Hood. The best swordsman in Hollywood, and they insisted on making him lose once again to a pretty boy athlete. The image of a pretty boy Navy flyer crossed my mind, and I scowled. //It's been a while since I made Rabb's life miserable. Maybe I should plant a bug in his house for the hell of it.// I sat on the couch in my boxers and tee shirt and tipped the single bottle of beer I allowed myself to my lips. The angle of my gaze landed on the case above my TV, containing a sword that was tarnished, the edge dull and marred with nicks. It was only by chance that I had come across that blade, the exact same one the swordsman was using on screen, and I'd almost had to go out as a rentboy myself to pay for it.

I pressed the bandage on my left shoulder. Dueling with the fencing master the DSD provided to teach its recruits balance and grace, as well as the occasional physical therapy, had not been one of my more brilliant notions, especially when I was so out of temper. The button on Drew's sword had been dislodged under a flurry of strokes by my own blade. When he'd done the balestra, that hop followed by a lunge, he'd slid under my guard and tagged me. The gash was shallow, but it still throbbed; the Tylenol I had taken twenty minutes before hadn't kicked in yet.

My doorbell rang, and I jumped and choked on a mouthful of Michelob, for a second not recognizing the sound. Ten years, and I'd never had a visitor.

I set down the beer, muted the sound on the TV, and padded into the bedroom to get my Glock. Whoever was at the door was leaning on the buzzer now. I cocked my weapon and peered through the peephole. My jaw dropped. Webb? What the fuck was he doing here? I had no doubt he'd gotten my address from that cocksucking prick, Mikey Shaw.

"C'mon, Palmer, don't keep me waiting out in the hall! I'm sure you can see I'm unarmed!" He held his hands up, and he wasn't carrying any pistols. That didn't mean I believed he didn't have a weapon about his person. What he was carrying looked like a bottle of wine.

I kept the gun in my right hand and gingerly unlocked the door with my left. "To what do I owe the honor, Webb?" I asked through the door. I was torn. I didn't want to take my eyes off him, but I needed to see what I was doing with the bolts or I'd blow us both to kingdom come.

Keeping the Glock out of sight, I allowed the door to open, and Webb strolled past me as if he were slumming, handing me the bottle, which turned out to be champagne, and glancing at the spare decor of my living room. I shut the door and threw the locks.

Webb let out a low wolf whistle. "Nice legs, Palmer."

"Fuck." How could I have forgotten I wasn't dressed for company? I shoved the bottle back at him. "I'm getting dressed and then you're telling me what you're doing here."

"You're dressed enough for me, Clark." His eyes were almost green, and they lingered at my crotch. He raised them, and my mouth went dry. "I mean, after all, the last time we were together you sliced up a pair of my favorite pajamas. By the way, thanks for the new ones. They're very... comfortable." His expression was innocent, but that look in his eyes was sheer devilment.

Fucking CIA. Didn't they teach their agents to obey instructions? Deliberately, I ignored the information he'd taken such joy in imparting, instead stalking to my bedroom. I wasn't about to leave him alone in my apartment for any longer than I had to. I grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the bottom drawer of my dresser and hopped around the room trying to get my legs into them.

I bolted down the hall to the wide-open area that comprised both my living and dining area, slowing before I could be seen, and then sauntering casually in.

"I put the champagne in your refrigerator." Webb was on his haunches, running his hands over the bronze rottweiler that stood guard in a corner. "Nice pet, Clark," he said dryly.

"When I'm on assignment, I never know when I'll be back. Wouldn't be fair to a live dog." And if I never made it back, I'd leave my pet an orphan. I wasn't about to do that. "That's Sam."

"Sam?" Webb grinned as if he'd discovered something about me, something that I would have preferred to keep hidden. "Named for Sam Spade?" I smiled and said nothing. The statue was named for John Wayne's dog in Hondo, a nasty brute who didn't like anyone and only tolerated him. My kind of mutt.

"Let's make this brief, shall we? I want you out of my apartment."

Webb laughed softly. "Ah, but we don't always get what we want, do we, Clark?" He straightened, and started unbuttoning his overcoat, and I swore.

"What do *you* want, Webb?"

"'Clay', Clark, or 'Clayton', if you prefer. Didn't we already hash this out? A couple of glasses, if that wouldn't be too much trouble? I thought we could have the champagne." He handed me his coat, and I fumbled for the closet door, never taking my eyes off his. What *was* he up to? I had never seen him casually dressed before. He was wearing charcoal grey slacks and a rolled neck fisherman knit sweater. I wanted to pull it over his head, leaving his arms trapped so I could toy with his oh-so-sensitive nipples. I licked my lips and dragged my gaze back to his face, which had become a little flushed. Could he read my mind? "I understand congratulations are in order: you've received a promotion."

I didn't ask him how he knew. Gossip spreads faster than a plague in the intelligence community, and I wasn't stupid enough to think that by getting rid of one mole, I'd plugged all the leaks in the DSD.

Clay followed me into the kitchen, and leaned against the island counter while I stretched to reach one of the upper cabinets where I kept the glasses. I peered into them, and blew to dislodge the coating of dust. It didn't work, and I glanced at Clay. I couldn't help thinking of his spotless home. "Sorry." He watched with interest. The sink was filled with the dishes I had used for my solitary, celebratory take-out dinner. I moved them aside and ran the glasses under the faucet, then grabbed a paper towel to dry them off.

While I was busy with the glasses, Clay took the champagne from the fridge and undid the wire wrap that confined the cork. There was a muted pop, and a cloud of mist rose from the opening. I sniffed, hoping to catch the scent of the wine, and my mouth started to water. I loved champagne, loved how it made me feel, but I seldom allowed myself to have any, because of how my old lady abused alcohol. No way was I going down the road she had traveled.

I held the glasses out for Clay to pour some in, but when I tried to take mine away he insisted on filling it almost to the brim. "*When*, goddammit, Clay, *when*!"

He chuckled softly and set the bottle back on the counter. "This is too good a vintage to let go to waste, Clark. We're going to finish this tonight!" He tapped his glass against mine, and the glasses chimed sweetly. "All the best in your new office, Deputy Director of Interior Affairs Palmer."

The rim of the glass concealed my discomfort. He even knew what my promotion entailed? "I'm not telling you anything about it, Webb, so don't think getting me drunk will work. Too much champagne doesn't make me talkative." I let him see my grin, then took another, deeper, sip.

"Whatever you say, Clark. Are we going to stand in your kitchen until we finish this bottle?"

I should have insisted on that, I *knew* I should have, but I was already starting to feel a little mellow. "You can join me on the couch and watch some of the swashbuckler marathon with me. But when the champagne is finished, you have to go."

"Certainly. I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome." He was laughing at me.

"You're so full of it, Webb! Come on." I deliberately left the bottle on the counter, but Clay picked it up and brought it with him. He placed it on the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Interesting." He picked up one of those humongous coffee table books, the one on the art in the Louvre. "You never struck me as having an inclination toward the old masters."

I shrugged. "Impressed?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"Then it served its purpose." I wasn't about to tell him that the book had been a Christmas gift from Mr. Wallace, who had run my department until he'd become head of the DSD. I thought it was an odd gift at the time, but to my surprise I'd enjoyed the paintings displayed in its pages, and afterward had explored some of the art museums in the DC area. Let Clayton Webb think the book was merely a prop.

I slid down on my spine and rested my feet on the coffee table. Clay sat upright for a moment, then put his glass down, unlaced his shoes and toed them off, and settled himself comfortably beside me. He was wearing grey argyle socks. I forced myself to glance at the television. This time Tyrone Power was going to duel with Basil Rathbone. I picked up the remote, about to restore the sound, but before I could, Clay spoke. "Clark."

"Hmm?"

"Why does Sam have a rag in his mouth?"

I glanced fondly at the bronze. "That's not a rag. That's a trophy of battle."

"A trophy?" he repeated. "You want to explain that?"

I shrugged and took another swallow of the champagne. Clay reached for the bottle and topped off my glass. I looked at the dog and my eyes became unfocused. I was seeing the events play out in my mind's eye, just the way they had been described to me.

"My uncle Steve used to tell me this story." This had nothing to do with me, not really, and it should be safe enough to talk about. "There was a man who decided that living in the city was too dangerous, so he moved his wife and little girl to an estate whose backyard was the Hudson River."

"Oh, this takes place in New York?"

"Yes," I smiled, able to hear again my father's brother talking about the currents of the river near Bear Mountain. "The little girl had these fat, blonde, sausage curls, and blue, blue eyes. She looked like one of those child stars of the 30s. One day, this beat-up, old mongrel came into the yard. The mother nearly had a heart attack, certain it was going to eat her baby, but the little girl fell in love with the dog, and begged and pleaded to keep him, and the dad allowed it.

"Good thing. The kid was curious. Too curious for her own good, and when she was bending over to examine something near the riverbank, she tumbled in and was swept away. The mother stood there, screaming and wringing her hands."

"You don't have much use for women, do you, Clark?"

"Sure I do." I turned my head to glare at him. "I fuck 'em, don't I? Hey, my glass is almost empty. Pour me some more, will you?" I waited until he replaced the bottle before I continued. "Anyway, there was the mom, crying and being generally useless. And that big old dog, that she wanted to get rid of, came tearing across the back lawn and *flung* himself into the river. He swam out, got a grip on the little girl's blouse collar and dragged her to the shore.

"Well, the mayor of the town was running for re-election, and he needed something to make him look good. This was custom-made for him. His people set up a ceremony to give the dog an award for rescuing the kid."

"What was the dog's name, Clark?"

"Hmm? Oh, she called him... Well, never mind, it isn't germane to the story. So the mutt got this medal hung around his neck, and the mayor got a nice write-up in the local newspaper. Still lost the election, though. Time passed. The dog died, of old age," I hastened to assure Clay, "and they buried him in the backyard, with this iron statue over his grave, and something like 'Faithful and Beloved', or some sentimental shit like that engraved on the base."

"Clark..."

"Not finished, Clay. You want to hear the end of this? If you're bored, the champagne's done, and you can always leave." I wondered if he'd stay. The champagne was getting to me; I really wanted to fuck him.

He frowned at me and showed me his glass, which was still half full. How many times had he refilled my glass? "It sounded like it was finished. The freaking dog is dead, for fuck's sake!"

Profanity? Was the suave Mr. Webb a trifle... smashed? The corner of my mouth curved up in a grin. "Is he?"

"Excuse me?"

I tipped my head back and studied the ceiling, letting him think I was lost in the memories of the story, when what I was really lost in was Clayton Webb sitting next to me. After a little while I began talking again. "Well, the little girl grew up and moved back to the city, where she met and married an asshole. The creep beat her, I imagine, although Uncle Steve was never clear about that point. So she left him, and returned to the house on the river. Did I mention her parents had died and left it to her?"

"No." Clay was smiling at me, a smile that went straight to my dick.

"Sorry. They did. So there she was, in this big, rambling house, all by herself. She wasn't afraid to be alone in it, because it was her childhood home, and aside from almost drowning in the Hudson, nothing bad had ever happened to her there. That's a really stupid attitude to take, isn't it, Clay?"

He took the empty glass from my hand and put it on the coffee table. "Yes, Clark, but it's just a story, and if the heroine didn't do anything stupid, the story wouldn't progress, would it?"

"Think you're so smart, doncha?" I edged closer to him and dropped my head onto his shoulder. "You smell good, too." I nuzzled the spot just above his collar, and licked the skin. He jumped. Nice to know I still had it. I started to pet his thigh. He shifted and spread his legs, his cock making a nice bulge beneath his fly. "Sooo, the woman was all alone in this house, and a bad storm blew in. Just before the power went off..."

"Oh, the power went off?" Clay asked a little hoarsely, his hand doing some exploring of its own, shaping my dick through the soft material of my sweatpants.

"Don't tell me you doubted that! And stop interrupting me!" But I didn't slap his hand away, instead laid my hand over his and pressed down. "Anyway, just before the power went off, there was an announcement on the TV. A vicious criminal had escaped from a local prison. Did I mention there was a prison for the criminally insane nearby?"

Clay chuckled. "No, you didn't, Clark." He angled his head, as if wanting me to taste more of his throat. "Mmm. You seem to have left out a few things."

"'S your fault, pouring all that champagne into me. Where was I?" I was distracted by his thumb rubbing over the head of my dick through my sweats. Who would have thought such indirect contact would feel so good?

"It was a dark and stormy night, Clark."

I smiled, remembering how Uncle Steve told me the story. "Yeah. Well, there was the woman in this big, dark house, and somewhere outside its walls was the boogeyman. She found her daddy's gun and went to bed. In the middle of the night she was awakened by the sound of breaking glass, and a horrific scream. 'It's just a tree that was toppled by the wind,' she tried to
reassure herself. 'And everyone knows the wind coming off the Hudson sounds like a soul in torment.' But there was still that criminal running around loose, and she was afraid to fall back to sleep, so she sat up the rest of the night. She had the gun resting on her knees, and she kept it pointed at her bedroom door."

"Just in case?" The heel of his hand was massaging my dick now, and I knew if I looked down, I would see I'd leaked precome on my grey sweats.

"Just in case," I agreed. I moved his collar aside and licked his neck, long swipes over his adam's apple to the hinge of his jaw, and I'd have sworn he purred.

"Are you sure all this has something to do with Sam having a rag in his mouth?" Was Clay trying to show me he was still in control of himself, that I wasn't driving him to distraction?

"Y'know what? I'm not gonna tell you the end now. Just finish your champagne and go home!" I tried to stand up, but he had his fingers wrapped around my wrist, the same wrist that I'd cuffed to his bed, and with a slight tug he had me sitting back down on the couch.

"Tease. You're not going anywhere." He leaned toward me and ran his hand over my hair, and then around to cup my chin. "Tell me the rest of the story, Clark."

"All right, baby," I said agreeably, arching into his touch. "The next morning the sheriff came knocking on her door. Seems they'd tracked the escaped prisoner to her backyard and found him lying in the ruins of the French doors that led into her living room. Several fucking *big* shards of glass had cut into him, but that wasn't why he was dead. The sheriff apologized, said they'd need to impound her dog, because what killed the criminal was a severed jugular and a crushed windpipe, the results of savage animal bites.

"'I don't have a dog, Sheriff,' she told him.

"'Hmmm,' said the sheriff. The county coroner's men loaded the body in the meat wagon, noticing that there were defensive wounds on the nut-job's hands, and that his prison uniform was ripped up pretty good. In fact, a large square had been torn off and was missing. The sheriff sent his men to get some sheets of plywood to board up the broken doors. They had to pass the grave of the dog."

"And...?"

"Wait for it!"

"Clark!"

"Okay, okay." I drew in a deep breath and intoned solemnly, "'There, clutched in the jaws of the iron dog was...'"

"A rag!"

I couldn't help laughing. "All right, baby, if you insist: a rag. God, I loved that story!"

"How old were you when you first heard it?"

"Jesus, it was before my old man split, so I must have been..." I stopped laughing and snatched my hand back. What the fuck was I doing? This was a fucking CIA spook on my couch, not a date! I stood up, and Clay didn't try to stop me this time. "I want you to leave now, Webb."

Clay was on his feet, his face so close to mine I could count individual eyelashes. "You may want a lot of things, Palmer, but me leaving isn't one of them!" His fingers feathered over my ears, tracing the sworls and curves. His eyes grazed over my face.

"No, it isn't," I snapped, the effects of the champagne still fizzing through my veins. My hands buried in his hair, I held his head still and rubbed my lips against his roughly. He opened with a groan, and I plundered his mouth. The thought of kissing him had been lurking in the back of my mind for too long, popping up at odd moments to blindside me. I wanted to spend the rest of the night feeding off that mouth of his.

And then his tongue was in my mouth, and I was sucking on it as if I could never get enough of it.

I pulled back a bit, licked his lips and brushed mine back and forth over them, then sucked his lower lip into my mouth and let him feel my teeth on it. His hips jerked.

"I'm going to fuck you, Clay," I whispered in his ear, biting down on his lobe and worrying it.

He was panting, trying to thrust against me. His hands reached behind me, tracing the crack of my ass, squeezing my cheeks, encouraging me to go wild. I fumbled with his belt buckle, pausing to give him a firm rub over the heated flesh under my palm.

"Like that, baby?" I wanted to be inside his tight ass. Once I had fucked him, I'd have Clayton Webb out of my head once and for all. I was sure of it.

Clay didn't say anything, but the sounds he was making spoke for him. He wanted me as much as I wanted him.

I walked him backwards down the corridor to my bedroom, growling hot sex words in his ear, while I explored the planes of his torso through his sweater, keeping him off balance enough to get him on my bed. Clayton Webb might be a little looped, but if I took the time to undress him completely, he'd probably come to his senses and take his ass out of here. I'd settle for getting his trousers and boxers off his legs, and that sweater up out of my way so I could torment his nipples. I wasn't likely to forget how responsive they were. Jesus, I'd had him begging just from licking them.

The backs of his knees hit the bed and we both went down. My weight kept him pinned to the bed, but he didn't seem too interested in fighting me off. While I was wrestling with the fastening of his slacks, Clay was shoving my sweats and boxers off my hips and trying to get my tee shirt over my head, with no luck. I rolled us to the side where the nightstand was, and fumbled with the drawer, scrabbling for lubricant and condoms.

I had no time for finesse. His slacks were down his legs, and I planted a foot in the vee of the crotch and pushed them off.

And then I had the lube on my fingers and my fingers in his ass, and I couldn't believe how readily he accepted them. His cock was pointing due north, and pre come glistened all over the tip. He raised his hips, his knees bent, offering me whatever I wanted to take, pleading incoherently. "Jesus... Please... There... Oh, fuck..." Words that made no sense, but somehow indicated his needy state.

I managed to roll the condom on, shuddering with my own need to be buried in his hot, tight ass. I smeared a coat of lubricant over it, pushed his knees back and apart, and positioned my cock at his hole. I eased my dick into him, and his eyes darkened as his pupils expanded. My weight was balanced on my hands, and I undulated my hips, driving my dick all the way into him.

Clay groaned as I found his prostate, and I swooped down to swallow the sound, rocking against him. He arched up and yanked at his sweater. "Clark, please!" he begged, and I nudged the sweater further out of my way, desperate myself to get at his nipples. I locked my fingers with his. Our groins were together, our hands were together, and I dragged my tongue over those pebble hard bits of flesh. He tasted of sweat and desire and something that was indefinably Clayton Webb. I liked that taste in my mouth, almost as much as I'd liked the taste of his come.

His dick was trapped between our bodies, and each movement of my groin stroked the turgid flesh. I pushed him higher and higher, and I had no choice but to go there with him myself. This had been too long in coming.

He got his hands free and wound his fingers in my hair, pulling my mouth off his torso and up to his mouth. His kisses were ... Fucking hell! Hot, ravenous! I felt as if he wanted to eat me alive!

I didn't want his nipples to feel neglected, though. I angled my body so that I wasn't laying full length on him, and freed one of my hands to roll and tug them. Hitching gasps spilled into my mouth. One particularly firm squeeze, and that did it for him. He tore his mouth away and whimpered as his hot semen spurted onto his abdomen.

His inner muscles clamped down, and with two more strokes I was the one who was pulsing to a violent climax, gripped by that tight, hot passage.

I collapsed onto his slick torso, sweat and come gluing us together, and licked the side of his neck. I worked the patch of skin between my lips, sucking it hard enough to leave a mark. My dick slid out of his body, and he made a soft sound of loss.

"Jesus God, you're... one ...hot... fuck, Palmer!" Clay wheezed, struggling to catch him breath.

"Not... too... shabby... yourself, Webb. I can... get you... top dollar, if you ever decide you... want to... rent your ass."

He didn't take offense, as I had hoped he would. Clay laughed. "No need to, Clark, I'm independently wealthy, didn't you know that?"

I wanted to do this again. Usually I had no trouble getting it up a second time, but usually I hadn't put away better than half a bottle of champagne. It would take me a little while to recover. Could I talk him into staying the night?

That thought brought me abruptly back to reality. I flopped over onto my back, eased the condom off and dropped it over the side of the bed into the wastebasket that I knew was there, and closed my eyes. Oh, fuck!

"Why don't you grab a shower, and I'll call a cab for you. You weren't stupid enough to drive here, were you?"

"No, but I was hoping you might want me to stay longer."

//Oh, yes, *please*!// that little voice begged before I could slam him back into his mental closet. "I don't do sleep-overs, Webb."

He laughed, and I felt the bed shift as he stood up. I opened an eye. His back was to me, and I watched as he pulled his sweater and undershirt over his head. My gaze dropped to his ass. Illegal. It should definitely be declared illegal! I closed my eye to shut out the temptation.

"Another time, Clark?" His breath was warm on my lips, and this time I opened both eyes to find him hovering over me. I wanted to fist my hands in his hair and drag his mouth down for a kiss that would leave him hungry and desperate. Instead, I fisted the bedspread and forced my hands to stay at my sides.

"There are clean towels in the linen closet in the bathroom," I told him, and he disappeared into the master bath. The sound of the water drifted into my bedroom. //You could join him.//

I don't think so, I snarled to that goddammed little voice. Michael Samuelle, the Section One cold op, had promised me that one fuck would cure this obsession.

//But it didn't,// pityingly. If anyone ever actually spoke to me in that manner, I'd tear his head off and piss down his neck. As it was, all I could do was agree with myself. I was seriously fucked. I reached for the phone and called a local car service.

I had straightened the bed and pulled my sweatpants back on, not bothering with underwear. As soon as Clay left, I'd get cleaned up myself. //In the shower where he had stood, soaping up and rinsing off. Running his soapy hands all over that fine body of his!//

Shut the fuck up! I growled at the voice. I didn't know why I bothered talking to myself. I never got anywhere.

"You say something, Clark?"

"Uh, no. Listen, Webb, were you serious about doing this again?"

His hands were busy doing up his slacks. "This?"

Was I out of my fucking mind? "Forget about it, I was thinking of something else."

For a second I thought he looked disappointed, but that damned spook smile distracted me. "I never kid about something like 'this', Clark. Next time I'd like to do it when we haven't polished off a bottle of champagne. Where are my shoes?"

"Your shoes? Oh, you took them off in the living room."

"That's right, and then you told me why you have a bronze dog standing in the corner."

I had? I thought I'd just told him a silly kid's story. I followed him down the hallway. "You want a glass of water before you go? Might help with your hangover tomorrow morning, Clay."

While he stepped into his shoes and laced them up, I got his overcoat out of the closet. I held it, and he slid his arms into it and buttoned it up. The buzzer sounded, signaling the arrival of his cab. He pressed the button. "I'll be right down." His hand cupped my jaw, and his thumb rubbed over my cheekbone. "I never have a champagne hangover, Clark. Isn't that in your file about me?" He brought my mouth down to his and kissed me, and then the door was closing behind him.

I stood there and stared at the door. It wasn't supposed to be like this; I was supposed to have that irritating CIA spook out of my system.

//Okay, don't lose your cool, Palmer.// For once that voice sounded sympathetic.

I was seriously, seriously fucked. Once was not enough.

// Then we'll just have to keep doing it until we find out how much is enough!//

~End~