Title: You Belong to Me
Author/Pseudonym: Tinnean
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Pairing: Birkoff/Davenport
Rating: NC-17
Date: 6/00
Status: New/Complete
Summary: Davenport returns from a mission that went south covered in blood; Birkoff is more than slightly distraught.
Email for feedback: Tinneantoo@aol.com
Series/Sequel: No
Disclaimers: They belong to USA, WB and Fireworks, who, like Wayne and Garth, are not worthy. I don't make any money from this, I don't have any money, so they can go try suing someone else.
Notes: Nah, nothing this time around
Warnings: m/m (that's the fun part!); this is my universe, so I get to do whatever I please with them; language, spoilers for Season 4: Abort, Fail,
Retry, Terminate and Up the Rabbit Hole
You Belong to Me
By Tinnean
Davenport was of mixed emotions. He was *so* glad the mission was over. It had been a stressful one, his first as team leader. Four operatives who were selected from the abeyance pool had been assigned to him, along with Nikita, who acted as his backup.
The problem was that those operatives really didn't deserve to be in abeyance. Green was foul-mouthed but extremely competent with a knife and garrote. Pliskin was ugly as a mud fence, a huge, coarse giant of an op whose looks and size made him easy to identify in a line-up. And the Greeks, Dimitri and Petrov had only one thing going against them: they were gay. Section frowned mightily on that, so because they loved each other, and were unashamed to admit it, they were slotted for abeyance.
Madeline had instructed Davenport to tell his men that with the successful completion of their mission, they would each be given $20,000 and cut free.
Of course, that wasn't true. If they didn't die during the course of their assignment, which Hillinger had conspired to make more difficult than was necessary, then Davenport was to cancel them himself.
The mission wasn’t complicated. All they were required to do was slip into a building on West 57th Street in Manhattan, kidnap the CEO of a minor television network whose offices were there, and see that he was delivered into Madeline’s hot little hands.
Their luck had been extraordinarily good. Or extraordinarily bad, depending on whose viewpoint was used. They were on the final lap of the mission, having successfully seized the target. No one had gotten hurt; they hadn't even had a confrontation with New York’s finest.
By that time Birkoff was back on duty and had relieved a reluctant Hillinger. So instead of the team being at the mercy of the vagaries of New York City taxi drivers as the young comm op had gleefully planned, a plush limo, courtesy of the head of communications, was waiting at the curb.
And then the mission went sour. The guard in the lobby, who had been so smitten by Nikita's husky voice and exposed décolletage, realized that something was going down and began firing his weapon.
Pliskin had taken a bullet in the back that had collapsed a lung and nicked an artery. He was able to drive them out of the city and get them halfway to JFK, but by then he had lost too much blood and was having difficulty breathing.
He died at the side of the road, Davenport desperately trying to resuscitate him with CPR. As a result of the compressions, the cold op’s clothes were drenched with the big operative's blood.
The other surviving team members got the body back into the limo. Petrov took the wheel and drove to the deserted area behind the Tower Air terminal.
Davenport ordered Nikita to leave enough money in Pliskin's passport to provide him with a decent burial. Then he had her give the remaining cash to the three abeyance operatives to be split two ways. They faded out of sight before the Lear jet that was to take them back to Orly Airport appeared around the abandoned hangar and rolled to a stop.
Once back in Section, Davenport and Nikita handed over their target, who was sent by Madeline to processing. She shuddered delicately at the sight of the blood that covered Davenport's suit, and gave the two cold operatives half an hour to change; then they were to report to her office to debrief.
Nikita hurried off to find Michael. She needed to see him, hold him, know she was still loved by him.
Davenport just needed to reach his quarters. He wanted more than anything to look for Birkoff, but not dressed in clothes that were soaked with another operative's blood.
He made it unseen to the level his quarters were on, and bolted from the lift, almost running down the corridor. And then...
"Dav! Wait! I heard you had gotten back! Why didn't you stop in Comm to see me?"
Davenport came to a dead stop. "Shit!" he swore softly. Reluctantly, he turned to face the head of comm. "Um, hi, Birkoff. Miss me?"
Birkoff couldn't answer. All he could see was the blood that covered his lover. The color drained from his face and for a minute he thought he was going to faint. He began breathing so rapidly he was in danger of hyperventilating.
Davenport shoved him back against a wall and fastened his mouth over the pallid lips of the comm op. He pinched Birkoff's nose closed and breathed into his mouth, supplying the smaller man with the carbon dioxide he needed to stay conscious.
When the violent tremors that shook his lover’s frame had eased, and his lungs weren't laboring so strenuously, Davenport relaxed his hold and pulled his mouth a fraction of an inch away.
"Blood, Davenport! Oh, God, blood! Blood!"
"It's not mine, Birk. It's not mine!" Davenport surrendered to the overwhelming desire to plunder the sweet mouth before him. With a groan, he licked the full lips and then eased his tongue past them and deep into the honeyed depths of Birkoff's mouth, feasting on the varied textures.
His cock was suddenly swelling to its fully roused length, demanding to be buried deep in the body he held. Davenport shuddered and released his partner. "C'mon, baby, let's get back to my quarters. I need to get out of these clothes and have a shower! I'll tell you all about it, but let's get
out of here!"
The head of comm gulped and suddenly threw himself against the cold operative, hugging him convulsively. Just as abruptly he backed away. "Sorry," he said, agitated. "Sorry. I...I'll leave you to get yourself together." But as Birkoff spun on his heel to return to Comm, a hard hand
gripped his wrist.
"I don’t think so! You’re coming with me, pretty boy!" And Davenport headed down the corridor to his quarters, dragging the comm op behind him.
Part 2
Birkoff was sprawled across Davenport's bed, watching as the cold op shed the blood-stained suit with relief. The burly operative stripped very nicely, indeed, and the smaller man watched with relish as one article of clothing after another was flung aside.
Davenport's Native American heritage was easily seen in his smooth, hairless chest, and Birkoff felt his fingers itch with the desire to stroke the lines and contours of his lover's torso, following the firm muscle to where it disappeared beneath the sedate boxers. The cold op saw how his eyes were caressing him, and his cock was suddenly very much at attention.
The head of comm swallowed heavily at the sight of the eager male flesh tenting the soft material covering it. A small damp patch appeared on the front of Davenport's shorts as he struggled to contain his arousal.
All Birkoff wanted to do was expose the hard cock and run his tongue along its turgid length, licking the tip and tasting the essence of his lover.
"Uhh, Birkoff," the other man said in a strangled tone, "Madeline wants to see me in about twenty minutes! We don't have time for this!"
"Time for what?" Birkoff demanded absently, never taking his eyes off the area that had him so fascinated.
Davenport groaned and almost ran for the bathroom. He pulled off his shorts, then bounced from one foot to the other as he peeled the socks from his feet. He couldn't wipe the smile from his face. "God, I love that man!"
In the bedroom, Birkoff grinned and rolled over onto his back, stacking his hands behind his head as he contemplated the ceiling. "God, I love that man!" he whispered to himself.
****
When Davenport finished his shower, he returned to his bedroom to find that the head of comm had laid out a set of mission black clothes. The cold op let the towel that draped over his hip fall to the floor and began to put on the clean clothes. Birkoff watched him appreciatively, unable to resist smoothing the snug black tee shirt over shoulders and sculpted chest. Davenport tucked it into his trousers. He stepped into what, in his youth, had been known as JC boots and took the many-pocketed vest that his lover held out for him.
The cold op suddenly registered the intent look Birkoff was giving him.
"What, baby?"
"Did you forget to shave, Dav?" The comm operative ran a thumb and forefinger over the facial hair that speared down from Davenport's mouth to his chin.
"Like it?"
Birkoff decided to play coy. "Hmmm, I'm not sure how I'll feel about having that scratchy hair giving me whisker burns! I'll have to think about it and get back to you! Maybe in a day or so, okay?" He turned to walk casually to the door.
Davenport growled and reached out an arm to seize the smaller man around the waist, drawing him close enough to feel his rampant erection, and then backing him up against the wall.
"You know what I do to cheeky comm operatives like you?" he murmured, blowing softly into Birkoff's ear.
His lover moaned and strained to get closer. "What?" Birkoff's lush mouth turned toward the lips that were beginning to drive him mad. "What do you do to them?"
"Not them, you!" Davenport breathed, lacing his fingers together with his partner's and imprisoning their hands behind Birkoff’s back. His tongue traced a path to the pulse that beat erratically in the comm operative's throat. "I eat them for breakfast!"
"Damn you!" Birkoff whimpered as he lost control and shuddered in his lover's arms. "That wasn't fair!"
Davenport wasn't paying attention. He was lost in an erotic haze, determined to leave his mark on the smaller man. "Hmmm?"
Birkoff dragged their hands down the front of his trousers, forcing Davenport to feel him. "Look what you did to me!"
Davenport drew his head back and watched his partner as his fingers stroked the outline of the comm op's shrinking cock. And then he smiled, a smile so filled with blatant satisfaction that Birkoff wanted to hit him.
He would have struck him too, if he wasn't trying to recover from the unexpected climax he had just enjoyed.
"How about that?" Davenport chuckled, inordinately proud of himself. "I made you come! I barely touched you and I made you come for me!"
Part 3
Birkoff could tell that his lover was getting nervous. This was the first time Davenport would have to face Madeline as team leader. The success or failure of the mission was squarely on his shoulders.
And Madeline was not known for lavishing accolades on her operatives, no matter how well they performed.
"It'll be all right, Dav, you'll see! You accomplished both your objectives. The target is here, in processing. It's too bad those abeyance operatives had to be canceled, but that's Section: you do what you're told!"
Davenport looked away from the smaller man's bright chocolate brown eyes, and Birkoff suddenly had a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he had swallowed a horde of hungry rats.
"Oh, no, Davenport! Tell me you did *not* do something stupid!" the head of comm pleaded.
"I knew those men! Pliskin was a friend!" The cold operative stared raptly at the toe of his boot, as if mesmerized by the cowhide that had taken on a worn sheen. "Can we talk about this later, babe?"
Birkoff felt sick. No one knew better than he how fast their organization could turn on someone who was thought to have fucked up. "How could you, Dav? I'm going to lose you! You're going to get yourself canceled, I know it!"
"Trust me, Birkoff! It won't come to that! I promise!"
The comm operative backed away, shaking his head. Davenport reached out to grab his arm, but Birkoff jerked it out of his grasp. "No! I've got to...I've got to..." His eyes agonized, the smaller man turned and ran to the stairwell, not trusting himself to wait for a lift.
Davenport watched him disappear through the door to the stairs, swearing viciously under his breath. Their relationship was still too new to be tested this way.
Although the burly cold op had known he was bisexual since the wild days of his youth, his younger lover had only discovered his orientation when he could no longer deny the attraction he felt for the shaven-headed Davenport. Not only was Birkoff still coming to terms with the fact that he had fallen in love with another man, but he was also quite aware that Section did not look favorably on its operatives who sailed that side of the lake, especially if they weren't valentine operatives.
Witness the placement of the Greeks, Dimitri and Petrov into abeyance. And now the cold op was afraid that he was going to pay for his act of kindness to them with his life.
Davenport might try to hide the truth from his lover, but he wasn't foolish enough to delude himself.
He was about to go in to Madeline and lie like a rug.
The only thing that could possibly save him was the fact, well known throughout Section One, that Davenport *did not* lie, no matter what the reason, no matter what the outcome.
If he blew this, he was a dead man.
In that case, he hoped he would have time for an enema and one last stop in the men's room. He definitely had no desire to eat and he hadn't had a bite since the start of the mission a couple of days before, so his gut was on the empty side. If Madeline was going to have him canceled, he didn't want to leave a mess behind. A dead body wouldn't care that all its normally private functions were exposed to whoever was assigned the cleanup. But Davenport didn't want Birkoff to see him like that, with his trousers soiled and vomit on his chin.
The cold op had seen what happened when men died violently. If it came to that, he'd do whatever was necessary to spare his lover that sight.
****
Nikita was waiting for him at the beginning of the corridor that housed Madeline's office. "It took you long enough!" she snarled.
"Well, aren't we in a good freakin’ mood!" he snarled right back. "What happened? Couldn't find Michael for a quick toss?"
The cool blond flinched, and the man next to her covered his eyes with one hand, then ran it down to his mouth. "God, I'm sorry, Nikita. That was uncalled for."
"Yes it was," she agreed, "but we're both tense. If Madeline finds out what really went down on this mission, neither one of us will be likely to escape cancellation!"
"And then the shit will really hit the fan, because I don't see Michael leaving your death unavenged!"
"And you don't think that Birkoff would be right there with him, retaliating for you?"
Davenport stilled. "Excuse me?" he said cautiously, wondering how much she knew about his feelings for the head of comm. "I don't think I follow your reasoning. Why would Birkoff care one way or the other if anything happened to me?"
Nikita's lips twisted wryly. "C'mon, Davenport, this is me you're talking to. Do you think I'm blind? I've seen the way his eyes follow you whenever he thinks no one's watching. I've seen the tender way you touch him when you think you're alone. If you're not already lovers, I'd say it was just a
matter of time. And you'd better treat him well, or you'll have me to answer to!"
"Oh God, is it that obvious? We’re gonna be canceled for sure!"
"No, no one else is aware of what's going on between the two of you. You're both too good at concealing your feelings. *I* knew, because that's how it was between Michael and me. I could read all the signs." She sighed and shook her head. "The best of times, and the worst of times."
Of one accord, they dropped the subject. They had reached Madeline's office, and it was time to face the piper. As if to prepare for a dive into deep, treacherous waters, they both drew in a breath and held it, and then Davenport rapped smartly on the door.
****
"Come."
The two operatives entered the spacious office that was Madeline's sanctum. She stood across the room, feeding her fish while her Torture Twins watched. Exx, the female head of interrogations, was intrigued by the activity in the tank, but Wye was looking decidedly green around the gills as the predators savaged and gulped down terrified feeder fish. He turned away and spotted the two cold operatives who were waiting patiently for Madeline to acknowledge them.
"We'll finish this discussion as soon as I've debriefed Davenport and Nikita. Just have a seat."
Madeline went around her desk and sat down. She gestured for the two operatives to take the chairs opposite her.
Davenport felt a drop of perspiration trickle down the side of his neck. He'd have to play it really frosty if he didn't want to betray them both. With a deceptive air of calm, he folded his hands over his abdomen and waited.
"I'm very pleased with the way you managed to retrieve the target from his office. But I need to know how you handled the cancellation of the abeyance operatives."
The cold op had been rehearsing this speech during the entire seven hour flight from New York. They had not had the option of flying the Concorde on the trip back, and Davenport had used every spare minute to form an ironclad piece of fiction.
He took a calming breath and launched into the description, in great, gory detail of how each of the abeyance ops met with death. Pliskin, who tossed out the limo driver and took the wheel himself, caught a bullet in the back. With a collapsed lung and a damaged artery, it was only a matter of time
until he died. His death was the only true one Davenport reported.
Dimitri did not impact with the windshield when he tried to bring the limo under control, leaving brain tissue all over it.
Petrov did not eat his gun because he was distraught over the death of his lover.
Green, the Italian with the gutter mouth, did not try to make a break for it, leaving Davenport no choice but to shoot him in the back, blowing out a chunk of his liver.
Madeline listening to the recital with shrewd interest. And the only death that she questioned was Pliskin's.
Nikita had no qualms in assuring the head of Section that every word out of Davenport's mouth was the God's honest truth. After all, everyone knew that Davenport couldn't tell a lie to save his soul.
Before Madeline could interrogate them further, Wye, who had been recovering from injuries sustained during a visit to another Section, became lightheaded and collapsed to the floor. His counterpart, not too pleased with Madeline to begin with for keeping her pet trainee on his feet, was furious and left the head of Section with no alternative but to dismiss the two cold operatives.
Thankfully, they exited her office and hurried down the corridor to the lifts. "Well," Nikita said softly, "that didn’t go *too* badly!"
Davenport looked at her as if she had suddenly lost her mind. She slanted a glance at him and tightened her lips, but was unable to prevent a chuckle from bursting through.
"Not funny, Nikita!" he scowled. "You know I can't lie for shit! If she had asked just one more question, I would have spilled my guts to her!"
"Yes, I'm aware of that. It would have been rather interesting to see you ‘puke’ all over Madeline!" The smile left Nikita’s face and she frowned, puzzled. "So were the Torture Twins. What I can't figure out is why they wanted to help us."
"Nikita, you're giving me a headache! What makes you think they'd do anything like that?"
"Wye was perfectly fine until Madeline started to push about Pliskin's death. Then all of a sudden he doesn’t feel good and hits the floor? I don't think so! He's one of the toughest bastards in Section!"
"So you think they're aware we...*I* let the abeyance operatives go free?"
"That's my best guess. Michael's too. Umm, Davenport? Accounting is going to start breathing down my neck, wanting to know where the money you gave Green and the Greeks went."
"So?"
"So?!" Nikita started to get angry. "So, what do I do about that? I’m not getting cancelled for that lot!"
"Nikita C. Dobbs sticks her neck out for no man?"
"Huh?"
"Nevermind." Davenport grinned at her, letting her know that he was getting her back for the word games she had played on him. "You’re going to do what I told you in New York. You're going to tell them we got mugged!"
Part 4
Birkoff loved his job. When he was working, he poured his heart and soul into it. His every fiber concentrated on the monitor before him, he accessed intel with effortless skill.
That's why he was head of comm.
On this particular day he was so totally absorbed in what he was doing that he was oblivious to everything going on around him. Birkoff's fingers flew over the keyboard while his eyes scanned the screen. His full lower lip was caught between his teeth and he worried it as he paused to consider the data he had pulled up.
A gentle hand ran from his shoulder to the nape of his neck and he jumped. "What...? Oh, Dav, it's you!" He rubbed his cheek against the back of the cold op’s wrist and drew in a deep breath, relishing the scent of him. And then he stiffened, remembering that his lover had done something during his last mission that could well see him canceled.
In spite of being furious with the big man for endangering their relationship, the head of comm could feel his cock swelling. They had only just become lovers when Davenport was ordered out on that mission. And Birkoff considered it too long since they last made love; he had spent the time indulging in some intriguing fantasies that prominently featured the manacles Exx kept in The Dungeon.
He might be a neophyte when it came to sleeping with a man, but he knew how he reacted to trouble: he needed hot, sweaty sex. Right how he wanted nothing more than to slide his eager length into his partner’s submissive body and fuck him silly.
After Birkoff got through killing him for putting his life in jeopardy, of course.
"Can you take a break, babe?" the burly cold op pleaded softly. "I need to talk to you!"
"Oh, sure, *now* you want to talk!" But Birkoff was on his feet so fast his chair went spinning back. Hastily he gave his computer the command to save and shut it down. "Hillinger, I'm trusting you not to screw up while I'm
taking lunch." The head of Comm speared him with a ruthless gaze. "Exx is my close, personal friend, and I *don't* want to have to tell her you need a visit to the White Room!"
Hillinger curled his lip at his department head, but his heart wasn't in it. He had worries of his own. Operations hadn't ordered the young comm operative to his quarters for discipline in over a week. Didn't the older man want him anymore? He felt empty, and in need of filling.
The young comm op mooned over the picture he had secretly taped to his desk and sighed, so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he missed a perfect opportunity to aggravate the hell out of Birkoff.
****
"Since when are you and Exx so tight?" Davenport demanded, a sick feeling in his stomach.
The fear loomed large that he might lose his lover so soon after finally luring him into his bed. And lose him to a woman who terrified even the most hardened of Section’s operatives! The thought of the male torture op who never left her side also made his mouth go dry with fear. If *he* ever found out that Birkoff was toying with his mentor, Wye would slice off the smaller man's balls and serve them to him on a platter with parsley for a garnish! "Do you realize what you’re doing? how dangerous it would be for you to become Exx's lover?"
"Huh? Screw Exx? *Me*? No thank you! That's one scary lady! I'd never be able to get it up anyway, if she ever came on to me!" The head of comm shuddered at the image Davenport's words drew in his mind. "And Wye would probably kill me first!"
"But you said...!"
"What? That we were friends? I just said that to put the fear of God into Hillinger. Jesus, Davenport, you *know* no one fucks with the Torture Twins!"
Davenport relaxed until the door of the lift slid shut, and Birkoff pressed the button that brought it to a halt between levels. "Uh, what are you doing, baby?"
"Don’t you ‘baby’ me! Out with it! How bad was debrief? And you’d better start talking. I’m keeping you here until you spill your guts!"
"It could have been worse, though I don’t know how! Madeline thinks I made up the story about Pliskin! The only fucking op who really died on the goddamned, fucking mission, and his is the death she fucking questions!" Davenport's tone was bitter.
"Well, that really, fucking sucks!" Birkoff snapped. "But...if she looks into that, she'll find only that everything went down the way you said it did. Won't she? Davenport, *won’t she*?!"
The cold operative scrubbed his face with hands that weren't too steady. He slumped back against the wall of the lift and said quietly, "This whole thing is going to hell in a hand cart! Pliskin was the only one to die. I let the Greeks and the Italian go. Nikita is afraid accounting is going to
question the disappearance of the money we had for expenses."
"What’s she going to tell them if they ask?"
"I told her to say we got mugged. Hey, we were in New York City! Stuff like that happens in New York City!"
"Does it? Do you think they’ll buy that?"
"Maybe. If I catch a luck break. If Michael backs her up. If Madeline doesn’t look into it too deeply."
"That’s too many ‘ifs’. We’re going to have to find something to distract Madeline."
The stress of the entire mission was catching up with the cold op. There had been too many days, and too little sleep. He forced himself to stand up straight and push the button for the level that housed their quarters.
The head of comm slammed his hand against the panel and halted the lift again.
"Baby, this isn’t the time or the place. I just want to go to bed.’
"Well, finally you’re making some sense! That’s the best idea you’ve come up with since before debrief!"
The cold operative sputtered. "That’s not what I meant!"
"It’s what *I* meant! It’s been days since we’ve been together. We have at least forty-five minutes before the weasel tells anyone I left Comm with Section’s hottest cold op. I want to spend that time with you." Davenport suddenly found himself with an armful of lover. "Under you!" Birkoff pressed biting kisses along his lover’s neck and jaw. "On top of you!" His tongue dipped into his lover’s ear, tracing the curve and then licking at the lobe. "Inside you!"
His hand fumbled with the panel of the controls, finally connecting with a button at random, and the lift lurched into movement. Fortunately, he hit one that took them in the right direction.
Lost to every sense except the feel of his lover tugging up his mission shirt, stroking the contours of his chest, teasing his nipples, Davenport melted and accepted the weight of the smaller man, his cock leaping up to welcome its mate.
A great wash of relief swept over Birkoff. Davenport always responded to the comm operative’s physical presence with an impressive hard-on. And there it was, letting him know how much his partner wanted him.
He hadn’t lost him. Not yet.
And if the thought that was burrowing around in his mind ever surfaced to the light of day, he might find the perfect solution to Madeline’s interest in his lover’s last mission.
And then he would *never* lose him!
Part 5
Davenport tried to conceal how eager he was to explore his lover's body once again. It had been too long!
He kept his pace measured and steady as he led the way to Birkoff's quarters, when what he really wanted to do was race down the corridor, flinging his clothing to the four corners of Section.
He drew in a deep breath and paused at the door, needing to be sure that the head of comm wanted this as much as he did. "Baby..."
Birkoff reached around him and keyed in the access code to his quarters. He shoved the older man into the room and negligently kicked the door shut. Then he stroked a hand over Davenport's firm butt. The cold op leaned back into his lover's touch, shuddering as he felt himself swelling to the point of almost exquisite pain. His head tipped back and Birkoff sank his teeth into the tendon at the side of the big operative's neck.
"You like that, Dav?" he whispered hoarsely as he licked at the indents he left in his lover's throat.
"Yes!" Davenport gasped as he felt himself begin to dampen his shorts. Before he could turn in the comm operative's embrace, Birkoff pushed him toward his bedroom.
"This time you're *mine* big man! I call the shots!"
Davenport's mouth was dry with excitement. "You're going to tell me how you want me, what you want me to do?"
Birkoff's eyes were drawn to his lover's lips, watching them as he spoke. His tongue moistened his own lips, and his cock quivered as he watched the burly cold op watch his mouth.
"Yes! And right now I want you out of those clothes and on that bed!"
Davenport's hands went to the front of the black mission T-shirt he wore. But instead of pulling it off over his head, he gave a hard yank and tore it apart instead.
The head of comm moaned softly, and his lover's glance moved down his body, almost palpably stroking him. Davenport grinned cockily as he watched the front of Birkoff's trousers bulge. He threw the ruined shirt aside and his hands went to his belt buckle.
"So how much do you want me to get naked?"
Birkoff's chocolate brown eyes flashed up to his lover’s black ones as he gasped for breath. With a single, smooth motion he had his slacks unzipped and his flesh exposed, thrusting eagerly toward his lover. A hard shove sent Davenport toppling backward onto his bed and he was on him in an instant, tearing at the buttons that fastened the front of the big man's mission pants.
His hands, trembling with impatience, stripped his lover bare. Taking the hard, hot arousal within his grasp, Birkoff's eyes blazed. He dipped his head forward and delicately lapped at the drops of moisture that beaded on the tip of Davenport's cock.
The cold op watched in fascination as his lover licked his way to the wiry black hair that grew at the base of the prime example of male arousal and then made his way back to the head. With broad swipes of his tongue, the head of comm tasted his lover's excitement and then took him deep into his throat.
Davenport groaned and fell back, his hips rising uncontrollably to meet the smaller man's very talented mouth. Incoherent words spilled from his lips and Birkoff smiled around the morsel he had between his lips.
His lover was enjoying his ministrations *very* much!
As he sucked and licked and bit, Birkoff started to hum, and the vibrations were the final push Davenport needed to drive him over the edge. With a strangled shout he began to come in his lover's mouth. The head of comm took as much as he could, but it had been so long since the last time that they had been together that he couldn't swallow it all.
Finally, the cold op lay back, exhausted, the events of the past few days catching up with him. "Christ, Birk, that was fan-fucking-tastic! Thank you!"
"No," Birkoff said as he dragged his still-clothed body up over his lover's torso, "thank *you*!"
"Huh? Did I miss something here, baby? You just gave me a blow job to die for, and you're thanking *me*? What's wrong with this picture?"
The head of comm smiled as he kissed the big man, letting him taste himself on his tongue. "If you came this much, then you can't have gotten relief in any other fashion."
"I'm still in the woods, babe. Must be jet lag. Spell it out for me, okay?"
Birkoff licked a path from the corner of Davenport's mouth, where the silky Fu Manchu he had started growing arrowed down to a goatee, to the cold op's adam's apple. For a few brief moments he lavished loving attention on it, then made his way to the spot where Davenport's shoulder and neck joined.
"If you had been screwing someone during the mission," ...he nuzzled the line of his lover's throat, "or even if you had just been jerking off," ...he started drawing it between his teeth, "you wouldn't have come so much I couldn't swallow it all!" He sucked on it fiercely, knowing he would leave a
livid mark. "That means a lot to me. No one has ever cared enough to stay faithful to me for a few hours, let alone a few days. So, I thank you!"
"Who hurt you like that, baby?" Davenport demanded, distracted from what his lover was doing to him. "Just tell me who it was and I'll stomp 'em into the ground!"
Birkoff smiled against the flesh that pulsed with each beat of his lover's heart. He leaned across the big man's body and reached into the night table. "I've got other plans for you, big guy!" He pulled out a box of condoms and a tube of lubricant and waved them triumphantly under his lover's nose. "I've been dreaming of fucking your tight ass since you left the commons to head for van access the other day! I'm just surprised you couldn't feel my eyes fondling your gorgeous butt as you walked away from me!"
"You really like my butt?"
The head of comm looked up from where he had been smoothing on the condom. His lover might have been satisfied, but he was still rock hard and ready to roll.
To his surprise, a dull flush colored the older man's high cheekbones. He leaned over and rubbed his lips over the cold op's mouth. "I *love* your butt. I *love* every single hair that doesn’t grow on your head. I *love* this new 'stache that you're growing. But most of all, Dav, I love *you*!
"Now turn over and let me lube you up! If I don't get into your ass in the next two seconds..."
Before Birkoff could finish his threat, Davenport was on his hands and knees and backing up onto his lover's importunate erection. Fortunately, the head of comm had coated himself liberally with the lubricant, and he slid painlessly into his lover's tight, hot passage.
Sensations such as he had never felt before inundated him! Tingles and heat and a grip so tight he thought his brain would explode from the top of his skull! Unintelligible words and phrases spilled from his lips as he lost himself in the unimaginable pleasure of fucking his lover senseless.
His head thrown back and his eyes squeezed tightly shut, Birkoff searched for the rhythm that would bring both him and his partner maximum excitement. By sheer, blind luck, he discovered the spot that set Davenport to howling as his cock stroked it again and again.
And then the cold operative seized one of his lover's hands and placed it around his own hardening cock, encouraging him to fondle his arousal with deep caresses.
"Harder, baby, harder! Give it to me, all of it! Oh, Jesus, *fuck me*!" And with a yowl, Davenport began coming, spurting through his lover's fingers, spattering his chest and the sheets beneath him.
The warmth of the big man's semen filling his hand was all Birkoff needed to trigger his own orgasm, and with a final thrust he climaxed, moaning as his sensitive cock quivered in the channel that held him like a glove, pouring forth his essence into his lover.
Bonelessly, Davenport slumped forward onto the sheets. Birkoff followed him down, still draped loosely over his back. With a satisfied mumble the smaller man relaxed toward sleep, idly licking a convenient stretch of his lover’s shoulder.
"Birk?"
"Mmmm?" His breath was evening out.
"Do me a favor?"
"You... bet Dav. Anything. Just... name... it..." A soft snore punctuated his words.
Davenport smiled. He would have to set his internal alarm clock for fifteen minutes; it wouldn't do for the head of communications to oversleep and show up late from an extended lunch hour.
The cold operative brought his lover's hand to his mouth. He pressed a tender kiss to the palm and then turned it over, resting his cheek on the back of Birkoff's hand. "Next time, baby?" he murmured drowsily.
"Take your clothes off!"
Part 6
Hillinger glanced sourly at his wrist watch. The freaking minute hand hadn't moved a millimeter! He shook it and held it to his ear.
*Fuck*! It was working; he could hear the damned thing ticking!
Where the fuck was Birkoff?
Hillinger needed to be up in the Tower. Operations had stopped by in Comm just a short while ago, leaning over Hillinger as if to peer at his monitor. The young operative became breathless to feel the demand of an aroused cock brushing against his back.
Operations had lowered his mouth to Hillinger's ear and a sly tongue had done a hasty reconnaissance. The comm operative had shuddered and grown hard and teeth had closed tantalizingly on his earlobe.
"You will present yourself at the Tower as soon as you are relieved, Mr. Hillinger. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes sir!" he had answered hoarsely.
Operations had smiled smugly, his ice-blue eyes caressing the young man before him. He was satisfied that his order would be obeyed, and he left Comm anticipating an interesting afternoon.
Hillinger had spent the time since then surreptitiously rubbing his crotch, bringing himself almost to the point of climax, and then halting, not daring to come before he had been given permission.
And he cursed Birkoff, who was generally, depressingly punctual to a fault, for not being where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there! The head of comm should have been back from lunch half an hour ago! Jeez, you'd think the geek had a girlfriend, or something!
Before the young comm operative could latch onto that intriguing thought and consider it from every possible angle, the head of comm came sauntering into the area and rebooted his computer, a satisfied grin on his face.
"You're relieved, Gregg," Birkoff said absently as he accessed his e-mail to see if there was anything that needed his immediate attention.
Hillinger was so happy to be out of there that he barely took the time to shut down his station before he all but raced to the Tower.
Halfway to the lift he had a thought--food! He'd stop in the commissary first and load up a tray with delicacies to tempt his lover's palate! Hillinger headed for the lift that would take him down to that level.
Maybe his thoughtfulness would earn him an extra hard spanking before he was fucked from here to Oversight! He quivered and his cock grew even harder.
****
Birkoff was staring at the list of messages in his computer’s mailbox, but his mind was back in his quarters, where his lover had been dozing lightly. "I need to get back to Comm," he had told Davenport softly. "Can you wait for me here?"
Davenport had rolled over and captured his lips in a kiss that was as sweet as it was unexpected. "Unless I'm called out on a mission, I'll be here when you get back, babe. Christ, I hope this shift is over fast!"
Birkoff had groaned and took the cold operative’s lips one last time, and left his quarters on the run. One second more and he would have torn off his clothing and jumped the big man's bones again. And screw the consequences.!
A dreamy smile relaxed the normally tense lines of his face. He was still deeply immersed in a fantasy where the burly cold op was doing unbelievable things with his so-fuckable mouth when his comm unit chirruped.
"Communications," he sighed happily.
"Birkoff?"
Ah, *shit*! "Um, yes Exx, it's Birkoff. What do you want this time?"
The female head of interrogation took exception to his tone. "Stop whining,
Seymour! I need you to..."
Her voice dissolved into a soft gasp, followed by a moan.
"Exx? Is something wrong?"
"Ohhhhh!"
If Birkoff didn't know better, he would swear that was a sigh of ecstasy.
"*Exx*?"
"What? Oh, no, nothing's wrong. Wye is just...he's just...Ohhh!"
He's just fucking your brains out, is what he's doing! the head of comm thought to himself, but was too wise to announce. He was amazed that the male half of the torture twins was unafraid of getting that close to his boss. There was obviously something about her that her counterpart found hot enough to make him hard. But the thought of putting his cock into the deadly female torture operative left the head of comm literally limp!
Birkoff shuddered.
On the other end, Exx cleared her throat and apologized. "Sorry Birkoff. I had something in my throat."
Yeah, he thought. Wye's tongue! He nearly choked at the idea of the two deadliest operatives in Section having sex. "Um, not a problem, Exx. What did you need from me? Oh wait, it's not going to get me killed, is it?" he asked suspiciously. "I have a lot to live for this time around!"
There was a brief pause as she assimilated that intel. Then, "No, this is relatively risk-free. Same deal as last time. We’re using the premise of the Caspar project again and I'll need you to burn a CD for me. Get whatever you need and meet me in The Dungeon in half an hour. And *don't touch anything*!"
The head of interrogation severed the connection and Birkoff stared at his unit in awe. The last time he had burned a CD for the female half of the torture twins, an extremely high-ranking *male* member of Section One had become the sex toy of one of the triumvirate that was Oversight. At the
disposal of this man, day or night, no matter what other projects were on deck, it had become something of a running joke among the surviving cold ops he had sent out on no contest missions: When he left fast and returned limping, The Man had reamed his ass!
Birkoff wondered if that unhappy, exhausted, sore operative was going to be slated for this mission as well.
He couldn't prevent a wry smile as he rummaged through his desk, looking for a CD that was compatible with the dinosaurs Section supplied Exx with. He remembered he'd had to scrounge up a rewriteable disk burner for her because Supply hadn't processed her requisition for one.
By the time the head of comm made his way down to the level that housed The Dungeon, the rooms that contained Section's almost museum quality selection of torture implements, which dated from the dark ages to the present day, the head of interrogation and her male counterpart were just rounding a corner.
Exx was looking a trifle rumpled.
Wye was looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
Birkoff decided looking blank was the best way to deal with this situation. Maybe Michael had the right idea!
****
The prime torture operative of Section told Birkoff what she wanted burned into the mini CD. It would be programmed to play in a loop, and with a little chemical intervention, the target it was being made for would find his sexual orientation altered permanently.
Birkoff found the semi-arousal he had been walking around with since he had left Davenport in his quarters shriveled to nothing. If he wasn’t a thoroughly professional operative, he would have whimpered in sympathy!
He went to the computer he had used the last time and inserted the plastic disk. His fingers flying over the keyboard, he settled in to do his job, trying to keep his mind from dwelling on the program he was creating.
God, he hoped he *never* pissed off the head of interrogation in any way!
Part 7
The head of interrogation and her premier trainee were waiting for Housekeeping when Birkoff made good his escape from the White Room. If the torture ops were not the kind of operatives they were, one could almost say they were gleefully contemplating the unexpected turn the target’s life was now programmed to take. They were smiling when he left, and remembered shivers ran down the comm op’s spine. When the torture twins were happy, you *knew* someone was going to be in a shit load of pain!
Birkoff found Davenport lounging comfortably in his quarters. The head of comm had stopped by the commissary and brought enough dinner for both of them, although it never failed to amaze him how much the burly cold op could consume.
Davenport’s dark eyes regarded his friend somberly. "How’d it go babe?"
"Like you wouldn’t freaking believe!" the head of comm said exuberantly. "Exx actually slapped Wye!"
The cold op winced. "That’s one lady I would *not* like to get riled at me!"
"I hear you, Dav! But they were just playing good cop/bad cop!"
"Yes?’ He stretched leisurely, deliberately drawing attention to his bare, well-muscled chest. "That’s a game I’d like to play with you!"
Birkoff was in the middle of swallowing a french fry. He began choking and hacking. "Jesus! Dav! Don’t say stuff like that when I’m trying to eat! You’re going to be the death of me!"
Davenport snorted and filched one of Birkoff’s fries. "And how did you manage to get cheeseburgers? It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Christopher *always* makes goulash on Thursday!"
The comm operative grinned and looked smug. "You’re not the only one who can sweet-talk the head of Dietary into doing what you want!"
Suddenly Davenport was no longer amused. His friendship with the younger man was still too new for him to take for granted. "What did you promise him?" he demanded.
Birkoff’s eyes widened innocently. "Nothing."
"Birkoff! *What *Did *You* Promise* Him*?"
"Oooh, should I be frightened?"
"Teasing me? You were fucking teasing me?? C’mere you gorgeous instigator!" The cold op looped his arm around his neck. "You want me to make you cry ‘uncle’?"
Behind the tinted lenses he wore, Birkoff’s chocolate brown gaze flashed with excitement. "No," he gasped as heat lightning seared through him and his cock twitched to life. "I just want you to make me!"
With a quick move, Davenport flipped the younger man onto his stomach and swatted the seat of his pants.
"No, Dav! Stop! Please!" Birkoff cried, laughing helplessly, trying to protect his tender bottom. "You’ll make me too sore!"
Davenport jerked the head of comm back onto his knees and knelt up behind him, letting him feel his arousal. "Playing fast and loose with me, pretty boy? I’ll teach you to toy with my affections!"
Birkoff slanted his head back, nuzzling the line of his lover’s throat. "Yes, Davenport! Teach me! Teach me everything!"
The tip of Birkoff’s tongue stroked across the pulse that was beating erratically just under his lips. The big op groaned and leaned into the caress. "Are you going to bottom for me, baby?" he demanded.
The comm operative’s breath became ragged as he pressed back onto the urgent erection that was making itself known.
"Fuck me, Davenport! Strip my clothes off and fuck me!"
Methodically, the cold op pulled the shapeless top that was his lover’s normal attire off over his head and flung the offending garment to a corner of the room. "Why do you wear such white bread clothes? I want to see you in sexy clothes, that mold your butt and emphasize your ...!" his hand fondled the younger man’s cock. "I’m going to buy you the hottest, tightest shirts and pants!"
Davenport frowned. "But you can only wear them for me!"
"God, I love when you get all possessive!" The head of comm was almost melting in the cold op’s arms.
Davenport’s long fingers toyed with the smaller man’s flat nipples, rolling and pinching them, and bringing them to pebble hardness. Birkoff struggled to back into his lover’s embrace, needing to thrust against the hard flesh he could feel nestled between the crevice of his buttocks.
"No!" Davenport growled. "Stay put! We’re doing this *my* way this time!" His hands dropped to the waistband of the cargo pants the head of comm was wearing. Before Birkoff could savor the feel of the burly op’s hands on his hips, his pants were shoved down and Davenport pushed him flat on the bed.
Jogging shoes, pants and shorts were sent flying, and a heavy hand held the comm op down while Davenport fumbled to get the lube and a condom. With a sigh, he opened his mission pants and freed himself from the painful confines. His cock was so hard and so ready that pre-come moistened the swollen tip.
Not bothering to remove his clothing, he sheathed himself and coated his fingers with the lubricant. Parting Birkoff’s buttocks, he stroked his fingers along the sensitive cleft, causing his lover to squirm and moan. He repeated the motion, and this time Birkoff raised his ass up, offering his body to his lover. "Dav!" he groaned. "Don’t make me beg!"
The big man couldn’t resist. "But you do it so nicely!" He pressed him down flat and eased a blunt finger past the tight ring of muscle that guarded the younger man’s opening. Curling it slightly, he withdrew it, and then gently inserted two fingers. And then three.
Birkoff was moaning steadily now, rubbing himself frantically against the rough-textured duvet that covered his bed. Davenport’s name was a litany in his mouth.
The cold operative was almost beside himself with wanting his partner. His hands were hard as they parted Birkoff’s cheeks and positioned his cock for entry. Nudging the opening slightly, he was pleased to find the comm op accepting his heavy arousal with no sign of pain.
"It’s payback time, pretty boy! The last time you fucked me without getting undressed. I figure turnabout is fair play! Do you like this? Do you like having my cock in your ass, knowing you’re stark, staring naked, and I’ve got all my clothes on?"
"Dav..!"
"What, baby? What?"
"Dav, shut the fuck up and start screwing me!" the younger man ordered.
Davenport muffled his laughter against his lover’s neck and fastened his lips to the spot where neck and shoulder joined. His hips pistoning steadily, the cold op nipped and suckled the spot that drove Birkoff insane with desire, marking him as his personal property.
His hand reached around and stroked down the flat abdomen of his lover, tangling in the wiry hair that covered his groin, finding the quivering arousal that wept for attention. Davenport’s fingers closed securely over Birkoff’s cock and began caressing him relentlessly, determined to have them come together.
Birkoff’s breath was whistling past his parted lips. "Kiss me, Dav!"
The big operative brought the head of comm back onto his knees, burying himself even deeper into the younger man’s body. His hands busy with cock and nipples, he met Birkoff’s questing mouth, driving his tongue past lush lips to sample the honeyed depths beyond.
Lips, teeth and tongue.
Cock, ass and balls.
Kisses, caresses and moans.
A fiery explosion of completion.
And then come.
On the bed. On Davenport’s hands. On Birkoff’s body.
In Birkoff’s body.
They slid forward to lie on the bed, the material of Davenport’s pants sensually abrading the smaller man’s naked buttocks and thighs.
"Now..." Davenport said.
"Hmmm?" Birkoff murmured drowsily, relishing the feel of his lover on him, and in him.
"What did you promise Christopher?"
Part 8
"What did you promise Christopher?" Davenport growled in a menacing tone.
His smaller lover grinned cheekily at him over his shoulder. "I'm not gonna tell you!" he said in a sing-song, little boy voice.
"Seymour!"
"Uh oh, I'm in deep doo doo!"
"You just won't take me seriously, will you?" Davenport was at a loss. One of the most respected operatives in Section, right up there with Michael and the Torture Twins, he had no clue as to how to deal with the younger man. He had forced his way into Birkoff's life, and now he found himself in the untenable position of maintaining his grip on their relationship.
The head of comm was unable to answer. The rigorous, loving workout the cold op had given him saw him sliding unexpectedly into a dreamless slumber. Davenport watched him, exasperated. How could he get his lover to take his warning seriously?
****
Birkoff was startled into wakefulness by the feel of soft cloth snugly encircling his wrist. One arm was already extended and fastened to the bed frame, and before he could gather his wits and react, the other was imprisoned as well.
"Dav?"
No response.
"C'mon, Dav, don't play games with me!"
The ghostly fingers were busy with his ankles now, spreading them wide, securing them to the frame at the foot of the bed. "Davenport!"
"Mais, non, mon ange!" The voice was a whisper, the French accent vaguely familiar, and Birkoff felt his insides twist.
"Who is it? Who are you?" he asked, his mouth so dry he could barely get the words out.
"N'important, mon petit chouchou! I show you a real fine time, non?"
"Non! I mean *no*! Let me go! Christopher? If that *is* you, you are in such deep, *fucking* shit! Davenport will tear off your head and piss down your neck! What are you going to do to me?"
Birkoff couldn't see the figure in the room. It was too dark, and he was unable to look over his shoulder; he was tied down too snugly.
"That cochon! You are too tempting a morsel for such a one! I will show you what l'amour can really be like!" Warm breath caressed the line of his vertebrae, from the small of his back to the base of his skull. Warmer lips nuzzled the spot where his shoulder and neck joined, and then began to suckle voraciously.
"Don't you call Davenport a pig, you pit! And don’t you dare mark me!" Birkoff cried, starting to become frightened for the first time. "I don't belong to you! I'm not yours, to do what you want with!"
"But you will be, little mushroom! You will see, one cat is much like another, in the dark!"
"Don't do this to me!" the head of comm begged. on the point of breaking down. "Please!"
"Hush! Did you hear that? Qu’est-ce que ce que ca? What was it?"
The weight at his back was suddenly gone, and he could hear footsteps going into the other room. And then Davenport's voice. "Here, what the hell are you doing here, Christophe? Who invited you into Birkoff's quarters?"
The hateful voice spoke gloatingly. "My little papillon, Davenport, who else?"
"Don't you call *my* lover butterfly, you frog-eating swine!"
"Go away, Davenport. You interrupt our games!" The voice was still not much above a whisper, but Birkoff could still hear every hateful word.
More footsteps, and suddenly Birkoff was afraid Davenport was leaving, thinking it wasn’t worth his while to fight for the younger man.
He could have wept. Why was this happening to him?
"*I'm* not the one who's leaving, Christophe. Get your froggy ass out of here!"
"Non, et non, et non! Not until le petit bijou keeps his promise to me!"
There was the sudden, sodden sound of fist hitting flesh. "I *told* you not to call him pet names! Angel, mushroom, butterfly, jewel! Enough of your French lovemaking!" Again came the sound of someone having the shit beat out of him, followed by a bone-jarring thud as a body hit the wall.
And then the door was opened and Davenport was saying, "Keep your escargot-eating self away from my lover! If you even *look* as if you're thinking about him, I will tear off your head and piss down your neck!"
The door was hurled shut with such force that the walls rattled and a poster of the very latest in hard drive towers fell to the floor.
"Baby, are you all right?" Davenport barreled into the bedroom.
"Yes! Please, just get me loose!" Hastily, Birkoff rubbed his cheeks against his pillow, not wanting his lover to see his tearstained face.
The soft light of the bedside lamp suddenly glowed over the pale body of the head of comm, temptingly spread upon the sheets. The bed dipped as Davenport settled himself beside his lover and began working on the knots that held his ankles captive. "I'm really sorry this happened, baby, but that's what you get when you flirt with these foreigners!"
Birkoff had been rubbing his freed ankles together to restore what little circulation had been cut off. Christopher had been surprisingly gentle with him. At Davenport's words, he froze.
In spite of his teasing, the younger man had not flirted with Section's premier chef. He had not promised Christopher anything if he would make the two lovers a special meal.
Birkoff knew he had Exx, the head torture operative to thank for that. In following Madeline's orders, the chef had slipped something into Exx's food that caused such severe food poisoning that she had suffered extreme dehydration. She had been taken to MedLab barely in time to save her life. As a result, Christopher was very high on her list of people she would most like to do a serious hurt to, and he was quite aware of that.
While they were in the commissary, Exx's counterpart had remarked idly that perhaps *she* might be able to encourage the head of Dietary to change his customary Thursday menu of goulash, and Christopher had fainted onto his salad trays. Birkoff was able to take advantage of the commotion that followed and got one of the sous chefs to grill him up some cheeseburgers and fries.
So there was no reason for Christopher to come to his room demanding repayment for favors done. And come to think of it, Davenport hadn't been around when the chef called him ‘angel’ and 'mushroom'!
And the sound of fist striking flesh could very easily be made by hitting one's own hand.
The head of comm began to feel a slow tide of anger rise up in him.
Davenport, meanwhile, was busy working on the wrist restraints, unaware that the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan. "Y'know, babe, I hate to say I told you so, but, well, I *told* you so! You play with fire, you're gonna get that sweet ass of yours burned!"
Birkoff buried his face in the pillow so his lover would not see the ire turning his brown eyes to bittersweet chocolate. "You're right, Davenport. You were right all along! I was such a fool to toy with Christopher! I should *never* have told him I would spank him. Cheeseburgers just aren't worth this kind of anxiety!"
"Chris wanted you to spank him?" Davenport's voice almost cracked.
"Oh yes!" Birkoff said artlessly. "I'm just kind of surprised he tied me down. It would have been really hard for me to fuck him!"
Davenport got the other wrist free. His eyes were starting to look haunted. His lover was telling him much more than he ever wanted to know. "You were gonna fuck him, baby?"
"Oh, not me personally! I mean, I wasn't going to put my dick in him."
"I don't understand." Davenport's complexion was green. He felt lost. His lover was already about to betray him?"
"I was going to fuck him with a Great Big Dickhead!" The final words were shouted.
"Huh?"
"You asshole! You cocksucking, motherfucking shit!" Birkoff launched himself at the cold operative and beat on Davenport's chest and shoulders with clenched fists, knocking him backwards on the bed. "How could you do that to me? Do you have any idea how scared I was?"
"Birk, baby, I'm sorry!" Davenport managed to manacle the hands that were delivering such unexpected punishment. "I really thought..."
"What? You thought I cared so little about you, about *us* that I'd toss it away without a backwards glance? I *love* you, you shithead! I'd never... What is it?"
Davenport was looking as if his last hope of heaven had just been granted. "You never said."
"I never said what? Don't piss me off anymore than you already have, Davenport! You're not my most favorite person, at this particular moment!"
"But you love me!"
"Yeah, well, so what? That’s my problem and it doesn't make me all that bright, now does it?" Birkoff scowled at his lover.
"Baby, you're one of the smartest people in Section. And you're right, I *am* an asshole. But I love you, baby, and if you ever left me, I'd have nothing left to live for."
Birkoff's mouth dropped open, and Davenport reached out and gently closed it. "Really? I really mean that much to you?"
Davenport nodded, unable to say anything further. He had just handed the younger man his heart on a platter, and if he was still royally pissed with him, he could shred it to hamburger.
Although, cheeseburger was more likely.
"Ah, Dav!" The cold operative suddenly found himself engulfed in a fierce embrace. "Screw the fighting!"
"You don't want to fight anymore, huh?" Davenport ran his tongue over his lips, trying to get much needed moisture onto them. "What do you want to do, baby?"
"The best part of fighting is the making up! I want you to tie me to this goddamned bed and fuck me silly!"
The cold op buried his face against his lover's neck, trying to control the shudders that ran through his body. "A man after my own heart!" he sighed, and proceeded to do as he was ordered.
Part 9
The three operatives stood waiting for the primary acquisition team to return. Things were very strained. That the mission had proved successful, with the attrition rate negligible, was immaterial.
It was the situation within the most covert antiterrorist organization on the planet that had been shot to shit.
Those members of Section still on site gave the trio a wide berth. Nikita looked devastated. Walter looked...old. And if Michael looked any blanker, he would not even be there.
They straightened as Davenport stalked in through van access. He looked up, and the scowl on his face would have frightened the most hardened of terrorists. He hated if he lost even *one* member of his team.
He had never believed in ESP, but in the middle of the mission, the fine hairs on the nape of his neck had started crawling. His chest suddenly felt as if it was on fire, as if 20,000 volts of electricity had seared through it. His concentration had only been splintered for a second, and he had subsequently buried the sensations deep inside of him, but the result was the loss of a couple of good operatives.
Michael took a deep breath and stepped forward, his arm protectively around Nikita. She clung to him, tears forming a silver trail down her cheeks.
"What...?" Davenport knew something was wrong. He bit back the questions that were begging for answers. Like 'Why are you here?' 'What do you want of me?' 'Where is my lover?' He stared mutely at his superior.
"I must speak with you, Davenport."
"Now, Michael?" His eyes darted frantically, seeking that which he wanted most. "Where's Birkoff? I need to see him." He uttered a short, mirthless laugh. "I need a shower, but that can wait."
The level 5 cold op took the burly operative's arm. "You can't see Birkoff, Davenport. I'm afraid that isn't possible."
Living all these years in Section One had taught him that life here was held very cheaply. But he was not prepared to learn that anything had happened to the smaller man. Birkoff was a communications operative, for Chrissake! He didn't go out to face the scum who threatened the free world! There was nothing about his area of expertise that could put him in physical danger.
He suddenly spotted Walter, hovering a few steps behind the other two, sadness etched on his craggy features. A sick feeling settled in the pit of Davenport's stomach. His face seemed to fall apart, and then reassemble itself into the parody of a smile. "Nothing's wrong, is it? I ...accounting didn't find out about the money I left for the abeyance operatives, did they?" he asked in a feeble attempt to lighten the somber atmosphere."
Nikita put her arms around the operative and leaned against him. The moisture of her tears dampened his shirtfront.
"Davenport, I'm so sorry!"
"What's happened to Birkoff? Something *has* happened to him, hasn't it?" The cold op's mouth went so dry he couldn't even work up a good mouthful of spit. His legs felt as if they were about to give out from under him. "Tell me, goddammit!"
"There was a problem with the AI program Seymour was experimenting with. It developed a glitch."
Walter snorted. "Glitch? Is that what they're calling a monumental fuck up these days?"
"Please, Walter! Don't make this any more difficult than it is!" Nikita brushed the heels of her hands over her cheeks, attempting to dry them.
Michael sent him a scathing glance, and Walter subsided against a wall, muttering to himself. Davenport managed to hear parts of it.
"Best damned comm op Section ever turned out!" he heard Walter grumble. "...Like a son to me, he was! Oh, *God* I'm gonna miss my amigo!"
Davenport staggered, and then pulled himself together. "Tell me!"
Michael sighed. "The program developed a sentient personality and was determined to destroy Section."
"And?"
"And Birkoff was equally determined that it should fail."
Davenport's black eyes begged the senior operative to tell him he couldn't see his lover because he was away enjoying some much-needed downtime.
Begged Michael to tell him that, although seriously injured, Birkoff was expected to survive.
That although dangerously damaged, *he would live*. Minus an extremity, minus his vision, minus *anything*, but he was alive, in MedLab.
Michael read the desperation in Davenport's eyes, and shook his head slightly.
"The fact that Section still stands tells me Birkoff succeeded," Davenport said in a ruined voice.
Nikita spoke through her tears. "He sacrificed himself for us."
"For this fucking place?"
"No." Her hand was a gentle consolation on his arm. "For Michael. For Walter. For me. And most of all for you, Davenport! His last words were of you!"
****
On the Observation Deck that had once belonged to Paul Wolfe, Madeline stood tensely, gazing out over the commons, awaiting the report from her senior operative on how Davenport was taking the news of his lover's demise.
The howl of anguish reached her even there.
****
Davenport sat in the commissary, drinking the atrocious coffee that Section was noted for. Although it was a busy time of day, and the commissary was crowded, no one sat in the vicinity of the burly operative. Four of Section's deadliest operatives were laid up in MedLab because Davenport overheard them say something about the former head of comm.
The doctor was amazed that they were still breathing.
The pleasure Davenport had received from taking them apart had been too short-lived, and the emptiness within was still there to taunt him. Every time he looked there, he saw the unalterable knowledge that never again would the bittersweet chocolate brown eyes of his lover laugh at him, tease him, love him.
A shadow fell across the cup he had to hold in two hands to keep it steady, and he looked up. "Christophe."
"Mon ami, this is not healthful! You must not do this to yourself!"
"Why?"
"A man behaves like this in Section, my friend, and he will surely be canceled!"
Davenport swallowed a bitter laugh. "*When*?" he demanded, and the head of Dietary turned pale.
"M. Birkoff would not be happy with you, mon cher. Please..."
Before Christopher could finish, Davenport was on his feet, his beefy fist wrapped around his old friend's collar. "Don't mention Birkoff to me, Christophe. Not if you want to live to see another day!"
Christopher's blue eyes reflected his concern, but he backed down. "Mais oui, mon ami. It shall be as you wish."
Davenport could read the sorrow on his friend's face, and he pulled his hand back as if he had been burnt. Turning so abruptly his chair toppled, he strode out of the commissary, blind to everything but his misery.
****
Davenport stood at ease in Madeline's office. "Michael and Nikita have run," she said calmly. If Davenport hadn't closed off his emotions so tightly, he might have wondered at her calm.
Instead, his eyes were flat and uncaring as they regarded her. "What do you want me to do?"
She sighed. They had been her best operatives. "Track them down. Find them. And cancel them."
The cold operative nodded his understanding of his orders and left. It wouldn't take long to put together his team.
There had been a time when he would have risked death to keep the pair out of harm's way. But that was before his lover had put the lives of everyone in Section ahead of what he felt for Davenport.
Now he just wanted to hurt as many of the people in this benighted place as he could. And hopefully, along the way, a bullet would find him and end his torment.
He stopped at Comm to pick up the latest intel. Quinn handed him a panel as if she feared he would take her hand off at the wrist if she held it out too long. He grunted with satisfaction as he scanned the data. "They're getting careless and leaving a paper trail!"
The cold op turned away from Quinn and headed for van access, missing her small gesture. She sighed. He would never have listened to her, she assured herself. And he was smart. Surely he'd figure out that Nikita might get overconfident and make it easy for Section to find the missing pair, but Michael never would.
Michael *never* made mistakes like that!
****
His men were hidden in strategic spots around the bank building. The black Citroen Michael was driving was idling in the alley, concealed by huge shrubberies. A voice hissed in the jack in his ear. "Nikita's on her way out!"
"Block the exit from that alley. Make sure there are a couple of cars behind the van. I wouldn't put it past Michael to try to ram it!"
"Affirmative!"
Davenport watched deliberately as Michael did indeed throw the little car into reverse. When he saw that the way was well and truly blocked, however, he shifted smoothly into first gear and began accelerating. The engine whined as Michael downshifted into second, building up more speed. Davenport stepped out into the path of the careening vehicle and began to fire his weapon.
Neither man was going to give an inch. It was the ultimate game of chicken. Davenport knew he would most likely die, and he welcomed the shadowy figure with impatience.
At the last possible second, Michael slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, sending the little car spinning in narrowing circles. Davenport was still in danger of being struck by it.
And then he felt something sting him on the back of his neck. Before he could wonder about the likelihood of stinging insects at this season of the year, his vision began clouding, his ears began to buzz, and he toppled over to hit the ground, painfully hard.
Three operatives gathered around the fallen man. "Where is his team?" Michael asked.
"They're off on a wild goose chase," Walter chuckled. "We've got about ten minutes before they start getting suspicious."
"I don't know how you managed to pull this off, Walter!" Nikita pulled the tiny dart out of Davenport's neck.
"And you *don't* want to know, Sugar. I had to call in markers from all the way back to Nam!"
A nondescript van jerked to a halt next to them, the cargo door sliding open. It took them all to get the burly operative onto the bench seat. Walter shook hands with the driver, pressing something into her palm, and then it was off down the road, leaving a trail of noxious fumes.
Michael turned to Walter. "And now...?"
"Now? I've got to get back to Section. There's a hot little cookie waiting for me. She's really interested in seeing my etchings!"
"Come with us, Walter!" Nikita pleaded abruptly, her fingers hard
on his arm.
The old munitions op kissed her tenderly on the cheek. "I'd just slow you down. And you need someone in Section to throw dust in their eyes! Now get out of here, you two!"
"You'll be all right, Walter?" Michael asked, his accent suddenly more pronounced.
Unable to speak around the unexpected lump in his throat, Walter nodded and cleared his throat gruffly. He gripped Michael's hand and then spun on his heel, striding away without a backward glance.
The pair watched as he vanished into the noonday crowd, then got into the car and drove off. Section was not finished with them, but for the time being they were free. And they had each other.
****
The young, dark-haired man stood by the window that opened out onto a verandah. The sweeping view of a sapphire blue ocean stretched before him to the horizon. His pajama pants hung low on narrow hips, his torso bared to the kiss of the midmorning sun.
He turned to gaze at the man in his bed, his chocolate brown eyes warm with a deep, abiding love. His lover had been brought to him late the night before, and he had been warned it would take some hours before the effects of the drug wore off, so he wasn't worried.
The heat was oppressive, and the sheet had pooled low around the big operative's hips. Scars stood out in stark relief, crisscrossing his back. Tentative fingertips touched them, traced them from shoulder to where they were hidden by the sheet.
His brow furrowed in his sleep, and he began to toss restlessly, moaning in distress. A single tear clung to his outrageously long eyelashes, spiking them, and then it spilled, to glide over his high cheekbone and catch on the corner of his mouth.
"Dav!" Lush lips followed the trail of the tear, tasting the salty tang of the burly operative's despair. "Davenport, it's all right!"
With a groan, Davenport rolled over, the sheet totally displaced now and then smiled sleepily at his lover.
"Birkoff. I had the world's worst dream!"
~End~