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 is a Ben Stone/Mike Logan story, taking place 
sometime in the first season of L&O, and about five years 
before “New York Rain” and the Tam Lin series.  Jack is 
busy elsewhere, seducing the latest pert young thing in a 
power suit to wander into his office.  This story was actually 
written as a gift for my good friend Rufie some time ago, but 
she’s been nice enough to agree to share it with everybody 
else.

	The next Tam Lin chapter is being particularly stubborn, 
but should be ready this time next week (I hope).

	Send comments to trig@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!
*************************************************

In the Stillness of Morning

	The grey-blue shadows of the earliest dawn gave way 
slowly, bleeding rivulets of mauve and orange as the sun 
slowly broke through the sharp ridges of the Manhattan 
skyline.  Ben worked swiftly, intent on his watercolours, 
trying to capture the startling splendor of the moment before 
it melted away.  It was almost hypnotic--the whisper of his 
brush on thirsty, thick paper, interspersed with the soft plop 
as he dipped the brush in the tin of muddy water on the 
windowsill.  It was the same feeling that overcame him every 
time that he indulged in this hobby of his--ever since the first 
time he dragged a coloured chalk across a white sheet in 
some distant childhood dream.   It felt like he was dissipating 
slowly, letting his consciousness billow out and settle gently 
into a newer, better form.

	Still, he never drifted too far away from reality, 
preferring to hover at its edges, easily jumping back as 
needed.  Thus, when the lump of blankets on the bed across 
the room shifted and moaned, he noted it immediately and 
glanced up...and couldn’t help but smile at the dark tuft of 
hair that had surfaced above the bedsheets.  He hesitated 
for a moment, torn, trying to choose between two natural 
beauties--the one unfolding outside his window well out of 
his reach, and the one currently sprawled on his bed, 
tangible and firm to the touch.  It wasn’t that hard a decision 
in the end.

	Still carrying his plastic palette, Ben moved quietly to 
the bed--although he’d be damned if he knew why.  In their 
months together, the one thing he’d learned about his young 
lover was that it was impossible to wake him unless he 
wanted to be woken.  Stubborn even in sleep, his beloved 
Michael.

	  None of that was visible as Ben looked down at him 
now, though.   Long pale limbs twined in bedsheets, dark 
mahogany hair spilling across the bed’s white expanse, his 
face tucked under an arm so that only the sweep of lashes 
were visible.  Hardly the picture of bullheadedness.  More 
like sweet, deceptive innocence.  Mike lay on his stomach, 
and Ben couldn’t help but admire the smooth, creamy slope 
of his back, the skin almost femininely soft.  Captivated, he 
sat himself carefully next to a sheet-swaddled hip, letting his 
gaze follow the gentle curve of muscle from the broad 
shoulders down to the narrow hips.  Moments later, his 
fingers couldn’t help but follow.

	Not a stir.  Ben smiled, wondering how far he could 
push this.  He pressed a kiss to the soft nape, then another 
just below the outline of a shoulder blade.  All that got him 
was a muffled sigh.  He ran his thumbnail gently up from the 
base of Mike’s spine to the edge of his hair.  Nothing.  The 
long lashes barely visible over the curve of his arm didn’t 
even flutter.  Chuckling softly, Ben ran his hand lightly along 
the smooth flesh.  The winter-pale skin stood out against the 
paintstains of his fingers.  Like a white, fresh sheet of 
expensive linen canvas, pure and virginal and waiting for the 
brush’s touch.

	Hmmm...

	Ben’s smile grew as an idea took root, and if Mike had 
been awake, he would have recognized the bright shimmer 
in the clear blue eyes as a warning that Something Was Up.  
But, the young man slept on obliviously as Ben grinned to 
himself and began to mix his paints eagerly.

	First, the brush.  Not the plain synthetic one he’d been 
using--its bristles were far too coarse.  Ben pulled out his 
prized camel hair brush, the one that Mike had laughed at 
him for spending the better part of forty dollars to buy.  The 
bristles glimmered a warm, smooth bronze in the weak 
morning light.

	Now, for the colours.  Something dark or vibrant that 
would stand out in sharp relief against the beckoning 
paleness before him.  He mixed the pigments meticulously, 
grinning at the hues his expertise produced.  Perfect.  
Already, an image had coalesced in his mind, born 
completely formed.  He surveyed his palette, finally settling 
on a dark violet-blue mix to begin with.

	Ben held his breath, trying to quell the faint tremor in his 
hand as the paint-coated brush hovered for a long moment 
above the pale skin, taking one more second to enjoy the 
unsullied beauty of this unique canvas.  Then, he let the 
brush fall to its purpose.

*   *   *

	It was only a whisper of a touch.

	And yet, it nagged and tugged at the outer rim of his 
consciousness, pulling him with slow persistance from the 
cottony heaviness of sleep.  He drifted, letting himself wash 
against the shore without stepping out, so that everything 
seemed to be filtered through a gelatinous haze.  The 
familiar firm embrace of Ben’s bed beneath him, and Ben’s 
blankets around his legs.  The soft, insect-like whirr of Ben’s 
fridge that always echoed through the apartment, as if 
awaiting a response.  He could feel the faint light of 
morning--very early morning--through his closed lids.

	There.  Again.  That whispering touch.  Soft as a 
butterfly wing batting against an outstretched finger.   A 
cooling wet trail followed in its path.  Normally, such a soft 
touch wouldn’t have woken him, but there was something 
unique about it--an odd mix of ticklish and erotic.

	He risked opening his eyes, squinting against even the 
faint, grey morning light.  A familiar shadow loomed over 
him.  His barely conscious mind immediately labelled it as 
Ben, and that now familiar but still inexplicable rush of 
warmth swept through him at the name.   The shadow 
solidified as his vision cleared of sleep, and he could clearly 
see Ben’s face through his lashes.  The man wore that soft, 
vague look that he always had when he was 
concentrating--blue eyes a thoughtful cerulean, mouth 
quirked up at one corner, waiting to spread into a sweet 
Ben-like smile at the slightest provocation.  The 
strengthening sunlight lit his hair bright caramel.  Thoroughly 
focused as only Ben could be, he didn’t seem to have 
noticed that Mike had woken.  Content to watch for now, 
Mike finally began to piece together what was going on as 
Ben dipped into the paint-laden palette he held aloft, then 
bent back to work, leaving a trail of cooling wetness in his 
touch’s wake.  He resisted a chuckle as Ben frowned for a 
moment at his work.  Blue eyes narrowed at whatever 
perceived imperfection he saw, then continued, presumably 
fixing whatever the problem was along the way.  Mike let his 
eyes droop closed again, letting himself drift on the eddies of 
Ben’s skilled, gentle brush.

	Finally, he heard a familiar satisfied sigh that signalled 
that Ben was finished.  He glanced up, and surreptitiously 
watched him survey his work.  Ben nodded once to himself, 
cleaning his brush distractedly with a cloth, smearing bright 
indigo on his fingers as he did...and then streaking a line of 
the paint across his cheek as he scratched his nose 
thoughtfully.  This time, Mike couldn’t resist a snicker.

	“Ah.  So, you *are* awake.  Thought so.”

	Mike grinned up at him, but didn’t move.  “Are you 
done, Ben?”

	Ben smiled his gentle smile.  “Yes.  And it’s quite a 
masterpiece, if I do say so myself.  Pity you can’t see it 
yourself,” he teased mildly.

	Mike grinned, then very carefully freed his legs of the 
bedsheets.  Then, with a sharp twist, he pushed himself up 
off the bed in a tight, salmon-like barrel role so that he 
landed on his back firmly.  He lay perfectly still against the 
bedsheets, letting the paint sink into the fabric.  Ben 
chuckled, quickly realizing what he was trying to do.

	“It won’t look nearly as good on a bedsheet as it did on 
you.”  Long fingers brushed Mike’s forehead, pushing his 
bangs up out of his face.  He smiled up at Ben.

	“It’ll have to do.  Although, I don’t know if it’ll come out 
in the wash.”  Deciding that the paint must have set into the 
fabric by now, Mike sat up slowly, the sheets pulling at his 
back wetly for a moment.  Then, he looked down onto the 
white background.

	A horse, or rather the darkened silhoutte of one, raced 
across what looked like Central Park.  As with all Ben’s 
artwork, whether they be sketches or oil paintings, the detail 
was minutely beautiful--even after the slight smearing the 
edges suffered in transfer from his back to the bedsheets.  
Each strand of the horse’s mane rippled with life, and Mike 
could easily imagine the flowing muscles and sinew moving 
across its frame as it leapt.   A stunning orange-pink sunrise 
flooded the background of the painting, much like the one 
still unfolding outside, highlighting the perfectly reproduced 
buildings.  Ben had even included the Plaza Hotel’s arched 
balconies.

	“Wow,” Mike breathed, blown away yet again with the 
sheer talent that lived and breathed in all of Ben’s paintings.  
“You drew this on my back?”  He looked up into dancing blue 
eyes.

	“I was right--it did look better on you,” Ben chuckled 
softly, then leaned in for his morning kiss.  Mike obliged, 
then pulled him back when he tried to pull away.  Ben 
hesitated for a moment, awkwardly holding his palette out of 
the way, then gave in, pressing into Mike’s lips.  Mike twined 
his arms around him and pulled him tightly into his embrace, 
snickering at Ben’s startled gasp as he ran his hands eagerly 
down the slender back and beneath the elastic waistband of 
Ben’s pyjama bottoms.

	“Michael, I’d love to...but we really don’t have time...we 
have to go to...we have to...oh, God...”

	Mike paid his protests about the usual amount of 
concern, focusing his attentions on the slight, fine-boned 
body already beginning to tremble in his grip.  He wasted no 
time in stripping off the offending pants, tossing them to one 
side carelessly, desperate to feel Ben’s slender frame 
against his.  He loved the supple power that was so unique 
to Ben’s lovemaking, those long limbs and fine, strong hands 
that could create such beauty.  It was like trying to embrace 
a river.

	Mike stiffened as the aforementioned hands slid 
unneringly up his inner thighs, long fingers brushing against 
his already-swelling organ teasingly, then swiftly closing 
around him tightly.  Mike gasped and shuddered, barely 
hearing the chuckle against his ear.

	“You’re always so frisky in the morning--ah, to be that 
young again.  Little self-control, but such...exuberence!”

	Mike nearly proved that correlation between youth and 
lack of self-control a moment later when Ben’s fingers traced 
the underside of his cock carefully, finding each of his 
pressure spots unerringly.   He shuddered, struggling to 
regain some clearness of mind, then quickly settled for 
instinct.  With one sharp twist, he pulled Ben’s slighter form 
over and beneath him.  He found himself looking down into 
playful china-blue eyes. 

	“G’morning, Ben.”

	“Good morning, my love.”

	As always, the words sent twin shivers of power and 
terror running through him.  It was intoxicating to think that a 
man like Benjamin Theodore Stone, highest ranking EADA 
of New York City, son of the great Senator William Stone, 
could lie pliantly beneath him and offer himself with those 
words to someone like Mike.  And that very idea was what 
terrified him at the same time--after all, could a guy like 
Mikey Logan handle the responsibility of being loved by a 
man like Stone?  He’d asked himself that question a 
thousand times in the past few months since he finally 
admitted to himself that this wasn’t a fling anymore--and, 
he’d backed away from any hint of an answer every one of 
those thousand times.  And, as too-skilled fingers traced 
spidery lines up his inner thigh, Mike dismissed the question 
unanswered yet again, drowning it in Ben’s gently teasing 
touch.

	He let Ben continue his gentle teasing a moment more, 
leaning into the soft caresses, then pulled away quickly 
before he lost himself in them.  He snickered at the annoyed 
grumble that earned him.  He grinned down into sulky blue 
eyes.

	“Uh unh.  You’ve been playing with my bod all morning.  
S’my turn now.”

	Ben glared up at him in indignation even as he laughed.  
“I was most certainly *not* ‘playing with your bod’, as you so 
delicately put it!  I was merely--unhm!”

	Mike smirked as the amused annoyance was pushed 
out of Ben’s face by something more akin to lust as he 
pressed another biting kiss to a hardening nipple.  He licked 
across the reddening flesh a few times, then latched on with 
lips and teeth again, revelling in Ben’s fluid struggles 
beneath him.   Those elegantly-boned hands had begun their 
customary exploration of his back, tracing delicate patterns 
along his spine one moment, then digging into his hair 
ruthlessly in another.

	“Michael...beloved, we don’t have time...”  Ben’s voice 
was shot through with laughter and exasperation, knowing 
full well that they would both be late, yet again, and that 
there was nothing he could do about it now.  Still, the fact 
that he could still think coherently enough to consider work 
at all was enough to convince Mike to step up his efforts.  He 
wanted Ben delerious, and well beyond any thoughts of time 
or deadlines...and he knew just how to get him there fast.

	With a final lick, he left the now-flushed nipples, forging 
a path of kisses down the centre of Ben’s chest, then 
studiously following the faint line of reddish blond hair that 
bisected Ben’s abdomen.  When he reached the familiar tiny 
nub of flesh along the way, he nipped it gently with his teeth, 
grinning as Ben’s hips snapped against him.  He looked up 
again, his grin growing as he took in the unfocused cerulean 
eyes.

	“Did you know that in ancient times people thought that 
outie bellybuttons were a sign of sexual prowess?”

	“Mmh...I don’t remember learning *that* in my Classics 
classes.”  Mike watched, riveted, as Ben’s familiarly sweet 
smile melted into a sultry come-hither grin that Mike figured 
maybe two people in the universe had seen--himself 
included.   “But, I’m willing to be convinced.”

	Mike drank in the sight of Ben splayed decadently 
against the paintstained bedsheets a moment longer, then 
moved in for the kill.

	With a sharp flick of his wrist he tore the thin bedsheet 
that had strayed across Ben’s thighs away, revealing every 
last inch of his lover’s pale skin.  Ben’s snicker at that 
morphed into a gasp as Mike returned to his previously 
abandoned trail down Ben’s belly.  He relished the twitch of 
abdominal muscles under his tongue as he followed the 
thickening path of pale hair to his final destination.  Already, 
Ben was swollen and heavy with need, and the slender 
thighs shuddered in anticipation as Mike spread them 
carefully.  Mike glanced up once more into bright blue eyes, 
grinning at the naked impatience he saw in their depths.

	“You think you know what’s coming, Ben?” he teased.

	Ben smiled slowly even as he hitched up his knees 
invitingly.  “A man can always hope.”

	Mike chuckled, then licked his lips slowly--a move that 
never failed to distract Ben--even as he stealthily reached 
across the rumpled bedsheets to Ben’s abandoned painting 
tools.  Finally, his fingers closed around the object of his 
furtive search...Ben’s ridiculously expensive, highly prized 
paintbrush.  Ben, still quite preoccupied with Mike’s 
wet-lipped grin, didn’t notice the confiscation of his brush till 
Mike held it up for him.

	“Do you remember the day that you bought this, Ben?  
Remember what I said?”

	Despite his rising arousal, Ben couldn’t suppress a wry 
grin.  “Of course.  I doubt that the poor adolescent salesclerk 
that you accused of fraud and exploitation has forgotten, 
either.  Somewhere, out there, there’s an art student in 
therapy because of you.”

	Mike rolled his eyes.  “*Aside* from what I said to the 
little nosewipe behind the counter.”

	“Ah.  Well, if memory serves, you stated that I was only 
proving that I was ‘short a few cards’ by paying the quoted 
price for the brush, and that you couldn’t see any difference 
between it and the ‘millions’ of other brushes already 
inhabiting my home.”

	Mike grinned wickedly.  “That’s it.  Well, guess what, 
Ben?  Today, we find out if this thing really is worth the 
dough you forked over for it.”

	Wide blue eyes blinked innocently at him.  “We do?  
How?”

	Mike snickered again, then reached for the glass of 
dipping water that Ben had deposited on the night table next 
to the bed some time ago.  “Guess.”

	The flush that spread slowly across Ben’s cheeks and 
shoulders convinced Mike that he was guessing, alright.  
With a final sly grin, Mike wet the brush thoroughly, then bent 
to work.

	The sable brush shone blue-black against Ben’s fair 
skin, leaving behind a faintly shimmering trail of wetness in 
its wake.  Mike watched Ben’s face carefully as he traced 
careful spirals along the hollow of his inner thigh, noting the 
flickering lashes and heaving sighs that greeted every pass 
of the brush.  Daring further, Mike let the brushtip stray 
further in, finally circling lazily at the base of Ben’s now-fully 
engorged organ.

	A soft shuddering groan echoed across the bedroom.

	“Did you like that, Ben?”  Mike whispered as he painted 
another cool, wet trail along the heated mound of flesh.  Not 
teasing anymore.  Just needing to hear Ben’s moaned 
aquiescence.  Sometimes, Mike felt like this had become the 
most arousing part of sex for him--watching Ben shudder 
and heave beneath him, drowning in the fluid grace of his 
body as he convulsed in his grip.  Knowing that it was *he* 
who did this.  *His* touch that Ben responded this way to.

	The brushtip circled lazily around the outline of Ben’s 
sac, leaving its cooling wet trail, then traced a swollen vein, 
along the rim of his right testicle and up the brightly flushed 
shaft.  Up, up, and across, dancing under the fleshy rim of 
the weeping head.  Mike traced his way carefully, trying to 
keep his hand steady even as Ben writhed enticingly 
beneath him.  Still, despite his best efforts, the brush shook 
in his grip as he dipped again into the water.

	“Mmm...Mmmichael...”  Mike looked down instinctively, 
and was immediately caught in Ben’s heated gaze.

	How could human eyes be so blue?  

	Slowly, he shook free enough to continue his 
meandering path along Ben’s erection, watching, fascinated, 
as the black fibres moved smoothly across the blood-red 
skin.  The foreskin peeled back and wrinkled convulsively at 
the brush’s touch.  Mike dipped the brush again, then 
touched the wet tip to the already leaking head.  The long 
thighs resting restlessly against his hips tightened reflexively 
around his waist and Ben’s hand snaked out, lightning-quick, 
to catch his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

	“Enough, my love.  I want you inside me.  Now.”

	Mike closed his eyes, fighting back the wave of arousal 
that threatened to crash over him.  Not yet.  Not yet.  He 
discarded the brush to one side, uncaring where it landed as 
he searched the nighttable’s surface frantically for the tiny 
tube of lubricant that was always kept there.  He nearly 
laughed in relief when his fingers closed around it.

	Ben sighed in satisfaction as Mike coated him liberally, 
slipping his thighs eagerly over Mike’s broad shoulders.  
Mike watched, spellbound, as Ben relaxed beneath him with 
a smile, then reached up to cup his face gently...their silent 
signal.

	It never ceased to amaze him how easy it was with 
Ben.  Mike had had more than his share of lovers, male and 
female--but, nothing had ever been so effortless as with Ben.  
Even that very first time, in the midst of the confusion and 
uncertainty that had shrouded them both at the time, this one 
thing had been smoothly natural.  Like a lock and key sliding 
together...but, to open what?

	The question swirled in Mike’s mind even as he eased 
himself into Ben’s body.  Such heat...scalding, suffocating 
velvet heat.  Out there, in the outside world, Ben Stone may 
be ice, with his pristine blue eyes and glacial demeanor.  But 
inside, in Mike’s arms, deep within his graceful body, he was 
fire incandescent.  The snowy skin flushed with that fire as 
Ben moved with Mike, bringing them to a slow, perfect union.  
That face, so cooly distant during the working day, glowed 
with joy as Mike finally came to rest completely sheathed 
within him.  Even the iceberg-coloured eyes seemed to 
reverberate with a nuclear blue flame as strong hands dug 
into Mike’s buttocks and dragged him even deeper.

	In such heat, it didn’t take long for Mike to burn as well.  
And, even as they moved together, Mike heaving and 
gasping over Ben’s flowing body, fingers linked tightly 
together as they rocketed to the peak...still, that same 
question rattled somewhere in Mike’s periphery, bumping 
and coalescing with other questions, then splitting apart 
again like soap bubbles.

	What did they unlock in each other when they joined 
this way?  What was Ben?  Mike?  Where did one end and 
the other begin?  And, when had all of this started to matter 
in Mike’s life?  How was he tied to Ben?  Would the straps 
suffocate him?

	When did he stop being free?

	*The same moment you stopped being all alone...* a 
tiny voice whispered from the periphery of Mike’s mind, and 
he had only a moment to register the idea before the white 
noise of orgasm overtook him.  Somewhere, in the distance, 
he heard Ben cry his name.  Michael.

	Michael.

	Mike lay panting, still surrounded by Ben’s enclosing 
warmth.  Long arms tightened around him, pinning him in 
place on top of Ben.  Holding him down.  But, the bondage 
was strangely pleasant--possesive.  It had the same ring of 
warming possesiveness as the way that Ben spoke his 
name.  Not Mike.  Not Mikey, nor any other endearment.  
Only Michael, my love, my beloved...

	*Mine*

	He gasped slightly as he slipped out of Ben’s liquid 
heat, letting his superior weight slide off Ben’s frame and 
onto the bed next to his lover.  Immediately, slender arms 
pulled him back as close as possible, welding them together 
chest to chest.  He stared wonderingly into bottomless blue 
eyes, stunned into silence.  Finally, one long, fine finger 
brushed his lips in gentle inquiry.

	“Michael?  Are you alright?”

	 “I love you...”

	He realized immediately that he probably looked as 
stunned as he sounded.  But, before he could say anything 
further, he found himself drowning in a kiss as deep as it was 
gentle.  Ben’s spicy-sweet taste filled his mouth even as 
those long, impossibly skilled fingers curled tightly into his 
hair.  And, when Ben finally pulled slowly away, Mike was 
hard pressed to remember anything as complex as how to 
speak.  Ben’s eyes seemed to glisten wetly for a moment in 
the strengthening morning light, then Ben’s face disappeared 
from Mike’s sight as his lover tucked his head under Mike’s 
chin.

	They lay curled together in silence even as the world 
slowly woke around them.  Muffled footfalls from the 
apartment below.  The cry of a vendor out in the waking 
street.  A child’s laugh, followed shortly by her mother’s.

	“I love you too, my Michael.”

	Mike smiled, burying his nose in caramel-coloured hair.  
He could smell the faint tang of Ben’s shampoo, along 
with...paint?  He pulled away slightly, then looked down at 
their entwined bodies.  Streaks of sweat and watercolours 
decorated both their skins.  Ben followed his gaze, then 
chuckled.

	“Dora’s going to kill me when she sees this mess.”

	“Assuming she doesn’t keel over in laughter when you 
try to explain how you managed to get paint all over the bed 
without blushing,” Mike teased, snickering as the 
aforementioned flush spread across Ben’s skin in mortified 
realization.

	“Damn!  I hadn’t thought of that!  How on earth will I...” 
Ben cut himself off in mid-complaint as he caught sight of the 
digital clock over Mike’s paintstreaked shoulder, then sighed 
deeply.  “Looks like I’m going to be an hour late again.”  He 
smiled wryly.  “Always first at the office for twenty years, then 
suddenly I’m coming in last every morning.  I can just 
imagine what the secretaries are making of it.”

	Mike grinned, stealing another kiss before reality finally 
returned enough for Ben to pull away and start thinking 
about showers and clothes.  “Punctuality is overrated, in my 
opinion.”

	“Yes,” Ben smiled softly.  “It is.”  He pressed a careful 
kiss to Mike’s throat, turning it into a gentle bite that made 
Mike gasp in startlement.  Mike watched that smile turn into 
something more like hunger, and couldn’t suppress a laugh 
as he suddenly found himself straddled with bright, bright 
eyes grinning playfully down at him.

	“I think,” Ben intoned in mock severity.  “That today, I 
shall make the office gossip reach new heights.  How would 
you feel about calling in sick, Det. Logan?”

	Mike laughed even as he felt anticipation rise again in 
his belly.

	“I think...I think I feel a fever coming on...”

	“Really?”  Ben felt his forehead, then kissed it.  “Me too, 
my love.  Me too.”

Ta-Dah!

luv&kisses...trig