Conflict
of Interest, a Without a Trace/NCIS crossover by Glacis. Rated NC17. No
copyright infringement intended.
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He fit a little bit a lot of
places and nowhere completely. Martin stared
up at the night sky outside the townhouse and listened to the sounds of
laughter and argument from inside.
Dinner had been wonderful; it was always good to see his mom, and his
dad had kept the digs to a minimum for a change. But it was hard to pretend that everything
was fine when every way he turned someone undercut him. If not because of his last name, then because
of his background; if not because they thought he was a lightweight, then
because they thought he’d only gotten where he was by hanging on to his
father’s coat tails.
If they only knew how little
his father knew him, and how hard he’d worked to make his own way… not that it
mattered. Respect had to be earned, he
knew that, but there were days when he didn’t think anyone would ever look past
the name and the accounting degree to see the man behind them. If only they’d listen and hear him, instead
of an echo of their own preconceptions.
The last case was a perfect
example. His gut told him the man was a
terrorist. Jack listened, but gave his
words no weight; the others thought he was show-boating for the JTF head. God, if there was anything he wasn’t, it was
a brown-noser. It would be so easy to
coast… but he wasn’t about to do it. He
knew what he wanted to do, and if that meant he had to throw himself head-first
into the brick wall of their disbelief to do it, then he would.
He just hoped more people
wouldn’t have to die before they accepted that he was as dedicated to finding
the truth as they were.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder,
and he looked up to see his father’s measuring eyes and disapproving
expression. As usual.
“Brooding again, son?” he
asked.
Martin shrugged, a rueful
grin curving his lips. “Enjoying the night air.”
“Well, enjoy it later. Come join the family now. We see little enough of you as it is.”
Allowing himself to be led
back into the lights and noise and curious eyes, Martin sighed silently and put
on his family face. A few hours of
smiling and listening and surface conversation and his family would be
reassured that all was well with the Martin they knew.
They never guessed that the
Martin they knew was only one very small part of the whole. It was just as well.
By Saturday morning he’d had
as much as he could take. He made excuses,
work to catch up on, and knew by the look in his father’s eye that the older
man didn’t believe him. Didn’t call him on it, though, because his dad had done the same
thing too many times himself to risk pointing the finger at Martin.
Restless, itchy, not wanting
to return to the silence that fell when he entered the office or the silence
that reigned at his apartment, he took a detour, stayed on the road and was in
He hadn’t been to the
Rectory since before he’d transferred to the Missing Persons Squad. It wasn’t the kind of place a respectable FBI
agent visited. It wasn’t the kind of place
any kind of respectable man went. It was
the kind of place a man went to find another man for a night of anonymous sex.
It was the side of Martin
nobody at work and nobody in his family would ever know about, if he had any
say in the matter.
Martin was responsible,
respectable, pristine to the degree of dullness
usually associated with dishwater.
Specializing in accounting would do that to a guy; so would being a member of a prominent DC family that was continually
in the news. Martin had learned the
value of discretion before he could spell it, much less need it. You didn’t disgrace the family; you didn’t
pee in your own backyard; you didn’t fuck around where anyone would find out
about it.
The Rectory was nothing if
not discreet.
The manager recognized him,
although it had been over a year since his last visit. He smiled at the bouncer standing watch at
the doorway and walked in, feeling the man’s eye on his ass all the way down
the hall. Blood started to rush through
him, warming his skin, heating his body, as the outer façade thawed away and
the inner predator came out to prowl.
The club was dimly lit,
quiet, tastefully decorated, the antithesis of the
popular concept of a gay bar, but the men who came cruising here weren’t
looking for your average pick-up. To get
in the door you had to be known; anyone you left with, you knew had as much to
lose by being noticed as you did. It
catered to high-powered businessmen, closeted politicians, the highest ranking
military and law enforcement officers in the country. A time or two Martin recognized a face
sweating above him, or twisting beneath him.
Not by a flicker did he ever acknowledge it. If anyone recognized him, he never knew.
It was exactly what he
needed.
And so was
the tall, lean, broad-shouldered man leaning up against the side of the bar,
watching the ebb and flow around him. Messy brown hair lit with gold
under the low lights, classically handsome features, something innate about him
that screamed ‘cop.’
Martin walked up to stand beside
him, close enough to indicate interest but not close enough to be perceived as
a threat. Blue-green eyes looked him
over, professionally the first time, more slowly and with a personal glint the
second time.
“Redbreast straight,” Martin
ordered, letting the man look his fill.
By the time the bartender put the whiskey down in front of him, the man
had relaxed his stance, leaning far enough toward Martin to indicate interest
returned without being pushy. Yeah. This was what he needed.
“Irish?” the man asked,
nodding toward the glass Martin raised to his lips.
“Yeah.” Martin took a
sip, savored it, turned to face the man. Up close he was even better looking, with
laugh lines around his eyes and a mouth Martin couldn’t wait to feel wrapped
around his dick. “Have to stick to the
home team, you know?”
The man looked over at him
through his lashes, and Martin felt himself start to harden. God, if his instinctive reaction was any
indication, this was going to be a night to remember.
“Guess that’s why I’m
drinking Disarono.”
The
man hefted a glass half full of amber liquid and ice cubes. Martin raised his glass and saluted him. “Salute!”
“Cheers!”
the man answered, grinning.
Another
sip, another moment to look, to linger, and the itchiness was
back. Martin shifted on his barstool,
and the man licked his lips. Feeling
half-horny and half-ridiculous, Martin blurted out, “Are you thinking what I’m
thinking?”
“Back
room,” the man answered immediately. “Now.”
God, yes. “Now would be
good.” Now would be great.
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He
hadn’t expected much. A few weeks
before, he’d heard Abby make some crack to Gibbs about meeting a “new girl” in
church, and when they’d left, Ducky was still laughing. Tony’d drifted over to find out what was
keeping him so amused.
“Church,”
Ducky told him cryptically.
Ducky
being one of the three people on the planet who knew he was queer, Tony felt
comfortable enough to smirk at him in an invitation for more information. Ducky chuckled harder, then dug into his
desk, pulled out a notepad with his personal letterhead on it, wrote an address
on the paper and passed it to Tony.
“Next
time you’re in
He
refused to say more. Intrigued, the next
time Tony had a weekend off, he took a road trip up
the coast and checked out the Rectory.
The bouncer glared at him for three whole seconds until Tony showed him
the paper. When he saw Ducky’s name, like everyone Tony’d
ever met who knew Ducky, the burly man grinned, said, “Any friend of the
Duck’s” and waved him in the door.
The
following hour had been instructive to say the least. It was the fanciest cruise joint Tony’d ever
been in. There were no prices on
anything, and he knew on his salary he’d better stick to two drinks at
most. On a chance, he’d asked for an
import he knew and seldom splurged on; it tasted as good as he remembered.
A
few men had given him signals, but none of them had done much for him. Older guys, for the most part, power players,
sharks; Tony was hungry, but not that hungry, and he wanted some meat with some
muscle to it.
Then
a man walked in the door.
Not
as tall as Tony, but damned cute, with a way of holding himself that said he’d
break anybody who dared to call him cute into many very small bloody
pieces. Built solid, wide shoulders,
narrow hips, strong face, bright blue eyes that oddly reminded him of Ducky,
only the twinkle in these was muted. Sadder than they should be.
Tony kept looking out the corner of his eye as the guy saw him in turn,
and headed directly across the floor to stand next to him at the bar.
All
Tony’s nerves started to sing at once, and they were singing a mating
song. He wanted this guy.
Conversation,
such as it was, was brief and to the point.
Didn’t really matter what they said, because what they were saying
underneath the words was ‘let’s fuck right now.’ Very soon, the unspoken was made explicit,
and Tony heard the guy say, “Now would be good” before turning on his heel and
marching toward the back hall in a move and at a clip that would make a Marine
envious.
Tony
was right on his heels.
Peripherally
he noted the surroundings; long hall, sconces inset against dark wood and
burnished copper, a series of anonymous doors, no immediate exit, no sounds
coming from the rooms so they must be sound-proofed. Then the man in front of him opened one of
the doors, led Tony in, reached around him and locked it behind them.
He
stayed there, pressing Tony against the door, leaning in to lick the side of
Tony’s throat, and Tony couldn’t hold back a groan. Busy hands worked at his tie, slid his jacket
off, and he shrugged, tugged and shook his hands to get them free and return
the favor. The whole time the man
stripped him, he kept sucking and licking Tony’s throat, along his jaw line,
down to his collarbone, then slid further down, following the trail of exposed
skin as he opened Tony’s shirt.
Straining
to keep his balance as that voracious mouth went at him, Tony gave up trying to
undress the man and put his hands flat against the door behind him,
concentrating on staying on his feet.
His knees were shaking, so he shifted his legs apart, trying to keep his
balance. The man took it as an
invitation, swiftly unbuckling Tony’s belt, unzipping his trousers and sliding
them as far down Tony’s thighs as he could get them.
A
hard hand behind his knee urged him to move, while the other hand caught his
trousers and pushed them down, and wicked teeth scraped delicately at his
erection through his shorts. Tony gave a
sound closer to a whimper than a groan and absently lifted his foot so the man
could free him of his trousers.
A
muffled noise of approval huffed over the wet stain on the front of his shorts
where the man started sucking at him.
Tony bucked at the sensation, fingers curling uselessly against the
wooden door.
“God,
please,” he ground out, hips moving uncontrollably. “Shit.
Fuck. Please!” It wasn’t very comprehensible, but the man
understood, because he slid his fingers beneath the waistband of Tony’s shorts
and delicately peeled them away. Tony
would have voiced his appreciation but he was too busy trying not to scream
like a girl as the man sucked him all the way down to the balls in one slurping
gulp.
Son of a fucking bitch. He couldn’t
remember the last time somebody’d sucked his cock so… enthusiastically. He humped forward, trying to control himself
and failing. Slick, and hot, and more
intense by far than he’d expected; it dawned on Tony that he had his hands
wrapped around the man’s head and was fucking the man’s mouth relentlessly, so
he tried to pull back. In response, the
man took everything Tony gave him, humming his appreciation around Tony’s
dripping cock, digging his hands into Tony’s hips and pulling him even closer.
He
was coming before he wanted to, and he couldn’t do a damned thing about
it. Trying not to drown the poor guy,
Tony kept himself as still as he could, given the involuntary whipping of his
hips. The man growled around him,
reaching behind him to work a finger into his ass, and Tony gave up the notion
of control completely.
By
the time the stars stopped flashing in front of his eyes and he could take a
breath without wheezing again, he was flat on his back on the floor in front of
door, and the guy who’d blown his mind along with his cock was pushing Tony’s
knees back and kneeling between them.
Sometime before Tony’d regained his senses, the guy’d put a condom on,
and he cozied up between Tony’s thighs, leaning down to nip at the inside of
Tony’s left knee, making him jump.
“This
okay?” the guy asked, voice a little raspy, probably from Tony ramming his cock
halfway down his throat. Tony didn’t
bother trying to talk. He just nodded,
head bobbing up and down frantically, and waved one hand languidly in the air
in a vague ‘get on with it and fuck me’ motion.
The guy gave a short laugh, a surprisingly sweet sound, and leaned over
him.
Relaxed
as Tony was from coming so hard he nearly passed out, it still took a little
work for the guy to get in. Tony hadn’t
taken it up the ass in a long time, but right then, with this guy, for some
reason he couldn’t begin to explain, he wanted it. Hard. Deep as the guy could go. He licked his lips and swallowed a few times
to moisten his mouth so he could speak, then grunted,
“Do it. Come on, fuck me. I’m not gonna break. God. Push it in me. Do it!
Yes! Harder! Fuck!
Fuck me, goddamnit!”
With
every word, the guy moved a little faster, pushed a little harder, until by the
end he was balls-deep and panting like a long distance runner. He wasn’t that long, but he was thick,
opening Tony up and keeping him that way, and Tony found himself pushing down
to meet the thrusts in. They moved
together like they’d been doing each other for years, and Tony’s breath caught
in his chest at how good it felt.
He
didn’t get completely hard again, but it didn’t matter. It was enough. The guy braced his hands on either side of
Tony’s hips and worked at him, shoving and pulling out and shoving in
again. Tony dropped a hand down to his
cock and stroked a couple times; still sensitive from coming the first time, he
found himself coming almost immediately, a long drawn-out climax that pulsed in
time with the cock rocking into him. He
found himself in a kind of fugue state, come spurting out in little dribs and
drabs every time the guy pumped into him.
Everything
narrowed down to the heat between them, the sweat dripping off the guy’s skin
and mixing with Tony’s, the friction of the shirt still caught on Tony’s
shoulders and bunched behind his back, the narrowed, glazed stare of the
dilated blue eyes fixed on his, the rhythm of the solid body slapping against
and into his. Then all movement stilled;
a thrust, a shudder, another, and the man collapsed against Tony’s chest.
Tony
wrapped his arms around the broad shoulders, petting him absently, holding him
until the shivering stopped. They lay
there for awhile, Tony staring up at the ceiling and thinking vaguely that the
guy smelled good, even covered in sweat and splattered with come. The muscles under his hands bunched, and the
bulk in his ass slowly slid out. Tony hissed,
and the guy murmured, “Sorry.”
“No
problem,” Tony answered automatically, then nodded for
emphasis. “Really. Worth it.” He didn’t have enough energy to say more.
Then
he heard it. Smothered by the wad of his
trousers still hanging off one foot, but unmistakable. His pager.
“Shit,”
he said.
“Shit,”
the guy said at the exact same moment, reaching for his own pants.
Tony
blinked at him. The guy blinked
back. They both grinned. Both dug into their trouser pockets and came
out with pagers. Sure enough, it was
Gibbs, calling him in. Tony sighed and untangled
himself the rest of the way from the guy still half-wrapped around him.
“Hate
to fuck and run,” he muttered, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks.
“I
understand,” the guy said quietly.
Tony
had a feeling he really did. Making a
snap decision, Tony leaned forward and, giving him time to pull away if he
wanted, kissed him.
The
guy didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned
into Tony, for a moment, and Tony closed his eyes to savor the kiss. Whiskey and spice, everything nice, he
thought whimsically, before slowly breaking contact. “Hi,” he said solemnly. “I’m Tony.”
That
earned him a startled grin, and an equally solemn, “Martin. We have to do this again some time.”
Tony
dressed in the wreck of his clothes and gave Martin a slow, wide grin. “Yeah. We do.”
As
he ducked out the door, leaving Martin to find his own clothes, he knew they
would. Didn’t quite know how or when,
but knew it was going to happen. Ducky’d
been right; maybe Tony hadn’t found God, but he’d found a slice of heaven, and
he wanted more.
It
was a month before he got the chance.
His luck, for once, was in.
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Martin
hadn’t meant to make it a habit. In
fact, he tried very hard to resist the temptation to return to the Rectory, for
many reasons.
His father.
Jack.
His mother.
The FBI.
His
career hopes.
The
fact that the more times he snuck out of the closet, the harder it got to go
back in.
The
third Saturday he dropped in at the Rectory, there was Tony. Standing at the end of the
bar, untouched glass by his hand.
Staring at the door.
Staring at Martin.
This
time, at least, they almost made it to the bed.
If half on the bed and half on the floor counted.
Afterward
they lay together, Martin’s head resting on Tony’s chest, Tony’s arms wrapped
around him, Martin’s legs nestled between Tony’s thighs, as they waited for
their breathing to calm. Martin felt an
odd sort of restfulness, as if all his armor was shed, all the eyes that
usually watched him were turned away. In
that room, with Tony, Martin was simply Martin.
No expectations, no illustrious family name, no skeptics to convince.
So much for reasons.
Five
weeks later, although they carefully made no plans, it happened again. Once was chance, twice was serendipity… the
third time was the charm. It wasn’t so
much habit as it was addiction, an addiction Martin didn’t want to end, because
for the first time in his life he had something that was completely his.
Even
if he didn’t know Tony’s last name, or what he did for a living, though Martin
would bet real money he was a cop. Even
if, or perhaps because, Martin could never take him home to meet his
family. It was simple, very little
conversation, a great deal of sex, and a silent time of holding on, before
Martin carefully shut the closet door and returned to the rest of his life.
Spring
came late, and it came hard. May was
tough, as all hell broke loose at work.
On the surface, it was a review of the Samir case, at the same time the
Spalding case came to trial.
The
review was bullshit. The shooting was
legit; the questions the IA bastard dug at were not. It was a monkey trial, and Martin’s father
was the one pulling the strings. All the
trust Martin had worked so hard to build with the team was washed away in one
horrible afternoon. Weirdly, the only
one who seemed to still believe in him was Jack, but that might have been
because Jack had more problems than the target painted on his ass.
Martin
had nightmares: of young Andy Deaver, so
close to dying at the hand of the homicidal pedophile; of the things Jack said
to Spalding to get the creep’s confidence so they could trick Andy’s location
out of him before the kid froze to death; of how far they bent the law and how
close they came to breaking it in order to save the boy’s life; of the silent
understanding between Martin and Jack as Jack threw up in the bushes at the
crime scene, part relief at getting there in time, mostly disgust at putting
himself in Spalding’s twisted mind far enough to get the information they
needed out of him.
Jack
was an incredible profiler, but the toll it took on him could be brutal. Even watching and learning often left Martin
feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, as if his brain had been turned
inside out. When the case came to trial,
Martin learned how far Jack had gone to save Andy Deaver, and it nearly handed
Jack’s head to Martin’s father on a silver platter.
By
the time it all unwound, Martin was willing to lie to save Jack, Jack wasn’t
willing to lie to save himself, and Martin’s father
finally called the dogs off. In the end,
the team came through intact.
But
the predator who’d molested and killed so many young
men walked free.
Martin
stood under a steaming hot shower and seriously considered crawling into a
bottle of whiskey and not coming out all weekend. Instead, he cleaned up his apartment, stocked
the refrigerator, worked out, showered again, and drove uptown.
Proving
that there was, indeed, a God, Tony showed up at the Rectory. This time Martin was there before him. Tony walked over, took one look at Martin’s
face, and asked, “Who died?”
“Too
many of them,” Martin responded, thinking of the photos of dead boys pinned to
the ops board, and the sick son of a bitch ranging free looking for more
victims.
He
came out of his memories to hear Tony swearing under his breath beside
him. There was a white line around
Tony’s lips, and his eyes looked old.
Martin took a deep breath and asked, “Want to get out of here?”
“Sure,”
Tony answered quietly. “I’ll follow
you.”
Twenty
minutes later they pulled up outside Martin’s apartment.
Tony
followed him up the elevator. Neither
said anything. Martin could feel Tony
looking at him, but couldn’t bring himself to look back. He felt unsettled, like this was the
stupidest thing he’d ever done or really overdue, he couldn’t tell which. He wanted to talk, wanted to hide, wanted to
fuck, wanted to run away. He didn’t know
what the hell he wanted.
“Sorry,”
Tony finally broke the silence when they were standing in the middle of
Martin’s living room. “Stupid
thing to say.”
“You
had no way of knowing,” Martin defended him.
“No,”
Tony immediately contradicted. “I know
that look. I should’ve kept my mouth
shut.”
“I’m
glad you didn’t,” Martin said softly, then reached out and touched Tony’s
cheek, a fleeting contact over practically before it began.
“Can
you talk about it?” Tony asked.
Martin appreciated the phrasing. Not ‘do
you want’ but ‘can you’; Tony knew more than the look. He knew there were some things Martin
couldn’t talk about no matter how much he might want to, and many of Martin’s
assumptions about Tony were bolstered by that simple question.
“No,”
he answered quietly, “just something happened that shouldn’t have, and there’s
nothing I can do, and it hurts.” Stark truth. A
monster was free; innocents would suffer and die, and there wasn’t a goddamned
thing Martin could do about it. “It had
to be that way.”
Another
truth; if they’d gone by the book, put the monster in the cage in such a way
that he’d stay there, a seventeen year old boy would have died a horrible
death. To save one boy, they’d
sacrificed who knew how many to come, and let justice slip away for all those
they would never be able to prove the monster had destroyed.
“Sometimes
it does,” Tony told him just as quietly.
“Doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
God. A truth Martin had
to live with, and Tony too, from the sound of it.
“Hell
with this,” Martin said abruptly. “You
want anything to drink?” That bottle of
whiskey still sounded more tempting than it should.
“Take
the edge off?” Tony asked, one side of his mouth curling up in a stillborn
smile. His eyes still looked older than
they should, but they warmed as they looked at Martin.
“Something
like that,” Martin admitted.
“I
have a better idea.” Tony closed in on
Martin, edging him toward the couch.
“Yeah?” Martin retreated, relaxing in the face of Tony’s warmth,
until he found the back of his thighs up against the side of the couch. “What’s that?”
Tony
kissed him. Softer than they usually
kissed, and longer, and deeper, until Martin was dizzy from lack of air. His dick was hard already, from Tony’s hand
moving up and down over it in time with the movement of his tongue in Martin’s
mouth. When Tony finally let him
breathe, Martin gasped for air, then gasped again as Tony swung him around and
put a firm hand at the small of his back, pushing him forward until he was bent
over the sturdy arm of the couch.
“Oh,
shit,” Martin moaned into the seat cushion as Tony efficiently pushed his
trousers and shorts down to his ankles and pushed the tail of his shirt up his
back. The air was cool over his skin,
but not for long, as Tony grasped his ass firmly and spread his cheeks.
“God,
god, god, Tony,” Martin chanted through clenched teeth as Tony’s tongue touched
him, softly at first then more firmly.
The wet warmth swiped over and over his hole, making Martin squirm, forcing Tony’s name out like a prayer from his tight
throat. Clenching his shaking fists
around the edge of the seat cushion, Martin steadied his shaking legs the best
he could and rode out the storm.
Tony didn’t make it easy. He worked at
Martin’s hole, nipped at the soft inner skin between his thighs, reached down
to rub the hanging balls until they began to draw up, all the while continuing
the assault with his tongue. When the
muscle began to relax he firmed his tongue and probed as deeply as he could
reach, wrenching a scream out of Martin that made him chuckle. The vibration of that mouth on his ass nearly
sent Martin into orbit.
Two
fingers probing even further in him, then twisting,
finished the job.
With a howl, barely stifled by the cushion he was burying his face in, Martin came
hard. Tony murmured encouragement Martin
couldn’t hear, milking Martin’s dick with one hand and keeping the other buried
in his ass. Martin was shaking and
floating when Tony finally stopped rubbing his dick and reached back to use
Martin’s come to coat his own dick.
Martin’s
hole was still clenching in reaction to his orgasm when Tony pushed in,
triggering another before the first had a chance to pass. Tony didn’t give him time to get used to it,
just pushed all the way in, fingers digging into Martin’s hips to hold him
steady. Martin bucked and pushed back to
meet him, gulping for air, his hand going down to his groin to cushion his
tender dick from getting crushed into the arm of the couch.
Tony
rode him hard, thrusting in deep then pulling nearly all the way out before
pumping back in. Martin gave up trying
to keep up and gave himself over to the sensation of being completely
overpowered, taken and used up and knocked right out of himself.
It
was exactly what he needed.
Again.
With
a final thrust that rocked Martin off his feet, Tony growled something that
sounded a little like Martin’s name and a lot like a curse, and came. A jerk, another, a third, then
he softened and collapsed over Martin’s back.
It took him a couple minutes before he could gather the strength to
move. His dick
slipping out left Martin feeling empty, open and empty, his mind as drained as
his body.
Given
the way he’d been feeling all week, empty was a damned good alternative.
Eventually,
Martin forced one eye open and looked over his shoulder. Tony stood behind him, used condom in one
hand, looking around the apartment.
Martin snorted a laugh and told him, “Next to the desk. If I’d known you were going to toss me over
the side of the couch and fuck me stupid, I’d’ve been better prepared.”
“Complaining?”
Tony asked, his tone making it quite obvious he knew the answer to that one,
and he was right.
“Ask
me again when my muscles work.”
Hefting
himself up with more effort than it should have taken,
Martin rolled onto the couch, ignoring the wet spot on the upholstery, enjoying
the ache in his ass, coming into a sitting position and stripping off the
clothing twisted around his body.
Pushing
the pile of clothes and shoes away with one foot, he looked up to see Tony,
still dressed except for open trousers, boxers pushed down, his dick hanging,
still partly hard against the striped cotton.
Martin’s mouth watered, and he grinned.
“Okay. Mind-blowing sex is better than booze any day
of the week. Come here.”
Tony
was across the room and standing within licking distance almost before the
words were out of Martin’s mouth. Martin
leaned forward, rested his palms against Tony’s thighs, and nuzzled the wet
glans, running his tongue across the slit in much the same way Tony’d teased
Martin’s ass. Tony grunted and took a
deep breath, hands reaching out to card through Martin’s hair.
“Turnaround’s
fair play,” Martin whispered then drilled the slit with his tongue, and Tony
made a sound like a strangled cat. The
fingers in his hair clenched into fists and Tony pulled Martin’s head down,
shoving his dick halfway down Martin’s throat in response.
Since that was exactly the reaction Martin had been going for, he didn’t
complain. Instead he opened his mouth as
wide as he could, flattened his tongue, relaxed his throat, and let Tony fuck
him.
Since
he’d already come once, it took awhile for Tony to get completely hard
again. By the time he was, Martin’s jaw
was sore and his throat was raw. As he’d
sucked, he’d worked Tony’s trousers and boxers down below his knees,
effectively hobbling him. That was fine
with Martin. Tony didn’t need to go
far. A half-turn and down, that was all
Martin needed. Reaching up to tap Tony’s
wrists with his fingers, he signaled he needed air, and Tony let him back away.
A
careful turn and push, and Tony found himself sitting on the couch. Martin reached for a condom, stashed with
lube under the side pillow when he’d cleaned earlier, his subconscious knowing
before he even left for the club that he’d be bringing Tony home that
night. He took his time rolling the
condom on, stroking and teasing, until Tony was humping up into his hand. Then he straddled Tony, knees sinking into
the cushions, and positioned himself before sitting
down, taking Tony’s dick deep inside him.
The
angle was different, good, pressing inside, rubbing his prostate in a way that
made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Martin ground down on Tony’s dick, gasping at the sensation, and Tony whimpered
in response. Then Tony leaned forward,
rubbing harder inside Martin and pulling a yelp out of him. Before Martin could catch his breath Tony
bent down to catch a nipple between his teeth and bite down, just hard enough
to cause another yelp.
Caught
there, Tony’s teeth at his chest and Tony’s dick drilling him, Martin felt like
he was balanced on a tightrope. He
froze, as much as he could, given that his nerves were jumping from overload,
and slowly lifted his hands to weave them through Tony’s hair. Then he pressed Tony’s head forward, and Tony
sucked hard at the bitten nipple, sending a shudder ripping through Martin from
his chest to his ass to his dick to his fingertips and toes. Eventually Tony let the nipple free from his
mouth with an audible pop, and Martin rasped, “Fuck!”
“Doing
my best,” Tony muttered back, then took the other nipple between his teeth and
started all over again.
They
stayed that way for some time, Tony roaming from one side of Martin’s chest to
the other, hips pumping up an inch when the urge to move was too strong to
deny, but staying as still as he could otherwise. His fingers roamed over Martin’s sides and
back, dipping down to press against the thin skin of Martin’s hole, stretched around his dick. Every time he did, Martin moaned louder. Martin fought the need to move as well,
feeling the muscles in his ass spread and protest the stretch, feeling the burn
all the way through to his spine.
Finally
the need to come and the need to move and the ache in his ass and the
tightening of his balls and the fire in his chest got the best of him. Martin wrenched Tony’s mouth away from his
nipple and up to meet his own. As they
kissed Martin jerked down, up and down, until his dick pulsed and his entire
body spasmed along with it.
Tony
yelled, “Martin!” and came in response, hips arching completely off the couch,
as Martin rode him out, coming until it felt like every bone in his body had
melted. Tony’s arms came around his back
and held him in place as he collapsed, as Tony bucked up into him, wringing the
last of his orgasm out of him. When it
was over, they sat there, Martin sprawled across
Tony’s lap, content to never move again.
When
he woke up, it was two in the morning.
Tony was still underneath him, but they were lying down now, and the
afghan Martin’s mother made for him six years before was pulled over the both
of them. Martin smiled, rubbed his cheek
against Tony’s chest, and went back to sleep.
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After
that night, pancakes the morning after, and they discovered a new use for maple
syrup, Tony didn’t go back to the Rectory.
Three weeks later, he showed up on Martin’s doorstep with a bottle of
Redbreast whiskey, and waited to find out if he was welcome or if Martin would
regret bringing him home.
No
one answered the bell when he rang.
He
sat on the steps, looking down at the bottle sitting between his feet, and
thought coming to
To
his relief, Martin didn’t look pissed off.
Surprised, yeah, and a little confused, but he was smiling, his glance
bouncing from the bottle to Tony’s crotch and back to the bottle.
“If
you say we have to stop meeting like this, I’ll think you mean it,” Tony warned
him, flashing him a grin.
“Who
am I to turn away a man bearing gifts?” Martin asked, stepping past Tony and
punching in the security code to unlock the door.
“The whiskey?” Tony held up
the bottle as they stepped into the elevator.
As soon as the door closed, Martin turned to him, ran a hand down his cock all
the way to his balls, and gave them a promising squeeze. Tony gulped and nearly dropped the bottle.
“Among other things.”
Martin’s
grin lit his face up, and Tony couldn’t resist.
He kissed him, hard and fast, then shot back to his corner of the
elevator so that by the time the doors opened he was standing, as innocently as
a man with swollen lips and a cock hard enough to pound nails with could stand,
a good three feet away from Martin.
Who
blinked, shook his head to clear the glaze from his eyes, and shot Tony a
mock-glare.
“Tease,”
he muttered under his breath as he stalked ahead, nodding to a neighbor as they
passed in the hall.
Tony
beamed at the elderly lady, leaving her a little dazed-looking herself, before
following Martin into his apartment.
Placing the whiskey securely on the side table, he disagreed.
“I
can’t be a tease, because I always deliver.”
Taking Martin by the tie, he tugged until Martin followed him into the
bedroom.
“You
mean we’re actually making it to the bed before we get naked?”
Tony
shrugged, turned, and pulled Martin close.
Unzipping his trousers with one hand, Tony slid his hand into Martin’s
shorts and squeezed his hardening cock.
“Thought
we’d try something different this time,” he explained, then pushed Martin flat
on his back on the bed.
“I’m
all for different,” Martin replied, sounding distracted. Probably because Tony was stripping him so
fast he didn’t have a chance to move. Or
reciprocate. When Tony had Martin
completely naked, he stripped himself, slowing down a little and letting Martin
get an eyeful. It had the hoped-for
effect.
Martin
lay with his legs spread, one hand stroking slowly up and down his now-hard
cock, licking his lower lip convulsively as Tony crawled up the bed toward him.
“I
don’t know how you do that,” Martin said shakily, looping an arm around Tony’s
neck and pulling him in for a slow, wet kiss.
When
Tony got his tongue back he absently asked, “What?” He was more interested in grinding his cock
against Martin’s and moaning at the resulting friction than the answer, but
Martin’s words still made him grin.
“Melting my brains into my balls just by taking your clothes
off.”
“It’s
a talent,” Tony whispered into Martin’s ear, then
licked it, and Martin jumped, leading to even more interesting friction.
They
kissed and rubbed for awhile, taking their time, enjoying discovering new
erogenous zones on one another’s bodies.
Tony squirmed when Martin ran a tongue along his ribs, and retaliated by
nipping the back of Martin’s knee. They
twisted and stroked, wrapping themselves around one another, reveling in the
touch of skin on skin, sweat sliding against sweat, tasting and teasing one
another.
Tony
eventually found himself on his side, one of Martin’s arms wrapped around his
chest, the other curving around his hip to gently jack his cock. He spread his legs to allow Martin room to
play, his own hands kneading the mattress restlessly. Martin kissed the nape of his neck, then down
along the tendons to the top of his shoulder blade, working one knee between
Tony’s thighs to nudge his balls. Tony
whimpered.
“C’mon,
babe, fuck me,” he ground out, arching his back and rubbing his ass against
Martin’s dripping cock in invitation.
Martin
moaned in response, then drew back long enough to open
the drawer in the bedside table. The
crinkle of a condom being unwrapped, the squeeze of a small bottle, and they
were both more than ready.
Tony
dropped his hand down to pull at his cock, hissing, “fuck,
yeah!” as Martin worked lubed fingers into his hole. It didn’t take long, as ready as he was, as
long as they’d played, until Tony had to grab his balls to keep from coming.
“Now
would be good,” he ordered, and Martin laughed, air gusting over Tony’s
shoulder.
“Pushy,”
Martin accused him.
Before
Tony could agree or argue, Martin pushed himself into Tony, and Tony lost the
ability to form words. It was like this
every time Martin fucked him, every time he fucked Martin; the heat, the bulk,
the slick glide of flesh in flesh, the way he was held and held in return. The world contracted to the two of them,
panting, clutching, hanging on and being blown apart, together.
Martin
came first, slamming into Tony and jerking a few times, then wrapping his arms
around Tony’s waist and burying his face against Tony’s back. Tony took one of Martin’s shaking hands and
wrapped it around his aching cock, closing his own fingers around Martin’s,
pulling and squeezing until he came. The
force of the spasms in his ass pushed Martin’s softening cock out, and they
both groaned at the loss.
Lying
there, exhausted, purged, content, Tony waited for Martin to get rid of the
used condom then opened his arms to him.
Martin curled up against Tony’s chest and sighed.
“God,
I needed that,” Martin spoke directly into Tony’s skin.
“Yeah,”
Tony agreed, dropping a kiss onto the sweat-soaked head beneath his chin. “You and me both.”
Four
hours later, Tony unwrapped himself from a sleeping Martin and headed into the
bathroom for a piss. He bumped his shin
on the open drawer of the nightstand and stifled a curse. Glancing over he saw that Martin was still
out cold. Grinning, he started to push
the drawer shut, then froze.
He
recognized the bulky outline of a holster, the slender square of a wallet that was
all too familiar – he had one himself, holding his own badge. He swallowed and closed the drawer with
extreme care and absolute silence.
It
was one thing to have his suspicions. Another thing to have them confirmed. He was stupid to come here of his own
volition. There were certain lines cops
couldn’t afford to cross. He damned well
knew that. In the morning when Martin
woke up he might well come to his senses too, and if he did, Tony would
understand completely if Martin told him never to come back.
The
next morning, after eggs and bagels and strong coffee, Tony looked at Martin
over the table and said, “I shouldn’t have just showed up, should I.”
It
wasn’t a question. He’d known he was
taking a big risk when he did it, and his gut instinct was telling him it could
have been a disaster. Martin was as much
in the closet as he was, even if he’d never mentioned it.
Martin
didn’t answer him in words. He simply
wrote a number on a slip of scratch paper and handed it to Tony.
“Call
me next time.”
Tony
nodded, taking the paper and carefully folding it into his wallet.
“And
there *will* be a next time.”
The
resolve in Martin’s voice brightened Tony up considerably.
“Good,”
he told Martin, leaning over to steal a kiss.
“Glad I didn’t fuck things up.”
Martin
grinned slyly at him. “No, but if
fucking’s on your mind, aren’t you glad it’s Sunday?”
They
didn’t make it out of the apartment all weekend.
When
Monday morning came around, and the new girl showed up, Tony acted like the
horndog he wasn’t, and made damned sure she knew he was a standard red-blooded
heterosexual male who drooled on command when he saw a pretty girl and spoke
sexist as a second language. It wasn’t
all that different than his usual camouflage.
He just laid it on with a heavier hand than before, and made damned sure
he never dropped the act.
He
couldn’t afford to. He had to protect
himself, and now, he had to protect Martin.
The best way he knew how to do that was misdirection, and he was very
good at that.
He
should be. He’d had plenty of practice.
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Looking
back on the past ten months, Martin couldn’t remember a time when the carefully
segregated elements of his life, operating separately, were all going so well.
He
and Tony had reached an agreement. There
were never any questions, but there was a lot of unspoken understanding. Every couple weeks they would meet at
Martin’s place, fuck until neither one of them could move, hang out all
weekend, talk and watch DVDs and fuck some more.
Martin’s
father kept his distance on the work front, and family life was a heck of a lot
calmer as a result. Work itself went
well, if Sam getting shot and Jack being held hostage could be called well, but
things were improving. At least Danny
was talking to him, and Vivian was great.
Then
on a Thursday in October his worlds collided.
The
missing couple were from Virginia, a freelance
journalist married to a Marine. The
journalist, a man, was last seen leaving The Palm steakhouse. They had no information on his latest
investigation, but his recent articles focused on abuse of government privilege
by local politicians. His wife, an NCO
working at the Marine Corps Warfighting Laboratory, was last seen leaving her
office at
Neither
made it home Wednesday night.
Jack
got a call the next morning, a friend calling in a favor. He and Martin were on the road within five
minutes. As they drove up to the
couple’s home, Jack groaned. Martin
parked the car and glanced over at him.
”What?” he asked.
Jack
glared at a short, silver-haired man in a suit that screamed FBI, standing in
the doorway of the house. “Bowman. Windbag. Supposed to be a liaison.
Pisses off more people than any other agent I’ve ever met.” He got out of the car and stalked up the
walkway. Martin trailed in his wake.
“Malone.” No affection there.
“Bowman,”
Jack answered stiffly. No affection
returned, with interest.
Martin
put on his very best poker face and waited for the bull moose
to stop butting heads. Bowman tersely
brought them up to speed on the situation, including the fact that they were
sharing jurisdiction with Metro homicide and the Naval Criminal Investigative
Service. Martin perked up. They’d worked with the DC cops before, but
NCIS was a new factor. It should prove
interesting.
Bowman
wound down and stomped off, and Jack ground his teeth as he swung into the
house. Martin walked next to him, eyes
sweeping the area, looking for clues to the nature of the missing couple. Before they got ten feet
into the house a man with silver hair and intent blue eyes stepped in their
path. Jack and Martin stopped,
and Jack nodded, one professional to another.
“Mr.
Gibbs,” Jack said quietly. “I’m Jack
Malone. Missing
Persons Squad. What have you
found so far?”
Martin
couldn’t hear what the NCIS agent said over the rush of blood in his ears. Standing behind Gibbs, baseball cap turned backward
on his head, a camera hung around his neck… was Tony.
“Agent
Fitzgerald?” a sharp voice snapped at him.
Martin came back to reality with a jolt that made him dizzy.
Gibbs
was staring at him suspiciously.
So
was Jack.
Shit.
Tony
picked that moment to come bounding up.
“Looks like it wasn’t just news he was getting from his sources, boss,”
he said cheerfully to Gibbs, holding up an evidence bag containing a quantity
of white powder leaking from a plastic baggie, then glanced over at Martin.
He dropped the evidence bag. Turned deathly pale.
His mouth fell open, and his eyes widened. He couldn’t have better personified guilt if
he’d written ‘Guilty’ in red-hot neon over his head. Martin winced.
“Jack,”
he said with forced calm, “we have to talk.”
“DiNozzo?” Gibbs asked Tony in a chilly voice.
“Gibbs,”
Tony answered, sounding like he was about to suffocate.
“Martin,
what’s going on?” Jack asked, voice dropping as he looked from Martin to Tony
and back.
“In private?” Martin asked, his voice
strangled in his throat. He looked over
to see Tony pick up the evidence bag and hand it to a short, blond man in a
white jacket who had a very sympathetic look on his face.
“I
take it you went to church,” the man said to Tony. He had a rich English accent that distracted
Martin so that he almost missed the meaning in the words. He did a short double-take.
“Church?”
he asked Tony. His eyes felt as wide as
Tony’s looked.
“God,”
said Tony, shuffling his feet as if he’d wanted the earth to open up and
swallow him.
Suddenly, it all struck Martin as funny.
Fighting a grin, he shook his head, took Jack’s elbow, and pulled him a
little away from the others. As they
walked, he heard Tony say shakily, “You don’t ask, I won’t tell.”
Gibbs’
harsh, “Will it get in the way?” was immediately met by Tony’s firm, “No.” At that, Martin felt his control slip, and
shot a grin over at Tony. He was
reassured by the soft smile he got in return.
“Is
this a conflict of interest, Martin?” Jack asked quietly.
Martin
answered even very quietly, “I don’t think so.
Short story: Tony and I are
involved. Neither of us knew the other
would be here today. I think it would be
better if Vivian came out and worked with you on this one.”
Jack
looked at him searchingly. Then he shook
his head. “No. You can work this.”
Taking
a deep breath, Martin asked, “Does your decision have anything to do with Sam?”
Jack
had an affair with Sam, while still supervising her, and Martin’s father had
come close to crucifying Jack with that information. Martin knew this, and he had to know if was
some kind of weird guilt on Jack’s part that made him want to keep Martin on
this case. Jack stared at him, and Martin
fought not to hang his head like a school kid and withdraw the question. Jack often had that effect on him.
“No,”
Jack finally answered. “It has to do
with you. You’ve got contacts in DC
nobody else on the squad has. I need you
here. I think you can handle this. Do you?”
Martin
shot another look at Tony, who’d gone back to bagging evidence, and nodded.
“Yeah.” He could separate
business and pleasure. When one was
done, there’d be time for the other.
If Tony still wanted that. Wanted him.
Pushing
the thought to the back of his mind, concentrating on the case at hand, Martin
turned to Gibbs, who still stared at him with suspicion, and not a little
poorly-disguised shock.
“Let’s
start this over again,” Jack said firmly.
“Mr. Gibbs. Our job is to find
these missing people. We won’t get in
your way. Please don’t get in ours.”
Gibbs
pulled his stare away, a relief to Martin, and pierced Jack with it. Jack was tough. It didn’t bother him a bit. After a moment, Gibbs nodded, and began to
fill them in.
The
next thirty eight hours were intense. No
matter how distracting Tony could be, Martin didn’t have time to be
sidetracked. Eleven hours after the
teams hit the street, the man’s body was discovered in
a dumpster off
By
then Martin and an NCIS agent, introduced by Gibbs as Todd and by the woman
herself as Cait, had tracked down the dealer the dead man double-crossed. Martin didn’t even see Tony again until
another twenty hours passed, when they gathered in a corner of the FBI field
office in
Tony
looked as fried as Martin felt. A three
hour nap wasn’t really enough to get by on, but the first forty eight hours
were the most critical, particularly when one of the missing pair had already
been found murdered. But they were
getting closer.
Seven
hours later, Martin and Cait followed one lead, Jack and Tony followed another,
Gibbs came in on his own, and they all ended up at the same small motel off the
495.
Walking
out of the office as Martin started to walk in, Tony
grinned at him and cracked, “All roads lead to
Martin
winced, but couldn’t help grinning back.
“Please. No Catholic jokes.”
Jack
glared beside Tony, and Martin swallowed his grin. Tony sobered as quickly when he saw Gibbs
glowering in the parking lot. Silently,
they walked to the room, Jack in the lead.
Cait knocked.
Martin
drew his gun. So did Jack. So did Tony.
So did Cait.
Gibbs opened the door.
No
one in that room was a danger to anyone.
Nor would they be, ever again.
The
woman lay, still in her uniform, crumpled against the wall. Across from her, a man in worn jeans and a
bloody shirt stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. They both held guns. They’d both gotten shots off. From the look of it, she’d lasted longer than
he had, but not by much.
Forty
minutes later, Metro homicide took over, and the FBI
stepped back. The NCIS crew stayed. Martin gave Tony a long look before he
followed Jack out to the car, and Tony nodded.
The
drive home seemed to take forever. Jack
didn’t say much. Neither did
Martin. As they neared the office, Jack
looked over at Martin.
“You
okay?”
There
were a wealth of questions in those two simple
words. Martin thought about them before
he answered, poking at them from various angles before realizing it all came
down to trust. He trusted Jack. Jack, for the past couple days, had proven
that he trusted Martin. It was enough.
“Yeah,”
he finally answered.
Jack nodded, satisfied. That was the end
of that discussion.
Two
hours after Martin got home, his cell phone rang. He opened it and pressed the button. “Yes,” he said, knowing who it would be.
“Martin
-- Satur--, er, okay.
Uhm. I
mean…”
Martin
grinned as Tony sputtered into silence.
Then he said, “Six on Saturday good for you?”
There
was another moment of silence, then laughter filled
his ear.
“I’ll
bring dinner,” Tony offered.
“I’ll
cook breakfast,” Martin counter-offered.
“Deal,”
Tony said, then added softly, “See you then.”
“Yeah,”
Martin agreed, and listened as Tony disconnected the line. He smiled as he put the phone away and
settled back on the couch. There were
still complications; there always would be.
His father topped the list. But
it would work.
They’d make it work.
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