FIC: "At First Sight II: Another Country" 3/3 (Law & Order Logan/Stone, Logan/OMC NC-17 Slash)
Continued from "At First Sight II: Another Country" (2/3)
For Notes, Warnings, Ratings, and Disclaimers, please see Part 1.
At First Sight II: Another Country (3/3)
He drove Heather home around twelve-thirty. They'd filled up the time in the bar with shop talk, not just about the Marston case, but swapping stories about, it seemed, every case they'd ever worked on. Heather struck Mike as being plenty smart enough, but she seemed oddly uncurious about the bodies that passed through her morgue. Once she'd decided how they died, the people lost interest for her. She usually didn't even bother to follow the case in the papers, and unless she was called to testify she generally didn't even remember the names a month later.
"I'm not a cop," she said when Mike expressed surprise. "That's your job. You want to know who did it, and why. I just care about how."
All the same, the talk had been easy, and carefree, and things were progressing in a long-familiar direction by the time Mike walked her out to his car and drove her to her apartment on the Upper West Side. She wasn't really even tipsy by then, but neither of them had suggested that she drive herself home. Neither of them were surprised when she asked Mike up for coffee, and he accepted.
Once in her apartment, the embrace was natural, the kiss expected. She was warm and soft and pliant in his arms, her breasts pressed to his chest, her hips curving gently under his hands. He felt himself responding to her, heard her little gasp of desire as her thigh rubbed against him, feeling the hardness in his groin.
But it was all wrong. His body wanted her, was willing and ready to take possession of the soft, smooth flesh she was offering. It would be so good, so sweet, to bury himself in her, to thrust into that hot, silky tightness. She was willing, he was willing, there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't do it.
No reason at all.
Something in his posture must have alerted her, some hesitation, or sudden withdrawal in his kiss. She pulled back, breathing hard, her eyes searching his. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Are you okay?"
*Nothing, I'm fine,* Mike ordered his lips to say, but then listened, appalled, as he heard, "No, I'm not." His hands reached up to frame her face, brushing her hair back. Pushing her gently away. "Heather," he said unsteadily. "I'm sorry. I--can't." It was an effort to force the words out, his uncertainty palpable even to him.
"Why?" she asked. "I mean, I thought--" She bit her lip, her face reddening with embarrassment.
"I know," Mike said hastily. "I did, too," he added frankly. But then he shook his head. "But I can't. I'm sorry."
"Why?" she asked again, and now her voice was turning hurt, and angry. "Just remembered an early shift? You left the coffeepot on? Remembered you had a girlfriend?"
"It's nothing like that," he said quickly, and didn't realize it was even a lie until he heard it in his own voice. "It's not that," Mike tried again, firmly. "I just . . . I don't think it would be a good idea. It's not you," he offered feebly.
Slowly, the color began to fade from her cheeks. Heather stepped back, pushing her hands through her hair. "It's all right," she said, and she sounded as if she really meant it. "I know how it is." She smiled wanly. "You're going along with your life, trying to have a good time, and the next thing you know those damn faces are in your head. Plays hell with your love life when you close your eyes and see nothing but dead bodies."
Mike nodded, grasping the excuse she offered. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wouldn't have . . . I didn't mean to lead you on. I wasn't leading you on."
"It's okay," Heather said. "I understand." She laughed. "I wouldn't have been a barrel of laughs, either." She held out her hand. "Let's just try to retreat with what little dignity we have left, all right?"
Feeling like a heel, Mike shook her hand. "All right. Good night, Heather."
"Good night, Mike. Good luck on your case."
"Thanks." Mike released her hand, already regretting the loss of the small, firm grip. He turned to go.
"Hey, Mike." Mike turned back. She was smiling. "Let me know how this one turns out, all right? I think I'd like to know."
"Sure." He smiled back at her. "I'll do that. Thanks."
-----
Mike returned home in a foul mood, tired, frustrated, and more than a little annoyed with himself for his behavior. It had been stupid to lead her on, stupid and cruel. Not just for her, either. *Face it,* Mike, he told himself irritably, *you wanted to do it.* Right up to the last minute, he had every intention of getting her in bed as soon as it was decent. When the moment came, though he couldn't follow through. Wouldn't. He couldn't even tell himself why.
Maybe he just didn't want to.
It was almost a relief when the phone jangled noisily from the kitchen. Ignoring the fact that it was nearly two in the morning, and not even caring who had the nerve to call him at this hour, he snatched it up, barking, "Logan!" into the receiver.
There was a startled pause. "Mike? It's Ricky."
Mike took a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I just got in."
"Oh, sorry." There was something wrong with Ricky's voice. It was too quiet, too subdued, his Brooklyn vowels thickened and mellowed. "I tried to call you before, figured you were on a date."
Mike glanced down at the blinking message light on his machine. "Nah," he half-lied. "I was just following up some stuff." He paused. "Is everything okay? You don't sound good."
It took Ricky a minute to answer. "My mom had a heart attack," he finally said, flatly, as though he could squeeze away every emotion from the words. "She's in the hospital in Eastbridge. She's pretty bad."
"Oh, jeez. Ricky, man, I'm sorry."
"Yeah." Cool, composed. "I was calling you to tell you because I won't be in for my shift tomorrow." Ricky paused again. "Actually, I probably won't be in for a long time." He stopped to clear his throat. "I'm taking a leave of absence. Indefinitely." He breathed again. "My old man, he's falling apart. He can't handle it, he needs somebody to be there."
"Oh." Mike blinked. "What about your other brothers? I thought--"
"He wants me there." Mike heard Ricky pause, heard him breathe deep. "Hey, I was always his favorite," he said with forced lightness, then swallowed. "He asked me to come, Mikey. Come and stay."
"Oh. Oh. Wow. So," Mike said, "I guess you're finally following through on that threat."
Ricky gave a short, choked laugh. "Yeah. Looks like it." Silence again. "Mike, I'm sorry to do this to you. I feel bad, dumping you in the middle of the rotation, leaving you a double tomorrow by yourself."
"Hey," Mike cut him off. "Hey, forget it. Your family needs you, all right? You don't have to apologize for that." He thought for a moment. "Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?"
"Well, actually, that's kinda the other reason I was calling." Mike heard him shift, heard the faint rustle of paper from the other end of the line. "I've been in Eastbridge all day, at the hospital with my mom, talking to the rest of the family. It looks like I'm going to be there a long time, and, to be honest, that's put me in a bind with my lease. I've decided to move out as soon as I can--soon as I get packed, actually," he added frankly. "But if I don't find somebody to sublet fast I'm going to get stuck for the rent on a place I don't even use."
Mike was taken aback. "That fast?" He forced a laugh. "I'm not going to go to work tomorrow and find the CIA waiting for me, am I?"
That got a laugh in return, feeble and stilted, but a laugh. "No." Ricky paused. "But I'd be lying if I said I was fighting hard to stick around here. I've been away too long. They need me back home."
"I understand," Mike lied. "You getting any help?"
"Some of my brothers can come down, when I'm ready," Ricky said, and Mike nodded. Even "some" of Ricky's brothers were a small army. They'd have him cleaned out faster than a plague of locusts. "I'm leaving most of the furniture. I won't use it and it's not worth hauling back." He hesitated. "Anyway, what I'm asking is whether or not you want the place. It's twelve hundred a month, utilities included, and the rent's paid until the end of September. I figure that'll help cover your moving costs. You don't have to tell me now," he added quickly. "I can wait a couple of weeks. But I wanted to give you first shot at it."
"Well, thanks. I'll think about it, yeah. Thanks."
"Hey, I'm your partner, right?" Ricky's laugh was a little weak, but he sounded all right. "Look, I'm going to let you go, let you get some sleep."
"You're going to be all right?"
"I'm fine. I'm getting some packing done. I can't sleep," he added matter-of-factly. "I might as well keep busy."
"I can come over," Mike offered, even though his tired body screamed protest at the mere thought of doing anything but falling into bed. "Maybe help you, keep you company, whatever."
"No, that's okay. I'll be all right. But thanks. I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you do that." Mike swallowed. "You take care, Ricky, okay?"
"Sure. You, too. Good night, Mike."
"Good night." Mike hung up.
Damn. Well, he'd finally done it. Never mind that it took a crisis, and a terrible one at that, but Mike had never really thought that Ricky would go. So long as he griped, so long as he grumbled and complained and threatened, Mike had never really considered seriously that he might actually go through with it one day. Well, looked like today was that day.
Mike left the message light blinking on the machine, and went into the bed alcove, shutting the lights off on the way. He pulled off his clothes and fell into bed, hoping that he was too tired to do anything but sleep. He was wrong.
He dozed for a while, half-convincing himself that he was falling asleep, lulled by the unusually pleasant breeze across the bed. But the more his body relaxed, the faster his mind worked, churning over the events of the day. Ricky's mother. Mimi Marston's mother and father. His skipped class, his failed test. And last, but not least, Heather Coyne.
Mike tried pushing her out of his mind, tried focusing on the details of the Marston case, summoning Mimi's grisly corpse as a gruesome escape from thoughts of Heather. But every time he tried to think about the case, tried to piece together the scenario that led to Mimi lying dying on her bed, he thought of the woman who'd been responsible for her after her death, who'd compiled the reports he was trying to make sense of. Finally, he had to admit defeat.
Deep down, though, he also had to admit that it wasn't really Heather Coyne who had caused the problem. Just as it wasn't Heather who'd been the reason he'd stopped himself from taking her to bed. As stupid as it seemed, as irrational as it probably was, he hadn't had sex with Heather because he would have felt, in his heart, that he was being unfaithful. Unfaithful to Ben Stone.
That realization was enough to make him sit upright in the bed, all pretense of sleep gone. Okay, he and Ben had been dating, but that was all. No commitments, no promises of monogamy, nothing to prevent either of them from doing anything they pleased. Mike preferred it that way, and he'd thought that Ben's silence on the matter was a tacit agreement to do likewise. Hell, they'd only seen each other once in the last two weeks. Surely that hardly qualified for a dating relationship, much less an exclusive one. Yet, Mike had still turned Heather down. He'd do it again.
With an irritated grumble, he kicked the sheets off and got up, naked, to pace the length of the apartment. Him and Ben. A couple. A relationship. He stopped in front of the window, breathing deep, not caring which denizens of New York City he might happen to be flashing.
He couldn't understand why it was bothering him so much. Ben was a nice guy. He'd liked him from the start, despite the lawyer thing, and he hadn't found reason to change his opinion. Ben was an original, one of those guys that could talk about morals, and ethics, and really mean it. Mike didn't find much of that these days. Then there was that rare, sweet smile, those blue eyes, and that long, lean body that Ben disguised under blue suits and conservative ties. Smart. Good-looking. Fantastic in bed.
Mike turned away from the window, glaring down at his sudden erection. Just the thought of Ben was enough, huh? He went over and sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring his own arousal bobbing between his legs. *The perfect man,* he thought bitterly. *Intelligent, sexy, and rich. Just the kind of guy who'd love to shack up with a working-class Irish cop from the Lower East Side.*
That was the problem. Mike knew the attraction was mutual. He knew that Ben cared about him, knew that he'd probably go for that extra step, for making a commitment, even a token one. But what then? How long could it go on before the inevitable happened, before Ben found someone more like him? Someone with a law degree, who'd gone to an Ivy-league school, who'd grown up in the same world that Ben had grown up in. Right now, about the only thing they had in common was what they did in this stupid bed. That wasn't enough. That was when Mike realized, with a sobering, gut-shriveling chill, that he wanted nothing less than to have Ben Stone all to himself. Forever.
The thought frightened him so much that he got up and grabbed his clothes from the floor, yanking on jeans and shirt, and shoving his feet into socks and sneakers. Then he grabbed his keys and split out the door. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know what he'd do when he got there. But he had to get out of here, out of this place with all its memories of him and Ben.
He was halfway down to his car when he realized that he was mentally mapping the route back to the Upper West Side. Not Heather's apartment. Ricky's. And why not? He wanted to get away from his apartment, and Ricky had just offered him the ultimate solution. Ricky had a decent place, and twelve hundred a month wasn't that much more than he was paying here for a shabby studio under the eaves. He could go over and tell him right now, get it off his mind. Ricky would probably appreciate the company. Thus armed with excuses, Mike headed for the car.
-----
Ricky opened the door after the first knock, assuaging Mike's first fear that he'd gone to sleep after all. He regarded Mike with absolutely no surprise, and gestured him in with a tired smile. "I thought it might be you," he said, and followed him into the living room, kicking aside a pile of empty boxes to let Mike have access to the couch. He was barefoot, dressed in old, faded jeans and a thin white T-shirt, both smudged with dirt and sweat. "You want a beer? Coffee?"
"No, thanks." Mike took a look around. "You've been busy," he said, noting the piled boxes, the stripped shelves and scattered odds and ends.
"Yeah." Ricky pushed his hands through his hair, staring around at the chaos. "It's giving me something to do, I'll say that much." He wiped his hands on his jeans, and started for the kitchen. "I'm going to get some water. Sure you don't want anything?"
"I'm sure." Mike followed him to the kitchen, watched him stretch up for a glass, the shirt straining over his broad shoulders, uncurling just a little from the tuck at the small of his back. About then, Mike realized why he'd really come over, why he'd driven all the way up here in the middle of the night. He wondered why it even surprised him.
He also wondered what he planned to do about it.
Oblivious to Mike's stare, Ricky filled the glass from the tap and took a long drink, then filled it again. Mike searched for something to say. "About the apartment." He waited until Ricky turned toward him before going on. "I've been thinking it over. It sounds like a good deal."
"It is," Ricky said, not even bothering to hide his relief. "Hey, you think I'd give it up for anything less?" He gestured with the glass. "It's a nice place." He grinned. "Bigger than yours." He swallowed more water. "So long as you won't be eating any big fees on your lease."
Mike shook his head. "Nah. I've got a month to month right now. No problem."
Ricky spread his hands. "Hey. Match made in heaven." He drained the water, and blew out a deep breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Man. That's one less thing to worry about."
"I'm sorry about your mother," Mike offered presently. "I know you were close."
"My old man's in pieces," Ricky said soberly. He turned in a half circle, staring around dully at the half-open boxes scattered over the kitchen counters. "I'm not much better. If I didn't have all this to do, I'd be going crazy."
Mike regarded him for a long moment. "You tried to get any sleep?"
"Yeah." His mouth quirked. "About five minutes this afternoon. They make those waiting room chairs so you don't sleep, you know." He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Anyway, I'm too wired. Too tired."
He didn't flinch when Mike put his hand on his shoulder, didn't move when Mike gripped him gently. "It'll be all right," Mike said.
"Yeah." Ricky's voice was thick, his eyes hidden by his hand. He sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging as he gave in, just for a moment, to the weariness Mike heard in his voice. Mike rubbed his shoulder again, giving him another squeeze that forced a soft grunt from Ricky's lips, his head dropping as Mike's fingers closed on the hard, taut muscle. His shoulder was tense and strained under Mike's hand, the T-shirt slightly damp against his palm. Slowly, Mike lifted his other hand, closing his fingers around the other shoulder.
Ricky's head was still bowed, the soft dark fall of his hair nearly touching Mike's nose. Mike took a small step forward, flexing his hands against the cotton shirt, and began, slowly and gently, to rub Ricky's neck. He waited for the protest, waited for Ricky to stop him, to ask him what the hell he was doing, but all Ricky did was sigh, leaning a little into the touch.
"Mmm," Ricky finally said, and Mike's heart stopped. "That feels good," he said with a little laugh, as if he were embarrassed to admit it. Mike said nothing, just continued the soft, lazy massage, spreading his hands to cover Ricky's shoulders, moving his fingers inwards to press to the corded tendons at the back of his neck. Ricky groaned as soon as he touched him there, dipping his head forward to let Mike rub the back of his neck. "God, I can feel that all the way down," he said, and Mike had to swallow.
As he massaged, Mike moved closer again, urging Ricky's head down until it was almost on his shoulder, until they were standing chest to chest. Then Ricky's head was on his shoulder, and Ricky's arms were around his waist, and Mike was standing there with his partner in his arms, holding him, touching him. Holding him as long as wanted to be held.
Gradually, Mike let the motions of his fingers still, turning the massage into a light rub, then into a soft, even stroking, his fingers trailing up and down the soft hairs on Ricky's nape. Ricky said nothing, did nothing, just stood there with his arms looped loosely around Mike's back, his head resting against Mike's collarbone. They stood there a long time, silent and still, the slow caress of Mike's fingers the only movement between them, Ricky's deep, even breathing the only sound. His body was heavy and relaxed in Mike's arms, the tension flowing slowly away as he stood there, allowing Mike to hold him.
Until he kissed him, Mike wasn't sure he was going to follow the impulse through. Impulse. Yeah. The same impulse that had propelled him out of bed, across town, and across this kitchen floor. The same impulse that had made him put his hand on Ricky's shoulder, and was now urging him to press his lips softly to the curve of Ricky's jaw.
It was nothing, just a light brush of his lips, but he braced himself, waiting for Ricky to jump, waiting for the "What the hell?" or the punch in the jaw. But it didn't come. They were standing there, close together, nothing more than a breath of air between their bodies. Close enough for Mike to hear Ricky's breath. Hear the catch in it as Mike kissed him, the gasp as Mike's mouth touched Ricky's throat again. Then Ricky was pushing him away, firm hands on his chest, urging him back. But not shoving, not angry. Just a gentle, firm pressure until Mike stepped back, putting a good foot between them.
The silence stretched on for a full minute. Mike not daring to speak, Ricky, apparently, not able to. Twice Ricky opened his mouth, starting to say something, then shut it again, the words unsaid. His pale skin was slightly flushed, his green eyes wide and huge in the overhead lights. The T-shirt was stuck to his chest, vibrating with his breath, a loose fold beating in time with his heart. Beating hard, and fast. Then Ricky swallowed, and Mike braced himself, readied his apologies, prepared himself to leave. But Ricky still said nothing, and Mike realized that it was now, somehow, his move once more.
He stepped forward again, and Ricky stiffened, but didn't move. He just stared at him, like a deer caught in headlights, unable to flee even if he wanted to. Mike didn't think he wanted to. He closed his eyes as Mike leaned in, lips parting helplessly, his breath releasing in a long, shuddering sigh as Mike bent down to nuzzle gently at the side of his neck.
No kisses now, just soft breath against Ricky's skin, the touch of Mike's cheek and his mouth as Mike breathed in the smell of him. Sweat, and dirt, and just a hint of sweet cologne, the traces left over from the morning's shave. Ricky swallowed again, his throat moving, and Mike risked another kiss, just below his ear. He put his arms out, careful not to touch him, and braced his hands on the counter on either side of Ricky's body. Hemming him in without actually touching him, giving him every chance to push him away again, to say no. He kissed him again, moving slowly up the line of his jaw, planting soft, wet kisses along his skin, pausing before each one, taking his time. He reached the corner of Ricky's mouth, kissed him there, felt the other man jerk as the edges of their mouths touched. Then Ricky's arms were reaching up to hold him, his fingers threading through Mike's hair, and the next kiss was Ricky's, bringing their mouths together with almost bruising force.
It was a greedy kiss, filled with need, and want. Mike hadn't realized the need in himself until he responded in kind, opening his mouth to devour Ricky's, sucking the other man's tongue into his mouth before Ricky had time to do more than gasp in surprise. But his hands only gripped Mike harder, digging into his shoulders and back, sliding down to clasp him fiercely around the waist. Mike let his own hands wander south, rubbing down Ricky's sweat-damp shirt, pulling it, tugging it, until he could slide his hands over bare skin, and down into the waist of his jeans. He squeezed him, hard, and heard Ricky gasp into his mouth, felt the bump of Ricky's hips against his, the hard shape of his erection straining against the worn denim. Mike squeezed again, and Ricky gulped, thrusting his hips forward, finding the matching hardness in Mike's jeans and pressing himself against it.
What little coherent thought Mike had left, fled. Somewhere, dimly, in the back of his mind, he recalled that he'd started this as a comfort, for which of them he wasn't sure. But now the comfort had been pared down to the raw needs of their two bodies, demanding, eager, wanting to be fulfilled. They were grinding against each other openly now, all pretense gone, bent on nothing but the rough slide of tight denim, the thick cloth a maddening barrier of frustration. Mike ran his hands up Ricky's back again, glorying in the slide of his palms over sweat-slicked skin, wanting more. He reached for the hem of the shirt, pulled, tugged, but Ricky's arms were wrapped too tightly around him, their mouths fused, refusing to part. He got his hands in the collar of the T-shirt, and tore, baring Ricky's body to the waist, the torn halves fluttering down around his hips. Ricky only pressed himself closer, rubbing his naked chest against the cloth of Mike's shirt, his own hands busily pulling up Mike's hem. Mike stroked down his bare back, caressing all over, down his spine, over his shoulders, and finally around to the front of his waist. He had Ricky out in a matter of seconds, pushing his underwear down his thighs under the jeans, leaving them on while freeing his swollen cock from the tight prison. Ricky shuddered at the touch of Mike's hand, and finally, roughly, pulled himself away.
"Hang on," he panted, the first words he'd spoken, that either of them had spoken, since Mike had kissed him. They were still locked in the embrace, arms around each other, Ricky's half-naked body welded to Mike's. Ricky took several deep, gulping breaths, then jerked his head towards the back of the apartment. "The bedroom's in there."
"Okay." They kissed again, desperate, wanting, then broke apart, stumbling awkwardly around the boxes and piles of books and compact discs as they made their way to the bedroom.
Mike was in the lead. He turned as soon as he was in the door, stripping off his shirt and jeans in two economic yanks, kicking off shoes and pants both as he stepped forward. Ricky halted in the doorway to watch, breathing hard, his pale skin flushed and sheened with sweat, the dark arrow of hair on his stomach fanning down to disappear into the waistband of his jeans. The jeans were still hanging around his hips, the front gaping open to allow the proud, purple-tipped erection to peek through. It was one of the sexiest things Mike had ever seen. He took a step forward, running his hands down Ricky's arms before turning him and pushing him back against the wall, falling down to his knees in front of him. He parted Ricky's jeans and pushed them down, baring his hips and thighs, then without warning leaned forward and slid Ricky's full length into his mouth.
"Oh, God." Ricky moaned above him, his thighs trembling under Mike's hands, his body collapsing against the wall behind him. He swelled even further in Mike's mouth as Mike pulled him in, then let him slide out again. Mike repeated the move, far beyond any fancy moves, any subtle seduction. He just wanted Ricky's cock in his mouth, wanted to taste him and feel him, to bury his face in the soft nest of curls at his groin. Ricky bucked above him, thrusting into Mike's mouth, and then his hands were pushing Mike away, gentle but firm. Mike took the hint, letting the smooth, firm skin slide away from him, giving one last hard lick before standing and following Ricky into the bedroom.
They fell into the bed together, wrapped around each other. The kissing began again, only this time it was skin on skin, sweaty bodies twined together, turning, thrusting, groping at one another while they rolled around on the rumpled sheets. First one on top, then the other, pushing against each other, rubbing their bare cocks together in a frenzy of desire, wanting nothing more than to reach satisfaction. They rolled on their sides for a while, Ricky pumping down into the tight cavern of Mike's thighs, then Mike rolled over again, bringing Ricky on top of him, spreading his legs to wrap Ricky in a hard, firm vise. This would be it, he knew, feeling the wave build in his own body, seeing it, too, in the look of glazed abstraction on Ricky's face. Mike lifted his knees, hooking his feet behind Ricky's thighs, rocking him against him as they both began to thrust in frantic tandem, seeking the final release to the pounding desire.
They came almost together, Ricky reaching his peak only moments before Mike, the hot pulse of the semen on Mike's belly mingling with their sweat, allowing Mike to finish in the slick, sealed pocket between their bodies. Ricky wilted on top of him as soon as they were done, his shoulders heaving with the aftermath of the orgasm, his sweat-damp hair trickling moisture onto Mike's shoulder. He pressed his face into the curve of Mike's neck, holding himself there for a long, long time while the final tremors faded from his body.
Finally, Ricky pushed himself away, sliding down to the other side of the bed, flinging his arms out bonelessly. "God," he said abstractedly, staring up at the ceiling.
Mike, unable to speak just then, only nodded, joining Ricky in his contemplation of the bare white plaster. They lay there for a long time, ten minutes or more, then Ricky pushed himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he sat up, propping his head in his hands. He sat there, silent, unmoving, for a while, then got up and left the room without another word. After a few seconds, Mike heard the shower start. Then Ricky appeared in the doorway, still naked, his hair mussed and trailing into his eyes. "Well, you taking a shower or what?"
Ricky was waiting for him under the hot spray when Mike appeared, holding the curtain back for him, then pulling it closed as Mike stepped into the tub with him. Ricky was already wet, and Mike turned himself under the flood of hot water as the other man reached for the soap and started lathering his hands. Mike jumped a little, startled, as the soapy hands began moving over his body, scrubbing at the sweat and dirt, sluicing away the mingled sweat and semen that covered his torso. Ricky scrubbed him off calmly, paying close attention to his work, sparing no part of him as he worked his strong, clever fingers over Mike's body.
"I've never done this before," he said presently, the comment dropped casually as he ran his lathered hands over Mike's chest. "I just wanted you to know that."
It would have been easy to pretend to misunderstand, but Mike wasn't in a teasing mood just then. "Okay," he answered, letting himself be turned under the spray again. He waited a moment, until Ricky was soaping his back, then remarked in his turn, "I have done this before."
Ricky's hands didn't falter. "Yeah. I guessed." He was silent for a while, scrubbing gently at Mike's shoulders, at his waist and his buttocks. "I needed it," he said, as his hands slid smoothly over the swells of Mike's ass. "Needed it from you, I guess."
"Hey, what are partners for?" Mike quipped, and got a snort of laughter.
"I think they left that one out of the rulebook, Mikey." Ricky turned him again, letting the water rinse his backside, putting his arms around him to help the water sluice down his back. When Mike was clean, he stayed there, holding him, looking into Mike's face with searching, serious eyes. "This isn't going to happen again, is it?"
Mike shook his head, not able, for a moment, to speak around the lump in his throat. "No," he finally managed. "No, it isn't."
"That's okay." Ricky actually sounded like he meant it. He smiled, unexpectedly, and dipped his head forward to kiss Mike lightly on the lips. "Thanks for the once, big guy," he said into his mouth, and kissed him again, this time slow, and serious, a good-bye kiss. Mike was glad for it.
-----
Mike left Ricky curled up in his bed, drowsing off under the twin sedatives of sex and hot water. Ricky had given him a key and a copy of the lease before he'd left, saying he'd wait a couple of days before mailing the official forms, just in case Mike changed his mind. What had just happened between them, not an hour before, hadn't been mentioned. Just one of those things. A quick, needful toss in the sheets, good while it lasted, but not worth the heartache of an encore. With Ricky, there wouldn't be one. He might have bent enough to do it with his partner once, but if Mike was any judge it would probably be his last time, too.
The sky was getting light as Mike walked up the street to his building, the streetlamps still casting shadows, but quickly dimming as the sun prepared to creep over the horizon. He was due at the precinct in less than two hours. Not enough time to sleep, but enough time to make and drink a pot of coffee, change into clean clothes, maybe watch the morning news . . . and brood.
Once upstairs, he brushed his teeth and shaved dutifully, the other basics having been taken care of at Ricky's. He started a pot of coffee, then went to the bedroom to change clothes. Pointless, really, when all he was doing was wearing them down to the station so he could change into his uniform. But the clothes were rank with smoke from the bar, other odors wafting up as he stripped, a mini-documentary of everything he'd done that night. Beer, cigarettes, perfume . . . sex. The smell was overpowering, nauseating
He made it to the bathroom before throwing up, not that it would have mattered so much. There was nothing in his stomach to come up, but he felt better when it was over. Light-headed, but clear, as if he'd been walking around in a daze all night, and only just now was waking up. But with that clarity came all the other truths, all the memories, and for a moment he thought he might be sick all over again. He stumbled back into the living area, over to the table he'd been using to study, and slumped down in the chair, staring down numbly at the pile of textbooks before him. School. There was a laugh.
*Logic,* he thought bitterly. That's what detectives were supposed to have on their side. The ability to think, and make rational, logical, deductions. *So let's follow the logic. Heather Coyne, single, attractive and smart. Nice lady, who nicely invited you into her bed. But at the last minute, you push her off. Not sure why, but okay. Then, later, you do figure out why. You wouldn't sleep with Heather because you realized that you owed some kind of loyalty, sexual or whatever, to Ben Stone. Fair enough.
*Now let's follow this deductive trail a little farther. You decide that you're having these feelings of commitment to Stone. Nothing unusual there, you've had them before, acted on them before. But no, these *were* unusual. Unusually strong. So, that means you care a lot about him. Means you care more than you thought.*
What, then, was the rational, reasoned response to all this? What was the first thing he did once he realized that what he just might want was to spend the rest of his life with a man he'd known all of five months? Easy. Run out and have sex with the first man he found. No, not even the first man. Ricky. His partner.
He'd had sex with Ricky. Just put aside for a moment all the *other* reasons he shouldn't have, like Ricky being his partner, being a friend, and most of all, Ricky being needy and vulnerable and ripe for some bastard to take advantage of, some bastard like him. Ignoring all that, there was the glaring, ugly fact that he'd done it to cheat on Ben. No matter that it wasn't, technically, cheating, no matter that he and Ben were barely dating right now. He'd done it to try to get away from him, to prove that he wasn't tied down to Ben Stone. No, worse. To prove that he didn't *want* to be tied down to Ben Stone. Logic.
The smell of fresh coffee finally registered in the forefront of his tired brain, and he stood up, making his way into the kitchen to lift the steaming carafe from the coffeemaker. He stared at the rich brown brew for a moment, waited for the smell to hit him again, then turned and poured the whole sickening mess down the sink. He drank some water instead, sipping it cautiously, feeling the cold chill as it hit his knotted, empty stomach. Nerves. Screwed-up, stupid, irrational, dumbest thing he'd ever done nerves. Realizing that wasn't even the worst, no. What was worse was knowing, now, what he had to do, and wondering how he was ever going to face Ben again.
-----
It was still early by the time Ben and Elizabeth got back to the condo, despite the full last inning. Plenty of time to get Elizabeth's things together. He sent her to the kitchen to call her mother, then went up and fetched her bag, checking to see that she hadn't left anything. When he reached the hall, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs and went to answer it.
Elizabeth beat him to the door, barely, and stood on tiptoe to peek through the peephole. She turned back, her eyes wide. "It's a policeman!"
Ben felt a chill. "Did you call your mother?" he asked, forcing his voice to be calm.
"Not yet."
"Why don't you do that, honey, okay?"
"Okay," she said reluctantly, and moved off to the kitchen, casting frequent glances over her shoulder. Ben waited until the door to the kitchen had swung shut, then took a deep breath and opened the front door. And stared.
"Hi," Mike said.
It took him a moment to recover. "Hi." Feeble, but safe.
Mike waited a second, his expression wary. "Is this a bad time?"
*It could be worse* was the most tactful thing Ben could think of, but instead he went for the blunt truth. "I am a little tied up," he admitted. "Elizabeth is here, waiting for her mother."
It didn't take long for comprehension to dawn. Then Mike flushed. "I'm sorry." he said quickly. "I'll go."
"No." Ben stopped him, reaching out to touch his arm, halting him when he would have turned down the steps. "No, please." He tugged gently, moving back into the hall. "Come in." Mike hesitated. "Please."
Mike came in, tucking his hat under his arm. In the full light of the hallway, his features took on a different cast. Tired, almost haggard, his face pale and lined, dark smudges under weary eyes. "I'm sorry for not calling," he said. "I got a break, and I didn't want to waste time getting over here." His eyes shifted, moving past Ben to the kitchen doorway, and Ben turned, knowing exactly what he was seeing.
"Hi," Elizabeth said from the kitchen, studying Mike with a pose of innocent nonchalance that, Ben was sure, was as carefully arranged as a painter's still life.
"Hi," Mike said, and gave her a quick smile. Elizabeth came forward, tugging absently on the end of her braid, and Ben had no choice but to make introductions.
"Elizabeth, this is Officer Mike Logan. He's a good friend of mine. Mike, this is my daughter Elizabeth."
"Hi," Mike said again, and held out a hand. Elizabeth took it, and shook, and looked up with her big blue eyes to meet Mike's. Ben had to bite back a sigh.
"You're a policeman?" she asked. "For real?"
"That's right." Mike tilted his shoulder, showing her the badge fixed to his uniform shirt. "Badge number 2664." He straightened up again. "You never met a cop before?"
She shot her eyes at her father. "Well, most of the ones I've seen with Dad wear, you know, suits."
"Detectives," Mike told her. "Detectives get to wear suits. Beat cops like me--" He touched his badge. "--we have to wear this getup."
Elizabeth looked at him doubtfully. "I don't know. I think your uniform is a lot cooler."
This time the smile was broader, and genuine. "Thanks. Maybe when I get to be a detective, I'll tell them I'll keep the uniform. My old man was a cop."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. He walked the same beat every day for thirty years."
Elizabeth mulled this over. "Did he want you to be a co--a policeman, too?"
"Nah. He wanted me to go to college, be an accountant or a lawyer or something."
Elizabeth hesitated, clearly torn between loyalty to her father's profession, and the fascination of talking to this new man in her life. "So what did you do?"
"Went to college. Then decided I wanted to be a cop."
"Why? I mean, didn't you want to be a lawyer?"
"Not for me," Mike said firmly. "Four years of cracking the books was enough. I couldn't take another three-four years in school."
Ben closed his eyes. Oh, great. Elizabeth's eyes were wide, her expression one of almost comical shock on meeting an adult who *didn't* think school was the be-all and end-all of the world. Mike was going on, blithely unaware that he'd just reached an almost heroic stature in the eyes of his new friend. "I didn't want some desk job either, pushing paper, crunching numbers. I wanted something where I could get out, really do something for a living. So, I became a cop."
Ben was almost relieved when the doorbell rang again. Much longer, and Elizabeth would be asking how old she had to be before she could join the Academy. But the relief lasted only as long as it took for him to consider who might be at the door. He looked at Elizabeth. "Did you call your mother, Elizabeth?"
"Yeah. But she wasn't home."
Wonderful. Helen, hoping to get here early, to sit in martyred silence on the street. If so, why couldn't she have been ten minutes earlier? Ben was opening his mouth, trying to find a tactful, un-urgent reason for Mike to not be present when the door was opened, when Mike came unexpectedly to the rescue.
"I'll just wait in the kitchen," he said, as casually as if it were perfectly natural for a cop to show up and hang out in the kitchen of the District Attorney. He turned to Elizabeth, and saluted her with the hand not holding his cap. "Nice meeting you, Liz."
"You, too," she said, and watched him go. *Liz. Oh, dear.*
If Helen was disappointed to find him there, and Elizabeth with him, waiting with her bag at her side, not a trace of it showed on her flawless features. She was dressed casually today, wearing a spotless linen suit and loafers, her hair clubbed neatly at the back of her neck. "Ben," she murmured, and stepped inside.
"Helen."
After the greeting, though, she all but ignored him, turning to Elizabeth and holding out her hands, smiling broadly. "Hello, dear."
Elizabeth came forward for her hug. "Hello, Mother."
"Are you ready?"
"Sure." Elizabeth fetched her bag, then dumped it by the door so she could turn and give Ben a good-bye hug, and a kiss on the cheek. "Bye, Dad. See you next week."
"Sure thing, sweetheart." Ben sent her off with a last, fond pat, and shut the door behind them, acknowledging the familiar pang of regret as he watched his daughter leave.
It sounded so reasonable, so logical on paper. One home, free visitation. Surely the best for her, the best for everyone. Except him. He should have pushed for his rights, should have tried harder to get a hearing about Elizabeth living with him. But he'd let his attorney talk him out of it.
"Look, Ben," Maury had said, "the courts are biased enough against paternal custody. With your . . . situation, you don't have a chance in hell. If Helen decides to play dirty, it could blow up in your face, and you could lose everything." Maury had leaned forward, earnest, almost sweating with sincerity. "Trust me, Ben. Open visitation is a gift. Take it, and count your blessings."
Yeah. His "situation." Translation: If Helen told the court he was bisexual, they might take his daughter away forever. No matter how many years of marriage, no matter that the only infidelity in all those years had been Helen's. Bisexual father equals bad parent. End of story.
Mike was sitting at the kitchen table when Ben came in, head propped in his hands, staring down at the polished maple surface. He didn't move when Ben opened the door, and Ben thought for a moment that he might be asleep. But then he raised his head, and favored Ben with a wan smile.
"Hey." It came out rough, almost harsh, and Mike cleared his throat. "Look, Ben. I'm sorry. This was a mistake . . ."
"No." Ben hadn't meant to put quite that snap in his voice, and he softened it instantly. "No, it's not your fault." He forced himself to smile. "Anyway, you got to meet Elizabeth."
To his surprise, Mike genuinely brightened. "Yeah. She's a great kid. Pretty smart, not some ditzy na-na."
Not the way Ben would have put it, but . . . . He took the chair beside Mike's, leaning back to study him again. In the harsh fluorescent light, Mike looked even worse, his skin an unhealthy pasty color, the smudges like purpling bruises under his eyes. He'd probably shaved that morning, but against the pallor of his skin his normal four o'clock shadow stood out dark and rough.
"You look tired," Ben said. "Couldn't sleep?"
Mike flinched at the question, something that might have been pain, might have been guilt, flooding his features. "Ben . . ." he started, and stopped, turning his head away. "Christ," he whispered. "This is harder than I thought."
Ben was silent. The chill of fear had returned. Mike, sleepless, upset . . . unable to talk. A thousand scenarios rushed through his mind, a flood of panicked images. None of them were good, and they got worse with every second that Mike sat there, unhappiness written all over his face, guilt in his eyes. Ben forced himself to sit up, forced words from his mouth, any words that might prime the pump. "What is it?" he asked, and reached out across the table, finding Mike's pale, cold hand. He squeezed the limp fingers gently. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."
"Oh, Jesus." Mike turned away again, squeezing his eyes shut. His hand jerked in Ben's, gripping him convulsively, almost painfully, then released him, his fingers sliding back away from Ben's touch, to clench with Mike's other fist on top of the table. "Ben," he said, and his voice was low, and rough now, almost too soft to hear. "Ben, I slept with someone else."
For a second, Ben reeled. He'd heard the expression "struck by words" before, but never, until this moment, had he ever appreciated what it really meant. He felt it, like an actual physical blow somewhere in his gut, a cold, spreading sickness that oozed out from his middle, chilling, nauseating. He swallowed, and made himself speak again. "When?"
"Last night." Mike was slumped now in his chair, head hanging down between his hands, not looking at him. Not able to look. "God, Ben, I--" He bit it off, clamping down the tremor Ben heard in his voice. "I'm sorry."
Ben fought for logic, made himself say it, even though the words threatened to choke him. "You don't have to apologize," he said, hearing the phrases roll out, stiff, emotionless, rote. He didn't care. "We never said that--"
"The hell we didn't!" Mike jerked up from his slouch, his eyes blazing with anger. Anger and hate. Not for Ben, but for himself. "Maybe not out loud," he went on roughly, "Maybe not written down on some goddamn piece of legal goddamn paper. But you don't sit there and tell me that we both didn't know."
"I did," Ben said quietly. "At least I thought I did. Apparently you felt different."
Mike slumped back in the chair. "I guess I deserved that," he said, and ran a hand over his face. "Ben, I'm sorry."
Ben wasn't sure what to say. "So am I," was the best that he seemed able to do. He felt sick. Sick, angry . . . and humiliated. Last night, while he'd lain here thinking about Mike, while he'd thought about calling him, being with him, Mike had been with someone else. Part of him, the cynical, bitter part that had sat on his shoulder and whispered in his ear all along, wondered why he'd ever thought to expect anything else.
Before he could stop himself, before he even thought to refine the thoughts churning in his head, he spoke. "Mike, you're not being forced into anything here. You said it yourself, there's no obligation between us. You want to leave, you can."
Mike raised his head. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked.
It took a long time for Ben to answer. "I don't know."
Mike groaned, and stood up. "I can't believe I did it," he said, almost laughing, his voice laced with bitterness. "The best thing that's ever happened to me, and I fuck it up." He paced to the other end of the kitchen. "I fuck it up," he said to the back window, "because I'm too fucking stupid to think it straight." He turned back. "You know what I figured out last night?"
He seemed to be waiting for an answer. "What?" Ben asked.
"I figured out that I wanted to be with you." Mike's voice was raw, and honest, his face as open and vulnerable as Ben had ever seen it. "Finally got a clue, finally realized that maybe there was something I wanted that only you could give me." He swallowed, and his face changed, the vulnerability fading into self-contempt. "So the first thing I do is go look for it somewhere else." He turned again, and Ben jumped as his fist shook the timbers of the back door, the glass rattling under the blow. "Dammit!" He stayed there, breathing hard, staring at the dark-paneled wood in front of him. Then he wrenched open the back door, and was gone.
"Mike!" Ben jumped to his feet, but didn't move any farther in pursuit. If Mike wanted to run away, Ben wasn't sure that it was his job to stop him. Wasn't sure, even, if he really wanted to. He waited a moment, then walked slowly to the back door and closed it.
Continued in " At First Sight III: Faithful Love"
For Notes, Warnings, Ratings, and Disclaimers, please see Part 1.
At First Sight II: Another Country (3/3)
He drove Heather home around twelve-thirty. They'd filled up the time in the bar with shop talk, not just about the Marston case, but swapping stories about, it seemed, every case they'd ever worked on. Heather struck Mike as being plenty smart enough, but she seemed oddly uncurious about the bodies that passed through her morgue. Once she'd decided how they died, the people lost interest for her. She usually didn't even bother to follow the case in the papers, and unless she was called to testify she generally didn't even remember the names a month later.
"I'm not a cop," she said when Mike expressed surprise. "That's your job. You want to know who did it, and why. I just care about how."
All the same, the talk had been easy, and carefree, and things were progressing in a long-familiar direction by the time Mike walked her out to his car and drove her to her apartment on the Upper West Side. She wasn't really even tipsy by then, but neither of them had suggested that she drive herself home. Neither of them were surprised when she asked Mike up for coffee, and he accepted.
Once in her apartment, the embrace was natural, the kiss expected. She was warm and soft and pliant in his arms, her breasts pressed to his chest, her hips curving gently under his hands. He felt himself responding to her, heard her little gasp of desire as her thigh rubbed against him, feeling the hardness in his groin.
But it was all wrong. His body wanted her, was willing and ready to take possession of the soft, smooth flesh she was offering. It would be so good, so sweet, to bury himself in her, to thrust into that hot, silky tightness. She was willing, he was willing, there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't do it.
No reason at all.
Something in his posture must have alerted her, some hesitation, or sudden withdrawal in his kiss. She pulled back, breathing hard, her eyes searching his. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Are you okay?"
*Nothing, I'm fine,* Mike ordered his lips to say, but then listened, appalled, as he heard, "No, I'm not." His hands reached up to frame her face, brushing her hair back. Pushing her gently away. "Heather," he said unsteadily. "I'm sorry. I--can't." It was an effort to force the words out, his uncertainty palpable even to him.
"Why?" she asked. "I mean, I thought--" She bit her lip, her face reddening with embarrassment.
"I know," Mike said hastily. "I did, too," he added frankly. But then he shook his head. "But I can't. I'm sorry."
"Why?" she asked again, and now her voice was turning hurt, and angry. "Just remembered an early shift? You left the coffeepot on? Remembered you had a girlfriend?"
"It's nothing like that," he said quickly, and didn't realize it was even a lie until he heard it in his own voice. "It's not that," Mike tried again, firmly. "I just . . . I don't think it would be a good idea. It's not you," he offered feebly.
Slowly, the color began to fade from her cheeks. Heather stepped back, pushing her hands through her hair. "It's all right," she said, and she sounded as if she really meant it. "I know how it is." She smiled wanly. "You're going along with your life, trying to have a good time, and the next thing you know those damn faces are in your head. Plays hell with your love life when you close your eyes and see nothing but dead bodies."
Mike nodded, grasping the excuse she offered. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wouldn't have . . . I didn't mean to lead you on. I wasn't leading you on."
"It's okay," Heather said. "I understand." She laughed. "I wouldn't have been a barrel of laughs, either." She held out her hand. "Let's just try to retreat with what little dignity we have left, all right?"
Feeling like a heel, Mike shook her hand. "All right. Good night, Heather."
"Good night, Mike. Good luck on your case."
"Thanks." Mike released her hand, already regretting the loss of the small, firm grip. He turned to go.
"Hey, Mike." Mike turned back. She was smiling. "Let me know how this one turns out, all right? I think I'd like to know."
"Sure." He smiled back at her. "I'll do that. Thanks."
-----
Mike returned home in a foul mood, tired, frustrated, and more than a little annoyed with himself for his behavior. It had been stupid to lead her on, stupid and cruel. Not just for her, either. *Face it,* Mike, he told himself irritably, *you wanted to do it.* Right up to the last minute, he had every intention of getting her in bed as soon as it was decent. When the moment came, though he couldn't follow through. Wouldn't. He couldn't even tell himself why.
Maybe he just didn't want to.
It was almost a relief when the phone jangled noisily from the kitchen. Ignoring the fact that it was nearly two in the morning, and not even caring who had the nerve to call him at this hour, he snatched it up, barking, "Logan!" into the receiver.
There was a startled pause. "Mike? It's Ricky."
Mike took a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I just got in."
"Oh, sorry." There was something wrong with Ricky's voice. It was too quiet, too subdued, his Brooklyn vowels thickened and mellowed. "I tried to call you before, figured you were on a date."
Mike glanced down at the blinking message light on his machine. "Nah," he half-lied. "I was just following up some stuff." He paused. "Is everything okay? You don't sound good."
It took Ricky a minute to answer. "My mom had a heart attack," he finally said, flatly, as though he could squeeze away every emotion from the words. "She's in the hospital in Eastbridge. She's pretty bad."
"Oh, jeez. Ricky, man, I'm sorry."
"Yeah." Cool, composed. "I was calling you to tell you because I won't be in for my shift tomorrow." Ricky paused again. "Actually, I probably won't be in for a long time." He stopped to clear his throat. "I'm taking a leave of absence. Indefinitely." He breathed again. "My old man, he's falling apart. He can't handle it, he needs somebody to be there."
"Oh." Mike blinked. "What about your other brothers? I thought--"
"He wants me there." Mike heard Ricky pause, heard him breathe deep. "Hey, I was always his favorite," he said with forced lightness, then swallowed. "He asked me to come, Mikey. Come and stay."
"Oh. Oh. Wow. So," Mike said, "I guess you're finally following through on that threat."
Ricky gave a short, choked laugh. "Yeah. Looks like it." Silence again. "Mike, I'm sorry to do this to you. I feel bad, dumping you in the middle of the rotation, leaving you a double tomorrow by yourself."
"Hey," Mike cut him off. "Hey, forget it. Your family needs you, all right? You don't have to apologize for that." He thought for a moment. "Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?"
"Well, actually, that's kinda the other reason I was calling." Mike heard him shift, heard the faint rustle of paper from the other end of the line. "I've been in Eastbridge all day, at the hospital with my mom, talking to the rest of the family. It looks like I'm going to be there a long time, and, to be honest, that's put me in a bind with my lease. I've decided to move out as soon as I can--soon as I get packed, actually," he added frankly. "But if I don't find somebody to sublet fast I'm going to get stuck for the rent on a place I don't even use."
Mike was taken aback. "That fast?" He forced a laugh. "I'm not going to go to work tomorrow and find the CIA waiting for me, am I?"
That got a laugh in return, feeble and stilted, but a laugh. "No." Ricky paused. "But I'd be lying if I said I was fighting hard to stick around here. I've been away too long. They need me back home."
"I understand," Mike lied. "You getting any help?"
"Some of my brothers can come down, when I'm ready," Ricky said, and Mike nodded. Even "some" of Ricky's brothers were a small army. They'd have him cleaned out faster than a plague of locusts. "I'm leaving most of the furniture. I won't use it and it's not worth hauling back." He hesitated. "Anyway, what I'm asking is whether or not you want the place. It's twelve hundred a month, utilities included, and the rent's paid until the end of September. I figure that'll help cover your moving costs. You don't have to tell me now," he added quickly. "I can wait a couple of weeks. But I wanted to give you first shot at it."
"Well, thanks. I'll think about it, yeah. Thanks."
"Hey, I'm your partner, right?" Ricky's laugh was a little weak, but he sounded all right. "Look, I'm going to let you go, let you get some sleep."
"You're going to be all right?"
"I'm fine. I'm getting some packing done. I can't sleep," he added matter-of-factly. "I might as well keep busy."
"I can come over," Mike offered, even though his tired body screamed protest at the mere thought of doing anything but falling into bed. "Maybe help you, keep you company, whatever."
"No, that's okay. I'll be all right. But thanks. I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you do that." Mike swallowed. "You take care, Ricky, okay?"
"Sure. You, too. Good night, Mike."
"Good night." Mike hung up.
Damn. Well, he'd finally done it. Never mind that it took a crisis, and a terrible one at that, but Mike had never really thought that Ricky would go. So long as he griped, so long as he grumbled and complained and threatened, Mike had never really considered seriously that he might actually go through with it one day. Well, looked like today was that day.
Mike left the message light blinking on the machine, and went into the bed alcove, shutting the lights off on the way. He pulled off his clothes and fell into bed, hoping that he was too tired to do anything but sleep. He was wrong.
He dozed for a while, half-convincing himself that he was falling asleep, lulled by the unusually pleasant breeze across the bed. But the more his body relaxed, the faster his mind worked, churning over the events of the day. Ricky's mother. Mimi Marston's mother and father. His skipped class, his failed test. And last, but not least, Heather Coyne.
Mike tried pushing her out of his mind, tried focusing on the details of the Marston case, summoning Mimi's grisly corpse as a gruesome escape from thoughts of Heather. But every time he tried to think about the case, tried to piece together the scenario that led to Mimi lying dying on her bed, he thought of the woman who'd been responsible for her after her death, who'd compiled the reports he was trying to make sense of. Finally, he had to admit defeat.
Deep down, though, he also had to admit that it wasn't really Heather Coyne who had caused the problem. Just as it wasn't Heather who'd been the reason he'd stopped himself from taking her to bed. As stupid as it seemed, as irrational as it probably was, he hadn't had sex with Heather because he would have felt, in his heart, that he was being unfaithful. Unfaithful to Ben Stone.
That realization was enough to make him sit upright in the bed, all pretense of sleep gone. Okay, he and Ben had been dating, but that was all. No commitments, no promises of monogamy, nothing to prevent either of them from doing anything they pleased. Mike preferred it that way, and he'd thought that Ben's silence on the matter was a tacit agreement to do likewise. Hell, they'd only seen each other once in the last two weeks. Surely that hardly qualified for a dating relationship, much less an exclusive one. Yet, Mike had still turned Heather down. He'd do it again.
With an irritated grumble, he kicked the sheets off and got up, naked, to pace the length of the apartment. Him and Ben. A couple. A relationship. He stopped in front of the window, breathing deep, not caring which denizens of New York City he might happen to be flashing.
He couldn't understand why it was bothering him so much. Ben was a nice guy. He'd liked him from the start, despite the lawyer thing, and he hadn't found reason to change his opinion. Ben was an original, one of those guys that could talk about morals, and ethics, and really mean it. Mike didn't find much of that these days. Then there was that rare, sweet smile, those blue eyes, and that long, lean body that Ben disguised under blue suits and conservative ties. Smart. Good-looking. Fantastic in bed.
Mike turned away from the window, glaring down at his sudden erection. Just the thought of Ben was enough, huh? He went over and sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring his own arousal bobbing between his legs. *The perfect man,* he thought bitterly. *Intelligent, sexy, and rich. Just the kind of guy who'd love to shack up with a working-class Irish cop from the Lower East Side.*
That was the problem. Mike knew the attraction was mutual. He knew that Ben cared about him, knew that he'd probably go for that extra step, for making a commitment, even a token one. But what then? How long could it go on before the inevitable happened, before Ben found someone more like him? Someone with a law degree, who'd gone to an Ivy-league school, who'd grown up in the same world that Ben had grown up in. Right now, about the only thing they had in common was what they did in this stupid bed. That wasn't enough. That was when Mike realized, with a sobering, gut-shriveling chill, that he wanted nothing less than to have Ben Stone all to himself. Forever.
The thought frightened him so much that he got up and grabbed his clothes from the floor, yanking on jeans and shirt, and shoving his feet into socks and sneakers. Then he grabbed his keys and split out the door. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know what he'd do when he got there. But he had to get out of here, out of this place with all its memories of him and Ben.
He was halfway down to his car when he realized that he was mentally mapping the route back to the Upper West Side. Not Heather's apartment. Ricky's. And why not? He wanted to get away from his apartment, and Ricky had just offered him the ultimate solution. Ricky had a decent place, and twelve hundred a month wasn't that much more than he was paying here for a shabby studio under the eaves. He could go over and tell him right now, get it off his mind. Ricky would probably appreciate the company. Thus armed with excuses, Mike headed for the car.
-----
Ricky opened the door after the first knock, assuaging Mike's first fear that he'd gone to sleep after all. He regarded Mike with absolutely no surprise, and gestured him in with a tired smile. "I thought it might be you," he said, and followed him into the living room, kicking aside a pile of empty boxes to let Mike have access to the couch. He was barefoot, dressed in old, faded jeans and a thin white T-shirt, both smudged with dirt and sweat. "You want a beer? Coffee?"
"No, thanks." Mike took a look around. "You've been busy," he said, noting the piled boxes, the stripped shelves and scattered odds and ends.
"Yeah." Ricky pushed his hands through his hair, staring around at the chaos. "It's giving me something to do, I'll say that much." He wiped his hands on his jeans, and started for the kitchen. "I'm going to get some water. Sure you don't want anything?"
"I'm sure." Mike followed him to the kitchen, watched him stretch up for a glass, the shirt straining over his broad shoulders, uncurling just a little from the tuck at the small of his back. About then, Mike realized why he'd really come over, why he'd driven all the way up here in the middle of the night. He wondered why it even surprised him.
He also wondered what he planned to do about it.
Oblivious to Mike's stare, Ricky filled the glass from the tap and took a long drink, then filled it again. Mike searched for something to say. "About the apartment." He waited until Ricky turned toward him before going on. "I've been thinking it over. It sounds like a good deal."
"It is," Ricky said, not even bothering to hide his relief. "Hey, you think I'd give it up for anything less?" He gestured with the glass. "It's a nice place." He grinned. "Bigger than yours." He swallowed more water. "So long as you won't be eating any big fees on your lease."
Mike shook his head. "Nah. I've got a month to month right now. No problem."
Ricky spread his hands. "Hey. Match made in heaven." He drained the water, and blew out a deep breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Man. That's one less thing to worry about."
"I'm sorry about your mother," Mike offered presently. "I know you were close."
"My old man's in pieces," Ricky said soberly. He turned in a half circle, staring around dully at the half-open boxes scattered over the kitchen counters. "I'm not much better. If I didn't have all this to do, I'd be going crazy."
Mike regarded him for a long moment. "You tried to get any sleep?"
"Yeah." His mouth quirked. "About five minutes this afternoon. They make those waiting room chairs so you don't sleep, you know." He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Anyway, I'm too wired. Too tired."
He didn't flinch when Mike put his hand on his shoulder, didn't move when Mike gripped him gently. "It'll be all right," Mike said.
"Yeah." Ricky's voice was thick, his eyes hidden by his hand. He sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging as he gave in, just for a moment, to the weariness Mike heard in his voice. Mike rubbed his shoulder again, giving him another squeeze that forced a soft grunt from Ricky's lips, his head dropping as Mike's fingers closed on the hard, taut muscle. His shoulder was tense and strained under Mike's hand, the T-shirt slightly damp against his palm. Slowly, Mike lifted his other hand, closing his fingers around the other shoulder.
Ricky's head was still bowed, the soft dark fall of his hair nearly touching Mike's nose. Mike took a small step forward, flexing his hands against the cotton shirt, and began, slowly and gently, to rub Ricky's neck. He waited for the protest, waited for Ricky to stop him, to ask him what the hell he was doing, but all Ricky did was sigh, leaning a little into the touch.
"Mmm," Ricky finally said, and Mike's heart stopped. "That feels good," he said with a little laugh, as if he were embarrassed to admit it. Mike said nothing, just continued the soft, lazy massage, spreading his hands to cover Ricky's shoulders, moving his fingers inwards to press to the corded tendons at the back of his neck. Ricky groaned as soon as he touched him there, dipping his head forward to let Mike rub the back of his neck. "God, I can feel that all the way down," he said, and Mike had to swallow.
As he massaged, Mike moved closer again, urging Ricky's head down until it was almost on his shoulder, until they were standing chest to chest. Then Ricky's head was on his shoulder, and Ricky's arms were around his waist, and Mike was standing there with his partner in his arms, holding him, touching him. Holding him as long as wanted to be held.
Gradually, Mike let the motions of his fingers still, turning the massage into a light rub, then into a soft, even stroking, his fingers trailing up and down the soft hairs on Ricky's nape. Ricky said nothing, did nothing, just stood there with his arms looped loosely around Mike's back, his head resting against Mike's collarbone. They stood there a long time, silent and still, the slow caress of Mike's fingers the only movement between them, Ricky's deep, even breathing the only sound. His body was heavy and relaxed in Mike's arms, the tension flowing slowly away as he stood there, allowing Mike to hold him.
Until he kissed him, Mike wasn't sure he was going to follow the impulse through. Impulse. Yeah. The same impulse that had propelled him out of bed, across town, and across this kitchen floor. The same impulse that had made him put his hand on Ricky's shoulder, and was now urging him to press his lips softly to the curve of Ricky's jaw.
It was nothing, just a light brush of his lips, but he braced himself, waiting for Ricky to jump, waiting for the "What the hell?" or the punch in the jaw. But it didn't come. They were standing there, close together, nothing more than a breath of air between their bodies. Close enough for Mike to hear Ricky's breath. Hear the catch in it as Mike kissed him, the gasp as Mike's mouth touched Ricky's throat again. Then Ricky was pushing him away, firm hands on his chest, urging him back. But not shoving, not angry. Just a gentle, firm pressure until Mike stepped back, putting a good foot between them.
The silence stretched on for a full minute. Mike not daring to speak, Ricky, apparently, not able to. Twice Ricky opened his mouth, starting to say something, then shut it again, the words unsaid. His pale skin was slightly flushed, his green eyes wide and huge in the overhead lights. The T-shirt was stuck to his chest, vibrating with his breath, a loose fold beating in time with his heart. Beating hard, and fast. Then Ricky swallowed, and Mike braced himself, readied his apologies, prepared himself to leave. But Ricky still said nothing, and Mike realized that it was now, somehow, his move once more.
He stepped forward again, and Ricky stiffened, but didn't move. He just stared at him, like a deer caught in headlights, unable to flee even if he wanted to. Mike didn't think he wanted to. He closed his eyes as Mike leaned in, lips parting helplessly, his breath releasing in a long, shuddering sigh as Mike bent down to nuzzle gently at the side of his neck.
No kisses now, just soft breath against Ricky's skin, the touch of Mike's cheek and his mouth as Mike breathed in the smell of him. Sweat, and dirt, and just a hint of sweet cologne, the traces left over from the morning's shave. Ricky swallowed again, his throat moving, and Mike risked another kiss, just below his ear. He put his arms out, careful not to touch him, and braced his hands on the counter on either side of Ricky's body. Hemming him in without actually touching him, giving him every chance to push him away again, to say no. He kissed him again, moving slowly up the line of his jaw, planting soft, wet kisses along his skin, pausing before each one, taking his time. He reached the corner of Ricky's mouth, kissed him there, felt the other man jerk as the edges of their mouths touched. Then Ricky's arms were reaching up to hold him, his fingers threading through Mike's hair, and the next kiss was Ricky's, bringing their mouths together with almost bruising force.
It was a greedy kiss, filled with need, and want. Mike hadn't realized the need in himself until he responded in kind, opening his mouth to devour Ricky's, sucking the other man's tongue into his mouth before Ricky had time to do more than gasp in surprise. But his hands only gripped Mike harder, digging into his shoulders and back, sliding down to clasp him fiercely around the waist. Mike let his own hands wander south, rubbing down Ricky's sweat-damp shirt, pulling it, tugging it, until he could slide his hands over bare skin, and down into the waist of his jeans. He squeezed him, hard, and heard Ricky gasp into his mouth, felt the bump of Ricky's hips against his, the hard shape of his erection straining against the worn denim. Mike squeezed again, and Ricky gulped, thrusting his hips forward, finding the matching hardness in Mike's jeans and pressing himself against it.
What little coherent thought Mike had left, fled. Somewhere, dimly, in the back of his mind, he recalled that he'd started this as a comfort, for which of them he wasn't sure. But now the comfort had been pared down to the raw needs of their two bodies, demanding, eager, wanting to be fulfilled. They were grinding against each other openly now, all pretense gone, bent on nothing but the rough slide of tight denim, the thick cloth a maddening barrier of frustration. Mike ran his hands up Ricky's back again, glorying in the slide of his palms over sweat-slicked skin, wanting more. He reached for the hem of the shirt, pulled, tugged, but Ricky's arms were wrapped too tightly around him, their mouths fused, refusing to part. He got his hands in the collar of the T-shirt, and tore, baring Ricky's body to the waist, the torn halves fluttering down around his hips. Ricky only pressed himself closer, rubbing his naked chest against the cloth of Mike's shirt, his own hands busily pulling up Mike's hem. Mike stroked down his bare back, caressing all over, down his spine, over his shoulders, and finally around to the front of his waist. He had Ricky out in a matter of seconds, pushing his underwear down his thighs under the jeans, leaving them on while freeing his swollen cock from the tight prison. Ricky shuddered at the touch of Mike's hand, and finally, roughly, pulled himself away.
"Hang on," he panted, the first words he'd spoken, that either of them had spoken, since Mike had kissed him. They were still locked in the embrace, arms around each other, Ricky's half-naked body welded to Mike's. Ricky took several deep, gulping breaths, then jerked his head towards the back of the apartment. "The bedroom's in there."
"Okay." They kissed again, desperate, wanting, then broke apart, stumbling awkwardly around the boxes and piles of books and compact discs as they made their way to the bedroom.
Mike was in the lead. He turned as soon as he was in the door, stripping off his shirt and jeans in two economic yanks, kicking off shoes and pants both as he stepped forward. Ricky halted in the doorway to watch, breathing hard, his pale skin flushed and sheened with sweat, the dark arrow of hair on his stomach fanning down to disappear into the waistband of his jeans. The jeans were still hanging around his hips, the front gaping open to allow the proud, purple-tipped erection to peek through. It was one of the sexiest things Mike had ever seen. He took a step forward, running his hands down Ricky's arms before turning him and pushing him back against the wall, falling down to his knees in front of him. He parted Ricky's jeans and pushed them down, baring his hips and thighs, then without warning leaned forward and slid Ricky's full length into his mouth.
"Oh, God." Ricky moaned above him, his thighs trembling under Mike's hands, his body collapsing against the wall behind him. He swelled even further in Mike's mouth as Mike pulled him in, then let him slide out again. Mike repeated the move, far beyond any fancy moves, any subtle seduction. He just wanted Ricky's cock in his mouth, wanted to taste him and feel him, to bury his face in the soft nest of curls at his groin. Ricky bucked above him, thrusting into Mike's mouth, and then his hands were pushing Mike away, gentle but firm. Mike took the hint, letting the smooth, firm skin slide away from him, giving one last hard lick before standing and following Ricky into the bedroom.
They fell into the bed together, wrapped around each other. The kissing began again, only this time it was skin on skin, sweaty bodies twined together, turning, thrusting, groping at one another while they rolled around on the rumpled sheets. First one on top, then the other, pushing against each other, rubbing their bare cocks together in a frenzy of desire, wanting nothing more than to reach satisfaction. They rolled on their sides for a while, Ricky pumping down into the tight cavern of Mike's thighs, then Mike rolled over again, bringing Ricky on top of him, spreading his legs to wrap Ricky in a hard, firm vise. This would be it, he knew, feeling the wave build in his own body, seeing it, too, in the look of glazed abstraction on Ricky's face. Mike lifted his knees, hooking his feet behind Ricky's thighs, rocking him against him as they both began to thrust in frantic tandem, seeking the final release to the pounding desire.
They came almost together, Ricky reaching his peak only moments before Mike, the hot pulse of the semen on Mike's belly mingling with their sweat, allowing Mike to finish in the slick, sealed pocket between their bodies. Ricky wilted on top of him as soon as they were done, his shoulders heaving with the aftermath of the orgasm, his sweat-damp hair trickling moisture onto Mike's shoulder. He pressed his face into the curve of Mike's neck, holding himself there for a long, long time while the final tremors faded from his body.
Finally, Ricky pushed himself away, sliding down to the other side of the bed, flinging his arms out bonelessly. "God," he said abstractedly, staring up at the ceiling.
Mike, unable to speak just then, only nodded, joining Ricky in his contemplation of the bare white plaster. They lay there for a long time, ten minutes or more, then Ricky pushed himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he sat up, propping his head in his hands. He sat there, silent, unmoving, for a while, then got up and left the room without another word. After a few seconds, Mike heard the shower start. Then Ricky appeared in the doorway, still naked, his hair mussed and trailing into his eyes. "Well, you taking a shower or what?"
Ricky was waiting for him under the hot spray when Mike appeared, holding the curtain back for him, then pulling it closed as Mike stepped into the tub with him. Ricky was already wet, and Mike turned himself under the flood of hot water as the other man reached for the soap and started lathering his hands. Mike jumped a little, startled, as the soapy hands began moving over his body, scrubbing at the sweat and dirt, sluicing away the mingled sweat and semen that covered his torso. Ricky scrubbed him off calmly, paying close attention to his work, sparing no part of him as he worked his strong, clever fingers over Mike's body.
"I've never done this before," he said presently, the comment dropped casually as he ran his lathered hands over Mike's chest. "I just wanted you to know that."
It would have been easy to pretend to misunderstand, but Mike wasn't in a teasing mood just then. "Okay," he answered, letting himself be turned under the spray again. He waited a moment, until Ricky was soaping his back, then remarked in his turn, "I have done this before."
Ricky's hands didn't falter. "Yeah. I guessed." He was silent for a while, scrubbing gently at Mike's shoulders, at his waist and his buttocks. "I needed it," he said, as his hands slid smoothly over the swells of Mike's ass. "Needed it from you, I guess."
"Hey, what are partners for?" Mike quipped, and got a snort of laughter.
"I think they left that one out of the rulebook, Mikey." Ricky turned him again, letting the water rinse his backside, putting his arms around him to help the water sluice down his back. When Mike was clean, he stayed there, holding him, looking into Mike's face with searching, serious eyes. "This isn't going to happen again, is it?"
Mike shook his head, not able, for a moment, to speak around the lump in his throat. "No," he finally managed. "No, it isn't."
"That's okay." Ricky actually sounded like he meant it. He smiled, unexpectedly, and dipped his head forward to kiss Mike lightly on the lips. "Thanks for the once, big guy," he said into his mouth, and kissed him again, this time slow, and serious, a good-bye kiss. Mike was glad for it.
-----
Mike left Ricky curled up in his bed, drowsing off under the twin sedatives of sex and hot water. Ricky had given him a key and a copy of the lease before he'd left, saying he'd wait a couple of days before mailing the official forms, just in case Mike changed his mind. What had just happened between them, not an hour before, hadn't been mentioned. Just one of those things. A quick, needful toss in the sheets, good while it lasted, but not worth the heartache of an encore. With Ricky, there wouldn't be one. He might have bent enough to do it with his partner once, but if Mike was any judge it would probably be his last time, too.
The sky was getting light as Mike walked up the street to his building, the streetlamps still casting shadows, but quickly dimming as the sun prepared to creep over the horizon. He was due at the precinct in less than two hours. Not enough time to sleep, but enough time to make and drink a pot of coffee, change into clean clothes, maybe watch the morning news . . . and brood.
Once upstairs, he brushed his teeth and shaved dutifully, the other basics having been taken care of at Ricky's. He started a pot of coffee, then went to the bedroom to change clothes. Pointless, really, when all he was doing was wearing them down to the station so he could change into his uniform. But the clothes were rank with smoke from the bar, other odors wafting up as he stripped, a mini-documentary of everything he'd done that night. Beer, cigarettes, perfume . . . sex. The smell was overpowering, nauseating
He made it to the bathroom before throwing up, not that it would have mattered so much. There was nothing in his stomach to come up, but he felt better when it was over. Light-headed, but clear, as if he'd been walking around in a daze all night, and only just now was waking up. But with that clarity came all the other truths, all the memories, and for a moment he thought he might be sick all over again. He stumbled back into the living area, over to the table he'd been using to study, and slumped down in the chair, staring down numbly at the pile of textbooks before him. School. There was a laugh.
*Logic,* he thought bitterly. That's what detectives were supposed to have on their side. The ability to think, and make rational, logical, deductions. *So let's follow the logic. Heather Coyne, single, attractive and smart. Nice lady, who nicely invited you into her bed. But at the last minute, you push her off. Not sure why, but okay. Then, later, you do figure out why. You wouldn't sleep with Heather because you realized that you owed some kind of loyalty, sexual or whatever, to Ben Stone. Fair enough.
*Now let's follow this deductive trail a little farther. You decide that you're having these feelings of commitment to Stone. Nothing unusual there, you've had them before, acted on them before. But no, these *were* unusual. Unusually strong. So, that means you care a lot about him. Means you care more than you thought.*
What, then, was the rational, reasoned response to all this? What was the first thing he did once he realized that what he just might want was to spend the rest of his life with a man he'd known all of five months? Easy. Run out and have sex with the first man he found. No, not even the first man. Ricky. His partner.
He'd had sex with Ricky. Just put aside for a moment all the *other* reasons he shouldn't have, like Ricky being his partner, being a friend, and most of all, Ricky being needy and vulnerable and ripe for some bastard to take advantage of, some bastard like him. Ignoring all that, there was the glaring, ugly fact that he'd done it to cheat on Ben. No matter that it wasn't, technically, cheating, no matter that he and Ben were barely dating right now. He'd done it to try to get away from him, to prove that he wasn't tied down to Ben Stone. No, worse. To prove that he didn't *want* to be tied down to Ben Stone. Logic.
The smell of fresh coffee finally registered in the forefront of his tired brain, and he stood up, making his way into the kitchen to lift the steaming carafe from the coffeemaker. He stared at the rich brown brew for a moment, waited for the smell to hit him again, then turned and poured the whole sickening mess down the sink. He drank some water instead, sipping it cautiously, feeling the cold chill as it hit his knotted, empty stomach. Nerves. Screwed-up, stupid, irrational, dumbest thing he'd ever done nerves. Realizing that wasn't even the worst, no. What was worse was knowing, now, what he had to do, and wondering how he was ever going to face Ben again.
-----
It was still early by the time Ben and Elizabeth got back to the condo, despite the full last inning. Plenty of time to get Elizabeth's things together. He sent her to the kitchen to call her mother, then went up and fetched her bag, checking to see that she hadn't left anything. When he reached the hall, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs and went to answer it.
Elizabeth beat him to the door, barely, and stood on tiptoe to peek through the peephole. She turned back, her eyes wide. "It's a policeman!"
Ben felt a chill. "Did you call your mother?" he asked, forcing his voice to be calm.
"Not yet."
"Why don't you do that, honey, okay?"
"Okay," she said reluctantly, and moved off to the kitchen, casting frequent glances over her shoulder. Ben waited until the door to the kitchen had swung shut, then took a deep breath and opened the front door. And stared.
"Hi," Mike said.
It took him a moment to recover. "Hi." Feeble, but safe.
Mike waited a second, his expression wary. "Is this a bad time?"
*It could be worse* was the most tactful thing Ben could think of, but instead he went for the blunt truth. "I am a little tied up," he admitted. "Elizabeth is here, waiting for her mother."
It didn't take long for comprehension to dawn. Then Mike flushed. "I'm sorry." he said quickly. "I'll go."
"No." Ben stopped him, reaching out to touch his arm, halting him when he would have turned down the steps. "No, please." He tugged gently, moving back into the hall. "Come in." Mike hesitated. "Please."
Mike came in, tucking his hat under his arm. In the full light of the hallway, his features took on a different cast. Tired, almost haggard, his face pale and lined, dark smudges under weary eyes. "I'm sorry for not calling," he said. "I got a break, and I didn't want to waste time getting over here." His eyes shifted, moving past Ben to the kitchen doorway, and Ben turned, knowing exactly what he was seeing.
"Hi," Elizabeth said from the kitchen, studying Mike with a pose of innocent nonchalance that, Ben was sure, was as carefully arranged as a painter's still life.
"Hi," Mike said, and gave her a quick smile. Elizabeth came forward, tugging absently on the end of her braid, and Ben had no choice but to make introductions.
"Elizabeth, this is Officer Mike Logan. He's a good friend of mine. Mike, this is my daughter Elizabeth."
"Hi," Mike said again, and held out a hand. Elizabeth took it, and shook, and looked up with her big blue eyes to meet Mike's. Ben had to bite back a sigh.
"You're a policeman?" she asked. "For real?"
"That's right." Mike tilted his shoulder, showing her the badge fixed to his uniform shirt. "Badge number 2664." He straightened up again. "You never met a cop before?"
She shot her eyes at her father. "Well, most of the ones I've seen with Dad wear, you know, suits."
"Detectives," Mike told her. "Detectives get to wear suits. Beat cops like me--" He touched his badge. "--we have to wear this getup."
Elizabeth looked at him doubtfully. "I don't know. I think your uniform is a lot cooler."
This time the smile was broader, and genuine. "Thanks. Maybe when I get to be a detective, I'll tell them I'll keep the uniform. My old man was a cop."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. He walked the same beat every day for thirty years."
Elizabeth mulled this over. "Did he want you to be a co--a policeman, too?"
"Nah. He wanted me to go to college, be an accountant or a lawyer or something."
Elizabeth hesitated, clearly torn between loyalty to her father's profession, and the fascination of talking to this new man in her life. "So what did you do?"
"Went to college. Then decided I wanted to be a cop."
"Why? I mean, didn't you want to be a lawyer?"
"Not for me," Mike said firmly. "Four years of cracking the books was enough. I couldn't take another three-four years in school."
Ben closed his eyes. Oh, great. Elizabeth's eyes were wide, her expression one of almost comical shock on meeting an adult who *didn't* think school was the be-all and end-all of the world. Mike was going on, blithely unaware that he'd just reached an almost heroic stature in the eyes of his new friend. "I didn't want some desk job either, pushing paper, crunching numbers. I wanted something where I could get out, really do something for a living. So, I became a cop."
Ben was almost relieved when the doorbell rang again. Much longer, and Elizabeth would be asking how old she had to be before she could join the Academy. But the relief lasted only as long as it took for him to consider who might be at the door. He looked at Elizabeth. "Did you call your mother, Elizabeth?"
"Yeah. But she wasn't home."
Wonderful. Helen, hoping to get here early, to sit in martyred silence on the street. If so, why couldn't she have been ten minutes earlier? Ben was opening his mouth, trying to find a tactful, un-urgent reason for Mike to not be present when the door was opened, when Mike came unexpectedly to the rescue.
"I'll just wait in the kitchen," he said, as casually as if it were perfectly natural for a cop to show up and hang out in the kitchen of the District Attorney. He turned to Elizabeth, and saluted her with the hand not holding his cap. "Nice meeting you, Liz."
"You, too," she said, and watched him go. *Liz. Oh, dear.*
If Helen was disappointed to find him there, and Elizabeth with him, waiting with her bag at her side, not a trace of it showed on her flawless features. She was dressed casually today, wearing a spotless linen suit and loafers, her hair clubbed neatly at the back of her neck. "Ben," she murmured, and stepped inside.
"Helen."
After the greeting, though, she all but ignored him, turning to Elizabeth and holding out her hands, smiling broadly. "Hello, dear."
Elizabeth came forward for her hug. "Hello, Mother."
"Are you ready?"
"Sure." Elizabeth fetched her bag, then dumped it by the door so she could turn and give Ben a good-bye hug, and a kiss on the cheek. "Bye, Dad. See you next week."
"Sure thing, sweetheart." Ben sent her off with a last, fond pat, and shut the door behind them, acknowledging the familiar pang of regret as he watched his daughter leave.
It sounded so reasonable, so logical on paper. One home, free visitation. Surely the best for her, the best for everyone. Except him. He should have pushed for his rights, should have tried harder to get a hearing about Elizabeth living with him. But he'd let his attorney talk him out of it.
"Look, Ben," Maury had said, "the courts are biased enough against paternal custody. With your . . . situation, you don't have a chance in hell. If Helen decides to play dirty, it could blow up in your face, and you could lose everything." Maury had leaned forward, earnest, almost sweating with sincerity. "Trust me, Ben. Open visitation is a gift. Take it, and count your blessings."
Yeah. His "situation." Translation: If Helen told the court he was bisexual, they might take his daughter away forever. No matter how many years of marriage, no matter that the only infidelity in all those years had been Helen's. Bisexual father equals bad parent. End of story.
Mike was sitting at the kitchen table when Ben came in, head propped in his hands, staring down at the polished maple surface. He didn't move when Ben opened the door, and Ben thought for a moment that he might be asleep. But then he raised his head, and favored Ben with a wan smile.
"Hey." It came out rough, almost harsh, and Mike cleared his throat. "Look, Ben. I'm sorry. This was a mistake . . ."
"No." Ben hadn't meant to put quite that snap in his voice, and he softened it instantly. "No, it's not your fault." He forced himself to smile. "Anyway, you got to meet Elizabeth."
To his surprise, Mike genuinely brightened. "Yeah. She's a great kid. Pretty smart, not some ditzy na-na."
Not the way Ben would have put it, but . . . . He took the chair beside Mike's, leaning back to study him again. In the harsh fluorescent light, Mike looked even worse, his skin an unhealthy pasty color, the smudges like purpling bruises under his eyes. He'd probably shaved that morning, but against the pallor of his skin his normal four o'clock shadow stood out dark and rough.
"You look tired," Ben said. "Couldn't sleep?"
Mike flinched at the question, something that might have been pain, might have been guilt, flooding his features. "Ben . . ." he started, and stopped, turning his head away. "Christ," he whispered. "This is harder than I thought."
Ben was silent. The chill of fear had returned. Mike, sleepless, upset . . . unable to talk. A thousand scenarios rushed through his mind, a flood of panicked images. None of them were good, and they got worse with every second that Mike sat there, unhappiness written all over his face, guilt in his eyes. Ben forced himself to sit up, forced words from his mouth, any words that might prime the pump. "What is it?" he asked, and reached out across the table, finding Mike's pale, cold hand. He squeezed the limp fingers gently. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."
"Oh, Jesus." Mike turned away again, squeezing his eyes shut. His hand jerked in Ben's, gripping him convulsively, almost painfully, then released him, his fingers sliding back away from Ben's touch, to clench with Mike's other fist on top of the table. "Ben," he said, and his voice was low, and rough now, almost too soft to hear. "Ben, I slept with someone else."
For a second, Ben reeled. He'd heard the expression "struck by words" before, but never, until this moment, had he ever appreciated what it really meant. He felt it, like an actual physical blow somewhere in his gut, a cold, spreading sickness that oozed out from his middle, chilling, nauseating. He swallowed, and made himself speak again. "When?"
"Last night." Mike was slumped now in his chair, head hanging down between his hands, not looking at him. Not able to look. "God, Ben, I--" He bit it off, clamping down the tremor Ben heard in his voice. "I'm sorry."
Ben fought for logic, made himself say it, even though the words threatened to choke him. "You don't have to apologize," he said, hearing the phrases roll out, stiff, emotionless, rote. He didn't care. "We never said that--"
"The hell we didn't!" Mike jerked up from his slouch, his eyes blazing with anger. Anger and hate. Not for Ben, but for himself. "Maybe not out loud," he went on roughly, "Maybe not written down on some goddamn piece of legal goddamn paper. But you don't sit there and tell me that we both didn't know."
"I did," Ben said quietly. "At least I thought I did. Apparently you felt different."
Mike slumped back in the chair. "I guess I deserved that," he said, and ran a hand over his face. "Ben, I'm sorry."
Ben wasn't sure what to say. "So am I," was the best that he seemed able to do. He felt sick. Sick, angry . . . and humiliated. Last night, while he'd lain here thinking about Mike, while he'd thought about calling him, being with him, Mike had been with someone else. Part of him, the cynical, bitter part that had sat on his shoulder and whispered in his ear all along, wondered why he'd ever thought to expect anything else.
Before he could stop himself, before he even thought to refine the thoughts churning in his head, he spoke. "Mike, you're not being forced into anything here. You said it yourself, there's no obligation between us. You want to leave, you can."
Mike raised his head. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked.
It took a long time for Ben to answer. "I don't know."
Mike groaned, and stood up. "I can't believe I did it," he said, almost laughing, his voice laced with bitterness. "The best thing that's ever happened to me, and I fuck it up." He paced to the other end of the kitchen. "I fuck it up," he said to the back window, "because I'm too fucking stupid to think it straight." He turned back. "You know what I figured out last night?"
He seemed to be waiting for an answer. "What?" Ben asked.
"I figured out that I wanted to be with you." Mike's voice was raw, and honest, his face as open and vulnerable as Ben had ever seen it. "Finally got a clue, finally realized that maybe there was something I wanted that only you could give me." He swallowed, and his face changed, the vulnerability fading into self-contempt. "So the first thing I do is go look for it somewhere else." He turned again, and Ben jumped as his fist shook the timbers of the back door, the glass rattling under the blow. "Dammit!" He stayed there, breathing hard, staring at the dark-paneled wood in front of him. Then he wrenched open the back door, and was gone.
"Mike!" Ben jumped to his feet, but didn't move any farther in pursuit. If Mike wanted to run away, Ben wasn't sure that it was his job to stop him. Wasn't sure, even, if he really wanted to. He waited a moment, then walked slowly to the back door and closed it.
Continued in " At First Sight III: Faithful Love"