Gigi Sinclair

Clayton Webb was an idiot.

It had taken him forty years to realize it, but now that he had, it seemed crystal clear. If he'd had any sense at all, he'd have followed in his mother's footsteps instead of his father's. Clay could picture himself with a well-bred, well-educated wife by his side, someone like Mac only less opinionated, living a charmed life with a place in the Hamptons and maybe a kid or two away at prep school.

Instead, Clay had decided to make his career travelling to the worst places on Earth, dealing with the worst people and doing the worst things imaginable to get what he wanted out of them. A lot of the time, it didn't even work, and when it did, Clay was often hard pressed to say it was worth it.

This, though, this was worth it. It was also insane, Clay knew that, but as he drove the car---rented using one of many false identities---up to Harmon Rabb's apartment building, he couldn't bring himself to turn around.

Clay grabbed the front door as a young couple came out, laughing, and let himself into Harm's building. So much for security.

Clay rode the elevator up to Harm's floor, straightening his tie and wincing a little as the bandages around his ribs shifted. Harm was going to be upset if he saw them. So, Clay thought, he'd have to make sure he kept Harm too busy to notice.

Clay knocked on Harm's door. He could smell something cooking on the other side, and, for a second, Clay wondered if he should have called first. But this was risky enough as it was without bringing phone records into it, so he'd decided to take his chances.

"Coming!" A shiver ran through Clay's body at the sound of Harm's voice, although it could just as easily have been the freezing apartment hallway.

When he opened the door, Harm blinked and said: "What are you doing here?"

Clay smiled. "Nice to see you, too." He was pleased at how sarcastic it sounded, especially since it was true. Especially since Harm was wearing a pair of low-riding sweatpants and an extremely tight T-shirt.

"I thought you were away."

"I'd rather not discuss it in the hall, Harm." Or at all, actually.

Harm looked at him for a moment that seemed incredibly long to Clay. Then he stepped away, leaving the door open.

Clay decided to take that as an invitation. He followed Harm into the apartment and closed the door behind him as Harm headed for the kitchen.

Clay wasn't sure whether he should follow Harm or not, so he hovered near the door, automatically checking the windows. The curtains were tightly drawn, which was good. There was only one exit, which wasn't. Unless you counted the balcony, and Clay wasn't in any condition to leap over that tonight.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Harm asked.

"You don't like that plan?"

"Not particularly, but it's up to you." Harm appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Do you want something to eat?"

"I'm guessing steak's not on the menu."

Harm smiled, and Clay allowed himself to relax a little. "You guess right. I have vegetarian lasagne."

"That sounds good." After weeks of field rations alternating with questionable local delicacies, it did.

"So come set the table." Harm disappeared again, and this time, Clay followed him, even going so far as to joke:

"No such thing as a free lunch, huh?"

"You should know that, Clay." For a second, Harm sounded almost flirtatious, but that wasn't the way they did things. They weren't lovers, they weren't even really friends, they just each had something the other one needed. Less of a relationship, Clay thought, than an occasional, mutually beneficial, transaction.

Which was why he was setting Harm's table less than twenty-four hours after leaving a war zone.

Harm's lasagne was as good as anything Porter Webb's personal chef had ever turned out. A little crunchy on the bottom, but Clay didn't mention that. He didn't say anything when Harm brought out a bottle of white wine, either, even though it had a screw top and red would have been a better choice, anyway.

"What happened?" Harm finally asked, as he wiped his mouth on a napkin. Cloth, Clay was pleasantly surprised to notice. He would have expected paper towels.

"When?" Clay asked, ingenuously.

"Did something go bad?"

"What makes you say that?"

Harm frowned. "Can you give me a straight answer?"

Clay couldn't. Although it would have made him furious to hear it, Harm was one of the most innocent people Clay had ever met, and Clay wanted to preserve that. It was nice to know there were still people like Harm around, who believed in ideals and were genuinely outraged when those ideals were betrayed. Harm was uncompromising, while Clay made a living out of compromise.

"How's Mac?" Clay asked, swirling the wine in his glass.

Harm shook his head and stood, taking his plate and glass with him. "If you want dessert, there are some cookies in the cupboard." He disappeared into the kitchen.

Clay finished his drink and waited for Harm to come back. When he didn't, Clay went looking, and found him scraping out the lasagne pan.

"Is that it?"

Harm didn't look up. "I fed you dinner, Webb. What more do you want?"

Clay thought the answer had to be obvious. In case it wasn't, though, he stepped forward and put a hand on one of Harm's broad shoulders.

Harm bent to load the pan into the dishwasher.

"Rabb." Clay squeezed his shoulder. The muscles tightened a little under Clay's hand. "Harm."

"Clay..." Harm started, but that was more talking, the one thing Clay didn't want Harm doing with his mouth. So Clay decided to take control of the situation.

Harm was stronger and bigger than Clay, but Clay knew more tricks. He had Harm on his back on the linoleum within seconds, something Clay knew would have disgusted A.J. Chegwidden and Porter Webb in equal amounts, if for different reasons. Porter preferred flagstones or imported Italian tiles.

"Fuck, Clay," Harm tried to sit up, but, when Clay pushed him back down and shoved down Harm's sweatpants in the process, Harm stopped protesting.

Harm was gaining weight, Clay noticed, but that didn't matter in the least. He was still one of the most attractive men Clay had ever met, and certainly the most attractive man who'd ever let Clay get this close to him. Strangely, if not inappropriately, Clay thought about Andrew Halliday, the prettiest Princeton freshman who ever punched Clay in the face for touching his ass, as he took Harm's cock into his mouth. Harm didn't punch him, of course, but Clay did have to move fast when Harm gave a warning grunt and arched his back off the floor. Although he'd never tried it personally, Clay could imagine semen stains were a bitch to get off linoleum.

Abandoning all sense of propriety, Clay lay on the floor beside Harm as Harm panted through the aftershocks. He was staring at a particularly interesting ceiling stain shaped uncannily like Kofi Annan when Harm threw an arm over his eyes and said:

"You're not supposed to swallow."

"I know." It was one of the few things Harm---or anyone---was more paranoid about than Clay. Neither of them had any diseases, although after his last mission Clay was going to need another hepatitis test just in case, but Harm was convinced the CIA would somehow find his DNA in Clay's body and assume they weren't long-lost brothers. Clay didn't have the heart to explain that the day the CIA opened him up enough to find Harm's semen in his stomach would be the day Clay was already past caring about his career. As for Harm, he was a lawyer. Clay was confident he could talk himself out of anything.

Including sex. "This isn't a good idea, Clay," Harm continued, reaching down with one hand to pull up his pants and boxers.

Clay sighed, turning away from the Kofi Annan stain to look at Harm. "I think I've stopped caring."

Harm looked back, blinking long lashes. He was handsome, Clay confirmed. Ten times more so than Andrew Halliday, at least. "No, you haven't."

"There's no point, Harm." He could do everything right, he could sacrifice everything, and things still went to shit. He looked back at the ceiling until Harm stood up and entered his field of vision.

"Get up. This is unhygienic."

"You eat off your kitchen floor?" Clay said, even as he took Harm's offered hand. Harm pulled him upright, keeping Clay's hand in his. "Is that a military thing or a lawyer thing?"

"It's a grounded pilot's thing." Clay looked away. Harm tugged roughly on his hand, until Clay's eyes came back to him. "Listen, we all have...setbacks, Clay. You can't let it get you down."

"Harm..."

This time, Harm shut him up.

They didn't kiss that often, which meant Harm had the element of surprise. It was the only reason Harm had caught him off guard, Clay thought, as Harm's tongue pushed against his and his free hand, the one not holding Clay's like they were playing debs and beaux after a different kind of "coming out" party, gripped the back of his head. After a long moment, he pulled away and said: "You're a brilliant agent, Clay. You can't give up, and if you tell anyone I said that I'll kill you."

Clay laughed, more at the prospect of Harm killing him than anything else. "Being brilliant isn't enough." You had to be lucky, too, and well connected, and partly psychic, it seemed.

Harm stared at him, and, for a second, Clay felt like he was a hostile witness at some teenage seaman's marijuana-possession trial. "You make me feel safe, Clay," Harm said. "That's enough for me." He let go of Clay while Clay was still gaping. "I'll finish loading the dishwasher, if you want to get ready for bed."

They'd never slept together, not in the literal sense of the word. Clay could recognize the importance of Harm's offer, but he had to say: "I can't stay." There was a horrendous debriefing waiting for him at 0700. He needed to decide what case he was going to make for himself, and the blown operation, before then.

"Oh. OK." Harm didn't look at him. Instead, he bent over and pulled a box of dishwasher detergent out from under the sink. "Guess I'll see you later, then." Without standing up, Harm started to fuss with the box, unfortunately leaving his ass, snugly covered by the sweatpants, clearly in Clay's view.

Clay's mind was still on the mission, which may end up costing him his career. His body, on the other hand, was acutely aware that, of the two cocks in the room, only one had recently seen any action.

Well, Clay thought, the meeting wasn't until 0700.

"Can I use your bathroom?" He asked, because Porter had brought him up well.

Box in hand, Harm stood and looked at him like he'd rounded the final corner of insanity. "You just sucked my cock on my kitchen floor, Clay."

"So," Clay determined, "Does that mean I can have my own towel?"

Harm laughed, and Clay realized he'd been wrong. He wouldn't have been happy with a charmed life. At least, not unless it included a semi-regular, entirely illicit affair with a vegetarian military lawyer who used generic-brand dishwasher detergent.