Gigi Sinclair

Although he wouldn't have admitted it under torture, Harmon Rabb Junior liked being surrounded by civilians who knew who he was. There was something about being military and a lawyer that made people particularly attentive to Harm's needs.

Not that his needs were that great. Harm arrived at the civilan law conference on a commercial flight, presented the lecture he'd been paid to give, about the military as a model for legal self-government, then went out for dinner with a few old acquaintances.

Afterwards, as Harm was having a nightcap in the hotel bar, another of the conference delegates, a tweedy man with a smarmy quasi-Bostonian accent, enquired of the room in general and Harm in particular how "any legal professional with any kind of understanding of human rights could possibly work in an environment that legalizes and encourages discrimination based on sexual orientation."

"I don't have to agree with the rules, I just have to enforce them," Harm replied, pleased with his restraint. If he'd had a few more nightcaps, he might have been tempted to show the prick just what he'd learned in the navy, even if that would have been playing into the man's ridiculously well-manicured hands.

As it was, the other lawyer sneered and said, "Wasn't that the Nuremberg defence, Commander?"

"I don't know," Harm replied, standing. The man shrank back a little, which gave Harm a small glimmer of satisfaction. "Ask any of the civilians who've lost their jobs for being gay." It was a decent exit line and, since Harm was tired of the cheap liquor and piano music, not to mention the company, he decided to use it as one.

As he came into his room, Harm flicked on the lights and tossed his key card onto the desk. It landed next to a bottle of wine, chilling in a plastic ice bucket, that hadn't been there when he'd left.

Harm glanced around the room. There was, of course, the off-chance it was a gift from the hotel management or the conference organizers, or maybe even from an admirer. Come to think of it, Harm remembered, there had been a law student, a cute redhead with glasses, who'd been listening very attentively to his lecture.

But no. "There you are, Harm." Clayton Webb stepped out of the shadows in the far corner of the room, near the closet. The irony was not lost on Harm.

"What are you doing here?"

Clay smiled and picked up the wine bottle. "I heard you were in town. By some astonishing coincidence, so was I."

"We said no surprises." Harm loosened his tie. Clay removed the cork from the bottle with a pop and filled one of the water glasses. He offered it to Harm, who shook his head. He'd already had enough, and he needed to be up early to catch his flight home. Clay shrugged and drank the wine himself, sipping delicately from the water glass. "How did you get in here, Clay?"

"If I told you that, I'd have to kill you."

"If you don't tell me, I'll kill you. I'm considering it anyway."

Clay raised his eyebrows. "Big man."

"You know it." Harm sighed when Clay grinned and he realized he'd walked into a trap. Again. Harm could spot them a mile away in court, but when it came to Clay, it was like he'd just passed the bar.

Something Clay never did. He polished off his glass of wine as Harm made one last effort. "Get out of here, Clay."

"I will. I've got a rendez-vous in two hours."

"And until then?"

Clay put the glass on the desk and slid a hand, still cool from the chilled wine, down the front of Harm's uniform. "I'm sure we'll think of something." The hand squeezed gently and, just like that, desire cut through Harm's annoyance. Clay's lips came up to meet his and, giving in, Harm lowered his head the rest of the way.

As male lovers went, Harm thought, Clayton Webb wasn't a bad one. He needed to be as discreet as Harm did, although for different reasons, and there was never any awkwardness or hard feelings when one or the other of them had to back out of a pre-arranged meeting for work or security reasons. In public, Clay and Harm were rarely seen as anything other than adversaries or unwilling co-workers. Not even Mac suspected the truth, and Harm was confident that if they could fool her, they could fool anyone.

Those alone were good reasons for Harm to satisfy his inconvenient but still persistent cravings with Clay. The other reason, that Clay was damn good in bed, was a bonus.

He'd undressed Harm before they even made it to the bed, leaving Harm's dogtags around his neck. For someone who saw the dirtier side of the military on a regular basis, Clay had a very strange uniform fetish. Sometimes, he liked to suck Harm off while Harm was in full uniform, the Little Commander presenting arms through his open fly. Harm didn't like it as much. It made him feel strangely dishonourable to stand there fully clothed with Clay, usually naked, kneeling in front of him, like Harm was some kind of dictator or bent CO abusing his power. Harm let Clay do it, though, because Clay enjoyed it so much and because it made Harm's getaway a hell of a lot quicker when he didn't have to hunt all over for his clothes.

That particular scenario clearly wasn't in the cards tonight, though. Clay, his shirt partly unbuttoned and his tie hanging loosely around his neck, sat on the edge of the hotel bed, gazing at Harm's naked body until Harm shifted uncomfortably. Then, Clay ran a hand over Harm's chest and down to his stomach (still flat, Harm was proud to say, although it was getting harder and harder to keep it that way.) Clay's hand hovered over Harm's cock, which was beginning to show signs of serious interest, but instead of touching it, Clay ran his hand back up towards Harm's broad shoulders. Looking into Harm's eyes he said, clearly and precisely: "You're a very handsome man."

Harm knew he meant it, and that made him even more uncomfortable than the staring. So Harm did what he always did in court when things got sticky; he shifted focus onto something else.

"Really?" Harm lowered his voice, moving to sit on the bed beside Clay. "Do you think your mother would like to meet me?"

Clay's eyes darkened and his tongue came out to wet his lips.

Ironically, Harm thought, before he'd joined the military, he'd been the most boring bisexual on the planet. He'd never heard of bondage outside of worker's compensation issues, and role-play was something you did in court to prove a point and at "team building" seminars to waste time. Then, Harm decided to spend his life in a profession that required him to hide part of his nature, and as a result, he had to get more creative when it came to fulfilling that part. Of the very few men Harm had slept with since he'd joined the navy, Clay was the kinkiest.

"Oh," Clay smiled, and Harm tried not to grin back. Instead, he made an expression he hoped was sexy. "I could never take you home to Mother. You wouldn't do at all."

"What, I'm too low-brow?" Harm asked, getting into the swing of things. Clay's body, warm beside his own, helped too, especially when Harm noticed just how much this kind of talk excited Clay.

"You're a man, Harm. She wouldn't like that at all. My job is to get married and make babies. Sons, preferably, although by this time I think she'd be happy with anyone." There was a hint of bitterness in Clay's voice. Harm didn't know Porter Webb very well at all, but he guessed this was the grain of truth that made the fantasy that much more enjoyable for Clay.

"Well then," Harm went on, reaching for Clay, "I guess we'll have to be really quiet so she doesn't find us." Harm pulled Clay over beside him, making short work of his shirt buttons. Well aware that Clay's tie alone had probably cost a couple of hundred dollars, Harm repressed his usual urge to fold and tossed both the tie and the shirt onto the floor.

Clay signalled his approval of this recklessness by putting his arm around Harm's neck and pulling him down on top. Harm's erection pressed against Clay's, still covered by his silk boxer shorts, and Harm let out a groan.

"Shh," Clay murmured against Harm's lips, the vibrations going straight to Harm's groin, "Quiet, remember?"

Fuck that, was on the tip of Harm's tongue, but it disappeared when Clay slid his mouth over Harm's and kissed him deeply.

When they broke apart, Harm whispered, more out of exictement than any desire to maintain Clay's "naughty schoolboy" scenario: "What can we do?"

"Anything you want," Clay replied easily.

Harm wasn't too far gone to be a little surprised. He raised an eyebrow and Clay repeated: "Anything."

Harm still had regular military physicals, although they hadn't been as frequent since he started flying a desk, and he assumed the CIA tested Clay from time to time, as well. He couldn't see Clay wanting his bosses to find out how he spent his free time any more than Harm wanted AJ to know, but Harm knew that if anyone asked, Clay would never implicate him.

And, from another selfish point of view, it had been a while since Harm had fucked anyone. Literally, anyway.

"Do you have any…"

Clay reached across and pulled open the bedside drawer. On top of the Gideon Bible and the tourist brochures was a box of condoms and a tube of lubricant. Harm smiled. "Always prepared."

"That's the Boy Scouts." Clay replied, dextrously pulling a condom out of the box and ripping open the foil.

"What's the CIA, then?" Harm knelt so Clay could roll on the condom.

"Deposing Castro since 1959."

Harm laughed as Clay wriggled out of his boxers.

It was great. It was always great with Clay, Harm thought, no matter what they did, but this was best of all. Harm loved feeling a man's heat surround him, muscular legs tight around his body, a condom-encased erection trapped against his stomach and a sweaty, heaving chest beneath his. Squeezing his eyes shut, Clay leaned back against the pillows, and Harm took the opportunity to kiss him gently on the neck, careful not to leave any marks. There were enough marks on Clay's body already, scars and bruises he never talked about, and which Harm never mentioned. Their personal "don't ask, don't tell", Harm thought, as Clay's muscles, inside and out, tightened around him. Grunting, Harm braced his arm against the headboard, hoping the walls were well sound-proofed. Harm could feel the wave beginning to crest, for Clay as well as for himself. In the moment before it broke, filling Harm's ears with a rush of white noise, Harm distinctly heard Clay mutter his name.

Afterwards, Clay dressed quickly and efficiently, folding his collar neatly over his tie and bending to do up his shoes. Harm watched from the bed, glad that, for once, he wasn't the one who had to sneak away. "That was good," he said, as Clay pulled on his suit jacket. It didn't seem enough, somehow, so Harm added: "Really good."

"Yes," Clay agreed.

Harm swallowed. "If you, uh, wanted to do it again…"

Clay fastened his cuffs and picked up his overcoat. "I'll be away for a few weeks. Three or four, if all goes well."

"Oh. Sure." That was par for the course, Harm told himself, and it was the good part about being with Clay. No strings, no commitment, no real risks, just good casual fun. Which was why, Harm thought, he wasn't the least bit disappointed it would be a month before he saw Clay again.

"I'll call you when I get back," Clay continued, coming over to the bed.

"Whatever. Don't worry about it." Clay bent down, angling Harm's face upwards with a hand on his jaw, and kissed him. When he pulled away Harm thought, just for a second, that he saw a flash of something in Clay's eyes, but then it was gone and Clay was back to his usual cool self.

"Take care, Harm."

"You, too." Harm wondered, absurdly, if he should see Clay to the door. He didn't. Instead, he stayed in bed until he heard the door click shut, then he got up to make sure everything was secured for the night.

On the doorknob, attached to the "Do Not Disturb" sign, Harm found a yellow Post-It note which read, in clear, untraceable block letters, "The best offense is a Nuremberg Defense."

It was Clay all right, Harm would have known that anyway. What puzzled him was the "X" beneath it. Harm couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a mark of affection, or just a way of signing when Clay didn't, for obvious reasons, want to write his name.

Whatever Clay had meant, the note did what Harm suspected he'd wanted it to. Harm was up for hours thinking about it. When he left the next morning, he put it in his bag, along with the rest of the bottle of wine and the unused condoms Clay had left behind.