FIC: "At First Sight I: By Our Eyes" (4/4) (Law & Order Logan/Stone Logan/OMC NC-17 Slash)
Continued from "At First Sight I: By Our Eyes" (3/4)
For Notes, Warnings, Ratings, and Disclaimers, please see Part 1
At First Sight I: By Our Eyes (4/4)
By the time Monday came, Ben was actually feeling good about the case. His witnesses were cooperating, the physical evidence was piled up on his side, and best of all, Webster's lawyer had yet to suggest anything resembling a cogent defense. His opening argument was, at best, a feeble attempt to sow doubt in the mind of jury about who, exactly, was responsible for Carl's injuries, a doubt which Ben hoped his own witnesses would eradicate.
He should have known better.
Logan was Ben's first witness. He was nervous as hell, even the jury could see that, but it only made his quiet, earnest answers that much more convincing. Logan was simply a handsome young Irish cop, doing his job. By the time it was done, Ben could have hugged him.
"Thank you, Officer," was all he could say, though. That and a brief, approving nod that was still enough to make Logan visibly relax. As Ben turned away, he heard him breathe deeply. *Good luck,* Ben wished silently. *To both of us.*
George Chapman was on his feet before Ben reached his chair. "Officer Logan," he said. "You were called to the Webster apartment five times, is that correct?"
Behind him, Ben heard Logan's voice, soft, deep, and sincere. "Yes." So far, so good. Ben had asked the same question in prep, and for a while it seemed that Chapman was going to follow right down that familiar road. Then Chapman turned back to his table, pausing a moment to pretend to consult his notes. It was an old trick, designed to break the flow of the witnesses concentration, start them worrying. Ben looked at Logan, and breathed again as he saw the other man sitting quietly, studying Chapman without the slightest sign of stress.
"I'm confused about something," Chapman said, turning back with a piece of paper in his hand. "After your first call to the Websters' apartment, was my client named in any charges?"
"No."
"Did Carl state that it was his father who had beaten him?"
Logan's mouth twitched. "No."
"And on your second visit? Was my client charged? Was he even accused?"
"No."
"How about the third visit? And the fourth?"
Ben could see the frustration in Logan's face. Ben only hoped to god that his worry didn't show in his own. But Logan came through again, with a calm, level, "No."
"You testified that you tried to persuade Carl to press charges against his father. How hard did you try?"
Logan shook his head. "I'm not sure I understand the question."
Ben could have kissed him. Chapman, unperturbed, went on. "Very well, let's ask it another way. How long did you spent trying to talk Carl into pressing charges? An hour? Two?" He looked at his notes. "On your second call to the Webster home, January 25th, how long did you stay?"
"About two hours."
"And how much of that two hours was spent talking to Carl?"
There was nothing Logan could do but answer, and Ben closed his eyes. "Maybe an hour and a half."
"I see. And even after nearly two hours of being questioned by the police, Carl Webster still refused to name his father."
"That's correct."
Chapman returned to his notes for a moment, and Ben saw Logan dart a quick glance his way. Ben returned it with the fiercest glare he could muster within that brief second, and breathed in relief as Logan quickly looked away again. This was still proceeding as he'd expected, more or less, but the tune of Chapman's questions was slightly off-key. He was looking for something else, Ben would have staked his career on it, but damned if he had any idea what. Whatever it was, though, Ben was sure that he wasn't going to like it.
"Tell me, Officer. Did you ever see the defendant strike Carl Webster?"
It actually took a second for Ben to remember that he ought to object. "Objection," he blurted, rising hastily to his feet, angry with himself for falling for the trick, even after knowing that it was a trick. "Asked and answered, Your Honor."
Chapman didn't bother to argue. "I'll ask another question then. Officer, how many times did you see the defendant strike his son? In all the times that you were called to the apartment."
*Once,* Ben thought glumly, just as Logan answered, "Once."
"Was it a punch? With his fist?"
"No. He slapped him."
"Just once."
"Yes." Logan wanted to say more, Ben could see it. The words were practically seething behind his lips, but he kept them there. *Just a little longer,* Ben thought, hoping he wasn't lying.
"I want to be clear on this, Officer. Over a period of two months, over five 911 responses to the Webster household, you only saw my client slap his son once."
"That's correct."
"And did you or your partner ever have to physically restrain my client? Was it ever necessary to pull him away from his son, or subdue him?"
"No."
"Did you or your partner ever have to restrain any member of the family?"
Son of a bitch. Ben had known this was where Chapman was going, but he hadn't anticipated this. He should have. On the stand, Logan hesitated, then swallowed and answered, "Yes. My partner had to restrain Mrs. Webster."
"Was she armed?"
"Yes. With a kitchen knife."
"And was anyone injured in this attack?"
"My partner received a superficial cut on his hand."
"A superficial cut that required six stitches and hospitalization, isn't that right?"
"Yes."
Chapman nodded, satisfied. *As well he should be,* Ben thought bitterly. He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it coming. All that flap about police harassment, trying to exclude the previous 911 calls, turning the attention to the officers . . . it had all been bait, and Ben had taken it. Hook, line, and sinker.
"As a police officer, you've witnessed your share of domestic disputes, haven't you?"
"I suppose so," Logan answered warily.
"Your share of cases of child abuse."
"Yes."
"And is it always the father that's the abuser?"
Ben was on his feet before Logan could draw breath to answer. "Objection. Your Honor, Officer Logan is not a psychologist, or a social worker." To his amazement, the words came out with some semblance of coherence, his voice steady and calm. He certainly didn't feel that way, not with his guts twisting sickeningly at the realization of his own drastic failure. How could he have been so stupid?
Quick as a flash, Chapman was giving it back. "But surely he knows which members of the family he's arrested."
The judge nodded to Chapman. "Overruled. The witness will answer the question."
"No," Logan said. "Not always."
"In your experience as a police officer, isn't it often the mother who's the abusing parent?"
Ben swore silently once more, praying to whatever saint that watched over prosecutors--and witnesses--would let him and Logan emerge from this day intact. Whether it was prayer or preparation, Logan's answer was even and smooth, coming out natural and, more importantly, unrehearsed.
"No, I wouldn't say that, either."
Chapman paced closer, leaning up to put a hand on the edge of the judge's desk. "But you've witnessed cases of child abuse where it was the mother, isn't that correct?" he persisted.
"Yes."
"So sometimes it is the mother?"
"Yes."
"Would you say that this is common?"
Nice try. Ben was admiring the tactic even as he soundly cursed George Chapman, and rose to his feet to object. "Your Honor," he said. "He's already asked if the mother is often the abusing parent."
"He's right, Mr. Chapman. Find another question, please."
Chapman shrugged, unconcerned. "Very well. What about you, Officer? You're an average citizen. Did your mother ever strike you?"
Logan didn't have to answer. Even as Ben jumped to his feet once more, he saw it written all over the other man's face. Logan's face had been flushed, partly with frustration, partly from the warmth of the courtroom, but now it was white as paper, even the stoic set of his lips unable to disguise the shock of the question. *Damn Chapman,* Ben thought, *Damn him and his clever little questions straight to hell . . .*
"Your Honor!" he protested, but it was already too late. The jury knew. They'd seen it, just as Ben had seen it. Seen what Chapman had known all along.
"Withdrawn," Chapman murmured, and walked away. "No further questions."
But Ben remained on his feet. "Redirect, Your Honor."
She nodded. "Go ahead."
Logan was still pale, the small silver precinct badges on his lapels winking faintly with the rapid beat of his heart. Ben took out his glasses, propping them on his nose, taking his time. He didn't dare delay too long, but he wanted to give Logan a chance to calm down, to realize that it was over, and that he wasn't answering the enemy any longer. He gave him five seconds, then asked, his voice as calm and soothing as he dared make it, "Did Carl Webster ever state to you, Officer, that his mother struck him?"
Logan's voice was perfectly even. "No."
"Did he ever state to you that his father struck him?"
"Yes."
Ben nodded. "Thank you, Officer."
-----
Afterwards, Mike didn't remember how, exactly, he got out of the courtroom. He remembered the judge telling him he could go, and warning him not to discuss his testimony, but after that it was all just a big blur until he came to himself on the front steps of the courthouse, his lungs drinking in the warm, humid air as if he'd been drowning. He'd be just as glad, he decided, if he never had to testify in a courtroom ever again.
Thank God for Ben Stone. Mike wasn't sure what he would have done in there without him. Ben had warned him not to look at him during the cross-examination, to keep his eyes focused on the person he was answering. It had made the direct questions easy, watching Stone's face, watching his hands move, meeting those brightly colored eyes every time he responded. But when Chapman had started, the hardest thing, he'd found, was to keep his eyes turned away from the man sitting behind the table. Mike wiped a hand down his face, and couldn't quite suppress a grin. How embarrassing.
By the time the trial started, Mike had accepted the fact that he had a crush on Ben Stone. He tried to take it in stride, knowing that it happened, that sometimes it just couldn't be helped. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. Like the first day he'd laid eyes on his new partner, for example, and knew there was going to be trouble. He'd worked through it, fantasizing in the shower, sneaking looks when he was unobserved, and in general doing everything in his power to get it out of his system. With Ricky, it had worked.
This, though, was different. Ricky had been close to him. There had been innumerable excuses to get near him, to fulfill the little fantasies, to be constantly in proximity to the object of his affection. After a couple of weeks, it had passed. Ricky was still gorgeous, and Mike wasn't, even now, above stealing a quick peek whenever they changed or showered, but it had been a long time since Ricky's bare ass made him break a sweat. Familiarity bred, if not contempt, then at least a less urgent appreciation.
Mike just wished there was some way to get Ben Stone out, too. He admitted freely that part of it was because it had sandbagged him, creeping up from nowhere when his psyche was looking the other way. When it was no doubt ogling the nicely understated elegance of Stone's secretary, he reflected with a mix of wistfulness and self-annoyance. So, while one part of his brain was appreciating the contours of her silk blouse, the other was busy falling into the deep, soft well of Stone's voice. Ricky had been easy. One look, and Mike's libido had kicked into full swing, without apology, and set off every warning bell in his body. But he never would have thought, the first time he watched a lean, middle-aged, balding man walk into the squad room, that thoughts of his face, his hands, and his damned voice, would be keeping Mike company in the long, dark hours before dawn.
It was all over now, though. Mike's testimony was finished, and after this the chances of seeing Stone ever again were, he knew, pretty darn slim. *Better get used to it, Mikey,* he told himself. *Get used to it, move on.* He took another deep breath, trying to enjoy the warm air, and resolved to try to do just that.
Around him, the flow of people in and out of the court building continued, lawyers and cops and clerks, most of them leaving. Mike checked his watch, and was surprised to find that it was nearly half past four. While he was on the stand, it seemed as though it taken a year, but he was still surprised to find that it had been almost two hours. He'd better find a phone and call Ricky, tell him he might be even later for their shift than he'd planned. Better yet, he could just get Ricky to pick him up here.
He was about to turn back into the building when he heard his name called from the top of the steps. It was hard to see with all the columns in the way, but it didn't take long to pick out Ben Stone's tall, slim figure, striding towards him with a briefcase under his arm.
"I was hoping to catch you," Stone said. "I wanted to thank you. You did a good job."
"You think?" Mike wasn't expecting the bitterness in his voice, and he wished he'd bitten his tongue out when he saw Stone blink, as if taken aback. Then Stone shrugged.
"Yes, I do think," he said. Then he paused, and Mike felt some of the tightness ease in his chest as he recognized the soft regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry about the cross. I didn't expect that. He threw dust in my eyes, and I didn't even notice. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, join the club." But the apology helped, even if Mike didn't quite believe it was deserved. He turned away, staring out across the street. "I guess you were wrong about me being the person for the job."
Stone was silent for a moment. "Chapman knew it was inadmissible. He was just trying to shock the jury."
Mike laughed. "Think he succeeded? He sure as hell shocked me," he added, and swallowed the fresh surge of bitter anger that rose in his throat. "Anyway, there's no help for it now."
"I don't think it hurt us," Stone said. "If anything, Chapman might find that it backfired."
Mike turned back to him. "You really believe that?" he asked, and had the satisfaction of seeing a momentary flicker in those clear blue eyes.
"I can try to," Stone finally said, and smiled. "Cheer up, Officer. You did the best you could." He lifted his arm, checking the watch on his wrist. "I was going to go around the corner to the bar," he said. "Post first day ritual. Can I buy you a drink?"
It was a kind gesture, and any other day Mike would have taken it. If, he told himself wryly, for no other reason than to purge another small part of this infatuation from his system. Today, though, was not going to be the day. "No," Mike said reluctantly. "I'm supposed to join my partner on our beat in half in hour. I've got to call him for a lift."
"Ah." For a second, Mike thought he was going to say something more, and so did Stone, apparently. But then Stone closed his mouth, and held out a hand. "Maybe some other time."
Mike shook with him, realizing, again, that this was very likely good-bye. "Sure. Thanks. Let me know how it turns out, all right?" Yeah, as if it wouldn't be all over the papers, and as if Stone was going to remember the promise weeks later. But it was the best he could do for the moment. He let go of Stone's hand, and gestured to the front doors. "I guess I'd better go call."
"Yes." Stone nodded. "Good luck, Officer."
"You, too, Counselor." Mike walked away, scrupulously not looking back as he mounted the shallow steps that led back up into the court building. He was half-tempted to call in sick, tell Ricky to finish the shift without him, and follow Stone to the damn bar anyway. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he couldn't. Stone was out of reach. Unattainable, probably unavailable, and almost certainly not interested. He might as well get used to it, and get over it.
All the same, it was impossible, once he'd reached the top of the steps, not to turn and search, briefly, for a particular figure among the sea of dark-suited lawyers moving along the street. He almost missed him, just catching a last glimpse of a tall, slender back as Stone disappeared around the corner, his long stride carrying him away too quickly for Mike to even think of following. Just as well. Mike sighed, and turned back to the doors.
He knew he'd get over it. It was only a matter of time.
-----
Three Weeks Later
-----
When the phone rang, Mike was sitting on the couch, trying to decide if he'd rather go out to a bar to watch the Yankees get creamed, or stay at home and do laundry. Neither prospect held much appeal, and he picked up the phone more than half-hoping to hear Ricky's voice, offering an alternative. But instead, he was greeted with the deep, drawling voice of Ben Stone. Three weeks since he'd last heard it, and still he knew him even before he pronounced his name.
"Evening, Officer," he said. "Am I disturbing you?"
"No." Mike reached for the remote to mute the sound on the television. *Far from it.* "What can I do for you, Mr. Stone?"
"I thought you'd like to know. The jury just convicted Webster of second-degree murder. It only took six hours."
Mike closed his eyes. "Congratulations."
"To you, too." Stone paused. "You did well, Officer. Your testimony went a long way to convincing the jury."
"Thanks. I appreciate you calling."
There was a long silence. Then Stone spoke again. "I was expecting to be here most of the evening," he said, almost hesitantly. "Waiting on the verdict. Now I'm at a bit of a loose end, and I was wondering . . . well, I was wondering if you'd care to cash in my rain check on that drink."
For a second, Mike wasn't sure what to say. That Stone had remembered that careless invitation even five minutes later would have been a surprise, but after three weeks surprise would hardly cover it. "Uh, sure," he said, before the more subtle part of his brain could even shape the thought that it might be better to act a little more suave, more cool.
"I was thinking," Stone went on, "that maybe you wouldn't mind joining me for dinner. I made reservations, but I hate eating alone."
This time, Mike did hesitate. "I hate to impose--" he heard himself begin, and kicked himself for even saying it when he heard the sudden silence.
"It's no imposition," Stone said presently. "You did a good job, and I think we both deserve a little celebration.
"Well, if you put it that way . . ." Mike smiled. "All right. Where should I meet you?"
"There's a place near the theater district. Rusterman's. You know it?"
Mike felt his brows climb up. "Yeah," he said. "I know how to get there."
"Good. Can you be there in an hour?"
"Sure. I'll see you then."
Mike hung up, and took a deep breath. Well. It looked like he was about to go out with Ben Stone after all.
*Get a grip, Mikey,* he told himself harshly. *It's only a dinner date. Scratch that. It's only dinner, period. Just because he's gay, just because you're . . . whatever you are . . . doesn't mean that everything is going to be about sex.*
Too bad.
-----
Ben was early to the restaurant, and spent the time pacing up and down the sidewalk outside, trying to pretend that he wasn't nervous. Logan had accepted his invitation, but now that the moment was drawing nearer Ben wasn't so sure, anymore, that it had been such a good idea to offer it. He'd spent so many years being discreet, so many years not getting involved. He wasn't sure, even now, that he was trying to get involved, and that uncertainty in itself annoyed him.
Perhaps, he rationalized, it wasn't even Logan himself that Ben wanted. Perhaps it was more the idea of him, the thought of getting close to someone. Anyone. After all, he barely knew the man. *But isn't that the point?* another part of him argued. *Isn't this all about getting to know him well enough to make that choice?* As if, he reflected gloomily, the choice was going to be up to him.
"Mr. Stone."
The voice behind him made him turn around, and he couldn't stop the smile that spread over his face the instant he heard those familiar, deep tones. "Officer Logan," he said, and inwardly winced at the formality even as he extended a hand in greeting. "Glad you could make it."
It hadn't occurred to Ben to tell Logan to dress, but apparently the other man had anticipated him. Ben had yet to see him in anything other than his uniform or casual clothes, and the somber dark suit was a pleasant surprise. He looked good in it, Ben realized with a little start. More than good, in fact, and Ben felt the twinge of uncertainty return. He had no business being here, no business asking this man out to an expensive dinner, no business holding the thoughts that were in his head.
But Logan was shaking his hand, oblivious to Ben's inner turmoil, his hand warm and dry against Ben's palm. "Yeah, well." Logan grinned. "It was either that or sit at home and watch the Yankees get pasted."
Ben cocked his head, unable to resist saying, "You say that as though it's a bad thing."
"Oooh." For a second, Logan looked bemused, then he shook his head. "I dunno. This could get ugly, Mr. Stone."
"Well, how about we start the truce by you calling me 'Ben' instead."
Logan blinked at him. "Okay. Ben." He grinned. "My friends call me Mike."
Ben nodded, doing his best to be casual, and not appear as though a thousand butterflies had just settled in his stomach. To cover his nervousness, he turned and gestured at the entrance to Rusterman's. "Should we go in?"
Wordlessly, Logan--Mike--nodded. "Sure," he said, and reached up to adjust his tie. "I wasn't sure about the dress code," he said in what seemed like a sudden burst of frankness. "I figure a place like this, there's more than just a 'no shoes, no service' policy."
"You look fine," Ben said, before he thought, and before he could entirely suppress the quiet appreciation in his tone. To his relief, Mike didn't seem to notice.
"Good." Far from straightening the tie, however, Mike's efforts only skewed it, and he grimaced as he wrestled briefly with the suddenly awkward knot.
"Here." Ben stepped forward, unthinking, and adjusted the tie back in place, smoothing the knot with long practice. Mike stilled as soon as he touched him, standing unmoving, chin lifted, until Ben was satisfied. It was only when Ben caught sight of the two of them in the mirrored window that he realized what he was doing, and let his hands fall. He stepped back abruptly, distancing himself. "There. It's straight now."
To his surprise, Logan laughed out loud. "Hey, at least something is." Ben's eyes shot up, startled, and met Logan's grinning face.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean--"
"Hey, don't worry about it." Logan laughed again. "You're one of about a half-dozen people in this freaking city I can make that joke with, all right? Don't apologize."
"All right." Ben smiled. "Then let's go in."
But the joke bothered him, even while he waited for Felix to find his reservation and escort them to their booth. Mike hadn't been offended, but Ben was suddenly, acutely aware that his motives in asking the other man to dinner had probably been transparent as glass. Ridiculous to even imagine that Mike had overlooked the fact that they were both gay, that Ben's invitation might have been made to any one of a half-dozen witnesses that had participated in the trial. Any pretense, he now realized, on his part that this wasn't a date, that this was something casual, meaningless, would be a lie.
He kept quiet, though, saying nothing until they were seated. Mike, after a quick glance at the menu, leaned forward and asked, "How much extra for a menu in English? With prices on it?"
Ben leapt gratefully into the opening. "Don't worry about it," he answered back quietly, with a smile. "This is my invitation, my treat."
Mike regarded him thoughtfully. "You take all your witnesses out after the trial? I'd hate to see your expense book."
It was suddenly necessary for Ben to swallow, to take a sip of water to moisten his dry mouth. To stall, while he tried to find the right words to say. "The trial," he said at last, "is over. You're not a witness any more." He made himself smile. "This isn't business."
Not a single flicker marred the features of the man sitting across from him. "Oh," Mike said presently, and lowered his voice, leaning just a little closer. "Then what is it?"
This time, the smile wasn't forced. "It's dinner."
Now Mike was smiling, too. "Okay. But in that case, you're going to have to help me out here." He took his menu and spread it out between them. "That, or teach me how to say 'I want a cheeseburger' in French."
After that, Ben began to relax. He translated the menu in an undertone, leaning over so that only Mike could hear. This close, he could even smell the faint scent of his aftershave, and when Mike cast his eyes down to refer to the menu, Ben took advantage of the chance to study him, unobserved. He'd never quite dreamed of being this close to him, not outside his office or a courtroom, anyway, and he was surprised at how pleasant it was to simply sit here, close by, and murmur the soft translations.
"I'm glad you got Webster," Mike said after they'd gone over the appetizers, jerking Ben back from his contemplation of the thick waves of hair that covered the back of his head. "I didn't say that before."
"I rather took it as a given," Ben admitted. "That you were glad."
Mike turned to face him, and for a moment they were nose to nose, faces inches apart. Ben had to bite back the sharp intake of breath as he came eye to eye, for the first time, with those hazy gray orbs. Ben half-expected Mike to withdraw, to pull back, but he made no move to disturb the sudden proximity. "Yeah, well. Part of the job, I guess." he said presently.
"I should hope so." Ben felt himself smile. "You did good work on the case, and on the stand. You're a good cop. I wish we had more like you."
The thick brows went up, and that simple praise seemed to stump him for a second. "Thanks," Mike finally said. His mouth curved into a smile. "Thanks a lot."
For a single, heartstopping second, Ben was sure that Mike was about to kiss him. They were so close, no more than a breath apart, and it suddenly seemed impossible that it was accidental. He could almost feel it happening, could imagine the soft brush of those lips on his, the electric warmth of the other man's mouth. All he had to do was lean forward, to close that vast, aching distance between them, and it would happen.
*In your dreams, perhaps,* he told himself roughly, and forced himself to pull away, not caring how much it hurt to withdraw from that warm, intimate bubble. After a second, Mike did the same, his hooded eyes carefully blank. Just as well, Ben reflected, resisting the urge to reach up and loosen his collar. Rusterman's was hardly Santini's, after all.
Mike let Ben take care of conveying his order to the waiter, sitting back comfortably while Ben repeated everything to Pierre, smiling as Ben turned back to face him. "Thanks," he said once Pierre had gone. "I'd hate to have to sit and point."
"I'm sure you would have found a way." Ben unfolded his napkin. "Mike," he said, as much to get the other man's attention as to test the feel of the name on his lips, to savor the intimacy of the address. "May I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Have you given any thought to becoming a detective?"
Across the table, Mike stilled, his water-glass raised halfway to his lips. "Yeah," he admitted. "A couple of months ago, I thought about it kinda hard." He put the glass down, shrugged. "I even put in for some transfers, to Narcotics and Robbery and Vice, but . . ."
"But?" Ben prompted.
"I don't know." Mike looked away, casting his eyes out into the crowd, looking without, Ben was sure, actually seeing. "I like what I do," he said. "Most of the time. I'm not sure I want to change it."
"I see." The breadroll in Ben's hands fell apart on his plate, the crumbs sticking to his fingers until he brushed them away. "Well, that's your decision, of course." Ben paused. "But I think you'd be good at it."
A wry smile twisted at Mike's lips. "Well, at least someone thinks so."
"So does Detective Spinelli," Ben told him, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mike look up, startled. "He thinks if you had the right case, you could do it."
It took a second for Mike to recover. "Yeah, and he'll wave his little fairy wand and make it happen." He stopped, as if suddenly realizing exactly what he'd said, and shook his head, stifling a laugh. "More fairy than he knows, I guess."
Ben didn't answer right away. "Do you think that's a problem?"
"Are you kidding?" Mike looked almost comically shocked. "No one in the department knows, all right? No one." He took another sip of his water. "I don't date other cops. Other guy cops," he amended.
"I see."
Mike regarded him for a moment. "What about you? I don't exactly see you painting a pink triangle on your briefcase."
Touche. Ben made a face. "I choose to keep my personal life away from the office," he said, realizing even as he spoke how prim it sounded. "All my personal life," he tried to qualify. "My . . . gender choices are included."
"Oh." Mike seemed to accept that, but there was still a faint puzzlement in his voice. "I don't know. I guess . . . when you told me--" He cleared his throat. "I didn't really appreciate it at the time, I guess. Thanks."
"No need." Ben smiled. "I'd found out your secret, inadvertently. It only seemed . . . fair."
"Yeah. Fair." Now Mike was smiling again, and there was something knowing, and perhaps even wicked, dancing behind his eyes. "Okay, so we're even. I can live with that."
At that moment, Pierre arrived with the appetizers, and Ben was satisfied to let the subject drop. He'd long ago resolved with himself his motives in letting Mike know, and it was something of a comfort that Mike didn't take those motives amiss, that in fact he was still sitting here, talking with him, laughing, and trying to figure out a graceful way to deal with the baked grapefruit appetizer. Ben allowed himself to take a deep, relieved breath, to set aside his worries, and settled down to enjoying himself.
-----
After they'd finished eating, Ben only hesitated a moment before offering to drive Mike home, and as far as he could tell Mike didn't hesitate at all before accepting. He directed Ben to a neighborhood on the East Side, one of the older blocks where apartment buildings were jammed together like books in an overstuffed library, not a hair's breath of space between them. The street was crowded, but Ben turned in anyway, hoping that there would be a space. An excuse.
As if reading his mind, Mike shifted a little, pointing up the street. "There's usually some spaces farther up. If you want to park and come up for a nightcap." He couched the last as if it were an afterthought, an inconsequential remark, one that was most certainly not laden with the weight of innuendo that Ben suddenly heard in the words. He didn't answer. But he looked for the space.
Mike's apartment was on the top floor, a little studio squeezed in under the rafters. He made no apologies for the size, nor for the mismatched, used furniture, and Ben was glad. Instead, he waved his guest to the sofa, and moved into the kitchen to rummage in the cabinet above the refrigerator. "I've got whiskey, vodka, and brandy," he volunteered. "Or, I can make coffee."
"I'll take a brandy," Ben said. "And a standby on the coffee."
"You got it." Mike poured a generous measure into a small snifter, and carried it and a tumbler of whiskey back to the living area. There was a single armchair apart from the sofa, but instead of taking it, Mike sat down next to Ben, handing over the glass with a smile.
"Thank you." Ben took a sip. Not bad, actually.
"Cheers." Mike took a slug of the whiskey in his own glass, and sat back, leaning the tumbler on his knee. "Thanks for dinner," he said presently. "I had a good time."
"You did a good job," Ben replied. He wanted to say more, but it took a healthy sip of brandy to find the words. "I said it before, but I know it couldn't have been easy. You kept your cool."
Mike made a face into his glass. "Yeah, well. That smug bastard . . . it was a pleasure stonewalling his ass, I can say that much."
Not the way Ben would have phrased it, but he agreed with the sentiment. "And I'm glad you did."
Mike only nodded. He drank a little more of his whiskey, crossing his legs as he shifted again on the couch. "I, uh, I've been thinking about what you said. About being a detective."
It took a moment for Ben to recall the reference. "Yes." He tipped his glass at Mike. "I still mean every word."
"I've thought about it," Mike admitted. "More than thought about it." He waved his glass around. "I thought all I wanted was to be a cop, you know? But the more I do it, the more I see . . ." He shrugged, trailing off. "Beat cops like me," he said after a moment, "We see a problem, we slap a quick fix on it. Bust up the fight, take somebody in, diffuse the situation. But two nights later, we're back in the same place, busting up the same fight, taking the same people in. I'm not saying it's useless," he added quickly. "It keeps the peace, and that's what it's about. But then I see something I can't fix. Some kid beat up. Someone raped. Someone killed. And I know that no one in that house, no one on that street, is going to feel safe until the bastard who did it is behind bars. Problem is, where I am right now, I can't do anything about it."
Ben was silent. "Officer," he said quietly, "that's exactly the reason I think you should start thinking about promotion." He caught himself with his hand half-extended to Mike's arm, then completed the gesture anyway, laying his fingers on the soft cotton of Mike's shirt. "You're a good cop," he said. "And I think you could be a good detective. I know you're smart enough." He smiled at Mike's laugh. "It's true," he insisted. "The dumb Irish cop is a good act. I'm sure the people on your beat love it."
Mike laughed again. "Maybe it's not an act," he said. "Maybe I am a dumb Irish cop."
Ben only smiled. "Two out of three, maybe." He squeezed the arm under his hand gently. "Just think about it, Mike, all right?" He moved to slide his hand away, was startled when a warm, broad palm slipped over his fingers, stopping him.
"I will." They sat there, looking at each other, Mike's hand cupped warmly over his, not holding him, but not letting him go, either. It was Mike who finally broke the tableau, nodding at Ben's empty glass. "You want another? Or would you like that coffee now?"
*Neither,* Ben wanted to say. His mouth had gone unaccountably dry, every nerve his body tingling, focusing down on the small patch of skin on the back of his hand where Mike was still touching him. He should leave, he assessed clinically. Get out now, right now, before he started getting ideas in his head. But Logan was still looking at him, regarding him with those depthless gray eyes. He also hadn't moved his hand.
"Coffee, please," Ben heard himself say, and could have bitten his tongue out when Mike's hand slid away. He released Mike's arm in turn, and Mike stood up, bending over to collect Ben's glass.
"Coming right up," Mike said, and walked into the kitchen. As if he were on an invisible string, Ben found himself rising and following, leaning against the tiny counter while Mike measured coffee and water into the pot.
"I should probably be going pretty soon," he offered. "It's getting late."
Mike switched the pot on, and glanced up at him under his thick brows, his eyes dark. "Don't leave on that account," he said.
For a long time, Ben just stared, sure that he wasn't hearing what he was hearing. Despite all his efforts, had he been that obvious? Or was he so smitten that he was reading things he shouldn't into Mike's every innocent gesture. Innocent gestures like asking him up for a nightcap. Like putting his hand on his. And staring up at him with those heavy, sleepy eyes and telling him not to leave.
Some of his confusion must have shown on his face, because Mike took a step forward, a half-smile playing over his lips. "Hey," he said quietly. "You just got done telling me I'm not stupid." He reached up, those big, warm hands lifting to frame Ben's face, slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, to protest. Ben closed his eyes, swallowing, as he stepped forward again, tilting his face in. He sent up a brief, heartfelt prayer that this wasn't a dream, that he wasn't about to wake up alone in his own bed. Dream or not, he was frozen, unable to move even if he'd wanted to, his face flaming under Mike's cool touch, lips parting helplessly as he felt the other man lean in.
"Mike," he said, and hardly recognized the weak croak as his own voice. "Mike, I didn't . . ." He didn't have the breath to finish, but Mike stopped anyway, his mouth a pulsebeat away.
"Didn't what?" Mike asked, the question a soft caress of air on Ben's cheek.
Ben swallowed. "I'm sorry if I--if I presumed anything," he said in a rush. "It wasn't my intention to--" He stumbled over the rest of the sentence, for once unable to produce the right words. "I wasn't my intention," he repeated softly, looking directly in the clear gray eyes so close to his, "to proposition you. I only wanted to have dinner."
The corners of Mike's mouth lifted into a smile. "I know," he said. "But what--" He leaned closer, his lips nearly touching Ben's, then veering aside to press a soft, butterfly's brush of his mouth to Ben's cheek. "What," he said again, whispering into his skin, "if I wanted to proposition you?"
Oh. "Oh," Ben heard himself say, or try to, the syllable catching with an undignified squeak in his suddenly dry throat. He swallowed, and tried again. "Oh, I suppose that's different." Another swallow. "Then I take it back. I did want to proposition you."
To his amazement, Mike laughed. "Too much of a gentleman," he said. His hands, still framing Ben's face, moved, caressing his temples gently, pushing his hair back from his face. "I'm not a gentleman," he said, and something in the words made Ben's knees feel like jelly.
"Then don't be," he managed, and closed his eyes as Mike leaned in again.
Ben almost moaned out loud at the first, soft brush of Mike's lips on his, the mere touch of his mouth electrifying his whole body, spreading like wildfire from the top of his head down to his toes, gathering in a hot rush of desire in his belly. It was every bit as sweet as he'd imagined, Mike's mouth hot and tingling and alive against his. He opened his mouth to the kiss at once, felt Mike respond eagerly to the invitation, pressing closer, his hands spreading over the back of Ben's head as he tilted him for the kiss. Ben's own arms raised to slide around the broad expanse of his back, his hands caressing over the soft wool. Mike made a small, breathless noise into his mouth as they pressed even closer, locked together. Mike's tongue slid between his lips, and Ben did moan out loud, dragging his hands down Mike's back to cling to his waist, yanking their bodies closer together.
One of Mike's hands curled around his nape, stroking and caressing, while the other hand trailed downwards, sliding in a hard, direct line down his back until he could curve his hand over Ben's buttocks and squeeze. Ben felt the breath leave his body, felt his knees actually start to tremble as Mike began to caress him there, long, strong fingers stroking over him. He lifted his arms to hold Mike around the neck, holding himself up against him, feeling Mike shift back against the counter to support his weight, grabbing him briefly to hold him up.
It had been a long time since Ben had been with anyone quite so . . . direct. Long time, hell. Never. It was dizzying, intoxicating, the feel of those powerful hands on him, boldly touching him, moving unabashedly over the curves of his ass and thighs. Ben could feel himself getting hard against the other man, felt his cock swell in a delicious pulse of heat as Mike gripped him even harder, his hands sliding up under the hem of Ben's jacket. Then he was touching his back through the fine linen shirt, rubbing the soft cloth over his suddenly sensitized skin.
They kissed there for a long time, scarcely pausing long enough to breathe, groping each other in Mike's kitchen while the coffeemaker gurgled, unnoticed and forgotten, in the background. Mike tasted of whiskey and very faintly of the spicy food he'd had at dinner, all of it mingling deliciously under Ben's exploring tongue. He could have stayed here all night, just learning every inch of his mouth, every taste and texture of those soft, warm lips. But Mike had other ideas.
Ben made a wordless noise of protest as Mike finally pulled away, but didn't resist as Mike took his hand and led him back around the counter, across the room to the bed tucked into a small alcove. Ben might have used the reprieve to consider what he was doing, to decide whether or not this was, after all, such a good idea. Instead, he watched the way Mike's body moved under his clothes, and swallowed a surge of desire as he tried to picture what he would look like without them. Hoping that he got the chance.
Mike turned and grabbed him again as they reached the bed, and Ben let himself be gently pushed back onto the mattress. Mike joined him a moment later, and Ben groaned as a large, solid palm settled firmly over his crotch, heard Mike's soft noise of approval as he felt the rock-hard shaft outlined under his hand. He pressed down with his hand, rubbing slowly through the cloth of Ben's pants, his fingers gently squeezing the balls underneath until Ben was moaning under him, blind and deaf to anything but the strong hand massaging his cock. Then the hand was gone, and Mike's hips were pressing against his, his full weight settling over Ben's body as he leaned down to kiss him again. They soon ended up side by side, legs twined together, Mike's thigh thrusting between his legs. Ben began to grow impatient, though, with the frustrating slide of cloth on cloth, and before long he was slipping his hands down between their bodies, working at the waist of Mike's pants until he had loosened them enough to slip his questing fingers inside.
Mike bucked against him as he touched him, kissing him fiercely as Ben curled his hand around the hard, smooth skin of his cock. It took him mere moments to fumble his way into the waist of Ben's pants, and in a few seconds they were stroking each other, thrusting into each other's hands as they continued to kiss. But Ben soon let go of the cock in his hand, moving his nimble fingers up to work at the buttons of Mike's shirt. "I want to see you naked," he said into Mike's mouth, too blind with desire to say it any less baldly. Mike froze against him for a split second, his breath ragged against Ben's lips, then his hand slipped from Ben's own cock. The next second, he was enthusiastically aiding Ben in stripping them both out of every stitch of their clothes.
"My God," Ben breathed as he finally slid Mike's shirt over his shoulders, tossing it aside to leave him pale and naked against the covers. He knelt up over him, running his hands over the smooth, soft skin of his chest, down across the flat ridges of his stomach to finally stroke the hard, thick shaft rising from the soft curls between his legs. Mike was looking at him, flushed and panting, but his face wore a faint, puzzled frown, as if he were genuinely mystified by Ben's appreciation of his body. Then Ben's hand wrapped around his length, and the frown vanished, replaced by a soft, slow smile of pleasure. He reached up and pulled Ben down to lie next to him, wrapping his arms around him to press their naked bodies together, gasping a little as their bare cocks bumped into each other.
Ben leaned in for a kiss, then yelped in surprise as Mike abruptly rolled them both over, straddling Ben with a sly smile as he lay down on top of him. Mike bent down to kiss him, and at the same time ground his hips slowly into Ben's, rubbing himself between their sealed bellies, his cock sliding deliciously against Ben's own length. Mike shifted a little, reaching to the side, and a moment later Ben bit back a groan as he lifted himself away. But not for long. Something cool and liquid dribbled briefly on Ben's stomach, and he snapped his eyes open as Mike tossed the bottle of oil to the side. Mike lowered himself on top of Ben again, and Ben groaned deeply as Mike ground against him once more, their bellies slippery now with oil, their cocks sliding smoothly in the tight, slick space between their bodies. Ben arched up into him, mindlessly duplicating the incredible sensation, gasping as his hard length rubbed against Mike's. Mike grinned down at him, one thick lock of hair falling into his eyes as he began to thrust, driving himself against Ben.
Mike came first, his thighs gripping Ben's body as he bucked against him, his mouth catching Ben's in a hot, searing kiss as he shuddered on top of him, moaning into his mouth. Ben only thrust harder, driving himself mindlessly to the edge as he felt the warm wetness of Mike's spilled excitement spreading between them. He cried out as he shivered up against Mike's still-shaking body, clutching his back to anchor himself as he came hard underneath him, his hips arching off the bed in a series of long, shuddering spasms. It had been so long. Too long.
They lay together, panting, gasping for breath, Mike's body a warm, limp weight over Ben. Ben stroked his back idly as he caught his breath, trailing his fingers over the sweat-slick skin, feeling the trickles of perspiration slide down their sides. They were a mess, he reflected with sated satisfaction, sweaty, slick, covered with semen and oil. He traced the length of Mike's back again, and carefully shifted himself, urging Mike's thighs back so that he could spread his own legs, and settle Mike securely between them, wrapping arms and legs around him in a snug embrace. Mike made a sleepy sound of pleasure, lifting his head to search blindly for Ben's mouth.
"Thanks," Mike said when they finally parted. Ben thought for a moment that he was going to add something else, but then he smiled instead and kissed Ben again. "You really were wonderful," he said presently, almost abashed, as if it were something he'd said many times before, and was now embarrassed to find that he really meant it.
Ben was genuinely flattered. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, savoring the drowsiness in his own voice as he reached up to hold Mike a little closer. "And thank you," he added softly in Mike's ear. "You were wonderful, too."
Mike smiled, and nuzzled at Ben's neck, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder as if he meant to stay there all night. Fine by Ben. Stay there all night, by all means. They'd worry about the morning when it came.
They drowsed for maybe half an hour that way, kissing, idly caressing, lying lazily in one another's arms. Then Mike planted a last, lingering kiss on Ben's shoulder, and rolled away, their sticky bodies separating only with an effort. The shower seemed a logical next step and a long, leisurely half-hour later, Ben emerged scrubbed and clean, a borrowed towel wrapped around his waist. He searched for a clock as he walked into the living area, and saw that it was still surprisingly early, not even one o' clock yet. Early enough, he realized with a stab of reluctance, for him to go home.
He made his good-byes to a drowsy, yawning Mike, who put up just enough protest to make Ben feel flattered, but didn't press him to stay. He did, however, make a point of walking Ben to the door, of helping him with his jacket. As Ben was reaching for the door, Mike stopped his hand, taking Ben's wrist in his fingers, turning him ever so gently so that he could kiss him. He lingered for a long while, holding Ben's face in his hands, then let him go, his lips parting as if to speak, then falling silent again.
Ben reached up, and clasped the hand that still cupped his face. "Good-night, Mike," he said.
Mike finally seemed to find his voice. "Good-night," he said. He opened his mouth again, hesitated, then said uncertainly, "Can I call you?"
For a moment, Ben wasn't sure what to say. That this was anything but a one-night stand had yet to occur to him. Or, more precisely, that this was anything more than a one-night stand for Mike. "Of course," he heard himself say, and felt a warm, soft glow begin to spread in his chest. "I'd like that," he added softly, and had the pleasure of seeing Mike smile in relief. "Very much," he finished, and reached up for one last kiss. "Good-night."
"Good-night."
Continued in " At First Sight II: Another Country"
For Notes, Warnings, Ratings, and Disclaimers, please see Part 1
At First Sight I: By Our Eyes (4/4)
By the time Monday came, Ben was actually feeling good about the case. His witnesses were cooperating, the physical evidence was piled up on his side, and best of all, Webster's lawyer had yet to suggest anything resembling a cogent defense. His opening argument was, at best, a feeble attempt to sow doubt in the mind of jury about who, exactly, was responsible for Carl's injuries, a doubt which Ben hoped his own witnesses would eradicate.
He should have known better.
Logan was Ben's first witness. He was nervous as hell, even the jury could see that, but it only made his quiet, earnest answers that much more convincing. Logan was simply a handsome young Irish cop, doing his job. By the time it was done, Ben could have hugged him.
"Thank you, Officer," was all he could say, though. That and a brief, approving nod that was still enough to make Logan visibly relax. As Ben turned away, he heard him breathe deeply. *Good luck,* Ben wished silently. *To both of us.*
George Chapman was on his feet before Ben reached his chair. "Officer Logan," he said. "You were called to the Webster apartment five times, is that correct?"
Behind him, Ben heard Logan's voice, soft, deep, and sincere. "Yes." So far, so good. Ben had asked the same question in prep, and for a while it seemed that Chapman was going to follow right down that familiar road. Then Chapman turned back to his table, pausing a moment to pretend to consult his notes. It was an old trick, designed to break the flow of the witnesses concentration, start them worrying. Ben looked at Logan, and breathed again as he saw the other man sitting quietly, studying Chapman without the slightest sign of stress.
"I'm confused about something," Chapman said, turning back with a piece of paper in his hand. "After your first call to the Websters' apartment, was my client named in any charges?"
"No."
"Did Carl state that it was his father who had beaten him?"
Logan's mouth twitched. "No."
"And on your second visit? Was my client charged? Was he even accused?"
"No."
"How about the third visit? And the fourth?"
Ben could see the frustration in Logan's face. Ben only hoped to god that his worry didn't show in his own. But Logan came through again, with a calm, level, "No."
"You testified that you tried to persuade Carl to press charges against his father. How hard did you try?"
Logan shook his head. "I'm not sure I understand the question."
Ben could have kissed him. Chapman, unperturbed, went on. "Very well, let's ask it another way. How long did you spent trying to talk Carl into pressing charges? An hour? Two?" He looked at his notes. "On your second call to the Webster home, January 25th, how long did you stay?"
"About two hours."
"And how much of that two hours was spent talking to Carl?"
There was nothing Logan could do but answer, and Ben closed his eyes. "Maybe an hour and a half."
"I see. And even after nearly two hours of being questioned by the police, Carl Webster still refused to name his father."
"That's correct."
Chapman returned to his notes for a moment, and Ben saw Logan dart a quick glance his way. Ben returned it with the fiercest glare he could muster within that brief second, and breathed in relief as Logan quickly looked away again. This was still proceeding as he'd expected, more or less, but the tune of Chapman's questions was slightly off-key. He was looking for something else, Ben would have staked his career on it, but damned if he had any idea what. Whatever it was, though, Ben was sure that he wasn't going to like it.
"Tell me, Officer. Did you ever see the defendant strike Carl Webster?"
It actually took a second for Ben to remember that he ought to object. "Objection," he blurted, rising hastily to his feet, angry with himself for falling for the trick, even after knowing that it was a trick. "Asked and answered, Your Honor."
Chapman didn't bother to argue. "I'll ask another question then. Officer, how many times did you see the defendant strike his son? In all the times that you were called to the apartment."
*Once,* Ben thought glumly, just as Logan answered, "Once."
"Was it a punch? With his fist?"
"No. He slapped him."
"Just once."
"Yes." Logan wanted to say more, Ben could see it. The words were practically seething behind his lips, but he kept them there. *Just a little longer,* Ben thought, hoping he wasn't lying.
"I want to be clear on this, Officer. Over a period of two months, over five 911 responses to the Webster household, you only saw my client slap his son once."
"That's correct."
"And did you or your partner ever have to physically restrain my client? Was it ever necessary to pull him away from his son, or subdue him?"
"No."
"Did you or your partner ever have to restrain any member of the family?"
Son of a bitch. Ben had known this was where Chapman was going, but he hadn't anticipated this. He should have. On the stand, Logan hesitated, then swallowed and answered, "Yes. My partner had to restrain Mrs. Webster."
"Was she armed?"
"Yes. With a kitchen knife."
"And was anyone injured in this attack?"
"My partner received a superficial cut on his hand."
"A superficial cut that required six stitches and hospitalization, isn't that right?"
"Yes."
Chapman nodded, satisfied. *As well he should be,* Ben thought bitterly. He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it coming. All that flap about police harassment, trying to exclude the previous 911 calls, turning the attention to the officers . . . it had all been bait, and Ben had taken it. Hook, line, and sinker.
"As a police officer, you've witnessed your share of domestic disputes, haven't you?"
"I suppose so," Logan answered warily.
"Your share of cases of child abuse."
"Yes."
"And is it always the father that's the abuser?"
Ben was on his feet before Logan could draw breath to answer. "Objection. Your Honor, Officer Logan is not a psychologist, or a social worker." To his amazement, the words came out with some semblance of coherence, his voice steady and calm. He certainly didn't feel that way, not with his guts twisting sickeningly at the realization of his own drastic failure. How could he have been so stupid?
Quick as a flash, Chapman was giving it back. "But surely he knows which members of the family he's arrested."
The judge nodded to Chapman. "Overruled. The witness will answer the question."
"No," Logan said. "Not always."
"In your experience as a police officer, isn't it often the mother who's the abusing parent?"
Ben swore silently once more, praying to whatever saint that watched over prosecutors--and witnesses--would let him and Logan emerge from this day intact. Whether it was prayer or preparation, Logan's answer was even and smooth, coming out natural and, more importantly, unrehearsed.
"No, I wouldn't say that, either."
Chapman paced closer, leaning up to put a hand on the edge of the judge's desk. "But you've witnessed cases of child abuse where it was the mother, isn't that correct?" he persisted.
"Yes."
"So sometimes it is the mother?"
"Yes."
"Would you say that this is common?"
Nice try. Ben was admiring the tactic even as he soundly cursed George Chapman, and rose to his feet to object. "Your Honor," he said. "He's already asked if the mother is often the abusing parent."
"He's right, Mr. Chapman. Find another question, please."
Chapman shrugged, unconcerned. "Very well. What about you, Officer? You're an average citizen. Did your mother ever strike you?"
Logan didn't have to answer. Even as Ben jumped to his feet once more, he saw it written all over the other man's face. Logan's face had been flushed, partly with frustration, partly from the warmth of the courtroom, but now it was white as paper, even the stoic set of his lips unable to disguise the shock of the question. *Damn Chapman,* Ben thought, *Damn him and his clever little questions straight to hell . . .*
"Your Honor!" he protested, but it was already too late. The jury knew. They'd seen it, just as Ben had seen it. Seen what Chapman had known all along.
"Withdrawn," Chapman murmured, and walked away. "No further questions."
But Ben remained on his feet. "Redirect, Your Honor."
She nodded. "Go ahead."
Logan was still pale, the small silver precinct badges on his lapels winking faintly with the rapid beat of his heart. Ben took out his glasses, propping them on his nose, taking his time. He didn't dare delay too long, but he wanted to give Logan a chance to calm down, to realize that it was over, and that he wasn't answering the enemy any longer. He gave him five seconds, then asked, his voice as calm and soothing as he dared make it, "Did Carl Webster ever state to you, Officer, that his mother struck him?"
Logan's voice was perfectly even. "No."
"Did he ever state to you that his father struck him?"
"Yes."
Ben nodded. "Thank you, Officer."
-----
Afterwards, Mike didn't remember how, exactly, he got out of the courtroom. He remembered the judge telling him he could go, and warning him not to discuss his testimony, but after that it was all just a big blur until he came to himself on the front steps of the courthouse, his lungs drinking in the warm, humid air as if he'd been drowning. He'd be just as glad, he decided, if he never had to testify in a courtroom ever again.
Thank God for Ben Stone. Mike wasn't sure what he would have done in there without him. Ben had warned him not to look at him during the cross-examination, to keep his eyes focused on the person he was answering. It had made the direct questions easy, watching Stone's face, watching his hands move, meeting those brightly colored eyes every time he responded. But when Chapman had started, the hardest thing, he'd found, was to keep his eyes turned away from the man sitting behind the table. Mike wiped a hand down his face, and couldn't quite suppress a grin. How embarrassing.
By the time the trial started, Mike had accepted the fact that he had a crush on Ben Stone. He tried to take it in stride, knowing that it happened, that sometimes it just couldn't be helped. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. Like the first day he'd laid eyes on his new partner, for example, and knew there was going to be trouble. He'd worked through it, fantasizing in the shower, sneaking looks when he was unobserved, and in general doing everything in his power to get it out of his system. With Ricky, it had worked.
This, though, was different. Ricky had been close to him. There had been innumerable excuses to get near him, to fulfill the little fantasies, to be constantly in proximity to the object of his affection. After a couple of weeks, it had passed. Ricky was still gorgeous, and Mike wasn't, even now, above stealing a quick peek whenever they changed or showered, but it had been a long time since Ricky's bare ass made him break a sweat. Familiarity bred, if not contempt, then at least a less urgent appreciation.
Mike just wished there was some way to get Ben Stone out, too. He admitted freely that part of it was because it had sandbagged him, creeping up from nowhere when his psyche was looking the other way. When it was no doubt ogling the nicely understated elegance of Stone's secretary, he reflected with a mix of wistfulness and self-annoyance. So, while one part of his brain was appreciating the contours of her silk blouse, the other was busy falling into the deep, soft well of Stone's voice. Ricky had been easy. One look, and Mike's libido had kicked into full swing, without apology, and set off every warning bell in his body. But he never would have thought, the first time he watched a lean, middle-aged, balding man walk into the squad room, that thoughts of his face, his hands, and his damned voice, would be keeping Mike company in the long, dark hours before dawn.
It was all over now, though. Mike's testimony was finished, and after this the chances of seeing Stone ever again were, he knew, pretty darn slim. *Better get used to it, Mikey,* he told himself. *Get used to it, move on.* He took another deep breath, trying to enjoy the warm air, and resolved to try to do just that.
Around him, the flow of people in and out of the court building continued, lawyers and cops and clerks, most of them leaving. Mike checked his watch, and was surprised to find that it was nearly half past four. While he was on the stand, it seemed as though it taken a year, but he was still surprised to find that it had been almost two hours. He'd better find a phone and call Ricky, tell him he might be even later for their shift than he'd planned. Better yet, he could just get Ricky to pick him up here.
He was about to turn back into the building when he heard his name called from the top of the steps. It was hard to see with all the columns in the way, but it didn't take long to pick out Ben Stone's tall, slim figure, striding towards him with a briefcase under his arm.
"I was hoping to catch you," Stone said. "I wanted to thank you. You did a good job."
"You think?" Mike wasn't expecting the bitterness in his voice, and he wished he'd bitten his tongue out when he saw Stone blink, as if taken aback. Then Stone shrugged.
"Yes, I do think," he said. Then he paused, and Mike felt some of the tightness ease in his chest as he recognized the soft regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry about the cross. I didn't expect that. He threw dust in my eyes, and I didn't even notice. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, join the club." But the apology helped, even if Mike didn't quite believe it was deserved. He turned away, staring out across the street. "I guess you were wrong about me being the person for the job."
Stone was silent for a moment. "Chapman knew it was inadmissible. He was just trying to shock the jury."
Mike laughed. "Think he succeeded? He sure as hell shocked me," he added, and swallowed the fresh surge of bitter anger that rose in his throat. "Anyway, there's no help for it now."
"I don't think it hurt us," Stone said. "If anything, Chapman might find that it backfired."
Mike turned back to him. "You really believe that?" he asked, and had the satisfaction of seeing a momentary flicker in those clear blue eyes.
"I can try to," Stone finally said, and smiled. "Cheer up, Officer. You did the best you could." He lifted his arm, checking the watch on his wrist. "I was going to go around the corner to the bar," he said. "Post first day ritual. Can I buy you a drink?"
It was a kind gesture, and any other day Mike would have taken it. If, he told himself wryly, for no other reason than to purge another small part of this infatuation from his system. Today, though, was not going to be the day. "No," Mike said reluctantly. "I'm supposed to join my partner on our beat in half in hour. I've got to call him for a lift."
"Ah." For a second, Mike thought he was going to say something more, and so did Stone, apparently. But then Stone closed his mouth, and held out a hand. "Maybe some other time."
Mike shook with him, realizing, again, that this was very likely good-bye. "Sure. Thanks. Let me know how it turns out, all right?" Yeah, as if it wouldn't be all over the papers, and as if Stone was going to remember the promise weeks later. But it was the best he could do for the moment. He let go of Stone's hand, and gestured to the front doors. "I guess I'd better go call."
"Yes." Stone nodded. "Good luck, Officer."
"You, too, Counselor." Mike walked away, scrupulously not looking back as he mounted the shallow steps that led back up into the court building. He was half-tempted to call in sick, tell Ricky to finish the shift without him, and follow Stone to the damn bar anyway. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he couldn't. Stone was out of reach. Unattainable, probably unavailable, and almost certainly not interested. He might as well get used to it, and get over it.
All the same, it was impossible, once he'd reached the top of the steps, not to turn and search, briefly, for a particular figure among the sea of dark-suited lawyers moving along the street. He almost missed him, just catching a last glimpse of a tall, slender back as Stone disappeared around the corner, his long stride carrying him away too quickly for Mike to even think of following. Just as well. Mike sighed, and turned back to the doors.
He knew he'd get over it. It was only a matter of time.
-----
Three Weeks Later
-----
When the phone rang, Mike was sitting on the couch, trying to decide if he'd rather go out to a bar to watch the Yankees get creamed, or stay at home and do laundry. Neither prospect held much appeal, and he picked up the phone more than half-hoping to hear Ricky's voice, offering an alternative. But instead, he was greeted with the deep, drawling voice of Ben Stone. Three weeks since he'd last heard it, and still he knew him even before he pronounced his name.
"Evening, Officer," he said. "Am I disturbing you?"
"No." Mike reached for the remote to mute the sound on the television. *Far from it.* "What can I do for you, Mr. Stone?"
"I thought you'd like to know. The jury just convicted Webster of second-degree murder. It only took six hours."
Mike closed his eyes. "Congratulations."
"To you, too." Stone paused. "You did well, Officer. Your testimony went a long way to convincing the jury."
"Thanks. I appreciate you calling."
There was a long silence. Then Stone spoke again. "I was expecting to be here most of the evening," he said, almost hesitantly. "Waiting on the verdict. Now I'm at a bit of a loose end, and I was wondering . . . well, I was wondering if you'd care to cash in my rain check on that drink."
For a second, Mike wasn't sure what to say. That Stone had remembered that careless invitation even five minutes later would have been a surprise, but after three weeks surprise would hardly cover it. "Uh, sure," he said, before the more subtle part of his brain could even shape the thought that it might be better to act a little more suave, more cool.
"I was thinking," Stone went on, "that maybe you wouldn't mind joining me for dinner. I made reservations, but I hate eating alone."
This time, Mike did hesitate. "I hate to impose--" he heard himself begin, and kicked himself for even saying it when he heard the sudden silence.
"It's no imposition," Stone said presently. "You did a good job, and I think we both deserve a little celebration.
"Well, if you put it that way . . ." Mike smiled. "All right. Where should I meet you?"
"There's a place near the theater district. Rusterman's. You know it?"
Mike felt his brows climb up. "Yeah," he said. "I know how to get there."
"Good. Can you be there in an hour?"
"Sure. I'll see you then."
Mike hung up, and took a deep breath. Well. It looked like he was about to go out with Ben Stone after all.
*Get a grip, Mikey,* he told himself harshly. *It's only a dinner date. Scratch that. It's only dinner, period. Just because he's gay, just because you're . . . whatever you are . . . doesn't mean that everything is going to be about sex.*
Too bad.
-----
Ben was early to the restaurant, and spent the time pacing up and down the sidewalk outside, trying to pretend that he wasn't nervous. Logan had accepted his invitation, but now that the moment was drawing nearer Ben wasn't so sure, anymore, that it had been such a good idea to offer it. He'd spent so many years being discreet, so many years not getting involved. He wasn't sure, even now, that he was trying to get involved, and that uncertainty in itself annoyed him.
Perhaps, he rationalized, it wasn't even Logan himself that Ben wanted. Perhaps it was more the idea of him, the thought of getting close to someone. Anyone. After all, he barely knew the man. *But isn't that the point?* another part of him argued. *Isn't this all about getting to know him well enough to make that choice?* As if, he reflected gloomily, the choice was going to be up to him.
"Mr. Stone."
The voice behind him made him turn around, and he couldn't stop the smile that spread over his face the instant he heard those familiar, deep tones. "Officer Logan," he said, and inwardly winced at the formality even as he extended a hand in greeting. "Glad you could make it."
It hadn't occurred to Ben to tell Logan to dress, but apparently the other man had anticipated him. Ben had yet to see him in anything other than his uniform or casual clothes, and the somber dark suit was a pleasant surprise. He looked good in it, Ben realized with a little start. More than good, in fact, and Ben felt the twinge of uncertainty return. He had no business being here, no business asking this man out to an expensive dinner, no business holding the thoughts that were in his head.
But Logan was shaking his hand, oblivious to Ben's inner turmoil, his hand warm and dry against Ben's palm. "Yeah, well." Logan grinned. "It was either that or sit at home and watch the Yankees get pasted."
Ben cocked his head, unable to resist saying, "You say that as though it's a bad thing."
"Oooh." For a second, Logan looked bemused, then he shook his head. "I dunno. This could get ugly, Mr. Stone."
"Well, how about we start the truce by you calling me 'Ben' instead."
Logan blinked at him. "Okay. Ben." He grinned. "My friends call me Mike."
Ben nodded, doing his best to be casual, and not appear as though a thousand butterflies had just settled in his stomach. To cover his nervousness, he turned and gestured at the entrance to Rusterman's. "Should we go in?"
Wordlessly, Logan--Mike--nodded. "Sure," he said, and reached up to adjust his tie. "I wasn't sure about the dress code," he said in what seemed like a sudden burst of frankness. "I figure a place like this, there's more than just a 'no shoes, no service' policy."
"You look fine," Ben said, before he thought, and before he could entirely suppress the quiet appreciation in his tone. To his relief, Mike didn't seem to notice.
"Good." Far from straightening the tie, however, Mike's efforts only skewed it, and he grimaced as he wrestled briefly with the suddenly awkward knot.
"Here." Ben stepped forward, unthinking, and adjusted the tie back in place, smoothing the knot with long practice. Mike stilled as soon as he touched him, standing unmoving, chin lifted, until Ben was satisfied. It was only when Ben caught sight of the two of them in the mirrored window that he realized what he was doing, and let his hands fall. He stepped back abruptly, distancing himself. "There. It's straight now."
To his surprise, Logan laughed out loud. "Hey, at least something is." Ben's eyes shot up, startled, and met Logan's grinning face.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean--"
"Hey, don't worry about it." Logan laughed again. "You're one of about a half-dozen people in this freaking city I can make that joke with, all right? Don't apologize."
"All right." Ben smiled. "Then let's go in."
But the joke bothered him, even while he waited for Felix to find his reservation and escort them to their booth. Mike hadn't been offended, but Ben was suddenly, acutely aware that his motives in asking the other man to dinner had probably been transparent as glass. Ridiculous to even imagine that Mike had overlooked the fact that they were both gay, that Ben's invitation might have been made to any one of a half-dozen witnesses that had participated in the trial. Any pretense, he now realized, on his part that this wasn't a date, that this was something casual, meaningless, would be a lie.
He kept quiet, though, saying nothing until they were seated. Mike, after a quick glance at the menu, leaned forward and asked, "How much extra for a menu in English? With prices on it?"
Ben leapt gratefully into the opening. "Don't worry about it," he answered back quietly, with a smile. "This is my invitation, my treat."
Mike regarded him thoughtfully. "You take all your witnesses out after the trial? I'd hate to see your expense book."
It was suddenly necessary for Ben to swallow, to take a sip of water to moisten his dry mouth. To stall, while he tried to find the right words to say. "The trial," he said at last, "is over. You're not a witness any more." He made himself smile. "This isn't business."
Not a single flicker marred the features of the man sitting across from him. "Oh," Mike said presently, and lowered his voice, leaning just a little closer. "Then what is it?"
This time, the smile wasn't forced. "It's dinner."
Now Mike was smiling, too. "Okay. But in that case, you're going to have to help me out here." He took his menu and spread it out between them. "That, or teach me how to say 'I want a cheeseburger' in French."
After that, Ben began to relax. He translated the menu in an undertone, leaning over so that only Mike could hear. This close, he could even smell the faint scent of his aftershave, and when Mike cast his eyes down to refer to the menu, Ben took advantage of the chance to study him, unobserved. He'd never quite dreamed of being this close to him, not outside his office or a courtroom, anyway, and he was surprised at how pleasant it was to simply sit here, close by, and murmur the soft translations.
"I'm glad you got Webster," Mike said after they'd gone over the appetizers, jerking Ben back from his contemplation of the thick waves of hair that covered the back of his head. "I didn't say that before."
"I rather took it as a given," Ben admitted. "That you were glad."
Mike turned to face him, and for a moment they were nose to nose, faces inches apart. Ben had to bite back the sharp intake of breath as he came eye to eye, for the first time, with those hazy gray orbs. Ben half-expected Mike to withdraw, to pull back, but he made no move to disturb the sudden proximity. "Yeah, well. Part of the job, I guess." he said presently.
"I should hope so." Ben felt himself smile. "You did good work on the case, and on the stand. You're a good cop. I wish we had more like you."
The thick brows went up, and that simple praise seemed to stump him for a second. "Thanks," Mike finally said. His mouth curved into a smile. "Thanks a lot."
For a single, heartstopping second, Ben was sure that Mike was about to kiss him. They were so close, no more than a breath apart, and it suddenly seemed impossible that it was accidental. He could almost feel it happening, could imagine the soft brush of those lips on his, the electric warmth of the other man's mouth. All he had to do was lean forward, to close that vast, aching distance between them, and it would happen.
*In your dreams, perhaps,* he told himself roughly, and forced himself to pull away, not caring how much it hurt to withdraw from that warm, intimate bubble. After a second, Mike did the same, his hooded eyes carefully blank. Just as well, Ben reflected, resisting the urge to reach up and loosen his collar. Rusterman's was hardly Santini's, after all.
Mike let Ben take care of conveying his order to the waiter, sitting back comfortably while Ben repeated everything to Pierre, smiling as Ben turned back to face him. "Thanks," he said once Pierre had gone. "I'd hate to have to sit and point."
"I'm sure you would have found a way." Ben unfolded his napkin. "Mike," he said, as much to get the other man's attention as to test the feel of the name on his lips, to savor the intimacy of the address. "May I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Have you given any thought to becoming a detective?"
Across the table, Mike stilled, his water-glass raised halfway to his lips. "Yeah," he admitted. "A couple of months ago, I thought about it kinda hard." He put the glass down, shrugged. "I even put in for some transfers, to Narcotics and Robbery and Vice, but . . ."
"But?" Ben prompted.
"I don't know." Mike looked away, casting his eyes out into the crowd, looking without, Ben was sure, actually seeing. "I like what I do," he said. "Most of the time. I'm not sure I want to change it."
"I see." The breadroll in Ben's hands fell apart on his plate, the crumbs sticking to his fingers until he brushed them away. "Well, that's your decision, of course." Ben paused. "But I think you'd be good at it."
A wry smile twisted at Mike's lips. "Well, at least someone thinks so."
"So does Detective Spinelli," Ben told him, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mike look up, startled. "He thinks if you had the right case, you could do it."
It took a second for Mike to recover. "Yeah, and he'll wave his little fairy wand and make it happen." He stopped, as if suddenly realizing exactly what he'd said, and shook his head, stifling a laugh. "More fairy than he knows, I guess."
Ben didn't answer right away. "Do you think that's a problem?"
"Are you kidding?" Mike looked almost comically shocked. "No one in the department knows, all right? No one." He took another sip of his water. "I don't date other cops. Other guy cops," he amended.
"I see."
Mike regarded him for a moment. "What about you? I don't exactly see you painting a pink triangle on your briefcase."
Touche. Ben made a face. "I choose to keep my personal life away from the office," he said, realizing even as he spoke how prim it sounded. "All my personal life," he tried to qualify. "My . . . gender choices are included."
"Oh." Mike seemed to accept that, but there was still a faint puzzlement in his voice. "I don't know. I guess . . . when you told me--" He cleared his throat. "I didn't really appreciate it at the time, I guess. Thanks."
"No need." Ben smiled. "I'd found out your secret, inadvertently. It only seemed . . . fair."
"Yeah. Fair." Now Mike was smiling again, and there was something knowing, and perhaps even wicked, dancing behind his eyes. "Okay, so we're even. I can live with that."
At that moment, Pierre arrived with the appetizers, and Ben was satisfied to let the subject drop. He'd long ago resolved with himself his motives in letting Mike know, and it was something of a comfort that Mike didn't take those motives amiss, that in fact he was still sitting here, talking with him, laughing, and trying to figure out a graceful way to deal with the baked grapefruit appetizer. Ben allowed himself to take a deep, relieved breath, to set aside his worries, and settled down to enjoying himself.
-----
After they'd finished eating, Ben only hesitated a moment before offering to drive Mike home, and as far as he could tell Mike didn't hesitate at all before accepting. He directed Ben to a neighborhood on the East Side, one of the older blocks where apartment buildings were jammed together like books in an overstuffed library, not a hair's breath of space between them. The street was crowded, but Ben turned in anyway, hoping that there would be a space. An excuse.
As if reading his mind, Mike shifted a little, pointing up the street. "There's usually some spaces farther up. If you want to park and come up for a nightcap." He couched the last as if it were an afterthought, an inconsequential remark, one that was most certainly not laden with the weight of innuendo that Ben suddenly heard in the words. He didn't answer. But he looked for the space.
Mike's apartment was on the top floor, a little studio squeezed in under the rafters. He made no apologies for the size, nor for the mismatched, used furniture, and Ben was glad. Instead, he waved his guest to the sofa, and moved into the kitchen to rummage in the cabinet above the refrigerator. "I've got whiskey, vodka, and brandy," he volunteered. "Or, I can make coffee."
"I'll take a brandy," Ben said. "And a standby on the coffee."
"You got it." Mike poured a generous measure into a small snifter, and carried it and a tumbler of whiskey back to the living area. There was a single armchair apart from the sofa, but instead of taking it, Mike sat down next to Ben, handing over the glass with a smile.
"Thank you." Ben took a sip. Not bad, actually.
"Cheers." Mike took a slug of the whiskey in his own glass, and sat back, leaning the tumbler on his knee. "Thanks for dinner," he said presently. "I had a good time."
"You did a good job," Ben replied. He wanted to say more, but it took a healthy sip of brandy to find the words. "I said it before, but I know it couldn't have been easy. You kept your cool."
Mike made a face into his glass. "Yeah, well. That smug bastard . . . it was a pleasure stonewalling his ass, I can say that much."
Not the way Ben would have phrased it, but he agreed with the sentiment. "And I'm glad you did."
Mike only nodded. He drank a little more of his whiskey, crossing his legs as he shifted again on the couch. "I, uh, I've been thinking about what you said. About being a detective."
It took a moment for Ben to recall the reference. "Yes." He tipped his glass at Mike. "I still mean every word."
"I've thought about it," Mike admitted. "More than thought about it." He waved his glass around. "I thought all I wanted was to be a cop, you know? But the more I do it, the more I see . . ." He shrugged, trailing off. "Beat cops like me," he said after a moment, "We see a problem, we slap a quick fix on it. Bust up the fight, take somebody in, diffuse the situation. But two nights later, we're back in the same place, busting up the same fight, taking the same people in. I'm not saying it's useless," he added quickly. "It keeps the peace, and that's what it's about. But then I see something I can't fix. Some kid beat up. Someone raped. Someone killed. And I know that no one in that house, no one on that street, is going to feel safe until the bastard who did it is behind bars. Problem is, where I am right now, I can't do anything about it."
Ben was silent. "Officer," he said quietly, "that's exactly the reason I think you should start thinking about promotion." He caught himself with his hand half-extended to Mike's arm, then completed the gesture anyway, laying his fingers on the soft cotton of Mike's shirt. "You're a good cop," he said. "And I think you could be a good detective. I know you're smart enough." He smiled at Mike's laugh. "It's true," he insisted. "The dumb Irish cop is a good act. I'm sure the people on your beat love it."
Mike laughed again. "Maybe it's not an act," he said. "Maybe I am a dumb Irish cop."
Ben only smiled. "Two out of three, maybe." He squeezed the arm under his hand gently. "Just think about it, Mike, all right?" He moved to slide his hand away, was startled when a warm, broad palm slipped over his fingers, stopping him.
"I will." They sat there, looking at each other, Mike's hand cupped warmly over his, not holding him, but not letting him go, either. It was Mike who finally broke the tableau, nodding at Ben's empty glass. "You want another? Or would you like that coffee now?"
*Neither,* Ben wanted to say. His mouth had gone unaccountably dry, every nerve his body tingling, focusing down on the small patch of skin on the back of his hand where Mike was still touching him. He should leave, he assessed clinically. Get out now, right now, before he started getting ideas in his head. But Logan was still looking at him, regarding him with those depthless gray eyes. He also hadn't moved his hand.
"Coffee, please," Ben heard himself say, and could have bitten his tongue out when Mike's hand slid away. He released Mike's arm in turn, and Mike stood up, bending over to collect Ben's glass.
"Coming right up," Mike said, and walked into the kitchen. As if he were on an invisible string, Ben found himself rising and following, leaning against the tiny counter while Mike measured coffee and water into the pot.
"I should probably be going pretty soon," he offered. "It's getting late."
Mike switched the pot on, and glanced up at him under his thick brows, his eyes dark. "Don't leave on that account," he said.
For a long time, Ben just stared, sure that he wasn't hearing what he was hearing. Despite all his efforts, had he been that obvious? Or was he so smitten that he was reading things he shouldn't into Mike's every innocent gesture. Innocent gestures like asking him up for a nightcap. Like putting his hand on his. And staring up at him with those heavy, sleepy eyes and telling him not to leave.
Some of his confusion must have shown on his face, because Mike took a step forward, a half-smile playing over his lips. "Hey," he said quietly. "You just got done telling me I'm not stupid." He reached up, those big, warm hands lifting to frame Ben's face, slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, to protest. Ben closed his eyes, swallowing, as he stepped forward again, tilting his face in. He sent up a brief, heartfelt prayer that this wasn't a dream, that he wasn't about to wake up alone in his own bed. Dream or not, he was frozen, unable to move even if he'd wanted to, his face flaming under Mike's cool touch, lips parting helplessly as he felt the other man lean in.
"Mike," he said, and hardly recognized the weak croak as his own voice. "Mike, I didn't . . ." He didn't have the breath to finish, but Mike stopped anyway, his mouth a pulsebeat away.
"Didn't what?" Mike asked, the question a soft caress of air on Ben's cheek.
Ben swallowed. "I'm sorry if I--if I presumed anything," he said in a rush. "It wasn't my intention to--" He stumbled over the rest of the sentence, for once unable to produce the right words. "I wasn't my intention," he repeated softly, looking directly in the clear gray eyes so close to his, "to proposition you. I only wanted to have dinner."
The corners of Mike's mouth lifted into a smile. "I know," he said. "But what--" He leaned closer, his lips nearly touching Ben's, then veering aside to press a soft, butterfly's brush of his mouth to Ben's cheek. "What," he said again, whispering into his skin, "if I wanted to proposition you?"
Oh. "Oh," Ben heard himself say, or try to, the syllable catching with an undignified squeak in his suddenly dry throat. He swallowed, and tried again. "Oh, I suppose that's different." Another swallow. "Then I take it back. I did want to proposition you."
To his amazement, Mike laughed. "Too much of a gentleman," he said. His hands, still framing Ben's face, moved, caressing his temples gently, pushing his hair back from his face. "I'm not a gentleman," he said, and something in the words made Ben's knees feel like jelly.
"Then don't be," he managed, and closed his eyes as Mike leaned in again.
Ben almost moaned out loud at the first, soft brush of Mike's lips on his, the mere touch of his mouth electrifying his whole body, spreading like wildfire from the top of his head down to his toes, gathering in a hot rush of desire in his belly. It was every bit as sweet as he'd imagined, Mike's mouth hot and tingling and alive against his. He opened his mouth to the kiss at once, felt Mike respond eagerly to the invitation, pressing closer, his hands spreading over the back of Ben's head as he tilted him for the kiss. Ben's own arms raised to slide around the broad expanse of his back, his hands caressing over the soft wool. Mike made a small, breathless noise into his mouth as they pressed even closer, locked together. Mike's tongue slid between his lips, and Ben did moan out loud, dragging his hands down Mike's back to cling to his waist, yanking their bodies closer together.
One of Mike's hands curled around his nape, stroking and caressing, while the other hand trailed downwards, sliding in a hard, direct line down his back until he could curve his hand over Ben's buttocks and squeeze. Ben felt the breath leave his body, felt his knees actually start to tremble as Mike began to caress him there, long, strong fingers stroking over him. He lifted his arms to hold Mike around the neck, holding himself up against him, feeling Mike shift back against the counter to support his weight, grabbing him briefly to hold him up.
It had been a long time since Ben had been with anyone quite so . . . direct. Long time, hell. Never. It was dizzying, intoxicating, the feel of those powerful hands on him, boldly touching him, moving unabashedly over the curves of his ass and thighs. Ben could feel himself getting hard against the other man, felt his cock swell in a delicious pulse of heat as Mike gripped him even harder, his hands sliding up under the hem of Ben's jacket. Then he was touching his back through the fine linen shirt, rubbing the soft cloth over his suddenly sensitized skin.
They kissed there for a long time, scarcely pausing long enough to breathe, groping each other in Mike's kitchen while the coffeemaker gurgled, unnoticed and forgotten, in the background. Mike tasted of whiskey and very faintly of the spicy food he'd had at dinner, all of it mingling deliciously under Ben's exploring tongue. He could have stayed here all night, just learning every inch of his mouth, every taste and texture of those soft, warm lips. But Mike had other ideas.
Ben made a wordless noise of protest as Mike finally pulled away, but didn't resist as Mike took his hand and led him back around the counter, across the room to the bed tucked into a small alcove. Ben might have used the reprieve to consider what he was doing, to decide whether or not this was, after all, such a good idea. Instead, he watched the way Mike's body moved under his clothes, and swallowed a surge of desire as he tried to picture what he would look like without them. Hoping that he got the chance.
Mike turned and grabbed him again as they reached the bed, and Ben let himself be gently pushed back onto the mattress. Mike joined him a moment later, and Ben groaned as a large, solid palm settled firmly over his crotch, heard Mike's soft noise of approval as he felt the rock-hard shaft outlined under his hand. He pressed down with his hand, rubbing slowly through the cloth of Ben's pants, his fingers gently squeezing the balls underneath until Ben was moaning under him, blind and deaf to anything but the strong hand massaging his cock. Then the hand was gone, and Mike's hips were pressing against his, his full weight settling over Ben's body as he leaned down to kiss him again. They soon ended up side by side, legs twined together, Mike's thigh thrusting between his legs. Ben began to grow impatient, though, with the frustrating slide of cloth on cloth, and before long he was slipping his hands down between their bodies, working at the waist of Mike's pants until he had loosened them enough to slip his questing fingers inside.
Mike bucked against him as he touched him, kissing him fiercely as Ben curled his hand around the hard, smooth skin of his cock. It took him mere moments to fumble his way into the waist of Ben's pants, and in a few seconds they were stroking each other, thrusting into each other's hands as they continued to kiss. But Ben soon let go of the cock in his hand, moving his nimble fingers up to work at the buttons of Mike's shirt. "I want to see you naked," he said into Mike's mouth, too blind with desire to say it any less baldly. Mike froze against him for a split second, his breath ragged against Ben's lips, then his hand slipped from Ben's own cock. The next second, he was enthusiastically aiding Ben in stripping them both out of every stitch of their clothes.
"My God," Ben breathed as he finally slid Mike's shirt over his shoulders, tossing it aside to leave him pale and naked against the covers. He knelt up over him, running his hands over the smooth, soft skin of his chest, down across the flat ridges of his stomach to finally stroke the hard, thick shaft rising from the soft curls between his legs. Mike was looking at him, flushed and panting, but his face wore a faint, puzzled frown, as if he were genuinely mystified by Ben's appreciation of his body. Then Ben's hand wrapped around his length, and the frown vanished, replaced by a soft, slow smile of pleasure. He reached up and pulled Ben down to lie next to him, wrapping his arms around him to press their naked bodies together, gasping a little as their bare cocks bumped into each other.
Ben leaned in for a kiss, then yelped in surprise as Mike abruptly rolled them both over, straddling Ben with a sly smile as he lay down on top of him. Mike bent down to kiss him, and at the same time ground his hips slowly into Ben's, rubbing himself between their sealed bellies, his cock sliding deliciously against Ben's own length. Mike shifted a little, reaching to the side, and a moment later Ben bit back a groan as he lifted himself away. But not for long. Something cool and liquid dribbled briefly on Ben's stomach, and he snapped his eyes open as Mike tossed the bottle of oil to the side. Mike lowered himself on top of Ben again, and Ben groaned deeply as Mike ground against him once more, their bellies slippery now with oil, their cocks sliding smoothly in the tight, slick space between their bodies. Ben arched up into him, mindlessly duplicating the incredible sensation, gasping as his hard length rubbed against Mike's. Mike grinned down at him, one thick lock of hair falling into his eyes as he began to thrust, driving himself against Ben.
Mike came first, his thighs gripping Ben's body as he bucked against him, his mouth catching Ben's in a hot, searing kiss as he shuddered on top of him, moaning into his mouth. Ben only thrust harder, driving himself mindlessly to the edge as he felt the warm wetness of Mike's spilled excitement spreading between them. He cried out as he shivered up against Mike's still-shaking body, clutching his back to anchor himself as he came hard underneath him, his hips arching off the bed in a series of long, shuddering spasms. It had been so long. Too long.
They lay together, panting, gasping for breath, Mike's body a warm, limp weight over Ben. Ben stroked his back idly as he caught his breath, trailing his fingers over the sweat-slick skin, feeling the trickles of perspiration slide down their sides. They were a mess, he reflected with sated satisfaction, sweaty, slick, covered with semen and oil. He traced the length of Mike's back again, and carefully shifted himself, urging Mike's thighs back so that he could spread his own legs, and settle Mike securely between them, wrapping arms and legs around him in a snug embrace. Mike made a sleepy sound of pleasure, lifting his head to search blindly for Ben's mouth.
"Thanks," Mike said when they finally parted. Ben thought for a moment that he was going to add something else, but then he smiled instead and kissed Ben again. "You really were wonderful," he said presently, almost abashed, as if it were something he'd said many times before, and was now embarrassed to find that he really meant it.
Ben was genuinely flattered. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, savoring the drowsiness in his own voice as he reached up to hold Mike a little closer. "And thank you," he added softly in Mike's ear. "You were wonderful, too."
Mike smiled, and nuzzled at Ben's neck, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder as if he meant to stay there all night. Fine by Ben. Stay there all night, by all means. They'd worry about the morning when it came.
They drowsed for maybe half an hour that way, kissing, idly caressing, lying lazily in one another's arms. Then Mike planted a last, lingering kiss on Ben's shoulder, and rolled away, their sticky bodies separating only with an effort. The shower seemed a logical next step and a long, leisurely half-hour later, Ben emerged scrubbed and clean, a borrowed towel wrapped around his waist. He searched for a clock as he walked into the living area, and saw that it was still surprisingly early, not even one o' clock yet. Early enough, he realized with a stab of reluctance, for him to go home.
He made his good-byes to a drowsy, yawning Mike, who put up just enough protest to make Ben feel flattered, but didn't press him to stay. He did, however, make a point of walking Ben to the door, of helping him with his jacket. As Ben was reaching for the door, Mike stopped his hand, taking Ben's wrist in his fingers, turning him ever so gently so that he could kiss him. He lingered for a long while, holding Ben's face in his hands, then let him go, his lips parting as if to speak, then falling silent again.
Ben reached up, and clasped the hand that still cupped his face. "Good-night, Mike," he said.
Mike finally seemed to find his voice. "Good-night," he said. He opened his mouth again, hesitated, then said uncertainly, "Can I call you?"
For a moment, Ben wasn't sure what to say. That this was anything but a one-night stand had yet to occur to him. Or, more precisely, that this was anything more than a one-night stand for Mike. "Of course," he heard himself say, and felt a warm, soft glow begin to spread in his chest. "I'd like that," he added softly, and had the pleasure of seeing Mike smile in relief. "Very much," he finished, and reached up for one last kiss. "Good-night."
"Good-night."
Continued in " At First Sight II: Another Country"