Today
By Tinnean

Clark Palmer slumped down low in his easy chair, resting on his spine. His long legs were stretched out before him, crossed casually at the ankle. From his fingers dangled a tumbler that
now contained only a few melting ice cubes.

It had been a bitch of a day, culminating in a quarrel with the man who was the senior agent in his division. It was so stupid. He didn't even know why he had started the argument.

He contemplated the glass and sighed. Yes, he did. He wanted Clayton Webb to look at him and see Clark Palmer, someone worth having in his life, not just a former nemesis from the DSD. He
wanted Clayton Webb in his bed.

And when had *that* happened?

The television was tuned to a classic movies channel, and he watched morosely as the detective on the screen turned and smiled into the camera. "You're going to be *way* sorry you let her get behind you, chum!"

Wonderful. Now he was talking to the television set.

The P.I.'s face took on a sickly look of horror, and then a shot was fired. He clutched at his chest, staggered against the wooden barricade. The fog muffled the sound of the wood giving way under his weight.

"Asshole! I told you not to trust her!"

He slid down lower in the chair and tried to make himself more comfortable. His eyes were growing heavy, and he wondered, in that shadow land between wakefulness and sleep, what it would be like to have a man's mouth around his cock.

A knock sounded on his door, and he peeled open an eye to glance at his watch, puzzled. No one came calling, this time of night. Ever. He set his glass down beside his chair and got to his feet. For a moment he felt lightheaded.

Surely he hadn't drunk that much!

Giving himself a shake, he went to the door and pulled it open. "Yeah?"

Before him stood a man of average height, wearing a dark suit and fedora.

"You Palmer?" the man asked tersely.

Clark Palmer felt a shiver of...what? Alarm? Nothing alarmed him. Unease? No, he was the one who made others uneasy. He quashed the feeling and regarded his visitor grimly. "Who wants to know?" he responded.

The man stripped off his hat and looked the former DSD agent in the eye. "I was told you were the man I should see," he said with the faintest lisp.

"The DSD has been disbanded, and I don't do that sort of stuff anymore."

"I don't know anything about any DSD. All I know is that you're the man I need."

"Who told you about me?"

"Doesn't matter. You going to help me, or will I have to get tough?"

Suddenly, Clark found himself facing the business end of a Colt automatic pistol.

"I guess I'm going to help you," he agreed easily and turned to go back into his apartment. "Want to come in and have a drink?"

The man followed him into the living room. "Nothing for me, thanks, I gave it up for Lent."

"You're not Catholic."

Sam Spade grinned at him sourly.

"Couldn't handle the booze, huh, Spade?"

"No, someone special asked me to go easy on the hard stuff."

"And you do everything Brigid O'Shaughnessy asks you?" Palmer curled his lip at the private eye. You'd never catch *him* being led around by his dick!

"Brigid? No, last I heard the syndicate took a hit out on her. The bulls are still trying to find all the pieces."

"Then who...Oh surely not Effie? A boss and his secretary: how ordinary! I expected better of you, Spade. Like maybe that little gunsel from the East coast."

"What's with this interest in *my* love life all of a sudden, Palmer? Haven't you got one of your own to keep you occupied?"

A face flashed before Clark Palmer's eye, and he sighed. "Not the last time I looked. Sorry, Spade." Who was he to mock anyone's foray into love? He had never had any luck when it came to falling in love.

He couldn't even keep a friend. Witness that stupid disagreement that afternoon, which looked like it was evolving into his dismissal by Clayton Webb. Come Monday he would be lucky if he even got to see Webb in the halls at Langley.

All he knew was that the odds of him remaining with the man who had made his transition from DSD to CIA bearable looked slim to none. "Sorry I brought it up, Spade. What can I do for you?"

"I rather think it's what *I* can do for you. That was a pretty stupid move you pulled on your partner, wasn't it?

"How did you know...?" A wave of vertigo swept over the taller man.

"I'm a private dick, Palmer. It's my job to know things like that! You want to tell me about it?"

"No."

Spade closed in on the former DSD operative. "C'mon, big boy, talk to me."

"I said no."

The next thing Clark knew, the detective was pressed up tight against him, seeking his lips.

Too surprised to do anything but stand there with his mouth hanging open, he was an easy target for the private eye. Spade leaned up and traced the line of the other man's mouth before dipping in to rub his tongue over the ridges of Clark's teeth.

With a groan, Clark began sucking on the tongue that was lazily fucking his mouth. "Yeah, you like a man's tongue in your mouth, don't you, gunny? What else would you like in your mouth? You need it, tough guy! You need to be on your hands and knees, getting your ass fucked!"

Spade shoved the other man away from him, and Clark stared at him with hooded eyes, unsure how his secret desire had been exposed. "In your bedroom, hotshot! Looks like *I'm* going to be the one to teach you how to behave with your boss!"

Clark ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the gumshoe there. He struggled to draw in a breath deep enough to satisfy his hunger for oxygen. This wasn't the man he wanted, but...should he take what was being offered to him?

He was taking a step backward to buy himself some time to think when the door to his apartment burst open.

"Having a party, Clark? It would have been nice if you'd invited me!"

"Clay! How...What are you doing here?"

"Interrupting, it looks like. I don't seem to remember you mentioning anything about this at work."

"Since when is my private life not private?"

"Since *I* decided, Palmer!"

Clark didn't want to explore that statement just yet. "Clay, this is Sam Spade!"

"Yeah, and I'm Little Bo Peep!" The CIA operative turned cold eyes on the compact man who was standing too close to his material. "I don't know who you are, and frankly, I don't give a damn! I'd advise you to make tracks out of here."

"Or what?"

Clay's grin suddenly resembled a hungry shark's. "Or I'll take great pleasure in tearing you a new asshole!"

"That won't be necessary." A short, unobtrusive-looking individual spoke from the doorway. "I'll be more than happy to do that little thing. Did you think I wouldn't come looking for you, Sam?"

Clay noted with interest that the gumshoe was a little pale.

Spade's gunsel stepped around Clayton Webb and eyed his lover with disdain. "So this is where you've been! Just stepping out for a pack of cigarette papers, *huh*? Do I look like I was born yesterday? Did you think you could go tomcatting around on me?"

"Ah, shit! Cookie, listen, it's not like that!"

"Isn't it? You bastard! You ..."

The gumshoe moved so fast the shorter man didn't have time to back away. Spade had him in his arms and was seeking his mouth. "I know, 'bastard'! God, I love when you get possessive! Kiss me!"

The gunsel turned his head aside sulkily. "No!"

"Cookie." Warm lips caressed the smaller man's, and he shuddered and leaned into the kiss.

"I won't let you leave me! Never!"

"Never!" Spade turned to look at the CIA agent. "Sorry, Webb. This is one mess you're going to have to clean up on your own!" Spade lit two cigarettes, handed one to his lover, and slung his arm around his shoulder. "C'mon, Cookie. Let's go home."

The gunsel nestled his head against his lover's chin. "Sure thing, Dream."

They were gone.

"Um, Clay, I have no idea what just went on!"

"Don't you?" Webb stalked around his partner, circling him where he stood in the center of the room.

Clark licked his lips and felt himself grow hard as Spade had been unable to make him hard. Clay pushed against his shoulder with the palm of his hand, shoving him toward his bedroom.

"What are you doing, Clay?"

"I'm going to teach you what happens when you fuck up, Palmer. Now get in there and get your clothes off. Don't make me have to get tough with you!"

A shiver ran through Clark. He was dreaming; he *had* to be dreaming, but he didn't care. He backed into the darkened room, Clay matching him pace for pace. The edge of the bed stopped him. Keeping his eyes fixed on the man before him, who watched him with such heat, Palmer's hands went to his loosened tie, and he threw it over his head. He hesitated, not knowing where to go from there. His shirt or his trousers?

"You're taking too long, Clark. Maybe you're just not interested in me. Maybe you're only interested in fantasies, in gumshoes from the 30s!"

"Maybe you ought to shut your mouth, Clay!" The DSD agent, for wherever he wound up, he would always be DSD, slammed his mouth over the other man's. "Kiss me!" His lips parted and Clay tasted him. Clark teased his tongue and lured it into his own mouth, and began to suck on it.

"Say *it*!" Aroused, startled, Clark opened his eyes, to see Clay's changeable hazel eyes, green now with passion, watching him. "Say my name!"

"Clay!"

****

"Clay!" he moaned.

"What, Clark? What is it?"

"Huh?"

"You were calling my name. I heard you over the intercomm."

Oh shit. "I'm sorry, Clay, I hope I didn't embarrass you."

"It's after hours, Clark. There's no one to hear but me."

Clark moistened his lips, confused for a moment as to what was real and what was the dream. "Did you...did you tell me I was no longer your material?"

"Yes. I thought you'd prefer a change. I know I'm nothing like the men you worked with at the DSD. I don't know if I can deal with that knowledge any longer."

"You're *better*, Clay. Please, don't send me away."

Webb had never seen the other man so distraught. "All right, Clark, if you're sure. I'm leaving for the night. You might as well go home too." He turned to leave, to find Palmer clutching his sleeve.

"Take me with you."

Clay went pale.

Clark realized what he had said and flushed.

And then Clay was kissing him, and he thought he would come from the sheer pleasure of it.

****

With a moan, Clark arched up into the solid weight of...nothing! He jerked into complete awareness. The television hissed with white noise, the station having signed off for the night.

It had been a dream. The interlude with Sam Spade, the kisses shared with Clayton Webb, the man he worked under. The man, he suddenly realized, he would like to do more under.

He swore and got to his feet. He snapped off the television and paused by the occasional table to leave his glass.

It was only then that he noticed the two cigarettes that burned down to ash in the crystal ashtray.

~End~