Meatballs
by Gail (gem225@hotmail.com)
JAG
Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer
Rating: adult, for language
Webb and Palmer make meatballs together and talk.
Disclaimer: CBS and Belisarius Productions own the JAG characters. The X-Files and its characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions, and Fox.
Please do not archive this story without asking me first. It's more than likely that I'll agree, but I want to know where my stories are.
Notes: This is a PWP/Snapshot (#4) set in my Eclipse universe, where Clayton Webb and Clark Palmer became lovers when Clark blackmailed Clayton into bed. Over time the whole blackmail issue was resolved, and now they're together because they want to be. This would take place sometime after part 10.
This was written for Alex, who keeps inspiring stories and betaing them, too. I know this one made us both feel better. It's always important to know what Clay and Clark are doing in Eclipse when Real Life gets weird. :-)
*****
"I'll need the breadcrumbs next."
"Where the hell are they?"
"Clark, what did I tell you to do with the bread?"
"Give it to the birds?" I grin as I think about what might happen if I'd done that. I didn't, and...yes, here they are. It's fun teasing him.
His voice is irritable now. "I told you to cut the bread into slices, dry them in the oven, then use the food processor to turn them into crumbs. I damn well hope you did what I said."
Hmm, maybe I shouldn't find them yet. This could be fun. But I love cooking with Clay, especially when I'm not the one who's under the microscope. *Clark, the oil's too hot. It's not supposed to smoke. Clark, those pieces are too big. Those pieces are too small. You can't have ziti with a cream sauce; it won't balance.* He knows what he's talking about, but god, it's a lot of work to go to for dinner. I did not think that cooking was that hard. I was wrong.
But when he relaxes and just does it, I learn a lot. I do a lot better than the first time I decided to cook bacon, or rather, burn it. Now I make better French toast than he does, and the smile on his face when I casually offer it on a weekend morning is worth all the damned trouble it was to find a really good recipe and work on it.
I decide that I'd better have the breadcrumbs. "Oh, those are breadcrumbs? Sure, Clay, got them right here."
I bring the bowl out and put it next to him on the counter. He gives me a long look. "Clark, you knew damned well those were breadcrumbs."
"Hey, you're the expert. I boil water and burn toast."
He laughs. "See if you can handle beating the eggs. Oh, break them into the bowl first."
He'd better be kidding, and yes, he is. "Wouldn't have thought of that," I say mildly and get my reward in his laugh. "Come on, Clay, I do know a few things. You can stop with the running lecture."
"Next you'll be wanting to cook." He chops parsley with an easy, fluid motion, and damn, even that's sexy. Why the hell are we in here cooking when we could be in bed? That's right. He's making these because we were going over good places to eat, and I told him about Marco's near DSD headquarters, where they always gave me extra cheese on my meatball subs and fed me soup the day I collapsed with what turned out to be a pretty damned bad case of the flu. I wanted to take him there, but when I called to check, I was told the number was disconnected. The next thing I heard was Clay telling me that we'd look into it tomorrow, and right after that, that he had a good recipe if I'd help him. Damn, I hope they just changed the number. They were good people. If something else happened, I'll have to do something about it. Maybe they moved back to Italy. I know they wanted to. I'll find out.
"Clark." He's frowning. "Eggs."
"Sure thing, boss."
"Keep calling me that, and I'll have you in the kitchen all the time." He gives me a sidelong look as I break the eggs into the bowl. "And that might not be too much fun for you."
"Bet you wouldn't let me watch the X-Files either." I beat the eggs. That is fun. All right, cooking is fun, but only with Clay. But then most things are fun with him.
"No. I'd make sure you were too busy for that."
"We should check out Mulder's replacement, Clay. It's on tonight." I'm really interested to find out if this Doggett is as dumb as Mulder. I hope so. I'd miss Clay's commentary.
"Mulder will come back," he says firmly, and I try to hide my grin.
"But think how much the government will save if the Consortium keeps him, Clay. We might be able to pay off the national debt."
He laughs at that. "Good point. God, he's always losing his gun," he mutters.
"Clay, it's a show. It's not real. I promise, there is no Fox Mulder over at the FBI. He'll never call you and need help on a case." He's quiet for a moment, too quiet and still, and I know. "Rabb called you." Dammit, I need to pay better attention to his calls. But I can't find a safe way to track them. Damn CIA really keeps an eye on the phones. I suppose it's a good thing, but I need information.
"Friday." He reaches for his wine glass, then pulls his hand back. "Said he needed some information."
"He offer anything in exchange?"
"I didn't let him talk that long."
I watch him mix the ingredients together. "He's a big boy, Clay. He can get his own information."
"I owe him," he says quietly. "I was fucking you the whole time he and I were together."
Jesus fucking god. He feels guilty about that? "Yeah, and you want to know how many women went through his bed? Come on, Clay, tell me it's your civic duty, but don't start with the guilt."
"I know." Right, he knows. He won't even look at me.
"You didn't owe him anything. You don't owe him anything. You wouldn't have needed me if he'd been there for you." I'm losing it here. I'd better shut up. But I'm not going to let Rabb have him again, and I don't believe he called about information. He's not even married to the girl yet. He wants sex. I know she's back home in Texas, and even though he talks to her every night, that's not the same thing as having her in his bed. And I know Rabb. Can't have the girl, so why not go get Clay back? He wants something, he tries to get it. Not this time, Harm. You go through me first. "Just tell him to fuck off."
"I'm not going to go to bed with him, Clark." Now he's looking at me.
"Who said you were?"
He's over in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, and I don't care that his have meatball mixture all over them, he's thinking about me now. "It would be information. To help him with a case. Nothing more."
"Then I want to be there." God, I am definitely not DSD any more. If I'd tried any kind of shit like that with my superior, the best I could have hoped for was to be hit. And the DSD had a lot worse punishments than that. But Clay isn't DSD, never will be.
"If that would make you happy," is all he says, his voice low. "If you don't trust me with him, that's fine. I can see where you wouldn't." He squeezes my shoulders one last time, then crosses to the sink and starts washing his hands. I stare at him. He'd let me be there?
"I don't trust him, Clay."
"And you don't trust me. All right, Clark. It's all right. You can be there, but you have to behave."
"You mean I can't throw him against the wall if he looks at you wrong?" I make sure to say that in my straightest voice, and after a moment he laughs.
"No, that would be my prerogative."
"Yeah, you're the boss. What kind of pan you need for these?" I don't want to think about Rabb, don't want to talk about him. The blackmail's over, but I still like to keep the weekends work-free. Clay needs to relax.
"The big one. Yes, that's it."
I put it on the front burner. "What now?"
"You sit down and watch me cook. I'll let you cut the bread if you don't argue," he adds before I can protest. I like browning things. But the one who cuts the bread gets the heels, and he knows I love them.
I sit down for my answer. "I'll take that bread now, Clay."
He picks up the bread board and the other loaf. "Clark," he said quietly as he puts them in front of me, "I won't lie to you. I'm going to see Harm and think about how he was in bed, how he tasted, how he sounded. But I'm not going to come on to him and I'm not going to let him come on to me." He goes back to get the bread knife. "I'm with you. I want you."
He's never said it like this before. In the daytime, when I can see that he really means it. He does mean it.
"If you need to be there, you can be there." There's a faint smile on his face. "It might be fun. But this really is between him and me, and you can trust me. I won't be swayed by the uniform, or the smile, or the look in his eyes. And if he makes a pass, I'll yell for you, all right? Then you can beat him up."
"Then I hope he does make a pass," I say and grin. "All right."
He puts the bread knife in front of me. "All right." He gives me a smile, then goes back over to the counter and puts his hands back into the mixture.
I watch him form the mixture into balls. Rabb really is history. Clay was telling the truth, and I need to let him see Rabb on his own. I'll be around, of course. You never know what Rabb's going to do. But Clay wants me, will say it, means it.
I really win.
The End
Posted 12/20/00
To read the sequel from Rabb's point of view, go to Saving Face, or for the sequel from Palmer's point of view, go to Rabb Invades Langley.
To read the next Eclipse Snapshot, which is not a sequel to this story, go to Presents.
