Title: Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me
Author/pseudonym: Tinnean
Fandom: JAG
Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer
Rating: R
Disclaimer: How many times are you going to make me
admit that Belisarius Productions has dibs on them? It is not kind to mock the
deprived.
Status: new/complete
Date: 3/02
Series/Sequel: This is part 8 of the Mind Fuck
series, and follows Charmed, Charmed Life
Summary: What Clark was up to while Clay was in
Langley.
Warnings: m/m
Notes: Thanks to Gail for the beta, and the
fascinating information about silk pajamas.
Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me
Part 1/1
I’d set the trap. Now it remained to be seen if the prey
would take the bait.
****
The sky was lightening by the time I got home from Clayton
Webb’s townhouse, but it was still too early for anyone to be leaving for
work. I took the stairs up to my apartment on the fifth floor. It was good
exercise, and no one ever saw me.
I checked my door, making sure the usual security
precautions hadn’t been disturbed. The almost invisible thread that ran from
the bottom of the door to the frame was unbroken.
Nevertheless, when I let myself in, I was still ready to
reach for the Glock I wore at my back. I didn’t relax until I was certain my
apartment was empty. Only then did I re-engage the six locks I had on the door.
If they weren’t turned in a specific pattern, the door would explode. Maybe I
was paranoid, but I was still alive.
When I’d first been recruited by the DSD, I’d lived in
a studio apartment in one of the less savory districts of DC. The open floor
plan had been ideal. There was no way in hell anyone could creep up on me.
My neighbors were rentboys, who peddled their asses.
They’d been hostile until they realized I wasn’t about to set myself up in
competition with them. I had been flattered, in a backhanded kind of way.
The year I’d turned thirty, I’d decided it was time to
find a more upscale neighborhood. It had taken me some time to find living
quarters that met all the requirements I’d opted for, but this apartment house
in Forest Heights was perfect.
Even more so now. It was right across the Potomac from
Alexandria.
****
I stowed my duffel in the closet by the door and removed my
holster. Time to make a phone call. I dialed Webb’s office number from memory.
Janet Watson, his secretary wouldn’t be in until 8:30, so I knew I’d get her
voice mail. I waited for the tone, then began to speak.
“Janet.” I made a production of yawning. “I’m back
from Europe and really jet lagged. Reschedule all my appointments for today.
I’m taking the day off. Thanks, Janet.”
I hung up the phone, grinning as I imagined Clayton Webb
waking up late. I’d deliberately turned off his alarm. He was going to be so
pissed.
My usually nonexistent conscience started pinching at me.
The pajamas I had cut up had looked and felt expensive. It might be a good idea
to replace them.
I pulled the shirt I was wearing off over my head, freezing
at the scent that engulfed me. Webb’s scent, picked up while I’d been
rubbing myself up and down his body. I buried my face in the shirt and inhaled
deeply.
Oh, fuck. I stroked it, then folded it and put it in the
bottom drawer of my night table.
It had been a long night. I stripped off the rest of my
clothes and took a quick shower, then set my alarm and climbed into bed. It was
going to be a long day.
****
Beau Brummel was one of those exclusive shops that smell of
money. The atmosphere was cool, and the lighting subdued. Scattered around being
unobtrusive were salespeople dressed in sedate refinement.
“May I help you, sir?” The woman wore an elegant
patterned grey suit with a lavender jabot at her throat.
“I’m looking for pajamas.”
“Certainly. Cotton? Linen? Silk?”
Fuck. I could go into Sears and pick up a package without
having to make all these decisions. “Silk, please.”
She smiled and led me to an alcove that had drawers built
into the walls. “Size?”
“Size?” Shit. What size would Webb wear? “He, uh…he
comes up to about here on me.” I had my hand just above my chin. “And
he’s… uh…he’s well built. Not muscle bound, but…”
“I understand.” She smiled at me and opened a drawer,
taking out a pair of red and green pajamas.
“No!” I said, a little too vehemently. “He’d look
like a fu…like a Christmas tree!”
Her smile broadened. “Perhaps you might tell me the
colors you prefer?” she asked as she replaced the garish outfit.
“Well, not red and green! Oh!” The pair she presented
me was a bright, verdant green and deep purple embossed on black. “This is
perf… fine!” I stroked my fingers across them. “I’ll take these!”
“These are our most expensive line, sir,” she said
gently.
“Doesn’t matter.”
She told me how much they were, and I reached for my
wallet.
“Would you care to include a gift card, sir?”
I nodded and gave the message some thought. And then I
smiled. I took my pen from my inner pocket and scrawled across the grey square, ‘Hi,
baby. Sorry about ruining those nice pajamas. This should make up for it. C.’ I
handed her the cash.
While I was waiting for the very helpful saleswoman to ring
up the purchase, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed his private number. I was
taking a chance on waking him, but somehow I knew he could most likely get by
with as little sleep as I, and would probably be up by this time.
The phone rang three times, and then, “Webb. Go.” I
swallowed a laugh. His greeting was the same as mine. But I was frowning as I
put my phone away. Had he gone in to work anyway, after I’d gone to the
trouble of getting him the day off? Damned, conscientious CIA spook.
“Don’t wrap that yet; I want to include another
note.” I was grinning broadly by the time I finished this one, and I slid the
note into the pocket of the pajama top.
Competently, she folded over tissue paper and tore off a
sheet of wrapping paper. When she was done, I slid the envelope with my first
message under the ribbon.
“Here you are, sir. Thank you so much for shopping with
us. Do, please, come again.”
I took the package from the woman, nodded politely, and
left. It wasn’t likely I’d be back. These pajamas had cost more than I’d
ever spent on a single item of clothing. Except that Fumagalli tux Mr. Wallace
had insisted I’d need. But I got hard, just thinking of Clay wearing them. And
harder thinking of stripping them off him.
I drove to Alexandria via the 395, stopping to pick up some
soup. From what I had learned of Clayton Webb, he’d work straight through
dinner, and I didn’t remember anything very appetizing in his refrigerator.
Just a couple more things to do before I pulled into his
driveway. I stopped at a rest area and went into the men’s room, carrying the
dufflebag. I shut myself into the handicapped stall and took off my suit jacket.
It would shed wrinkles, but I still folded it as neatly as possible and put it
into the bag, then climbed into a pair of carharts, work coveralls. I shrugged
it over my shoulders, got my arms into the sleeves and zipped it up.
Across the back was the name of a nationally known
exterminating company, and in the trunk of my car were magnetized commercial
signs. I opened the trunk, tossed the bag in and took out the signs, which were
slapped on the driver’s and passenger’s side doors.
I drove down Webb’s street slowly. Further down the block
I could see the maid service truck just pulling away from his house, and I
prided myself on my timing. I parked at the curb, made sure the package was
concealed in the tool bag that was slung over my shoulder, and strode
purposefully up the walk. It always paid to look as if you belonged.
With a finger on the bell, I gazed around, my expression
bored. No yuppie mom wheeled her rug rat along the walk. No senior walked his
yappy little pooch. No curtains fluttered, hinting of nosey neighbors.
I by-passed Clay’s security system again, and let myself
into his house. The odor of furniture polish lingered. I could never see the
point in dusting. A couple of months later, you’d only have to do it all over
again. I took the package out of the bag and placed it on the table by the door.
The soup went into the fridge, along with another note. I
wondered if Clay would keep it, then laughed at myself for the sentimental
thought.
The photo of that woman was smiling stupidly at me. If Clay
felt he needed something like that to throw off suspicions, I’d find something
worthy of him. Someone who worked at the DSD looked like a young Ingrid Bergman.
I’d see if I could get her to pose for me. I put the picture face down and went up to Clay’s bedroom.
The bed was made, smooth and without a wrinkle, and I was
sure he had hidden all evidence of our little escapade before the cleaning
people showed up.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from that bed. Slowly I
stripped off the coveralls, then set up the camera and equipment, which had been
in the tool bag. As I loosened my
tie and unbuttoned my shirt to the middle of my breastbone, I wondered where he
would have put the handcuffs. I’d been thinking of this all afternoon. I
decided I’d try the desk first.
A master key on my key ring fit into the lock of the middle
drawer and turned sweetly, and I pulled it out. There were the cuffs, the note,
and my handkerchief. I hadn’t
been sure if he would keep that, or throw it away. The odor of come rose out of
the drawer.
I closed the cuff around my left wrist and unzipped my
trousers. By the time I had the timer set on the camera, I was fully aroused. I
settled myself on Clay’s bed, resting my free hand on my cock.
It would have been even better if it were Clay’s hand.
With that thought, I smiled, my eyes on the camera, and the flash went off. The
square exposure emerged and hung there, but I couldn’t take my hand off my
dick. I pumped it, rubbed the pad of my thumb over the tip, tried to reach down
with my left hand, forgetting it was cuffed to the headboard.
The metal bit into my wrist, merging with the uncontrolled pleasure. My
heels dug into the bedspread, I arched up and came, splattering the front of my
trousers with the white liquid.
“Jesus!” I rolled onto my stomach, my hips rocking
against the soft material of the comforter. I hadn’t intended… I bit down on
the pillow and shivered. “Jesus!”
I finally caught my breath. “Jesus, how the fuck did that
happen?” I felt for my keys and got out of the handcuff. The skin around my
wrist was abraded, and drops of blood were beading to the surface. “Fuck!”
Well, the one good thing was that I’d been jerking off so
much my balls were almost empty, and my trousers had absorbed most of it.
I got off the bed and went into the bathroom to clean
myself up. Once I had myself together, unlocked the cuffs and put them back in
the drawer, along with another note. //One horse to me, Webb!// Clay was going
to hate me when he read that.
****
People only see what they want to see. I’d learned that for myself in Paris,
when I’d assumed Michael Samuelle was a hustler because I’d wanted to fuck
him so badly, and it was easier to think I could buy him. There would be no
strings.
No one challenged me when I left Webb’s townhouse. All
they saw was someone who got rid of bugs.
I used a different rest stop to change out of the work
clothes and remove the company signs.
By the time I got home, I realized it was no longer a game
for me. It was fucking serious.
//Okay, Palmer. Clayton Webb is CIA. You’re DSD.
The DSD always comes out on top! Always.//
~End~