FIC: "At First Sight III: Faithful Love" 3/3 (Law & Order Logan/Stone, Logan/OMC NC-17 Slash)
Continued from "At First Sight III: Faithful Love" (2/3)
For Notes, Warnings, Ratings, and Disclaimers, please see Part 1.
At First Sight III: Faithful Love (3/3)
Mike left his sister's around midnight, slightly wired from two cups of the bottomless black brew that passed for coffee in the Flynn household, but feeling nonetheless as though he might actually sleep. It had turned into a long talk, Mike a little surprised at how many things had filled the mere two weeks since he'd last seen his sister. Even with him carefully skirting what had been happening with Ben, it had taken them a while to feel caught up again with each others' lives. And he realized, too, with a pang of guilt, that he hadn't even told Katy of his plans to move, or of the reason. Too caught up in everything else.
Katy had noticed his stricken look, and had reached over to put a hand on his arm. "Mikey," she said. "The reason God made time was so that everything wouldn't happen at once. Don't start trying to out-do God's schedule." Then she'd flushed, and taken her hand away.
But Mike had laughed. "I'll remember," he'd promised, and the moment had passed.
It was a cool night, the moon nearly full. Nice and romantic, he thought, with a returning pang of lonliness. Katy had respected the invisible boundaries of their conversation, blithely neglecting to ask her usual questions about his love life, but he wasn't sure that it had actually helped. He hadn't had the courage, yet, to tell her about Ben.
The message light on his machine was winking like a firefly when he arrived, and he braced himself for the deluge of messages as he pressed the button. Two "Call me's" from Max, followed by a "never mind, I'll call you tomorrow." A third call from a recent girlfriend, who was turning out to be unusually persistent. And then, finally, a mellow, drawling voice that he'd heard in his head all day. Five words, but they were enough.
"Saturday is good for me."
-----
When the phone rang the next morning, Mike peeled an eye open, checked the clock, and reached for where he'd moved the phone the night before. "Hello, Max," he said into the receiver, eyes closed.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"Lucky guess." Mike swung himself up, rubbing his hand over his face. "What you got?"
"We got him, Mike." Max's voice was fierce with triumph. "Company called me back at six this morning. One of their guys stayed up all night, on his own time, tracking down every order Paar ever made with them. And we hit it, Mikey. We hit the big time."
"So, don't keep me in suspense."
There was a faint rustle of paper, and Mike could almost see the frown on Max's face as he read over his notes. "Mr. Paar's studio is a one-man operation, no partners, which makes it easier. He specializes in portraits. You know, family shots, baby pictures, that sort of thing. He doesn't usually do school stuff, except that he fills in for another company when they get overbooked."
"Max, please tell me--"
"1979. Susan Peele's school, and one other school. 1981. Roberta Green's school, and four others. 1984. Beatrice Watson's school, no others. Last year. Mimi Marston's school *and* Louise Tourneur's." Max paused. "It's him, Mike. He's the one."
"You get the warrants yet?"
"On their way. Be ready by the time you get your butt down here."
"Then I'm on my way."
-----
Paar's address was in Brooklyn, but when they started for the garage to meet their backup, Max told him they were heading for Chelsea, for Paar's studio.
"You think he's there?"
"I know he is," Max said smugly. "While you were getting your beauty sleep, I was on the phone. No one answered at the house, but Mr. Paar will be available for a sitting at his studio at eleven this morning." He turned his head to the side, displaying his profile. "So which do you think is my good side?"
Paaragon Portraits occupied a good-sized space in a row of small businesses, boasting a double display window lined with samples of the merchandise. Weddings, family portraits, baby pictures, pet pictures . . . Max ran his eyes over the collage of prints, then turned to the two uniforms that had come to back them up. "Cover the back and the front," he said. "We don't want this guy getting away." He turned back to Mike. "Hang back a little when we go in," he said. "I don't want to spook him into running."
"Okay." Mike watched, one wary hand poised over his holster, as Max tested the door. Max stepped in, Mike hanging back as ordered, coming in only when a wave of Greevey's hand told him it was clear.
The anteroom was empty, nearly barren of furniture except for a row of chairs, a desk, and a small raised dais surrounded with reflectors. The door set off a chime as it opened and closed, and in a few moments a tall, lean figure stepped through a rear door. He had brown hair, graying at the temples, and a round, neat face. He spotted Max first, and his face arranged itself into a welcoming, give-me-your-business smile. Then he saw Mike, standing quietly near the door, and he stiffened, the smile vanishing with a wan, sick quaver of his lips.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his eyes darting to Max, but keeping Mike in the corner of his gaze. Max produced his badge, and the other man paled.
"John Paar?" Paar nodded weakly, and Max put the badge away. "I'm Detective Greevey, NYPD."
Paar gazed at him, unblinking, for a long, slow minute. Then his eyes cut to Mike again, and his body abruptly tensed.
"Mike!"
But Mike was already moving, springing to follow Paar through the rear door. The other man had just enough jump on him to slam it in his face, and by the time Mike ripped it open again he was gone, vanished into the depths of the back hallway. Mike heard the front door close, Max yelling for the backup. But he hadn't heard any other doors, and he was betting Paar was still inside. Drawing his gun, Mike moved cautiously down the narrow hall, testing each door as he came to it. Closet. Closet. Bathroom. Changing room. One more door before the stairs. He tested the knob, readied his gun, and pushed it open.
"Get away from there!" Paar appeared from nowhere, flying down the stairs to tackle Mike away from the door. Mike turned, twisting to bring his gun to bear, but Paar had the advantage, swiping at him from the dimness of the stairwell with something that flashed silver in the glow of the hall's single bulb. Mike felt his sleeve jerk as he ducked, and a trail of fire burned down his arm. He swore and turned his shoulder into the attack as Paar swiped again, bowling into the other man with every ounce of his two hundred pounds behind him.
Paar yelped as he pitched backwards, the door behind him flying open as he hit it, spilling him to the hard concrete. Mike was through the door and on him in an instant, his gun aimed at Paar's face. Paar paled, and his right hand twitched, the pair of scissors gleaming against his palm. Mike cocked the gun, and the sound of the hammer going back seemed to freeze Paar in the act. "Don't," Mike said evenly. "Drop it." Paar opened his hand, and Mike kicked the scissors away, hearing them skitter up against the wall. He backed up a step, still holding the gun on him. "Turn over, and put your hands behind your back. Now!"
Whatever had spurred Paar to such a fury not a minute before, it was gone now. The photographer obeyed docilely, unresisting as Mike cuffed him and read him his rights. Greevey's voice came from the hall, ordering the two uniforms to sweep the building and secure it, and to call for a team to search it. As Mike finished Mirandizing Paar, he heard the scuff of feet on the floor behind him, and Greevey's sharp intake of breath. "God Almighty," Max breathed, and for the first time, Mike looked up. And froze.
"Holy shit." He stood up slowly, lifting Paar to his feet almost as an afterthought. For a long time, all he and Max could do was stare, their suspect all but forgotten.
The room wasn't, as Mike had first supposed, a darkroom. It was a shrine. The walls, the ceiling, even parts of the floor, were all papered in photographs. Hundreds of them. Thousands. School pictures of girls, all blond-haired, all blue-eyed. They layered the walls, in places three or four deep, overlapping until all that remained of some was a smile here, a corner of fake blue sky there.
"Mike." Mike turned, the thick, gruff horror in Max's voice preparing him for the worst. Shoved against the far wall, covered by a white cloth, was a small, narrow table. Seven photographs were aligned precisely on the cloth, each arranged on a white paper doily. On each photograph, the face of the girl was carefully painted over, the blank white ovals surrounded by blond hair, and the fake autumn sky of the posed portrait.
"Jesus Christ." Mike felt suddenly unclean, loathe to even touch the body of the man he held in his hands. He gave Paar a shove out into the hall, catching him as he stumbled into the wall. Mike grabbed his arms again, prepared to frog-march him out to the car. All he wanted was to get him out of his hands as quickly as possible. "You sick bastard," he said, and heard Max give a faint rumble of warning.
"Easy, Mike," Max said, managing to sound both urgent and uncaring at the same time. He stepped out in the hall, leaving the door of the shrine open behind him. "Come on. The backup's on its way. We'll wait for them in the other room." Mike didn't move. He didn't dare. If he didn't move, if he didn't touch him, then he couldn't pound John Paar's face into the wall. Right now, there was no middle ground.
A soft touch on his back made him jump, and he turned, almost snarling, to meet Greevey's hard, angry stare. In that instant, he realized that he wasn't alone. They could do it. Paar had resisted arrest, hadn't he? Who was going to argue with an extra bruise or two? He saw it Max's eyes, knew Max saw the same thing in his. Then Mike swallowed, and looked away.
"Okay," Mike said roughly, and made himself put a careful, controlled hand on Paar's arm, gripping his bicep tight enough that he couldn't get away, but only so far, and no farther. "Come on," Mike said, and this time his voice almost sounded human. "Let's get out of here."
-----
It was late in the afternoon by the time Mike freed himself from the stifling, sticky heat of the precinct interrogation room. Max had things under control, and with the addition of the captain, the stenographer, and a representative from the DA's office, they didn't really need him anymore. After six hours, he knew that he had to get out of there.
Mike had never had much use for the notion of evil. Far as he was concerned, people were what they were, and finger-pointing at God, or society, or the Devil didn't make a difference. He was having a hard time, though, wrapping his mind around John Paar. He'd seen worse, he admitted it. His first month on the job, even, he'd worked that string of brutal murders, the four people violently decapitated, their killer never found. He'd arrested men who'd killed their wives, women who'd killed their husbands, parents who'd killed their children, but he'd never, he was beginning to realize, encountered anyone like Paar.
Up until now, he'd only dealt with the crimes of passion, the killers who were found at the scene, still holding the gun, or the club, or the bloody knife in their hand. Sometimes they cried their remorse, sometimes they shouted their pride at the crime, sometimes they said nothing, just let themselves be led away. He'd never had to sit in the interrogation room and listen to their story. Never had to sit and pry it out of them, word by word, excavating every grisly detail with the precision of an archaeologist.
Not that that had been an issue with Paar. For an hour he had sat, unmoving, unspeaking, while Max repeatedly asked him if wanted a lawyer, if he wanted to talk. Only when Max had finally given up, had ordered that he be taken to a cell, did Paar start talking. He poured it out, a long, endless stream of confession, like a garbage-choked ditch overflowing its banks. Even now, Mike could close his eyes and see him, hear him, explaining calmly in his deep, mellow voice, what he had done.
"They're perfect now," Paar had said, leaning earnestly towards Max, his eyes blank with sincerity. "Like the others. All perfect." He'd cast his eyes at Mike, who was standing silently in the corner of the room, trying not to let the disgust and the horror show on his face. "Did you see them?" he asked, sounding concerned, as if worried that they'd missed it. "All my girls. Perfect girls. And the special ones. The ones I fixed." Then he'd smiled, and the relief on his face had thrown Mike for a second, until Paar leaned up again, folding his hands on the table. "I can't tell you," he'd said to Max, "how good it is to finally have someone to talk to about this."
Mike closed his eyes, leaning suddenly against the cool tile walls of the locker room, wondering if he was going to be sick. That would be a first. He'd gotten through his rookie year without once losing it at a crime scene, headless bodies and all. Fine irony to be getting squeamish now. But the sickness passed, and he straightened up again, reaching into his locker for his clothes. As he touched his shirt, though, he changed his mind, and grabbed his towel and shower bag instead. He couldn't scrub Paar's words from his mind, but at least he could scrub the foul stickiness of that room from his body.
He stayed as long as he dared under the hot spray, soaping and scrubbing, shampooing his hair, standing braced against the slick tiles while the water sluiced over him, washing away the grime and filth of the day. A little water seeped under the bandage wrapped around his left arm, stinging on the long, shallow cut that Paar had left him as a souvenir. The doc said it wouldn't need stitches, probably wouldn't even leave a scar, but it hurt like hell, throbbing under the bandages. Lucky for him Paar hadn't been aiming for the heart.
As he stood there, letting his muscles slowly relax from the tension of the day, he began to feel the adrenaline of the day drain as well, pooling and swelling in his groin. Mike didn't fight the rising erection, welcomed it, even, as a relief from the grim, sick memories of Paar's placid face. He slid his wet fingers down to the hardened shaft, stroking over it, urging it to rise as he replaced Paar's face with another. A soft, sweet smile, bright blue eyes, tall, lean body. He gripped himself tightly, his hand slick with soap, and thrust once into his own fist, biting his lips to stifle the groan. Ah, yes. Much better. Wipe away that sick son-of-a-bitch with this, forget about the faces of those girls. Instead, there was just the clean, smooth friction of his hand on his cock, the mindless, slippery slide of skin on skin under the pouring water. He found the memory of Ben's body next to his, the long, strong fingers digging into Mike's spine, pulling him closer. Then the memory of Ben behind him, molding his body to Mike's back, his cock slipping inside him. Mike gritted his teeth, closing his eyes as he stroked himself faster, hips pumping as he remembered what it felt like, Ben moving in and out of him, those long legs twined with his. Then Ben's voice in his ear, saying his name . . .
Mike gasped silently as he came, warm excitement spilling out over his fingers, washed away immediately in the streaming water. He pumped even harder into his fist, bent on emptying himself completely, not letting go of his softening cock until he had spent every last dram of the orgasm.
After it was over, though, he leaned back against the tiles, all the good feelings draining away, replaced by a deep, pensive melancholy. He grabbed his towel, scrubbing the water from his body with fierce attention, determined not to be trapped in this again. Since he'd been dating Ben, he'd thought he'd gotten over this, moved past that terrible, black loneliness that always seemed to follow the release of passion. Even when he wasn't alone, when he was with other people, other partners, it still happened, the aftermath of sex somehow bringing home to him the fact that he was alone. That he'd always been alone.
*Okay. Now we're really hitting the self-pity,* Mike berated himself harshly. *Get over it,* he told himself fiercely. *You'll see Ben tonight.* *And so what?* the nasty little voice in him argued. *He wants to "talk." You agreed to talk, to "try to work things out." That doesn't mean he's taking you back, Mikey. That doesn't mean you'll ever have what you threw away on Ricky Caruso.*
"Just shut up," he said, and realized when the sound echoed around the empty locker room that he'd actually spoken out loud. Okay. That was bad. Talking to himself, arguing with himself. Time to snap out of this.
It was easier said than done.
He called Ben from a pay phone on the street, realizing belatedly that they'd never made any actual plans about meeting. Mike had a vague notion that it might be a good idea to go to a restaurant, somewhere public where he could say what he needed to, hear what Ben needed to tell him, and not be tempted to just take him to bed and bury the problem in the bliss of ecstacy. Not that that was an entirely bad thought.
*Get a grip,* he told himself. *Ben's not like you. Something's wrong, he wants to fix it, not cover it up. So shut your mouth and keep your pants zipped.*
Ben picked up on the second ring. "Hi," Mike said. "It's me."
"Mike." Ben sounded pleased. "I was wondering when you'd call."
"Yeah, well . . ." Mike cleared his throat. "I got done later than I expected." He paused again. "Paar's in custody. We got him."
"Good. Congratulations."
"Yeah. Max is still taking his confession." Mike had to stop. "Probably going to take a while."
"I see." Ben's voice was starting to sound funny. Awkward, and stiff. Nervous, Mike suddenly realized, and oddly enough that made him feel better. There was a lot of comfort in knowing that he wasn't the only one here who didn't know what the hell he was doing.
"Uh, look, I know it's early, but I was thinking maybe we could meet for dinner somewhere," Mike offered.
Another long silence. "We could," Ben said, but didn't sound too eager. He paused again, then said, cautiously, "I guess I was thinking more along the lines of us meeting somewhere else. I thought--" He stopped. "I thought maybe I could come over there. Or you could come over here."
Mike's throat was dry. It took him two tries to get the next words out. "Okay. I'm already out, why don't I come there?"
"All right." The relief in Ben's voice matched the sudden lightening of the tension in Mike's chest. "I'll be waiting."
"I'll be there."
-----
Ben hung up with a deep, shaking breath, forcing himself to be calm. But his hand trembled as he drew it back from the receiver, and he wiped his palm on his trousers, wondering, now, if he'd done the right thing. It had been his idea to slow down, to back off and wait until emotion had subsided. But the nights spent here, by himself, had been enough to teach him that cutting himself off from Mike wasn't the answer. He took another deep breath, bracing his hands on his thighs, then stood up and went to the bathroom to get ready.
When Mike arrived, Ben was waiting at the door, watching through the stained-glass panes as the other man strode up the walkway, a dark-haired, dangerous predator. Ben swallowed, watching, and knew that he'd made the right choice. This was the best for him. The best for both of them. He opened the door as Mike pressed the bell, and saw the other's man gaze flick over him, taking in the belted bathrobe, the bare feet, the glasses, forgotten until now, perched on his nose.
"Is this a new look?" Mike asked as Ben stepped aside to let him in. His voice was easy, light, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. His hands were in his pockets, nervous, and Ben felt a pang of conscience. Enough was enough.
"No." Ben took off his glasses, folding them into his pocket. "Just lazy." He stepped forward, offering a kiss, and closed his eyes as Mike accepted it, gratefully. His mouth was soft, the kiss oddly shy, as if Mike were no longer sure of its welcome. Ben drew back a little, nibbling tiny, soft bites along Mike's lower lip, gentle, teasing nips that continued until finally Mike relented, and joined in the game, seeking his own taste of Ben's mouth, trading nibbles, kisses, and licks until they were both smiling, enjoying the contest.
Then Ben kissed Mike again, earnestly, sliding his mouth over Mike's, delicately insinuating a questing tongue between Mike's lips until they opened, surrendering. He let the kiss go on for a moment, feeling Mike's breath begin to quicken, then reached out, finding one of Mike's big, broad hands, and wrapped his fingers around the wrist, slowly drawing it into the gap of his robe. He pressed Mike's palm to the smooth, bare skin underneath, guiding it down his own body, over the soft, silky swell of his hip, naked under the robe. Mike gave a faint exclamation of surprise, and pulled back, looking at Ben warily. But he kept his hand where it was.
"I thought we were going to talk about this," he said, but the deep, almost hoarse tone of lust in his voice betrayed him. Ben shook his head, leaning up to press his mouth to Mike's neck, tasting the salty sweat on his skin.
"I don't want to talk," he said, and bit gently at the soft skin just under his jaw. Then he took Mike's hand, and led him upstairs.
When they reached the bedroom, Ben turned, putting his hands on the tie of his robe, but Mike was there before him, his hands pushing at the collar, parting the cloth at his neck. Ben let his hands drop, then lifted them to Mike's back as the other man bent close, dropping his head to mouth softly at the bare skin as it was exposed. Mike pushed the robe gently from his shoulders, his hands soft and gentle, caressing the skin as he bared it, then following with lips and tongue, each kiss a soft brush of electric warmth against Ben's skin. He moved with care across Ben's shoulders, his kisses extraordinarily gentle, tenderly tracing the line of Ben's collarbone, licking the hollows under his throat, pressing his mouth to the curve of his shoulder. Mike kissed down his bare arm, sliding the robe away, then ran his hands possessively over Ben's back, caressing the length of his body, taking the robe with them. He let it fall in a puddle at Ben's feet, still breathing in his scent, his mouth pressed to the swell of Ben's shoulder.
It wasn't until the glorious, soft warmth of Mike's mouth was taken away that Ben realized he was standing with his eyes closed, drinking in the sensation of Mike's mouth on him, luxuriating in the soft, sweet caresses. He could feel the flush of desire on his skin, the heat radiating from him, and from the body pressed against him. But then it was gone, and Ben opened his eyes, dazed and wondering, to see what had drawn Mike away.
Mike was still there, his hands still caressing softly down Ben's arms. But he was holding him at arms' length, his head tilted to the side. Studying him, as if he'd never seen him before. Ben was suddenly, self-consciously aware of his own nakedness, of his thin, pale body, mottled, he was sure, with the red of passion, his blushing penis standing out straight and stiff from his waist. But Mike was looking at him with soft, dreamy eyes, his expression one of profound absorption. His left hand moved, reaching up to brush delicate fingers down Ben's side, stroking with exquisite care over his hip, then across his stomach and chest, touching him as if he were a precious artifact. A cautious, tender finger traced the line of his sternum, dropping down to circle his navel, leaving a trail of tingling arousal in its wake until finally it brushed, with the lightest of feathering touches, the taut length of his penis. Ben let out a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding, frozen under Mike's gaze, paralyzed by the soft, caressing grip on his arm. He was naked under Mike's eyes, exposed. He had never been so turned on in his life.
Slowly, Mike let his hands drop to his sides, then, still holding Ben with that same intent, absorbed stare, he stepped back, reaching for the hem of his shirt. He stripped slowly while Ben watched, pulling off his shirt with a leisurely, sensual arch of his back, letting the shirt fall carelessly to the floor behind him. The jeans were next, the slow glide of the zipper an almost unbearable suspense until it was finally open, the bulge behind the underwear unmistakable. Mike took his time sliding the jeans from his hips, his eyes fixed on Ben's face while he caressed his own hands down his legs, toeing out of his shoes and socks, stepping from the bunched denim and kicking it aside, leaving him naked to Ben's eyes. He was as hard as Ben, his cock bouncing gently with his movements, the whole length flushed a dark, hungry purple. Ben licked at his suddenly dry lips, and, as if reading his mind, Mike stepped forward, sliding his hands around his waist, bringing their bodies together.
But it was only for a moment. Almost as soon as Ben surrendered to the sensation, reveling in the feel of hot, damp skin next to his, Mike was pulling away, sliding down his body, his mouth pressing quick, hurried kisses along the line of Ben's chest and stomach until he was on his knees in front of him, tilting his head to take Ben in his mouth. Ben felt his cock leap between Mike's lips, felt it swell impossibly as Mike drew it in, opening his mouth to swallow as much as he could of it. Ben's knees began to tremble, and Mike's arms wrapped abruptly around his hips, pulling him closer, holding him tight against Mike's body. Ben let his hands fall limply to the dark head bent in front of him, stroking his fingers mindlessly through the thick locks. He let his head fall forward, his breath leaving him in a soft, shaken sigh as Mike's mouth continued to work him, engulfing him in wet, sucking, heat. Ben touched his hair again, running his palms over the sleek, damp mass, watching in dazed wonder as his own wet cock slid in and out of Mike's lips. Mike's eyes were closed, his face rapt with attention to his job, his beautiful, pale throat working as he sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, the muscles under his jaw bunching as his tongue danced around the tip. He spread his knees, tightening his hold to bear up Ben's weight, supporting him while he slowly, thoroughly, ravaged him.
Finally, just when Ben was sure he couldn't take it another second, Mike let him go, letting his cock slide out with a final, sweet kiss on the tip, He released him slowly, and stood, pulling Ben into his arms and kissing him again. The desire in him had risen to an almost painful fever pitch, every kiss like a surge of electricity, sending a flush of heat along his sensitized skin. Pleasure so intense, so overwhelming, that it was almost pain. He wanted to push Mike away, to make it stop, and at the same time he pulled himself closer, willing himself to mold with every part of the body in front of him, wishing it would never stop.
"Please, please . . ." he heard someone say, and realized belatedly that the soft, whimpering plea was his own. "Mike," he breathed. "Please . . . I want you, please . . ."
Mike made a hoarse, choked sound against him, almost a groan, nearly a whimper. His lips fastened on Ben's throat, sucking hard, his arms crushing him impossibly closer. Then his grip tightened, and shifted, and Ben was suddenly propelled back towards the bed, his feet barely seeming to touch the floor as he let himself be swept along by Mike's strong arms. He fell back on the bed with a thump, pulling Mike down with him.
Ben lay there, panting, for a moment, looking up at the darkly flushed face above him, eyes smoldering under the fallen shock of black hair. He gulped for breath, and reached up. "Mike," he said quietly, and Mike closed his eyes, his cock leaping up visibly from the soft nest at his groin. "Please, Mike," Ben said again, Mike nodded, his breath rushing out of him in a long, helpless sigh.
Mike's hands were extraordinarily gentle, soft and careful on Ben's skin as he turned him over. The same hands that had so effortlessly lifted his weight not a minute before, the strength in those broad arms almost frightening, were now touching him with delicate, tender attention. His palms lingered over Ben's buttocks, massaging, kneading, the big hands cupping and squeezing him before moving on, sliding down to spread his thighs, pushing his knees up until he was kneeling slightly on the bed, ready, waiting.
Ben gulped at the first slick touch, closing his eyes as the warm, probing finger slid around and around the aching opening, teasing, soothing . . . driving him mad. He pushed back with his hips, wordlessly urging, and was rewarded with a soft, gentle pressure at the center of the tight bud. He pushed back again, willing himself to open, to accept the softly insistent intrusion, and groaned when he did, the finger sliding up into him, slick and warm. Ben let his head fall to the pillows, trying to control his breathing, hearing his heart pound in his chest. His pulse throbbed around the gently wiggling finger inside him, and he clenched his muscles, moaning again as the finger slid out, then was joined by another.
By the time Mike was finished with him, Ben was sure that every joint in his body had collapsed, overwhelmed with sensation, leaving him nothing but the taut, throbbing desire between his legs. The fingers were gone now, but he could feel himself still opened, more than ready for that thick, sweet cock. Mike took his time though, the soft, wet sounds his fingers made as he slicked himself down only adding to the frustration. Finally, though, he was back, his fingers caressing over him one last time, then the soft, round tip of his penis was right there, settling in, ready to push forward. Ben took a deep breath, spread his knees a little further, and let himself open.
They both cried out in surprise, Ben muffling an unintended scream in the pillows as Mike's full length slid into him at once, slick and fast, spreading him wide. Mike gasped out loud, his hands tightening on Ben's back as he was pulled in, his cock swallowed helplessly in Ben's body. It should have hurt, and it did hurt, a little, but the pain was gone almost before he noticed, subsumed in the sudden, hot frenzy of sensation of feeling Mike inside him. They both held there a while, panting, Mike's pulse beating hard against Ben's back, his hands gripping him mindlessly. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath, and began to thrust.
The first thrust was long, and slow, and so was the second, and the third. Mike, taking his time, moving in and out of Ben's body with powerful, lingering strokes. Drawing it out as long as he possibly could. Ben fell quickly into the rhythm, lifting his hips, arching his back, before long spreading his knees out, lowering himself to the mattress to ease the strain on his joints, sensing that this was going to take a long, long time.
Mike didn't disappoint him. Ben spread out underneath him, melting more into the mattress with each burning stroke, his limbs awash with limp sensation. Mike draped himself over Ben's back like a warm, sweaty blanket, never ceasing the slow, glorious pumping of his hips. Ben pushed back to help, lifting his own hips up to meet every thrust, his erection rubbing delightfully against the covers with every long, slow arch of his back. They rocked there together, making long, slow love on top of the big bed, for longer than Ben wanted to count. It was so good, so delicious, Mike moving in and out of him, working them both up to a long, swelling peak of passion, achingly slow, unbearably sweet.
But it couldn't last. Eventually, Ben felt the desire rise up in him, a long, rolling wave that was as slow and inevitable as an incoming tide. Every strong thrust brought him a little closer, every caress of Mike's hands on his body, every brush of his lips and tongue on Ben's back. Mike was feeling it, too, his breath beginning to pant harshly in his chest, his slow pumping taking on a quiet, increased urgency. He stroked Ben's back again, settling his hands on his hips, and thrust in a little harder, quickening the tempo. Ben choked back a cry at his cock leapt up under him, and rose to copy the rhythm, pushing his knees up again to meet Mike's thrusts.
It took a long, glorious forever, neither of them wanting to end it, but helpless to resist the demands of their impatient bodies. Ben felt his hands clenching in the pillows, clawing at the covers as he fought to hold back, even as his back arched up, driving himself hard against the delicious friction of Mike's cock inside him. Then Mike leaned forward, bracing a hand to the side of Ben's shoulder, and the other slid under his body, finding his hard length and sliding his fingers down it. Just a touch, just a light caress of two fingers over the taut skin, but one stroke, two strokes, and it was enough.
Ben came hard, bucking under Mike as the shudders rippled through his body, feeling his muscles clench in a sharp, involuntary squeeze around Mike's thrusting shaft. Then Mike was coming, too, his hips pushing hard against him, collapsing them both on top of the covers, their bodies shivering together in the heat. Mike was whispering in Ben's ear, soft words, sweet, breathless endearments that he barely heard, could scarcely comprehend behind the mind-blowing lassitude of orgasm. Not that he cared. It was enough, now, to simply have that warm, stifling weight on top of him, to have that deep, sonorous voice in his ear, no matter what he was saying.
Then Mike fell silent with a soft kiss at the back of Ben's neck, and Ben felt him shift. He suppressed a whimper as his softening length slipped away. Ben rolled over, reaching out, seeking, and felt a soft, gentle kiss on his lips. "I'll be right back," Mike promised, and Ben nodded accepting. He was already drowsing into sleep, naked on top of the covers, chilling now that his warm blanket was gone. But Mike was back soon, as promised, and together they managed to crawl beneath the covers, warm with their lovemaking, and wrap themselves around one another in the dark. Ben kissed Mike's temple, sleepily, and tightened his hold around him. "Stay," he whispered quietly, and felt the soft hairs move against his arm as Mike nodded.
"I will," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." Buoyed by the promise, Ben fell asleep.
-----
In the wee hours of the morning, Ben felt Mike leave the bed. It wasn't that Ben was such a light sleeper, but the process of disentangling his limbs from Ben's made it almost impossible for Mike to get up without disturbing him. Ben rolled over, trying to form a protest, but was too groggy to do anything more than watch that long, pale body move silently to the bathroom door. Reassured that he would return, Ben closed his eyes again, but found, now, that he was slowly, inexorably, coming wide awake.
He held the covers back as Mike returned, wrapping his arms around him in a soft, loose embrace as he lay back down. They lay together silently for a while, Ben idly running his fingers through Mike's hair, petting it back gently from his face.
"I thought we agreed that this wouldn't be a good idea," Mike finally said drowsily, the smile audible in the dark.
"Well . . ." Ben said carelessly. He stroked Mike's hair again. "There are good ideas, and then there are good ideas." He shifted, bringing Mike closer. "I thought it would nice to have some distance. Some time to think."
"Did you think?"
"Mm-hm." Ben bent down, searching for Mike's mouth in the dark. "I thought about you," he said when they parted. "Day and night."
Mike said nothing, only wrapped himself around Ben's body, kissing him softly. Then he slid back down into Ben's arms, resting his cheek on Ben's chest. They lay there a long time, quietly in the dark, until Ben finally found the courage to speak.
"Who was it?"
He asked the question softly, casually, as if it didn't matter. As if he could fool Mike into thinking that it didn't matter. He hadn't meant to ask, had told himself that it would be best not to know. Right.
Mike shifted against him, his body tensing. But he didn't pretend to misunderstand. "My partner," he said finally, and Ben felt a cold weight drop into his gut. "Caruso." He swallowed. "Ricky."
Ricky Caruso. Ben thought he might be sick. Tall, dark-haired, beautiful, green-eyed Ricky Caruso. Ben closed his eyes. "I see."
He didn't think his despair would show, but Mike obviously heard something in his voice. He lifted himself up, taking Ben's face in his hands, kissing him again. "I shouldn't have told you," he said flatly. "I'm sorry."
"No." Ben took in a deep breath. "No, I'm glad I know." *Glad I know that he's gone,* and hated himself at once for having even thought it. He patted Mike's arm, trying to smile, even in the dark. "It's all right," he lied. "I'm glad I know."
Mike held still for a moment. "Ben," he said quietly. "It's never going to happen again. We were both . . . on the edge, that night. It shouldn't have happened. It was a mistake. And I'm sorry." He kissed Ben again. "He's not you," he said, and Ben felt a flood of relief. "He never was you." He withdrew again. "Okay?"
Ben nodded, then reached up and stroked Mike's face, his fingers soft on the rough-stubbled cheek. "Okay," he agreed.
"Good." Mike kissed him one last time, then settled down his arms, wrapping Ben's body around him. "Let's get some sleep, all right?"
-----
Ben rose early in the morning. Leaving Mike sprawled asleep over his half of the bed, he went downstairs and started a pot of coffee, then debated briefly about what to fix for his breakfast. He was just pouring the first batch of eggs into the pan when Mike appeared in the doorway, unshaven, hair mussed, and yawning. He was wearing one of Ben's bathrobes, a blue silk one that had been a present from Helen. It fit him well, Ben noted with pardonable satisfaction.
With a sleepy smile, Mike sat down at the breakfast table, running his hands through his hair and yawning again. Ben brought him a cup of coffee without being asked, and watched as Mike reverently breathed in the steam before taking the first sip.
"Good morning," Ben said, and bent down to kiss his cheek. Mike, nose still buried in the coffee mug, smiled in reply and then turned his head, catching Ben's mouth with a quick kiss of the own.
"Morning," he said at last, and leaned his elbows on the table, cradling the coffee cup in his hands.
"You want breakfast?" Ben offered, and returned to pushing the eggs around in the skillet.
"I'm starving," Mike said, and sipped coffee again.
Still stirring the eggs, Ben took the opportunity to give him a long look, complacently assessing the rumpled, tousled figure slumped at his breakfast table. "I could get used to this," he said.
Now halfway through his first coffee, Mike was, as scheduled, beginning to wake up. "So could I," he said, sitting up straighter as he looked at Ben, and smiled. While Ben watched, brows lifting, Mike stood up and walked over to the stove, putting his arms around Ben's waist from behind. He was still holding the coffee cup, but hot coffee became the least of Ben's concerns as a pair of warm, soft lips began to nuzzle the back of his neck.
"Thanks," Mike finally said, his words muffled in Ben's skin.
"For what?" Ben gave the eggs another stir, letting himself lean back into Mike's embrace.
It took a while for Mike to answer. "For seeing me last night," he said. "For giving me a second chance."
Ben lifted a hand to curve over the arm that spanned his waist, rubbing his palm up under the hem of the smooth silk robe, caressing the skin underneath. "I missed you," he said simply. "Mike . . . I hope you understand that I never hated you."
A brief snort became a pulse of heated air down his back. "Believe me, I know." Mike tightened his grip for a moment, laying his cheek against Ben's shoulder. "I almost wish you had," he said after a while. "That's how I'm used to doing things, you know. Some shouting, maybe a couple of thrown dishes, *then* sex." He paused, then added with a soft, purring, chuckle, "You're messing up my foreplay."
Ben laughed. "I can make you drop that coffee cup, if it will make you feel any better."
If anything, Mike's fingers tightened around the ceramic handle. "No way. You make me miss my morning cup of joe, and then there'll *really* be trouble" He fell silent then, his head resting against Ben's, his chest moving slowly against Ben's back with the quiet rhythm of his breath. They stayed that way, locked in the loose, comfortable embrace, Mike watching over Ben's shoulder while he finished cooking the eggs.
"Ben . . ."
Ben waited, spatula poised. "Yes?" he finally prompted.
Gently, Mike withdrew from the embrace, leaving one hand on Ben's waist while he turned Ben to face him. "Ben," he said again, and Ben was struck by the sudden doubt in his face, the clear eyes shadowed with the worry that Ben hadn't heard in his voice.
"What is it?"
"Ben . . ." Mike said for the third time, then looked away, running his hand over his hair. "I just want to know . . . is this it? Are we . . . ?" He wiped his hand over his face, another uneasy gesture, then blurted, in a quiet rush of words, "I just want to know if this means we're back." He swallowed. "Back to what we were before."
It took Ben a startled second to form an answer. "Well," he said at last, "I thought that was the point." He regarded Mike for a long moment. "Is that what you want?"
Mike's chin came up. "Yeah. Yeah, it is," he finished defiantly, as if daring Ben to contradict him.
Slowly, Ben nodded. "All right then." He searched Mike's face. "It might not be easy," he felt obliged to say. "Things have changed."
"I know." Mike took a deep breath. "I know," he said again, "but I'm willing to give it another try."
Ben smiled. "Good."
-----
Eighteen Months Later
-----
" . . . and serve the citizens of New York. Congratulations, Detective."
Mike shook the Police Chief's hand, not quite able to keep from grinning ear to ear as he finally felt the weight of the gold badge in his hand. Behind the Chief, he could see his dad standing in the front row, looking so proud that he seemed about to burst. Katy was next to him, grinning and clapping right alongside, and Mike gave her a wink and a grin before his eyes moved up, looking for one particular face among the small crowd.
Ben had debated with him about whether or not to come, not wanting to make any waves for him, show him any partiality that might get him in trouble with his colleagues. Mike would have had him there anyway, but then Max had made things easy by insisting that Ben come to see his new partner get promoted. After all, Max had argued, if it hadn't been for Ben they'd never have met.
That was a nice irony. Ben as matchmaker. Remembering what it'd been like to work with Greevey, Mike wasn't so sure that Ben had done him a favor. But he was on the DA's Squad now, the elite of the force, and that was nothing to sneeze at for a rookie detective with the ink still wet on his promotion papers.
The Chief wrapped up the ceremony with a few words, and Mike caught Ben's eye again as he applauded, giving Mike a smile that was only meant for him. It was nice having him here, even if it couldn't be as anything more than another professional friend. Later, after Mike's family had had a chance to fuss over him, they'd have their own private celebration. Not only for Mike's promotion, either.
Mike couldn't believe it had been two years. Granted, it had taken them months before they'd gone on that first, not-quite-date, but it was hard to fathom that it had been two years ago that they'd first sized each other up across a crowded squad room. Mike hadn't even thought about it, and he'd been surprised when Ben mentioned it. Not that he was going to turn down a chance to celebrate. No way.
Ben had been right. It hadn't been easy. Mike glanced at the badge in his hand, then lifted his gaze to meet Ben's once more, smiling out over the crowd and not caring, for a single instant, who saw. Nope, not easy. But it had been worth it.
THE END
For Notes, Warnings, Ratings, and Disclaimers, please see Part 1.
At First Sight III: Faithful Love (3/3)
Mike left his sister's around midnight, slightly wired from two cups of the bottomless black brew that passed for coffee in the Flynn household, but feeling nonetheless as though he might actually sleep. It had turned into a long talk, Mike a little surprised at how many things had filled the mere two weeks since he'd last seen his sister. Even with him carefully skirting what had been happening with Ben, it had taken them a while to feel caught up again with each others' lives. And he realized, too, with a pang of guilt, that he hadn't even told Katy of his plans to move, or of the reason. Too caught up in everything else.
Katy had noticed his stricken look, and had reached over to put a hand on his arm. "Mikey," she said. "The reason God made time was so that everything wouldn't happen at once. Don't start trying to out-do God's schedule." Then she'd flushed, and taken her hand away.
But Mike had laughed. "I'll remember," he'd promised, and the moment had passed.
It was a cool night, the moon nearly full. Nice and romantic, he thought, with a returning pang of lonliness. Katy had respected the invisible boundaries of their conversation, blithely neglecting to ask her usual questions about his love life, but he wasn't sure that it had actually helped. He hadn't had the courage, yet, to tell her about Ben.
The message light on his machine was winking like a firefly when he arrived, and he braced himself for the deluge of messages as he pressed the button. Two "Call me's" from Max, followed by a "never mind, I'll call you tomorrow." A third call from a recent girlfriend, who was turning out to be unusually persistent. And then, finally, a mellow, drawling voice that he'd heard in his head all day. Five words, but they were enough.
"Saturday is good for me."
-----
When the phone rang the next morning, Mike peeled an eye open, checked the clock, and reached for where he'd moved the phone the night before. "Hello, Max," he said into the receiver, eyes closed.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"Lucky guess." Mike swung himself up, rubbing his hand over his face. "What you got?"
"We got him, Mike." Max's voice was fierce with triumph. "Company called me back at six this morning. One of their guys stayed up all night, on his own time, tracking down every order Paar ever made with them. And we hit it, Mikey. We hit the big time."
"So, don't keep me in suspense."
There was a faint rustle of paper, and Mike could almost see the frown on Max's face as he read over his notes. "Mr. Paar's studio is a one-man operation, no partners, which makes it easier. He specializes in portraits. You know, family shots, baby pictures, that sort of thing. He doesn't usually do school stuff, except that he fills in for another company when they get overbooked."
"Max, please tell me--"
"1979. Susan Peele's school, and one other school. 1981. Roberta Green's school, and four others. 1984. Beatrice Watson's school, no others. Last year. Mimi Marston's school *and* Louise Tourneur's." Max paused. "It's him, Mike. He's the one."
"You get the warrants yet?"
"On their way. Be ready by the time you get your butt down here."
"Then I'm on my way."
-----
Paar's address was in Brooklyn, but when they started for the garage to meet their backup, Max told him they were heading for Chelsea, for Paar's studio.
"You think he's there?"
"I know he is," Max said smugly. "While you were getting your beauty sleep, I was on the phone. No one answered at the house, but Mr. Paar will be available for a sitting at his studio at eleven this morning." He turned his head to the side, displaying his profile. "So which do you think is my good side?"
Paaragon Portraits occupied a good-sized space in a row of small businesses, boasting a double display window lined with samples of the merchandise. Weddings, family portraits, baby pictures, pet pictures . . . Max ran his eyes over the collage of prints, then turned to the two uniforms that had come to back them up. "Cover the back and the front," he said. "We don't want this guy getting away." He turned back to Mike. "Hang back a little when we go in," he said. "I don't want to spook him into running."
"Okay." Mike watched, one wary hand poised over his holster, as Max tested the door. Max stepped in, Mike hanging back as ordered, coming in only when a wave of Greevey's hand told him it was clear.
The anteroom was empty, nearly barren of furniture except for a row of chairs, a desk, and a small raised dais surrounded with reflectors. The door set off a chime as it opened and closed, and in a few moments a tall, lean figure stepped through a rear door. He had brown hair, graying at the temples, and a round, neat face. He spotted Max first, and his face arranged itself into a welcoming, give-me-your-business smile. Then he saw Mike, standing quietly near the door, and he stiffened, the smile vanishing with a wan, sick quaver of his lips.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his eyes darting to Max, but keeping Mike in the corner of his gaze. Max produced his badge, and the other man paled.
"John Paar?" Paar nodded weakly, and Max put the badge away. "I'm Detective Greevey, NYPD."
Paar gazed at him, unblinking, for a long, slow minute. Then his eyes cut to Mike again, and his body abruptly tensed.
"Mike!"
But Mike was already moving, springing to follow Paar through the rear door. The other man had just enough jump on him to slam it in his face, and by the time Mike ripped it open again he was gone, vanished into the depths of the back hallway. Mike heard the front door close, Max yelling for the backup. But he hadn't heard any other doors, and he was betting Paar was still inside. Drawing his gun, Mike moved cautiously down the narrow hall, testing each door as he came to it. Closet. Closet. Bathroom. Changing room. One more door before the stairs. He tested the knob, readied his gun, and pushed it open.
"Get away from there!" Paar appeared from nowhere, flying down the stairs to tackle Mike away from the door. Mike turned, twisting to bring his gun to bear, but Paar had the advantage, swiping at him from the dimness of the stairwell with something that flashed silver in the glow of the hall's single bulb. Mike felt his sleeve jerk as he ducked, and a trail of fire burned down his arm. He swore and turned his shoulder into the attack as Paar swiped again, bowling into the other man with every ounce of his two hundred pounds behind him.
Paar yelped as he pitched backwards, the door behind him flying open as he hit it, spilling him to the hard concrete. Mike was through the door and on him in an instant, his gun aimed at Paar's face. Paar paled, and his right hand twitched, the pair of scissors gleaming against his palm. Mike cocked the gun, and the sound of the hammer going back seemed to freeze Paar in the act. "Don't," Mike said evenly. "Drop it." Paar opened his hand, and Mike kicked the scissors away, hearing them skitter up against the wall. He backed up a step, still holding the gun on him. "Turn over, and put your hands behind your back. Now!"
Whatever had spurred Paar to such a fury not a minute before, it was gone now. The photographer obeyed docilely, unresisting as Mike cuffed him and read him his rights. Greevey's voice came from the hall, ordering the two uniforms to sweep the building and secure it, and to call for a team to search it. As Mike finished Mirandizing Paar, he heard the scuff of feet on the floor behind him, and Greevey's sharp intake of breath. "God Almighty," Max breathed, and for the first time, Mike looked up. And froze.
"Holy shit." He stood up slowly, lifting Paar to his feet almost as an afterthought. For a long time, all he and Max could do was stare, their suspect all but forgotten.
The room wasn't, as Mike had first supposed, a darkroom. It was a shrine. The walls, the ceiling, even parts of the floor, were all papered in photographs. Hundreds of them. Thousands. School pictures of girls, all blond-haired, all blue-eyed. They layered the walls, in places three or four deep, overlapping until all that remained of some was a smile here, a corner of fake blue sky there.
"Mike." Mike turned, the thick, gruff horror in Max's voice preparing him for the worst. Shoved against the far wall, covered by a white cloth, was a small, narrow table. Seven photographs were aligned precisely on the cloth, each arranged on a white paper doily. On each photograph, the face of the girl was carefully painted over, the blank white ovals surrounded by blond hair, and the fake autumn sky of the posed portrait.
"Jesus Christ." Mike felt suddenly unclean, loathe to even touch the body of the man he held in his hands. He gave Paar a shove out into the hall, catching him as he stumbled into the wall. Mike grabbed his arms again, prepared to frog-march him out to the car. All he wanted was to get him out of his hands as quickly as possible. "You sick bastard," he said, and heard Max give a faint rumble of warning.
"Easy, Mike," Max said, managing to sound both urgent and uncaring at the same time. He stepped out in the hall, leaving the door of the shrine open behind him. "Come on. The backup's on its way. We'll wait for them in the other room." Mike didn't move. He didn't dare. If he didn't move, if he didn't touch him, then he couldn't pound John Paar's face into the wall. Right now, there was no middle ground.
A soft touch on his back made him jump, and he turned, almost snarling, to meet Greevey's hard, angry stare. In that instant, he realized that he wasn't alone. They could do it. Paar had resisted arrest, hadn't he? Who was going to argue with an extra bruise or two? He saw it Max's eyes, knew Max saw the same thing in his. Then Mike swallowed, and looked away.
"Okay," Mike said roughly, and made himself put a careful, controlled hand on Paar's arm, gripping his bicep tight enough that he couldn't get away, but only so far, and no farther. "Come on," Mike said, and this time his voice almost sounded human. "Let's get out of here."
-----
It was late in the afternoon by the time Mike freed himself from the stifling, sticky heat of the precinct interrogation room. Max had things under control, and with the addition of the captain, the stenographer, and a representative from the DA's office, they didn't really need him anymore. After six hours, he knew that he had to get out of there.
Mike had never had much use for the notion of evil. Far as he was concerned, people were what they were, and finger-pointing at God, or society, or the Devil didn't make a difference. He was having a hard time, though, wrapping his mind around John Paar. He'd seen worse, he admitted it. His first month on the job, even, he'd worked that string of brutal murders, the four people violently decapitated, their killer never found. He'd arrested men who'd killed their wives, women who'd killed their husbands, parents who'd killed their children, but he'd never, he was beginning to realize, encountered anyone like Paar.
Up until now, he'd only dealt with the crimes of passion, the killers who were found at the scene, still holding the gun, or the club, or the bloody knife in their hand. Sometimes they cried their remorse, sometimes they shouted their pride at the crime, sometimes they said nothing, just let themselves be led away. He'd never had to sit in the interrogation room and listen to their story. Never had to sit and pry it out of them, word by word, excavating every grisly detail with the precision of an archaeologist.
Not that that had been an issue with Paar. For an hour he had sat, unmoving, unspeaking, while Max repeatedly asked him if wanted a lawyer, if he wanted to talk. Only when Max had finally given up, had ordered that he be taken to a cell, did Paar start talking. He poured it out, a long, endless stream of confession, like a garbage-choked ditch overflowing its banks. Even now, Mike could close his eyes and see him, hear him, explaining calmly in his deep, mellow voice, what he had done.
"They're perfect now," Paar had said, leaning earnestly towards Max, his eyes blank with sincerity. "Like the others. All perfect." He'd cast his eyes at Mike, who was standing silently in the corner of the room, trying not to let the disgust and the horror show on his face. "Did you see them?" he asked, sounding concerned, as if worried that they'd missed it. "All my girls. Perfect girls. And the special ones. The ones I fixed." Then he'd smiled, and the relief on his face had thrown Mike for a second, until Paar leaned up again, folding his hands on the table. "I can't tell you," he'd said to Max, "how good it is to finally have someone to talk to about this."
Mike closed his eyes, leaning suddenly against the cool tile walls of the locker room, wondering if he was going to be sick. That would be a first. He'd gotten through his rookie year without once losing it at a crime scene, headless bodies and all. Fine irony to be getting squeamish now. But the sickness passed, and he straightened up again, reaching into his locker for his clothes. As he touched his shirt, though, he changed his mind, and grabbed his towel and shower bag instead. He couldn't scrub Paar's words from his mind, but at least he could scrub the foul stickiness of that room from his body.
He stayed as long as he dared under the hot spray, soaping and scrubbing, shampooing his hair, standing braced against the slick tiles while the water sluiced over him, washing away the grime and filth of the day. A little water seeped under the bandage wrapped around his left arm, stinging on the long, shallow cut that Paar had left him as a souvenir. The doc said it wouldn't need stitches, probably wouldn't even leave a scar, but it hurt like hell, throbbing under the bandages. Lucky for him Paar hadn't been aiming for the heart.
As he stood there, letting his muscles slowly relax from the tension of the day, he began to feel the adrenaline of the day drain as well, pooling and swelling in his groin. Mike didn't fight the rising erection, welcomed it, even, as a relief from the grim, sick memories of Paar's placid face. He slid his wet fingers down to the hardened shaft, stroking over it, urging it to rise as he replaced Paar's face with another. A soft, sweet smile, bright blue eyes, tall, lean body. He gripped himself tightly, his hand slick with soap, and thrust once into his own fist, biting his lips to stifle the groan. Ah, yes. Much better. Wipe away that sick son-of-a-bitch with this, forget about the faces of those girls. Instead, there was just the clean, smooth friction of his hand on his cock, the mindless, slippery slide of skin on skin under the pouring water. He found the memory of Ben's body next to his, the long, strong fingers digging into Mike's spine, pulling him closer. Then the memory of Ben behind him, molding his body to Mike's back, his cock slipping inside him. Mike gritted his teeth, closing his eyes as he stroked himself faster, hips pumping as he remembered what it felt like, Ben moving in and out of him, those long legs twined with his. Then Ben's voice in his ear, saying his name . . .
Mike gasped silently as he came, warm excitement spilling out over his fingers, washed away immediately in the streaming water. He pumped even harder into his fist, bent on emptying himself completely, not letting go of his softening cock until he had spent every last dram of the orgasm.
After it was over, though, he leaned back against the tiles, all the good feelings draining away, replaced by a deep, pensive melancholy. He grabbed his towel, scrubbing the water from his body with fierce attention, determined not to be trapped in this again. Since he'd been dating Ben, he'd thought he'd gotten over this, moved past that terrible, black loneliness that always seemed to follow the release of passion. Even when he wasn't alone, when he was with other people, other partners, it still happened, the aftermath of sex somehow bringing home to him the fact that he was alone. That he'd always been alone.
*Okay. Now we're really hitting the self-pity,* Mike berated himself harshly. *Get over it,* he told himself fiercely. *You'll see Ben tonight.* *And so what?* the nasty little voice in him argued. *He wants to "talk." You agreed to talk, to "try to work things out." That doesn't mean he's taking you back, Mikey. That doesn't mean you'll ever have what you threw away on Ricky Caruso.*
"Just shut up," he said, and realized when the sound echoed around the empty locker room that he'd actually spoken out loud. Okay. That was bad. Talking to himself, arguing with himself. Time to snap out of this.
It was easier said than done.
He called Ben from a pay phone on the street, realizing belatedly that they'd never made any actual plans about meeting. Mike had a vague notion that it might be a good idea to go to a restaurant, somewhere public where he could say what he needed to, hear what Ben needed to tell him, and not be tempted to just take him to bed and bury the problem in the bliss of ecstacy. Not that that was an entirely bad thought.
*Get a grip,* he told himself. *Ben's not like you. Something's wrong, he wants to fix it, not cover it up. So shut your mouth and keep your pants zipped.*
Ben picked up on the second ring. "Hi," Mike said. "It's me."
"Mike." Ben sounded pleased. "I was wondering when you'd call."
"Yeah, well . . ." Mike cleared his throat. "I got done later than I expected." He paused again. "Paar's in custody. We got him."
"Good. Congratulations."
"Yeah. Max is still taking his confession." Mike had to stop. "Probably going to take a while."
"I see." Ben's voice was starting to sound funny. Awkward, and stiff. Nervous, Mike suddenly realized, and oddly enough that made him feel better. There was a lot of comfort in knowing that he wasn't the only one here who didn't know what the hell he was doing.
"Uh, look, I know it's early, but I was thinking maybe we could meet for dinner somewhere," Mike offered.
Another long silence. "We could," Ben said, but didn't sound too eager. He paused again, then said, cautiously, "I guess I was thinking more along the lines of us meeting somewhere else. I thought--" He stopped. "I thought maybe I could come over there. Or you could come over here."
Mike's throat was dry. It took him two tries to get the next words out. "Okay. I'm already out, why don't I come there?"
"All right." The relief in Ben's voice matched the sudden lightening of the tension in Mike's chest. "I'll be waiting."
"I'll be there."
-----
Ben hung up with a deep, shaking breath, forcing himself to be calm. But his hand trembled as he drew it back from the receiver, and he wiped his palm on his trousers, wondering, now, if he'd done the right thing. It had been his idea to slow down, to back off and wait until emotion had subsided. But the nights spent here, by himself, had been enough to teach him that cutting himself off from Mike wasn't the answer. He took another deep breath, bracing his hands on his thighs, then stood up and went to the bathroom to get ready.
When Mike arrived, Ben was waiting at the door, watching through the stained-glass panes as the other man strode up the walkway, a dark-haired, dangerous predator. Ben swallowed, watching, and knew that he'd made the right choice. This was the best for him. The best for both of them. He opened the door as Mike pressed the bell, and saw the other's man gaze flick over him, taking in the belted bathrobe, the bare feet, the glasses, forgotten until now, perched on his nose.
"Is this a new look?" Mike asked as Ben stepped aside to let him in. His voice was easy, light, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. His hands were in his pockets, nervous, and Ben felt a pang of conscience. Enough was enough.
"No." Ben took off his glasses, folding them into his pocket. "Just lazy." He stepped forward, offering a kiss, and closed his eyes as Mike accepted it, gratefully. His mouth was soft, the kiss oddly shy, as if Mike were no longer sure of its welcome. Ben drew back a little, nibbling tiny, soft bites along Mike's lower lip, gentle, teasing nips that continued until finally Mike relented, and joined in the game, seeking his own taste of Ben's mouth, trading nibbles, kisses, and licks until they were both smiling, enjoying the contest.
Then Ben kissed Mike again, earnestly, sliding his mouth over Mike's, delicately insinuating a questing tongue between Mike's lips until they opened, surrendering. He let the kiss go on for a moment, feeling Mike's breath begin to quicken, then reached out, finding one of Mike's big, broad hands, and wrapped his fingers around the wrist, slowly drawing it into the gap of his robe. He pressed Mike's palm to the smooth, bare skin underneath, guiding it down his own body, over the soft, silky swell of his hip, naked under the robe. Mike gave a faint exclamation of surprise, and pulled back, looking at Ben warily. But he kept his hand where it was.
"I thought we were going to talk about this," he said, but the deep, almost hoarse tone of lust in his voice betrayed him. Ben shook his head, leaning up to press his mouth to Mike's neck, tasting the salty sweat on his skin.
"I don't want to talk," he said, and bit gently at the soft skin just under his jaw. Then he took Mike's hand, and led him upstairs.
When they reached the bedroom, Ben turned, putting his hands on the tie of his robe, but Mike was there before him, his hands pushing at the collar, parting the cloth at his neck. Ben let his hands drop, then lifted them to Mike's back as the other man bent close, dropping his head to mouth softly at the bare skin as it was exposed. Mike pushed the robe gently from his shoulders, his hands soft and gentle, caressing the skin as he bared it, then following with lips and tongue, each kiss a soft brush of electric warmth against Ben's skin. He moved with care across Ben's shoulders, his kisses extraordinarily gentle, tenderly tracing the line of Ben's collarbone, licking the hollows under his throat, pressing his mouth to the curve of his shoulder. Mike kissed down his bare arm, sliding the robe away, then ran his hands possessively over Ben's back, caressing the length of his body, taking the robe with them. He let it fall in a puddle at Ben's feet, still breathing in his scent, his mouth pressed to the swell of Ben's shoulder.
It wasn't until the glorious, soft warmth of Mike's mouth was taken away that Ben realized he was standing with his eyes closed, drinking in the sensation of Mike's mouth on him, luxuriating in the soft, sweet caresses. He could feel the flush of desire on his skin, the heat radiating from him, and from the body pressed against him. But then it was gone, and Ben opened his eyes, dazed and wondering, to see what had drawn Mike away.
Mike was still there, his hands still caressing softly down Ben's arms. But he was holding him at arms' length, his head tilted to the side. Studying him, as if he'd never seen him before. Ben was suddenly, self-consciously aware of his own nakedness, of his thin, pale body, mottled, he was sure, with the red of passion, his blushing penis standing out straight and stiff from his waist. But Mike was looking at him with soft, dreamy eyes, his expression one of profound absorption. His left hand moved, reaching up to brush delicate fingers down Ben's side, stroking with exquisite care over his hip, then across his stomach and chest, touching him as if he were a precious artifact. A cautious, tender finger traced the line of his sternum, dropping down to circle his navel, leaving a trail of tingling arousal in its wake until finally it brushed, with the lightest of feathering touches, the taut length of his penis. Ben let out a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding, frozen under Mike's gaze, paralyzed by the soft, caressing grip on his arm. He was naked under Mike's eyes, exposed. He had never been so turned on in his life.
Slowly, Mike let his hands drop to his sides, then, still holding Ben with that same intent, absorbed stare, he stepped back, reaching for the hem of his shirt. He stripped slowly while Ben watched, pulling off his shirt with a leisurely, sensual arch of his back, letting the shirt fall carelessly to the floor behind him. The jeans were next, the slow glide of the zipper an almost unbearable suspense until it was finally open, the bulge behind the underwear unmistakable. Mike took his time sliding the jeans from his hips, his eyes fixed on Ben's face while he caressed his own hands down his legs, toeing out of his shoes and socks, stepping from the bunched denim and kicking it aside, leaving him naked to Ben's eyes. He was as hard as Ben, his cock bouncing gently with his movements, the whole length flushed a dark, hungry purple. Ben licked at his suddenly dry lips, and, as if reading his mind, Mike stepped forward, sliding his hands around his waist, bringing their bodies together.
But it was only for a moment. Almost as soon as Ben surrendered to the sensation, reveling in the feel of hot, damp skin next to his, Mike was pulling away, sliding down his body, his mouth pressing quick, hurried kisses along the line of Ben's chest and stomach until he was on his knees in front of him, tilting his head to take Ben in his mouth. Ben felt his cock leap between Mike's lips, felt it swell impossibly as Mike drew it in, opening his mouth to swallow as much as he could of it. Ben's knees began to tremble, and Mike's arms wrapped abruptly around his hips, pulling him closer, holding him tight against Mike's body. Ben let his hands fall limply to the dark head bent in front of him, stroking his fingers mindlessly through the thick locks. He let his head fall forward, his breath leaving him in a soft, shaken sigh as Mike's mouth continued to work him, engulfing him in wet, sucking, heat. Ben touched his hair again, running his palms over the sleek, damp mass, watching in dazed wonder as his own wet cock slid in and out of Mike's lips. Mike's eyes were closed, his face rapt with attention to his job, his beautiful, pale throat working as he sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, the muscles under his jaw bunching as his tongue danced around the tip. He spread his knees, tightening his hold to bear up Ben's weight, supporting him while he slowly, thoroughly, ravaged him.
Finally, just when Ben was sure he couldn't take it another second, Mike let him go, letting his cock slide out with a final, sweet kiss on the tip, He released him slowly, and stood, pulling Ben into his arms and kissing him again. The desire in him had risen to an almost painful fever pitch, every kiss like a surge of electricity, sending a flush of heat along his sensitized skin. Pleasure so intense, so overwhelming, that it was almost pain. He wanted to push Mike away, to make it stop, and at the same time he pulled himself closer, willing himself to mold with every part of the body in front of him, wishing it would never stop.
"Please, please . . ." he heard someone say, and realized belatedly that the soft, whimpering plea was his own. "Mike," he breathed. "Please . . . I want you, please . . ."
Mike made a hoarse, choked sound against him, almost a groan, nearly a whimper. His lips fastened on Ben's throat, sucking hard, his arms crushing him impossibly closer. Then his grip tightened, and shifted, and Ben was suddenly propelled back towards the bed, his feet barely seeming to touch the floor as he let himself be swept along by Mike's strong arms. He fell back on the bed with a thump, pulling Mike down with him.
Ben lay there, panting, for a moment, looking up at the darkly flushed face above him, eyes smoldering under the fallen shock of black hair. He gulped for breath, and reached up. "Mike," he said quietly, and Mike closed his eyes, his cock leaping up visibly from the soft nest at his groin. "Please, Mike," Ben said again, Mike nodded, his breath rushing out of him in a long, helpless sigh.
Mike's hands were extraordinarily gentle, soft and careful on Ben's skin as he turned him over. The same hands that had so effortlessly lifted his weight not a minute before, the strength in those broad arms almost frightening, were now touching him with delicate, tender attention. His palms lingered over Ben's buttocks, massaging, kneading, the big hands cupping and squeezing him before moving on, sliding down to spread his thighs, pushing his knees up until he was kneeling slightly on the bed, ready, waiting.
Ben gulped at the first slick touch, closing his eyes as the warm, probing finger slid around and around the aching opening, teasing, soothing . . . driving him mad. He pushed back with his hips, wordlessly urging, and was rewarded with a soft, gentle pressure at the center of the tight bud. He pushed back again, willing himself to open, to accept the softly insistent intrusion, and groaned when he did, the finger sliding up into him, slick and warm. Ben let his head fall to the pillows, trying to control his breathing, hearing his heart pound in his chest. His pulse throbbed around the gently wiggling finger inside him, and he clenched his muscles, moaning again as the finger slid out, then was joined by another.
By the time Mike was finished with him, Ben was sure that every joint in his body had collapsed, overwhelmed with sensation, leaving him nothing but the taut, throbbing desire between his legs. The fingers were gone now, but he could feel himself still opened, more than ready for that thick, sweet cock. Mike took his time though, the soft, wet sounds his fingers made as he slicked himself down only adding to the frustration. Finally, though, he was back, his fingers caressing over him one last time, then the soft, round tip of his penis was right there, settling in, ready to push forward. Ben took a deep breath, spread his knees a little further, and let himself open.
They both cried out in surprise, Ben muffling an unintended scream in the pillows as Mike's full length slid into him at once, slick and fast, spreading him wide. Mike gasped out loud, his hands tightening on Ben's back as he was pulled in, his cock swallowed helplessly in Ben's body. It should have hurt, and it did hurt, a little, but the pain was gone almost before he noticed, subsumed in the sudden, hot frenzy of sensation of feeling Mike inside him. They both held there a while, panting, Mike's pulse beating hard against Ben's back, his hands gripping him mindlessly. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath, and began to thrust.
The first thrust was long, and slow, and so was the second, and the third. Mike, taking his time, moving in and out of Ben's body with powerful, lingering strokes. Drawing it out as long as he possibly could. Ben fell quickly into the rhythm, lifting his hips, arching his back, before long spreading his knees out, lowering himself to the mattress to ease the strain on his joints, sensing that this was going to take a long, long time.
Mike didn't disappoint him. Ben spread out underneath him, melting more into the mattress with each burning stroke, his limbs awash with limp sensation. Mike draped himself over Ben's back like a warm, sweaty blanket, never ceasing the slow, glorious pumping of his hips. Ben pushed back to help, lifting his own hips up to meet every thrust, his erection rubbing delightfully against the covers with every long, slow arch of his back. They rocked there together, making long, slow love on top of the big bed, for longer than Ben wanted to count. It was so good, so delicious, Mike moving in and out of him, working them both up to a long, swelling peak of passion, achingly slow, unbearably sweet.
But it couldn't last. Eventually, Ben felt the desire rise up in him, a long, rolling wave that was as slow and inevitable as an incoming tide. Every strong thrust brought him a little closer, every caress of Mike's hands on his body, every brush of his lips and tongue on Ben's back. Mike was feeling it, too, his breath beginning to pant harshly in his chest, his slow pumping taking on a quiet, increased urgency. He stroked Ben's back again, settling his hands on his hips, and thrust in a little harder, quickening the tempo. Ben choked back a cry at his cock leapt up under him, and rose to copy the rhythm, pushing his knees up again to meet Mike's thrusts.
It took a long, glorious forever, neither of them wanting to end it, but helpless to resist the demands of their impatient bodies. Ben felt his hands clenching in the pillows, clawing at the covers as he fought to hold back, even as his back arched up, driving himself hard against the delicious friction of Mike's cock inside him. Then Mike leaned forward, bracing a hand to the side of Ben's shoulder, and the other slid under his body, finding his hard length and sliding his fingers down it. Just a touch, just a light caress of two fingers over the taut skin, but one stroke, two strokes, and it was enough.
Ben came hard, bucking under Mike as the shudders rippled through his body, feeling his muscles clench in a sharp, involuntary squeeze around Mike's thrusting shaft. Then Mike was coming, too, his hips pushing hard against him, collapsing them both on top of the covers, their bodies shivering together in the heat. Mike was whispering in Ben's ear, soft words, sweet, breathless endearments that he barely heard, could scarcely comprehend behind the mind-blowing lassitude of orgasm. Not that he cared. It was enough, now, to simply have that warm, stifling weight on top of him, to have that deep, sonorous voice in his ear, no matter what he was saying.
Then Mike fell silent with a soft kiss at the back of Ben's neck, and Ben felt him shift. He suppressed a whimper as his softening length slipped away. Ben rolled over, reaching out, seeking, and felt a soft, gentle kiss on his lips. "I'll be right back," Mike promised, and Ben nodded accepting. He was already drowsing into sleep, naked on top of the covers, chilling now that his warm blanket was gone. But Mike was back soon, as promised, and together they managed to crawl beneath the covers, warm with their lovemaking, and wrap themselves around one another in the dark. Ben kissed Mike's temple, sleepily, and tightened his hold around him. "Stay," he whispered quietly, and felt the soft hairs move against his arm as Mike nodded.
"I will," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." Buoyed by the promise, Ben fell asleep.
-----
In the wee hours of the morning, Ben felt Mike leave the bed. It wasn't that Ben was such a light sleeper, but the process of disentangling his limbs from Ben's made it almost impossible for Mike to get up without disturbing him. Ben rolled over, trying to form a protest, but was too groggy to do anything more than watch that long, pale body move silently to the bathroom door. Reassured that he would return, Ben closed his eyes again, but found, now, that he was slowly, inexorably, coming wide awake.
He held the covers back as Mike returned, wrapping his arms around him in a soft, loose embrace as he lay back down. They lay together silently for a while, Ben idly running his fingers through Mike's hair, petting it back gently from his face.
"I thought we agreed that this wouldn't be a good idea," Mike finally said drowsily, the smile audible in the dark.
"Well . . ." Ben said carelessly. He stroked Mike's hair again. "There are good ideas, and then there are good ideas." He shifted, bringing Mike closer. "I thought it would nice to have some distance. Some time to think."
"Did you think?"
"Mm-hm." Ben bent down, searching for Mike's mouth in the dark. "I thought about you," he said when they parted. "Day and night."
Mike said nothing, only wrapped himself around Ben's body, kissing him softly. Then he slid back down into Ben's arms, resting his cheek on Ben's chest. They lay there a long time, quietly in the dark, until Ben finally found the courage to speak.
"Who was it?"
He asked the question softly, casually, as if it didn't matter. As if he could fool Mike into thinking that it didn't matter. He hadn't meant to ask, had told himself that it would be best not to know. Right.
Mike shifted against him, his body tensing. But he didn't pretend to misunderstand. "My partner," he said finally, and Ben felt a cold weight drop into his gut. "Caruso." He swallowed. "Ricky."
Ricky Caruso. Ben thought he might be sick. Tall, dark-haired, beautiful, green-eyed Ricky Caruso. Ben closed his eyes. "I see."
He didn't think his despair would show, but Mike obviously heard something in his voice. He lifted himself up, taking Ben's face in his hands, kissing him again. "I shouldn't have told you," he said flatly. "I'm sorry."
"No." Ben took in a deep breath. "No, I'm glad I know." *Glad I know that he's gone,* and hated himself at once for having even thought it. He patted Mike's arm, trying to smile, even in the dark. "It's all right," he lied. "I'm glad I know."
Mike held still for a moment. "Ben," he said quietly. "It's never going to happen again. We were both . . . on the edge, that night. It shouldn't have happened. It was a mistake. And I'm sorry." He kissed Ben again. "He's not you," he said, and Ben felt a flood of relief. "He never was you." He withdrew again. "Okay?"
Ben nodded, then reached up and stroked Mike's face, his fingers soft on the rough-stubbled cheek. "Okay," he agreed.
"Good." Mike kissed him one last time, then settled down his arms, wrapping Ben's body around him. "Let's get some sleep, all right?"
-----
Ben rose early in the morning. Leaving Mike sprawled asleep over his half of the bed, he went downstairs and started a pot of coffee, then debated briefly about what to fix for his breakfast. He was just pouring the first batch of eggs into the pan when Mike appeared in the doorway, unshaven, hair mussed, and yawning. He was wearing one of Ben's bathrobes, a blue silk one that had been a present from Helen. It fit him well, Ben noted with pardonable satisfaction.
With a sleepy smile, Mike sat down at the breakfast table, running his hands through his hair and yawning again. Ben brought him a cup of coffee without being asked, and watched as Mike reverently breathed in the steam before taking the first sip.
"Good morning," Ben said, and bent down to kiss his cheek. Mike, nose still buried in the coffee mug, smiled in reply and then turned his head, catching Ben's mouth with a quick kiss of the own.
"Morning," he said at last, and leaned his elbows on the table, cradling the coffee cup in his hands.
"You want breakfast?" Ben offered, and returned to pushing the eggs around in the skillet.
"I'm starving," Mike said, and sipped coffee again.
Still stirring the eggs, Ben took the opportunity to give him a long look, complacently assessing the rumpled, tousled figure slumped at his breakfast table. "I could get used to this," he said.
Now halfway through his first coffee, Mike was, as scheduled, beginning to wake up. "So could I," he said, sitting up straighter as he looked at Ben, and smiled. While Ben watched, brows lifting, Mike stood up and walked over to the stove, putting his arms around Ben's waist from behind. He was still holding the coffee cup, but hot coffee became the least of Ben's concerns as a pair of warm, soft lips began to nuzzle the back of his neck.
"Thanks," Mike finally said, his words muffled in Ben's skin.
"For what?" Ben gave the eggs another stir, letting himself lean back into Mike's embrace.
It took a while for Mike to answer. "For seeing me last night," he said. "For giving me a second chance."
Ben lifted a hand to curve over the arm that spanned his waist, rubbing his palm up under the hem of the smooth silk robe, caressing the skin underneath. "I missed you," he said simply. "Mike . . . I hope you understand that I never hated you."
A brief snort became a pulse of heated air down his back. "Believe me, I know." Mike tightened his grip for a moment, laying his cheek against Ben's shoulder. "I almost wish you had," he said after a while. "That's how I'm used to doing things, you know. Some shouting, maybe a couple of thrown dishes, *then* sex." He paused, then added with a soft, purring, chuckle, "You're messing up my foreplay."
Ben laughed. "I can make you drop that coffee cup, if it will make you feel any better."
If anything, Mike's fingers tightened around the ceramic handle. "No way. You make me miss my morning cup of joe, and then there'll *really* be trouble" He fell silent then, his head resting against Ben's, his chest moving slowly against Ben's back with the quiet rhythm of his breath. They stayed that way, locked in the loose, comfortable embrace, Mike watching over Ben's shoulder while he finished cooking the eggs.
"Ben . . ."
Ben waited, spatula poised. "Yes?" he finally prompted.
Gently, Mike withdrew from the embrace, leaving one hand on Ben's waist while he turned Ben to face him. "Ben," he said again, and Ben was struck by the sudden doubt in his face, the clear eyes shadowed with the worry that Ben hadn't heard in his voice.
"What is it?"
"Ben . . ." Mike said for the third time, then looked away, running his hand over his hair. "I just want to know . . . is this it? Are we . . . ?" He wiped his hand over his face, another uneasy gesture, then blurted, in a quiet rush of words, "I just want to know if this means we're back." He swallowed. "Back to what we were before."
It took Ben a startled second to form an answer. "Well," he said at last, "I thought that was the point." He regarded Mike for a long moment. "Is that what you want?"
Mike's chin came up. "Yeah. Yeah, it is," he finished defiantly, as if daring Ben to contradict him.
Slowly, Ben nodded. "All right then." He searched Mike's face. "It might not be easy," he felt obliged to say. "Things have changed."
"I know." Mike took a deep breath. "I know," he said again, "but I'm willing to give it another try."
Ben smiled. "Good."
-----
Eighteen Months Later
-----
" . . . and serve the citizens of New York. Congratulations, Detective."
Mike shook the Police Chief's hand, not quite able to keep from grinning ear to ear as he finally felt the weight of the gold badge in his hand. Behind the Chief, he could see his dad standing in the front row, looking so proud that he seemed about to burst. Katy was next to him, grinning and clapping right alongside, and Mike gave her a wink and a grin before his eyes moved up, looking for one particular face among the small crowd.
Ben had debated with him about whether or not to come, not wanting to make any waves for him, show him any partiality that might get him in trouble with his colleagues. Mike would have had him there anyway, but then Max had made things easy by insisting that Ben come to see his new partner get promoted. After all, Max had argued, if it hadn't been for Ben they'd never have met.
That was a nice irony. Ben as matchmaker. Remembering what it'd been like to work with Greevey, Mike wasn't so sure that Ben had done him a favor. But he was on the DA's Squad now, the elite of the force, and that was nothing to sneeze at for a rookie detective with the ink still wet on his promotion papers.
The Chief wrapped up the ceremony with a few words, and Mike caught Ben's eye again as he applauded, giving Mike a smile that was only meant for him. It was nice having him here, even if it couldn't be as anything more than another professional friend. Later, after Mike's family had had a chance to fuss over him, they'd have their own private celebration. Not only for Mike's promotion, either.
Mike couldn't believe it had been two years. Granted, it had taken them months before they'd gone on that first, not-quite-date, but it was hard to fathom that it had been two years ago that they'd first sized each other up across a crowded squad room. Mike hadn't even thought about it, and he'd been surprised when Ben mentioned it. Not that he was going to turn down a chance to celebrate. No way.
Ben had been right. It hadn't been easy. Mike glanced at the badge in his hand, then lifted his gaze to meet Ben's once more, smiling out over the crowd and not caring, for a single instant, who saw. Nope, not easy. But it had been worth it.
THE END