FIC: "Louder Than Words" 1/2 (Law & Order Logan/Stone NC-17 Slash)
Title: Louder Than Words [Download the podfic 73.36 MB]
Author: Dorothy Marley (dmarley)
Fandom: Law & Order
Pairing: Mike Logan/Ben Stone
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
Content Notice: ( skip) Non-graphic mentions of child abuse.
Length: 17,814 words
Date Completed: May 14, 1998; First published July 1999 in the zine Law & Ardor.
Disclaimer: Mike Logan, Ben Stone and the rest of the Law & Order characters belong to Dick Wolf and Universal. They are being used without permission, and without profit. No infringement on the rights of the owners is intended.
Notes: This was my first published slash story, completed in May of 1998. If I were writing this for the first time now, I'm sure there are things I would do differently, and I've made some revisions from the original. But I certainly wouldn't change a single moment of the experience. This story takes place during the Law & Order episode "Indifference."
Summary: As Mike Logan investigates the Lowenstein case, he and Ben Stone begin to re-evaluate their broken relationship.
"Louder Than Words"
by Dorothy Marley
-----
The offices of the District Attorney were nearly deserted, the lights dimmed over the rows of cubicles, the doors and windows closed and secured. From where Mike Logan sat, he could see the darkened corridor stretching away past the open door of Paul's office, down to where a few lights still burned at the end of the corridor. Next to him, Paul's fingers raced over the keyboard of his typewriter, the quick chatter of the keys almost swallowed up by the silence around them.
A surreptitious check of his watch showed the time to be close to ten, hours past the time when he ought to have gone home. But tonight, Mike wasn't complaining. Better to sit here and numb his butt on what passed for a chair than go home and stare at the ceiling and try not to think about Didi Lowenstein's face.
There were times when Mike wondered if there any use in it at all. He was a cop, supposedly making a living protecting the citizens of New York City, but every day, damn near every hour, it seemed, he got slapped in the face with the brutal fact that it wasn't enough. Hadn't been enough. Not for all the dozens of corpses whose murders he'd investigated, not for all the victims whose lives had been ruined by rape or robbery or assault. And sure as hell not enough for Dierdre Lowenstein.
"Hey. Hey! Earth to Logan."
Mike started, aware only belatedly that the sound of the typewriter had ceased some time ago. Paul waved a hand at him, then pushed the form that he was supposed to sign over to him. "Oh, sorry, Paul." Mike sat up, wiping a hand down his face, running his fingers through his hair. "Sorry," he said again. "I guess I drifted off for a second."
"Long day?"
"You could say that." Mike shook his head slowly. "This case . . ." He leaned his head into his hands, massaging his temple briefly while he tried to find the way to say it. "I've got this feeling about it," he said, his words muffled by his hands. "It's bad already, and I can't help thinking that this is just the beginning."
"Child abuse is always tough," Paul said sympathetically. "But remember our deal? You arrest 'em . . ."
" . . . you put 'em away." Mike lifted his head, his mouth turning up in an involuntary smile at the old joke. "Yeah." His eyes finally fell back to the paper on the desk, recalling him to what he was here for. He picked it up and scanned it briefly, then pulled out a pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom. "There."
"Thanks." Paul took the form back and tucked it into the folder resting beside him. "I appreciate you coming down."
Mike got to his feet, feeling a weak attempt at a grin spread over his face. "Well, I wouldn't want you getting another 'this office is run by Larry, Moe, and Curly' speech."
"Thanks," Paul said with feeling. "I can't believe I nearly tried to go to trial without an evidence summary. Ben would have had them for breakfast."
While Paul sorted through the folder, making sure everything was in place, Mike stood up, shrugging into his overcoat and feeling in his pocket for his gloves. He'd kept the coat on through most of the interview, the city being conservation-minded enough to have regulators on the heating system that turned down the thermostat automatically at night. In the winter it wasn't so bad, but in August this little cubicle could become a hot, humid oven, forcing Paul to flee to the cooler confines of Stone's office, at least on those rare occasions when the other DA wasn't also burning the midnight oil.
Almost against his will, Mike found his eyes drawn down the hall, to where a faint light still trickled from the blinds shading Ben's office. "Stone still here?" he heard himself ask.
"You better believe it." Paul shook his head. "Opening arguments day after tomorrow. He's been working overtime on this one."
"Yeah, I bet he has," Mike said absently. He turned as Paul reached for the thick folder, looking from him back to the door of Stone's office. It didn't take long to make up his mind. "You going to take that to him now?"
"Yeah. He'll need it first thing, might as well have it handy."
Mike reached out a hand. "I can do that," he said, willing his voice to be casual. "I need to ask him something, anyway."
Paul hesitated only a second. "Tell him I left ten minutes ago," was all he said before handing the folder over and splitting.
Mike grinned as he watched Paul scurry away, making it to the elevator in something like ten seconds rather than ten minutes. He tossed him a wave as the attorney ducked inside, the door pinging shut behind him to leave Mike alone in the dark, still air. He turned around in the quiet hall, breathing in the deep silence.
This was his favorite time to be here, after hours, when the place was dark and quiet, only a few industrious souls laboring in the chilly air. During the day, the place was a bright chaos of people, loud and bustling. But every night, all that went away, leaving only the quiet, dark-paneled halls. The precinct was never like this. Day or night, the brightly-lit squad room didn't change, the hustle and bustle and noise continuing, unceasing, twenty-four hours a day. Here, though, there was a rhythm, an order. Here, there was a time to rest, to go home and pretend that the problems of the world could be tucked neatly between the hours of nine and five. A noise from the end of the hall made him look up, and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. For some, anyway.
-----
Ben almost didn't hear the firm knock on his door, distracted as he was by the steady thump of the piles of paper hitting the conference table. He picked up another stack, glanced over the tabs, and added it to the heap as the glass on the door rattled briefly under someone's knuckles. "Come in!" he said, already turning to the piled folders that were stacked along the wall. The door opened behind him, and he spoke without looking up. "I hope to God that's the Masters case, Paul."
"Well, ask and ye shall receive."
Ben jerked up, startled to hear a voice other than Robinette's lightweight bass coming from his visitor. "Detective," he said after a moment, taking in the familiar silhouette standing in his doorway. "You're working late."
"So are you." Logan took a look around, scanning over the piles of paper, the opened cabinets. "Redecorating?"
"Rearranging," Ben corrected. He gestured to the open file cabinets. "Making room. I ran out of space in the 'M's." He gathered up the last of the folders, and stacked them on the table. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"I came by to drop this off." Mike stepped forward, holding out the bulging folder. "Paul said you'd need it."
"Indeed I do." Ben took the file, glancing through the contents. "Thank you, Detective."
"Are you still planning to call me?"
"That was the idea," Ben said, still staring at the file. "Is there a problem?"
"No," Mike said quickly. "Just making sure I had it straight."
He stood there for another moment, and Ben finally looked up from the file. "Is there something else?" he asked at last.
Mike shifted awkwardly, opening his mouth, then he shut it abruptly and shook his head. "No. No, I'm sorry." He turned. "Good night."
"Detective--" Ben stopped himself, and tried again. "Mike? Is something wrong?"
Mike didn't turn back. "No. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come by." He reached for the knob, but his hand hesitated just short of it, fingers reaching, but not willing, it seemed, to touch it just yet, to make the connection that would signal his leaving. The arm fell back to his side, and he sighed deeply. He turned to face Ben again, shoulders slumped, eyes cast down in a mix of despair and resignation. "I shouldn't have come by," he said again. "I know that. But--" He blew out a long, weary breath, eyes closing as he surrendered the final hurdle of pride. "Today, this case . . ." He opened his eyes, lifting them to lock with Ben's, the darkened depths soft, and filled with something that Ben was only dimly beginning to recognize as pain. "I need to talk to someone," he continued. "And you . . ." He hesitated again, then went on. "You were the only one I could think of."
Ben's stomach seemed to have gained a lead weight. *No,* was his first thought. *This isn't my responsibility,* he told himself. *Not any more.* Mike searched his eyes for a second, and must have read the unspoken thought. "I'm sorry," he said for the third time. "Just forget it, all right? No big deal."
"Mike." His voice stopped Logan at the door, and Ben was appalled at the raw, trembling gentleness that had, unbidden, taken over his processes of speech. He swallowed, bringing himself back under control, and steeled himself as Mike turned back, reluctant, his heavy-lidded eyes casting back over his shoulder. "Mike," he said again, soft, gentle, but in control. "Why don't you sit down?"
He almost didn't. Ben waited, saying nothing, until Mike finally nodded and moved toward the table, dropping his long length onto one of the chairs as if making the decision had taken the last of his strength.
"You want a drink?" Ben offered. Mike shook his head. Ben glanced at his desk, at the papers heaped on his chair, and reached behind him for the chair still sitting askew at the foot of the table. He planted himself in it, the Masters file still propped on his knee, and regarded Mike carefully over the tops of his glasses. "You look tired," he observed, and cursed himself again as his traitor voice slipped on the phrase. He made a living with his voice, knowing how to use it and play it and control it, but he seemed to have suddenly lost that control. His brain was sending the appropriate signals: professional, friendly, mild concern. But somewhere along the line, the signals were getting distorted, and he didn't like the feeling.
"Long day," Mike said. His voice had gone quiet, surrendering. Ben knew that tone, and he forced his own voice under control once more.
"You want to tell me about it?"
Mike wiped a hand over his face, pushing his bangs back from his forehead. "It's this case," he said. He sagged forward a little, propping his temple on his fingers. "I'm sorry, Ben. I know I shouldn't be laying this on you. I don't have the right, I know that."
"It's okay." And Ben was surprised to find that it was the truth. "We can still talk to each other, Mike."
"It's just . . . I can't tell anyone else about this. You're the only one who'll understand." Mike gave a little laugh. "Sad, but true."
"Tell me."
Mike sat back again, staring at the bookshelves along the far wall. His hair had fallen back into his eyes, soft and thick, trailing from the widow's peak to spill across his forehead. Sitting there, tie undone, the top of his shirt loose, it was all familiar to Ben. How many times had they sat here, after work, talking, sharing a drink, trading news of the day before it was time to go home? Ben felt an almost painful stab of sudden nostalgia, repressed it ruthlessly with the practice of long months. Instead, he made himself lean back, taking off his glasses and folding them into his pocket. And he waited.
"The Lowenstein case," Mike began at last. "Just caught it this morning." He swallowed. "Child abuse. Little girl's in the hospital, probably won't make it."
"Parents?" Ben asked, and hated himself at once for the casual assumption. And even more when Mike nodded, unsurprised that he'd made that all-too-common leap of logic.
"The mother, probably."
"Oh," Ben said, and knew that Mike heard the wealth of meaning that somehow fell into that one, knowledge-laden syllable.
"Yeah," Mike said bitterly. He dropped his head back into his hand, rubbing softly at his temples. "She did it, Ben. I know she did." His voice tightened. "And she doesn't care. We came to tell her that her daughter was in the hospital, and all she could think about was how it was affecting her. She called her 'it,' Ben. Her own daughter."
"I'm sorry, Mike."
He pushed himself up again. "There's a little boy, too. Four or five." He fell silent, and Ben finally had to ask.
"The father?"
Mike shook his head again. "It was her," he said with conviction. His eyes lifted to meet Ben's. "She did it. I don't care what she says."
Ben regarded him thoughtfully. "What does Max think?"
Mike shrugged. "He thinks the father's to blame, I guess." He nodded sagely. "But I know better."
Ben said nothing for a long time. He wasn't sure what to say. He was moving into uncertain territory here, the waters that much more treacherous because he'd sailed them before. There was a time when he would have known exactly what to do with a Mike Logan in pain. He'd known how to ease that pain, how to soothe the hurt and the fear. But that particular avenue was closed to him now, and he had only words to fall back on. Words were his business, and it should have been easy. But the part of him that might have been composing the pretty speech was being short-circuited by the other part, by the reflex that knew that the proper response was something entirely different.
"I know that it must be hard," he said at last, wincing at the feeble homily even as he offered it. "And you may be right about her. But . . ."
He stopped. No. This wasn't the way to go. "I don't know what to say," he said at last, throwing the speeches aside in favor of simple honesty, all, really, that he had left to offer. "I don't know how to make this easier for you. It's a painful situation, and I don't expect you to be able to turn off all those feelings. But, Mike . . ." He hesitated again, his hand half-extended before he knew it, then he gathered himself and completed the gesture, sliding his hand over Mike's knee, pressing against the soft wool and hard muscle underneath. "Mike, I can tell you this." He tightened his grip, feeling the muscles jump under his hand. His voice was rough, nearly trembling with intensity as he told him, with every bit of conviction he could muster, "She is not your mother."
Mike closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "I know," he said. "I keep telling myself that." He opened his eyes again, and turned to look at Ben, the dark depths shadowed, and haunted. "But then I think, 'maybe she is.'" He shook his head, his eyes still locked on Ben's face. "What if she is, Ben? What am I supposed to do? Let her go? Let those kids grow up like I grew up?"
Ben found himself leaning forward, closer, his hand gripping Mike's thigh, hard enough to hurt. "You do what you're supposed to," he said. "You gather the evidence, you make the arrest, and you let me put her away."
Mike's eyes were burning into his, focused, intent. Ben didn't remember him moving, but now his hand was folded over Ben's, swallowing his up, wrapping around it a familiar, strong squeeze. "I'll hold you to that," he said softly, and his mouth quirked into a brief smile. "Bet on it."
"I will."
The second smile broke the tableau, and Ben drew away, surprised at the mix of relief and disappointment that moved through him as he slipped his hand from Mike's. Mike closed his eyes, then sighed and started to get up. "It's late," he said. "I'd better go."
Ben only nodded, not trusting his voice, not just yet. He joined Mike in rising to his feet, and managed a smile of his own as Mike shrugged into his overcoat. "Thanks," Mike said. "Thanks for listening. I appreciate it."
Ben reached out, gripping his arm gently. "Anytime," he said, and paused. "I mean that."
"Thanks." There was an awkward pause, both of them standing, waiting, then they smiled sheepishly and stepped forward in one another's arms. Ben closed his eyes as Mike's strong arms enfolded him, pulling him close, one hand wrapped around the back of his head. His own arms lifted to hold Mike around the waist, patting his back gently, feeling the familiar soft leather under his touch. They stood there for a long moment, holding each other, then Mike squeezed him gently and pulled back to plant a brief, dry kiss on his temple. Casual, like a brother kissing a brother. "Thank you," he said softly.
Ben nodded once more, and let him go. Mike shrugged into his coat, and turned to the door. "Get some sleep," Ben finally managed. "Everything will look better in the morning."
"Yeah. Right." But he was smiling. "Thanks again." Mike tossed a final smile over his shoulder, then was gone.
-----
Over the next two days, Ben did his best to get on with his work. The current trial occupied most of his time, but in his snatches of spare time he found himself thinking more and more of the Lowenstein case, and consequently of Mike Logan. Child abuse cases were always rough, but this one he was having a hard time putting out of his mind. He suspected that he wasn't the only one.
He was working late Friday, going over his notes from the day's trial and making more for Monday, when his phone buzzed. He snatched it up without looking. "Stone," he said into the receiver, eyes and mind still fixed on the papers in front of him.
"It's Robinette. Max Greevey just called. They need some advice on a case."
That was enough to pull his attention away from the details of the case laid out in front of him. "The Lowensteins?"
"Yeah," Paul said, sounding a little surprised. "I didn't realize you were following it."
"I heard about it," Ben said blandly. "Have they made an arrest?"
"That's what they need advice on. They've brought the parents in, but they're not sure they've got enough to hold them."
Great. Ben looked in dismay at the piled papers in front of him, and at the bigger pile on the conference table that he'd counted on handing over to Robinette. At least he knew now how the case was going, but why *right* now? A trip down to the precinct could take hours, and even if the case was miraculously open and shut he might as well kiss the rest of the night's work good-bye. "Okay," he said at last. "Give me a few minutes to clear some of this up, and I'll go with you."
"You don't have to do that, Ben. I can call you if I need you."
"No," he said, and took off his glasses, dropping them on the pile. "I want to be there on this one, Paul. I don't think I'd get much done waiting here."
-----
Cragen was waiting for them at the precinct, his perpetual look of worry graven even deeper as he ushered them into his office and offered coffee.
"I didn't expect to see you, Ben," he said as he set the mug down in front of him.
Ben took the steaming cup, stirring it by habit before taking a cautious sip. "Child abuse cases seem to have a way of either blowing up in your face, or dying into cold ashes." He stared down into his coffee, and drank again. "This one, I'd like to keep at a nice, steady blaze."
"I wish I had better news, then." Cragen planted himself behind his desk, leaning back to prop his feet on a handy drawer handle. "It's a weak case, gentlemen. Mostly circumstantial, no hard evidence at all against the father. We're still holding him on a drug charge, but we won't be able to make it stick."
"Where's the mother?"
"That's the other good news," Cragen said dourly. "They had to take her to Bellvue. She was hysterical, screaming about her little boy, about her husband."
"Nothing useful, I hope."
"Even if it was admissible, it'd only help her for an insanity defense." Cragen sipped his coffee, made a face, and reached for a package of sugar, forgotten on his desk. "Logan and Greevey are on their way back from there now. Once they get here, I guess we'll see exactly what we do and do not have."
Paul settled back in his chair, holding his coffee on his knee. "Logan seems convinced that it's the mother who's to blame," he said, a shade of doubt creeping in to his voice.
"That's nicely understated," Cragen retorted. "He's already got her tried and convicted."
"Are you so sure he's wrong?" Ben heard himself say. Oh, that was wonderfully objective. Two nights ago, he was holding Logan's hand and telling him that that woman wasn't his mother. Did he think Mike had achieved objectivity in the last forty-eight hours?
Cragen hesitated, visibly struggling. "I just don't know, Ben. This--" He waved a hand. "This is all beyond me. Lowenstein swears he never laid a hand on the girl, but he doesn't even bother to deny that he beat his wife. I just don't see the logic."
"I know exactly how you feel, Captain," Ben said, with heartfelt sincerity. "But just because we can't conceive of it, doesn't mean it didn't happen." And, on the other hand, simply because Logan was projecting didn't mean he was wrong. Great.
Cragen looked like he was about to reply to that when Max rapped sharply on the door and came in, followed by Mike. Ben's gaze fastened at once on the younger detective's face, and felt a tug of worry as he saw the edges of the raw pain beginning to seep through. Ben had known what this case was doing to him, but that didn't make it easier to see it written on the harsh, strained lines of his face. He wasn't surprised, either, to see something of the same look on Max's face, the face of a man who was prepared to find an ugly truth, only to uncover something for which he could never have prepared himself.
Mike's face blanked for a second on seeing Ben, then he nodded greetings to him and to Paul before taking up his usual spot by the window. He leaned there, staring out through the grill while Max summed up their talk with Mrs. Lowenstein. Ben did his dutiful best to pay attention to what Greevey was saying, but his eyes kept straying over and over to his partner, studying the sharply chiseled profile outlined against the dark glass. Mike's mouth was dragged down in an all-too-familiar scowl, his dark brows pulled together over narrowed eyes. He let Max carry the conversation, and indeed Ben wasn't so sure that he was even paying much attention to what his own partner said.
"She was pretty out of it," Greevey concluded. "I'm not sure she's going to be any more help in the morning."
"Well, try, Max," Cragen said. "If we can't dig up something soon, we'll have to let them go."
That snapped Mike out of his reverie. "She was about to stick that kid's hands in boiling water," he said incredulously, turning to fix his scowl on Cragen. "What else do you need?"
"Evidence that she actually hit the little girl would help!" Cragen snapped back. "We don't have anything to prove otherwise, Mike."
"What about forensics?"
"Nothing yet," Cragen said. "In the morning."
"Yeah." Mike turned away again. "Great."
Ben looked at the clock, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Hating himself, not willing to meet Logan's eyes, he said, "Based on what you've told me, you'll have to get something more before you can justify holding either parent for much longer. If you're asking if there's anything the District Attorney's office can do to help, the answer's no."
"In other words, the ball's in our court again," Cragen said. He turned to Max. "Were there any eyewitnesses?"
Max shook his head. "None that have come forward. We canvassed the building, but no one saw anything that night."
"Or if they did, they're not talking," Mike added cynically.
"Hey, someone saw her hit that kid," Max said.
"Yeah, Mr. Lowenstein," Mike offered sarcastically. He turned back to the window, adding bitterly, "And he's been the picture of cooperation."
Cragen glanced at Greevey, startled. "Changing your tune, Max? I thought you were rooting for the father."
Max looked over at his partner, and Ben felt his stomach tighten in a knot. "I think he beat his wife," he said at last. "But I'm not sure which of them beat up Didi."
Cragen swung around to the other detective. "Mike? How are your options?"
Mike wouldn't look at either of them. "I'm still voting for the mother," he said firmly. "She was about to hurt the boy right in front of us. That's enough for me."
"Great. That and a dollar will buy a cup of coffee." Cragen tossed his pen back on his desk and stood up. "Okay. What say we all go home and let the forensics team do their thing? In the morning, we'll talk to Mrs. Lowenstein again."
"Fine." Mike bit the word off and stalked past them, not quite slamming the door behind him as he left.
In the awkward silence that followed, Cragen turned to Greevey, exasperation written all over his face. "What's gotten into him now?" he asked tiredly.
"It's been a long day," Greevey said quietly, and levered himself up. "It's nothing," he elaborated. "I'll talk to him."
"You do that, Max. This case is going to be delicate enough without your partner going off half-cocked."
Ben and Paul followed the sergeant to the door. "Keep me posted," Ben told Cragen. "I don't want to let this one slip through our fingers."
"Neither do I."
-----
In the squad room, they found Mike standing at his desk, scraping papers into piles and dumping them on the corners. "Don't start, Max," he said, even as Greevey drew breath to speak. He looked up, and Ben felt something twist in his stomach as those eyes stabbed into him, too. "Or you, Counselor," he added, after what Ben imagined was a significant pause. "Sometimes I think I'm the only one who wants to see that woman pay for what she did."
*Which one?* Ben almost asked, and glanced over at Greevey just in time to meet his eyes. *He knows,* Ben realized with a shock. He could see it in Max's eyes, the same knowledge that he was sure showed through his own. "We all want to see justice done," he said, still looking at Max.
Greevey finally turned away, back to his partner. "We'll get her, Mike," he said more pragmatically. "Tomorrow, we'll work her and the husband, and one them is bound to crack." Mike only shook his head, shoveling the last of a pile of notes into his inbox and switching off his desk light. "Come on," Max said. "I'll take you home."
Ben wasn't sure why he said it. The sensible thing would be to let Max handle it, to let him take his partner home and, if Ben was any judge of Max's character, drink him into bed. There was no reason why he should open his mouth and say, "That's a long way out of your way, Max. Let me do it."
Mike froze, hands still reaching in his pockets for his gloves. He looked from Greevey to Ben, his expression wary. "I can get home myself," he offered sarcastically. "You don't have to decide which one of you is going to hold my hand."
Max gave his partner a look, then gestured towards him with both hands. "He's all yours, Counselor." He switched off his own light and made his way around to the door, reaching out give Mike's shoulder a silent, comforting squeeze before walking out. "Good night," he said at the door.
"Good night, Max," Ben answered. He turned to Mike. "You ready?"
"You don't have to take me home," Mike said, but there was surprisingly little fight in his voice. "I was only going as far as Mulligan's anyway."
"I can do that, too," Ben assured him. "In fact, I'll buy you the first drink."
-----
Miraculously, Ben found a parking spot less than two blocks from Mike's apartment, and just around the corner from the pub. He and Mike got out, and Mike stood uncertainly for a moment on the sidewalk, looking around the corner to the bright neon signs in the window of the bar.
"I've been wearing this suit since five this morning," he said, almost apologetically. "Mind if I change, first?"
"No, that's fine." To tell the truth, now that he was here, Ben wasn't as eager to re-enter the dark, warm haven of the pub. Too many memories there, too many good times, too many things that only caused him pain to think of. It was only as they entered the vestibule of Mike's building that it occurred to him that no matter how bad Mulligan's might be, this could only be worse.
"You've rearranged things," was the best he could manage as they walked in. And he was grateful for it. He wasn't sure if he would have been able to take it if it had all been the same, everything just as he'd last seen it. When had that been? Six months ago? Probably longer. He couldn't even remember.
Mike hung his coat on the rack, and took Ben's as he shrugged it off and added it to the neat row. "Yeah," he said. "I spread things out a bit. I like it this way." He stood there for an awkward second, then lifted a hand. "Come on." He led the way into the living room, and waved Ben to a seat. "You want a drink?"
"Yes, please." Hell, yes, he wanted a drink. He wanted several. Being here, sitting here on this couch, looking around at the pictures, the books, all the familiar things. He hadn't thought it would hurt this much.
"Whiskey and soda?" Mike moved to the kitchen counter without waiting for an answer. Ben watched him mix the drinks, stretching up for the bottles on the shelf, leaning over to grab two glasses from the sink. "I hope the soda's still good," he said. "I haven't used it in a while."
*Since you were last here,* Ben translated. He took the glass Mike handed him and sipped. "Tastes fine to me," he said. "Cheers."
"Cheers." Mike took a healthy gulp, made a face, then gulped again. He put the half-drained glass down on the end table, and started working at the knot on his tie. "I'm going to go change. Be back in a sec." He disappeared into the bedroom.
Knowing it would be more than just "a sec," Ben sipped at his drink, then got up and wandered to the bookshelves, looking for something to read. The selection hadn't changed much. College books, books on police procedure, a few novels. There was a set of thrillers that was new, all the works of a currently popular author. Curious, Ben picked up the first one, and opened it to read the dust jacket. There was an inscription on the inside cover, which he read automatically, before he even thought. But as the words sank in, he felt his stomach go cold. "Merry Christmas, to my favorite suit. I love you. Maggie."
Ben snapped the book shut, and replaced it on the shelf. Maggie. Who the hell was Maggie? He grabbed his drink and took another sip, and was surprised to see that that finished it off. He turned again, pacing to the window. So. *And you expected him to become a monk?* he derided himself. *Besides, what do you care?* Whoever she was, she didn't seem to be part of Mike's life anymore. *But he still had the books,* another part of him said. And still another part added, *and either way, it's no longer any of your business.*
It was easier to stand here, looking out the window at the street below, his back to the living room, and to the memories. He could pretend that he was anywhere, that he wasn't standing in Mike Logan's apartment, where it had all happened, where it had all gone so well, and then gone so wrong. *And who was to blame for that, Mr. Stone?* "That would be me, sir," he said, and jerked back as he saw his face in the window, speaking the words out loud. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him that he was still alone, and he breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his silent survey of the street. When Mike came back, a few minutes later, Ben was still at the window, empty glass in hand. He'd tried to move back to the couch, sit down and rest his tired body, but it was too hard. The more he stood here, the more depressed he got, thinking about what he'd had here, once. And that it was his fault that he didn't have it anymore.
Mike glanced at him, at the glass he still held, and waved a hand. "You want another?"
Ben looked down, the half-forgotten tumbler still resting in his grasp. "No," he said after a while. "If we're going to Mulligan's I'll need the room."
Mike shrugged. "I don't care." He hesitated, then confessed, with disarming candor, "I was just going there to keep myself from drinking alone in here."
Ben wasn't sure how to take that. It sounded like an invitation to stay, but he wasn't sure he could trust himself anymore to interpret Mike's words objectively. Still, it was pretty clear that at the least Mike was offering another drink. He shrugged in his turn, and held out his glass. "Well, in that case . . ."
While Mike mixed another drink for him, Ben made himself return to the couch and sit, wondering what he was getting himself in for. Wondering if he really cared. He took his glass from Mike as the other man came back, and watched as he settled himself in the armchair, crossing his legs and propping his own glass on his knee. He'd changed into jeans and a sweater, a dark green one. The sweater, Ben couldn't help but notice, brought out a soft green in his gray eyes, and he turned his attention to his drink before he was caught staring. Ben was still in his court suit, tie tied, and buttons buttoned, and he suddenly wished very much that he'd had the chance to change, too. He settled for loosening the tie and unfastening the top two buttons of his shirt, and caught a wry smile from Mike as he tugged the knot down to mid-chest. "What?" he asked, and got only a rueful shake of the other man's head.
"Nothing." Mike caught his skeptical glance, and his smile faded. "Really. It's nothing. Forget it." He finished off his own drink, and got up to refill it. While he stood at the counter, measuring whiskey into his glass, he glanced back. "Ben . . ."
"Yes?"
"Is everything all right?"
Ben felt his brows climb up. "I think that was supposed to be my line."
Mike shrugged it off. "I'm all right. We'll get the Lowensteins, I'm sure of it." He swirled the liquor and soda together in his glass and came back to his chair. "But just now . . . you looked worried, that's all."
"I am worried," Ben said firmly, relieved that the subject had finally come up, glad he hadn't had to make the opening himself. "I'm worried about you." Mike looked down into his glass, not answering. "You can't pretend that you're not taking this personally, Mike."
"So what if I am?" Mike glared at him. "If it wasn't for me, you and Max would be sending her flowers and cab fare home."
"That's not fair," Ben said quietly. "And you know it." He opened his mouth to defend himself, to explain in great detail why the District Attorney's office couldn't justify allowing an arrest. Instead, he heard his treacherous voice asking softly, "You told Max, didn't you?"
Mike looked at him, temporarily puzzled at the non-sequitur, then looked away, nodding. "Yeah." He pushed his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. "After we talked to her. I told him what I thought, and he asked how I knew." He took a drink. "So I told him."
"I'm sorry."
Mike shrugged. "It's no big deal. It was a long time ago."
"Not right now," Ben contradicted softly. "Not this moment, it isn't." He found himself leaning forward, gesturing. "When you came to me at the beginning of this case, it wasn't because it happened thirty years ago."
"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Mike got up and paced to the window, staring out into the darkness for a moment before turning back to face Ben again. "I shouldn't have dumped on you. It was wrong."
But Ben shook his head. "No. That's not what's wrong." He stared up, forcing himself to speak softly, clearly, fixing his eyes on Mike as if to convince by their power alone. "What's wrong," he said gently, sincerely, "is you thinking that I don't care anymore what happens to you. That didn't go away." He studied Mike's face, trying to read what was going on behind the anger, not sure if there was anything else there to read. "I've thought about you every day since you told me about this case. I know it must be painful, and I want to help." He sighed. "You said it yourself. Who else are you going to talk to?" Mike said nothing. Ben looked down at his hands, tracing the lines of the veins on the back of his hand while he thought. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. But I want you to know that if you do, I'm here." He raised his eyes. "I'll always be here."
Mike closed his eyes, and looked away. "Yeah."
Ben shut his mouth, only then realizing what he'd just said. "I'm sorry," he said. He waited, then tried again. "I'm still your friend, Mike. I still care about you. If that bothers you, then I'm sorry."
Mike wiped a hand over his face, then shook his head. "It's my fault," he said. "You've been . . . You kept your end. I was the one who crossed the line."
"Maybe it was a line that should never have been drawn," Ben said quietly.
Mike turned away, raising his hands. "I don't want to talk about this, Ben. Not now, not about any of it."
"You never do," was on the tip of Ben's tongue, but he swallowed the words unsaid, taking a deep breath instead. "Okay," he made himself say. "I can't force you to talk." He sat back, crossing his legs, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere, not for a while. "But I think you might feel better if you do."
"I don't." Mike folded his arms over his chest, staring, as Ben had, down the quiet street. "I've talked about it enough for one night. You, Max . . . you'll have my whole biography if I don't draw the line somewhere."
Ben opened his mouth to say more, fully intending to keep on, to try to do his best to draw Mike out, make him talk. But instead, he reached for his drink and drained it down. "I understand," he said, and for the first time that night, he thought he did. "I don't want to push you, Mike. You can make your own decisions."
"Gee, thanks." But the corner of his mouth was turning up, and Ben felt some of the tension leave him as he saw Mike's shoulders relax.
"There is one thing, though." Ben stood up, setting his glass carefully on the coffee table before moving to stand a short distance away, just within the range of Mike's vision.
He didn't turn, keeping his eyes focused on the scene outside the window. "What's that?"
Ben had to pause a second, choosing his next words carefully, not sure if there was any good way to say what he wanted. "I meant what I said before," he began, feeling his way carefully through the maze of phrases. "I haven't stopped caring about you. I know that this is painful. I know you're hurting." He took a deep breath, searching Mike's profile, watching the set of his mouth. "And it hurts me to see you in pain," he finished, not even caring, now, that his voice wasn't entirely steady on the words. "It hurts a lot." Mike was turning towards him now, his face etched with confusion, and the beginnings of some kind of pain of his own. "I'm sorry if that sounds selfish, but it's the truth."
"Ben--" Mike started to turn towards him, but Ben stopped him.
"I want to be here for you," he said, and felt a rush of relief as that simple truth finally spilled out. "I want to do whatever I can to take the pain away." He paused again, letting the words sink in, waited until he saw the understanding beginning to show on Mike's face. "I used to be able to do that, Mike," he reminded, and let himself step closer, let himself reach a cautious hand to lay along the soft wool of Mike's sleeve. "Let me do it again, tonight."
Mike looked as if he'd been hit with a stun gun, his eyes wide and startled, mouth slightly open as he fought to find the words. "Ben . . ." he began, and shook his head. "Ben, I don't know if that's such a good idea."
"Would it be better if you'd gone to Mulligan's and picked up some stranger?" Ben softened the harsh words with his tone, but he saw the dart strike home. He let his voice drop even lower, nearly whispering, forcing Mike to stop, to think, to concentrate on nothing but the sound of his voice. "I'm not some stranger. Let it be me."
Mike looked at him again, searching his face, the muscles in his arm bunching under Ben's hand as he raised his arm to touch his side, lightly, as if testing Ben's presence. Ben was waiting for him to speak, to give some sign, but instead he leaned forward and slowly, gently, pressed his lips to Ben's mouth. It was a soft, chaste kiss, but Ben felt the catch in his breath as he pulled back, a mere fraction, only enough to separate them. He stood there, breathing deeply, all the emotions Ben had seen warring under the surface. Anger, guilt, pain, grief . . . and loneliness. Mike closed his eyes for an instant, his throat working as he swallowed, then the dark, smoldering orbs were fastened on Ben once more, just before he stepped forward and caught Ben's mouth with his own.
Their arms went around each other in a second, their bodies meeting with a hard, bone-jarring shock. Ben let his arm lock around Mike's waist, gripping tight with one hand while the other slid up the back of Mike's head, twining his fingers in the thick, soft mass of his hair to force him even closer. He'd all but forgotten the things he'd said only seconds before, discarded all his good intentions of being slow, careful, gentle. None of that seemed to matter so much right now, not while he was kissing Mike like this, devouring his mouth and being devoured in turn, feeling every bit of the passion he sent being given right back. It was like it used to be, and for a moment the memory was so achingly painful that he thought he would die.
He must have made some noise, given some signal that was somehow transmitted to Mike. Ben nearly whimpered as the other man tore his mouth away, pulling back from the kiss as far as Ben's gripping hand would allow. "Ben," Mike panted, his fair skin already flushed, eyes dark. "Ben, if we do this--"
Ben forced his hand up between them, pressing a shaking finger to Mike's mouth. "Don't," he said quietly. "Don't you dare talk yourself out of this, Mike. Whatever happens, we'll handle it. Trust me."
Mike closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and nodded. "Okay."
The respite was enough to allow them to separate, to step back and free themselves from the tight, smothering embrace. Wordlessly, Mike took Ben's hand and led him away from the window, over to the long, broad couch that Ben remembered so well. He sat down and, still holding Ben's hand, pulled Ben down toward him, laying back so that they were lying side by side, Ben's head resting on his shoulder. Mike turned his head, brushing his mouth softly over the top of Ben's head. He began to kiss him, his lips touching his forehead, temples, eyes, cheeks, drawing closer and closer until at last he pressed his mouth to Ben's.
Ben lost track of the time as they kissed there, shifting their arms around each other, hands softly exploring, re-acquainting themselves with one another's bodies. Mike was just as he remembered, hard muscle and broad shoulders, strong arms straining the weave of the sweater as he wrapped his arms around him. His mouth was soft and sweet against Ben's, lips gently mouthing his, then opening to taste him again, drawing him down into his rich, warm heat. Ben tangled his hands in Mike's hair again, this time refusing to let go, stroking the soft sable while gently pressing Mike closer, sealing their mouths together, molding his body to fit to his.
Ben tugged lightly at the raven head, urging until Mike turned obediently, rolling to half-lie on top of him, slipping his knee up between Ben's to urge his thighs apart. He drew his hand down Ben's side, stroking through his shirt until he reached the waistband of his pants and started tugging, working at the cloth until he could slide his hand up Ben's bare back. Ben sucked in a sharp, startled breath, tightening his arms around him to pull himself closer, to seal himself against every part of him. He rolled onto his back, spreading his legs to settle Mike between them, reaching up to pull Mike against him, hard. Mike gasped into his mouth, his breath sighing out in a long groan of pleasure, then he was kissing him again, pressing his full weight down on Ben's body until the thought of stopping was no longer part of either of their plans.
Eventually, though, Mike pulled himself away, levering up on his elbows to give himself and Ben room to breathe. He was beautifully disheveled, Ben thought, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, his hair rumpled and tousled where Ben's wandering hands had mussed it. His sweater had been discarded long ago, and his shirt was hanging open to his waist, down to where Ben's busy fingers had started to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip everything he could reach. He was still panting, his eyes dilated with pleasure, but when Ben reached for his waist again, hands moving to part his jeans, one hand snaked down to stop him, sliding his fingers around Ben's wrist in a gentle, unbreakable grip. "No," he got out, still breathing too hard to speak coherently. "Not here." He gulped a deep breath. "Not like this."
Ben stopped, confused. "What do you mean?" He was only a little more coherent, himself and he was sure he looked as wild and desperate as Mike did, his own clothing rucked up and disordered underneath him. "If you're having second thoughts--" A hard, hot mouth on his disabused him of that within a few seconds, and when Mike drew back he was shaking his head.
"No," he said. "I meant not here. Not on the couch, with our clothes still half-on like a couple of teenagers." He leaned down, sliding his hands up Ben's arms, slipping his fingers through his to pin his hands by his head. He bent closer. "If we're going to do this," he said, his voice purring warmly into Ben's ear, "then we'll do it right." He pressed a kiss to the edge of his ear. "If I'm going to be with you, I want to feel you, all of you." His lips drifted over Ben's face, tongue darting out to gently part Ben's mouth as he whispered, "And I'm not going to end up stuck to this couch, either."
"All right, then," Ben agreed, and closed his eyes to receive another kiss. When it was over, Mike pushed himself up and helped Ben to his feet, then the two of them went back to the bedroom.
Here it was, familiar territory again. The bedroom was the same cramped, tiny space, not nearly big enough for the double bed, certainly not big enough for the bed and the clutter of Mike's clothes. They wasted no time in getting out of their own clothes, too impatient and eager to take the time to help each other, each adding their own clutter as shirts, shoes, and trousers went into an untidy heap at the foot of the bed. Mike hadn't changed much in here, and Ben was suddenly glad of it. Now that they were here, about to make love again, about to share that not-quite-big-enough bed again, he wanted it to be just as it was before. He wanted, irrationally, to pretend as if nothing had happened, that it was just another tumble in the sheets after the day was done.
The illusion, though, was shattered the instant they stepped forward into each other's arms, pressing close before they fell together into the bed, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, naked at last. It had been so long, too long, and Ben suddenly wanted to make this last, to draw out the sensation of Mike's long, lean body against his, to imprint the memory of his hands roaming over the broad shoulders, the long back and firm thighs. And he wanted to remember Mike's hands on him, curving around his neck and his back, one hand wrapping around his nape while the other reached down to grip his buttocks, crushing him close for a long, deep kiss. But, as much as he wanted to make it last, the kiss was nearly too much, and he knew that neither of them was going to last much longer.
"Mike," Ben gasped once he had breath. "Mike, now." Not very elegant, but he was rapidly losing the last fragments of his control. Mike kissed him again, desperate, and searching, then abruptly released him and rolled over, reaching for the things in the nightstand. He handed it all up to Ben, and then spread out on his stomach, the invitation obvious. Fine with Ben. At this point, he was hardly going to argue about who was on top.
Mike gasped as his fingers went in, his back arching to help him. He ducked his head between his clenched hands, pressing his forehead to the mattress while Ben stroked in and out, making sure that he was ready. It didn't take long. Mike was as eager as he was, his body relaxed and willing, impatient now to finish it. It was a scenario Ben was well familiar with, and he withdrew his hands as soon as he was sure Mike could take him, stroking his back in their old signal that he was ready. In answer, Mike spread his legs further, raising himself up to help as Ben guided himself into place and pressed in.
He slid in almost immediately, the unaccustomed surrender making him gasp silently as he sank in, burying himself deep in the heat of the other man's body. He forced himself to go slowly, waiting for a signal from Mike to slow down, or stop, but none was forthcoming, only a low, sighing groan from his partner as he finally settled his full length inside him.
Mike moaned again as Ben shifted carefully against him, nestling himself more securely between his legs, and Ben saw his hands clench in the sheets, wrapping them in his fists while he fought for control. He tossed his head as Ben pulled out, panting desperately when he pushed in again and keeping it up while Ben slowly eased himself in and out, working him until he felt his cock sliding smoothly, Mike's body relaxed and stretched around him. He pushed in one last time, sliding his hands over Mike's back, feeling the sweat trickling down his body.
They were both close, Ben no less desperate than Mike to bring an end, but wanting to make sure that they got there together. He stroked Mike's back one last time, and received a shivering, wordless plea from the head buried in the pillows. That was enough for him, and he began to thrust in earnest, hearing Mike cry out in relief and release. He was crying out with each breath now, loud, hoarse moans that suddenly crescendoed in a long shivering whimper, his body shuddering as he came. Ben followed him a second later, that deep-throated moan almost passionate enough in itself to bring him over the edge. He let himself collapse on top of Mike's back afterwards, waiting until the dual thud of their heartbeats subsided, until he trusted his shaking body to bear him up again.
Mike finally made a sleepy noise of protest underneath him, and Ben realized that he'd nearly drifted off himself, still pillowed on the comfortable broad expanse of his back. He planted an apologetic kiss at the base of Mike's neck, reaching up to brush the damp bangs from his forehead, then levered himself off. Mike rolled on his side immediately, curling up around his pillow and to all appearances falling instantly asleep. Ben took a moment to clean up, and to lock the front door and switch off the lights, then crawled into the bed with him and wrapped himself around Mike's softly snoring body. Within moments, he found himself joining him in sleep.
Concluded in "Louder Than Words" (2/2)
Author: Dorothy Marley (dmarley)
Fandom: Law & Order
Pairing: Mike Logan/Ben Stone
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
Content Notice: ( skip) Non-graphic mentions of child abuse.
Length: 17,814 words
Date Completed: May 14, 1998; First published July 1999 in the zine Law & Ardor.
Disclaimer: Mike Logan, Ben Stone and the rest of the Law & Order characters belong to Dick Wolf and Universal. They are being used without permission, and without profit. No infringement on the rights of the owners is intended.
Notes: This was my first published slash story, completed in May of 1998. If I were writing this for the first time now, I'm sure there are things I would do differently, and I've made some revisions from the original. But I certainly wouldn't change a single moment of the experience. This story takes place during the Law & Order episode "Indifference."
Summary: As Mike Logan investigates the Lowenstein case, he and Ben Stone begin to re-evaluate their broken relationship.
"Louder Than Words"
by Dorothy Marley
-----
The offices of the District Attorney were nearly deserted, the lights dimmed over the rows of cubicles, the doors and windows closed and secured. From where Mike Logan sat, he could see the darkened corridor stretching away past the open door of Paul's office, down to where a few lights still burned at the end of the corridor. Next to him, Paul's fingers raced over the keyboard of his typewriter, the quick chatter of the keys almost swallowed up by the silence around them.
A surreptitious check of his watch showed the time to be close to ten, hours past the time when he ought to have gone home. But tonight, Mike wasn't complaining. Better to sit here and numb his butt on what passed for a chair than go home and stare at the ceiling and try not to think about Didi Lowenstein's face.
There were times when Mike wondered if there any use in it at all. He was a cop, supposedly making a living protecting the citizens of New York City, but every day, damn near every hour, it seemed, he got slapped in the face with the brutal fact that it wasn't enough. Hadn't been enough. Not for all the dozens of corpses whose murders he'd investigated, not for all the victims whose lives had been ruined by rape or robbery or assault. And sure as hell not enough for Dierdre Lowenstein.
"Hey. Hey! Earth to Logan."
Mike started, aware only belatedly that the sound of the typewriter had ceased some time ago. Paul waved a hand at him, then pushed the form that he was supposed to sign over to him. "Oh, sorry, Paul." Mike sat up, wiping a hand down his face, running his fingers through his hair. "Sorry," he said again. "I guess I drifted off for a second."
"Long day?"
"You could say that." Mike shook his head slowly. "This case . . ." He leaned his head into his hands, massaging his temple briefly while he tried to find the way to say it. "I've got this feeling about it," he said, his words muffled by his hands. "It's bad already, and I can't help thinking that this is just the beginning."
"Child abuse is always tough," Paul said sympathetically. "But remember our deal? You arrest 'em . . ."
" . . . you put 'em away." Mike lifted his head, his mouth turning up in an involuntary smile at the old joke. "Yeah." His eyes finally fell back to the paper on the desk, recalling him to what he was here for. He picked it up and scanned it briefly, then pulled out a pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom. "There."
"Thanks." Paul took the form back and tucked it into the folder resting beside him. "I appreciate you coming down."
Mike got to his feet, feeling a weak attempt at a grin spread over his face. "Well, I wouldn't want you getting another 'this office is run by Larry, Moe, and Curly' speech."
"Thanks," Paul said with feeling. "I can't believe I nearly tried to go to trial without an evidence summary. Ben would have had them for breakfast."
While Paul sorted through the folder, making sure everything was in place, Mike stood up, shrugging into his overcoat and feeling in his pocket for his gloves. He'd kept the coat on through most of the interview, the city being conservation-minded enough to have regulators on the heating system that turned down the thermostat automatically at night. In the winter it wasn't so bad, but in August this little cubicle could become a hot, humid oven, forcing Paul to flee to the cooler confines of Stone's office, at least on those rare occasions when the other DA wasn't also burning the midnight oil.
Almost against his will, Mike found his eyes drawn down the hall, to where a faint light still trickled from the blinds shading Ben's office. "Stone still here?" he heard himself ask.
"You better believe it." Paul shook his head. "Opening arguments day after tomorrow. He's been working overtime on this one."
"Yeah, I bet he has," Mike said absently. He turned as Paul reached for the thick folder, looking from him back to the door of Stone's office. It didn't take long to make up his mind. "You going to take that to him now?"
"Yeah. He'll need it first thing, might as well have it handy."
Mike reached out a hand. "I can do that," he said, willing his voice to be casual. "I need to ask him something, anyway."
Paul hesitated only a second. "Tell him I left ten minutes ago," was all he said before handing the folder over and splitting.
Mike grinned as he watched Paul scurry away, making it to the elevator in something like ten seconds rather than ten minutes. He tossed him a wave as the attorney ducked inside, the door pinging shut behind him to leave Mike alone in the dark, still air. He turned around in the quiet hall, breathing in the deep silence.
This was his favorite time to be here, after hours, when the place was dark and quiet, only a few industrious souls laboring in the chilly air. During the day, the place was a bright chaos of people, loud and bustling. But every night, all that went away, leaving only the quiet, dark-paneled halls. The precinct was never like this. Day or night, the brightly-lit squad room didn't change, the hustle and bustle and noise continuing, unceasing, twenty-four hours a day. Here, though, there was a rhythm, an order. Here, there was a time to rest, to go home and pretend that the problems of the world could be tucked neatly between the hours of nine and five. A noise from the end of the hall made him look up, and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. For some, anyway.
-----
Ben almost didn't hear the firm knock on his door, distracted as he was by the steady thump of the piles of paper hitting the conference table. He picked up another stack, glanced over the tabs, and added it to the heap as the glass on the door rattled briefly under someone's knuckles. "Come in!" he said, already turning to the piled folders that were stacked along the wall. The door opened behind him, and he spoke without looking up. "I hope to God that's the Masters case, Paul."
"Well, ask and ye shall receive."
Ben jerked up, startled to hear a voice other than Robinette's lightweight bass coming from his visitor. "Detective," he said after a moment, taking in the familiar silhouette standing in his doorway. "You're working late."
"So are you." Logan took a look around, scanning over the piles of paper, the opened cabinets. "Redecorating?"
"Rearranging," Ben corrected. He gestured to the open file cabinets. "Making room. I ran out of space in the 'M's." He gathered up the last of the folders, and stacked them on the table. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"I came by to drop this off." Mike stepped forward, holding out the bulging folder. "Paul said you'd need it."
"Indeed I do." Ben took the file, glancing through the contents. "Thank you, Detective."
"Are you still planning to call me?"
"That was the idea," Ben said, still staring at the file. "Is there a problem?"
"No," Mike said quickly. "Just making sure I had it straight."
He stood there for another moment, and Ben finally looked up from the file. "Is there something else?" he asked at last.
Mike shifted awkwardly, opening his mouth, then he shut it abruptly and shook his head. "No. No, I'm sorry." He turned. "Good night."
"Detective--" Ben stopped himself, and tried again. "Mike? Is something wrong?"
Mike didn't turn back. "No. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come by." He reached for the knob, but his hand hesitated just short of it, fingers reaching, but not willing, it seemed, to touch it just yet, to make the connection that would signal his leaving. The arm fell back to his side, and he sighed deeply. He turned to face Ben again, shoulders slumped, eyes cast down in a mix of despair and resignation. "I shouldn't have come by," he said again. "I know that. But--" He blew out a long, weary breath, eyes closing as he surrendered the final hurdle of pride. "Today, this case . . ." He opened his eyes, lifting them to lock with Ben's, the darkened depths soft, and filled with something that Ben was only dimly beginning to recognize as pain. "I need to talk to someone," he continued. "And you . . ." He hesitated again, then went on. "You were the only one I could think of."
Ben's stomach seemed to have gained a lead weight. *No,* was his first thought. *This isn't my responsibility,* he told himself. *Not any more.* Mike searched his eyes for a second, and must have read the unspoken thought. "I'm sorry," he said for the third time. "Just forget it, all right? No big deal."
"Mike." His voice stopped Logan at the door, and Ben was appalled at the raw, trembling gentleness that had, unbidden, taken over his processes of speech. He swallowed, bringing himself back under control, and steeled himself as Mike turned back, reluctant, his heavy-lidded eyes casting back over his shoulder. "Mike," he said again, soft, gentle, but in control. "Why don't you sit down?"
He almost didn't. Ben waited, saying nothing, until Mike finally nodded and moved toward the table, dropping his long length onto one of the chairs as if making the decision had taken the last of his strength.
"You want a drink?" Ben offered. Mike shook his head. Ben glanced at his desk, at the papers heaped on his chair, and reached behind him for the chair still sitting askew at the foot of the table. He planted himself in it, the Masters file still propped on his knee, and regarded Mike carefully over the tops of his glasses. "You look tired," he observed, and cursed himself again as his traitor voice slipped on the phrase. He made a living with his voice, knowing how to use it and play it and control it, but he seemed to have suddenly lost that control. His brain was sending the appropriate signals: professional, friendly, mild concern. But somewhere along the line, the signals were getting distorted, and he didn't like the feeling.
"Long day," Mike said. His voice had gone quiet, surrendering. Ben knew that tone, and he forced his own voice under control once more.
"You want to tell me about it?"
Mike wiped a hand over his face, pushing his bangs back from his forehead. "It's this case," he said. He sagged forward a little, propping his temple on his fingers. "I'm sorry, Ben. I know I shouldn't be laying this on you. I don't have the right, I know that."
"It's okay." And Ben was surprised to find that it was the truth. "We can still talk to each other, Mike."
"It's just . . . I can't tell anyone else about this. You're the only one who'll understand." Mike gave a little laugh. "Sad, but true."
"Tell me."
Mike sat back again, staring at the bookshelves along the far wall. His hair had fallen back into his eyes, soft and thick, trailing from the widow's peak to spill across his forehead. Sitting there, tie undone, the top of his shirt loose, it was all familiar to Ben. How many times had they sat here, after work, talking, sharing a drink, trading news of the day before it was time to go home? Ben felt an almost painful stab of sudden nostalgia, repressed it ruthlessly with the practice of long months. Instead, he made himself lean back, taking off his glasses and folding them into his pocket. And he waited.
"The Lowenstein case," Mike began at last. "Just caught it this morning." He swallowed. "Child abuse. Little girl's in the hospital, probably won't make it."
"Parents?" Ben asked, and hated himself at once for the casual assumption. And even more when Mike nodded, unsurprised that he'd made that all-too-common leap of logic.
"The mother, probably."
"Oh," Ben said, and knew that Mike heard the wealth of meaning that somehow fell into that one, knowledge-laden syllable.
"Yeah," Mike said bitterly. He dropped his head back into his hand, rubbing softly at his temples. "She did it, Ben. I know she did." His voice tightened. "And she doesn't care. We came to tell her that her daughter was in the hospital, and all she could think about was how it was affecting her. She called her 'it,' Ben. Her own daughter."
"I'm sorry, Mike."
He pushed himself up again. "There's a little boy, too. Four or five." He fell silent, and Ben finally had to ask.
"The father?"
Mike shook his head again. "It was her," he said with conviction. His eyes lifted to meet Ben's. "She did it. I don't care what she says."
Ben regarded him thoughtfully. "What does Max think?"
Mike shrugged. "He thinks the father's to blame, I guess." He nodded sagely. "But I know better."
Ben said nothing for a long time. He wasn't sure what to say. He was moving into uncertain territory here, the waters that much more treacherous because he'd sailed them before. There was a time when he would have known exactly what to do with a Mike Logan in pain. He'd known how to ease that pain, how to soothe the hurt and the fear. But that particular avenue was closed to him now, and he had only words to fall back on. Words were his business, and it should have been easy. But the part of him that might have been composing the pretty speech was being short-circuited by the other part, by the reflex that knew that the proper response was something entirely different.
"I know that it must be hard," he said at last, wincing at the feeble homily even as he offered it. "And you may be right about her. But . . ."
He stopped. No. This wasn't the way to go. "I don't know what to say," he said at last, throwing the speeches aside in favor of simple honesty, all, really, that he had left to offer. "I don't know how to make this easier for you. It's a painful situation, and I don't expect you to be able to turn off all those feelings. But, Mike . . ." He hesitated again, his hand half-extended before he knew it, then he gathered himself and completed the gesture, sliding his hand over Mike's knee, pressing against the soft wool and hard muscle underneath. "Mike, I can tell you this." He tightened his grip, feeling the muscles jump under his hand. His voice was rough, nearly trembling with intensity as he told him, with every bit of conviction he could muster, "She is not your mother."
Mike closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "I know," he said. "I keep telling myself that." He opened his eyes again, and turned to look at Ben, the dark depths shadowed, and haunted. "But then I think, 'maybe she is.'" He shook his head, his eyes still locked on Ben's face. "What if she is, Ben? What am I supposed to do? Let her go? Let those kids grow up like I grew up?"
Ben found himself leaning forward, closer, his hand gripping Mike's thigh, hard enough to hurt. "You do what you're supposed to," he said. "You gather the evidence, you make the arrest, and you let me put her away."
Mike's eyes were burning into his, focused, intent. Ben didn't remember him moving, but now his hand was folded over Ben's, swallowing his up, wrapping around it a familiar, strong squeeze. "I'll hold you to that," he said softly, and his mouth quirked into a brief smile. "Bet on it."
"I will."
The second smile broke the tableau, and Ben drew away, surprised at the mix of relief and disappointment that moved through him as he slipped his hand from Mike's. Mike closed his eyes, then sighed and started to get up. "It's late," he said. "I'd better go."
Ben only nodded, not trusting his voice, not just yet. He joined Mike in rising to his feet, and managed a smile of his own as Mike shrugged into his overcoat. "Thanks," Mike said. "Thanks for listening. I appreciate it."
Ben reached out, gripping his arm gently. "Anytime," he said, and paused. "I mean that."
"Thanks." There was an awkward pause, both of them standing, waiting, then they smiled sheepishly and stepped forward in one another's arms. Ben closed his eyes as Mike's strong arms enfolded him, pulling him close, one hand wrapped around the back of his head. His own arms lifted to hold Mike around the waist, patting his back gently, feeling the familiar soft leather under his touch. They stood there for a long moment, holding each other, then Mike squeezed him gently and pulled back to plant a brief, dry kiss on his temple. Casual, like a brother kissing a brother. "Thank you," he said softly.
Ben nodded once more, and let him go. Mike shrugged into his coat, and turned to the door. "Get some sleep," Ben finally managed. "Everything will look better in the morning."
"Yeah. Right." But he was smiling. "Thanks again." Mike tossed a final smile over his shoulder, then was gone.
-----
Over the next two days, Ben did his best to get on with his work. The current trial occupied most of his time, but in his snatches of spare time he found himself thinking more and more of the Lowenstein case, and consequently of Mike Logan. Child abuse cases were always rough, but this one he was having a hard time putting out of his mind. He suspected that he wasn't the only one.
He was working late Friday, going over his notes from the day's trial and making more for Monday, when his phone buzzed. He snatched it up without looking. "Stone," he said into the receiver, eyes and mind still fixed on the papers in front of him.
"It's Robinette. Max Greevey just called. They need some advice on a case."
That was enough to pull his attention away from the details of the case laid out in front of him. "The Lowensteins?"
"Yeah," Paul said, sounding a little surprised. "I didn't realize you were following it."
"I heard about it," Ben said blandly. "Have they made an arrest?"
"That's what they need advice on. They've brought the parents in, but they're not sure they've got enough to hold them."
Great. Ben looked in dismay at the piled papers in front of him, and at the bigger pile on the conference table that he'd counted on handing over to Robinette. At least he knew now how the case was going, but why *right* now? A trip down to the precinct could take hours, and even if the case was miraculously open and shut he might as well kiss the rest of the night's work good-bye. "Okay," he said at last. "Give me a few minutes to clear some of this up, and I'll go with you."
"You don't have to do that, Ben. I can call you if I need you."
"No," he said, and took off his glasses, dropping them on the pile. "I want to be there on this one, Paul. I don't think I'd get much done waiting here."
-----
Cragen was waiting for them at the precinct, his perpetual look of worry graven even deeper as he ushered them into his office and offered coffee.
"I didn't expect to see you, Ben," he said as he set the mug down in front of him.
Ben took the steaming cup, stirring it by habit before taking a cautious sip. "Child abuse cases seem to have a way of either blowing up in your face, or dying into cold ashes." He stared down into his coffee, and drank again. "This one, I'd like to keep at a nice, steady blaze."
"I wish I had better news, then." Cragen planted himself behind his desk, leaning back to prop his feet on a handy drawer handle. "It's a weak case, gentlemen. Mostly circumstantial, no hard evidence at all against the father. We're still holding him on a drug charge, but we won't be able to make it stick."
"Where's the mother?"
"That's the other good news," Cragen said dourly. "They had to take her to Bellvue. She was hysterical, screaming about her little boy, about her husband."
"Nothing useful, I hope."
"Even if it was admissible, it'd only help her for an insanity defense." Cragen sipped his coffee, made a face, and reached for a package of sugar, forgotten on his desk. "Logan and Greevey are on their way back from there now. Once they get here, I guess we'll see exactly what we do and do not have."
Paul settled back in his chair, holding his coffee on his knee. "Logan seems convinced that it's the mother who's to blame," he said, a shade of doubt creeping in to his voice.
"That's nicely understated," Cragen retorted. "He's already got her tried and convicted."
"Are you so sure he's wrong?" Ben heard himself say. Oh, that was wonderfully objective. Two nights ago, he was holding Logan's hand and telling him that that woman wasn't his mother. Did he think Mike had achieved objectivity in the last forty-eight hours?
Cragen hesitated, visibly struggling. "I just don't know, Ben. This--" He waved a hand. "This is all beyond me. Lowenstein swears he never laid a hand on the girl, but he doesn't even bother to deny that he beat his wife. I just don't see the logic."
"I know exactly how you feel, Captain," Ben said, with heartfelt sincerity. "But just because we can't conceive of it, doesn't mean it didn't happen." And, on the other hand, simply because Logan was projecting didn't mean he was wrong. Great.
Cragen looked like he was about to reply to that when Max rapped sharply on the door and came in, followed by Mike. Ben's gaze fastened at once on the younger detective's face, and felt a tug of worry as he saw the edges of the raw pain beginning to seep through. Ben had known what this case was doing to him, but that didn't make it easier to see it written on the harsh, strained lines of his face. He wasn't surprised, either, to see something of the same look on Max's face, the face of a man who was prepared to find an ugly truth, only to uncover something for which he could never have prepared himself.
Mike's face blanked for a second on seeing Ben, then he nodded greetings to him and to Paul before taking up his usual spot by the window. He leaned there, staring out through the grill while Max summed up their talk with Mrs. Lowenstein. Ben did his dutiful best to pay attention to what Greevey was saying, but his eyes kept straying over and over to his partner, studying the sharply chiseled profile outlined against the dark glass. Mike's mouth was dragged down in an all-too-familiar scowl, his dark brows pulled together over narrowed eyes. He let Max carry the conversation, and indeed Ben wasn't so sure that he was even paying much attention to what his own partner said.
"She was pretty out of it," Greevey concluded. "I'm not sure she's going to be any more help in the morning."
"Well, try, Max," Cragen said. "If we can't dig up something soon, we'll have to let them go."
That snapped Mike out of his reverie. "She was about to stick that kid's hands in boiling water," he said incredulously, turning to fix his scowl on Cragen. "What else do you need?"
"Evidence that she actually hit the little girl would help!" Cragen snapped back. "We don't have anything to prove otherwise, Mike."
"What about forensics?"
"Nothing yet," Cragen said. "In the morning."
"Yeah." Mike turned away again. "Great."
Ben looked at the clock, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Hating himself, not willing to meet Logan's eyes, he said, "Based on what you've told me, you'll have to get something more before you can justify holding either parent for much longer. If you're asking if there's anything the District Attorney's office can do to help, the answer's no."
"In other words, the ball's in our court again," Cragen said. He turned to Max. "Were there any eyewitnesses?"
Max shook his head. "None that have come forward. We canvassed the building, but no one saw anything that night."
"Or if they did, they're not talking," Mike added cynically.
"Hey, someone saw her hit that kid," Max said.
"Yeah, Mr. Lowenstein," Mike offered sarcastically. He turned back to the window, adding bitterly, "And he's been the picture of cooperation."
Cragen glanced at Greevey, startled. "Changing your tune, Max? I thought you were rooting for the father."
Max looked over at his partner, and Ben felt his stomach tighten in a knot. "I think he beat his wife," he said at last. "But I'm not sure which of them beat up Didi."
Cragen swung around to the other detective. "Mike? How are your options?"
Mike wouldn't look at either of them. "I'm still voting for the mother," he said firmly. "She was about to hurt the boy right in front of us. That's enough for me."
"Great. That and a dollar will buy a cup of coffee." Cragen tossed his pen back on his desk and stood up. "Okay. What say we all go home and let the forensics team do their thing? In the morning, we'll talk to Mrs. Lowenstein again."
"Fine." Mike bit the word off and stalked past them, not quite slamming the door behind him as he left.
In the awkward silence that followed, Cragen turned to Greevey, exasperation written all over his face. "What's gotten into him now?" he asked tiredly.
"It's been a long day," Greevey said quietly, and levered himself up. "It's nothing," he elaborated. "I'll talk to him."
"You do that, Max. This case is going to be delicate enough without your partner going off half-cocked."
Ben and Paul followed the sergeant to the door. "Keep me posted," Ben told Cragen. "I don't want to let this one slip through our fingers."
"Neither do I."
-----
In the squad room, they found Mike standing at his desk, scraping papers into piles and dumping them on the corners. "Don't start, Max," he said, even as Greevey drew breath to speak. He looked up, and Ben felt something twist in his stomach as those eyes stabbed into him, too. "Or you, Counselor," he added, after what Ben imagined was a significant pause. "Sometimes I think I'm the only one who wants to see that woman pay for what she did."
*Which one?* Ben almost asked, and glanced over at Greevey just in time to meet his eyes. *He knows,* Ben realized with a shock. He could see it in Max's eyes, the same knowledge that he was sure showed through his own. "We all want to see justice done," he said, still looking at Max.
Greevey finally turned away, back to his partner. "We'll get her, Mike," he said more pragmatically. "Tomorrow, we'll work her and the husband, and one them is bound to crack." Mike only shook his head, shoveling the last of a pile of notes into his inbox and switching off his desk light. "Come on," Max said. "I'll take you home."
Ben wasn't sure why he said it. The sensible thing would be to let Max handle it, to let him take his partner home and, if Ben was any judge of Max's character, drink him into bed. There was no reason why he should open his mouth and say, "That's a long way out of your way, Max. Let me do it."
Mike froze, hands still reaching in his pockets for his gloves. He looked from Greevey to Ben, his expression wary. "I can get home myself," he offered sarcastically. "You don't have to decide which one of you is going to hold my hand."
Max gave his partner a look, then gestured towards him with both hands. "He's all yours, Counselor." He switched off his own light and made his way around to the door, reaching out give Mike's shoulder a silent, comforting squeeze before walking out. "Good night," he said at the door.
"Good night, Max," Ben answered. He turned to Mike. "You ready?"
"You don't have to take me home," Mike said, but there was surprisingly little fight in his voice. "I was only going as far as Mulligan's anyway."
"I can do that, too," Ben assured him. "In fact, I'll buy you the first drink."
-----
Miraculously, Ben found a parking spot less than two blocks from Mike's apartment, and just around the corner from the pub. He and Mike got out, and Mike stood uncertainly for a moment on the sidewalk, looking around the corner to the bright neon signs in the window of the bar.
"I've been wearing this suit since five this morning," he said, almost apologetically. "Mind if I change, first?"
"No, that's fine." To tell the truth, now that he was here, Ben wasn't as eager to re-enter the dark, warm haven of the pub. Too many memories there, too many good times, too many things that only caused him pain to think of. It was only as they entered the vestibule of Mike's building that it occurred to him that no matter how bad Mulligan's might be, this could only be worse.
"You've rearranged things," was the best he could manage as they walked in. And he was grateful for it. He wasn't sure if he would have been able to take it if it had all been the same, everything just as he'd last seen it. When had that been? Six months ago? Probably longer. He couldn't even remember.
Mike hung his coat on the rack, and took Ben's as he shrugged it off and added it to the neat row. "Yeah," he said. "I spread things out a bit. I like it this way." He stood there for an awkward second, then lifted a hand. "Come on." He led the way into the living room, and waved Ben to a seat. "You want a drink?"
"Yes, please." Hell, yes, he wanted a drink. He wanted several. Being here, sitting here on this couch, looking around at the pictures, the books, all the familiar things. He hadn't thought it would hurt this much.
"Whiskey and soda?" Mike moved to the kitchen counter without waiting for an answer. Ben watched him mix the drinks, stretching up for the bottles on the shelf, leaning over to grab two glasses from the sink. "I hope the soda's still good," he said. "I haven't used it in a while."
*Since you were last here,* Ben translated. He took the glass Mike handed him and sipped. "Tastes fine to me," he said. "Cheers."
"Cheers." Mike took a healthy gulp, made a face, then gulped again. He put the half-drained glass down on the end table, and started working at the knot on his tie. "I'm going to go change. Be back in a sec." He disappeared into the bedroom.
Knowing it would be more than just "a sec," Ben sipped at his drink, then got up and wandered to the bookshelves, looking for something to read. The selection hadn't changed much. College books, books on police procedure, a few novels. There was a set of thrillers that was new, all the works of a currently popular author. Curious, Ben picked up the first one, and opened it to read the dust jacket. There was an inscription on the inside cover, which he read automatically, before he even thought. But as the words sank in, he felt his stomach go cold. "Merry Christmas, to my favorite suit. I love you. Maggie."
Ben snapped the book shut, and replaced it on the shelf. Maggie. Who the hell was Maggie? He grabbed his drink and took another sip, and was surprised to see that that finished it off. He turned again, pacing to the window. So. *And you expected him to become a monk?* he derided himself. *Besides, what do you care?* Whoever she was, she didn't seem to be part of Mike's life anymore. *But he still had the books,* another part of him said. And still another part added, *and either way, it's no longer any of your business.*
It was easier to stand here, looking out the window at the street below, his back to the living room, and to the memories. He could pretend that he was anywhere, that he wasn't standing in Mike Logan's apartment, where it had all happened, where it had all gone so well, and then gone so wrong. *And who was to blame for that, Mr. Stone?* "That would be me, sir," he said, and jerked back as he saw his face in the window, speaking the words out loud. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him that he was still alone, and he breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his silent survey of the street. When Mike came back, a few minutes later, Ben was still at the window, empty glass in hand. He'd tried to move back to the couch, sit down and rest his tired body, but it was too hard. The more he stood here, the more depressed he got, thinking about what he'd had here, once. And that it was his fault that he didn't have it anymore.
Mike glanced at him, at the glass he still held, and waved a hand. "You want another?"
Ben looked down, the half-forgotten tumbler still resting in his grasp. "No," he said after a while. "If we're going to Mulligan's I'll need the room."
Mike shrugged. "I don't care." He hesitated, then confessed, with disarming candor, "I was just going there to keep myself from drinking alone in here."
Ben wasn't sure how to take that. It sounded like an invitation to stay, but he wasn't sure he could trust himself anymore to interpret Mike's words objectively. Still, it was pretty clear that at the least Mike was offering another drink. He shrugged in his turn, and held out his glass. "Well, in that case . . ."
While Mike mixed another drink for him, Ben made himself return to the couch and sit, wondering what he was getting himself in for. Wondering if he really cared. He took his glass from Mike as the other man came back, and watched as he settled himself in the armchair, crossing his legs and propping his own glass on his knee. He'd changed into jeans and a sweater, a dark green one. The sweater, Ben couldn't help but notice, brought out a soft green in his gray eyes, and he turned his attention to his drink before he was caught staring. Ben was still in his court suit, tie tied, and buttons buttoned, and he suddenly wished very much that he'd had the chance to change, too. He settled for loosening the tie and unfastening the top two buttons of his shirt, and caught a wry smile from Mike as he tugged the knot down to mid-chest. "What?" he asked, and got only a rueful shake of the other man's head.
"Nothing." Mike caught his skeptical glance, and his smile faded. "Really. It's nothing. Forget it." He finished off his own drink, and got up to refill it. While he stood at the counter, measuring whiskey into his glass, he glanced back. "Ben . . ."
"Yes?"
"Is everything all right?"
Ben felt his brows climb up. "I think that was supposed to be my line."
Mike shrugged it off. "I'm all right. We'll get the Lowensteins, I'm sure of it." He swirled the liquor and soda together in his glass and came back to his chair. "But just now . . . you looked worried, that's all."
"I am worried," Ben said firmly, relieved that the subject had finally come up, glad he hadn't had to make the opening himself. "I'm worried about you." Mike looked down into his glass, not answering. "You can't pretend that you're not taking this personally, Mike."
"So what if I am?" Mike glared at him. "If it wasn't for me, you and Max would be sending her flowers and cab fare home."
"That's not fair," Ben said quietly. "And you know it." He opened his mouth to defend himself, to explain in great detail why the District Attorney's office couldn't justify allowing an arrest. Instead, he heard his treacherous voice asking softly, "You told Max, didn't you?"
Mike looked at him, temporarily puzzled at the non-sequitur, then looked away, nodding. "Yeah." He pushed his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. "After we talked to her. I told him what I thought, and he asked how I knew." He took a drink. "So I told him."
"I'm sorry."
Mike shrugged. "It's no big deal. It was a long time ago."
"Not right now," Ben contradicted softly. "Not this moment, it isn't." He found himself leaning forward, gesturing. "When you came to me at the beginning of this case, it wasn't because it happened thirty years ago."
"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Mike got up and paced to the window, staring out into the darkness for a moment before turning back to face Ben again. "I shouldn't have dumped on you. It was wrong."
But Ben shook his head. "No. That's not what's wrong." He stared up, forcing himself to speak softly, clearly, fixing his eyes on Mike as if to convince by their power alone. "What's wrong," he said gently, sincerely, "is you thinking that I don't care anymore what happens to you. That didn't go away." He studied Mike's face, trying to read what was going on behind the anger, not sure if there was anything else there to read. "I've thought about you every day since you told me about this case. I know it must be painful, and I want to help." He sighed. "You said it yourself. Who else are you going to talk to?" Mike said nothing. Ben looked down at his hands, tracing the lines of the veins on the back of his hand while he thought. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. But I want you to know that if you do, I'm here." He raised his eyes. "I'll always be here."
Mike closed his eyes, and looked away. "Yeah."
Ben shut his mouth, only then realizing what he'd just said. "I'm sorry," he said. He waited, then tried again. "I'm still your friend, Mike. I still care about you. If that bothers you, then I'm sorry."
Mike wiped a hand over his face, then shook his head. "It's my fault," he said. "You've been . . . You kept your end. I was the one who crossed the line."
"Maybe it was a line that should never have been drawn," Ben said quietly.
Mike turned away, raising his hands. "I don't want to talk about this, Ben. Not now, not about any of it."
"You never do," was on the tip of Ben's tongue, but he swallowed the words unsaid, taking a deep breath instead. "Okay," he made himself say. "I can't force you to talk." He sat back, crossing his legs, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere, not for a while. "But I think you might feel better if you do."
"I don't." Mike folded his arms over his chest, staring, as Ben had, down the quiet street. "I've talked about it enough for one night. You, Max . . . you'll have my whole biography if I don't draw the line somewhere."
Ben opened his mouth to say more, fully intending to keep on, to try to do his best to draw Mike out, make him talk. But instead, he reached for his drink and drained it down. "I understand," he said, and for the first time that night, he thought he did. "I don't want to push you, Mike. You can make your own decisions."
"Gee, thanks." But the corner of his mouth was turning up, and Ben felt some of the tension leave him as he saw Mike's shoulders relax.
"There is one thing, though." Ben stood up, setting his glass carefully on the coffee table before moving to stand a short distance away, just within the range of Mike's vision.
He didn't turn, keeping his eyes focused on the scene outside the window. "What's that?"
Ben had to pause a second, choosing his next words carefully, not sure if there was any good way to say what he wanted. "I meant what I said before," he began, feeling his way carefully through the maze of phrases. "I haven't stopped caring about you. I know that this is painful. I know you're hurting." He took a deep breath, searching Mike's profile, watching the set of his mouth. "And it hurts me to see you in pain," he finished, not even caring, now, that his voice wasn't entirely steady on the words. "It hurts a lot." Mike was turning towards him now, his face etched with confusion, and the beginnings of some kind of pain of his own. "I'm sorry if that sounds selfish, but it's the truth."
"Ben--" Mike started to turn towards him, but Ben stopped him.
"I want to be here for you," he said, and felt a rush of relief as that simple truth finally spilled out. "I want to do whatever I can to take the pain away." He paused again, letting the words sink in, waited until he saw the understanding beginning to show on Mike's face. "I used to be able to do that, Mike," he reminded, and let himself step closer, let himself reach a cautious hand to lay along the soft wool of Mike's sleeve. "Let me do it again, tonight."
Mike looked as if he'd been hit with a stun gun, his eyes wide and startled, mouth slightly open as he fought to find the words. "Ben . . ." he began, and shook his head. "Ben, I don't know if that's such a good idea."
"Would it be better if you'd gone to Mulligan's and picked up some stranger?" Ben softened the harsh words with his tone, but he saw the dart strike home. He let his voice drop even lower, nearly whispering, forcing Mike to stop, to think, to concentrate on nothing but the sound of his voice. "I'm not some stranger. Let it be me."
Mike looked at him again, searching his face, the muscles in his arm bunching under Ben's hand as he raised his arm to touch his side, lightly, as if testing Ben's presence. Ben was waiting for him to speak, to give some sign, but instead he leaned forward and slowly, gently, pressed his lips to Ben's mouth. It was a soft, chaste kiss, but Ben felt the catch in his breath as he pulled back, a mere fraction, only enough to separate them. He stood there, breathing deeply, all the emotions Ben had seen warring under the surface. Anger, guilt, pain, grief . . . and loneliness. Mike closed his eyes for an instant, his throat working as he swallowed, then the dark, smoldering orbs were fastened on Ben once more, just before he stepped forward and caught Ben's mouth with his own.
Their arms went around each other in a second, their bodies meeting with a hard, bone-jarring shock. Ben let his arm lock around Mike's waist, gripping tight with one hand while the other slid up the back of Mike's head, twining his fingers in the thick, soft mass of his hair to force him even closer. He'd all but forgotten the things he'd said only seconds before, discarded all his good intentions of being slow, careful, gentle. None of that seemed to matter so much right now, not while he was kissing Mike like this, devouring his mouth and being devoured in turn, feeling every bit of the passion he sent being given right back. It was like it used to be, and for a moment the memory was so achingly painful that he thought he would die.
He must have made some noise, given some signal that was somehow transmitted to Mike. Ben nearly whimpered as the other man tore his mouth away, pulling back from the kiss as far as Ben's gripping hand would allow. "Ben," Mike panted, his fair skin already flushed, eyes dark. "Ben, if we do this--"
Ben forced his hand up between them, pressing a shaking finger to Mike's mouth. "Don't," he said quietly. "Don't you dare talk yourself out of this, Mike. Whatever happens, we'll handle it. Trust me."
Mike closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and nodded. "Okay."
The respite was enough to allow them to separate, to step back and free themselves from the tight, smothering embrace. Wordlessly, Mike took Ben's hand and led him away from the window, over to the long, broad couch that Ben remembered so well. He sat down and, still holding Ben's hand, pulled Ben down toward him, laying back so that they were lying side by side, Ben's head resting on his shoulder. Mike turned his head, brushing his mouth softly over the top of Ben's head. He began to kiss him, his lips touching his forehead, temples, eyes, cheeks, drawing closer and closer until at last he pressed his mouth to Ben's.
Ben lost track of the time as they kissed there, shifting their arms around each other, hands softly exploring, re-acquainting themselves with one another's bodies. Mike was just as he remembered, hard muscle and broad shoulders, strong arms straining the weave of the sweater as he wrapped his arms around him. His mouth was soft and sweet against Ben's, lips gently mouthing his, then opening to taste him again, drawing him down into his rich, warm heat. Ben tangled his hands in Mike's hair again, this time refusing to let go, stroking the soft sable while gently pressing Mike closer, sealing their mouths together, molding his body to fit to his.
Ben tugged lightly at the raven head, urging until Mike turned obediently, rolling to half-lie on top of him, slipping his knee up between Ben's to urge his thighs apart. He drew his hand down Ben's side, stroking through his shirt until he reached the waistband of his pants and started tugging, working at the cloth until he could slide his hand up Ben's bare back. Ben sucked in a sharp, startled breath, tightening his arms around him to pull himself closer, to seal himself against every part of him. He rolled onto his back, spreading his legs to settle Mike between them, reaching up to pull Mike against him, hard. Mike gasped into his mouth, his breath sighing out in a long groan of pleasure, then he was kissing him again, pressing his full weight down on Ben's body until the thought of stopping was no longer part of either of their plans.
Eventually, though, Mike pulled himself away, levering up on his elbows to give himself and Ben room to breathe. He was beautifully disheveled, Ben thought, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, his hair rumpled and tousled where Ben's wandering hands had mussed it. His sweater had been discarded long ago, and his shirt was hanging open to his waist, down to where Ben's busy fingers had started to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip everything he could reach. He was still panting, his eyes dilated with pleasure, but when Ben reached for his waist again, hands moving to part his jeans, one hand snaked down to stop him, sliding his fingers around Ben's wrist in a gentle, unbreakable grip. "No," he got out, still breathing too hard to speak coherently. "Not here." He gulped a deep breath. "Not like this."
Ben stopped, confused. "What do you mean?" He was only a little more coherent, himself and he was sure he looked as wild and desperate as Mike did, his own clothing rucked up and disordered underneath him. "If you're having second thoughts--" A hard, hot mouth on his disabused him of that within a few seconds, and when Mike drew back he was shaking his head.
"No," he said. "I meant not here. Not on the couch, with our clothes still half-on like a couple of teenagers." He leaned down, sliding his hands up Ben's arms, slipping his fingers through his to pin his hands by his head. He bent closer. "If we're going to do this," he said, his voice purring warmly into Ben's ear, "then we'll do it right." He pressed a kiss to the edge of his ear. "If I'm going to be with you, I want to feel you, all of you." His lips drifted over Ben's face, tongue darting out to gently part Ben's mouth as he whispered, "And I'm not going to end up stuck to this couch, either."
"All right, then," Ben agreed, and closed his eyes to receive another kiss. When it was over, Mike pushed himself up and helped Ben to his feet, then the two of them went back to the bedroom.
Here it was, familiar territory again. The bedroom was the same cramped, tiny space, not nearly big enough for the double bed, certainly not big enough for the bed and the clutter of Mike's clothes. They wasted no time in getting out of their own clothes, too impatient and eager to take the time to help each other, each adding their own clutter as shirts, shoes, and trousers went into an untidy heap at the foot of the bed. Mike hadn't changed much in here, and Ben was suddenly glad of it. Now that they were here, about to make love again, about to share that not-quite-big-enough bed again, he wanted it to be just as it was before. He wanted, irrationally, to pretend as if nothing had happened, that it was just another tumble in the sheets after the day was done.
The illusion, though, was shattered the instant they stepped forward into each other's arms, pressing close before they fell together into the bed, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, naked at last. It had been so long, too long, and Ben suddenly wanted to make this last, to draw out the sensation of Mike's long, lean body against his, to imprint the memory of his hands roaming over the broad shoulders, the long back and firm thighs. And he wanted to remember Mike's hands on him, curving around his neck and his back, one hand wrapping around his nape while the other reached down to grip his buttocks, crushing him close for a long, deep kiss. But, as much as he wanted to make it last, the kiss was nearly too much, and he knew that neither of them was going to last much longer.
"Mike," Ben gasped once he had breath. "Mike, now." Not very elegant, but he was rapidly losing the last fragments of his control. Mike kissed him again, desperate, and searching, then abruptly released him and rolled over, reaching for the things in the nightstand. He handed it all up to Ben, and then spread out on his stomach, the invitation obvious. Fine with Ben. At this point, he was hardly going to argue about who was on top.
Mike gasped as his fingers went in, his back arching to help him. He ducked his head between his clenched hands, pressing his forehead to the mattress while Ben stroked in and out, making sure that he was ready. It didn't take long. Mike was as eager as he was, his body relaxed and willing, impatient now to finish it. It was a scenario Ben was well familiar with, and he withdrew his hands as soon as he was sure Mike could take him, stroking his back in their old signal that he was ready. In answer, Mike spread his legs further, raising himself up to help as Ben guided himself into place and pressed in.
He slid in almost immediately, the unaccustomed surrender making him gasp silently as he sank in, burying himself deep in the heat of the other man's body. He forced himself to go slowly, waiting for a signal from Mike to slow down, or stop, but none was forthcoming, only a low, sighing groan from his partner as he finally settled his full length inside him.
Mike moaned again as Ben shifted carefully against him, nestling himself more securely between his legs, and Ben saw his hands clench in the sheets, wrapping them in his fists while he fought for control. He tossed his head as Ben pulled out, panting desperately when he pushed in again and keeping it up while Ben slowly eased himself in and out, working him until he felt his cock sliding smoothly, Mike's body relaxed and stretched around him. He pushed in one last time, sliding his hands over Mike's back, feeling the sweat trickling down his body.
They were both close, Ben no less desperate than Mike to bring an end, but wanting to make sure that they got there together. He stroked Mike's back one last time, and received a shivering, wordless plea from the head buried in the pillows. That was enough for him, and he began to thrust in earnest, hearing Mike cry out in relief and release. He was crying out with each breath now, loud, hoarse moans that suddenly crescendoed in a long shivering whimper, his body shuddering as he came. Ben followed him a second later, that deep-throated moan almost passionate enough in itself to bring him over the edge. He let himself collapse on top of Mike's back afterwards, waiting until the dual thud of their heartbeats subsided, until he trusted his shaking body to bear him up again.
Mike finally made a sleepy noise of protest underneath him, and Ben realized that he'd nearly drifted off himself, still pillowed on the comfortable broad expanse of his back. He planted an apologetic kiss at the base of Mike's neck, reaching up to brush the damp bangs from his forehead, then levered himself off. Mike rolled on his side immediately, curling up around his pillow and to all appearances falling instantly asleep. Ben took a moment to clean up, and to lock the front door and switch off the lights, then crawled into the bed with him and wrapped himself around Mike's softly snoring body. Within moments, he found himself joining him in sleep.
Concluded in "Louder Than Words" (2/2)