STANDARD DISCLAIMERS:  They ain't mine, and if their 
owner, Dick Wolf, knew what I was doing with `em, he'd 
probably have a coronary.  No profits made, etc., etc., so 
hopefully he won't sue me when he recovers.

	This takes place in Season Five, sometime during the first 
five episodes, and includes one scene directly from "Coma" (I 
do overlap cases, since I figure that's how it occurs in reality).  I 
don't follow the dates given on the show since they don't seem 
to be continuous between episodes, but I do try to follow the 
episode sequence.

	Send comments to trigfish@yahoo.com.  I love feedback 
of all kinds--even the "Ewww, that's gross!" kind.

	And just in case it hasn't already been made abundantly 
clear, this is *slash*.  So, we're talking M/M NC-17 here.  If 
that's not your dish, turn back now!  Last warning...OK, here we 
go!
******************************************************

Close Call on First Ave

	Lightning streaked across the blackened sky, highlighting 
the Manhattan skyline for a brief millisecond like a strobe light, 
then vanished into the ether as quickly as it had come.  Late as 
always, the thunder boomed long moments later, reverberating 
through the huddled buildings, waking sleepers in both luxurious 
condos and ramshackled tenements alike.

	Well...most sleepers.

	Jack glanced over at the warm bundle of blankets, man, 
and cat at his side enviously.  Not a stir.  They slept on, 
oblivious to the fireworks just outside their window while his own 
heart was still racing from that last thunderous crash.  Damn.  
How the hell did they *do* that, anyway?

	His annoyance faded to amusement moments later when 
he realized that, once again, Chloe had managed to end up 
curled along Mike, her small head resting on the crook of his 
neck.  Tomorrow, he'd wake up to a purring warmth and cat 
hairs--and be absolutely horrified.  He'd jump out of bed, ranting 
about stupid disgusting cats that had no respect--as usual.  
She'd glare at him in annoyed disdain, then stalk away 
indifferently, only to return again at the first opportunity--as 
usual.  Jack grinned at the thought.  What a way to start the 
day.

	What was it about cats, anyways?  He reflected quietly as 
another thunderclash rocked his tiny brownstone.  Chloe had 
never been overtly affectionate to anyone, much to Sally's 
annoyance.  That was why she'd left the cat behind when she 
left him.  What was it she said when she left?  `She's as warm 
as a blizzard in Antarctica.  You two should get along fine.'  Not 
very nice, but probably well deserved.  Jack was well aware that 
he could be a cold S.O.B. when he chose to be--and, 
sometimes, even when it was the last thing he wanted to be.  It 
was his nature, and it was Chloe's.  They had grasped that 
about each other early on, and had reached an understanding.  
And, sometimes, late at night, when she crawled into his lap as 
he poured over the day's work one last time, he was infinitely 
grateful for her presence.  Leaving Chloe behind was the 
kindest thing Sally had ever done for him.

	But, Mike...that made no sense.  Mike hated cats--and so, 
naturally, Chloe stuck to him like glue.  Shedding on his suits.  
Pulling his beloved leather jacket off the hanger in order to curl 
upon it on the closet floor.  Following him everywhere.  Sleeping 
on top of him.  Tipping his drinks over.  Stealing his food right 
off his plate if he left the room.  If he didn't know better, Jack 
would swear that she did it just to piss Mike off.   A strange, 
almost flirtatious teasing.  Jack chuckled.  He should tell Mike 
*that* in the morning, just to see the look on his face.

	Not that he blamed Chloe.  Mike was all too easy to 
tease...and flirt with.  Twice, while they were both at work, he'd 
caught himself just in time.  Something about dancing 
amber-green eyes and that almost-smile called out to be flirted 
with.  Mike seemed to flirt with every breath, with every move of 
his long, sinuous body.  Hell, even now, fast asleep, with a limp 
cat draped across him, he managed to look alluring.  Something 
about the curve of broad shoulders melting into slim hips below 
the sheltering blankets.  The heavy weight of the leg tossed 
casually across Jack's thighs.  The enticing heat against his 
side.  The sweep of dark lashes along pale, high cheekbones.  
It all screamed come hither...even as the man slept on 
obliviously.

	And kept on sleeping, even as another fierce crash shook 
the frames on the wall.   Jack glanced at the nearby clock, and 
noted with satisfaction that Mike was only a few hours away 
from a full night of uninterrupted slumber.  That would raise their 
total to thirteen full nights, Jack reflected proudly.  He wasn't 
certain when Mike's sleeping habits had become a matter of 
pride for him, but he had to admit that he really enjoyed the idea 
of Mike finding some measure of peace in his bed.  He had a 
feeling that Mike didn't sleep half as well on the nights that they 
were apart, and that thought pleased him as well.

	Suddenly, a new sound pierced through the darkened 
room, a trilling ring far softer than the elemental crash of the sky 
above them.  Yet, now, the amber eyes opened on the first ring.  
Even as Jack recognized the soft, persistant cry of Mike's 
beeper, already the body that had slept so deeply moments ago 
sat up sharply.  Chloe yowled in outrage as she was roughly 
jostled in Mike's dive for his clothes.  Jack watched regretfully 
as delectable pale skin disappeared under faded sweats, more 
than a little annoyed that his thirteenth victory had just 
evaporated.

	"I thought you said you weren't on rotation."

	"I'm not.  Where's my other sock, damn it?!  Ah, here it is!  
Sorry, Jack."  Warm, full lips pressed against his far too briefly.  
"Try to go back to sleep."  And then, his lover padded quietly out 
of the room, followed seconds later by Chloe.

	Go back to sleep.  Right.

	Sighing resignedly, Jack tossed his covers aside and 
began to search for his own clothes.  In the two months that 
they had been sleeping together, this was the third time that 
Mike's beeper had gone off during a night that he wasn't on 
rotation.  He always used the phone quickly, then slipped away 
mysteriously into the night with no explanation.

	Quite frankly, it was starting to really piss Jack off.

	Still buttoning his jeans, Jack stumbled into the kitchen, 
following the sound of Mike's hushed voice.

	"Ok, Ok....Uh huh...listen, you're alright now....Ok, 
yeah...I'm on my way right now.  Just try to relax and--just--wait 
a minu--listen to me.  I'll be right there.  Turn on all the lights.  
Make some tea.  I'll be there before it boils.  OK?  See you in 
ten."

	Jack watched as Mike hung up the phone even as he 
tugged his jacket on over his sweatshirt.  "Where are you 
going?"

	Mike spun in surprise, obviously unaware of his approach.  
"Huh?  Oh, I'm gonna run down the block.  See if I can catch a 
cab."

	"It's three in the morning, Mike.  On a weekday.  And it's 
raining.  You're not gonna find an empty cab anywhere in the 
five boroughs right now."

	Mike shrugged as he pulled on his beat-up runners.  
"Then, I'll run it."  He moved towards the front door, Chloe still 
weaving between his feet.  Jack deftly slid between him and the 
door, arms crossed in determination.

	"Mike.  Where the hell are you going?"

	The amber green eyes flickered in annoyance as they fully 
focused their attention on him for the first time since Mike had 
awakened.  "C'mon, Jack.  I don't have time for this right now.  
I'll call you tomorrow or something."

	It was that harried tone of dismissal that really stung.  Less 
than five minutes ago, this guy had been curled up against 
Jack, sleeping peacefully in his embrace.  Four hours ago, they 
had been a hell of a lot more intimate than that.  And now, all of 
a sudden, this impatient stranger stood in his foyer, irritated that 
Jack was intruding into his personal affairs.  It filled Jack with 
fury...and a strangely painful sense of shame.

	"Listen, you prick.  This isn't a brothel, and I'm not paid by 
the hour.  So, stop treating me like it, Ok?"  Jack jerked the door 
open brusquely, letting a gust of cold, wet wind invade the foyer.  
"Go on, then.  Get the hell out."

	The annoyance melted away from Mike's stance as he 
sighed deeply, then reached behind Jack to pull the door 
closed.  The movement brought him to stand chest to chest 
against Jack, and Jack relished the warmth of the body pressed 
flush against him even as he glared up into tired eyes.  They 
had mellowed into soft grey in the faint light.

	"I'm sorry, Jack."  Warm kisses were pressed along his 
neck, with the hot brush of a tongue here and there...and Jack 
could feel himself melt even as he struggled to hold onto his 
righteous anger.  "I wasn't thinking...I have to get somewhere.  
Somebody needs me.  A friend."

	"Oh, yeah?  This the same friend who keeps calling you 
when you're off rotation in the middle of the night?  Despite the 
fact that this is your first night off in ten days?  You hanging out 
with vampires now, Mike?"

	Mike chuckled even as he pulled Jack deeper into his 
embrace.  Jack could feel his rational mind slowly starting to 
drown in the warmth, and had to struggle to follow Mike's next 
words.

	"No, not a vampire.  Just a friend who used to help me 
whenever I couldn't make it through a night on my own.  Who 
sometimes has her own rough nights.  I'm just returning the 
favour."

	Jack struggled to think as strong hands slid down his 
naked back to rest against the belt of his jeans.  "Uh huh.  This 
friend.  You wouldn't happen to help her get through the night 
the same way I help you?"

	Mike burst into laughter, and Jack smiled at the pleasant 
way the broad chest rumbled beneath his cheek.  "Nah.  
Nothing like that.  She's just a friend.  A very, very good friend 
who's had to wade through some pretty heavy stuff recently.  
Alright?"

	Jack sighed, knowing that he'd given in pretty much as 
soon as those lips brushed his neck.  Perhaps even before.  
"Yeah.  Ok.  Give me a couple of minutes and we'll go."

	Mike pulled away slightly.  "We?  Jack--"

	"Mike.  You're not gonna find a cab.  You know that, I 
know that.  Hell, anyone who's lived in this city for more than 
three months knows that.  And, it's freezing rain out there.  Give 
me five minutes to find a sweater and my keys, and I'll take 
you."

	Warm silver-green eyes smiled at him, and Jack was 
struck for perhaps the millionth time with their chameleon-like 
beauty.  "You're so pushy when you're woken up in the middle 
of the night."

	"You ought to know--and you'd better quit looking at me 
like that or we're never gonna get out of here."

	Once decided, they moved together swiftly, and minutes 
later, Jack found himself astride his wet, cold motorcycle as icy 
sheets of rain buffetted him.  He felt a wave of wonderment, 
trying to remember what could possibly have convinced him to 
go out into this freezing, wet night at three in the morning.  
Then, a warm, muscled body slid into place behind him, and he 
remembered.

	It was like that very first night all over again.  The blurring, 
bustling streets of Manhattan all around them, the cold icy rain 
slapping against them.  And warm gusting breaths against his 
cheek murmuring directions in that heady baritone even as 
strong arms encircled his waist.  Mike obviously had some 
experience with motorcycles, knowing exactly when and how to 
balance and lean his weight, and they moved together fluidly 
through the sparse traffic.

	It was a relatively quick ride, and soon enough they were 
pulling up in front of an affluent apartment building.  Quickly, 
Mike dismounted, and Jack sighed as the solid warmth against 
his back disappeared.  He slid off his own helmet as Mike 
passed him the spare.   Then, before he could say another word 
or move to dismount, strong arms wrapped around him and he 
found himself drowning in a heated, wet kiss.  The sharp cold 
around him faded along with the rest of the world until the dark, 
empty street became surreal around them.  Plush, hot lips 
pressed into him as that clever tongue lashed within his mouth, 
leaving a searing imprint when Mike finally pulled away.

	"Thanks, Jack.  I owe you one."

	"Mmh...you do, huh?" Jack grinned up at him sultrily.  
"When do I get my compensation for venturing out to God 
knows where in the middle of a thunderstorm?"

	Arms still tight around Jack's shoulders, Mike chuckled 
into his hair.  "How about tonight?  My place."

	"I guess that means take-out..."

	Mike laughed again, and Jack relished the way that his 
breath ruffled his hair...and nearly moaned in longing when he 
pulled away.  "Here."  Mike reached into his jacket pocket and 
pulled out a ring of keys.  "This one is for the main door.  This 
one's for the elevator.  And the little one is for my apartment.  
Buy whatever you want.  I even cleaned the fridge and 
cupboards for you.  Happy?"

	Jack smiled, oddly elated as he held the keys tightly.  
"Ecstatic."  He hooked his fingers along the front of Mike's 
sweatpants, pulling the man forward for another final kiss.  Mike 
obliged, then pulled away sharply.

	"Uh uh.  Save it for tonight, Counselor.  I should be there 
by 7:00pm.  Can I expect dinner at eight, and my favorite 
dessert at nine?"

	Jack laughed, releasing him reluctantly.  "Count on it, 
Detective."

	With a final grin, Mike spun and ran into the building, 
disappearing behind heavy frosted doors.  Jack watched the 
building regretfully for another long moment, savouring the 
lingering taste of those lips.  Then, the cold rain returned him to 
his senses, and he pulled back into traffic, tucking the keys 
away carefully.  They still carried Mike's warmth.

	It wasn't until he was halfway back home that he realized 
that they had been making out in plain view on a city street, 
without even a thought for the fact that they might be seen.  It 
disturbed Jack...but not as much as the fact that he still couldn't 
seem to make himself care.

*                                                *                                          *

	It was well after five when Jack slid the small key into the 
door to Mike's apartment.  It opened obediently with a faint 
creak, letting sunlight spill out from the large windows into the 
dim hallway.  Jack dragged his muliple bulging shopping bags 
into the sunlit kitchen, then surveyed the room critically.  
Smaller than he liked.  The fridge was ancient, and so was the 
stove.  A nice microwave, though.  And, the near-empty 
cupboards were large and clean.  And one of them opened to 
reveal a treasure trove of ancient, cast-iron pots and pans, 
some of which were covered in the dust of disuse.  It would do 
for what he had in mind--French tonight.  Mike seemed to love 
anything that involved beef, and Jack knew that his veal 
Marseillaise was a killer.

	Jack set to work immediately, setting out the tools and 
food he'd require with expert efficiency, then quickly falling into 
a rhythmic tandem as he usually did when cooking.  He felt his 
mind clear blissfully as he set about preparing the feast that 
he'd been envisioning all day.  Muscles relaxed, tensions 
melted as he chopped, diced and immersed himself in the food 
around him.  It was something about cooking that he had 
discovered long ago in his grandmother's cramped St. Louis 
kitchen.  Even as his fingers worked busily--whether it was 
peeling potatos or delicately styling puff pastries--his mind was 
able to slide into a nice, quiet neutral.  Nanna had called it `the 
cook's peace'.  His sister had never found it.  Jack had felt it the 
first time he was conscripted to chop onions, when he was 
thirteen and in desperate need of any kind of escape from his 
own mind.

	He worked on, oblivious for the moment to anything but 
the expensive veal he was carefully seasoning, leaving the 
interwoven tangle of his thoughts far behind.  And, lately, his 
thoughts had been even more tangled than usual.  Everything 
seemed to be getting just a little more complicated these days.  
His workload had increased dramatically when Stone left.  He'd 
inherited an assistant who seemed to vacillate between loving 
and hating him by the hour.  And, then there was Mike.  
Beautiful, volatile, unpredictable Detective Michael Logan.  A 
man who would make love to him with fierce passion one night, 
then with near reverent tenderness the next.  A man who would 
cling to him as he slept, then push him away when he woke.  A 
man who would dismiss Jack as soon as some anonymous 
`friend' called, then somehow manage to get Jack to volunteer 
to take him wherever he wanted to go.  Away from him and into 
the darkness. 

	All this and more had been swirling in Jack's mind 
dizzyingly all day, keeping him distracted and edgy and thinking 
about the black bottle in his desk drawer.  It was a great relief to 
escape for a while into the predictable choreography of cooking.  
And, by the time that the tender slivers of meat went into the 
cavernous oven, Jack was relaxed and smiling for the first time 
that day.

	He glanced up at the clock once he finished cleaning up.  
It read 6:30pm.  The veal would simmer for 45 minutes.  That 
gave him half an hour to explore before Mike's arrival.  He'd 
never had a chance to look around Mike's apartment with any 
degree of care before.  On the few occaisions when they had 
spent the night here, they had arrived late into the night and 
with only one thing on their minds.  Quite frankly, he was 
beginning to get curious about the shadowed rooms and objects 
he'd only ever seen in the gloom of night or early morning.

	The living room was by far the largest room in the 
apartment.  The high ceiling and full length windows bespoke to 
the age of this building that predated the grimmer, more 
dangerous New York of today.  Clear afternoon sunlight filtered 
through thin curtains to fall in heavy shafts across the old 
leather furniture.  The leather was soft and supple with age, and 
Jack found himself relaxing into the sofa's embrace easily.  
Kicking his feet up onto the cushions, he stretched out in the 
warm sun, and continued his perusal of the room's contents 
from his new berth.

	There were only two pictures--one of a much younger, 
too-thin Mike with his arms around a middle-aged heavyset 
man.  It took Jack a few moments to recognize the man as 
Sergeant Greevey, the policeman who had been assasinated 
several years ago in a scandalous mob trial.  Something about 
a leak in the grand jury, if memory served.  Both men were 
laughing, and Jack felt a strange stab at the careless, open grin 
on the younger Mike's face.  Mike had never smiled like that 
since Jack had known him.  There was another photo of a 
horse, the animal staring alertly into the camera as if aware that 
it was being photographed.

	And, then there were books.  Lots of books.  Way more 
books that Jack had ever suspected.  They lined the shelves 
along three of the four living room walls, one bookcase 
continuing on into the hallway.  There were also stacks of books 
here and there on the floor and on tables.  Another couple 
perched precariously on top of the TV set.  Curious, Jack 
climbed out of the sofa's grip and moved to the largest of the 
bookcases.  What he saw stunned him anew.

	Auden.  Shelley.  Petrarch.  Voltaire.  Tennyson.  Three 
shelves of Shakespeare.

	Mike Logan, a closet poet?

	Jack almost laughed at the absurdity...until he 
remembered one night weeks ago, when Mike, woken by a 
nightmare and half asleep against Jack with all his defenses 
down, had murmured softly against his chest.

	"Whoever you are holding me now in hand,
	Without one thing all will be useless,
	I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,
	I am not what you supposed, but far different..."

	Jack had recognized the passage vaguely, but hadn't been 
able to attribute a name to it.  When he asked Mike about it in 
the morning, the man had laughed and said he didn't 
remember--how could he?  He'd been asleep.  Jack had 
dismissed it as the ramblings of a dozing mind.  Now, he 
wondered whether the softly whispered words had originated 
somewhere on these shelves of masters.

	Jack ran a finger along the worn spines arranged neatly 
side by side, recognizing some of the names, drawing a blank 
on others.  Yoshimoto?  Carr?  Ah, there was one he knew very, 
very well--Machiavelli.  He'd read "The Prince" about fifty times 
in college, and still wasn't sure if Machiavelli was a political 
genius or an amoral bastard.  Maybe he was both.  Smiling, 
Jack pulled out the thin volume...and started when something 
came flittering out with it.  Hastily, he bent to retrieve it--an 
intricately folded, yellowing sheet of paper.  Curious, Jack 
proceeded to unravel the folds till he could spread the crinkled 
sheet flat against the sofa's cushions.

	At first, he didn't really understand what he was seeing.  A 
drawing, beautiful and intricately detailed, of a sleeping body.  A 
man's sleeping body, turned on its side, the face tucked from 
view.  But, Jack recognized the broad, smooth back, and the 
way that it narrowed sinuously into slim hips with firm, rounded 
buttocks.  The artist had even included the tiny dimples formed 
where the small of Mike's back met the swell of his buttocks.  It 
was a perfectly, lovingly rendered image of Mike asleep--and 
Jack felt a sudden inexplicable urge to kill whoever drew it.

	He stared at the image unblinkingly for a long, long time 
until his eyes began to tear and every line was firmly imprinted 
in his mind.  Slowly, his initial furious response dimmed and his 
rationality returned.  Ok.  Someone had drawn Mike naked as 
he slept.  Probably a lover.  No big surprise.  Mike's reputation 
was well known, as was Jack's.  How many people had either of 
them slept with in their lives?  Many.  And, Jack probably 
outnumbered Mike by quite a few.  Hell, he'd been in college in 
the sixties, when sex was about as intimate as a handshake.  
Obviously, this was not a big deal, right?  Right.

	That decided, Jack relaxed back into the sofa, eyeing the 
drawing in a more appreciative light.  It was actually pretty 
damned good, all things considered.  And, it looked like this had 
been the artist's raw sketch--the paper seemed torn from a 
sketchbook.  Obviously, a talented hand had drawn this.  Jack's 
eyes wandered over the paper once more, and he noticed for 
the first time that there was writing in a neat, small hand at the 
very corner of the sheet.

	**Yesterday, I told you that you were beautiful, and you 
laughed at me and said I was crazy.  Here, then, is your proof.  
If I could, I'd wait for you to wake and show you personally, but 
I'm late--again--and I don't have the heart to wake you.  I love 
you.  Ben.**
 
	If Jack had been surprised before, he was well into 
catatonic shock now.  Even before he saw the signature, he'd 
recognized the writing.  That cramped, pretentious, prissy 
writing.  Ben Stone's writing.   Ben Stone's drawing.  Ben Stone 
and Mike Logan as lovers.

	Jack tried to imagine it--and failed utterly.  The fact that 
Stone could actually have a sex life was too much already.  The 
very idea of him having said sex life with someone like Mike.  
No.  No way.  He couldn't do it.  It couldn't be.

	And yet, Jack was staring right at the evidence.  He 
examined the writing, to see if there could have been some 
mistake.  Nope.  Still there.

	**I love you.  Ben.**

	"Holy shit.  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."  Jack sprung up 
from the sofa and began to pace nervously.  Ok.  This was still 
Ok.  Obviously, there had been something there once.  
Something pretty serious...

	**I love you.  Ben.**

	But, that was all past now, right?  After all, Stone was 
long-gone.  Off to the family estates up in New England...

	And, Mike was having trouble sleeping.

	`You bastard.  Are you the reason he keeps waking up, too 
freaked out to even tell me what's wrong?  You pretentious, 
superior, smug *bastard*!'

	Jack collapsed back onto the sofa, breathing heavily.  He 
suddenly realized that he still had the sketch clutched in his 
hands, and the yellowed paper was beginning to fray in his grip.  
Carefully, he smoothed it out, then refolded it as accurately as 
possible, following the old creases.   Once finished, he returned 
the crumpled square to the bookshelf, tucking it between the 
two books from which it had fallen.  He kept the Machiavelli, 
though.  He needed a dose of familiarity right about now, and its 
well-known cover was welcoming.

	For a moment, Jack thought about returning to the warm 
sunlit kitchen and staying there with Machiavelli for company till 
Mike arrived, safe from any more secrets the apartment might 
divulge.  But, as usual, his curiosity got the better of him.  There 
was something about the enigma that was Mike Logan that 
called out for investigation.  They had been sleeping together 
most nights for over two months, and still Jack sometimes 
looked across the bed and saw a stranger.  So, still armed with 
the old book, he continued his exploration.

	There was an odd mix of old and new.  Below a drawer full 
of CDs and videotapes there was another full of old envelopes 
and letters, some dating to the turn of the century.  Some of the 
names ended in Logan, but many others did not.  Beneath the 
letters, he found an ancient photo album, which he dragged out 
eagerly, hoping for some benign, amusing baby pictures to 
humiliate Mike with.  But, before he could open it, a soft chime 
rang.

	The oven.  A quick glance at his watch confirmed that it 
was 7:15pm.  Mike was late...as usual.  Chuckling softly, Jack 
left the album on the living room table and went back to the 
kitchen.  Quickly, he added the finishing touches to the veal, 
placing the strips decoratively in a platter of rice and 
vegetables.  He set the table as well as he could, having only a 
limited knowledge of where things were stored, then returned 
enthusiastically to the album.

	The pictures were very old, probably predating the arrival 
of baby Mike by several decades.  But, Jack wasn't too 
disappointed.  Pictures had always fascinated him on several 
levels, especially those of strangers.  He followed the 
adventures of a beautiful woman with pale blonde hair and the 
slender, fair young man that was obviously her beau.  The early 
photos were grainy and staged--obviously in the early days of 
photography.  They stood together stiffly, gripping each other for 
support and trying to look severe and respectable for posterity.  
But, her eyes sparkled brightly, and he wore a very familiar 
almost-smile--and their young faces were anything but severe.  
As he flipped the pages, Jack watched them court, then marry.  
Her slim figure swelled familiarly.  And, then there was a tiny, 
pinched face with a footprint from the hospital stapled to the 
page below.  A feminine hand had written "Aidan Patrick Logan" 
carefully beneath.

	Jack felt the horrified shock that had gripped him before 
slowly fade away as he made his way through someone else's 
happy memories.  Aidan's first birthday.  Aidan's first visit to 
Central Park.  Aidan surrounded by overzealous matrons, 
looking decidedly ill at ease.  One picture of the infant grinning 
widely, covered in what appeared to be chocolate sauce, made 
Jack laugh aloud as he remembered his own daughter's first 
artistic experiments with food.  Then, he sighed sadly as he 
remembered that Rachel was on the geographically opposite 
side of the country, immersed in her own life right now.

	Little Aidan grew into a slender, fair boy that was the 
picture of his father.  Strangely enough, there was very little of 
Mike in any of the people in the photographs--except for that 
smile.  The trademark Logan grin had survived the generations 
just fine.  The photo album came to an end with one last shot of 
Aidan, his shoulders just beginning to broaden, holding a large 
shaggy dog by the collar, sitting on the front steps of this same 
apartment building.

	Jack closed the book with a happy sigh.  No embarrasing 
baby pictures of Mike, but he'd really enjoyed stepping into his 
family's life for a little while.  They seemed so happy and close.  
So very different from the childhood Mike rarely discussed.  But, 
then again, Jack's own grandparents had lived happy, complete 
lives despite the shambles that their daughter had made of hers 
and her children's.

	Shaking off his own encroaching memories, Jack moved 
to put away the album--and suddenly realized that the whole 
room was shadowed.  The sun had set.  A quick glance at his 
watch confirmed that it was almost eight, and that he'd spent 
nearly an hour perusing the old album.

	OK, this was getting late, even for Mike.  Annoyed, Jack 
went back to the kitchen, and returned the veal to the oven.   He 
sat at the table and began to thumb through Machiavelli 
distractedly.

	By 8:30pm, he was furious.  The veal must be completely 
dried out by now!

	By 9:00pm, he was getting worried.

	By 10:00pm, he was pacing.

	Nobody--not even Mike--was ever this late.  What if 
something happened?  An accident?  Was Mike on rotation 
today?  Was there some kind of crisis?  Quickly, Jack moved 
back to the living room, flicking on the TV to the local 
newschannel, then turning on the radio.  There were updates on 
the latest dogleash by-laws.  Senator Elmwood had been caught 
on tape kissing his young, nubile secretary.  No riots.  No 
emergency.  If there was a homicide, it wasn't important enough 
to warrant coverage.  Not very surprising in a city that averaged 
several murders a day.  And if there had been an accident, 
there *would* have been some coverage--if only to alert 
commuters of which roads to avoid till the mess was cleared.

	Jack paced the apartment nervously, his mind racing with 
possibilities.  Wouldn't Mike have called if there was a delay?  
He knew Jack was waiting at his apartment, right?  What if he 
called earlier?  Jack raced to the answering machine, and 
cycled through the messages.   One from something called the 
Somerset House, confirming the arrival of a check.  Another 
from an irritated, yet pleading woman named Lisa who wanted 
to know where the hell Mike was and why the hell he wasn't 
returning her calls.  Another from a man who identified himself 
as Graham from "the bank".  None from Mike.  None explaining 
his tardiness.

	Jack clutched the phone desperately.  Who could he call?  
The precint?  Hardly.  The gossip mill among the boys in blue 
was comparable with a sewing circle.  He might as well send 
snapshots of them in bed to every cop Mike had ever worked 
with.   Briscoe?  He didn't even know the man's home number.  
He ran through the speed dial numbers, and breathed a sigh of 
relief when he saw the name "Lennie" scrawled next to the 
number three.  He dialed quickly, and waited as the phone rang.  

	No answer.  He hung the phone up with a slam.  "Shit!"  
He ran nervous fingers through his hair, standing most of it on 
end.

	Another glance at the speed dial numbers revealed 
another familiar name--"Liz".  Did he dare?  Jack knew full well 
what Olivet thought of him.  After a moment's reflection, he 
decided that he was desperate enough, and dialed.

	"Hello?"

	"Dr. Olivet?  It's McCoy.  Jack McCoy, from the DA's--"

	"Yes, I know."  The smooth feminine voice was cool and 
clipped.  "What can I do for you at this time of night, Mr. 
McCoy?  I'm surprised to learn that you have my home 
number."  Her tone implied that she was more annoyed than 
surprised, and that Jack had better make his explanation good.

	But, Jack was too far gone to care anymore.  "I'm at 
Mike's.  Do you know where he is?"

	There was a stunned pause, and Jack could almost see 
those ice-blue eyes glinting in surprise and aggravation.  "No.  I 
haven't seen him all day.  Why are you--"

	"He's supposed to be here," Jack cut her off brusquely, not 
caring to explain anything else.  "He said he'd be home by 
seven.  It's nearly 10:30.  I already called Briscoe, but there's no 
answer, and I can't find any mention of anything on the news 
and he hasn't called and I don't know where to call and--"

	"Mr. McCoy.  Jack."  The voice had become gentler, 
soothing, and Jack found himself quieting down under its 
influence.  Is that how she spoke to her patients?  "Mike is not 
known for his punctuality.  Maybe he just got held up at the 
precinct.  Or in traffic."

	"For three and a half hours?"

	Olivet sighed.  "Well, that *is* excessive, even for him.  
Alright, then.  I'll make some calls.  VanBuren usually has a 
pretty good idea of where he is.  Or maybe Captain Cragen.  I'll 
call you at this number if I discover anything.  Alright?"

	"Yeah.  Ok.  Thanks."

	"No problem.  And, Jack, don't worry.  It wouldn't be the 
first time that Mike has completely forgotten about a date."

	Jack winced.  "Yeah.  Right.  Bye, Elizabeth."

	He hung up the phone, and sat quietly next to it, staring at 
its black plastic surface blankly.

*                                            *                                             *

	The phone rang once more.  Olivet reporting in that 
Lieutenant VanBuren wasn't home and Cragen didn't have a 
clue where Mike was either, but not to worry.  It was probably 
nothing.

	Jack moved to the large bay windows and stared out into 
the now-empty street.  The clock on the mantle read 1:14am.  
Just like it had thirty seconds ago.

	Suddenly, a familiar car pulled up in front of the apartment 
building entrance, and Jack felt a heady wave of relief wash 
through him as he recognized the license plate, followed quickly 
by a rush of righteous fury.  That bastard!  Where the hell had 
he been?!  If he thought that he could get away with this, he had 
another thing coming.  Mike might forget his *other* dates, but 
Jack McCoy was not the kind of guy who got stood up.  Ever.

	But, all of Jack's outrage evaporated when he recognized 
the figure that climbed out of the driver's door.  Briscoe.  The 
man moved to the passenger side, opening the door and 
helping out another.  Mike.  Who was leaning heavily on his 
partner.  And walking with an uncharacteristic hobble.

	All thoughts of his well-deserved tirade abandoned, Jack 
tore open the front door of the apartment and raced down the 
stairwell, making no attempts to quiet his descent.  He arrived 
just as Briscoe attempted to open the main door with the wrong 
key while holding Mike up.  Quickly, he pulled open the heavy 
armored door, letting a gust of cool night air into the warm 
lobby.

	"McCoy!" Briscoe grinned in surprised relief.  "You're 
here?"

	Jack ignored the older man, moving immediately to Mike's 
side.  Uncharacteristically cloudy amber eyes rose to meet his 
as he slid his shoulder under Mike's other arm, pulling them into 
the warmth of the lobby.

	"Jack, what are you....oh, ssshit.  I ffforgot."  Mike 
stumbled with a groan, leaning heavily against Jack.  "I'm 
sssorry, Jack," he slurred softly.  "I fforgot."

	For a moment, Jack thought that he was drunk--until he 
saw the heavy white bandages peeking out from beneath Mike's 
rumpled shirt.  "Shit, what the hell happened?"

	His question had been directed at Mike, but it was Briscoe 
who answered as they helped Mike to the elevator.

	"We were following up a lead on the Nguyen case--some 
crackhead living in one of those communal holes down on First 
Ave.  We cornered the kid on the roof, and Mike was cuffing him 
while I read him his rights.  Then, suddenly, the little nutcase 
makes a break for it--right over the side of the roof.  He must've 
been flying on some high octane.  Mike grabs him, but the kid 
pulls him over the edge, and they land on the fire escape one 
story down."  Briscoe shook his head tiredly.  "I think I aged 
about ten years in the five seconds it took me to get to the side 
and see that, though.  Jesus.  Hey Jack,  you Ok?"

	"Yes," Jack answered mechanically, his imagination 
replaying that scene in vivid tortuous detail even as he led them 
into the apartment and then into Mike's bedroom.  Mike 
remained limp and near-oblivious between them.  "Is he 
alright?"

	"Yeah, he's fine, all things considered.  A couple of 
cracked ribs--helluva lot better than the kid's broken collar bone.  
They kept him at the hospital for a few hours under observation.  
Just to make sure there was no internal bleeding or nothing.  
Then, they bandaged up the ribs--see?"

	Jack nodded silently as he helped Briscoe remove his 
partner's clothes.  The torn, stained shirt revealed thick, tight 
bandages wrapped around Mike's torso.  Sickly purple bruises 
spilled out from their cover across the smooth, pale skin.  Jack 
felt his stomach twist painfully.  Eyes still closed, Mike tried to 
turn onto his side--his favored sleeping position--and gasped 
sharply.  "Ow.  Shit."  He slid back onto his back, then 
incredibly, giggled softly.

	Briscoe chuckled, then explained at Jack's stare.  "The 
docs gave him some kinda painkiller.  Naxo-something-caine.  
Apparently, it affects 1% of people like a strong narcotic.  He's 
flying higher than a kite right now, and he should have no 
problems sleeping tonight.  Hell, he damn near fell asleep in the 
car twice, potholes and all."  Briscoe brushed back thick dark 
bangs, revealing dilated hazy green eyes for a brief moment as 
Mike blinked, then closed his eyes again.  "Always figured you 
were 1% of something, partner."

	Mike smiled vacantly, eyes still closed.  "Lennie, s'your 
turn to get the coffee.  I wanna mochaccino this time."

	Briscoe laughed as Jack finished pulling off Mike's shoes, 
and helped him pull the bedsheets over the dazed man.  "Yeah, 
Ok.  Coming right up.  Sweet dreams, Mike."  There was no 
response, and Briscoe realized that his partner was already fast 
asleep.  Still chuckling, he followed Jack out of the room, 
closing the door carefully behind them.  It was only in the light of 
the kitchen that he noticed the other man's haggard silence.

	"Jack?  Are you Ok?"

	"Yeah.  Do you want something to eat?  Coffee?"

	"Nah.  I'm gonna go home and crash for a few hours 
before heading back to the precinct to write this up.  Thank God 
it's Friday tomorrow.  No doubt, Mr. Mochaccino in there will 
show up tomorrow, regardless of doctor's orders.  Which means 
I'll have to put up with him limping all over the place and letting 
everybody make a fuss over him."  Briscoe grinned teasingly at 
the ridiculous idea of Logan letting *anyone* fuss over him, but 
didn't get any response from Jack.  "Jack?"

	"I'm fine, Lennie.  Are you taking his car, then?"

	"Yeah.  He'll probably cab it in tomorrow." The cop cast 
another dubious look over Jack's silent form.  "You sure you 
don't mind staying with him tonight?"

	"No, I don't mind.  Thanks, Lennie."

	"Yeah.  Ok, then.  I guess I'll go."  Briscoe allowed himself 
to be escorted out, then stopped again at the door, capturing 
dark, tired eyes with his.  "I would've called, Jack, if I'd only 
known."

	Jack forced a smile.  "I know, Lennie.  It's Ok.  Really."  
Briscoe shot him one more skeptical glance, then shrugged and 
began his descent down the stairs back to the waiting car.  Jack 
closed the door, then moved stiffly back into the kitchen.  He 
pulled the dried out, ruined veal out of the oven and scraped the 
whole mess into the garbage.  Then, he carefully cleared the 
table, then the sink.  When he finished, the kitchen was as 
spotless as when he'd arrived, and no sign of his presence 
remained.  Then, he moved silently back into the darkened 
bedroom.

	Mike slept on, silent in sleep as he rarely was awake.  
Jack slid carefully onto the bed beside him, watching his chest 
rise and fall.  The moonlight lit the bandages a shining silver, 
and it gave the odd impression of Mike's lower torso being 
surrounded by a band of molded metal.  Jack reached out and 
slowly ran his fingers through that thick thatch of hair he loved 
so much.  Mike smiled, eyes still closed.

	"That you, Jack?"

	"Yeah.  It's me." Jack smiled slightly, wondering how Mike 
had guessed that it was him.

	"Wha'cha'doin' here, Jack?"

	Jack froze, then slowly pulled his hand away.  "Nothing.  
Nothing at all, Mike.  Go back to sleep."

	And Mike sighed, and did just that.

	For once, the roles were reversed.  Mike slept peacefully, 
while Jack watched in still silence.

*                                          *                                              *

	"So, I thought we should meet with Mr. Lee and his lawyer 
first.  See what the husband has to say before we talk to the 
mistress....Jack?"

	"I'm listening, Claire.  Quit repeating yourself.  It's 
annoying and unproductive.  Call Lee in, then, if that's the way 
you want to do it.  Tell the mistress's lawyer we'll see her 
tomorrow.  Now, what about the summation for the Verales 
case?  I think you should do it, and I think you should really zero 
in on the homeless female victims angle.  Here, I made out 
some notes for you.  Learn them by tomorrow afternoon."

	As expected, a flash of anger lit those lovely dark eyes, 
but Jack cut off her outburst before it started with a curt wave.  
"I've made my decision, Claire.  Leave it.  Now, tell me about 
this sudden decision to secede by Mrs. Jansen's lawyers."

	Claire stared at him across a teetering pile of paperwork, 
her dark gaze unusually searching.  "Jack.  What the hell is 
wrong?"

	Jack took a deep breath, holding his temper in check with 
effort.  "Nothing.  Is.  Wrong.  Ok?"

	Claire sighed, her slight shoulders moving in a 
characteristic shrug.  "Ok.  Nothing's wrong.  Fine.  The Jansen 
case."  She rifled through her pile of folders on her lap.  "Ah, 
here it is!  Oh, yeah.  The lawyers are calling it conflict of 
interest--"

	"What the hell for?"

	"Well, it turns out that Amy Jansen has this friend that--"

	The clarion ring of the telephone interupted Claire's 
explanation, and she cut off in mid-stride to answer it.  "Kincaid.  
Uh huh.  Great!  Ok, send them up.  We're in McCoy's office 
right now."  She glanced up at her superior as she returned the 
phone to its cradle.  "Logan and Briscoe are on their way up for 
their briefing on the Dobson case."

	"Did you do the bail hearing already?"

	"Yeah.  Five hundred thousand bail.  I gave you the report 
this morning."

	"I read it.  It's weak at best.  Probably a loser."

	Claire risked a small smile, hoping to coax her boss to join 
her.  "Well, you might not want to say it that way to Detective 
Logan.  You know how personally he takes it."

	That earned her an ice-cold glare that froze her attempt at 
lightening the mood solid.  "I am not interested in how 
personally Detective Logan takes his cases.  I'm not here to 
coddle him.  And, neither are you."

	Claire stared at Jack in dismay.   She seemed on the 
verge of saying something when there was a knock at the door.  
Jack gestured curtly, and Detectives Briscoe and Logan 
entered.

	Claire looked up with a smile as her friends walked into the 
office.  Her smile faded slightly when she noticed Logan's stiff 
gait, then changed to worry when Briscoe pulled out his chair for 
him in unusual solicitude.  Mike sat slowly, with none of his 
usual fluid grace.

	"Mike, are you alright?  Did something happen?"

	Mike smiled wryly at her.  "Yeah.  I finally took that flying 
leap all the perps keep telling me to take."

	Lennie laughed as he settled into the other free chair.  
"Yeah, you should've seen it!  See, this crackhead--"

	"I read your case report."  Jack's voice cracked across the 
small office, cold and brusque and demanding attention.  Lennie 
cut himself off sharply in mid-recital, looking at Jack in puzzled 
surprise.  Jack could feel a similar stare from Mike across the 
desk, but ignored it steadfastly, focusing only on Briscoe.  
"Quite frankly, Detective, it leaves a lot to be desired."

	Clear grey eyes blinked, then cooled into professional 
distance, all familiarity carefully shuttled away.  "How so, 
Counselor?"

	Jack stood up abruptly, pacing the confines of his office 
restlessly.  His voice, however, remained emotionless.  "I've 
seen stronger cases."

	Briscoe shrugged slightly, trying to follow Jack as he 
paced around his chair.  "Hey, if the guy had shot her in Times 
Square at rush hour, we'd have brought you a stronger case."

	Jack stopped in front of his desk, grabbing the report 
roughly and scanning it once more, despite the fact that he'd 
read it numerous times already.  "No witnesses?"  His tone 
implied that this was unheard of.

	"We canvassed that neighbourhood three times."  Jack 
had been doing a good job of ignoring Mike's presence, but the 
familiar baritone made him glance instinctively in his direction.  
The sunlight streaming in from the window behind Jack lit the 
green-gold eyes clearly, despite their puzzlement and growing 
annoyance.  "No one saw Dobson."

	"And we're working on the taxi records now in case he took 
a cab there from his club," Briscoe added.

	Jack, however, was far from satisfied.  He glared at the 
two cops a moment more, then returned to the report.  "No shell 
casings?  Dobson's gun is an automatic, isn't it?"

	Briscoe shrugged again.  "Well, he's no dummy.  Maybe 
he picked them up."

	"'Could've picked it up.'" Jack mimicked with a sneer.  
"That'll go over well in cross examination." He shared a 
sarcastic grin with Claire, who was looking confused and very 
uncomfortable by this point.  She tapped her pen nervously 
against her pad, sharing an uncertain glance with Mike.  Jack 
followed her glance and noted that Mike, too, had picked up a 
pen from the edge of the desk and was toying with it edgily.  
The similarity in their actions and the shared looks were enough 
to drive Jack's anger up another notch, and he directed his next 
question at Logan.  "You didn't talk to Dobson's daughter?"  he 
demanded accusingly.

	Mike blinked at the vehemence of his tone before 
answering.  "The seven year old?" he asked incredulously, still 
unsure of what exactly was going on.  The familiar tiny crease 
between his brows that always appeared when he was annoyed 
returned.

	Jack continued on, despite the warning signs.  "The 
babysitter said she was upset the night of the shooting.  
*Before* the shooting."  His words were a direct challenge.

	 The amber-green eyes became cold, freezing into their 
darker shades.  "The babysitter said she had a stomach 
ache--and we had other things to do.  Like establish Dobson's 
motive and destroy his alibi."  Mike was picking his words 
carefully now, still trying to hold onto his volatile temper.  Jack 
could see by the worried glances Lennie and Claire were 
exchanging that they didn't think it could last much longer.  Not 
that that was going to stop Jack.

	"You couldn't go back later and find out *why* she had a 
stomach ache?"  Jack sneered dismissively, as if he wasn't 
aware of the crushing weight of the caseload that Logan and 
Briscoe carried.  As if he didn't realize that his own office was 
pressuring them to concentrate on two of their more politically 
sensitive cases, and leave this and their other cases on the 
backburner for now.

	By this point, Claire and Lennie were both fidgeting visibly, 
waiting for the inevitable explosion.  The other two men were 
oblivious to their discomfort, though.  Jack had the terrifying, 
sickly sensation that he always got on the few times that he'd 
lost control of his bike.  Knowing that he was surrounded by 
vehicles far larger than he, and that there was nothing he could 
do but hold on and see where he ended up.

	"You think you know so much about being a cop?"  Mike's 
voice was still low, still soft--but beginning to break.  "Why don't 
you do the investigating?"

	Jack leaned over his desk threateningly, sneering down at 
the still seated cop.  "Are you giving me *attitude*?!  My father 
was a cop for thirty one years, and he would never leave a DA 
twisting with a half-made case and ask him to get an 
indictment."  He gestured widely, then returned his hands to grip 
his desk firmly when he noticed their tremor.   It suddenly 
dawned on him that Mike could destroy him right now with one 
well-placed word about his oh-so-competent cop father.  Why 
the hell had he ever revealed his sordid past to him?  He'd 
never mentioned it to anyone before, up to and including his 
ex-wife.

	"Gimme a break!"  There was real anger in the dark, 
molten eyes now, their colour having solidified to a threatening 
black.  "You could get a ham sandwich indicted!"

	"That might be easier!  There's *meat* on a ham 
sandwich!"

	Mike blinked, his face a mixture of confusion and anger.  
He looked away, mouth hanging slightly open in dismay--and 
Jack felt a sudden urge to reach out and touch those plush lips, 
to wipe away the bewilderment from those chameleon eyes.  He 
squashed the urge ruthlessly.

	Sudden movement to his right broke Jack's stare.  Briscoe 
stood up sharply, shooting Jack a quick dark glare.  "We'll go 
see the kid."  His expression was more worried than angry, and 
Jack knew that his concern was less for the case and more for 
getting his partner out of Jack's office as soon as possible.  
None of the camaraderie that had begun to grow between them 
remained in those clear grey-blue eyes, and Jack was stunned 
anew with the depth to which that realization stung.

	"Just the taxi records," Jack replied coldly, sneer still fixed 
tightly in place.  He could feel the tremors in his hands slowly 
spreading up his limbs and was desperate to clear his office 
before they overtook him completely.  "I think Claire will be fine 
with the kid."  He shot his assistant a cheesy, almost flirtatious 
smile.  Claire cringed slightly, her huge brown eyes flickering 
between his and Mike's stare, trapped.

	Mike caught Claire's gaze for another long moment as his 
partner departed, then stood up slowly, but without any hint of 
pain.  A favorite phrase of his father's filtered unwillingly into 
Jack's mind: `No weakness before an enemy.'  Is that what they 
were now?  Mike shot him a last expressionless stare as he 
tossed the pen he'd been toying with back onto his desk, then 
followed his partner out.

	The door closed behind them with a resounding click...and 
silence returned to the small, cramped office.

	Until a heavy, shuddering sigh broke the stillness.  Jack 
started, having completely forgotten about his assistant's 
presence.  He looked away, not trusting himself to meet her 
stare.  "You'd better get to work on that summation.  And, go 
see the Dobson girl sometime today."  He turned his back to 
her, moving to stare blindly out the window.

	Jack's mind swirled dizzyingly around him, his thoughts 
coalescing and breaking in a nauseous vortex.  Had he 
accomplished what he wanted?  Had *this* been his plan?  
What was it again that he wanted, anyway?  He couldn't 
remember...he couldn't remember anything but everchanging 
eyes--now amber, now green, now laughing, now cooly distant.  
He had spent the whole night sitting in Mike's moonlit, silent 
bedroom, listening to the soft breaths of Mike's slumber.  
Watching Mike's still, empty face.  The face of his lover.  The 
face of a stranger.  He'd made a decision--several decisions.  
Good, rational, well thought out decisions.  So, why couldn't he 
remember them anymore?  And, why couldn't he make himself 
care?

	A soft touch on his shoulder made him jerk violently.  He 
found himself looking down into soft doe-brown eyes.  The real 
concern in Claire's face made him wince, even as he thanked 
whatever gods were still listening to him for it.

	"Jack..."  Her voice was deep, sultry.  Why hadn't he 
noticed that before?  "I won't presume to know what that was 
about, and I have a feeling that it was probably deserved, but..." 
she sighed, then looked up at him sadly.  "Well, I guess what 
I'm trying to say is that...whatever Mike did, however it was that 
he hurt you...he probably doesn't even realize it."

	Jack stared down at her dully, too disoriented to be more 
than vaguely bemused by the fact that she appeared to be far 
too familiar with his sex life.  She seemed to read his mind, 
though, and smiled gently.

	"Mike and I have been friends pretty much since I started 
working here.  He stood by me when my ex-boyfriend tried to 
have me disbarred.  He and Lennie kept me sane when my 
mother died last Christmas.  I know how to read him pretty 
well--and I've seen the way he looks at you.  I've only seen him 
look at one other person that way."

	Jack tried to chuckle, but the choked sound that came out 
seemed closer to a sob.  "Let me guess.  The great, noble 
Benjamin T. Stone."

	Claire blinked.  "I'm surprised he told you."

	"He didn't.  I found a drawing..." Jack trailed off, suddenly 
unable to continue.

	Claire sighed.  "Oh.  I see.  Ben is a wonderful artist."

	"Yeah.  Very realistic." Jack laughed, then cut himself off 
when he heard the hysterical note in his own voice.  He 
suddenly realized that those tremors had finally overtaken him.  
Claire's slender fingers still rested firmly on his arm, and he let 
her warm solidity anchor him down.

	"Is that why you're angry at him?"

	"No.  Yes.  I mean--" Jack cut himself off in exasperation 
and dismay.  "I can't believe I'm talking to you about this!"

	Claire laughed softly.  "You'd be surprised.  Look Jack, it's 
common knowledge that you and Stone had this rivalry thing 
going, but surely you're not going to hold that against Mike..."

	"It's not that simple.  It's...he..." Jack sighed, then 
hesitated, gathering his thoughts.  Did he really want to do this?  
He and Claire had become fairly good friends, their relationship 
having finally become somewhat stable--although there were 
still days that everything each did seemed to piss the other off.  
They often spent time together after work hours, either with `the 
guys', as Claire called Briscoe and Logan, or on their own.  Jack 
had come to see her as more than an ally in the courtroom, and 
she was the first assistant he'd ever had--male or female-- 
whose good opinion had begun to matter to him.  With her at his 
back, he felt somehow better equiped to venture into the 
battles, both legal and political, that he faced every day.  And 
yet, it remained blindingly clear where her first loyalties lay.  She 
numbered Mike and Lennie among her closest friends, and Jack 
was reminded of that in a million tiny ways regularly.  It was 
surprising how much that rankled him--he'd never been big on 
popularity.  But still, sometimes, when they all went out together, 
and the three of them suddenly began reminiscing or sharing 
private jokes that left him clueless, Jack felt the division clearly.

	At the same time, he was desperate to talk.  To vent the 
swirling chaos that had been filling his mind for some time now.  
And, unlike her, his choices were limited.  Claire was the closest 
thing to a friend Jack had these days.   Taking a deep breath, 
he started over again, hoping that he wasn't about to lose that 
friendship in the next few minutes.

	"You saw that limp when he walked in, right?" She nodded.  
"Well, yesterday, I was supposed to meet him after work.  At his 
place.  I spent all day thinking about it, planning it.  He was 
supposed to be there at seven.  Briscoe brought him home 
closer to 1:30am, bandaged up and strung out on painkillers.  
And, all I could think about while I was waiting in that apartment 
was that I didn't know what was going on...and I really didn't 
have any right to.  Like I was some kind of intruder.  I don't 
know where anything is in his apartment.  I don't know who to 
call if he doesn't show up.  I don't even know what his favorite 
hangouts are.  Hell, I've been sleeping with the man for over two 
months, and I still don't even know how old he is.  Or when his 
birthday is.  Or what his favorite colour is."

	Claire's expression moved from sympathetic to deadly 
serious.  "Do you want to know, Jack?  Really?  Think carefully 
before you answer."  Her sudden severity startled him, and he 
glanced at her uncertainly.  "Both of you have made a point of 
establishing reputations of noncommittal sexual relationships.  I 
don't know about you, but I've only seen Mike take a 
relationship seriously *once*.  And, it wasn't him in the end who 
couldn't hold up his end of the bargain...and that one time 
nearly killed him.  Talk to Briscoe, or better yet Elizabeth Olivet, 
if you really want to hear how well he survived that.  Since then, 
I've watched him slowly crawl back from the edge.  And now, for 
the first time since then, I'm seeing the old Mike Logan--and it's 
usually whenever he's around you.  Right now, he wants you, 
but if you walk away right now, he'll go on.  Don't ask him to 
start needing you, though, until you're sure you want him to."  
Claire smiled slightly to take the sting out of her words, but the 
dark, lovely eyes remained serious.  "You've made it pretty clear 
that you like your sex life uncomplicated and casual, Jack.  I get 
the feeling you're not the kind of guy who lets your lovers ask 
more of you than you ask of them."

	Jack flinched as the words hit despite her soft, 
non-judgemental tone.  It wasn't very often that one had one's 
lifestyle crystallized and described so ruthlessly.  And yet, even 
as he recoiled, he recognized every word as true.  What exactly 
did he want?  Bits and pieces of his conversation with Mike after 
their second time together came back to him.  What was it he 
had said?  Casual friends?  Men understood about 
uncomplicated sex?  That it could work without any strings 
attached?  It was all true.  Jack had managed to make it work 
that way between himself and over a dozen men and a couple 
of women.  Fuck buddies.  Easy.

	Except that nothing was that easy.  Not this time.  Maybe 
not ever again.  Jack could feel something elemental about 
himself changing, and he wasn't sure that he liked it.  Part of 
him wanted to run and never look back.  To save what was left 
of the old Jack McCoy while he could.  He knew that it was the 
wisest thing to do.  The right decision.  But, then, the sunlight 
would glint off the building across the street at just the right 
angle, producing golden green prisms--and he'd remember 
thick-lashed eyes just that colour bending over him in the 
moonlight.   And, suddenly, the right decision seemed pretty 
damned stupid.

	"You're right, Claire.  I'm a self-serving son of a bitch, and 
the responsible thing for me to do is back off."  He smiled wryly.  
"Except that I can't.  Now that I think about it, I've been trying to 
do just that for a couple of weeks now.  So has he, as a matter 
of fact.  But, he's succeeding, and I'm not.  He pushes and I 
pull."

	Claire sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a long moment.  
When she looked up at him again, she seemed resigned, even 
saddened--but she was also smiling.  "Well, Jack, if that's your 
decision, then I should tell you that that's how everybody close 
to Mike feels.  Some days, he'll hang on your every word.  Other 
days, he'll seem to barely register your presence.  And just 
when you're ready to kill him, he'll do something that reminds 
you all over again why you--and everybody else--puts up with it 
again and again.  Marie Greevey, who probably knows him best 
of all, once said that Mike Logan was the most loved--and most 
alone--person she'd ever met."

	Jack returned her bittersweet smile, feeling a strange 
mixture of melancholy and joy settle on him.  He'd made his 
decision.  He was risking a hell of a lot on what was probably 
the most destructive choice he'd ever made.  He'd never felt so 
alive.  "So, what do I do?"

	Claire shrugged.  "Keep pulling, I guess."

	Jack laughed, and this time it didn't hurt.  "That's it?  
Thanks, Claire.  I wouldn't suggest starting an advice column 
anytime soon."

	"Hey, when it comes to romantic disasters, I'm an expert." 
That same flicker of real sadness surfaced again briefly, but 
before Jack could do anything but note it, Claire brightened 
back to her more usual half-teasing, half-serious banter.  
"Besides, that's all you can really do...aside from tying him 
spread-eagle to the bed till he does what you want."

	Jack stared at his prim assistant in shock.  A glint of 
wicked amusement slid past her ingenue facade for just a 
moment, and he laughed.  He'd always suspected there was 
more to *Mz.* Kincaid than feminist rhetoric and sombre power 
suits.  Then, another disturbing thought slid through his 
burgeoning mood.  "Is that what happened with Ben?  Did he 
finally get tired of pulling?"

	Claire smiled sadly.  "I don't know.  Maybe."  She glanced 
out the window, dark eyes tracking a wheeling seagull.  "All Ben 
said to me before he left the city was that he couldn't hold him in 
hand any longer."  She shrugged.  "I think it has something to 
do with this poem that Mike used to recite to him."

	Jack's memory sparked.  "A poem?  Which one?"

	"I don't know.  All poems sound pretty much the same to 
me.  Something kind of depressing.  Walt Whitman, I 
think...Jack?"

	"Just thinking...do you know until what time Strand is 
open?"

*                                          *                                          *

	New York's most comprehensive bookstore was as 
overcrowded and messy as always, and Jack found himself 
pushing past a motley multi-generational crowd.  It took him 
nearly fifteen minutes to identify the poetry section, and another 
twenty five to sort through the badly disarrayed books for the 
ones he wanted.  Finally, he had a small pile of Walt Whitman's 
works stacked next to him.  He staked out a tiny corner of the 
crowded floorroom as his, ignoring the glares of his fellow 
consumers, and proceeded to scour through his finds.  He 
finally found what he was looking for in the third book, a tiny 
weatherbeaten collection called "Calamus".

	Whoever you are holding me now in hand,
	Without one thing all will be useless,
	I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,
	I am not what you supposed, but far different.

	Who is he that would become my follower?
	Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

	The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps 
destructive,
	You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to 
be your sole and exclusive standard,
	Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
	The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the 
lives around you would have to be abandon'd,
	Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any 
further, let go your hand from my shoulders,
	Put me down and depart on your way.

	Or else by stealth in some wood for trial,
	Or back of a rock in the open air,
	(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not, nor in 
company,
	And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or 
dead,)
	But, just possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach 
of the sea or some quiet island,
	Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
	With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new 
husband's kiss,
	For I am the new husband and I am the comrade.

	Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
	Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your 
hip,
	Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
	For thus merely touching you is enough, is best,
	And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried 
eternally.

	Jack sat quietly, oblivious to the shoppers stepping over 
him and the dust seeping into his silk pants, staring at the small 
book spread out in his lap.  He read the lines again and again, 
hearing them whispered softly in a familiar sleep thickened 
baritone.

	`How many people have you whispered this warning to, 
Mike?  How many ran, like you begged them to?  Is that what 
you're counting on this time?'

	"Excuse me, sir?"

	Jack scowled up into the pimpled face of one of the store 
clerks, annoyed at the interruption of his thoughts.  "What?"

	"Uh, is there something I can help you find?  Otherwise, 
I'm gonna have to ask you to--"

	"Yes.  I want to buy this book.  Actually, I want to buy all of 
these.  And, do you have anything else by Whitman?"

*                                                *                                           *

	Jack slid the key into the lock silently, all the while 
wondering why he was taking pains to be quiet.  The door 
opened with a soft creak, and he stepped into the darkened hall.  
A soft click made him freeze, then the lights came on in a flash, 
blinding him.

	When his sight returned, he was met with the terrifying 
image of a stone-faced Mike pointing an ugly little .35 right at 
him.  For one horrific moment, Jack thought that he had 
misjudged both the man and what he saw in him terribly, and 
was about to die for his mistake.  Then, the cold, expressionless 
face blossomed into stunned recognition.

	"Jack!  Holy shit!  What the hell are you...?  Jesus, I 
thought..."  Mike put away the gun hastily, and Jack noticed that 
he was breathing a little shallowly.  Still, he couldn't resist 
teasing that flabbergasted expression away.

	"Do you greet all your guests this way, Detective?"

	Mike hesitated, then smiled uncertainly when he saw 
Jack's grin.  "Only those that sneak into my apartment at night."

	"I wasn't sneaking.  I had a key...which you gave me."

	"Yeah.  I did."

	Jack held the keys up, then met dark, shadowed eyes 
across the now-brightly lit hall.  "I'd like to keep the keys.  If 
that's alright with you."

	A slow, gradual smile.  "Yeah.  You can keep them."

	"Even when I'm an asshole?"

	Mike's smile grew.  "Well...I guess...as long as I get to 
borrow your bike in return."

	Jack laughed softly, then opened his arms in silent 
invitation.  Mike hesitated for a moment more, then crossed the 
tiny hall in one long stride.

	It was what Jack had been craving for as long as he could 
remember.  Strong, muscled arms tightening around him, 
pressing him deeper and deeper into the heady, fragrant 
warmth of Mike's embrace.  Warm lips pressing again and again 
into the sensitized flesh at the crook of his neck.  He ran his 
hands into the heavy thatch of hair, the smooth strands sliding 
through his fingers like water.  Strong hands cupped his chin, 
and he found himself falling into familiar amber depths.   And 
when lush lips pressed against his, he let himself drown in 
Mike's heat.

	Together, they stumbled and shifted, trying to close the 
door, flip the latch, and move to the bedroom without ever 
breaking the kiss that held them in its molten grip.  Their legs 
tangled clumsily, and twice they nearly fell.  And, when Mike 
tried to throw Jack onto the bed in proper drama, his ribs 
screamed at him and he doubled over in sudden pain.  They 
landed in a tangle of limbs, snickering and swearing, onto the 
bed.

	"Ow!  Damn!"

	"You Ok, Mike?" Jack asked even as he worked frantically 
to undo Mike's drawstring sweats.  The knot gave way as Mike 
nodded, and he pulled the pants down roughly.  They were 
starved for each other, hungry to reconcile in body as well as in 
mind.  They fought the fastenings of Jack's pants together, 
tangling the zipper hopelessly with his dress shirt.  Finally, Mike 
growled and jerked the fine fabric sharply, ripping it, much to 
Jack's dismay.

	"Christ!  That was an Armani, Mike!  For godssakes!  You 
could've...you could've..." he promptly lost his train of thought 
as Mike yanked the ruined pants off him in one fluid move, 
following shortly after by what was left of his shirt, and large 
hands were suddenly racing across the supersensitized surface 
of his skin.  Against their touch, the fate of his pants seemed 
trivial.

	 Jack felt himself rising on a heady cloud of something that 
felt very much like hysteria.  They giggled together, rolling 
playfully against each other, their snickers interspersed with the 
occaisional "Ow!" as Mike remembered his bandaged ribs.  
Jack finally crawled atop him, straddling his hips and pinning 
him down at the shoulders.

	"No.  Stay there.  Don't move your ribs.  Let me."  Jack ran 
his hands along the familiar smooth expanse of Mike's chest, 
keeping his touch and weight far from the bandages.  "Let me 
do this, baby.  Just let me..."

	Amber-green eyes stared up at Jack hesitantly, and Jack 
didn't let the spark of wariness he recognized in their depths 
sting for too long.  Mike watched him carefully a moment more, 
his face blank in thought, and Jack could almost see the battle 
being waged behind those bottleglass eyes.  Then, without 
warning, Mike smiled that slow, infectuous grin and slid back 
onto the bed limply.  Offering himself up.

	Jack accepted his offer eagerly, wasting no more time in 
tasting the salty skin that had come to haunt him so, tracing the 
dip and curve of muscle along paths that he'd already come to 
memorize.  Relishing the shudders beneath his lips as he found 
familiar sensitive spots along the routes of Mike's body.

	Jack watched the man beneath him writhe and twist at his 
touch, and wondered at how well he had already learned this 
body's secrets--and how much still remained unknown of the 
mind it housed.  And, strangely, that was the most erotic thing 
of all.

	Mike bucked and sighed as Jack enclosed one nipple with 
his mouth, teasing the tiny nub of nerves to a flushed peak, then 
nipping it sharply.  He chuckled softly as Mike arched under his 
weight, then gasped in sudden pain.

	"Shh. Stay still, Mike."

	"I..I can't...mmmh...not with you doing that..."

	"Oh?  Do you need a distraction?" Jack laughed softly at 
the desperate abandon with which Mike squirmed as he 
brushed their heated groins together teasingly.  Could anyone 
else look so decadent and so vulnerable all at once?  Dark hair 
fell across the sharp planes of his face, tangling in the long 
sweep of his lashes.  His swollen lips shone wetly with sweat 
and need.  And when he glanced up at Jack through a tangle of 
bangs, Jack saw an intoxicating mix of man and boy in the soft 
uncertaincy and fierce desire written there.  Jack couldn't resist 
bending down, covering him with his own body, and pressing 
another kiss against that gently bruised mouth.  It was 
supposed to be reassuring, but somewhere along the line, they 
caught fire again...and when Jack managed to pull away again, 
all his plans for a long, teasing bout of lovemaking had 
disappeared.  He needed this now.  He needed to claim this 
body as his.

	Jack moved back to his favorite part of Mike's body, 
nibbling along the base of his throat, tonguing the cup-like 
hollow at its base, even as he searched the bedtable blindly for 
lubricant.  Eventually, more by luck than design, his fingers 
found the familiar shaped tube.  Mike, who had been writhing 
fluidly in his grip, froze at the sight of it.

	"No."

	Jack stopped cold at the perfectly steady voice.  He 
looked down into Mike's face, which was suddenly completely 
free of the arousal that had been there but a moment ago.

	"I don't like it."  Mike squirmed under him--not in desire this 
time, but in an attempt to escape.  A sudden twist made him 
wince noticeably as his ribs protested.

	"Shh," Jack placed his hands reassuringly on the chest 
below him.  "Ok, relax.  Mike, have you tried it before?  It can 
be--"

	The beautiful eyes were pleading.  "I don't like it, Jack."  
Don't ask this of me.  Not now.  Not ever.  It was written clear as 
day in Mike's face, and in the sudden stiff unresponsiveness of 
his body.

	Jack looked down at him in dismay as it suddenly occured 
to him that in the whole time that they had been sleeping 
together, he had always been on the receiving end when it 
came to this particular act.  Granted, he enjoyed it--hell, who 
was he kidding?  He absolutely loved it--always had, and with 
Mike, it all just went one step further.  But, he also enjoyed the 
other side.  To burrow into the impossible heat and tightness of 
another's body.  To claim another as his own with his body.  It 
was, Jack supposed, a natural male instinct--and Mike was 
asking him to forsake it.  To let *him* enjoy that same luxury 
with Jack's body, but to never return the favour.  It was 
enfuriating, and for a moment, Jack considered demanding his 
due.  Setting an ultimatum.  And, then, Claire's gently cruel 
words came back to him.

	**You've made it pretty clear that you like your sex life 
uncomplicated and casual, Jack.  I get the feeling you're not the 
kind of guy who lets your lovers ask more of you than you ask of 
them.**

	Jack looked down again at the younger man beneath him.  
Mike's expression managed to be both pleading and adamant.  
Not this.  Not ever.  Can you give this up?  Is the rest enough?  
Mike bit his lip fearfully as the moment stretched out in silence, 
and Jack couldn't help but smile.  Yes, he suddenly realized, the 
rest was enough.  And for the first time in his life, Jack was 
willing to give more than he took.

	"Alright, baby.  I don't want what you can't give me.  Just 
trust me, baby.  Trust me."  Jack pressed soothing kisses 
across Mike's face, relishing the way that all apprehension 
melted away from the stiff, resistant body beneath his at his first 
touch.  He could feel Mike's relief in every smooth muscle 
beneath his weight.  Something indescribable rose within his 
chest, almost painful in its intensity, as those familiar 
chameleon eyes cleared and looked up at him again with 
expectant happiness.  All that happy relief sharpened quickly to 
alert arousal, though, when Jack began to move his hands 
again.  A soft moan greeted his efforts as he gently teased the 
still-flushed nipples, and another rose when his lips followed his 
fingers moments later.  He waited till Mike relaxed back against 
the pillows, then slid down onto his thighs, concentrating now for 
the first time on Mike's swollen cock.

	Mike shuddered and cried at his first touch, his hips falling 
into an instinctive rhythm as Jack coated him carefully with 
lubricant.  Alright, then.  If he couldn't claim this man as his the 
old-fashioned way, he'd improvise.  Jack grinned wickedly up at 
Mike, laughing when one heavy brow crooked inquiringly at him.  
Oh, Mike would figure it out in a second.  If he didn't, then Jack 
would show him what he meant to do soon enough.  He stroked 
the heated, slicked flesh carefully, watching the emotions flash 
across Mike's face.  It suddenly occured to Jack that Mike's 
whole face--indeed, his whole body--was as mercurial as his 
eyes.  One moment, as Jack wrapped his fingers around the 
warm testicles and pulled gently, Mike fell back against the 
pillows, his hair a dark auburn halo around his pale face, 
suddenly looking alluringly young and vulnerable.  But, when 
Jack unerringly ran his thumbnail up along the underside of his 
weeping cock, Mike caught fire and became the picture of 
primal lust, ancient and awesome, his eyes hardening to that 
familiar tiger green.  He could have watched for hours, torturing 
Mike with pleasure if only to see what he became next, but his 
own body's needs soon began making demands that were 
impossible to ignore.

	Jack looked up once more, catching Mike's mouth in a 
last, fierce kiss, thrusting into his mouth dominantly.  Mike 
shuddered beneath him, and submitted, letting Jack reach deep 
within the cavern of his mouth, take his fill.  Then, Jack tore 
away so quickly that Mike cried out softly at the sudden loss of 
his heated mouth.  Jack grinned down at him, tossing his head 
sharply to throw his too-long bangs out of his face.  He wanted 
nothing to obscure his view of Mike as he took the next step.

	Positioning himself carefully, Jack reached behind himself 
and gripped Mike's cock, pressing it to the entrance of his body.  
Huge emerald eyes watched his every move unblinkingly.  Jack 
held their gaze as he took a deep breath, then sank down 
smoothly, taking in Mike's considerable length in one long 
sweep.

	Even as his body began to burn from the inside in that 
familiar heat, Jack managed to keep a portion of his attention 
on Mike's face.  Indescribable emotions flickered across the 
surface of that mobile face like passing lights and shadows.  
Jack smiled tauntingly, then squeezed those muscles deep 
within him.  Mike bucked beneath him at the sudden onslaught, 
ribs forgotten in the urgent need.

	"Oh, God!  J..Jack..."

	Desperate.  Raw.  The need in that harsh, broken baritone 
rushed through Jack, sending a spiral of adrenalin through him.  
He began to move expertly atop Mike's prone, helpless form, 
rippling and squeezing in a tandem that quickly robbed the man 
beneath him of all semblance of reason and coherence.  He 
could feel the razor-sharp pleasure-pain leaping through him, 
salmon-like, as he rocked.  And even as he impaled himself 
roughly on Mike's length, twisting and changing the angle of 
penetration suddenly, Jack grinned.  Mike bucked and 
screamed, strong fingers digging into his hips, trying--and 
failing--to control his movement.  And, when Mike finally broke 
and cried out sharply, splashing wetly deep within Jack, Jack 
laughed at the raw joy surging along with the wave of his own 
ectasy.  This body beneath him was his--thoroughly.  And for 
the eternally long second of his climax, Jack could feel Mike's 
shuddering aquiescence.

	He collapsed onto Mike's heaving, sticky chest, empty.  
Even in his stupor, Jack felt the wince beneath him, and slipped 
carefully off, sighing luxuriously as he felt Mike slide out of his 
body.  He tried to move away from the bandaged ribs, but Mike 
only pulled him back.

	"No.  Stay.  Sleep here, on me, where I can feel you."

	"But...your ribs..."

	A hoarse chuckle.  "If you didn't break them by now, they'll 
survive you sleeping against me."

	Jack figured that this made sense--well, enought sense for 
him to accept in his current state of mind--and moved back 
against Mike's still-heaving body, curling tightly against him as 
Mike so often curled along him in slumber.  It suddenly occured 
to Jack that he'd always preferred sleeping untouched, free of 
another's embrace.  Many of his lovers had been annoyed when 
he moved out of their arms to sleep after the required cuddling.  
His ex-wife in particular had often tried to press against him in 
the middle of the night.  But, Jack had always firmly, gently, 
pushed her away.  And yet, he'd let Mike curl around him like a 
vine, trapping him in a soft cage of silken skin and hard muscle, 
since that very first night.  And, he never minded.

	`Damn.  I've been adjusting to you ever since that first 
time, even before I knew your name.'  Strangely, the thought 
didn't disturb him half as much as it should have.

	Jack felt Mike's breathing finally slow, then steady.  He 
thought that Mike had already drifted off, and was on his way to 
joining him, when the soft baritone echoed through the chest 
against his cheek.

	"Jack?"

	"Mmm?"  He traced a finger lazily along the skin of Mike's 
chest.

	"We're not just fuck buddies any more, are we?"

	Jack started at the softly whispered words, then looked up 
into Mike's face.  Gone were the tiger green shades, replaced 
by the calm, rational cognac colour.  He saw in them an 
unexpected depth of understanding.

	"That's what that whole scene in your office today was 
about, right?  We didn't remain as you'd planned, did we?  It's 
been bugging you for a while, but it only became clear to you 
last night, when I got hurt."

	Jack blinked in surprise at Mike's uncanny accuracy in 
reading him.  `Next lesson in Logan-ology, Jack.  There's 
always a lot more going on beneath that pretty face than he'll let 
on.'  He smiled wryly, wondering how many other lessons he 
was about to learn.  "Yeah.  That's about it."  He propped 
himself up on one elbow, looking down into Mike's pale, open 
face.  "And, I've decided that I want it.  I want more.  Do you 
understand?"

	Mike looked away, shaking his head softly.  "Yes.  I just 
wonder if you do."

	Jack grinned, then recited the words that he'd burned into 
his memory before coming here.

	"Whoever you are holding me now in hand,
	Without one thing all will be useless,
	I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,
	I am not what you supposed, but far different..."

	His grin grew into a chuckle at the stunned stare that 
earned him.  "I found your poem.  Good ole' Walt.  Mr. 
Optimism."  He tempered his smile, and continued earnestly.  "I 
do understand, at least as much as I can.  I accept."

	Mike blinked slowly, digesting this, then glanced back at 
him uncertainly.  "Jack.  I'm really, really fucked up.  You have 
no idea."

	Jack shrugged.  "Maybe not.  Doesn't really matter.  
Besides, it's not exactly like I'm June Cleaver."  He smiled when 
that produced the desired chuckle, running his hands through 
the thick dark hair, loving the heady sigh his actions produced.  
"I can handle it, Mike."

	Mike's gaze hardened and focused on him, suddenly as 
piercing as any lazer.  "Yeah?  The last person to say that was 
proved wrong."

	Jack met his stare unflinchingly.  "I'm not Ben Stone, 
Mike."

	The amber eyes lightened to caramel in astonishment, 
then darkened almost immediately.  Jack braced himself for the 
explosion, but in the end all he got was an exasperated sigh.

	"Do I even wanna know who you beat it out of?"

	Jack grinned, relieved.  "Machiavelli."  He chuckled at the 
blank look that earned him.  "I was checking out your 
library--impressive, by the way--and when I pulled out `The 
Prince', this folded paper fell out.  Turned out to be a very nice 
portrait.  Autographed."

	Mike's face hardened, and he looked away again.  "I 
thought I burned all of those."  His voice was soft, pained.

	Jack brushed his fingers through Mike's hair soothingly.  
"I'll burn it for you.  Hell, if you want, I'll nuke it in the incinerator 
in the basement, and send the ashes to New England.  Perhaps 
via letter bomb?"

	"Jack!" Mike huffed, outraged--but he smiled.

	"Ok.  No letter bomb.  How about an anonymous threat?  
Maybe a pig's heart with a nail stuck through it?"

	"Jack!  That's *sick*!"  But, he laughed.  And, when that 
everchanging gaze focused on Jack again, the hardness had 
faded, replaced by a strange mix of dread and hope.  "I still 
don't think you know what you're getting into."

	Jack shrugged.  "Maybe.  It's never stopped me before.  
And, I don't think it's ever stopped you either, has it?"

	Mike paused, then smiled slowly.  Careful fingers trailed 
along the edge of Jack's cheek. 

	"Nope.  Never."


The End.
(March 1998)

For those who care, the poem mentioned here is from Walt 
Whitman's homoerotic collection `Calamus'.  One of the 
greatest lost literary treasures, it has yet to be included in most 
curriculums due to its contents.  Nevertheless, it's one of the 
best examples of modern Western poetry, IMHO.  Go out and 
buy a copy right now!

And for all the Stone lovers out there...Yes, I'm working on the 
Stone/Logan stuff.  Soon, I promise.  And, yes, Stone will return 
again later in this series--much to McCoy's dismay. ;)