Slip F-18

FIC: Two Gibbs/Ducky offerings

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 01:47:48 GMT

More archiving...

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TITLE: Sensational
PAIRING: Gibbs/Ducky
GENRE: Slash
SUMMARY/WARNINGS: Older man love with a dash of domesticity. No spoilers.
RATING: R
AUTHOR NOTE: This was written for ncis_gibbsducky Challenge #45 (September 2009) Phrase Challenge. The phrase "Say that again" must appear in the story somewhere.
WORD COUNT: 980
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. I'm just having a little fun.

Link to story at comm or

Sensational

A wave of desire raced through Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and he pressed the accelerator to the floor.

It had been two weeks since he and Ducky had finally come to their senses, stopped dancing around the truth, and admitted they had fallen in love. With each other.

Then they had fallen into bed. Jethro wished they never had to get out.

When the workday is busy, and his team is embroiled in a case, it's easier. He can focus on the job rather than his unrelenting need to feel Ducky's bare skin against his. His visits to autopsy are tough, but the odors, sights and the case at hand are usually sufficient to distract him from the temptation to press himself against Ducky and bury his face in that silky hair.

But when Ducky, freshly scrubbed and dressed, all-so-innocently sails past his desk to bid goodnight, he leaves Jethro in such a state... Well, Jethro's convinced Ducky knows *exactly* what he's doing.

Paperwork has never been Jethro's favorite thing, but it becomes a form of medieval torture after Ducky's departure. He slogs through it, getting just enough done so that he can shove it away in his desk until the next day. Or give it to Tony to finish. Then, he can finally make his exit, often leaving the team gaping and casting "what's up with Gibbs" glances at one another.

The drive home is even harder... so to speak. He curses every stoplight and traffic jam on the way to Reston. The delays give his overheated imagination even more time to conjure up what he would like to be doing with Ducky Mallard. Like, what he would do if Ducky were with him in the car. What they could do in the backseat.

That's when Jethro gives himself a mental headslap and mutters to himself, "What am I, 17 again?"

On this night, by the time Jethro pulls into the driveway and makes his way into the house, he's a walking contradiction of Marine control and animal lust. Although Jethro feels certain he will pounce on Ducky the moment he finds him, the control actually wins out.

Jethro finds Ducky in the kitchen, stirring -- and talking to -- a pot of something that smells wonderful. The endearing, domestic scene makes Jethro pause, and that's when Ducky turns around and greets him with a wide smile and a hearty hello.

There still must have been something wild in Jethro's look. After a moment, Ducky said, "The kitchen table is nearest, but I don't know if my back could handle that. The settee in the living room would be OK, but I suggest we just go straight to the bedroom."

This didn't quite register with Jethro. He blinked, gave his head a slight shake. "Say that again?"

Ducky turned off the stove, took Jethro by the hand and said, "Let's go upstairs."

Those words released the last shreds of Jethro's shaky control. He tugged Ducky close against him and kissed him deeply, tasting the spices of the sauce Ducky had been preparing.

When they broke free to catch their breath, Ducky seized the opportunity to guide them upstairs. By the time they reached the bedroom, Jethro had managed to fumble the buttons of his shirt open. Standing at the side of the bed, Ducky removed his own shirt, eyes fixed on Jethro's broad chest. The electric charge built as Jethro approached, and the two men sank onto the bed.

This would be enough, Jethro thought. If I could do nothing else in this world, this is what I would want: To be in Ducky's arms, feeling his skin against mine.

Barely breaking their kisses and embraces, the couple shed the rest of their clothes. Jethro pulled Ducky on top of him, delighting at the solid weight of the man and filling his senses to the point of overload. Through slitted eyelids, Jethro watched Ducky move his lips and tongue across his chest. He heard -- and felt -- the rumbles of pleasure Ducky murmured against his flesh. He ran his fingers through Ducky's silken hair and over the soft skin of his back, feeling the muscles play as Ducky moved to bring pleasure to a new spot on Jethro's body. He inhaled deeply the heady scent of Ducky's -- and his own -- arousal as it filled the room.

It was too much. And not enough. As they laid together, rocking their hips in a familiar and pleasurable way, Jethro asked for something more. More sensations, more ways to feel Ducky.

Ducky bit back the impulse to ask, "Are you sure?" Because this was Jethro, and Jethro was always sure.

Later, after Jethro had been reduced to a bundle of exploding nerve endings and monosyllables, he dozed. The last thing he remembered was Ducky snuggled against his side, his breath slowing and his fingers tracing lazy circles above Jethro's pounding heart. He had kissed Ducky's forehead, tasting the sweet saltiness there.

When he awakenened from his brief slumber, he found Ducky exiting the bathroom, wrapping himself in a terrycloth robe.

They exchanged fond, knowing smiles. In response to his suddenly growling stomach, Jethro asked, "What was that you were cooking before we got distracted? It smelled great."

Ducky leaned over the sated figure sprawled on his bed. "Ah, well, you'll just have to come see for yourself. Hurry and wash up. It won't take long to finish."

He gave Jethro a quick kiss, then pulled away and started to stride out of the room, pausing at the doorway with a twinkle in his eye. "You're going to have to build up your strength, you know. I expect you to repay the favor later." He disappeared, letting his words register.

Jethro grinned like a schoolboy.

A wave of desire raced through him, and his libido accelerated back into overdrive.

###

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Here'a a short challenge response at ncisdrabble100.

TITLE: True Romance
PAIRING: Gibbs/Ducky
GENRE: Slash
RATING: PG?
WORD COUNT: 250
CHALLENGE: #153 - 'Romance'
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters, just having a little fun.
WARNINGS: My first go at NCIS fic. I thought "romance" was the perfect place for me to start. :)

Link to story at comm or

True Romance

Donald Mallard was a man who could appreciate the romantic things in life.

Grand opera, fine art, epic poetry -- all these things appealed to him. So did a pretty face. He enjoyed pouring on the charm for a lovely, intelligent woman and romancing her with exquisite dining in extraordinary settings.

But the day Ducky realized he was in love with Leroy Jethro Gibbs, he knew he would have to take romance where he could find it.

And right now, he found it in the aroma of spices wafting from cartons of Chinese food on a sawdust-covered workbench. He found it in a splash of whiskey in the bottom of a jelly jar. And he found it in Jethro's fond, indulgent gaze as he listened to Ducky recount another tale about a faraway place and time.

Later, he would find romance in the contented silence broken only by the sibilant glide of a sander over the half-finished hull of Jethro's latest boat.

Later still, he would find it in strong arms that surrounded him and a whisper in his ear, "Why don't we find a more comfortable place."

Then, on a soft bed, under cool sheets, with a hard, warm body pressed against him, Ducky would find romance in gentle caresses from callused hands and half-heard endearments murmured against his skin.

After the caresses grew more vigorous and intimate, and the world was at last reduced to the thudding of two heartbeats together, Ducky knew this was romance enough. This, simply, was love.

Vid: Wild Wild West - "Desperado"

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 01:29:47 GMT

Just archiving a vid... nothing new, but I hope you enjoy just the same :)

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Here's a slashy Jim/Artie Wild Wild West fanvid on Drop.io here and embedded here:

Also, it is linked at my site here: Right clicky and save.

Fanvids through the years

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 01:40:05 GMT

It's been so long since I posted anything to my fic LJ that I checked to see if it still existed. There is hope still for one WIP, "Divine Intervention." The rest? *hangs head in shame*

Anyway, it occurred to me that I should round up the meager offering of fanvids that I've scattered across the Interwebs and put them here for safekeeping.

Links open .wmv files.

Oz - Beecher/Keller: Leap of Faith. Made in 2004. Like, before I had a decent PC or knew what I was doing.

Oz - B/K again: Laid. Made in 2007 as a gift to maverick4oz.

Sherlock Holmes/Dr. Watson: On the (Baker) Street Where You Live. Made in 2007.

FIC: Crossroads 1/1

Tue, 02 Jan 2007 02:37:20 GMT

This fic was my response to the tietuckluv holiday challenge, Silver Bells and Gold Shields

WISH #6
Character(s) or Pairing: Elliot/Eddie
Canon/AU/Crossover: Crossover (SVU, Wanted)
Keywords/Phrases: Special requests: Light-hearted smut?

===

Author's notes:

I previously wrote a couple of snippets that relate to this universe and can be found here.

This originally was posted in two parts. Both parts are included here.

A technical, background-type note: The U.S. Marshals Service operates the Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System (JPATS), more commonly known as "Con Air," one of the largest transporters of prisoners in the world.

===

Crossroads

It had all started routinely enough. In fact it was just like old times, doing regular U.S. Marshals duty.

We'd collared No. 52 on the hit parade, and the miscreant was wanted in New York, too. I got volunteered to accompany the guy on his cross-country Con Air flight thanks to some strange collision of Connie wanting to get me away from him for a while and the Marshals actually needing my services.

The JPATS flight was smooth -- these passengers are definitely *not* free to move about the cabin. And the only way to go in New York City is with lights and sirens.

So I arrived in Manhattan in a state of perpetual motion. My body came to a stop at the 16th Precinct, where I was supposed to meet up with the investigating detectives. But my head was still spinning from six hours on the airplane plus the pinball ride in the police cruiser.

Basically, I wasn't feeling too well-grounded.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. It's the only way to explain how things wound up like they did.

***

"They want to see you up in sex crimes," the booking sergeant told me at the precinct.

With an opening like that, I just had to use it. "They finally caught up with me, huh?" I couldn't wipe the smirk off my face.

Apparently this wasn't the first time the cop had heard that line ... or maybe he took one look at me and thought my little joke wasn't too far from the truth. Either way, he jerked his thumb toward the elevator. "Special Victims Unit. Upstairs. Ask for detectives Benson and Stabler."

Add the elevator ride to the list of excuses under "disorientation." I squeezed in and lurched upward along with some of New York's finest giving me and my moustache the stink eye.

I finally got to the right floor and made my escape, only to be thrown by how *cozy* the place seemed. The lived-in look was definitely not what I was expecting. What a contrast to the bare-bones warehouse we call home.

But there was more to it, and a bit later on, I figured out what it was: These people who *work together* actually seem to *like* one another. What a concept.

But in those first few minutes, I didn't exactly feel like the welcome mat was out. In fact, no one took much notice of my existence -- particularly the odd couple peering at the newspaper on a desk.

I was glad to see one of them was sporting a pony tail -- maybe I wouldn't get too much grief about my shaggy mane.

As I got closer, I caught their conversation. They were scanning the personal ads.

"Whatever happened to drinking pina coladas and getting caught in the rain?" the one with the pony-tail was asking.

"Gone the way of the dodo, my friend," the one wearing all black said. "Listen to this: 'Straight white male seeks dominant woman for *naughty* times.'"

"Yeah, so?"

"He wrote 'naughty' as 'knotty' -- as in k-n-o-t-t-y. Get it?"

"Cool. He should score some points for creativity. ... Hey look at this one," Pony Tail pointed. "I wonder what this guy *really* wants: 'Single professional male looking for the right lady to share my life. Must love dogs.'"

Man in Black peered over his glasses at his partner. "Exactly *how much* does she have to love dogs?"

"Exactly," Pony Tail nodded. These guys were on each other's wavelength for sure.

Man in Black again. "Here's one who's pushing the envelope on truth-in-advertising: 'If you like your feet rubbed and worshipped, I'm your guy. *I am no freak,* just a down-to-earth guy who knows what he likes.' No freak? Oh, please."

"Well, foot-fetishists are about as down-to-earth as you can get." Oops. That was me.

The two of them whirled around and asked the obvious question. "Who the hell are you?"

"U.S. Marshal Eddie Drake," I said, showing my badge and trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "Annnnd... are you Detectives Benson and Stabler?"

"Not in our wildest dreams, my friend. We're Munch and Tutuola," Man in Black said, gesturing to his partner.

Pony Tail put his hand out. "Call me Fin." We shook on it. Then he pointed toward the door. "That's Benson and Stabler."

I turned to look at the two people who just entered and ... whoa! Detectives Tits and Ass! No wonder these two were in the sex crimes unit. If they weren't having sex, it would be a crime.

As they approached, Detective Tits asked, "Hey, Munch, did that guy from the Marshals Service ever show up?"

Hello?! Was I invisible?

"Uh, yeah, that's me. Eddie Drake." I flashed the badge again.

Tits started to give me a warm enough smile, but Detective Ass cut her off. "You're a U.S. Marshal?"

"Yeah. Who'd you expect, bro? Tommy Lee Jones?" My failed attempt at humor won me the steeliest glare I'd ever seen on this side of the law.

Thankfully, my new-found friend Fin bailed me out. "Marshal Drake here has been helping us search the personal ads."

Unfortunately, I never learn my lesson. My mouth said, "Is this the way you guys stay in business? Put out want ads for pervs?"

This time, Detective Tits saved me from furrowed brow and steely glare. She introduced herself as Olivia Benson and her big lug of a partner as Elliot Stabler. "C'mon over here. We need you to help us finish up the case file on the perv you brought us from L.A."

I took a seat at the side of their desks, which faced each other, and answered their questions with as few wisecracks as possible. She did most of the talking. He mainly tipped his chair back and laced his fingers behind his head. Kept his eye on me.

I tried to size up the dynamic between the two of them. Definitely longtime partners. Comfortable enough with one another. If any monkey business was going on, they hid it well. Probably not, though.

As Benson wrapped up the paperwork, I did some calculation.

I was 3,000 miles from home, sitting between two very appealing people. I had one night to kill in New York City.

With my head still buzzing from the trip, I came to the bottom line: Lips are lips.

***

My crazy libido hadn’t quite settled on whose lips would seal the deal when Benson did the subtraction for me.

“I’m going to get these to the ADA,” she said, gathering all the paperwork from her desk. Then she strode off, holding the stack of file folders to her chest. Damn shame, blocking my view like that.

I turned to look at Stabler, and found *him* on full display. I felt that old familiar twitch in my dick as I took in the long, lean lines of him. The dress shirt he had on was *such* a tease, just hinting at the muscles underneath. When my eyes had enough of feasting on his chest and shoulders, I finally noticed that he was watching me … watching him.

Then, I felt something very *un*familiar. I blushed.

Dammit.

Fortunately, Man-in-Black saved me from any further embarrassment. “Hey, I think I found our guy,” Munch said, hurrying toward us and reading from the personals again.

“Listen to this: ‘Handsome, honest, single male seeks sweet virgin lady for long-term relationship. Please no diseases, drugs, smoking.’”

It was just the ticket I needed. “Man, what a dreamer,” I said, trying to ease back into my wise-guy comfort zone. “Doesn’t he know that sweet virgins are notoriously drug-addled chain-smokers? And disease-ridden too.” It was weak. I was way off my game.

Munch rolled his eyes. Stabler offered a smirk in my general direction, then pried himself up from his chair, giving me a prime view. He wasn’t buying the act. And he probably knew I was looking at his ass, too.

I followed that ass over to where the detectives were huddling by a big board in the middle of the room. Horning in on their strategy session, I learned that if the ad panned out, they’d catch a serial rapist who’d been staying out of their reach too long. They finally had narrowed it down, and now it was time to lay the trap. They had a response ready, and Munch phoned it in to the newspaper.

While he was at it, he came up with the perv’s contact info. “That was a little too easy - a commercial enterprise giving out a private citizen’s personal information to the authorities…” Munch seemed like he was just warming up for a good rant about Big Brother, but Stabler cut him off.

“Save it, Munch. Give me that.” Stabler snatched the paper Munch was waving around. “While we’re waiting for Mr. Right to answer our ad, let’s go keep an eye on him.”

He turned to me. “My partner’s tied up. You’re with me.”

You bet your sweet ass I am, Dee-tective.

***

We got a mug shot from the DMV and made ourselves comfy outside the perp’s house - a classy brownstone in one of the better parts of town.

For a while we kept busy by phoning around for more background on our target. But after a while, all we had to do was sit. And I started to notice what a nice spring day it was. And that it was getting warm in the car.

Oh shit.

Did I just notice that the good detective’s eyes were the same color as the sky? Come to think of it, why was he staring at me like that?

I started to squirm. “What? I didn’t fart!”

He just kind of smirked, shook his head and looked out the window. After a minute, he looked back at me. His mouth was doing that thing people do when they’re trying to find the right words, but none of them come out. I never seem to have this problem, of course.

He finally said, “You remind me of someone.”

Mr. Strong Silent Type didn’t offer up any more info, so I tried some prodding. “OK, so, like a movie star? A skel? Your brother-in-law? Who?”

This actually drew a small smile, and I liked what it did to his mouth. I hoped my charm wouldn’t wear off as fast as it usually does. I wanted to keep this guy smiling.

After a bit, he said, “When I was still a patrolman, sometimes I’d skip a night out with the guys and go down to a little neighborhood place down in the Village. I don’t know why …” he hesitated. “It was just different. To go someplace on my own, where no one new me.”

“I can relate,” I said. “Trouble at home?”

“Not really. Not then.” He paused, like guys do when they’re wondering where they’ve gone wrong. After a while, he continued. “There was this bartender there. That’s who you remind me of. Same hair, same bad moustache. And…”

I cut him off. “Hey! It is *not* a *bad* moustache,” I gave his arm a punch. Solid.

Touching him distracted me. I grumbled something about the look being distinctive for the trade. I answered his puzzled look by telling him, “I own a bar back on the waterfront in L.A. Called the Chowder Barge. It was something to fall back on when my law enforcement career tanked.”

Oh, man, I wanted to kiss that furrowed brow. “Aw, don’t worry. Things are one the upswing now,” especially sitting with him so close. I wished someone like him would show up at the Chowder Barge. “The Marshals Service might actually want me back full time soon.”

He was about to start asking questions when I spied our suspect. “Check it out,” I pointed as the guy got out of a cab and climbed the steps to his front door. It was a quick glimpse, and I’m not sure how much our stakeout was helping the case, but the evening with Elliot sure beat getting called an asshole every five minutes by the crew back at base.

And when did I start thinking about him as Elliot?

***

We waited a little while longer, but it really wasn’t worth sitting around in the dark with our “handsome, honest, single male” seemingly tucked in for the night. The SVU would catch him soon enough.

Elliot started up the car. “Where are you staying?”

“Uhhh,” I hadn’t really thought about it. “Probably just back at your precinct. You got room in the crib?”

He gave me a look, like he was trying to decide something. “Yeah, sure. But I hope you don’t snore. I’m sacking out there too.”

Ignoring the twitch in my pants, I asked, “You do that a lot?”

“Too much, my captain says.”

He said that in a way I knew the subject was closed.

“Wanna grab a bite first?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“Maybe someplace where no one knows you?”

He looked toward me, but I couldn’t see his eyes, just the outline of his strong jaw, flexing.

“I know a place.”

***

I thought he might steer us toward that old place in the Village. But we wound up at a mom-and-pop diner, seated in a high-backed booth.

We ordered a couple of cheeseburgers and searched for conversation.

Of course, I’m never much at a loss. “So, your bartender. Besides the ‘bad moustache,’ what else was so special about him?”

Elliot had a little deer-in-the-headlights moment, but it passed. He fussed with the straw in his iced tea. “Not much I guess. He did what all good bartenders do. Listened to the poor saps crying in their beers. Offered the wisdom of the world.”

“Ah, yeah, we keep that under the bar, next to the cocktail recipes and the World Almanac for settling bets.”

Our food arrived and kept us busy for a while. I kept busy by noticing how his long fingers wrapped around the burger and the way he licked the juice running down his chin.

Geez, talk about a sap.

I tried to get him talking again. “So, what were you crying in your beer about?”

I had jolted him back into the subject, but he wanted to brush it off. “Nothing really. The usual. It was just nice having someone to talk to. Someone neutral.”

I nodded. That’s typical. But there was definitely something … more. “What happened?”

That bought me a glower. “What do you mean, ‘what happened?’ Nothing happened. Nothing at all.”

Ohhh-kay. Methinks I hit a nerve.

“I just mean that … I dunno … You must’ve stopped going there. I wondered why.”

That seemed to settle him a bit. “Yeah, well, things changed a little. I guess. He, uh, he misread the situation.”

Oh, really? My head and my cock were *very* interested.

“He thought I was looking for something, and I ... wasn’t.”

Taking one last bite, he pushed his plate away and tossed his napkin on the table. Like, conversation closed.

Not so quick, mister. “Sooooo… he made a pass at you or something?”

Bingo! It was Elliot’s turn to blush.

He turned even redder when I reached over and touched his hand. He tried to pull it away, but I held tight. “Hey, don’t worry about it. It happens.” And just as he started to relax, I asked, “He try to kiss you?”

Oh, I was enjoying this.

He gave me that laser-beam stare again, but he couldn’t look me in the eye for long. He looked down at our hands. Then away. Anywhere but at me.

“Can we go?”

“Sure. I’ll get this,” I said, grabbing the check. “Meet you at the car.”

He was up and out in a heartbeat.

***

Things were quiet back at the One-Six, and he showed me where the bunks and showers were. It surprised me that he was still going to stick around. Sleeping in the same room with me must’ve beaten whatever alternative he had.

That was another thing my sorry self understood.

Jet lag, sexual tension and the general activity of the day finally hit me with a wave of fatigue. I kicked off my boots and got ready to climb onto one of the bunks. I’d shower in the morning. Sleep suddenly was the only thing on my mind.

And then, standing just a few feet from me, Elliot stripped down to a white wifebeater.

Many parts of me snapped to attention.

Nice arms, I thought.

“Nice ink,” I said.

He managed to murmur “Uh, thanks,” as I reached out to trace the lines of the crucified Christ tattoo flexing on his left arm.

“It makes quite a statement.”

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling as I took my hand away. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

I chuckled, “Yeah, I’ve heard that about tattoos. There’s a guy I work with who had his girlfriend’s picture tattooed on his arm. Trouble is, she’s married to his brother now.”

Elliot winced. “Ouch, that’s gotta hurt.”

“So, what’s the story behind yours?”

He shrugged. “Not much, really. Just an expression of faith.”

“Um, yeaaaaah…. that’s fairly obvious.”

He could tell I was waiting for more. “I was at kind of a crossroads,” he said. “I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do or what I believed in. I thought it would help reinforce things.”

I looked at the dramatic Christ tattoo some more. “Kind of overcompensating, though, huh?”

He frowned.

“Did it work?” I asked. “Get you straightened out?”

“Well, that and getting married. Has a way of settling you down.”

I thought of my trail of wrecked marriages. “I’m glad it worked for you.”

“It did. For 20 years.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore. It’s over.”

I whistled. “So, you’re kind of back at a crossroads.”

“I guess.”

With that, he turned away and flopped onto a bottom bunk.

Sometimes, I can take a hint, so I climbed into bed -- the bunk above him -- and grunted a goodnight.

After a while, I didn’t hear that tell-tale change in breathing. He was still awake. Thinking, brooding. Doing what he probably does best. So, I did what I do best -- kept talking.

“So did you like it when he kissed you?”

I heard a sharp inhale. Annoyed. “Geez, you don’t give up.” There was a long pause. “I don’t know. That crazy moustache kinda threw me. I wasn’t ready for that.”

My hopes were somewhere down on the floor with my boots at that point.

Then he said, “But I liked the way his hands felt.”

I might have groaned. I wanted to. I wanted to do a lot of things. Like jump down on top of him and show him how good my hands would feel too.

I would have done it, but the chatter and footsteps from the outer office doused the impulse.

Instead, I simply said, “I’m glad.”

***

He was gone by the time I woke up. No real surprise there.

I took my time showering, thinking how the night sure hadn’t gone like I’d planned. Unfortunately, this one would require more finesse than I had time for. I was due for my return flight in a couple of hours, so I would just have to find some easier comfort back at the bar that night.

I stepped to the sink to shave, wiping the steam from the mirror and peering at my battered, hairy mug. Yeah, I suppose that *would* be kinda scary.

As I scraped the stubble off my cheeks and chin, I realized I hadn’t had a full shave or haircut since my suspension from the Marshals Service. When I bought the bar, I’d abandoned the geeky cop look to suit my new clientele. Maybe it was time for another change.

And maybe there’d be time for a kiss good-bye.

I grabbed the shaving cream and lathered up to finish the job.

A few minutes later, I pulled on some fresh clothes from my duffel bag and sauntered into the squad room. I homed in on my target. He was seated at his desk, with Benson standing over his shoulder as they studied some files.

Benson spotted me first. “Hey! You’re still here! But … you look … different.” Wow, no wonder she’s a detective.

Upon her comment, Elliot’s head snapped up. His jaw dropped.

I rubbed my hand across my newly clean-cut face and shrugged. “Yeah, I thought I’d try a new look. I might even get a haircut.”

There was a sudden buzz of activity around us, and Munch hollered that they’d gotten a bite on the personal ad. This set Benson and Stabler into motion. But before Elliot dashed off, he stopped in front of me. “Can you stay another day?”

I didn’t know if I could stay or not, but I wasn’t going to say no.

“Sure. Be glad to.” Very glad.

He nodded, then looked around. Everyone had hurried on ahead.

As he started to move along to catch up, he gave the back of my head a quick brush with his hand. “Don’t cut your hair,” he said softly. “I like the curls.”

***

Connie wasn’t happy when I called to say I’d be delayed. I made up some lame excuse about the SVU still needing my help, but I didn’t buy as much time as I would have liked. He wanted me back ASAP because we were starting an elaborate set-up the next day, preparing to trap Miscreant No. 76 on our Most Wanted list.

So I booked a red-eye flight, then set about to work on the most important detail of the day.

Finding a hotel room.

I figured wherever Elliot was living carried far too much baggage. Way back when, he looked for neutral turf. That’s what I would give him.

Well, that and a blow job he’ll never forget.

I walked around for a while, then checked in to a decent place I found a few blocks from the precinct. I used the hotel stationery to scribble out a note: “Room 412. My flight is 10:25 p.m.” Call me romantic.

I sealed the note in an envelope and walked back to the precinct. The detectives were still out, so I left the envelope on Elliot’s desk, hoping he’d be back in time to see it. And to do something about it.

I wandered back to the hotel to kill time and some brain cells with a mix of Oprah, ESPN and those little bottles from the mini-bar.

I must’ve dozed off because it was dark when I heard the rap at the door. By the time I stumbled to answer it, the knock had turned to a loud banging. Could only be a cop.

I opened the door to find just the cop I wanted.

“Sorry I got tied up so long,” he apologized as I closed the door behind him.

“You get the guy?”

“Yeah, but it took a while to crack him.”

“But you did.” I stepped closer.

“Yeah.” Elliot reached up and stroked his thumb across my cheek, my lips. “But I don’t want to talk about the case.”

“Me neither.” I sucked his thumb into my mouth. His moan hit me in the groin as I swirled my tongue around the soft pad of flesh. He pulled his hand away and pressed his mouth against mine.

Then I learned something: Lips *aren’t* lips. These lips were extraordinary. And they were suddenly everywhere. My mouth, my forehead, across my cheekbone, nibbling at my earlobe, sucking at my neck. I pulled his mouth back to mine and gave him a preview of what my tongue could do.

A little dizzy, we finally pulled apart. I glanced at the clock. Just a couple of hours. He read the urgency in my face - and my hands as I started tugging at his clothes.

I have no idea how he overcame any hesitancy he had about what would clearly be on the agenda once he got to the hotel. But he was there. And - once I yanked his pants off - I could tell he was fully into what was happening.

We hit the bed in a sprawling embrace, trying to make contact with every inch of each other’s skin. I put my tongue to work on that magnificent chest, teasing his nipples with my teeth and soothing them with long licks. As I worked my way downward, he moaned as my mouth reached the crease between torso and thigh. I inhaled deeply, tasting and breathing my way deeper into his crotch.

He bucked and spasmed when I took his cock into my mouth. His reaction alone almost got me off. I took it easy after that first plunge down his shaft. Time was short, but not *that* short.

Suddenly, he was reaching, twisting, in search of more contact with my body. I gave it to him, swinging my legs up near his head. Rolling onto my back, I let him be in control -- how much to thrust into my mouth, how much of my cock to take into his. It also gave me full access to grab at that beautiful ass of his, kneading those meaty globes that had caught my eye right from the start.

Even though my senses were full of the taste and the smell of him, I was enjoying the steady rhythm he’d set with his mouth. With my face full of his cock, I hummed and moaned, apparently adding just the right vibration to send him over the edge. I grabbed his hips tight and pushed him deep into my mouth, taking every inch and every ounce he had to give.

Then I laid back and enjoyed the last few strokes and slurps he made. As I came, he held his lips to the tip, swallowing some, letting some spill.

He rolled off me and we shifted to get our heads on the pillows. I wiped away the splashes of come from his face and neck and we sank into a sated haze.

Telling him “that was great” seemed pretty weak, so I just kept quiet. And did something else pretty rare for me. You *could* call it cuddling, but it was more like stroking and caressing and kissing. Definitely not cuddling. I don’t *do* cuddling.

Lord knows what he must be thinking, but at least it didn’t seem to be, “Run away!” -- which is often my own post-coital impulse. I took my good ol’ lazy time, touching him, studying the planes and angles of his body. And he gave me every clue that he enjoyed it - just as much as he enjoyed finding the spots that forced a gasp out of me.

Reluctantly, I checked the clock. I had to get moving if I was going to catch my flight. I lurched up, grunting, “Gotta shower.”

I staggered toward the bathroom, but looked back at him. “Wanna join me?”

He did.

We used up a lot of hot water and those little shampoo bottles -- slicking and sudsing each other up. Sliding against his body was, quite literally, a wet dream.

When I sank to my knees, he probably figured he was about to get another blowjob. But I’m just full of surprises. Instead, I turned him around to enjoy that gorgeous ass. I rubbed it and pulled at it and then dove in. I almost regretted the lack of my moustache. I would’ve loved his reaction as it tickled his hole.

So I licked and sucked and shoved my tongue as deep as I could. It was tight and hot, and the shower made it all the more steamy. I stopped for a moment to slather my hand with more shampoo and reached around to grab the piece of iron he was trying to thrust against the tile.

With my hand pumping him from the front and my face giving a full assault from the rear, his moans echoed in the little room until I felt liquid hotter than the water spill over my hand.

He turned to face me, knees weak, and leaned against the wall. I stood and put one hand on his chest. The other went around my hard-on as I pumped my load over his softening cock.

I embraced and kissed him and we let the water run over us, rinsing away the soap and come and smell of sex.

When steadier legs and heartbeats returned, we toweled off and dressed.

And then it was time to go.

I fished into my duffel bag and dug out a couple of items. “Here,” I said as I handed them over to Elliot -- my card and a matchbook from the Chowder Barge.

“If you’re ever looking for a new place, you’ll know where to find me.”

He nodded and smiled. “And you know where to find me, too.”

“Yep. I’m going to check our list for more of the ‘worst of the worst’ with New York ties. Maybe I can get a return trip.”

“Plus there’s always vacation time,” he offered.

“Right, right.”

And with that, the bullshit quotient had reached its limit.

So I grabbed my bag, grabbed him around the shoulders, planted one more kiss on that beautiful mouth and said good-bye.

When I got to the airport, I called the hotel room. It made me ridiculously happy when he picked up the phone. He’d stayed.

“There’s something I gotta know,” I said. “If I grow the moustache back, will it bother you when we have phone sex?”

END

FIC: Divine Intervention (Part 12/?)

Mon, 23 Oct 2006 03:11:02 GMT

Divine Intervention (Part 12/?)

When I finally surfaced from my dopey, sex-induced sleep, most of the morning was gone and Toby was up and moving around. It took a minute to register, but I noticed he was getting dressed.

"What are you doing?" I asked, inviting the obvious.

"Getting dressed."

No, no, no. I had different plans for him. I got up, wrapped my arms around him, and purred what I hoped was a sexy "whyyyyy" in his ear.

His response was matter-of-fact. "I have some shopping to do."

Before I had much of a chance to question him, he'd hurried toward the door. "If I'm going to hang around here, we've got to have towels, sheets, pots, pans. Consider it a housewarming gift."

I was about to give him a wise-ass comment about the house being plenty warm, but he slipped out the door with a wave and a smile.

Oh well, he'd be back soon enough and we'd have plenty of time left to play. I laid back down on the bed and slipped into a daydream about taking a shower with him and then wrapping him up in some soft, new towels. My fantasy was just leading us to the fresh, new sheets when there was a knock at the door.

I rushed over, ready to tease Toby about not being able to live without me or something.

When I opened the door, my words died in my throat. My fantasy vanished - along with any hope that my future would be different from my past.

Vern Schillinger had been my protector once, when I was young and dumb and didn't know all about payback. Then he became my tormentor. Apparently I'd still been stupid enough to think I'd left that behind when I got out of Oz. Something about Schillinger makes my mind shut down. Primal hatred takes over, along with the fear that comes from feeling cornered.

"Nice place you got here, Chrissy," Vern said, stepping forward and pushing me back into the room. Robson was with him, as always. He shut the door, and they both got in my face.

"I've been keeping my eye on you, Sweatpea, waiting for you to get out of that halfway house so we could start having some fun together again." He gripped my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks. "You didn't think we were through, now, did you, Chrissy?"

I tried to back up, but Robson had gotten behind me. He grabbed my arms as Vern let go. "You still have some paying up to do." And with that, Robson kicked at the back of my legs, making me land hard on my knees, face level with Schillinger's crotch.

Vern had always had a hard-on for me; apparently still did. He yanked it out of his pants and rubbed it against my face, pushing it against my mouth. I wanted to bite. But I felt Robson's shank at my back and opened up. I choked back the nausea and tried to shut down my mind.

At least I could count on Vern to be over in a hurry. The taste made me gag, and it fouled everything about the day. It was as if Vern had come in and marked his territory.

He'd also given me a rude reminder: Being with me was no place for Toby.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I'd miscalculated just how bulky a couple of sets of towels, sheets and a blanket could be. I wrestled with the packages for blocks, then trudged up the stairs and virtually spilled into Chris' apartment.

What I saw there chilled me to the core. Chris was seated at the kitchen table, his head resting in his hands. Two tough-looking guys were standing above him, one was flicking a switchblade in and out.

"Well, well, well, Chrissy. Who's this?" The ugliest man I'd ever seen came swaggering toward me.

My mind was reeling. Before I had a chance to answer, Chris blurted out, "Gary! ... His name is Gary."

I got it instantly. Chris was sending a signal. Danger! That much was clear. Not much else was.

The ugly man fixed his pale dead eyes on me. "So, Ga-ry... You're my prag's prag?" He looked me up and down, noticed the shopping bags. He gave them a kick and laughed. "Aw, look, Robson. The prags are playing house together. Isn't that sweet?"

I looked toward the other one, still towering over Chris. Even though he held the weapon, he seemed irrelevant. He was nothing compared to the sheer evil rolling of the man before me.

Chris spoke up again. "Leave him alone, Vern. He doesn't mean anything."

The pale eyes continued to level me. "Now, why don't I believe you, Chrissy? Seems like you want to keep this one for yourself." His face was just a few inches from mine when he finally snapped his attention back to Chris. "If he doesn't mean anything, you're gonna have to show me some proof."

Chris moved fast. I thought for sure Vern was a goner. Chris was going to knock the guy's ugly yellow teeth out and show him who's boss.

I was horribly wrong. Chris swept by Vern and grabbed me by the shirt. "I *said* you don't mean a *thing.* Get it?" He roared in my face. "Now go! Get out of here." He flung the door open. "You and me are through!" With that, he gave me a hard shove. I stumbled and lost my balance, and tumbled down half a flight of stairs. The door had slammed before I reached the landing.

I laid there, stunned, for a moment. I took inventory. My left arm was sore and my sides were banged up pretty good, but nothing seemed to be broken.

Well, not counting my heart.

I listened to the laughter coming from behind Chris' door. It landed on me like fists. I had to get out of there, so I crawled to my feet and staggered down the rest of the stairs.

When I got outside the building, I found that my knees weren't doing so well. They weren't hurt in the fall; they just felt like they were going to buckle at any moment. Probably for the same reason I felt like heaving up whatever was left of last night's lo mein.

I found a bus bench and sagged down on it. I must've made a sweaty, sorry sight, but -- then again -- probably no worse than folks had seen on bus benches before.

I couldn't get my mind around what had just happened, so I let instincts kick in. I don't know if I was acting as a lawyer or a lover, but I dug out my cell phone and made a call. To Chris' parole officer.

When the voice mail picked up, I told it, "Yeah, this is Tobias Beecher. Christopher Keller's attorney. I'm calling at about 1 o'clock on Sunday. I know you're not there, but I wanted to make you aware of a situation. Chris had a couple of uninvited visitors. They might be felons. One was named Vern. Give me a call when you get this message and I'll fill you in. I don't want my client getting busted back to Oz over this. Thanks."

I snapped the phone shut and stared at it. Why did I care? Chris had made a choice. If he were play-acting, he would have at least made sure I hadn't killed myself on the stairs. Wouldn't he?

I don't know how long I sat there or when I started moving again. I walked a few blocks, but it did nothing to clear my head. It was a spectacularly beautiful day, and it seemed like everyone was outside. The sidewalks were filled with mothers pushing strollers, couples holding hands, little kids charging ahead of their parents on the way to the park.

It was all too bright and shiny for me, the guy who'd just had the rug pulled out from under him. I veered over a few blocks and found one of those places where it's perpetually midnight. I opened the door, and the handful of patrons blinked at the light, eyed me with a minimum of curiosity, then forgot I was there.

I joined the other losers at the bar and ordered up the first of a long string of double bourbons.

The sunlight had gone by the time I staggered out of the place. I'd rolled the situation with Chris around in my head for hours and nothing was clearer. At least now I was numb enough not to care.

I'd shuffled about a block and a small thought formed in my booze-fogged brain. I should call a cab. I had no idea where I was. I leaned heavily against a light pole and took some deep breaths.

There was the sound of a car door, maybe two, and the scuff of boots behind me. I made a sloppy circle to look around and felt myself lifted by the arms and slung into an alley.

They dragged me between a couple of dumpsters and I can remember hearing something about "sending a message" and "keeping him in line." They might have been talking about me, or maybe it was about Chris. It didn't matter. I was the one taking a beating, and the bourbon had rendered me pretty much defenseless.

The blows fell on my arms and body, blunt force. "Your boyfriend ..." one said as I fell ... "has some work to do." They grunted between kicks. "You gotta stay out of the way."

In my state, they easily pinned me to the ground. But no amount of alcohol could have deadened the pain that came next. My right leg snapped and I sobered up in an instant -- long enough to shriek as they broke the left one, too.

My screams must have attracted some attention because all of a sudden they seemed panicky. One of them bent down and flashed a knife. I heard a voice call out -- it seemed far away -- "C'mon Robson. Leave him!" A closer voice laughed in my face, "Stupid prag." Then I felt a sharp pain in my side.

But not for long.

The pain faded, and I drifted. And then Chris was there. We were laughing and hugging and rolling around. We tore into a mountain of packages and spread out some blindingly white sheets on his bed. They billowed out, blazing in the sunshine. I dove in and let myself be folded up in the coolness of the cotton and the warmth of his arms.

It felt like heaven.

TBC

FIC: Divine Intervention (Part 11/?)

Sun, 15 Oct 2006 01:00:05 GMT

Divine Intervention (Part 11/?)

I knew we couldn't stay like that forever -- huddled so awkwardly on the floor -- but I was afraid to break the spell. It was like magic: Toby had heard the worst and didn't leave.

I edged him away a just a little bit and asked, "You want to find someplace a bit more comfortable?"

He nodded, gave a little chuckle. I stood and grabbed one of his hands to lift him off the floor and didn't let go till I'd led him over to the bed.

I flopped down and was surprised when he hesitated. "What?" I said, reaching for him.

"Well, do you want to put the sheets and stuff on now?"

I looked at the bare mattress a little sheepishly.

"Uhhhh... they're kind of with the towels."

"You mean, there *are* no sheets?"

I flinched. Shook my head. "No pillows either."

Toby gave a little huff and muttered something about shopping and improvising. Then he peeled off his shirt and climbed onto the bed. Before I knew it, he was draped over me, resting his head on my chest.

We were both pretty spent, so the bare bed didn't really matter. Between all the worry and the sex and the food and all the emotion, we were asleep fast. I don't think I ever slept so soundly, so peacefully. I was in heaven. At least ... for one night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When I woke up, it was just as the sun was starting to peek through the blinds again. We'd slipped apart sometime during the night, so I didn't have to move to get a good look at Chris. His skin was golden and dusky where the rays striped his body.

I was definitely regretting that we hadn't shed our pants before hitting the sack. His jeans definitely spoiled the view, and mine were feeling somewhat ... tighter. I reached down and undid my button and zipper, reached my hand inside. I watched him and thought of the day before, thinking of sliding against his body and feeling his mouth on my cock.

I closed my eyes and thought of his touch. Thought of what he'd been through in his life. Marveled at the way we'd found one another.

When I opened my eyes, he was watching me. He followed the motion my hand while he slowly rubbed a growing bulge in his own jeans. He looked up at me, gave me a sweet, sexy smile and asked, "You want some help with that?"

Oh, yeah.

Chris reached out and replaced my hand with his, rubbed the slick fluid around the head of my cock. Then, before my mind could register it, his mouth was on me. I could've just laid back and reveled in the sensation, but I already owed him a good time from the blow job the day before. I pushed him away and pushed off my jeans. Then it was his turn. I yanked off the denim and knelt above him, mapping out my strategy.

We'd explored each other the day before, but that was all frantic and hurried -- rubbing and grabbing and speeding toward climax.

This time, I was going to take my sweet time.

I made a feast of him, from those delectable lips, down his strong neck to his nipples. He arched up into each lick and bite I gave those delicious nubs of flesh. I felt his cock pressing into my leg, demanding the same attention.

But I just had to torture him some more, rubbing my face down his torso, inhaling him, scraping my stubble across his flesh, all the while licking my way further down. By this time, he was thrusting into the air, and gasping "please" over and over. Well, since he asked so nicely...

I engulfed his cock. And once I had him in my mouth, it was as if I couldn't get enough. The sensations - the taste, the smell, the slickness - made my head spin. He doubled up with moans of pleasure and spread his legs wider for me. So I explored some more.

He bellowed out "No!" when I moved off his cock, but he changed his tune quickly when I put my mouth to work on his balls. Finally, I pushed his legs back, exposing him fully and continued my feast.

I lapped at the sensitive flesh and heard his breath catch at the back of his throat. He held onto his legs, moaned steadily, till finally, he formed some words that made sense.

"Fuck me. Fuck me now, Toby."

I reached by the side of the bed to find the bag of goodies I'd brought. He grabbed a condom from me. This time, his hands were steady, insistent, as he rolled it over me. He watched as I lubed myself up, then laid back down, ready and waiting.

It's such a cliché, but being inside him - feeling him bear down, wanting more - sealed our connection. We were meant to be. Soul mates. We fit. In every way.

He was spread out beneath me, open to every sensation. My cock pounded inside him, stretching him and reaching that spot that had him writhing, rolling his head back and forth, arching his back. I grabbed and pulled on his nipples, rubbing my hands over the flushed, taut skin of his chest.

Moans spilled out of him, and nonsensical babble. Near the end, he repeated, "Don't ever stop, don't ever stop." But of course, at that point, the end is near. I bent him almost double, pressing his legs back to his chest. I strained to kiss him as my orgasm ripped through me. Seconds later, I felt the warmth of his own come on my belly, spurred on by the friction of our bodies.

In the few moments of caresses and kissing before we dozed off again, I thought, what could be more perfect. We would seal off the pain of the past and create our own special, blissful world.

TBC

FIC: Divine Intervention (Part 10/?)

Fri, 29 Sep 2006 13:45:25 GMT

Divine Intervention (Part 10/?)

Slumped there on the floor, recalling my downward slide, I started to get that sick, anxious feeling of being trapped. So I did what any good cornered animal would do - I lashed out. I told him the next part of the story like I wanted the words to hurt.

"I made my way across country, stealing what I needed - gas, food, booze. It was pretty easy, bullshitting the store owners or just plain running out on the bill.

"For a place to sleep? Let's just say . . . I did what I had to. Sometimes I cruised the truck stops and earned myself a spot in the back of a semi or some run-down motel. Once, I even spent the night in this sweet, suburban home. The guy's wife was out of town."

I studied Toby for a reaction. Wary would be a good word to describe it. If he was disgusted, he wasn't showing it yet.

"Once I got back in town, I hooked up with some old friends. Things hadn't changed much. They were still getting high and stealing cars. Except now the cars were fancier and the operation was more elaborate. It wasn't just for joyriding anymore.

"Of course, that doesn't mean there weren't plenty of high times. The drugs - oh, man - that stuff I did with Angie and Kitty? That was nothin' compared to this shit.

"Anyway, business was good, but I was the low man on the totem pole, so I had to find ways to jack up my income. I was consuming more dope than I was selling. So I started knocking off convenience stores... And..." I was running out of steam. "I think you've read the rest in my file."

Toby was quiet for a bit. Watched me. Studied his hands. Finally, he said, "The file usually doesn't give the whole picture, though."

I choked out a laugh. "Yeah, but this one does: Career criminal loses the final round to an honest-but-pissed-off storekeeper with a shotgun. I had a gun, but - in the only bit of luck I had that day -- I never got off a shot of my own. If I had, I'd be rotting in Oz for a few more decades. Instead, I ran. Hopped on my bike and tore outta there. The cops scraped me off the asphalt a few blocks away when I wiped out."

I felt so deflated. The story was done, and the adrenaline was gone. I had my head down, arms resting on my knees, my back against the kitchen cabinets. Nowhere to run anymore. Just like being back in Oz.

I heard Toby slide his chair to stand up. I expected to hear a door closing next.

Instead, he stooped down in front of me. I lifted my head to catch his gaze, watch his eyes dart back and forth as he searched for something to say.

I tried to spare him the effort.

"Toby, I went through those months like I wanted to get caught. Like I wanted to be punished for all the crap I'd done. For what I did to Bonnie. I didn't plan it - of course - but it sure worked like a charm. They just put me back where I belong."

The next thing I new, he grabbed the back of my neck. The other hand gripped my left arm.

"You can't think that," he said. "You've proven that's not right. You don't belong there. Something changed between then and now. What was it?"

He was stroking my arm, rubbing his hand over the big Christ tattoo.

"You think it's to do with that?" I gestured toward the tat. "Some big jailhouse conversion?"

"Maybe," he said. "Was it something like that?"

"Yeah, actually, it was something like that. But that's the wrong mark." I took Toby's hand and moved it to my chest - to a dark patch of puckered flesh. "That's what changed everything."

I felt him run his thumb over the spot. He looked at the scar, then into my face. "What happened?"

Oh, man. Where to start? Maybe at the end.

"Toby... I died."

I waited for this to register.

"You died?" Toby's face was a marvel, I could see his mind racing. His eyes filled up, that kissable mouth pouted. Then he got pissed off. I wanted to kiss that vein that popped out on his forehead. "How? What happened?"

"There was this crazy French guy, got sent to Oz. The homeboys, the Nazis, everyone was giving him shit, stealing his shoes, pushing him around. One day, he pushed back. He got a gun somehow and decided to take care of his problems by shooting everyone in sight. I happened to walk into a bullet.

"Next thing I know, it feels like my chest is on fire, and I'm puking up blood and getting wheeled into the infirmary. Then... I died."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chris was sitting in front of me, warm and solid and full of life. But the words still chilled me. My stomach wrenched at the thought of losing him, twisting like those days waiting to hear about Gary.

I couldn't take my eyes off that scar on his chest. I thought about how much it must've hurt, how scared he must've been. My hand caressed the skin, and I felt him take some deep, unsteady breaths. Finally, he spoke again.

"That's what happened, Toby. I died, and they brought me back and there was no white light. But I was there. I was in Hell and I felt everything. I felt the pain and I felt the fire for all of eternity."

I wanted to reassure him, wanted to comfort him, but I had no words. My voice was choked off by emotion. So... I kissed him.

I pressed my lips to the old wound, and he gently cradled my head. I tried to pour every bit of tenderness I could into that kiss, wondering how much he had been able to heal and feeling so sorry for all he had endured.

I raised my head and hugged him. We held each other close - as close as our knees and the awkward angle would allow. I started to pull away, get him to stand up - maybe go over to the bed or the couch and be more comfortable. But he gripped me tighter.

"Don't let go."

It was a simple request. And it meant so much.

So I held on, and we quietly rocked there. After a while, he told me some more, barely above a whisper. But the message came through loud and clear. Every day of his life -- every day since he'd died and they brought him back -- he tried to be a better man.

It wasn't easy. In prison, there are temptations at every turn, so many ways to numb the reality. There are debts to pay, turf to stake out and fights to be fought. Every day brought dozens of decisions - he could slide back and take the easy way out. Or he could keep fighting his way toward that white light.

He said he was surprised - that the good choices finally added up for him. The prison officials and the parole board actually noticed. That's how he wound up getting out early.

And that's why, that first day at the diner, I saw only a good man, hungry, looking for a job. Living by a new set of rules.

TBC

FIC: Divine Intervention (9/?)

Thu, 13 Jul 2006 01:59:08 GMT

Divine Intervention (9/?)

Standing there in the steamy bathroom, it was as if Toby filled all my senses. I could smell him on me, feel him on me, see him when I closed my eyes. Shit, I had to snap out of it.

I climbed in the shower stall and twisted the cold water on. I braced myself and let my skin go numb. As the steam cleared, so did my head.

I had to think - and not with my dick.

For me, the physical part has always been the easiest. Too easy. So it had to be different with Toby. He has been a gift to me -- heaven-sent at all the right moments. I had to treat him right.

I wondered if I knew how.

I turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. I eyed my reflection, but there were no answers there.

So I did what comes naturally. Just kept moving.

When I got out of the bathroom, I saw that Toby had dressed and was at the kitchen counter, fiddling with the ancient microwave that came with the apartment. I quickly dried myself on the damp T-shirts he had used - gotta save on laundry -- and pulled my jeans back on. Then I got up close to him.

"You sure that thing works?" I asked, breathing down his neck.

"Let me put it this way -- in a few minutes, we'll either have piping hot lo mein ... or we'll sprout a third eye. You willing to risk it?"

"You're quite a thrill-seeker there, Toby. Zap away, I'm hungry."

The thing actually worked and we sat down to eat. But after mumbling some things about how good the food turned out, I ran out of things to say. In the awkward silence, I could sense him watching me. Sure enough, he found a conversation piece.

"There must be some story behind that tattoo."

Shit. Why pick *that* topic. I wasn't ready for this. All my reflexes screamed for lies and evasion.

"Naw, not really," I told him, as casually as I could. "I got it in Vegas. That's all you need to know."

I looked up into that earnest, open face and saw hurt there. Like he was thinking, "Sure. You have this elaborate Christ tattoo spread out all over your arm and there's nothing you want to tell me about it. Asshole."

On the phone, it was easier to duck his questions. But with him here, I couldn't do it. I saw his face. I thought of the way he had opened all his wounds to me. I couldn't shut him out.

I bought some time by clearing the empty containers from the table. With my back to him, I asked, "You sure you wanna hear it?"

I heard his chair scrape back and seconds later, I felt his arms around me. "I want to know everything about you."

That fits, I thought. Because this story sums up just about everything about my sorry life.

I turned in his arms, hugged him tight, then pushed him away. I needed some space to tell this story. Just in case one of us had to run.

I thought about where to start. Once upon a time....

"I was married once, too."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He checked my reaction to that announcement, but I put on my best poker face. I just sat back down at the kitchen table and let him go on. At first I wasn't sure if he was going to speak again. He moved around the room, picking at stuff, examining it. Until finally....

"I was in Vegas. In between jail terms."

He said that as though he'd planned the second stay. Like the time he'd spent *outside* of prison was the part that had a time limit.

"I'd headed out there because I'd been told there was plenty of easy money. And they were right. You just hit up the winners, turn them back into losers.

"Things were actually going pretty good. I'd run a couple of scams on some tourists and picked a few drunks clean. Nothing very fancy, but it was paying the bills. Then I hit the jackpot myself."

He pause for a while, sniffed at a dusty fake plant over on an end table. He stole a quick glance at me. Yes, I was paying attention. I offered some encouragement. "The jackpot?" I asked.

"Yeah, in the form of two lovely ladies named Kitty and Angelique. I ran into them after I'd scored a decent bundle off some dweeb from Ohio." He laughed to himself in a practiced sort of way. "What happened to him in Vegas was definitely going to stay in Vegas." He gave me a glance - checking my reaction again -- and continued.

"Anyway, I was out on the town, feeling no pain. I'd bought myself some good shit, so, I was *very* open to suggestions. These two gorgeous women come over to me, start touching me and telling me how they need a *partner.*"

He closed his eyes and rolled his head back. The memories were filling him, and for a while I could see something of the man he must've been. Cocky, self-assured. Able to con the pants off of anyone.

"They had their hands all over me, feeding me coke and telling me how the scams I've been running were *nothing* compared to what we could do if we teamed up. They wanted to run a long con - really some elaborate set-up. But first we had to 'practice,' they said. Get used to working with one another.

"The practice involved playing a lot of poker and blackjack. I'd get in the game, or be a close observer. We'd carve out some guy who was lucky at cards - someone who'd managed to walk away from the table with a good bundle. He'd be feeling on top of the world. Then one of us would make 'friends' with him. It was usually me, because when the blackmail part of the arrangement came along... Well, those poor suburban married slobs would part with any sum not to have their one-nighter with the young stud revealed.

"We worked quite a few of those jobs. What Kitty and Angie were doing was getting me used to play-acting. I worked on how to get close to people, how to work a story on them. It was all part of the plan to get me ready for the big score.

"Turns out the big score wasn't going to have anything to do with the usual suspects - the gamblers and tourists. They actually had the mark picked out for a while, probably before we'd even hooked up.

"Anyway, it was this really ordinary woman. Her name was Bonnie."

His voice had been rising in strength at the telling of his conquests, but at the mention of Bonnie's name, it was if he deflated. His voice softened, as he reached for other memories.

"Bonnie was a big girl. Heavy-set. One of those women who you'd say, 'she has a really pretty face,' or, 'what a great sense of humor.' Actually," he said, his voice breaking even more, "both were true. Plus, she was big-hearted and honest, and she simply assumed that everyone else was too. I guess that's what made her an easy mark. That, and her daddy's fortune."

He started pacing again.

"Of course, at the start, all that mattered was the money. Kitty and Angie put me in motion and set my sights on the pot of gold. My main job was to weasel myself close to Bonnie. That was pretty easy. She was so open and friendly...."

He kind of trailed off, so I offered some encouragement. "And you were so utterly charming, so how could she resist?"

That stopped him for a second. When he spoke again, it was with a harder edge.

"Exactly." He narrowed his eyes at me, then he slid one of the kitchen chairs over next to mine. He leaned close into my personal space, like he was daring me. But to do what? Hit him? Hug him? Run away?

He spoke in low tones, his face close to mine. I felt his breath puff in my face as he punctuated his sentences. "I was a total shit, but I didn't care. I was flying. Kitty and Angie kept me entertained by night - lots of drugs, lots of sex - and I spent my days wooing the poor little rich girl."

He was quiet a while. The he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He started stroking his shoulder, the one with the tattoo in question.

"Bonnie was very religious - her whole family was. Her father was the head of this huge ministry. That's where the money came in." He gave a sarcastic chuckle. "Obviously there was no vow of poverty in their religion.

"Anyway, everything was going as planned, and this one night, I was tripping with Angie and Kitty. They had me flying so high, I'm hollering, 'I'm a god! I'm a god!'"

Chris started rolling his head back and forth, enacting the scene. "We decide that I needed a sign of my total devotion to show Bonnie. So we go to this tattoo parlor, and I tell the guy I need a tat fit for a god! Fortunately, the guy was a very good artist. He was also very Catholic, so the design wasn't quite what I had in mind."

All of a sudden, he seemed so incredibly sad. "But then, I'm not sure what I had in mind. I never really think these things through, you know? I'm just following my dick around most of the time, following wherever it leads."

He took some deep breaths, made a couple of false starts on saying something more. Finally, he said, "And, well, that's the story of the tattoo."

It took me a moment or two to realize that's all he intended to say on the subject. "Uh, s-sssooo, what happened with Bonnie? Did she like it? The tattoo?"

He stood up again, when back over to fiddle with things at the sink. He wasn't escaping me - I followed him over and stared until I got an answer.

He gave a shy smile. "Yeah, she did. She was a little puzzled, but she liked it. Shit, she liked everything about me. I couldn't do anything wrong in her eyes. Her parents weren't so sure. But she was a grown woman, she said, and she told them she could take care of herself.

"Funny thing happened along the way. Bonnie and me spent a lot of time together. Dinners and movies and walks in the park and stuff like that. When the time came I was supposed to ask her to marry me, it didn't seem like a job anymore."

I joined him in a wry smile. This big, strong, tough guy has a soft heart. "She said yes?" I asked.

"Yeah. She didn't know it, but it was all part of a grand scheme. But then, it turns out, Angie and Kitty hadn't exactly clued *me* in on all the details. All along, I'm thinking the plan is Bonnie and I get hitched and I bide my time and eventually milk the bank accounts dry. Then, we ditch Bonnie and set up shop someplace else."

It wasn't pretty, but it paled in comparison to what he said next.

"But Kitty and Angie, well, that wasn't their plan. After a few month of wedded bliss, I find out that the plan was . . . to kill Bonnie. Collect the inheritance."

For the first time, being around Chris, I felt this shiver run through me. My horror must have shown on my face.

"See, I know what you're thinking. I did it. I killed her and ran."

I didn't know what to think. My mouth moved, but nothing came out. I wanted to make reassuring sounds, but my mind was reeling.

"Don't worry. I couldn't. She was my wife, and ... " He shook his head, then added, so quietly, "I made the biggest mistake a con can make. I fell for the mark."

At this point, he was leaning up against the counter. Then he sagged down to the floor, his elbows resting on his knees.

"I took off, left a quick note for Bonnie, told her something like, 'You'll hate me, but this is for the best.' I climbed on my bike and headed back East."

I made a guess. "And so begins 'the tailspin?'"

"Big time."

TBC

FIC: Divine Intervention (8/?)

Mon, 03 Jul 2006 20:27:08 GMT

Divine Intervention (8/?)

My resolve sure lasted a long time. But what a way to go. It crumbled under the pressure of Toby's lips and tongue.

With him so close, everything just seemed ... better. So why push him away?

I've got a new rule to follow: Keep Toby nearby and everything will be hunky-dory.

That's what ran through my head when I felt those kissable lips pressing so close. At least, they were the thoughts I had until they were overcome by the thrill of his tongue licking across my jaw and down my neck, back up to my ear and ... was that me groaning or him?

Toby took his time, planting kisses across my face. I felt like I was floating. Occasionally I'd kiss back, sometimes finding air, sometimes a cheekbone, sometimes tasting the sweet flesh inside his mouth.

His hands trailed down my arms to my waist and he lifted the bottom of my T-shirt. He ran his hands along my sides, pushing upward till I raised my arms and he stripped off the shirt.

He stepped back and took a good long look. I couldn't take my eyes off him, either, as he started working at the buttons of his own shirt. His hands didn't look too steady and it took him a while, but the payoff was worth it. He tossed the shirt aside and I reached out, craving the feel of that pale, gorgeous skin...

But he grabbed my hand before I could touch him, and he tugged me toward the bed.

A stupid, random thought entered my foggy brain. "What about the food?"

His eyes cleared a bit. "What? You're kidding, right?" Getting no response other than my dazed look, he gave a little huff, then grabbed the smaller of the two bags he'd set on the counter. "We'll have dessert first."

He handed me the bag, and while he kicked off his shoes, I looked inside. He'd brought lube, condoms and a toothbrush.

I had to laugh. "You must've been a Boy Scout."

"Yeah, but I don't think they have a merit badge for this. Get over here."

He hadn't steered me wrong yet. So I tossed the bag beside the bed, grabbed him and pulled him down on the mattress with me.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Everything was going nice and slow, like a dream. Then *bam*! He practically tackled me. I felt the air whoosh out of me as I hit the mattress with that big, strong body laying across mine.

I looked up at Chris and saw the smile on his face and the challenge in his eyes. I was up for it, so to speak. We made it into a wrestling match, with every grab and pinch and bite fair game. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, running through my hair, down over my chest, gripping my ass. Next thing I knew, he was working the fly on my jeans open.

We rolled and I wound up on top. I sat up and straddled his thighs, pinning him so I could feast my eyes.

Three months ago in my apartment, I'd been rattled by the sight of this half-naked, wholly desirable man. Now, I took my time and explored him.

I leaned and rubbed my hands over his pecs, pulled at his nipples. When I stroked along the soft skin on his sides, I felt his cock twitch in his jeans. I ground my hips against his, and drew a growl from deep inside that magnificent chest. His mouth was wet and open, and he was reaching to pull me back in for some more wondrous kisses. I had other business to attend to first.

The top button of his pants was already open, so I made quick work of the zipper. He got the idea, and this time the wrestling match was to shove denim and briefs far enough out of the way to be naked from head to groin. When I laid myself down on him, the jolt was electrifying. We thrust against one another like madmen, our open-mouthed kisses turning into loud moans.

The feeling of sudden loss was jolting, too, when Chris rolled off me abruptly. But he didn't go far. He was just reaching over the side of the bed to grab the bag of goodies I brought. I crawled over to where he was kneeling and leaned over his shoulder to watch what he was doing.

He was working the seal off the bottle lube, and his hands were shaking.

"The rubbers are going to be a problem," I said.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Smart ass." I didn't need the commentary, but he was right. We'd have to find a use for the Trojans later, when I was a little steadier. "I seem to recall someone having trouble with their buttons a little while ago."

I turned back toward him so that we were kneeling face-to-face and cock-to-cock.

Toby watched, then hissed, as I squeezed a generous amount of gel over both of us. I coated my right hand, too, then wrapped my fist around his cock and mine. I looked up into those glazed eyes and kissed those swollen lips and moaned when I felt his hands join mine.

There wasn't much finesse, but all that fumbling and thrusting and pumping was full of sensation. Lube got everywhere -- anywhere we put our hands to stroke and grope or just to keep our balance. We wound up simply pressing together and concentrating on the pleasure of sliding against one another. He put me over the edge when his teeth and tongue grabbed at my earlobe.

Then he used my come to finish himself off.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With all the strength suddenly sapped from my legs, I collapsed onto the mattress. As I concentrated on inhaling and exhaling, Chris summoned enough energy to slide his pants off the rest of the way and use his briefs to clean us off a bit.

He laid down next to me and gave a small, contented sigh. He was like a big cat, sated and sprawled out in the light peeking through the blinds.

We dozed for a while, and when I woke up, the sun was gone, and the slipperiness that had felt so sexy an hour or so ago had turned into a sticky mess.

Reluctantly, I sat up. Chris lifted his head and gave me a sleepy look.

"I thought I'd go check out your shower."

"Mmm...OK. It's all the way down the other end of the room, though," his head sagged back onto the bare mattress, too tired to laugh at his own joke.

"I think I can drag myself that far. ... You can join me if you want."

I got a wicked smile in reply, but he didn't move. I gathered I was on my own.

Upon inspection, the shower was small, but the water was surprisingly hot. I didn't see any soap, but there was shampoo in the kit with his shaving stuff, so I lathered myself up with that. I luxuriated in the heat of the water and the thrill of running my hands over places Chris had touched. I closed my eyes and felt him all over again, hands slick, grasping, pulling. I felt myself growing hard again and smiled to myself. Better save that for Chris.

When I reluctantly turned the water off, I realized another essential item was missing besides soap. No towels.

Trying not to drip too much, I stepped out into the main room to ask for something to dry myself on. He was at the kitchen counter, fiddling with the cartons of food I brought.

"Chris, do you have any towels?" I'd barely gotten the words out when he turned. He growled a hearty "Oh, *yeah*" and was on me in a heartbeat.

He certainly wasn't sleepy anymore. He ran his hands up and down my body, breathing out low moans and licking droplets of water off me. I wasn't getting any dryer, but I didn't care.

He dropped to his knees and I watched as he smoothed down the wet hair on my legs. He moved closer and swirled his tongue in my belly button. I was just getting used to that sensation when he slid his mouth down to engulf my half-hard cock in one smooth motion. I grabbed his head and shuddered.

I saw him peek up at me, to check on how he was doing. I simply nodded and seconded his "Oh, yeah."

He kept trailing his fingertips up and down my legs as he worked his mouth over me. At last, he ran his hands up to grab my ass, spreading me so he could rake his fingers over the hot, sensitive skin. He kept a good, firm grip on me - holding me steady and swallowing every drop.

He stood up and gave me a deep kiss. I moaned at the deepness and the sexiness of it, tasting myself and feeling his desire.

I made a grab for his cock, but he stepped back. "S'alright. I gotta get cleaned up." He gave me one last, lazy kiss and stepped toward the bathroom.

"Um, towels?" Is all I could muster.

"Oh... uh... I don't have any yet. Try using a couple of T-shirts. They're in the closet. On the shelves." He pointed and headed into the bathroom.

TBC....

FIC: Divine Intervention (7/?)

Sat, 24 Jun 2006 03:47:52 GMT

Divine Intervention (7/?)

When moving day came, I really didn’t own much more stuff than when I tried to leave the halfway house the last time. But that didn’t stop Toby from insisting that he had to help me move.

So, I made him a deal. I would carry the paper bags that held my clothes and bathroom stuff. He would come along later with bags full of Chinese food.

I could tell he was disappointed. We finally would have some time together, and I was putting him off.

But I had to. I was in major trouble. As in, having trouble breathing. As much as I wanted to see him, as much as I wanted to hold him and kiss him and strip him bare and taste every inch of him.... I was scared to death.

It was a Saturday, the day I moved. I'd taken the weekend off, and the prospect of all that free time had me a little crazed.

I sat at my kitchen table, tried to breathe, and took stock.

The apartment was furnished, although there wasn't much space that had to be filled. There was basically one room. Off to one side of me there was an area with a couple of old chairs, a coffee table and a TV that looked like it just might be black-and-white. There was a bathroom behind one door and a small closet behind the other. At the other end of the room, a double bed was crammed into a little alcove surrounded by windows.

Still, it was bigger than my room at the halfway house, and bigger than any cell I'd spent most of my adult life in. And, except for a few pain-in-the-ass restrictions, I was a free man.

A free man with free time. The last time that happened I screwed it up. I was out of prison at 22 and back in at 28. In between, I acted like I missed the place. Too many risks, too many drugs, too many women. And more than a few men.

I wonder what Toby would think if he knew about all that. Would he still be so itchy to come and see me, be with me? Shit, he wants to *live* with me. He talks about me meeting his family. I've come a long way in the past couple of years, but I'm dragging way too much baggage to see myself fitting in with all that.

On the other hand, Toby and I ... *we* fit. That I can see -- just the two of us, hanging on to each other for dear life.

The suspense was killing me, wondering what would happen next. Where we'd go from here.

That's what had my stomach tied in knots as I sat there, dreading and praying for his knock at the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I had fantasized a lot about what it was going to be like, being with Chris at last. During our past two encounters, he certainly hadn't been bashful about touching me. Or kissing the breath out of me.

We didn't talk about it, but we both seemed to know that our next time together had to be something *more.*

Despite all that longing for one another over the phone, we hadn't arranged any quickie lunchtime meetings or hurried encounters. Because what comes next - my fantasies told me - were long, decadent sessions of lovemaking. We would strip each other bare and stay that way for a full weekend. I'd find out where he likes my mouth and what spots drive him absolutely wild. There would be sweat and showers and very little sleep.

And somewhere amid all that, I would tell him that I loved him, too.

That's why I was surprised when he didn't want me to come over to his apartment right away. He'd arranged for a weekend off, but when the momentous Saturday rolled around, he said, "Bring dinner."

So I did.

Granted, it was a little early. But if my great-aunt in Florida can eat dinner at 4:30, then so can we.

I tried hard to be cheery. I pounded on the door, hollering "room service!" He greeted me with a wry smile.

"Welcome to my new pod," he said, sweeping his arm to invite me in.

I gave a nervous laugh. "Pod? You mean 'pad?'" I didn't know what else to say. I had sort of expected to be ravished with kisses. Instead, there was this awkward man who wouldn't even look at me.

He explained sheepishly, "Naw. Back in Oz, there was this one unit that had cells where the walls were made of Plexiglas rather than having bars. They called 'em pods." His voice trailed off. "Anyway, it was stupid to mention it..."

I stood there looking at him, wanting to throw my arms around him and take away his pain. But I had my hands full, holding a big paper bag loaded with Chinese food and one smaller bag ... for later. I fidgeted a bit, then bustled over to the kitchen counter to start unpacking the cartons and plates and plastic forks. "Don't be silly, you're not there anymore, never will be."

I turned toward him, but he turned away, gazing at some spot on the floor. "Sometimes I feel like I can't escape it. Like it's in me."

This crisis of confidence really caught me off-guard. I knew how hard he'd been working, how focused he had been on staying clean and staying free. I'd also learned that he'd gotten out of prison early because of "good behavior." He's been on this positive path and now something had shaken him. But what?

I approached him ever so cautiously. Like he was some wild animal and I didn't want to spook him. But he didn't budge, didn't look up, even when I put my hands on his shoulders. I cocked my head to try to look into his eyes. He blinked, met my gaze once, gave a crooked smile and darted his eyes away. The second time he looked at me, I let him have it.

"I love you."

The words had their desired effect. He sagged against me, pressing his forehead to mine. But he still had some fight left in him.

"No, no, no, Toby. You can't love me. You don't know me, what I'm capable of."

I gripped those broad shoulders tight. I meant business.

"I know what kind of man you've been for the past nine months. And I'm willing to bet that's the way you'll be. Sure, I don't know much about you, but..." I tipped my head, my lips brushing his, "I'm willing to stick around and learn."

As frantic and breathless as our first kiss had been, our second kiss was tentative and gentle. It was what the moment had demanded both times.

The first time, it was life-affirming. Those rough, desperate kisses had reminded me to stop suffering over the mistakes and tragedies of the past and grab hold of something alive and vital. This time, it marked the sweet, slow build-up toward whatever the future might hold.

TBC

FIC: Divine Intervention (6/?)

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 01:14:19 GMT

Divine Intervention (6/?)

He did call. He called every day. He splurged and bought himself one of those prepaid cell phones just so he could call me. And I could call him.

This was a good thing because we couldn't see each other for a while. He'd booked his days and weekends full of work, and he still had to deal with a curfew.

Soon enough, though, he finally would be able to move out of the halfway house. The wait was going to kill us. To put it mildly, a lot of those calls were filled with heavy breathing and long pauses.

In the meantime, the folks at work probably thought I was going nuts, walking around with a perpetual grin. Good -- that'd keep them guessing. Maybe if they thought young Beecher was going crazy, it'd keep them off my ass about getting back on the lawyer track.

Actually, I was using a lot of my lawyer skills coaxing information out of Chris. He was reluctant to talk about himself other than to relate how his day went or tell a funny story about some character he used to know.

Through some persistent questioning, I found out that he'd grown up nearby and that he was a good student but was considered "weird" by the other kids. He didn't elaborate. I found out that he'd graduated from high school -- I think he thought I'd be surprised -- then spent the summer stealing cars and joy riding and getting stoned. Some combination of those activities landed him in jail for the first time.

The four years he did at Lardner roughly corresponded with the four years I spent getting my bachelor's degree at Harvard. He got quite an education, too, and upon "graduation," he used his newfound knowledge to run ponzis and other con jobs.

When I asked him how he wound up getting arrested for robbing a convenience store -- rather than getting caught in a scheme that went awry -- he would clam up. The most I got out of him was that he went into some kind of "tailspin." He never told what caused it, though.

Once, to evade my questions, he asked me, "Why'd you get married?"

I sighed heavily, realizing that there were things I didn't like talking about, either. "I already told you about that," I said.

"Yeah, but ... why her? How'd you get to the point where you *had* to get married?"

"Geez, Chris ... I don't know, it's a long story. ... It was complicated."

"I'm learning that about you -- the complicated part."

I had to chuckle at that. "Oh, boy, you and my mother are really going to get along!"

I was laughing, but he went quiet. I wished I could see his face, try to figure out what was going on in his mind. When he didn't speak, I continued with the story to fill the silence and explain why it was so "complicated."

"Gen and I knew each other from the time we were teenagers. We went to the same high school, our parents belonged to the same club. Anytime there was any kind of social event, we went together. People thought we were the perfect couple.

"She was smart and pretty, and I enjoyed her company. I was very fond of her, but that's about as far as it went. I think she always had a crush on me, but I didn't realize how serious she was.

"We wound up both going to Harvard as undergrads, and I'd see her occasionally. But when I went on to law school, she came back home and started working.

"Then I met someone at law school - someone more 'my type,' if you know what I mean."

This got Chris' attention. "Oh yeah? What was his name?"

"Jeff. I adored him. He was so energetic and idealistic. He loved the law and he loved working for the underdog. He came from a real blue-collar family, and he was going to be in hock up to his eyeballs with student loans for a long time. But instead of looking for a position at a big firm with a big payoff - and he was good enough for that - he went to work as a Legal Aid attorney.

"That's kind of how we parted ways. I wanted to stay with him, or have him come with me. But he had this independent streak. Seemed to care more for 'the people' than for one person - namely, me."

"Gee, that's too bad," Chris said, dripping with mock sincerity.

"Hey! You're not sorry one little bit!" Actually, I was glad he was keeping it light because the story didn't get any easier. "Anyway, when I got home after graduation, I still really hadn't decided what to do. I knew I had a tailor-made job waiting for me at my dad's firm, but I was missing Jeff so bad. My folks had this big party for me at the club. Gen was there and she really seemed to be playing up to me. I got wasted, drunker than I'd ever been."

"Let me guess - she took advantage of you?"

"Well, yes. Sort of. But it's not funny -- not the way it all turned out. She and I had fooled around a couple of times before. But this time was different. I used no sense, no protection. I thought she... Well, about a month later, she tells me she's pregnant."

I heard him mumble, "Oh, man," and attempt an apology. "So you did the right thing and married her...."

"Right. And actually, everyone was pretty happy about it despite the embarrassment of a quick wedding and the baby coming along about 6 months later. They still thought we were the perfect couple, and by all appearances we were. I worked like hell at the firm, we bought a big house in the suburbs and raised our wonderful child."

I could hear him take a sharp breath on the other end of the line - I think the subject of Gary gets him almost as choked up as it does me. Finally, he asked, "What ever happened to Jeff?"

That wasn't the question I expected, but I answered it anyway. "I don't know. I kind of gave up on him, on that part of my life in general. I tried to push it aside as a 'phase' - as something that just stimulated me *intellectually* before I became a responsible adult. Unfortunately, I never really convinced myself of that."

"Unfortunately?"

"Well... up until recently, that's the way I viewed it," I hoped he could hear the smile in my voice.

"What changed your mind?" Yes, he heard it. And I could hear the warm teasing in his.

"A certain tall, dark stranger I met a few months ago."

"Mmmm. Tell me about him." Oh, man, the husky hum of his voice went straight to my cock. It was a welcome distraction.

"He's so handsome. Got my attention right way."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and we seemed to keep bumping into one another at *just* the right time."

"It was fate," he suggested.

"Someone once called it 'divine intervention.'"

"That too. Do you still disagree?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore." It was true. And it didn't help that Chris and I seemed to be stuck in some kind of limbo. "Sometimes it doesn't feel real. We've hardly spent any time together at all, and it seems like forever till I can see you again."

"Just another 10 days, babe."

"Oh, man, I can't wait. I wish you were moving in here."

"We've already been through that. I've gotta have my own place for a while."

"I know. But a guy can dream can't he?"

"Oh, yeah. I do it all the time." And with that he said good night. "See you in your dreams, Toby."

Oh, man, was that ever true.

I hung up the phone thinking about the the dreams I'd been having about Chris -- asleep *and* awake. I let my mind wander, but not too far this time. I thought about the next steps. With Chris getting out of the halfway house. I'd finally have have time to spend with him, touch him, really get to know him. Find out if what we were feeling was more than a dream.

Meanwhile, the harsh reality was that he had three more months left on parole. He had found an apartment, explaining that he needed some time on his own to adjust to being free. Besides, he'd still be subject to random searches. If he moved in with me, it's likely my place would get torn up.

Maybe it was a good idea, but I couldn't escape the feeling that he was hiding from me.

One thought comforted me as I drifted off to sleep. If Chris was right, and it was some kind of divine intervention that threw us together, God wouldn't have the balls to keep us apart.

TBC...

FIC: Divine Intervention (5/?)

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 01:12:38 GMT

Divine Intervention (5/?)

Over the next couple of months, I buried myself in work. During the week, I took every bit of overtime my employer and my curfew allowed. The weekends I filled with a string of jobs from scrubbing floors to washing dishes to telemarketing.

There were a lot of reasons for working so hard, I told myself. I needed the money. It kept me out of that godawful halfway house. It led me not into temptation.

The real reason? It made me so damn tired I couldn't think about Tobias Beecher, Esq., for very long before I passed out from exhaustion every night. Plus, I was way too busy. There was no time to call. And if he called me, there was no time to do anything anyway. Right?

Besides, I had decided that coincidence had worked pretty well for us twice. It would just have to work its charm a third time.

I'm an idiot for ever thinking it wouldn't happen.

My latest odd job was as a groundskeeper at a cemetery. It was getting into autumn, and the leaves had started to fall. They needed an extra hand to keep things tidy on the weekends.

There were other chores to do, of course, and one of them was to make sure no one left anything on the graves except cut flowers. It was sad to see some of the mementos people left behind, and I hated having to take them away.

I was making one last sweep around the grounds on a Saturday afternoon and spotted something strewn across the grass up on a little hill. I hopped out of the maintenance cart to check it out.

At first, I thought it was just trash, but as I got closer, I recognized what it was. There were some stones, and shells and a plastic model of a very impressive fish. A swordfish maybe?

I had trouble swallowing, even breathing as I read the name on the headstone and the six short years between the date of birth and the date of death.

Gary Beecher
Beloved Son

He had died exactly four years ago.

I knelt down and picked up the stones and shells and laid them on the top of the headstone. I leaned the fish up against the memorial too, figuring I could pick it up before I left on Sunday afternoon. No lawnmowers would be out tomorrow, so why not let Gary have his toy for a little while.

I wondered when his father had visited - how much I had missed him by. Fate didn't work out so good this time.

Well, maybe it just needed a helping hand.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I'd cocooned myself so deeply in the blanket that I barely heard the knocking at the door at first. When it got more persistent, I staggered up. I figured it would be my mother, equipped with soup and comfort - both of which I would reject.

So many emotions blew through me when I opened the door. Anger, joy, annoyance, relief. I settled on relief.

"Hi," I managed.

"Hi."

I just stared at him, like I was afraid he was some apparition that would just disappear.

"Can I come in?" He asked, edging inside the door.

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon in."

I shuffled back to the couch, curled back into the blanket. I hit the mute button on the TV remote, silencing Keith Jackson and the roar of the enthusiastic college crowd. Chris sat on the edge of the La-Z-Boy, his mouth half-open, seemingly on the verge of saying something but not quite sure what.

So I went first. "What are you doing here?"

He opened his mouth a bit wider and finally said, "I ... I'm sorry didn't call. I..."

"Why today?" I asked abruptly.

That seemed to clear his mind.

"I'm working up at Fairlawn on the weekends. On the grounds. I found ... I found the shells and stuff."

I couldn't speak. What were the chances? What were the chances on this day, in that place, this man would find the trinkets I left for my son?

I was starting to re-think that divine intervention business.

"What kind of fish was that?"

"Huh?" I'd drifted off into thought. His question brought me back.

"The fish. Is it a swordfish?"

"Uh, no." I coughed. I hadn't talked all day. "It's a blue marlin. They're bigger. They're known for their strength, for the fight they put up."

"Blue marlin. ... Like in Hemingway?"

"Yeah, that's it." A few awkward moments passed. Chris was here, but now what?

"Tell me about him," he said, almost a whisper.

No! I couldn't do that. "It hurts too much."

But I felt surrender come over me, and a sense of quiet. Like this was the right person to tell it to. I slumped down, laying my head on the arm of the couch, looking upward. "It's all my fault," I told him.

Chris stood up and came over to sit on the floor. He laid a hand on my chest.

"Tell me."

I took a shaky breath. "What do you want to know?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I wanted to know everything. How did Gary die? Where is your wife? What did you do to make you feel so guilty? Instead, I asked, "Why the shells and stuff?"

It was the right question because it brought a smile. And he started to tell the story.

"My folks have a place out on the shore. The first time we took Gary out there, he was three. When we brought him out on the beach, it was low tide and the sun was catching the stones in the sand. He literally squealed with delight. Said something like 'Sparkles!' and he dashed off to the shoreline. He started picking up all the different colored stones and giving them to us, like they were precious gems.

"I led him out a little farther, just wading a little bit. When it's low tide out there, it exposes a lot of tidal pools. Hermit crabs and little fish and other critters get caught in them. I showed him this, and it was like a whole 'nother world opened up to him. I tried to tell him what the different things were. I don't know how much he understood or how much he would remember. He was just so excited and ... mesmerized.

"That's kind of what started it all. We spent a lot of time going out there, because he loved it so much. I loved it too.

"It worked out pretty well. My wife - her name was Gen, Genevieve - she and I weren't getting along so well, so she didn't mind when I took Gary away on weekends. She was with him all through the week while I was at work, so she was glad for the time alone. And I was glad for the time with him.

"Sometimes we'd go to the zoo. He'd enjoy the animals, but the aquarium was his favorite part. Every time we went, I'd get him another one of those plastic fish from the gift store. He was getting a pretty good collection for someone so young. The last time we went was for his sixth birthday."

Then he stopped. It was as if the thought of what came next had choked him.

I tried to prompt him into continuing. "So, did he get sick?"

After a moment, he said, "No. He was killed."

"An accident?" I envisioned a drunk driver. Then I thought about his words from earlier, "It's all my fault," and turned cold. Oh no! He killed his own son?

His next words didn't bring much relief.

"Not an accident. Murder."

I'd been watching him as he told me the story of his son. He kept his eyes closed, almost as if he were watching his little boy play on the beach and marvel at the fish at the aquarium. He even smiled a time or two.

But on that word "murder," he turned his head and looked at me. Like the rest was a dream and this was the harsh reality.

"But why would anyone want to murder a little boy?" I asked him.

He moved out from under my hand and sat up upright. He stared at the silent TV, where the football game was winding down.

He picked at the blanket and continued the story. The warmth in his voice was gone. "My wife's father was a judge. He was well-suited for it because he was *very judgmental*. Very principled. He never, ever gave in on a point.

"He had this one case involving the Aryan Brotherhood. Nazi assholes. They didn't like his ruling. But these *fucks,* instead of doing something sensible like *appealing,* tried a different approach -- punishing the judge.

"The Aryans should have just killed the bastard. I wish they had. I wish *I* could.

"Anyway, I guess they wanted to make him suffer. So they tried to kidnap the judge's daughter - Gen, my wife. They tried to make it look like a car-jacking. She'd made a quick stop at a convenience store, and when she got back into the car, they were there waiting. They drove for a while and she took a chance and hit the one holding a knife and managed to jump out of the car. She was hurt pretty badly because the car was still moving a bit. But she did it, saved herself.

"Only problem, Gary was in the car. She'd just picked him up from school. She told me she thought they'd abandon the car and come after her because they'd said something about her father and how she was going to help make him pay. But instead, they took the car and drove off. With Gary.

"Gen was a wreck. She was at the hospital the whole rest of the time. They had her pretty well sedated for the pain and her mental state. She wasn't much help with her father or the negotiations. She'd just look at me and say, 'Toby, I'm sorry.'"

Toby. I'd been wondering, what do people call you, Tobias Beecher, Esq., Attorney at Law?

Toby.

Toby, Toby, Toby.

I got up off the floor and sat next to him, reconnecting. I put my arm along the back of the couch and lightly touched his shoulder. He turned slightly toward me and continued.

"The kidnappers didn't seem to know what they wanted. They'd ask for money, then they'd ask for justice for one of their 'brothers.' No matter what, my father-in-law refused to give in. I begged him, give them the money. Let *me* give them the money. Give them what they want. Anything, just get my son -- your grandson - back.

"But *he* was the target and *he* was calling the shots, and he decided that to give in to their demands would be 'tantamount to trivializing the entire justice system.'"

Toby said this last part in a pompous voice, mocking what I'm sure he heard his father-in-law say. The rest, he told in a voice that I could barely hear. I leaned closer to catch his words.

"So one day, after this had dragged on about a week, he got a package in the mail."

Toby's breathing was coming faster now, in short bursts, re-living the horror he was about to tell.

"The FBI was at the house, on the case. They had an X-ray machine, to check for mail bombs and other suspicious mail. This wasn't a bomb, though. ... It was a hand. A small child's hand."

He got so quiet that I felt, rather than heard, the sob that wracked Toby's body. I moved closer, and pulled him against me. Tucked his head against my shoulder and felt him shake.

He clutched at my arm and told me the rest. As he spoke, I felt his breath against my neck.

"A few days later, they found Gary's body. Gen was home from the hospital, and everyone was around, helping with the arrangements. And no one seemed to be able to look me in the eye. I know my folks were hurting too, but they seemed so helpless through this whole thing. We buried Gary, and then everyone seemed to want to get back to 'normal.'"

He looked up at me, and I stroked the side of his face. I asked him, "So, I don't understand. How is any of that your fault?"

He tore himself away from me and stood up, began pacing. I could hear him inhaling heavily through flared nostrils. "Because he never should have been born!"

He paced some more, hands tugging through his hair. His voice should have boomed out, but he was hoarse from all the emotion.

"No one's ever been able to see that. My whole marriage was a sham. I should never have had a child! It was a mistake. And Gary paid for it with his life!"

I stood up and grabbed him, tried to sooth him. "No, no, no. Sssshhh. It was a wonderful thing. His life..." I tried to hold him still, but he pushed and struggled to get away. I wouldn't let him.

Finally, he sagged into me. He continued, "The next couple of years, I pretty much lived at the office or the courtroom. Without Gary, there was nothing to focus on at home. Gen had been my friend once. But being my wife -- that shouldn't have happened. And she knew that, felt that.

"So one day, when I was away at a conference. ... I got a call from my dad. Gen had killed herself. Took some pills and sat in the garage with the car running."

He shook his head over and over and I barely heard him say, "all my fault," as he buried his face against my shoulder.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I had never told anyone that whole story before. They had either lived through it with me or were completely ignorant of it.

It was strangely liberating, to make the full confession. Well, *almost* full. A key factor in the equation was missing. But holding onto Chris - and craving that touch -- that spoke volumes on its own.

We stood there for a while, rocking back and forth -- like we were dancing, ever so slowly, to some unheard music.

Then he pulled his head back and looked at me, full of worry and sadness. There were no more words to say. So I kissed him.

It had been a long time since anything had felt so right. A lifetime ago.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was nothing shy or tentative about the first time we kissed. When his mouth pressed against mine, I opened to it, kissed back like my life depended on it. We breathed in short gasps, too hungry to come up for air.

This was a kiss of two people who knew fully what they wanted and had finally found it.

I broke off the kiss once, just to gaze at him. His eyes stayed closed, his mouth open, moving, missing the contact. I dove back in for more, feeling my own lips grow tender as if the only thing that mattered was the sensation of moving my mouth over his. I grabbed the back of his head and pressed him closer, craving the jolt of every scrape of his stubble or nip of his teeth as our mouths crushed together.

Finally, with both hands on my shoulders, he pushed slightly away. His breath puffed against my face as he tried to regain some composure.

I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye. On the TV, the football game had given way to the nightly news and...

"Shit!"

I'm sure that wasn't quite the reaction he had been expecting after that mind-blowing kiss.

"I gotta go."

"Oh. OK." The look on his face was even more heartbreaking than any of the story he had told me.

"No! No, don't worry!" I put my hands alongside his face and pressed his forehead to mine. "I just lost track of time. I have half an hour till curfew. I'll barely make it!"

He stole another kiss and spoke against my lips. "You'll call this time?"

"Oh, God, yes. ... I love you, Toby." I pressed my body against his one last time and kissed deep into his mouth. But after far too short a time, I had to pull away. I stroked his sweet, stunned face and hustled out the door.

TBC...

FIC: Divine Intervention (4/?)

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 01:11:23 GMT

Divine Intervention (4/?)

I should've been dead tired after last night at the shelter and chasing around all day. But I couldn't sleep. All I could see when I closed my eyes was the hurt-puppy look on his face when I pushed him away.

He was the last person I really wanted to lash out at. I'd like to start with those assholes who conveniently reminded me what a loser I am, always have been. I'm kidding myself to think that I can erase all that and start anew.

I wanted to smack myself, too, for thinking that I could have anything with that man, my *lawyer.*

And that was the other thing that was keeping me from sleeping - trying to figure out exactly what I did want from him. I'd only seen him two times, but I felt this connection. Why?

I idly rubbed my hand across my bare chest, feeling the damp skin and the thudding of my heart. My fingers found the familiar knot of puckered flesh up near my shoulder. The scar is four years old now, but the fear and pain from that day are still like new, reminding me to stay on the straight and narrow.

I turned on my side and curled up around my pillow, trying to stop the jitters that always come with those memories.

Finally, I found another memory to soothe me. I thought of that day in the diner, when I first met him. When the light flashed in my eyes and lit up his face.

He looked like an angel.

The thought calmed me for a moment. But like most things in my sorry life, it didn't last. Some idiot crashed down the hall, long past curfew. I heard the cussing of the guards and the other residents and it brought me back to reality.

I had to quit conjuring up romantic notions. I had to stick to my rules, had to go back to keeping my head down and letting temptation pass me by.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Somehow I'd gotten it in my head that he'd call to apologize. Or explain. Or something.

A week went by, then two, and nothing. Well, nothing except me feeling edgy and distracted and inexplicably heartbroken.

My father, sensing my foul mood, tried to be helpful and invited me over to the old homestead for the weekend. My brother, Angus, and his wife would be there too. I agreed, thinking maybe a change of scenery would help get my mind off things.

Instead, I only had more time to think. About Chris. And why he pushed me away. And why I cared.

My family tip-toed around me all day, acting as if I would break into a million pieces if they said the wrong thing. There were times when that might have been the case, but those days were past. I just needed them to be *normal.* For that matter, *I* just wanted to be normal.

When they finally all went to bed, I breathed a sigh of relief. Alone at last, with just some fine old movie to occupy my mind. About an hour into the flick, however, my mother crept into the darkened room.

"Dear, don't you think you should get some sleep?"

"No, mother, I'm OK. These old movies help me relax. This is a great one -- 'Here Comes Mr. Jordan.'"

"Oh, yes! So funny and romantic."

We watched together for a while. I knew the silence wouldn't last.

"Toby, you know if something was bothering you, you can always talk to me."

Actually, I did know that. My mother was surprisingly receptive despite her formal bearing.

"Ever since ..." She still couldn't say it. "Well ... I worry about you. Being alone and all."

"Mother, we've had this talk before, and I'm OK."

"Yes, I know. But this visit you seem ... different. A little sad? Has something happened?"

I had to laugh. You can't hide anything from Mom. I just shook my head.

We watched the movie for a while longer and I worked up my nerve.

"I thought maybe I'd met someone."

My mother just looked at me, stayed very still, waiting. Worried.

"But it's, uh ... complicated."

It was my mother's turn to laugh. "Well, of course it is, dear. It's *you*!"

That broke the ice a little. I braced myself and forged ahead.

"I guess I got my hopes up a little bit. I met someone who I really felt a connection with. It was funny because we'd only run into each other a couple of times."

"Sometimes that's all it takes," she said, which surprised me. I always thought she was a believer in long and careful courtships. "But it didn't work out?"

"No, I don't think so. We, um, parted on a bad note. I don't know if I'll see ... him ... again."

"Oh! Oh, well, I see." She was taken aback, trying to process this information. Fortunately for her, this type of news coming from me was not a *complete* shock. She was the only one I'd ever confided in, early in my marriage, that maybe it wasn't the right thing for me. And why.

Also, she had met my "roommate" at law school. I think she knew what was going on there, and she may have clued in my father. Still, they were both relieved when Number One Son got married and produced a child, even under the circumstances.

Finally, she said. "Do you want to see him again?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Then what's stopping you?"

"I don't know, mother. It's, it's...."

"Complicated?"

"Yes," I laughed. "Very."

With that, she got up, gave me a kiss on the forehead. "Well, good night, dear. I'll try to brace your father. You work on your friend and invite him over when you're ready."

I smiled to myself, envisioning that scene.

Then I drifted off to sleep in the glow of the TV, just as Robert Montgomery managed to win the championship and his love. It's the stuff that dreams are made of.

TBC...

FIC: Divine Intervention (3/?)

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 01:10:20 GMT

Divine Intervention (3/?)

Lunch was ready, so I had gone to wake Sleeping Beauty. When I got to the spare room, I found that he wasn't sleeping, but the beauty part was right.

The way he wore his clothes had hinted at a strong body. Now, still just in the towel, his display of flesh and muscle had me speechless.

"I uh...."

Lunch is ready? Your clothes are over there? Those words were around somewhere. But "Umm" was about all I could manage. Thankfully, he came to my rescue.

"Hey, I smelled some good smells coming from the kitchen!"

"Uh, yeah, I fixed us some lunch. Come and get it while it's, uh, hot."

I hustled back to the kitchen to let him get dressed, my own mouth watering for very different reasons.

"They're a good fit," he said a few minutes later, setting himself down at the table, where I'd dished up a fine meal of grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup. I smiled at seeing this man in my "uniform." He certainly did different things to my clothes than I seemed to.

It also made me smile to watch him eat. He attacked his sandwich with pure glee, humming with each bite. "Man, this is great!" And he slurped a spoonful of soup.

"Well, it's the perfect comfort food. It seemed right for the occasion. I used to make this a lot."

There was silence for a moment. Then, he asked, "For Gary?"

More silence. "Yes, for Gary."

"Oh."

I fiddled with my napkin a moment, wondering how much to say. Finally, I took a deep breath, ready to plunge in. "Yeah, he used to love it after we'd been outdoors all day. When we'd have a day with just 'us guys,' I'd make this for dinner." I paused. "So how do you know about Gary?"

"I don't, really. I just saw the boxes, and ... wondered if someone else lived here."

Ah, that explains it. "No, it's just me." I huffed out a breath of air. "Gary never lived here."

I looked up at Chris, figured he must be sorry he stepped into something. I owed him an explanation.

"Gary was my son. He ... died."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Any relief I might have felt that Gary wasn't a lover -- ex- or otherwise -- vanished with those sad words.

"Oh, man. I'm so stupid for bringing it up. You've done so much for me, and now I've gone and dredged up bad memories."

He waved his hand, like it was nothing, and got up to clear the dishes. "It was a few years ago. I don't know why I keep those boxes of stuff around. I just ... do."

I followed him into the kitchen. Well, I'd come this far, I'll blunder on... "So, you were married?"

"Yes."

"But now you're not?"

"No."

Apparently, my lawyer had an objection to this line of questioning, so I dropped it.

"I, um, I feel so bad ... about your son ... That's just ... wrong."

I definitely wasn't helping the situation - he just seemed to be getting more upset. He was scrubbing the frying pan like he was going to take the Teflon off. The tap was spewing hot water and the suds were flying. He'd rolled up his sleeves and I could see the veins pop out on his forearms.

Finally, he turned off the water and braced his hands on the edge of the counter. His shoulders were heaving with deep breaths as he tried to calm himself.

"I'm sorry, but ... sometimes it still feels so raw. Playing lawyer today, and the talk of Gary and.... It just reminded me of how I totally fucked up my life."

Once upon a time, my normal response might have been, "Your life couldn't be any more fucked up than mine!" or "Why don't you explain it to me, rich boy." But things were different. This man was different. And, for once, I kept my mouth shut to avoid making things worse.

But I wanted him to know I cared. I stepped behind him and put one hand on his shoulder, using the other hand to stroke that golden hair. I felt him tense at first, then relax, lean back into me. In that other lifetime, I might have tried to make a move, grab his cock or grope his ass. But not now.

Instead we just stood there for a minute - or maybe it was five - perfectly still. Then, he sighed and pulled away.

"We'd better get going. We don't want to be late and make your PO any more annoyed than he already is."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The meeting with his parole officer was the perfect thing to get him focused back on his own troubles and stop worrying about mine.

Besides, my troubles were dead and buried -- literally. His were still very much alive and snapping at his heels.

We grabbed a cab and rode in silence, giving me a chance to think. Did I have to gear back up and be his lawyer? I hoped not. I explained things pretty clearly to the PO that morning. Now it would just be a matter of them hashing out whether the incident warranted any changes in the terms of Chris' parole. I was confident Chris wouldn't be going back to Oz. Anything else, I figured he could handle.

From the accounts I'd gotten from his bosses over at the warehouse, he really has been doing remarkably well. And I learned from the PO that Chris' latest offense had been armed robbery, DUI and possession. He also told me Chris had been in prison before.

I thought about the gentle, grateful man back at my apartment and couldn't reconcile that with a violent, criminal history. Could it be a con? Or could it possibly be that the penal system actually rehabilitated someone?

Remembering how good it felt to lean into that warm, strong body, I hoped for the latter.

And then maybe I'd find out if my rehabilitation was complete, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The meeting with my parole officer went as well as I could expect. Maybe better, since he didn't send me back to Oz, or even Lardner. Just back to the halfway house for three more months. Great. If they'd just let me stay there a few more *days,* all of this could have been avoided.

When I left the PO's office, my -- what? lawyer? benefactor? savior? -- was still waiting in the lobby. He still hadn't run. That alone qualified him for sainthood in my book.

I filled him in on what happened, and we hopped in another cab. I needed to go get the stuff I'd crammed in my locker at work till I could move into my apartment. And I had to see if I could get first, last and deposit back. My lawyer seemed optimistic.

I tried again to figure him out. If he fucked up his life like he said, he must be a glutton for punishment if he thinks hooking up with me is the way to go. Also, the way he's helped me out was almost too good to be true. I'd think he was running a con, except he must know he has nothing to gain from me.

Unless... naw, if it were sex, we'd already have done it. I was patting myself on the back for my new-found restraint, but I have to admit, if he'd made a move on me when I was half-naked just before lunch, it would have been almost impossible for me to have resisted.

If he'd stepped inside the room instead of stammering and backing away, my resolve would have been lost. That towel would've been on the floor and Tobias Beecher, Esq., Attorney at Law would've been pinned underneath me on the couch. I pictured him spread out and thrusting up to meet me, feeling his cock harden against mine through those fine pants of his. I would've yanked that fancy tie off and ripped open the buttons on his shirt and made a feast of him from his lips to that long, strong neck, licking my way down to his nipples....

"Are you OK?"

"Huh?" I tried to pull myself back to reality.

"You were breathing kind of heavy, I thought you were upset."

"No, no... nothing like that." I hope I hadn't moaned. I shifted, trying to make myself more comfortable in ... oh god ... his pants.

"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you *were* angry."

"I think I'm just more kind of ... dazed than anything else," I tried to explain. "I was going to be free of the halfway house, now I'm back there. I've been beaten, cuffed and threatened with jail. I was trying to be a model employee, but now I'm sure I've fucked that up."

"Well, don't worry about that last point. They understand; it's taken care of."

"Yeah, see, that's another thing." I had to be careful here. "I don't want to sound ungrateful or anything, but I'm a little confused about why you're helping me."

He didn't say anything for a moment and I was worried I'd blown it. Finally, he struggled to put it in words, "I'm a little confused too. That day in the diner ... I saw you and I thought.... Ah, after I talked to you ... Well, if you'd been a jerk, I probably wouldn't have bothered."

"And I would've missed out on some great pancakes."

He laughed. "Yeah, well, glad you enjoyed them! As it turns out, what I did wasn't that big of a deal. I made a phone call and put in a good word. You've done all the hard part and saved my skin by being a good worker."

"What about today, though, all you've done?"

"Well, today was just dumb luck. Being at the right place at the right time. In the right suit."

We were both laughing at this point, just as the cabbie pulled up to the warehouse where I worked.

"No, seriously though," I said. "It feels to me like it's more than luck. It's like ... divine intervention."

He smirked and shook his head. "No such thing." He gave me a push toward the door, clearly meaning end of conversation. "Get out and get your stuff."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

We took care of his last remaining chore for the day, getting the first and last months' rent back on his would-be apartment. The deposit was still in contention, but I would throw a lawyerly scare into the landlord next week and it would be settled.

Once we pulled up to the halfway house, I got out of the cab to say goodbye to Chris.

"Here," I said, pulling a business card out of my wallet. "I'm going to give you my card just in case you need anything."

"Oh, thanks, but I've already got one. You gave it to me back at the station house."

"Yeah, well, that one's a little outdated. This one has my current information on it."

He studied the card, looked up at me, amazed. "Senior researcher? So you're not a lawyer? How'd you...?"

I held up my hand before he leapt to any conclusions. "Technically, I am a lawyer. I'm still a member of the Bar and am licensed to practice. I just prefer not to."

"I'm not getting any less confused here!" At least he was laughing.

"Let me explain. A couple of years ago, after a lot of bad shit in my life, I decided that being a lawyer -- and all the power and money and stress that go along with it -- was not making me happy. In fact, it had created a lot of misery and resulted in a lot of poor decisions along the way.

"I didn't have much left. No life, no love, a big house that I hated and work that made me crazy. I realized I had a chance at a colossal 'do-over.'"

Chris was getting this kind of dreamy look on his face, like he was looking *into* me rather than *at* me. "Wow," he said. "Kind of like a near-death experience. Like being re-born?"

"Well, I certainly was near a lot of death!" I huffed out the words. "But yeah, definitely like getting a second life."

While he mulled that over, I explained some more. "I thought about trying to go back to the time when I was just starting out in my career. I had loved law school; I was a great student. Everyone figured I'd make a great lawyer. Well, the reason I loved law school was that I love studying. I always enjoyed doing the research. I've always thought the best parts of the law are in the fine print.

"So, when I returned from a leave of absence, I asked to be transferred to the research and investigations department. It was an easy request, because my dad's the lead partner at the firm and everyone was feeling sorry for me back then anyway. They figured I just needed some time to regroup. Now they just shake their heads and wonder when I'm going to grow some balls and go back to being a 'real lawyer' again."

Just then, a couple of other "guests" of the halfway house walked by and decided to welcome their neighbor back home. "Hey Keller, I see you're back! Didn't take long," one called out. The other hollered, "Loser!"

As their taunting and laughter drifted away, Chris suddenly couldn't look at me anymore. He watched his boots kick at the sidewalk, he looked over at the birds on the fence. Finally, he said, "Thanks again for your help. I'm glad you decided to be a real lawyer for a while today. I'll see ya."

He started to walk away, and I just stood there for a stunned moment. "Hey, wait a minute!" I trotted a few steps and caught up with him, grabbed his arm and turned him around. He flung my hand away like I had burned him. Gave me a shove.

I think the reaction surprised him as much as me. He dipped his head from side to side, said, "Look, you've done a great thing for me. But you've got a good life going for you now. You don't need me in it. Just go on back and ... be happy."

With that, he bounded up the steps to the front doors and disappeared inside.

TBC...

Fic: Divine Intervention (2/?)

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 22:06:38 GMT

Divine Intervention (2/?)

"I was supposed to move into an apartment this week, but the super called and told me that the city is cracking down and he's gotta fumigate the building. So that means I can't move in till next Monday.

"But I had to move out of the halfway house - my term there was up and they wouldn't let me stay. I've been trying to save money and I figured that it wouldn't kill me to crash at the men's shelter for a couple of nights till the apartment was ready."

My words came out all rushed together so I could make him understand, fast, before he ran off.

"I made the mistake of keeping some money on me - more than normal because of thinking I'd need to buy some stuff for the apartment.

"Anyway, I thought I was being smart. I know those places. The shelters ... people try to rip you off for what little you have. So I took my cash and I put it in a plastic bag and taped it to my chest.

"Last night, my second night there, they came at me. A couple of guys, while I was sleeping. I don't know if they knew I had cash or where I had it, but they came at me. All I know is that I woke up swinging. There were hands, fists everywhere, pulling at me, my clothes.

"The shelter workers broke it up fast, but there was a beat cop there too. Must have him on speed dial or something. My shirt was torn open, and they saw the baggie of money. That's when all of a sudden I became the bad guy instead of the victim. That, and when they ran my ID and my rap sheet came up. So they hauled me in here, and I've been cooling my heels here for a few hours."

He stood up. Shit. Good-bye, benefactor.

"Have they charged you with anything?" he asked. He was fishing around in his pockets, pulling out one business card, then another, frowning at them.

"No, they're still thinking about it. Because of the money I had -- they figure there's no way a bum like me should have all that -- they're trying to make up a drug charge or a robbery charge or something. I'm pretty sure they'll at least find a way to send me back to Oz for the fight."

He must've found what he was looking for because he focused back on me. "Well that's not going to happen. You now have representation, and your lawyer is going to get this matter cleared up and you released. Now." With that he handed me one of the business cards, then strode off toward a pack of uniforms.

I looked at the card.

Tobias Beecher, Esq.
Attorney at Law

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It had been ages since I'd worn that suit. I didn't have many of them left, but my appointments that day called for making an impression. This wasn't quite the audience I had in mind, but I was definitely dressed for the part.

As I listened to Chris' story, it was as if a combination clicked into place. My clothes, a miscarriage of justice, an argument to be made. Somewhere in my pockets ... Yes, there were my old business cards. Like the suit, they're another artifact of when I was a "real" lawyer.

I handed one of the cards to Chris, made some reassuring noises, then headed off to back up my words to him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I watched Tobias Beecher, Esq., Attorney at Law in action. It was a thing of beauty. Within seconds, he dismissed the underlings, cornered the leader, and delivered his message. His body language alone screamed, "Don't fuck with me."

Next thing I knew, my lawyer was striding back toward me with a cop in tow.

"Stand up. This officer will remove your handcuffs. Then he will escort you to the property room, where you will have your money returned to you with the apologies of the city police department. I will wait for you outside."

Well, there was no arguing with that -- from me or the cop. And it went down exactly as he said. When I found Tobias Beecher, Esq., out front, he was just snapping his cell phone shut.

"I talked to your employer and your parole officer and explained the situation. Your boss said take the day off, you have plenty of sick time accrued, and your parole officer wants to see you at 2:30 this afternoon.

"In the meantime, you are released in my custody. I'm sure you'd like a shower and some sleep, so come with me."

Like I said, there was no arguing with that. I rushed off after my lawyer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The problem with getting into lawyer mode was that it was always hard for me to break out of it.

Here I was, leading a recently released convict back to my apartment, but the thing that scared me was how the rush of adrenaline had me so pumped up. It was a feeling I no longer relished.

Chris was trailing a couple of steps behind me, and I finally slowed my pace enough for him to catch up. I stopped, and turned toward him. Rubbing my forehead, I started to mumble, "Look, I'm sorry... I... "

"You're sorry?! Are you nuts?! That was great!" And with that I found myself in a very tight bear hug. "Oh, man, I owe you so much. I owe you so much!"

I went from one rush to another as I reveled in the strength and the scent of this man. He had his arms wrapped around my shoulders, his mouth near my ear so I felt his breath as he repeated, "Thank you, thank you, thank you," almost chanting.

I managed to work a hand in between us, pressed it against his chest, and - reluctantly - eased him away. I kept my hand there a moment, feeling the beat of his heart, both of us catching our breath. When we started walking again, it was at a much more relaxed pace, side by side.

He was quiet again until we got to my apartment. He stepped inside the door, gave a low whistle, and said, "*Nice* place!"

I chuckled, and he looked surprised. I guess everything is relative.

"You're definitely the first person who's had *that* reaction." I watched him as he scanned the living room. The TV, I will admit, is impressive. But the furniture is nothing fancy, meant only to serve as a comfortable spot for a guy to watch the ballgame or the late show or prop his feet up with the Sunday paper and not worry about spilling coffee.

The room opens into an area that contains a crowded mix of furniture for my dining room/home office. Chris' eyes seemed drawn to the bookcase, which also held quite a mix of items -- detective novels, some DVDs and videos, a few photo albums, and lots of law books.

I led him down a short hallway. "There's the bathroom, if you want to take a shower. I'll get you some towels and try to find some clothes that might fit you."

I moved a couple more steps to show him another room -- one that doesn't get much use. "The couch in here folds out into a sofa bed. I'll make it up later, and you can sack out here till your apartment is ready. I'm sorry for the clutter." I gestured toward a row of storage boxes stacked against one wall of the small room. "I'm not used to company."

He gave me a crooked smile. "Well, I'm not used to much space, so it feels kind of like home."

I knew he was just trying to make light of the situation, be self-deprecating. But the thought made me sad. Although I knew so very little about him, I felt like he deserved better.

"Well, anyway, let me know if you need anything. I'll get those towels."

I left him alone to get cleaned up. While he was showering, I made some more phone calls and canceled the rest of my appointments for the day. I was tapping away at some e-mails when I realized I hadn't heard the water running or any noise from the bathroom for a while. When I went to check on him, I found him stretched out face down on the couch, with the bath towel wrapped around him, sound asleep.

Shit! I'd forgotten to dig up some clothes for him. I'd really lost track of time, and as I rummaged through my closet, hunger pangs hit me and I realized I'd better make us some lunch, too.

I found a pair of oversized khakis that were a gift from a well-meaning relative. I grabbed one of my roomy Oxford-cloth shirts, too. I figure the shirt should fit him OK - although it probably wouldn't be so roomy on him. The thought made me feel a little flushed.

I left the clothes on the arm of the couch, where he'd spot them when he woke up, and went to see what I could scrounge up in the kitchen.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The shower and the nap had done me a world of good. And something was definitely cooking, so the promise of a warm meal had me pretty well contented.

I dozed a little while longer on the couch. I was so relaxed that it was hard to believe that the last time I woke up, I was fighting and clawing for my life. A virtual stranger had gotten me out of that scrape and that was a little hard to believe, too.

I wondered what his story was. He's a lawyer. Got expensive clothes, good connections and a nice apartment. Although, I guess it really should be nicer, considering the money he must make.

I looked around the room, but there wasn't much to see. There was a small bookcase - nothing like the giant one out in the dining room - and all those storage boxes. The shelves of the bookcase had a few dusty odds and ends on them. There were a lot of shells and rocks that looked like someone had collected them from the beach, along with some books about fish and animals. There were some other souvenir-type things, too. Cups from a football game, a couple of snow globes, some plastic figurines of sharks and whales.

As for the boxes, they were neatly stacked and labeled. I got up to take a closer look. That's when I felt an odd little pang - jealousy maybe? The boxes all said "Gary's clothes" or "Gary's papers" or "Gary's books."

I was tempted to snoop, find out who this Gary was. A friend? Something more? Would he be back? I was pondering this when I heard footsteps coming down the hall.

TBC...

FIC: Divine Intervention (1/?)

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 22:03:41 GMT

Title: Divine Intervention
Fandom: Oz
Notes: This is AU Beecher/Keller. Toby was never in Oz, and Chris is merely career-criminal-Keller rather than psycho-killer-Keller.
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me, etc. *sobs*
Thanks: To rileyc for her encouragement. :)

=====================================

Divine Intervention (1/?)

It was a little late in the game, but I'd finally become hell-bent on playing by the rules.

The Parole Board had a few: Get a job, stay out of trouble, stay clean, stay home after dark.

And I made a few of my own, Number One being, "Keep your head down." I know trouble when I see it, and I just didn't want to look temptation in the eye.

So that's how I missed him when he first came in the diner. I had my nose buried in the classified ads, looking for the perfect job for a two-time loser desperately trying to avoid the third strike.

The place was busy, but not too crowded. There were a few other people at the counter with me, but we weren't elbow-to-elbow. I felt pretty good that the help wouldn't make me move along while I nursed my third cup of coffee and chewed at the remains of my toast. It was part of my plan to trick my stomach into thinking it was having a big, long meal rather than the buck-ninety-nine special. Maybe my gut wouldn't start grumbling too loud or too soon.

Besides, it was pretty raw outside, and I was in no rush to leave. The gray day and the gray print and my gray mood actually were an improvement over what faced me back at the halfway house or at some grungy potential workplace.

If I could coax the waitress into one more cup of coffee, I could keep humiliation at bay for another 15, 20 minutes.

I don't know what kind of cloud was hanging over everybody else in that diner, but a sudden flash of light caught us all by surprise. It got everybody buzzing with sarcasm, "Hey look the sun came out! I can see my shadow! How many more weeks of winter is that? Call the weatherman! Get a groundhog!"

The sun was at just the right angle to bounce off the cars stuck in traffic outside and into the windows of the diner. The glare made me look away. And that's when I saw him. Just around the bend of the counter, not quite close enough to touch.

With the sun full in his face, I'm sure he couldn't see me, so I drank in the sight of him, with those golden curls all lit up and his eyes blazing the same blue as his shirt.

When the traffic finally budged outside, the glare went away and I snapped my head back to the newspaper. I don't know how long I had been staring. Probably only about 10 seconds or so, but it was a heartbeat too long, and I knew he'd caught me looking.

I studied the ads, or tried to, while my stomach decided to take a break from hunger pangs and tied itself in knots instead.

I heard him call the waitress over and ask for a side order of pancakes. He already had a full breakfast on his plate, and she teased him about what he'd done to work up such an appetite.

Then I heard him call out. "New car or lost dog?"

No one answered. Then, "Garage sales, maybe?"

I realized it was me who was supposed to answer. So as my rule Number One evaporated, another new one kicked in: Be honest.

"No," I gave a little chuckle, tried to act casual. "Just looking for a job."

"Anything in particular?" He said this as he slid his plate and cups around the corner, leaving just one stool between us.

"Not really. I'll take anything." I looked at the page, with all the circles I'd made. Big fat zeroes.

"Looks like you have a few leads."

I shook my head. "Yeah, but not much hope."

He pulled the paper over toward him and scanned the page. He stopped at one that I'd circled -- a warehouse job. "This looks good. A strong guy like you shouldn't have any problem."

There was a time when Christopher Keller would have lit up with charm and had this guy in bed within a half hour - or at least in a nice secluded alley. But this new Keller wasn't quite sure what to say. Fortunately, I was spared any response by the arrival of his pancakes and the flirty waitress.

"So who's your friend?" She looked at me. "You new in town?"

"Um yeah, you could say that - moved back here about two weeks ago," I said this more for his benefit than hers. "I was away for a few years."

The waitress hustled off, calling, "Hope you stick around, honey," as she rushed to pick up an order.

"Away?"

It was a quiet question, and I felt laid bare. This new skin of mine didn't fit so well.

So I answered him and braced myself for the usual response. "Yeah. I was in Oz. The state pen."

But the response wasn't usual. "Wow, Oswald, that's rough. How long?"

"Five years. And if I don't find a job, I'll be back for some more."

He nodded. He picked up the paper again. Pointed. "This warehouse job? I know the people who run the company. I do some work for them." He caught my look. "Don't worry, it's honest work. Anyway, I can put in a good word for you. What's your name?"

Stunned didn't begin to describe how I felt. "Why are you doing this? You don't even know me!"

"Tell me your name."

I did. He said, "Chris Keller, I just have a feeling about you."

With that, he picked up his check and his jacket and went to pay the cashier. He paused, gesturing toward a plate. "I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought. Why don't you have these pancakes."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The guy's question - Chris Keller's question -- stayed with me as I walked the few blocks to my office.

Why are you doing this?

I did have a feeling about him, true. I just wasn't quite sure what it was yet. But something had stirred in me as I watched him, crouched over those want ads, looking like a man searching for a new start. It felt familiar, and awoke something I'd thought long dead.

When I reached the front of my office building, the place reminded me of how far I'd come. In the past couple of years, I'd resolved myself to a new set of rules - rules that had worked so far: Keep it simple. Follow your heart. Try to help people, not hurt them.

Follow my heart. I huffed and yanked open the door. That's what I'd failed to do, years ago. And because I didn't, I wound up destroying two lives and crippling my own.

Never again. No matter what anyone might think.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Those pancakes were the sweetest thing I'd ever tasted. Well, up until then.

And for once in my miserable existence, I had a good day.

Of course, I tried putting myself through some torture first, working my way through a couple of the want ads, meeting with rejection at best, scorn at worst. I kept that warehouse job in the corner of my eye. It was too good to be true.

But I called, made an appointment. When I got there, the hiring manager greeted me by name. The job wasn't much, he told me, almost apologizing. He knew I was an ex-con, gave me some stern warnings, shook my hand and told me to report in the morning.

Just like that.

Oh, man I could just kiss .... Shit! What was his *name*?

I tried for a while to find out. But nothing seemed to work. My shift started too early to catch my mysterious benefactor at breakfast. I tried lunch and dinner a few times, but I just got more frustrated and more broke, so I gave up on that. Even the guy who hired me didn't know who had put in the good word for me. He said he just did what the boss told him.

So I gave up, figured it was one of those great things that happen when you're free.

The days blended into one another. I kept my head down, did what I was told, started and stopped work when the buzzer sounded. My co-workers bitched and moaned about the drudgery, but the routine was comforting to me.

Maybe too comforting.

I knew I would need to find my own apartment in July, when my term at the halfway house ran out. Even though I would still have another six months on parole, it was another step in the right direction. And for once in my life I was actually planning for something.

I worked, I saved. I pinched pennies till they bled. I ate at soup kitchens. I picked up odd jobs. I would be ready to set out on my own.

There was one little snag.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I've been on some roller-coasters of emotion in my life, to say the least. Maybe that's what helped me that day at the precinct.

I'd gone over there to take some affidavits on a case I was researching. It was early - I like to get there and be set up, in control of the situation.

I was halfway up the stairs to the interview rooms when I looked across the squad room. My heart rose - hey! I hadn't seen him since that day in the diner. I raced back down the stairs. I wasn't thinking what he might be *doing* here, I was so excited to see him.

"Chris Keller?" He looked over. Yep, it was him. "Hi! It's so good to see you. I've heard you've been doing great."

"Yeah?" He gave a shy smile, like some rare praise had made him forget where he was for the moment.

And that's when I remembered where we were. And noticed his torn shirt, his bloodshot eyes, the bruise across his forehead. And the handcuffs.

We looked at each other, and his eyes narrowed, probably figuring I'd turn tail and run. That was an option. Yelling "What the fuck!" at him was an option. But I was suddenly too drained to do either, so I sat down next to him and quietly said, "Tell me what happened."

TBC...