Author/pseudonym:
Tinnean
Fandom: JAG/The
Maltese Falcon
Pairing: Clark
Palmer/Sam Spade, Clark/Clayton Webb
Rating: R
Email address:
Tinneantoo@aol.com
Disclaimer: Belisarius
owns Clark and Clay (well, he’d like to think so, although I’m sure they have
something to say about it!) and Spade and Wilmer Cook belong to Dash Hammett,
although I have corrupted them a little
Status: new/complete
Date:4/2001
Series/Sequel: let’s
just never say never
Other Web Site:
https://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel/
Archive: If I sent it
to you, please do.
Summary: Clark has a
close encounter with a gumshoe of the 30s kind
Warnings: m/m,
spoilers for The Maltese Falcon
Notes: This takes
place in a universe where Clark Palmer has become CIA after the DSD has been
disbanded. He did not go to Leavenworth, did not pass go, and no, no $200! Gail
has very kindly let me borrow her boys. This is for her with many thanks for
all she’s done.
And for Silk, who is
always there, and who has promised me some delicious pictures.
And for Page, who has
waited patiently these many months for another JAG story from me.
*****
Today
Part 1/1
Clark Palmer slumped down
low in his easy chair, resting on his spine. His long legs were stretched out
before him, crossed casually at the ankle. From his fingers dangled a tumbler
that now contained only a few melting ice cubes.
It had been a bitch of a
day, culminating in a quarrel with the man who was the senior agent in his
division. It was so stupid. He didn’t even know why he had started the
argument.
He contemplated the glass
and sighed. Yes, he did. He wanted Clayton Webb to look at him and see Clark
Palmer, someone worth having in his life, not just a former nemesis from the
DSD. He wanted Clayton Webb in his bed.
And when had that
happened?
The television was tuned
to a classic movies channel, and he watched morosely as the detective on the
screen turned and smiled into the camera. “You’re going to be way sorry you let
her get behind you, chum!”
Wonderful. Now he was
talking to the television set.
The P.I.’s face took on a
sickly look of horror, and then a shot was fired. He clutched at his chest,
staggered against the wooden barricade. The fog muffled the sound of the wood
giving way under his weight.
“Asshole! I told you not to
trust her!”
He slid down lower in the
chair and tried to make himself more comfortable. His eyes were growing heavy,
and he wondered, in that shadow land between wakefulness and sleep what it
would be like to have a man’s mouth around his cock.
A knock sounded on his
door, and he peeled open an eye to glance at his watch, puzzled. No one came
calling, this time of night. Ever. He set his glass down beside his chair and
got to his feet. For a moment he felt lightheaded.
Surely he hadn’t drunk
that much!
Giving himself a shake,
he went to the door and pulled it open. “Yeah?”
Before him stood a man of
average height, wearing a dark suit and fedora.
“You Palmer?” the man
asked tersely.
Clark Palmer felt a
shiver of…what? Alarm? Nothing alarmed him. Unease? No, he was the one who made
others uneasy. He quashed the feeling and regarded his visitor grimly. “Who
wants to know?” he responded.
The man stripped off his
hat and looked the former DSD agent in the eye. “I was told you were the man I
should see,” he said with the faintest lisp.
“The DSD has been
disbanded, and I don’t do that sort of stuff anymore.”
”I don’t know anything about any DSD. All I know is that you’re the man I
need.”
“Who told you about me?”
“Doesn’t matter. You
going to help me, or will I have to get tough?”
Suddenly, Clark found
himself facing the business end of a Colt automatic pistol.
“I guess I’m going to
help you,” he agreed easily and turned to go back into his apartment. “Want to
come in and have a drink?”
The man followed him into
the living room. “Nothing for me, thanks, I gave it up for lent.”
“You’re not Catholic.”
Sam Spade grinned at him
sourly.
“Couldn’t handle the
booze, huh, Spade?”
“No, someone special
asked me to go easy on the hard stuff.”
“And you do everything
Brigid O’Shaughnessy asks you?” Palmer curled his lip at the private eye. You’d
never catch him being led around by his dick!
“Brigid? No, last I heard
the syndicate took a hit out on her. The bulls are still trying to find all the
pieces.”
“Then who…Oh surely not
Effie? A boss and his secretary: how ordinary! I expected better of you, Spade.
Like maybe that little gunsel from the east coast.”
“What’s with this
interest in my love life all of a sudden, Palmer? Haven’t you got one of your
own to keep you occupied?”
A face flashed before
Clark Palmer’s eye and he sighed. “Not the last time I looked. Sorry, Spade.”
Who was he to mock anyone’s foray into love? He had never had any luck when it
came to falling in love.
He couldn’t even keep a
friend. Witness that stupid disagreement that afternoon, which looked like it
was evolving into his dismissal by Clayton Webb. Come Monday he would be lucky
if he even got to see Webb in the halls at Langley.
All he knew was that the
odds of him remaining with the man who had made his transition from DSD to CIA
bearable looked slim to none. “Sorry I brought it up, Spade. What can I do for
you?”
“I rather think it’s what
I can do for you. That was a pretty stupid move you pulled on your partner,
wasn’t it?
“How did you know…?” A
wave of vertigo swept over the taller man.
“I’m a private dick.,
Palmer. It’s my job to know things like that! You want to tell me about it?”
“No.”
Spade closed in on the
former DSD operative. “C’mon, big boy, talk to me.”
“I said no.”
The next thing Clark
knew, the detective was pressed up tight against him, seeking his lips.
Too surprised to do
anything but stand there with his mouth hanging open, he was an easy target for
the private eye. Spade leaned up and traced the line of the other man’s mouth
before dipping in to rub his tongue over the ridges of Clark’s teeth.
With a groan, Clark began
sucking on the tongue that was lazily fucking his mouth. “Yeah, you like a
man’s tongue in your mouth, don’t you, gunny? What else would you like in your
mouth? You need it, tough guy! You need to be on your hands and knees, getting
your ass fucked!”
Spade shoved the other
man away from him, and Clark stared at him with hooded eyes, unsure how his
secret desire had been exposed. “In your bedroom, hotshot! Looks like I’m going
to be the one to teach you how to behave with your boss!”
Clark ran his tongue over
his lips, tasting the gumshoe there. He struggled to draw in a breath deep
enough to satisfy his hunger for oxygen. This wasn’t the man he wanted,
but…should he take what was being offered to him?
He was taking a step
backward to buy himself some time to think when the door to his apartment burst
open.
“Having a party, Clark?
It would have been nice if you’d invited me!”
“Clay! How…What are you
doing here?”
“Interrupting, it looks
like. I don’t seem to remember you mentioning anything about this at work.”
“Since when is my private
life not private?”
“Since I decided,
Palmer!”
Clark didn’t want to
explore that statement just yet. “Clay, this is Sam Spade!”
“Yeah, and I’m Little Bo
Peep!” The CIA operative turned cold eyes on the compact man who was standing
too close to his material. “I don’t know who you are, and frankly, I don’t give
a damn! I’d advise you to make tracks out of here.”
“Or what?”
Clay’s grin suddenly
resembled a hungry shark’s. “Or I’ll take great pleasure in tearing you a new
asshole!”
“That won’t be
necessary.” A short, unobtrusive-looking individual spoke from the doorway.
“I’ll be more than happy to do that little thing. Did you think I wouldn’t come
looking for you, Sam?”
Clay noted with interest
that the gumshoe was a little pale.
Spade’s gunsel stepped
around Clayton Webb and eyed his lover with disdain. “So this is where you’ve
been! Just stepping out for a pack of cigarette papers, huh! Do I look like I
was born yesterday? Did you think you could go tom-catting around on me?”
“Ah, shit! Cookie,
listen, it’s not like that!”
“Isn’t it? You bastard!
You …”
The gumshoe moved so fast
the shorter man didn’t have time to back away.
Spade had him in his arms and was seeking his mouth. “I know,
‘bastard’!” God, I love when you get possessive! Kiss me!”
The gunsel turned his
head aside sulkily. “No!”
“Cookie.” Warm lips
caressed the smaller man’s, and he shuddered and leaned into the kiss.
“I won’t let you leave
me! Never!”
“Never!” Spade turned to
look at the CIA agent. “Sorry, Webb. This is one mess you’re going to have to
clean up on your own!” Spade lit two cigarettes, handed one to his lover, and
slung his arm around his shoulder. “C’mon, Cookie. Let’s go home.”
The gunsel nestled his
head against his lover’s chin. “Sure thing, Dream.”
They were gone.
“Um, Clay, I have no idea
what just went on!”
“Don’t you?” Webb stalked
around his partner, circling him where he stood in the center of the room.
Clark licked his lips and
felt himself grow hard as Spade had been unable to make him hard. Clay pushed
against his shoulder with the palm of his hand, shoving him toward his bedroom.
“What are you doing, Clay?”
“I’m going to teach you
what happens when you fuck up, Palmer. Now get in there and get your clothes
off. Don’t make me have to get tough with you!”
A shiver ran through
Clark. He was dreaming; he had to be dreaming, but he didn’t care. He backed into
the darkened room, Clay matching him pace for pace. The edge of the bed stopped
him. Keeping his eyes fixed on the man before him, who watched him with such
heat, Palmer’s hands went to his loosened tie and he threw it over his head. He
hesitated, not knowing where to go from there. His shirt or his trousers?
“You’re taking too long,
Clark. Maybe you’re just not interested in me. Maybe you’re only interested in
fantasies, in gumshoes from the 30s!”
“Maybe you ought to shut
your mouth, Clay!” The DSD agent, for wherever he wound up, he would always be
DSD, slammed his mouth over the other man’s. “Kiss me!” His lips parted and
Clay tasted him. Clark teased his tongue and lured it into his own mouth, and
began to suck on it.
“Say it!” Aroused,
startled, Clark opened his eyes, to see Clay’s changeable hazel eyes, green now
with passion, watching him. “Say my name!”
“Clay!”
****
“Clay!” he moaned.
“What, Clark? What is
it?”
“Huh?”
“You were calling my
name. I heard you over the intercomm.”
Oh shit. “I’m sorry,
Clay, I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
“It’s after hours, Clark.
There’s no one to hear but me.”
Clark moistened his lips,
confused for a moment as to what was real and what was the dream. “Did you…did
you tell me I was no longer your material?”
“Yes. I thought you’d
prefer a change. I know I’m nothing like the men you worked with at the DSD. I
don’t know if I can deal with that knowledge any longer.”
“You’re better, Clay.
Please, don’t send me away.”
Webb had never seen the
other man so distraught. “All right, Clark, if you’re sure. I’m leaving for the
night. You might as well go home too.” He turned to leave, to find Palmer
clutching his sleeve.
“Take me with you.”
Clay went pale.
Clark realized what he
had said and flushed.
And then Clay was kissing
him, and he thought he would come from the sheer pleasure of it.
****
With a moan, Clark arched
up into the solid weight of…nothing! He jerked into complete awareness. The
television hissed with white noise, the station having signed off for the
night.
It had been a dream. The
interlude with Sam Spade, the kisses shared with Clayton Webb, the man he
worked under. The man, he suddenly realized, he would like to do more under.
He swore and got to his
feet. He snapped off the television and paused by the occasional table to leave
his glass.
It was only then that he
noticed the two cigarettes that burned down to ash in the crystal ashtray.