Title: Happy Birthday, Baby

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer

Rating: NC-17

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: They belong to Belisarius Productions, who really don't appreciate them. Well really, how many Webb or Palmer episodes are there? According to the latest count, there are six Palmer and twenty-seven Webb. Out of seven years. Not nearly enough!

Status: new/ complete

Date: 2/02

Series/Sequel: I've learned to never say never. Let's call this the Mind Fuck series, shall we?

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

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

Summary: A CIA agent takes a DSD agent to dinner.

Warnings: m/m, language, spoiler for Webb of Lies

Notes: Clark didn't go to Leavenworth in this universe, and the DSD hasn't been disbanded. Thanks to Page for making sure titles were correct, as well as shooters, and to Gail for the final beta. This is for Gail. You really thought you wouldn't get a story for such an important birthday?

Happy Birthday, Baby
By Tinnean

I stared out the window of my corner office. It was a dismal day, typical of February in DC, with the weather forecast calling for icy rain. I made a rude sound and wondered if I could get myself assigned to Majorca. Surely someone would be vacationing there who needed assassinating?

I turned back to my computer. The screensaver had come up, a manip I had done, goatee and neat little 'stashe. Yeah, Clayton Webb looked good like that.

The powers that be didn't question my choice of screensaver. They grinned evilly, assuming I had something in mind for him.

I did have something in mind for the Deputy Director, Counter Intelligence, of the CIA. It just wasn't what my superiors thought.

Things had changed, ever since that shit, Candella, shot him on that damned boat. Candella paid for it, of course. No one fucks with my operations!

It was after that I started keeping my own private dossier on Webb, one that no one else knew about. Originally I told myself it was strictly to keep track of the opposing team, so to speak.

Then I found I couldn't get him out of my mind. I needed to know ... everything. What was his favorite pony's name? Who were his favorite authors? What he liked to drink, why he got that B+ in English lit his last year at college.

And did he prefer blondes or brunets?

I wanted him, not as in 'dead or alive', but as in 'in my bed'.

Maybe it was an age thing.

I glanced at the calendar on my desk and sighed. It hadn't miraculously changed in the time I had been looking out the window; it was *still* February 25th.

Yep, it was my birthday.

I hated birthdays. What was on file with the DSD was what I wanted them to have on file. According to my records, last July 4th I had turned thirty-six.

And I was actually the big 4-0.

****

"Mr. Palmer, I have Mr. Webb on line two for you."

I licked my lips and looked at the phone contemplatively.

The CIA gets the jobs the FBI won't dirty their lily-white fingers on.

And the DSD gets the jobs the CIA won't handle.

But the CIA and DSD just don't mix. Why had Webb called?

I took a deep breath, then punched two on my phone. "Clark Palmer."

"Palmer, this is Clayton Webb."

"My, my," I said in my snidest tone, the one that was guaranteed to make Harmon Rabb, Jr. do stupid things. I was not about to let a Deputy Director of the CIA know I was caught short by his call. "The CIA's golden boy is calling the DSD? To what do I owe this honor?"

I could have been referring to the state of the weather. "I need to see you. Are you available for dinner?"

My cock hardened, and the unruly thought flashed through my mind, 'I'd *love* to be your dinner!' Hell, I'd love to be whatever he wanted me to be.

Shit! Where had that thought come from?

I cleared my throat. He wanted to meet for dinner? My mouth was dry, and I made a show of loudly turning the pages on my daily planner, knowing the sound would be picked up over the phone line. I didn't want to appear too eager.

"It looks like I'll be free after a 5 PM meeting." Someone who saw that the necessary funding for the DSD was unobtrusively filtered into our coffers was becoming recalcitrant. He wanted a larger share of the pie. It would be my job to show him the error of his ways. "And don't bother asking who I'll be meeting, or why."

"Of course not, Clark. I know you wouldn't tell me, anyway." There was a smile in his voice, and I nearly fell off my chair. He called me by my first name! "Would you meet me at Raphael's?"

"Certainly, Webb." I wasn't ready to relax my guard. He was still CIA. "What time?"

"Seven. Will that give you enough time?"

I considered the man I would be seeing at five o'clock. It would be more than enough time, but Webb didn't need to know that. "Better make it eight."

"Fine." His tone was almost caressing. What the fuck was going on here? "I'll see you at Raphael's at eight, Clark." The line went dead.

He hadn't told me where Raphael's was, and I wasn't familiar with it, but before I left for my last meeting, I would know everything about the restaurant, down to how much the owner had left on the mortgage.

But the thought that went round and round in my mind was that he called me Clark. Fuck. I was Mr. Palmer, or Palmer. Or even that sociopathic son of a bitch, according to a certain Naval commander. No one called me by my first name, not even me! I didn't really care for it myself. Made me sound like some mild-mannered reporter, for chrissake!

Of course, everyone who came up against me, including that macho prick, Rabb, quickly learned differently.

I wondered why Clayton Webb, of all people, wanted to see a simple DSD agent like myself for dinner.

I pushed the unexpected invitation from my mind and pulled up the senator's file.

****

It was a quarter past eight when I arrived. I knew Webb wouldn't want to be kept waiting, but I'd decided to make him wait anyway. That was how we played the game.

I approached the door to Raphael's. The doorman sprang forward and politely opened it for me. As soon as I gave the maitre d' Webb's name, he nodded, also politely, and led me to a small table in a discreet alcove.

Clayton Webb was just arriving from the other direction. Post, repost. But his smile was warm and welcoming as I seated myself. Was he trying to make me confused, keep me off balance? I frowned at him, and his gaze became thoughtful. "What's wrong, Clark? Difficult meeting?"

In spite of his saying he wasn't going to ask with whom I'd met, I wondered if he was trying to make me slip. I wanted to laugh and tell him not to try teaching his grandmother how to suck eggs! I let nothing slip except what I wanted to 'slip'.

I accepted the 'difficult meeting' as a reasonable enough excuse and gave a brief nod, although it really hadn't been anything I couldn't handle. I had simply explained the facts of life to the senator. Either he backed off and stopped sitting on our funding, or he'd do a Jimmy Hoffa. The senator tried to bluff his way out of that, claiming that our meeting was under video surveillance and was being recorded. I simply countered with a little device that emitted magnetic waves that wiped the transmission.

It was like taking candy from a baby. He caved.

"I took the liberty of ordering for us both when I made the reservations. I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all." It would be interesting to see what he thought I would enjoy. I was sure the CIA had dossiers on all DSD agents. We just made sure what was in their files was what *we* wanted in them.

The wine steward brought a pale bottle with a plain label and displayed it to Clay. He nodded and accepted a glass, then took a sip, rolled it on his tongue and held it in his mouth while he breathed. Clay smiled and swallowed. "Yes, this Chardonnay is excellent. What, Clark?"

I tried to keep my grin innocent. "I've never seen that done before, Clay." I had read about it, of course, and had seen it in the movies, but never in real life. Not in my real life, anyway: I drank beer. I preferred Michelob, but I wasn't fussy. Anything in a bottle would do.

I took the glass of white wine Clay had poured for me and raised it to my lips, but before I could take a sip, he caught my eye. I froze. "What?"

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

What was he up to? I let my mouth quirk in a smile. "Here's to the CIA, who takes it up the ass?" I shrugged.

The waiter who was about to place the antipasto in the center of the table choked, then turned bright red. He caught the platter before it had the chance to spill its contents on the pristine white tablecloth.

"Sorry, Webb. Guess you can dress me up, but you can't take me out." I gave him a cocky grin; I wouldn't let him see I regretted that flippant remark in front of a civilian.

To my surprise, instead of getting angry or annoyed, his eyes grew hot. "Wouldn't you like to find out, Clark? Well, perhaps another time."

I could feel my trousers grow constrictive, and I'd have sworn he was aware of my state.

He smiled and raised his glass. "Happy birthday, Clark. Many happy returns."

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

I wanted to ask how he had known that today was my birthday, but thought better of it. It would be revealing too much.

He was watching me through his lashes, his expression hooded. "Isn't it?" His tongue flicked out to catch a drop of wine that lingered on his lips, and I had to call on all my DSD training not to moan. His mouth was solemn, but there was a wicked glint in his eyes. "My mistake."

I pulled my attention away from that mouth of his, realizing that I was losing control again. *Fuck*!

To distract myself, I speared a roasted pepper from the platter between us and placed it on my dish, slicing it neatly.

Clay made inroads on the artichoke hearts, but that was okay. I didn't like the spiny little hairs that were somehow always left behind and got caught under my tongue.

He spoke of a show that was opening at Kennedy Center. "Would you be interested in tickets, Clark? I would have no problem getting them for you."

This was another attempt of his to keep me off balance. I took a sip of my wine before I spoke. I was surprised by how good it was. I opened my mouth to tell him thanks, but no thanks. "I'd love it, Clay."

Jesus fucking Christ, where had that come from? I hate theater!

I glared at my glass accusingly, then shot a look at Clay. He was nibbling a piece of proscuitto and didn't seem to notice my intense regard. Could he have had the wine doctored? It was possible; I'd had stuff like that done myself. But he was drinking from the same bottle and didn't appear to be affected by it.

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

I could say yes, just to be a bastard. But he'd expect that of me. So I'd throw *him* off balance. I stabbed it with the fork and held it toward him, smiling. "Help yourself, Clay."

Instead of positioning his plate under it and letting me slide the marinated pimento onto it, he leaned closer and parted his lips. I freaking sat there with the fork hanging in the air, while he closed his lips around the pepper, drew it slowly into his mouth, and began to chew. I couldn't get enough air in through my nose; I had to part my lips.

I could feel the skin over my cheekbones tighten and heat up, and I reached for my wine, to find Webb's hand on mine, preventing me from raising the glass.

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

I stared at the back on my hand, shocked to find the imprint of his fingers hadn't been left behind. I fought to contain a shiver and looked aside so he wouldn't see me lick my lips.

A waiter came and cleared away the plates, and then another brought us the next dish, penne a la vodka, in a pale pink sauce. As we ate, Webb kept up an easy conversation, which I had no trouble contributing to. I was DSD, after all. But I was also busy trying to figure out what his game was.

The pasta was followed by veal piccata, and the white wine complimented the capers, butter and fresh squeezed lemon wine sauce. All too soon I was raising my napkin to my lips. The meal was finished, the evening was over, and I was a little shocked at how much I had enjoyed spending it with Webb in spite of him being a CIA agent.

"You're not leaving yet."

"I'm not?"

He looked at me patiently. "Clark, if I take you to an Italian restaurant, the least you can do is have the tiramasu."

As if on cue, the waiter brought the sinfully rich dessert, along with two tiny cups of espresso. "Anisette, signores?"

Clay nodded, so I did too, and watched as a splash of the clear, licorice-flavored liqueur was added to the black coffee.

I could only take a couple of bites of the sweet before pushing it away. I sat back in my seat and sipped my espresso, and watched as Clay consumed his dessert with single-mindedness.

At least, I thought it was single-mindedness until I suddenly felt a sock-clad foot caressing my crotch. His eyes were warm, but he said nothing. He knew he was affecting me. My pupils were dilated, and I was having trouble breathing again. His heel ground against my dick, kneading it until I was on the verge of climaxing.

"What CIA shit is this about, Webb?"

"What makes you think this has anything to do with business?" Was there a touch of breathlessness in his voice?

If it didn't.... if it didn't... My mind felt clouded. "What did you put in the wine, Clay?"

"What would you have put in the wine, Clark?"

"*Fuck*!" I shoved his foot off my lap and struggled for composure. Abruptly I rose from my seat. "Good night, Webb."

His soft laugh followed me as I walked away from him. But all that wine had gotten to me, and I needed to take a leak. The men's room was empty, except for the old man who handed out those little towels and gave you a spritz of cologne if you wanted. I used the urinal, then went to the sink and washed my hands. I held my wrists under the faucet, trying to cool myself down.

Was this whole evening an elaborate mind fuck? Or was Clayton Webb coming on to me? The CIA, literally in bed with the DSD? Impossible!

I blotted some water over my face, then dried my hands.

"Problem, Clark?"

*Fuck*! I turned to Webb with that crazy-eyed grin that gets me such good results when I need to intimidate people, to find he was grinning right back at me!

He walked into the restroom, sending the attendant out with a jerk of his head. As the old man passed him, I saw a folded bill pressed into his hand. Then Webb locked the door and started walking toward me.

"What the fuck are you trying to pull here, Webb?" He didn't answer, just kept coming. I backed away from him until I couldn't go any further; the row of stalls was at my back. It didn't even dawn on me to hit him.

His hands were busy with my belt and zipper, and the next thing I knew, he had my cock out and was handling it just the way I liked it, long, hard strokes, interspersed with short, teasing ones.

This couldn't be happening! Clayton Webb, Deputy Director of the C fucking I fucking A, could not be jerking me off in the men's room of a classy Italian restaurant! He *couldn't*...

Fucking hell in a handcart! Webb was on his knees, swallowing my cock down to the root. I bit my lips to prevent the moans from echoing in the tiled room. My fingers were wrapped in Webb's hair, and I swear to God I meant to pull him off me.

Only, suddenly I was holding his head still and fucking his mouth, that mouth that had been driving me wild all evening. I wanted to see his eyes. I needed to see his eyes, and I yanked on his hair until he looked up at me.

He was enjoying the hell out of this. He *liked* having me fuck his mouth! That thought sent me over the edge, and with short, brutal thrusts, I came. I could feel the rippling of his throat as he swallowed, and finally, I moaned.

Clay sat back on his heels, wiped his swollen mouth, and watched me with bright eyes, satisfaction glittering in them. My hands were shaking as I tucked my cock away and did up my trousers.

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


~End~