Title: April in Paris

Author/Pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: La Femme Nikita/JAG crossover

Pairing: Michael Samuelle/Clark Palmer

Rating: NC-17

Date: 10/00

Feedback email: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: They're not mine, unfortunately. No money is being
made here, even more unfortunately.

Summary: Both Michael and Clark are involved in missions that
have gone south and are given some downtime.

Warnings: This happens before Nikita was recruited to Section and
explains to my satisfaction anyway, why Michael was so reluctant
to become involved romantically with her. Contains some
references to m/f sex.

This one's for Gail, because she deserves it. I wanted her to see
how Section and the DSD would mix. And for Clark, because he
begged so prettily!

April in Paris

It was April in Paris. Chestnuts were in blossom. The tender
green of their leaves was a splash of joyous color in contrast to
the stark branches of deepest brown.

Events had been set in motion. Two men, who never should have
crossed paths, were about to meet.

////

Clark Palmer was highly annoyed. It was supposed to be a simple
mission: fly to Berlin, get to Prague from there, and seize the
man known throughout the intelligence community as the Cardinal.
Somehow, it had turned to shit. A good man had suicided, and
another, pushed to the edge of his control, was now a resident of
a government funded mental facility.

His superior had been not been pleased, for it was a DSD man who
was dead, and Palmer had not liked the way his authority had been
flouted. Nepotism was rearing its ugly head in the rogue agency,
and someone's son had been bumped to a position he hadn't the
experience to command.

And Palmer watched in helpless rage as his men died and the
target escaped with sickening ease.

The head of the DSD was no fool. His senior agent was not a man
to fuck with, and *he* didn't have much time to correct the
situation. He had the young hothead transferred to another
division and gave Clark Palmer two weeks in Paris to regain his
perspective.

////

It had been a bitch of a mission.

Intel extracted by the premier interrogation team of Section One
had the Cardinal surfacing in Prague, and Operations reacted as
Red Cell hoped: he had sent his senior cold op to infiltrate and
cancel.

Only, the intel was faulty, a ruse designed to pull Michael away
from the real location; the Cardinal was not where he was
supposed to be, and Michael had lost half of his team, including
a former lover, barely getting the rest out alive.

Madeline, head of psych, had taken one look at his rigidly
controlled demeanor, his stare more blank than usual, and had
ordered him to take some much-needed downtime. Operations would
have protested, but for once his second-in-command overrode him.

"Paul," she said in her softly modulated voice. "If you don't
give Michael a chance to sort out his emotions, he will be of no
use to us when Birkoff finally breaks the encoded directive we
were able to secure from that DSD courier."

Operations watched her mouth as she spoke, paying scant attention
to her words, wondering only if it was possible to lure her to
the Tower and tempt her with a special meal prepared by
Christopher. It was still early days in their affair, and at this
moment he wanted to slide his aching arousal into her more than
he wanted to exercise his authority as head of Section.

"Very well, Madeline. See that he has whatever he needs. When
you're finished, meet me on the Observation Deck." His mouth was
motionless, but his blue eyes held a fire of passion usually
reserved for his work.

Madeline permitted a small smile to crease her lips and turned
back to the level 5 operative. "Come with me to Supplies."

His emotions cloaked in ice, Michael followed her down to one of
the many sub-levels housed in Section One. Madeline made sure he
had clothing, money and identification solid enough to pass
scrutiny anywhere in the world.

Then she sent him on his way and hurried to meet her lover,
anticipation fizzing in her veins. Paul was inventive, to say the
least, and she looked forward to seeing what he had in store for
her, as a woman, as well as a woman in her position.

****

Michael knew that the powers that be would not let him slip away
from Section without implanting some manner of tracking device in
his body. He also knew that he was not about to allow that, not
this time around. Adrenaline had flooded his system, and he had
not yet descended from that high.

To put it succinctly, he was horny as hell.

Although the affair ended when his lover went deep undercover, he
was still fond of the operative who had suicided, and would miss
him considerably. Claude had been his material; he had trained
him from a raw recruit.

Michael needed the time to mull over that relationship and see
what he could glean from it. He did not want to invest that much
emotional and physical energy into someone who was not going to
survive.

If that was how it was destined to be, the next time he would
know better. He would no longer permit himself to grow attached
to whomever Operations gave him.

Having been in Section One for a number of years, Michael knew
the best ways to exit without drawing attention to himself. He
slipped out a door most operatives had no idea was there. Perhaps
Walter, the only operative who had been at Section longer than
Michael, knew, but he was busy in Weapons, and no one thought to
ask him.

****

So Michael was gone, and Section would be unable to find him
until he was ready to return on his own. He vanished into the
crowd of tourists that unwittingly provided daily cover for the
antiterrorist organization's headquarters in a major European
city.

It was easy to lose oneself in Paris, especially if it had been
one's second home. The cold op wandered over to the Left Bank. He
was more tired than he realized, and decided his first priority
was finding a place to safely go to ground. He took a room at a
pension. It was a quaint little building that reminded him of his
days as a student, before he had joined L'heure Sanguine. The
bathroom was even down the hall.

He sighed wistfully as he thought of those days; of the
idealistic youth he had been and gave his landlady a look etched
in sadness. She gazed into his green eyes and immediately fell in
love with him.

"Go up to your room, chou chou, and I will have a nourishing meal
waiting when you have rested!"

"Merci, maman." He had the audacity to kiss her cheek, and she
giggled like a schoolgirl.

Michael was coming down now from the rush of adrenaline and he
dragged himself up the three flights of narrow stairs to find his
room. He threw himself on the neatly made bed and sank into a
restless slumber.

****

By the time he awoke, some hours later, he was little refreshed.
As promised, Madame Maintenant provided him with a meal that was
just as mother used to make, if she ever cared enough to cook. He
ate methodically, mopping up the last of the ragout with a heel
of bread still warm from the oven.

Idly he twirled the stem of the wineglass between his fingers and
contemplated the ruby glow reflected in its depths. According to
Parisian ways, the evening was still young, and his afternoon nap
had left him too edgy to spend a quiet night with Madame.

Deciding abruptly to see what the night offered, he drained his
glass and rose to his feet, bidding his landlady bonsoir. The
mature woman watched with soft eyes as the lights of street lamps
caressed his athletic figure, and she thought with regret of what
might have been.

The next morning, Michael was in a surly mood. He had not found
what he was looking for although he had cruised the bars until
long after midnight, finding fault with one prospective lover
after another. Disgruntled, he left the pension, unable to
tolerate the sheep's eyes Madame was making at him.

Always, his looks drew women. Sometimes that was useful in his
line of work, but his days as a valentine operative were past,
and while he enjoyed the female of the species, right now what he
needed was the male.

He needed to be fucked. It had been too long since the last time,
and the stress of the failed mission left him with an itch that
badly needed to be scratched.

He needed to be fucked, *hard*!

****

Clark Palmer always enjoyed breakfast in Paris; it was such an
adventure. He sat, alone in the small crowd, sipping his cafe au
lait and perusing the Paris Match, when something at the
periphery of his vision drew his attention. The sight of the lean
figure striding toward him had him holding the mouthful of coffee
for a beat before he swallowed carefully.

The young man approaching the cafe was dressed in unrelieved
black, the trousers hugging his legs and emphasizing the slight
bulge at his crotch. Clark Palmer was familiar with the restless
look that examined one man after another, but could seem to
settle on none of them, and licked his lips in anticipation.

It had been too long since he had been laid, and he found his
cock was suddenly standing up and taking notice. Hmm, most
interesting!

The DSD agent went back to reading his newspaper, but kept an
unobtrusive eye on the other man, watching as he ordered cafe
complet and began tucking into the runny eggs that were finally
brought to him.

Palmer curled his lip. As often as he was in Europe, he could not
bring himself to enjoy the cuisine of any of the NATO countries.
This was an annoying idiosyncrasy, but his superior was too wary
of him to object too strenuously.

Meanwhile, Michael scooped up the eggs, unconcerned with their
quality. An indifferent gourmand, the operative ate what was put
before him caring little for its appearance. He had felt the pair
of eyes on him, and maintained his facade of ordinary Frenchman.

He surveyed the area surreptitiously and located the man who
watched him without seeming to watch him. Brown hair, intriguing
eyes almost more green than brown, rangy build. When Michael was
ripe for this kind of thing, he liked men who were taller than
his own average height; it made him feel...defenseless. He let
his tongue sweep over his lips and slowed the pace of his meal.

Finally he allowed his green eyes to tangle with the hazel ones
lifted above the newssheet. For a beat the stares held, and then
Michael raised a brow and indicated the seat opposite him.

Clark Palmer was chagrined. One of the best that the DSD had ever
turned out, he was disconcerted that this young Frenchman had
been alert to his surveillance. And then the other man smiled,
his lush lips parting to reveal even, white teeth. Clark's cock
quivered and swelled even more. He snapped the paper shut and
held it casually shielding the front of his trousers, where his
urgent arousal marred its normally smooth line.

Michael sat back as the shadow fell across his table. He was
caught in the lust that burned in those eyes, and intrigued by
how rapidly it was controlled. "Join me, m'sieur?"

Clark Palmer smiled into that face with its rugged jaw, covered
with a hint of stubble. "Enchante," he responded, deliberately
making his accent atrocious. "Je suis Clark."

"Je m'appelle Michel." Introductions concluded, the other man sat
down and Michael began a rambling, inane conversation with him.
Clark sipped his own coffee and listened in silence.

Hiding a smile behind a slice of toast, Michael drew out more and
more platitudes, waiting for the neatly dressed man to lose
patience.

To his surprise, Clark set down his cup and bared his teeth, and
suddenly Michael felt a frisson of unease. Who was this man, with
the shark's grin?

"Enough of the game playing," Clark murmured. "Name your price."

"Pardon?"

Clark sighed impatiently. "I don't appreciate being played for a
fool. Tell me how much you think you're worth. If I agree, I'll
take you back to my hotel."

Michael could hardly catch his breath. The idea that this
well-dressed man thought he was a hustler excited him more than
he imagined possible. He named a figure, and the man across his
table looked taken aback.

Incredibly intrigued, and so hot he was afraid he would come
where he sat, Michael said in his soft voice, "I am worth it. If,
however, this is too much...?" He let the question hang in the
air between them prepared to lower the price, even though he had
no intention of accepting any francs for what he wanted so
desperately to do.

Clark's hard stare hid his dismay that the young man really was
nothing more than a hooker, and agreed to the exorbitantly high
price. He threw a handful of bills onto the table and took
Michael's wrist between his long fingers, pulling him to his
feet. "Now, m'sieur?" Michael asked, pretending to be surprised.

"I'm paying you the equivalent of a thousand American dollars, so
I'd say, *yes*, now!"

The agent strode across the boulevard, dragging the younger man
after him, both of them easily dodging Paris' impossibly insane
taxi drivers.

****

Clark had not felt on the edge of such sexual excitement in too
long. He made sure they were the only ones on the elevator in the
hotel where he was staying. The American couple who had been
about to enter on their heels changed their minds when both men
turned cold stares on them, and decided that really, the stairs
were much more healthful.

The door slid shut and Michael found himself up against the wall
of the elevator, an incredibly hot mouth ravaging his own. He
couldn't prevent a groan from escaping his lips. His hands were
imprisoned by his head, and the other man rocked his hips forward
demandingly.

Michael sought to respond, but Clark pushed his knee roughly
between the other man's thighs, spreading his legs wide and
keeping him at his mercy. "I'm going to fuck you until you won't
remember what it was like not to have me inside you!" Clark
whispered in perfect French as his lips traveled over Michael's
throat and found the erratically beating pulse. "I'm going to
strip you bare and toss you on your back!" His mouth began
sucking strongly; he was determined to mark the young man.

Michael was gasping, fighting to remain on his feet as tremors of
passion rippled through him. "What will you do then?" he could
barely whisper.

Clark thrust hard with his hips. "I'm going to make you beg and
plead for me to give you every inch I have, to fuck you so long
and so hard you won't be able to walk for a week! Or want to!"

"A week?" Michael could not believe that thready sound was his
voice.

"A week!" Clark affirmed. "That's at least how long I'll have you
in my bed!"

With a soft moan, Michael Samuelle, valentine op extraordinaire,
came in a Paris elevator.

The End (but might be continued...)