White clam sauce
Gail (gem225@hotmail.com)
JAG
Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer
Rating: adult
Clay and Clark have white clam sauce and linguine for dinner.
Cool Disclaimer: But I *want* them...all right, I'll put them back, they're way too expensive. *sigh* Seriously, the characters in this story belong to CBS and Belisarius Productions, not me.
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.
This is Eclipse PWP/Snapshot #14. In the Eclipse universe, Clayton Webb and Clark Palmer are lovers, but it was a rocky road.
Alexandra read this, then Tinn and Athea did as well, and Elizabeth beta'd it. Thanks to all of them for their help. :-)
*****
I put the pasta bowls down on the table, sniff them again. Yeah, Clay can cook. Maybe I can learn to make this. I think I saw him get the clams out of cans, although the cans vanished pretty damned fast. He doesn't like using anything canned, but it's not easy to start from scratch when you get out of work at seven if you're lucky. I'll shut up about it. Don't want to piss Clay off. I want to suck him off, maybe even get him to fuck me if I'm really good, and he's had a hell of a day, meetings and memos, he told me in the car. He even let me drive, and that doesn't happen too often. I kept within the speed limit.
I go for the bread, leave the butter in the fridge, refill the water glasses. No wine tonight. He'll go to sleep on me, and that's not in the plan. I check the table and think of one more thing. Why Clay didn't tell me to get it I'll never know, but hey, it was a hard day. If he doesn't come back from the bathroom soon, I'll have to go see if he fell asleep there.
He walks in a couple of minutes later. "All ready," I say cheerfully and motion to his place.
He smiles, and that's good to see. "You waited? You didn't have to."
"I won't any longer."
I sit down and reach for some bread to sop up the sauce, then roll some linguine on my fork and take a bite. Yeah. I was right. It needs this. I pick up the cheese and the grater.
"Clark."
I keep grating as I answer. "Yeah?"
"What the hell are you doing?"
I stop at that. He always has a reason for asking me questions, even if I don't get it right away. Is this some kind of chef's thing, nothing gets to be added? But no, he's fine with me putting pepper on everything.
"It needs cheese, Clay." Simple is best.
"It doesn't need cheese."
He rolls another forkful and puts it into his mouth as I watch. He looks like he likes it, and that's fine, but I don't.
"No insult intended, but this needs a lot of cheese."
I start grating again. He's not going to throw me out over this. Clay's a good guy. I'd have to throw the cheese at him to get him really pissed, and I'm not going to do that.
"Cheese is not used on white clam sauce, Clark."
"I use it all the time."
Of course, I cook from cans, but I'm not bringing that up now. It might make it worse, along with the fact that I use the cheese from the green cans, not from a chunk. I used to use the green cans, correction. Clay throws them out when he's over, every time. Not that he'll admit it, but I know what I know, and I know I didn't toss them as well as hide them under the coffee grounds. He's got serious attitude about food. Maybe I need to give up on the cheese thing. No, I want my cheese. Clay's not unreasonable.
I give him my best cocked head and big eyes. I can always add the smile later. "I thought food was about liking it?"
He's not looking at me. He knows what I'm doing. But if he's not looking, he doesn't get to comment on the cheese, so I spread it over the top of my clam sauce, mix it into the linguine, and try some. Better. But not good enough. I don't know what the hell the Italians thought when they made up this dish. Maybe this 'no-cheese' rule is so that they can laugh at the stupid foreigners. Yeah, that works for me. I pick up the block and the grater.
He still doesn't look up. "You're buying that from now on."
I look at the wrapper. Ten dollars a pound. I can afford it. Those Swiss bank accounts are doing just fine for me, and the CIA actually pays me money. The thought.
"Sure thing, Clay."
I put on some more cheese, and this time he grabs it away from me. Clay's that serious?
"Do you know how much salt is in that?"
He's glaring. Is this about salt? I can get that one. I put down the grater.
"A hell of a lot. I won't make this for you again. Just eat it."
I'm a fucking idiot. This wasn't about cheese; this was about me. Goddammit to hell, he's worried about *me*. He's still glaring.
"Clay. I didn't know about the salt."
"You don't eat right," he mutters. "I shouldn't have made this. No salad, even." He gives the dinner a scornful look. "Screw this. Come on."
"What?" He's done it again, jumped two squares, and I'm lost. He must have been hell to deal with when he was a kid. Wish I'd known him then.
"We're going out to dinner."
Out? He's taking me out? "Where?" If Clay wants to go there, it'll be good.
"Vegetarian," he says tersely, and I groan. "A place Rabb told me about."
"If Rabb's there, you will regret taking me."
That's putting it mildly. If I see Rabb, I'm going to have fun. Unless Clay manages to stop me, and he would. But that would be fun, too.
He laughs. "You've got it wrong, Clark. *You're* taking *me*."
I'm about to say something about who the hell came up with that idea when he comes closer. He has his own tricks.
"You do want to take me out," he murmurs and gets his lips on my neck, sucking like he wants to leave a mark, and I know he does. Goddamn him, except I'd never want Clay damned if I didn't get to go with him. "Right? You're the one who wants to get fucked?"
How the hell he knows that I don't know, except maybe it's how I look at him. Hell, I always knew Clayton Webb was smart; that's why I wanted him in the first place. Smart as all hell.
"That's me, yeah." Hard to talk when I've got him against me. We have to go out? I don't need food.
I mumble something like that, I think, and he laughs and pulls away. I can see his eyes, so bright and happy, and I know damned well he was just pulling my chain, and he can do that; it's the chain he put on me.
"I'm eating my dinner," I say pretty damned firmly, considering I want to get on my knees or my hands and knees, and get my mouth or my ass fucked. Either would be fine. "You eat yours, then you can fuck me."
He doesn't say anything, just smiles and sits back down, and I know he'll do both.
The End
Posted 8/23/01
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