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 just at the end of the Season Five opening 
episode "Second Opinion" (in fact, the last scene of that episode 
is where this begins).  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!

***************************************

                              Moon Over Manhattan
                              =================

God, he was tired.

The Bennet case had been tougher than he'd expected, 
resulting in more than one all-nighter surrounded by penal code 
texts.  Add to that the fact that most of the now-departed Stone's 
workload had been dumped on him, and one could easily 
understand why it was an effort just to pick up his overstuffed 
bag from underneath the desk.  He gave the papers strewn 
about his desk a disgusted glare, then started trying to decide 
which ones absolutely had to come home with him. 

"McCoy?"

He looked up from the papers that he was hapharzardly shoving 
into his already bulging canvas bag, and barely repressed a 
sigh.  Perfect.  Another round of  "I've heard about you" from his 
new assistant.  But, on closer inspection, he realized that the 
dark eyes were friendly...and what beautiful dark eyes they 
were.  Old habits kicked in, and his brain immediately 
catalogued the tall, willowy curves, the high supermodel 
cheekbones, and the huge, luminous eyes.  They really were 
lovely eyes, almond shaped and framed by heavy lashes-- almost as nice as....

He cut his wandering subconscious off with a jerk.  Picking up a 
stranger off the street had been risky.  Going back to the guy's 
apartment for a round of admittedly great but unprotected sex 
had been downright stupid.  Having him walk into his office in a 
suit wearing a NYPD badge the next morning had been damn 
near catastrophic.  He was still making an effort not to think 
about it, nor about what he'd do the next time Dets. Logan and 
Briscoe came in for a briefing.  So far, they'd managed to avoid 
each other nicely.  He hadn't seen the man since that first 
disastrous morning, in which they'd both managed to hold a half 
hour's worth of conversation about their new case without ever 
making eye contact, with the partner watching them both 
worriedly.  Since then, only Briscoe had shown up for updates, 
cool and professional, as if nothing was wrong.  Yeah, right.

"Jack?"

"Hm?  Sorry, Claire.  It's been a long day."

Kincaid sighed, her slight shoulders heaving below her tailored 
jacket.  "Tell me about it." The dark eyes danced at him again as 
she smiled.  "You really nailed Dr. Huss.  I don't think her lawyer 
knew what hit her."

He accepted the unexpected compliment with a grin.  Maybe, 
Kincaid was finally ready to stop dragging his past up into his 
face, and start working as a team.  She was as good as he'd 
hoped.  Much as he hated to admit it, Stone's track record was 
on par with his, and wouldn't have tolerated any less than 
excellence from his assistants.  "Fifteen years at Bedford.  She'll 
be selling her fellow inmates a cold remedy made of bread and 
water."  He grabbed his helmet and made his way towards the 
door, shoving some transcripts into his bag as he went.

"She'll need it!"  Jack restrained a chuckle at the triumph he 
heard clearly in the  young lawyer's voice.  It seemed that he 
wasn't the only one around here who loved to win.  Maybe this 
could work out well, after all.  "After the civil suits, she won't 
have anything left when she gets out."

He took in her gleefull face a moment longer, knowing that his 
next words would probably wipe that bright smile away.  "I don't 
think there will be any civil suits."

Claire blinked, staring at him in surprise.  "You don't think the 
widowers..?"

Jack shrugged.  "The same thing that drew them to Huss will 
keep them off the stand."

Claire mulled that over for a moment. "Fear?"

"Denial."

The dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and he could almost see 
the wheels turning below that shiny brown hair. When she met 
his gaze seconds later, he saw a trace of the old suspicion that 
had characterized their working relationship so far. "Speaking of 
which, I checked."  She smiled tightly, all trace of camaraderie 
gone.

"On what?" he asked neutrally.

The suspicion was back in full force, along with a healthy dose 
of accusation.  "You've only had 3 woman assistants."

Jack returned her challenging glare cooly, keeping his own 
tongue in check with effort.  "You were the one who wanted to 
know the truth." `And, honey, the truth is that right now, getting 
between your legs is the last thing on my mind.'  He smiled wryly 
to himself as she stalked away without another glance back, 
back stiff with outrage at his supposed lecherousness.  He 
briefly wondered what she'd look like if he told her that all the 
time that she'd been assuming that he'd been undressing her in 
his dirty old mind, he'd actually been daydreaming about a very 
male detective in rain-soaked sweats, with gorgeous amber 
eyes and skin like satin....

He shook himself roughly with a muttered curse.  That was the 
second time in ten minutes that his brain had wandered off 
without permission.  It had been doing that to him on and off for 
days now, always ending up back in that shower stall.  Hell, he'd 
been sitting in Schiff's office last night when the cognac he was 
sipping suddenly reminded him of large, dark-lashed eyes of 
exactly that color--and the next thing he knew, he was unable to 
stand without embarrassing himself.

`It's just lack of sleep.' He scolded himself as he stepped into an 
empty elevator, having refrained from riding down with the 
still-steaming Kincaid.  `All I need is a stiff drink, and at least six 
hours of uninterrupted rest.  That's all this is.'

By the time that he hit the street, he'd managed to convince 
himself that he believed it.

*  *  *

"Jack?"

"What?!"

Claire jumped noticeably at his sharp tone.  "I...I just came to tell 
you that Jeff Bendel's lawyer called.  Says he wants to meet this 
afternoon.  I think your performance in Judge Gonzalez's 
chamber scared them."  She attempted a smile, but was met 
with an icy glare.

"He should be scared.  Slick little bastard.  Why the hell didn't he 
call me yesterday?  And, where the hell is that damned affadavit 
from the Jackson case?"

Kincaid sighed, walked past her superior, who was still angrily 
rifling papers on his desk, and picked up a slightly crumpled 
sheaf hanging precariously off the desk's side.  She handed it to 
him silently, and he snatched it from her without looking up.  She 
watched him a moment longer, waiting patiently until he looked 
up.

"What now?  Don't you have anything to do this morning, *Miz* 
Kincaid?"

Claire crossed her arms, more annoyed than offended.  "Yes, I 
do.  Unfortunately, I'm still waiting for my boss to answer my 
question.  What about Bendel?  Do we meet?" 

Jack barely restrained himself, shaking himself slightly as his 
assistant's pissed-off expression finally sank in.  And just when 
they were finally beginning to click.  His head hurt, he'd woken 
three times last night in the midst of heated dreams involving 
showers and long, lean bodies--once in an embarassing wet 
spot, and his ex-wife had called him this morning to "discuss" 
the sale of their old house in Conneticut.  But, he knew he had 
no right to take his bitch of a morning out on Kincaid.  More 
importantly, he knew she'd make him pay for it later if he did.

"Claire...I'm sorry.  I had a rough morning."  The dark eyes didn't 
waver in their glare, so he tried a smile.  He was good at smiles, 
especially sheepish ones.

She melted almost visibly.  "It's OK, Jack.  I heard about Mrs. 
McCoy's call today."  Jack winced at that, wondering briefly how 
much of the shouting match the secretarial pool had 
evesdropped into.  "But, Bendel's guy has called four times now, 
and I've got a meeting in ten minutes with some cops about a 
warrant, and we've still got those two other open files for this 
afternoon...."

"OK, OK!" Jack shook his head at the dismal recitation. 
"Apparently, I'm not the only one being run ragged this week.  
Why the hell did Jerry have to go on maternity leave this week, 
just weeks after Stone left?"

"Jack," Claire gave an outraged cough-laugh that Jack was 
quickly coming to associate with her. "I doubt she planned it that 
way.  So, what do I tell Bendel?"

"Tell him to wait.  We'll call him tomorrow morning, after my 
meeting with Judge Wilson.  And, Claire?  Let's see if one of us 
can get out of here before dusk tonight, OK?"

They chuckled together, professional companionship restored-- 
for the moment. Then, Claire spun, waved, and left in a wake of 
billowing skirt.  Jack watched her depart, smiling.  He'd hoped 
they'd become a team, and slowly they were fusing into one. 
Maybe, someday, they'd even be more. He turned that thought 
over in his mind speculatively for a moment, wondering briefly if 
Schiff would forgive him one more indiscretion, then turned his 
attention back to the mountain of paperwork before him.  Only to 
realize twenty minutes later that he was missing the latest 
interview transcripts from the case before him. Frustrated all 
over again, he mentally tried to review what he could have done 
with them...had he taken them home? His bag?  Maybe Claire 
had copies.  Annoyed, he rose from his desk stiffly, and headed 
down the hall to find her.  Maybe, he'd ask her if she had any 
aspirin while he was there.

He heard her voice coming out of one of the tiny conference 
rooms, and moved in that direction.  A male voice answered her, 
and suddenly Jack was surrounded by the sound of her 
laughter.  It was a beautiful laugh, not shrill or sharp, like those 
little coughing laughs she sometimes let escape in his company. 
This was rich, heady, and real.  He felt a flicker of something 
akin to annoyance, at the thought of someone else making her 
laugh that way, and sped up his steps.

It wasn't until he entered the room that he realized why the male 
voice had sounded vaguely familiar.

A tall, lean form spun towards him, close-cropped head 
swiveling to face him even as he felt the hair on his neck rising 
in recognition.  The laughter disappeared from the dark, 
long-lashed eyes as they focused on him. He suddenly realized 
that they weren't hazel, as he'd thought, but verdant green.

He could almost feel the pressure drop around them, the world 
suddenly narrowing to the four feet between them.  His memory 
hadn't exagerrated, Jack realized, as he took in the tall, well-built 
frame, the pale smooth face, the plush, perfectly formed lips. 
Unwillingly, his eyes traced the strong chin and jaw down to 
where the path of smooth skin disappeared under a stiff shirt 
collar.  He'd tasted that skin, felt its softness against the hard 
muscles it covered.  His teeth had left their mark there--he'd 
seen the dark shadow against the pale flesh in the early dawn 
as the other man slept.  Just a little to the right of the tie-knot. 
Was it still there?

"Oh, Jack, it's a good thing you came by."  Claire's voice started 
him out of his reverie, and the small twitch he saw in the other 
man's face made him suspect that he wasn't the only one who'd 
temporarily lost touch with reality.  "This is Detective Logan, and 
Detective Briscoe.  They're from the 27th, and they used to work 
Stone's--"

"We've met." 

Curt.  Almost harsh. So different from the warm, friendly stranger 
he'd picked up a few weeks ago.  That man's voice had been a 
mellow baritone, with laughter seeming to hide behind every 
word.  The detective before him was all business, coldly 
professional.  That glacial indifference triggered the frustrated 
anger that Jack had been battling all morning.  How dare he 
stride in here acting like they barely knew each other, when Jack 
still woke up regularly with the taste of him on his lips?  The 
pretentious bastard!

"Yeah, we came by and introduced ourselves a while ago, 
Claire."  Briscoe finished smoothly.  Jack glanced at the older 
cop, and caught a small flicker of worry in the grey-blue eyes 
that betrayed his relaxed, friendly stance.  "We just dropped in to 
ask about the possibility of getting a search & seizure for this 
Moncton guy.  You know, the one who swears up and down and 
sideways that he has no idea how his ex-wife ended up dead in 
her bathtub."

"I read your report," Jack shrugged dismissively.  Two could play 
this game.  "There's no probable cause to toss his place yet." 

"No probable cause?  How about twenty grand in alimony once 
a month?"  So sharp, so hard.  So different from the man Jack 
still dreamed about.  Who the hell was this belligerent stranger?

"How about some actual evidence, Detective?  Or don't you 
guys believe in that sort of thing anymore?"

The dark eyes widened, then flashed dangerously, and Jack 
realized that he'd been wrong again.  Not hazel, not green, but 
pitch black.   A surge of adrenalin through his system made his 
body temperature skyrocket as he watched his words impact, 
watched the man's long frame stiffen in a way that was a darker, 
but no less heady version of the way it had stiffened under his 
touch in a shower not so long ago.

"OK, I think we've got our answer."  Jack's view was quickly 
obstructed by Briscoe's rumpled suit, and he couldn't completely 
restrain a bitter smile at the unconscious way that the older man 
was shielding his younger partner.  It was tempting to make a 
crack about `Detective Logan' needing someone to defend his 
dubious virtue, but he knew that he'd pushed about as far as he 
could without getting into serious trouble.

"C'mon, Mike.  We'll come back when we find out what this 
evidence stuff is."  Briscoe pushed his partner towards the door 
briskly, his voice still easy despite the quick glare Jack received 
in passing.  "See ya later, Claire."

Jack watched the cops' retreat down the hall through the door's 
glass pane, noting against his will how sinuously the tall one 
stalked, slightly ahead of his partner, his long leather jacket 
snapping around his legs.  As he watched, his anger melted 
away, leaving him with an odd emptiness--a sad, indefinable 
longing.  And more than a little embarrassment.  They were both 
grown men--this shouldn't be so hard.

"Well, *that* went well."

Jack had forgotten all about his assitant, along with the rest of 
the bustling world around him. He heard the sharp note in her 
voice clearly, though, and couldn't resist swinging into defense 
mode instinctively.  "They knew they didn't have enough for a 
warrant, the lazy bastards.  Next time, check out what they have 
before you let them waste your time."

Claire stiffened in anger.  "I think I'm capable of deciding how to 
best manage my time, Mr. McCoy."

"Not when you work under me." 

Matching glares clashed silently for a long moment across the 
tiny room.  Finally, Jack broke the staring match. "I thought you 
said you had things to do, Ms. Kincaid.  You'd better hurry, 
because I'm expecting your report on the Munoz case by 
3:00pm today."

She stalked out, nearly as graceful as the cop who'd preceeded 
her just minutes ago.  Jack steamed a moment longer, then 
sighed tiredly.  How many other bridges would he burn before 
the day was over?

`Now, all I need is another reaming from Schiff, just to make my 
day complete.'

He dragged himself back to his office, slumping into his chair 
with a groan.  He glared at the papers before him unseeingly for 
several minutes longer, before he gave up and reached for the 
dark bottle in his bottom drawer.

*  *  *

It was well past sundown before Jack locked his office door. 
Even the janitors had already made the rounds by the time he 
packed up and headed for the elevators.  The scotch he'd been 
sampling all day to help him focus was beginning to catch up 
with him, and he dozed lightly in the elevator until the sudden jolt 
as it stopped woke him. Wearily, he made his way through the 
underground parking lot to his motorcycle.

His bag was overstuffed to the point where he knew that it would 
overbalance the bike considerably--it would be a constant 
struggle not to keel over as he turned.  He tied the satchel 
straps securely around the bag, wondering aimlessly if it would 
be safer to tie it to the seat behind him. He stroked the black 
leather of the seat thoughtfully.  Japanese bikes didn't have 
much seatroom--just enough for two average Asian males. Or, 
enough for one slight American D.A. and a lean, well-built New 
York cop.  If they pressed close.

He shook himself violently.  Damn, damn, damn, damn.  He had 
to snap out of this ridiculous schoolboy's crush soon, before he 
got himself in real trouble.  For godsakes, it wasn't like this was 
the first time he'd picked up a stray.  And, some of those 
encounters had developed into more than a one night stand. 
Hell, he'd even become friends with some of them.  But, none of 
them had ever haunted him like this.  None had ever lingered for 
weeks after the fact at the periphery of his mind like some sort of 
ghost.

He kickstarted the engine with a little more force than 
necessary, and pulled out of the bowels of the parking lot a little 
faster than usual.  When he roared out of the building and onto 
the main street, the rushing wind around him cleared his mind 
far better than any scotch ever could.  By the time he reached 
the main intersection, he was grinning, and his mind was 
blissfully clear.

He decided on the scenic route home, zigzagging his way down 
numerous commercial and residential streets.   He'd lived in this 
city for over two decades now, and there were still new 
cul-de-sacs and alcoves to discover in every neighbourhood. 
Often, he'd spend half the night cruising the never-still streets, 
losing the day's multitude of frustrations in the roar of the 
powerful engine beneath him and the dizzy spiral of life around 
him. It was perhaps the closest thing he'd ever found to peace.

This night, however, that peace was disturbed when about an 
hour later, he noted a familiar street sign.  He stopped, taking a 
moment to orient himself, then cursed his traitorous 
subconscious.  Somehow, he'd ended up just two blocks south 
of a certain detective's apartment building.  It seemed almost 
surreal--he'd barely been able to see the street that night, the 
rain reducing everything to a blurry impressionistic painting. 
Tonight, the wind was high and sharp, the sky was clear, and a 
robust full moon lit the whole street a luminous silver.  But, he 
recognized the small park, the tidy little storefronts, the 
children's schoolyard, and several other landmarks that he'd 
zoomed by on another night in another universe, with a hard, 
broad chest nuzzling against his back in search of warmth, and 
a friendly voice giving directions against his cheek.

He should go.  He should turn the bike around and head home. 
For Christ's sake, it was past midnight.  He had a nine o'clock 
meeting with Judge Wilson, and was booked solid after that.  He 
should just let this go...wait until the situation went away on its 
own.  Maybe stop for a drink at O'Ryan's on the way home. 
Moments later, he was heading south and cursing himself with 
every inch he travelled.  He easily found his way back to the 
familiar four-story red brick building, neat and well-kept like the 
rest of the street.  New York was full of old neighbourhoods like 
this.  Twenty minutes south was a lush commercial district full of 
couturier shops and expensive cafes.  Twenty minutes north 
was a seedy area full of empty, dilapidated warehouses and 
rent-controlled apartments.  And, right smack in the middle, this 
safe, tidy residential area had somehow managed to survive the 
last three decades intact.  He wondered briefly how a bachelor 
cop ended up here. He'd heard about Det. Logan--a few 
seemingly casual words to his secretary, and he'd gotten the full 
resume, complete with a list of the roving cop's latest conquests 
in the Hogan building alone.  Impressive, indeed.  He would 
have expected someone like that to live somewhere that 
reflected his lifestyle--a seedy fourth floor walk-up on the lower 
east side, or maybe a tiny bachelor pad over a bar in SoHo. 
Then again, Jack himself lived in a tiny brownstone in Gramercy, 
and regularly jogged around nannies with strollers on 
week-ends.  And, he *knew* what the secretarial pool said about 
*him*.

Leaving his bike on the curb, Jack entered the building, sighing 
in unconscious relief as the warmth of good central heating 
replaced the night's sharp winds.   He chuckled when he saw 
the pretty antique stained glass front door reinforced by a very 
modern heavy plexiglass shield door.  Safe and tidy this 
neighbourhood may be, but this was still New York.  He felt a 
moment's insecurity as he moved to the equally modern looking 
intercom panel.  What exactly was he going to say?  He still 
wasn't sure why he was here to begin with, although he'd 
managed to nearly convince himself that he was here to try to 
make amends.  Yeah.  Right.

He found the name "Logan" easily, next to a number.   Before he 
could hesitate, he quickly typed in the three digits, and waited 
tensely.  Maybe, he wouldn't be home. Probably, he'd be asleep. 
Hopefully, he'd just ignore it.

"Yeah?"

Jack flinched slightly.  The echo across the speaker didn't 
diminish the rich baritone in the least, and he was suddenly 
transported back again to that rain-slicked night, hearing that 
same breathy voice coming out of the background of traffic 
sounds and rain.

"Who is it?  Lisa?  I told you I wasn't interested.  Go home, for 
godsakes."

Jack froze. He could still walk away.  Logan would just think it 
was Lisa, whoever the hell that was.  No harm done, right?

"It's me." Jack was as surprised as any to hear the words fall 
from his lips at last.

The intercom went dead silent for what felt like an eternity.  Jack 
was ready to speak again, if only to break the suddenly 
oppresive silence, when the too-familiar voice returned, the 
previous impatience completely replaced by astonishment. 
"McCoy?"

"Yes."  Jack took a deep breath.  "Look, I...we need to talk."

Silence.

"Can I come up?"

Another long stretch of silence.  Just as Jack felt his patience 
nearing its end, the plexiglass door unlocked with a loud click. 
"You know the way."

Jack didn't bother to answer, swinging open the heavy door 
before it relocked.  Of course, he knew the way.  That whole 
night was permanently etched into his mind.  He climbed the 
carpeted stairs slowly, trying to figure out what exactly he'd say 
when he reached his destination.  Too soon, he reached the 
fourth floor landing, and headed towards the furthest of the four 
doors.  Before he could knock, the door opened, releasing a 
puddle of yellow light into the dark corridor.  A tall, familiar figure 
stood framed by the light, wearing equally familiar sweats.  The 
heavy dark locks were disheveled, falling over the high, smooth 
forehead.  Dark amber eyes framed by lashes as thick and black 
as his hair peered at Jack with an odd mix of wariness and 
curiosity.

"Hi."  Jack's sheepish smile that had worked so well on Claire 
had far less effect on Logan.  All he got was a nod, and a 
gesture to enter.  He did, glancing around the apartment he'd 
barely seen last time.  Last time, they'd both been far too 
occupied.  It was surprisingly nice, managing to look comfortable 
and attractive at the same time.  The living room was shadowed 
in darkness, but he could make out a very cozy looking leather 
sofa, two overstuffed armchairs, and a decent TV and stereo 
system.  A heavy afgan tossed over the back of one of the 
chairs, and several scattered books gave the otherwise tidy 
place a lived in look.  Jack knew from previous experience that 
the bathroom and kitchen, at least, were almost fastidiously 
clean.  Not much of a bachelor's den of iniquity.

"Want a beer?"

Jack barely kept himself from flinching as the voice that had 
haunted his nights for the past few weeks came from behind 
him. He watched as Logan moved towards the kitchen without a 
backwards glance, hesitating.  What the *hell* was he doing 
here?! Sighing to himself, he decided that it was time to find out. 
He followed the other man into the kitchen.  "No, thanks.  I've 
had more scotch than I should've already."

The expressive dark eyebrows rose at that, and Jack wondered 
at his sudden inability to think before he spoke.   Hoping to 
change the subject, he glanced around the familiar kitchen, 
taking in the neat counters, empty sink, and carefully stacked 
dish rack.  In stark contrast, the table was covered with an 
explosion of papers and notepads.  "Working late?"

Logan shrugged as he picked up his half-full mug from the midst 
of the paper, then leaned against a counter. Jack wondered 
briefly if he was even aware of how he looked in that thin t-shirt 
and low-hanging drawstring sweats.  Probably, the bastard was 
*very* aware.  "Too cold to jog."

"I thought you'd be asleep."

That produced a reaction--the heavy brows drew down into a 
frown. "What do you want, McCoy?"

`Good question.'  Jack eyed the other man reluctantly.  He knew 
what he should say--he just wasn't sure he wanted to.  He 
wasn't good at apologies--not sincere ones, at least.  And, quite 
frankly, he didn't WANT to give ground to this man. Something 
about the way he carried himself, the icy indifference that was a 
brittle cover for the volatile temper he'd caught a glimpse of in 
that conference room--it all enfuriated him even as it drew him 
near.  Detective Logan's combination of fire and ice was a 
mixture that both repulsed and attracted him to the point where 
he'd felt nearly nauseous at the conflict long after he returned to 
his desk.

But now, hours later, in the clear moonlight streaming through 
the kitchen blinds, Jack could see the other man--the one he'd 
met on a wet night, and whose memory had been burned into 
his consciousness since--peeking out around the edges of 
Detective Logan.  Maybe it was the sweatpants.  Or the mussed 
hair falling over his forehead.  Whatever it was, the possibility of 
maybe seeing that man one more time gave Jack the incentive 
to say the words he'd been rehearsing since he pulled up in front 
of the apartment building.

"Look, Detective.  I...I just came to say that I admit that I was out 
of line today.  I'd had a rough day, and...well...I realize that 
things can be awkward..."  He stumbled to a halt, feeling the first 
embers of anger spark and glow.  The bastard hadn't even 
blinked during his forced admission.  "This is the part where you 
say you're sorry, too."

The small mouth curled into a tight grin that didn't reach the 
amber eyes.  "It is?"

"Yes."  The goddamned jerk was enjoying this.  What the hell 
had he been thinking?  He'd been told what an asshole Logan 
could be.

"What if I don't want to apologize?"  The smile grew a fraction, 
and Jack felt himself flush with rage.  He was about to unleash a 
most unapologetic tirade and storm out of there, never to return, 
when the breathy baritone interrupted his plans.  "What if I offer 
something else instead?"

Jack hesitated, puzzlement damping some of his fury.  He 
scanned the other man's face carefully, taking in the sly smile 
and subtly arrogant stance.  But, the eyes made him hesitate.... 
they were warmer, the color of old cognac.  Just like he 
remembered.

"What are you talking about, Logan?"

"How about what you really came here for?"

Jack paled, then felt his body temperature skyrocket.  Too 
furious for words, he spun and headed for the door.  He had 
nearly reached it when he felt a hand grip his arm.  He twisted 
with a snarl, enraged and humiliated enough to lash out 
physically, regardless of the fact that he knew himself to be 
outweighed by several pounds.

But, the sharp arrogance had faded from Mike's elegantly 
planed face, seemingly real contrition softening it.  Once again, 
some strange metamorphosis had taken place, and that other 
man stood before him, looking boyishly repentant.  The change 
would probably have made Jack dizzy, if he wasn't so damned 
mad. 

"Let go of me, you son of a bitch, or you're going to be picking 
that arm off the street below."

"Wait...McCoy...I'm sorry."  Jack watched, fascinated despite 
himself, as Logan's previously haughty expression became 
pleading.  When Jack didn't move, he pulled his hand away, 
then sighed explosively.  "Shit."  Long fingers ran carelessly 
through dark hair, standing much of the shortly cut mop on end. 
The cognac-coloured eyes were no longer cognac--they were a 
soft hazy green.  Was this the same guy who'd just blown Jack 
off with a few words and a cool grin five seconds ago?  Jack 
wished the other man would stop changing on him--just when he 
thought he'd figured Logan out, the guy warped into someone 
else.

"McCoy...I'm sorry about...back there.  And I'm sorry about 
losing it at Hogan Place today.  It's just that..."  It was Logan's 
turn to run out of words halfway.  He shook his head with a 
weary laugh.  "Let's just say that finding out that my latest one 
night stand was the new EADA I'd be working with was-- 
unexpected."

"No shit," Jack grumbled, his anger mostly pretense.  He was 
too intrigued by this kinder, gentler Logan to take much notice of 
his previous rage.

"Yeah."  That laugh again--a little less tired this time.  "I guess it 
was a shock all around.  Ironic, really."

Jack wondered momentarily what was ironic about the whole 
mess, but the sudden familiar smile that spread across Mike 
Logan's face a moment later swept the question away from his 
mind--along with a good chunk of his coherence.

The green eyes danced mischieviously, and Jack flashed back 
momentarily to that shower just down the hall. Logan held out 
his hand, as if they were just being introduced.  "Hi.  I'm Mike 
Logan.  Pleased ta meet `cha."

Jack grinned despite himself--that bright smile was impossibly 
infectuous.  "Hi, Mike.  I'm Jack."  He took the proferred hand 
with a chuckle.  The skin beneath his grip was warm and 
smooth--like the rest of the body that went with it, as Jack 
already knew.   Were men supposed to have skin that soft and 
smooth?  It seemed oddly dichotomous, in someone who was 
otherwise so very *male*.  But, as Jack stared hypnotically at 
the  perfect ripples that tugged across the smooth white cheeks 
as Mike grinned, he decided that the overall effect was nice. 
Very nice.

Suddenly, Jack felt an all-too-familiar rush as heat began to pool 
somewhere below his belt.  He flushed, mortified.  For 
godsakes, couldn't he be in the guy's presence for more than 
five minutes without either his body or his temper betraying him? 
Furious with himself, he tried to pull away--but, the grip around 
his fingers tightened.  He looked up again...and was 
momentarily captured in those eyes again.  Like a fly in amber. 
He saw invitation in them as clearly as he'd seen it on that other 
night.  And just like last time, he couldn't resist.


Later, he couldn't remember having moved, nor could he 
remember any words that might have been spoken.  All Jack 
knew for sure was that one moment he was embarrased and 
furious, and the next, he was thinking that he didn't remember 
those lips being quite so hot as they pressed against his. But, 
this smooth, arching neck that tasted so damned good--oh, 
*that* he remembered.  He traced the plush, now-wet lips with 
his tongue, memorizing their borders, then followed their perfect 
bow till they gave way to cheek, soft flesh suddenly becoming 
rough stubble.  He made his way across the high arched 
cheekbone, coming finally to the baby soft thin skin just in front 
of Mike's ear.  Then down, along the strong chin, only to plunge 
lower still.  He tracked the supple-firm muscles with his teeth, his 
teasing nips producing a spasm as the man in his grip gasped 
and swallowed.  Finally, he reached that lovely hollow at the 
base of Logan's neck, that cup of flesh that had been haunting 
him for weeks.  With a triumphant chuckle, he kissed it gently, 
then latched on for dear life.

The long body beneath him arched into him as he alternated 
bites and kisses in an odd mix of gentleness and ferocity.  He 
threw his weight forward, pinning the heavier man against the 
counter.  He felt Mike resist instinctively, then slowly relax 
against him, sending fireworks across Jack's nervous system as 
he did.  Oh, God...Logan had been right.  *THIS* was why he'd 
come here. *THIS* is what he'd been working himself up to for 
days.  Not some half-assed apology, or "let's work together" 
bullshit.  Just this.

Jack suddenly realized that his access to the smooth 
sharp-tasting skin was severely hampered by the t-shirt, even 
though it was thin enough for him to feel the other man's body 
heat flush against him. Annoyed at the obstacle and impatient 
from his weeks-long wait, he yanked roughly at the light fabric, 
pulling it up sharply to expose acres more of that tantalizing 
flesh. He felt the chest against his lips rumble with a chuckle at 
his efforts, sparking his latent frustration again.  With a ruthless 
jerk, he tore the shirt up and over Mike's head, heedless as the 
other man tried not to get strangled as he did.  He heard a 
warning cry and a crash, followed by an exclamation of "my 
coffee!", but he was far too busy devouring the firm expanse of 
chest before him to even bother looking up.  Intent on tasting 
every inch of the satiny skin, he started at a smooth, rounded 
shoulder and worked his way along systematically.  He was 
peripherally aware of hands pulling at his clothes, tangling 
annoyingly in the folds of his sweater.  He considered stopping 
to help, but just then his lips encountered a firm, puckered 
nipple, and he suddenly found himself very distracted.

Jack was rewarded with a barely muffled cry as he dragged his 
tongue and teeth across the sensitized nub, pressing into the 
reddened flesh hard enough to leave indentations.  It was his 
turn to chuckle as he blew a cool breeze across the raw, wet 
skin and felt a shudder run down the whole length of the body 
pinned beneath him.  He felt the hands that had been fighting 
with his clothes move up to cup his head, burrowing in his hair 
and pulling up sharply until he had to follow their directives.  He 
had a moment's view of heavy-lidded molten-amber eyes, and 
then he was being devoured again by that ravenous mouth. 
He felt the rest of the world melt and slide away as he drowned 
in the impossible heat of the other man's mouth.   Mike's tongue 
danced against his brazenly, delving deeper and deeper within 
him as the large hands cupping his head pressed him closer and 
closer.  Jack quickly lost himself in the younger man's sweltering 
kiss.  The day's tensions, the week's frustrations, the month's 
deadlines--they all sloughed off of him, washing away the taut 
frustration that had been haunting him all day as they went.  He 
relaxed into the densely muscled body enfolding him, offering no 
resistance when strong arms tightened around him and moved 
him effortlessly across the kitchen floor to a conveniently nearby 
wall.

It was disturbingly easy to let himself drown in Logan's embrace. 
Another heated kiss swept down on him, devouring him slowly 
and completely from the inside out as they remained locked 
together for what seemed like forever.  When Mike finally pulled 
away, Jack gasped involuntarily, his oxygen-starved lungs trying 
to override his simmering lust's commands to latch back onto 
that sweet, plush mouth and never let go.  Molten amber eyes 
met his, full of silent promises that left Jack caught somewhere 
between anxiety and anticipation, and he suddenly found 
himself needing to lean on the wall behind him, his legs 
suddenly untrustworthy.  He watched, mesmerized, as those 
kiss-swollen lips moved temptingly, barely hearing the words 
they framed.  "What do you want, Jack?  What.."  A kiss, as 
fleeting as the others had been all-consuming, brushed his 
cheek gently.  "...do you.."  Another one on the bridge of his 
nose.   "..want to do?"

Jack leaned heavily against the cool wall behind him, vainly 
trying to focus enough for coherent speech.  Just then, a pink 
tongue licked the plush lips in a completely unselfconscious, 
predatory way that closed his throat in a near-painful swell of 
horrified anticipation.  Oh, God.  He'd never wanted anyone this 
badly, and if he weren't out of his skull with lust, he'd probably 
have been worried.  Speech having been rendered temporarily 
impossible, he decided on a more direct approach and slid his 
hand down the smooth, hard torso, following the thin line of fine 
black hair across the pale belly and into the bulging sweatpants 
to cup what would be his prize.  Jack watched, fascinated, as 
heavy lashes fell and fluttered against pale, smooth cheeks and 
that pink tongue appeared again as the lush mouth parted in a 
gasp.  Curious to see what that beautiful, mobile face would do 
next, he ran his grip along the Mike's overheated length, 
delighting in the choked groan *that* produced.  When the inky 
lashes rose again, the liquid amber depths had hardened into 
fierce emerald, and Jack had a sudden flashing impression of 
primal forests and wild things living and dying in lush abandon 
far, far from this tidy moonlit kitchen in the middle of human 
civilization.  A rush of freedom and terror ran through him as he 
fell into their depths.

He'd felt that rush once before--over a decade ago, when he 
reluctantly took his daughter to the Chicago Zoo, and suddenly 
found himself staring through heavy black bars at eyes just that 
shade of green.  And just that fierce. 

"What are you smiling at?"  Impatient hands wrestled with the 
buttons of Jack's fly.

Jack chuckled, heedless of the heady danger he could almost 
scent surrounding him. "Tiger eyes."  His chuckle only grew at 
the puzzled, slightly exasperated look that earned him as Mike 
continued to struggle, unaided, with Jack's jeans.

"You zonking out on me, Jack?"  The puzzlement was replaced 
with that same dangerously teasing glint as the last button slid 
open and strong, agile fingers suddenly enveloped Jack.  It was 
Mike's turn to smile as Jack's gasp reverberated across the 
room.  "This help you focus, Jack?"

Jack writhed convulsively, twisting helplessly like a fish on a 
hook--until he remembered that he too had his hand in a 
convenient location.  Squeezing the heavy balls cupped in his 
palm gently, he broke the other man's intense concentration 
long enough to press their hips together tightly and begin a 
grinding thrust that soon carried Mike's deliberate teasing away 
into something far more purposeful.  They rocked together 
rhythmically, both lost in the heat of each other, until Mike broke 
away, gasping, the green eyes as intense as ever, but far more 
determined this time.

"Jack..if that's what you want, we'd better move to the bedroom. 
Strangely enough, I don't keep condoms or lube in the kitchen."

Very logical--pity that Jack was well beyond logic at that point. 
Blissfully ignoring the other man's attempts to guide him towards 
the far too distant bedroom, he returned to his abandoned 
feasting on that smooth, muscled neck as his hands quickly 
pulled heavy cotton away to reveal firm rounded buttocks that he 
also remembered perfectly.  He hadn't imagined the small 
dimples where they swelled from the small of Mike's back.  Did 
he taste as good as Jack remembered, too?  Only one way to 
find out.

"Jack...wait....oh, Jesus..."

Ignoring the half-hearted protests, he sank to his knees, letting 
his tongue blaze a wet trail down from Mike's neck, dancing 
along the muscles of his chest and abdomen, till he finally 
reached his destination in a nest of dark, fragrant curls.  Without 
preamble, he swallowed Mike's length thirstily.  Oh, yes.  Just 
like he remembered.  Tangy, sweet, rich.

He heard someone calling his name hoarsely from somewhere 
up above him, but was too busy to pay any mind. Of the wide 
and varied forms of sex Jack had indulged in throughout his life, 
this remained his absolute favorite.  There was nothing quite like 
holding a man in your mouth, learning his signature taste and 
texture even as your tongue trapped him somewhere between 
heaven and hell. Even though it was you on your knees before 
him, it was *he* that was at *your* mercy, often much to his 
surprise.  And when that man was someone like Detective 
Michael Logan...well, that just made the whole thing that much 
sweeter.  He couldn't resist a small chuckle as he traced the soft 
spheres in their sack, producing a violent shudder along the 
powerful thighs under his grip.

'Talk about having the tiger by the tail....'

But, like all their ilk, this tiger was unpredictable at best.  Strong 
hands suddenly gripped Jack's shoulders in a near-painful hold 
and dragged him swiftly to his feet.  He had one glance of Mike's 
sweat-sheened, moonlit face, and then he was spun around 
roughly and bent over the kitchen counter, Mike's powerful, 
heated body covering his. He shuddered as sharp teeth nipped 
his right ear.

"Stay right fucking there."  The hissed words were as sharp as 
the teeth that had preceeded them, and even Jack didn't dare 
disobey.  He froze in place, filled with that now-familiar mix of 
dread and longing, not even risking a turn of his head when the 
scorching body pressing into his back suddenly peeled away. 
He heard rattling and rustling somewhere to his left as he stood, 
trembling from the strain of remaining exactly how the forceful 
hands had placed him. A satisfied "Hah!" sounded in the 
direction of the rustling, followed by surprisingly soft footsteps. 
Then, it was Jack's turn to gasp a curse as slickened fingers 
traced down from the small of his back and deep into the crevice 
between his buttocks.

"Oh, Christ...M..Mike..."  Jack pushed against the invading 
fingers.

"Shh.  And, I didn't say you could move." 

Jack bit down on a whimper and tried to do as he was told as 
obviously expert fingers danced along the sensitive entrance to 
his body, opening him delicately even as sharp teeth nipped 
along his nape with playful ferocity.  Despite his best intentions, 
though, he couldn't help but begin to rock slowly with their 
rhythmic caresses, nor could he suppress a grateful sigh as the 
fingers were finally replaced with Mike's cock.  He felt the heated 
head of it press against his buttock first, then move unerringly to 
its final destination, then press in smoothly.

Bright, burning pain seared through him as Mike pushed his way 
into Jack's body in shallow, persistant strokes. Gradually, the 
pain was scalded away, letting the latent wave of raw pleasure 
rise to the fore. The thrusts deepened and quickened, until Jack 
felt Mike's body press flush against him again.  The other man 
stilled as soon as he was buried to the hilt in Jack's body.

"You OK?"

For a second, Jack was sure that he was being teased.  Here he 
was, riding the greatest sexual high he'd experienced since the 
seventies, at the mercy of a man he barely knew and had little 
reason to trust, and the guy wanted to know if he was 'OK'.  Jack 
wanted to laugh, to explain the absurdity of it all--but all he could 
produce was a gasping moan. Instead, he squeezed his internal 
muscles, bearing down around Mike's cock.  The startled yelp 
he heard behind him made him gasp out a laugh--*that* should 
convince Logan that everything was just peachy, and that he 
should fucking get on with it before Jack died of sexual 
frustration.

His amusement was vaporized moments later when sharp teeth 
sank into his shoulder less than playfully.  He gasped and tried 
to pull away, only to find himself completely pinned by Mike's 
heavier frame.  Strong hands gripped his wrists and held them 
flat against the countertop.  He felt the bottom fall out of his 
stomach for the third time that night as the reality of the other 
man's physical strength and his own precarious position 
returned to him--but, before the anxiety could override his 
desire, Mike began to move again.

Mike's thrusts were fast and deep this time, as reckless as he'd 
been cautious moments before...and Jack revelled in it.  A 
glowing sword of ectasy brimming into agony ran him through 
with every stroke, and he could hear his accelerated bloodflow 
roar through his head.  Jack moaned and twisted and bucked 
helplessly, the kaleidoscope of pleasure and pain robbing him of 
any remaining conscious thought.  One hand reached to grip 
his, while the other slid over his hip to close tightly around his 
painful erection, sending a bolt of lightning up his spine.  He 
tightened his grip on the long fingers intertwined with his own as 
the harsh sound of their gasping breaths surrounded them both. 
Even as he climbed higher and higher towards the precipice, a 
small chunk of Jack's mind noted how eventually, towards the 
end, even their breathing fell into synchrony, matching the 
rhythm of their joined bodies.  For one brief moment, Jack could 
feel Mike's body all around him, breathing with him, heart 
beating with his, and for a fraction of a second their union went 
well beyond the flesh, leaving the tiny part of him that was still 
capable of thought vaguely disturbed even as the rest of his 
body sang.

And, then reality shattered around him as he fell off the peak 
into a pillow of ectasy.  Jack felt himself convulse spasmically 
over the counter, emptying himself into Mike's palm.  His 
involuntary contractions produced a violent shudder in the long, 
hard body pressed into him, and then he felt the cock deep 
within him spasm and jerk and erupt thickly.  A pained groan 
reverberated against the nape of his neck as the powerful 
muscles against his back bunched and jumped as Mike shook in 
the throes of his own orgasm.

Slowly, slowly, the kitchen re-coalesced around them.  Aches 
and pains that had been previously lost in the maelstorm of 
ectasy began to surface, and Jack became aware of the hard 
countertop, the various cabinet drawer handles digging into his 
thighs, the sharp wooden ledge digging into his hips as Mike's 
considerable weight bore down on him. But, before he could 
even completely register all these tiny complaints, a warm, wet 
kiss was pressed into the sensitive flesh just below his right 
earlobe.  The hands that had pinned him ruthlessly in place 
minutes ago now stroked his trembling thighs with a gentle 
thoroughness that Jack remembered from their first encounter. 
Jack gasped, then sighed shudderingly as he felt Mike slip out of 
him carefully.  Limp, exhausted, he let himself be turned around 
and enveloped into strong arms, leaning wearily against the 
hard, lightly haired chest that he now knew for a fact tasted as 
good as it looked.  Jack smiled as more of those same warm 
moist kisses fell along his neck and cheek, letting them coat him 
thoroughly before he tilted his head up and looked into Mike's 
face. The chameleon eyes had changed again, to that familiar 
caramel-cognac colour that had haunted Jack's dreams for the 
past few weeks.   By far, his favorite--even over the tiger green. 
Thick, curving lashes framed them perfectly, reminding Jack of a 
mascara ad, and once again the dichotomy struck him between 
Mike's lush beauty and his otherwise overwhelming masculinity. 
The small creases at the corners of his objects of scrutiny finally 
made Jack realize that Mike was snickering.  He took in the 
mischievious grin, and became immediately suspicious. 
Exhilirated and exhausted, he was in no mood for whatever Mike 
was up to.  "What's so funny, Detective?"

Mike broke into snickers again, surprisingly high and boyish, but 
regained himself enough for words at Jack's glare.  "E..Extra 
V..Virgin," he managed before dissolving into un-Logan-like 
giggles again.  Jack merely stared at him in perplexed 
annoyance until he continued.  "S'your own fault. Got me too 
excited.  Had to use what was handy...olive oil."  The boyish grin 
suddenly became a little less boyish, and Jack had a shivering 
flashback of green eyes and predator sharp teeth.  "I only use 
Extra Virgin."

Jack blinked, then glanced around the moonlit kitchen, quickly 
spotting the open pantry door, and the clear glass bottle 
standing open among scattered cereal boxes.  He chuckled 
despite himself.  "Admirably quick thinking, Detective."

"Thank you, Counselor.  At the NYPD, we learn to use 
whatever's at hand in a crisis."  Jack gasped as one of said 
hands squeezed his buttock playfully.  He batted it away irritably 
even as the moist kisses began again at his temple.

"Jesus, Mike!  Give it a rest, already.  I'm tired."

Another snicker vibrated against the sensitive skin of his temple. 
"Old man." Then, it was Mike's turn to gasp in startlement as a 
not-so-gentle slap stung his own butt and long fingers tightened 
in his hair, pulling his head back to arch his neck.

"Don't even try it, brat.  I was playing this game well before you 
even hit the cradle."  Jack demonstrated his point by returning to 
his favorite hollow at the base of Mike's neck, licking and nipping 
expertly, tantalizing the already purpling flesh until he felt the 
throat beneath his lips gasp and shudder.  When he pulled 
away, Mike's playful smile had developed a sharp edge--a jungle 
cat in a frisky mood.

"Ok, Sir, Mr. Powerful DA, Sir.  But, before I let you into my bed, 
we're both gonna need a shower.  I don't want to get olive oil on 
the sheets--even if it *is* Extra Virgin."

Jack was about to repeat emphatically that he was not 
interested, that he was tired, that he'd drunk too much scotch 
today and that he needed to sleep--until Mike pressed his 
already re-heating body flush against his, rubbing himself with 
lush abandon against Jack.  And, at the first brush of that 
smooth, soft skin covering hard, roping muscle, Jack's own body 
betrayed him, rising traitorously to the bait.

With a sigh, Jack gave up any hope of sleep in the near future, 
and pulled Mike into his arms.

*  *  *

Jack's internal alarm clock woke him at 5:00am precisely. 
Groggy from less than three hours sleep, he didn't immediately 
remember where he was.  It certainly wasn't the first time he'd 
woken up in a strange bedroom, though, and he glanced around 
calmly, re-orienting himself.

Moonlight glazed the stucco ceiling into a silver landscape, 
shimmering through a pretty stained-glass lamp hanging above 
the bed, but leaving the rest of the room in blue-grey shadow. 
Various delicious aches and pains brought back the evening's 
events in full. Something heavy and warm was lying across his 
chest and along his left side.  Jack glanced down, and caught 
his breath.

The moonlight cast Mike's body into shining ivory, the silver light 
outlining every muscular curve smoothly, and Jack was 
reminded of cool, marble Greek statues dedicated to the beauty 
of the idealized male body.  Except that this particular statue 
was warm, breathing, and wrapped around Jack.  Glossy dark 
hair tickled Jack's chest, and he could see the shadows of long 
lashes resting on pale cheeks.  Unable to resist, Jack ran a 
hand through the thick, freshly showered hair, smelling the 
shampoo he himself had lathered into that heavy mop.  Then, 
his hand trailed down to the smooth skin along Mike's shoulder. 
So soft against the hard, strong muscles beneath.  Like satin 
covering steel cabling.  Mike didn't stir, but slept on deeply.

Jack luxuriated in the heady warmth a little longer, feeling an 
alien, drowsy lethargy fall upon him. Usually, he was up and 
running full speed from the moment he woke, his head filling 
with lists of deadlines and case objectives even as he threw off 
the covers.  But, today, reality took its time settling on him, 
leaving him in a hazy half-awake limbo that was surprisinly nice. 
And, when he finally came to his senses and shook off the last 
remnants of sleep, he felt an odd sense of regret, and for a 
flickering moment found himself wondering if he could get away 
with calling in sick.

`For godsakes, get a grip,' he scolded himself sternly.  `There's 
a mountain of crap in my inbox and half a dozen meetings 
already set up for today.  And, I still have to go home and 
change before my meeting with Judge Wilson.'  His body, 
however, was still feeling traitorous, and it was surprisingly hard 
to get up the drive to slide out from under Mike's limp weight. 
The younger man only sighed in his sleep, then moved into the 
warmth left behind by Jack's body, and settled back into deep 
slumber.  Jack smiled at that, and unconsciously moved to 
brush stray bangs back from Mike's sleeping face. That same 
strange warm haze began to settle on him again as he listened 
to Mike's quiet, even breaths, and he wasted another ten 
minutes in La-La Land before returning to his senses once 
more. Shaking himself roughly, he got up and headed for the 
bathroom.

When he emerged five minutes later, having finally located all 
his clothes, Jack was back to normal, awake and productive. 
He had another twenty minutes to spare before he had to start 
off home, so he moved towards the kitchen.   He stepped over 
the remains of a smashed coffee mug, wondering idly how that 
happened, then started hunting through cupboards and the 
fridge. He remembered from last time where the coffee was, and 
immediately started a pot brewing.  The fridge, however, was a 
bust, as were most of the cupboards.  All he found edible were 
two cartons of take-out chinese food of uncertain age, several 
boxes of dried cereal, a few fruits and vegetables, two 
eggs...and a familiar half-empty bottle of olive oil.  Apparently, 
Detective Logan wasn't into cooking.

Jack sighed, then decided that he was hungry enough to make 
the effort.  He hated dry cereal.  After another search, he located 
an ancient frying pan, a kitchen knife, and a whisk.  Pulling out 
the eggs and vegetables, he decided that he had enough for two 
omelettes--barely.

He was in the midst of carefully dropping the first egg's contents 
into the pan, having finally figured out the antiquated stove, 
when a phone rang softly right next to him. He jumped, and 
barely stopped himself from answering it instinctively.

`Now, that would've been fun to explain.'  Jack chuckled softly to 
himself.  `"Hello, Detective Briscoe.  No, I'm afraid your partner's 
still asleep.  See, we were screwing like rabbits until 2:00am last 
night, and he's still a little tired."  Right.'

On the third muted ring, the answering machine kicked in.  The 
machine was set to speaker, and Mike's smooth baritone, in cool 
cop mode, filled the tiny kitchen.

"Either I'm not here, or I've got better things to do.  You know the 
drill."

Jack couldn't suppress a bitter smile at the message.  Detective 
Logan could certainly be an asshole when he wanted to be. 
How many unsuspecting telemarketers had hung up as soon as 
they heard that bored, annoyed `don't waste my time, you prick' 
missive?  How many unsuspecting one-night-stands?

The voice that followed shocked Jack out of that grim train of 
thought violently.

"Mike?  Pick up if you're there.  If you're not, I hope to God it's 
because you're finally sleeping...but, more likely, you're out 
jogging in the cold again, you dummy."

Jack stared at the answering machine, stunned, as Dr. Elizabeth 
Olivet's exasperated sigh echoed out of it.  He'd worked with Dr. 
Olivet before on several cases, and had even made a pass once 
upon a time.  Hell, she was gorgeous, young, brilliant--Jack's 
favorite flavour of females.  She'd brushed him off firmly, politely. 
Thanks, but no thanks.  Looks like she preferred cops.  He felt a 
flicker of competitive jealousy, then realized to his dismay that 
he wasn't certain which of the two he was jealous of.

"Look.  Mike.  Don't freak out, but...Lennie called me. He told me 
what's going on.  Don't get angry!  He's just worried.  We both 
are.  Listen, Mike, it's only been five weeks since...since the 
breakup.  You've been angry and restless since then, and I don't 
think you've gotten a full night's sleep in months."

Jack listened in shocked silence as glacially cool Olivet pleaded 
worriedly with the answering machine.  It didn't seem like the 
tone a girlfriend would use.  Could it be that Mike had managed 
the impossible?  A platonic friendship with a beautiful woman? 
He suddenly remembered Claire Kincaid's warm, affectionate 
laughter and fierce defense of her cop pals, and began to 
suspect that this was indeed possible for Logan.  Who'd have 
thought it of the NYDP's most notorious playboy?  He diced 
vegetables automatically as he listened raptly to Olivet's soft 
voice.

"I know that sex has always been a way of dealing with things 
like this for you, Mike.  But, I think things may not be the way 
you expect this time.  Please, Mikey," Jack nearly dropped the 
knife at the intimate nickname.  "I'm asking you, as a therapist 
and as your friend, to please, please, PLEASE be careful.  And, 
don't get angry with Lennie.  We just don't want to see you hurt 
again.  Okay?"  Another sigh, this one far more weary and 
worried.  "You have this amazing ability to put up walls and box 
yourself in when you can least afford to.  We're here, Mike.  Just 
remember that.  And, start taking those sleeping pills, damn it. 
Insomnia is not just a minor annoyance to be ignored, like a 
common cold.  God, you're so damned stubborn!"  A soft 
chuckle, affectionate and exasperated again.  "Is that another 
one of your `Irish tendencies', like your inability to buy decent 
ties or drink anything but Guinness?  Thank God I'm of French 
descent.  And, you still owe me that dinner at Cafe Bruges, by 
the way.  Call me, OK?  I mean it.  Bye, Mike."

Jack carefully scraped the second omelette, fluffy and intact, 
onto the clean plates he'd found on the dishrack as the machine 
whirred and clicked and fell silent.  He moved around the kitchen 
on automatic pilot as a thousand questions blazed through his 
mind.  

Logan and Olivet as an item?  As therapist and patient?  As 
friends?  No, as close friends.  Close enough to call before dawn 
to see how you were doing, to make sure you were sleeping, to 
harangue you about your taste in men.  For Jack was certain 
that it was *himself* that Olivet was warning Logan about. 
Perhaps, she'd been more resentful of his one attempt than he 
thought.  Perhaps, she was worried about her friend being taken 
advantage of by the lecherous Jack McCoy.  Now, *that* was a 
laugh, considering that Mike got around far more than he did. 
How did the guy manage to get away with that, and STILL stay 
friends with the women around him? That had always been 
Jack's problem.  Men were so much better at understanding the 
need for diversity in bedmates.  That's why they were so much 
better at casual sex.

Speaking of which, it would seem that both Olivet and Briscoe 
were aware of the fact that Mike swung both ways.  Usually, that 
fact alone was enough to make you into a pariah, especially in 
an organization as patriarchial as the NYPD--or the DA, for that 
matter. Should Jack be worried?  Would Briscoe and/or Olivet 
try to use their knowledge of Jack's sex life to intimidate him in 
the future? Surely, they wouldn't risk exposing Mike that 
way...right?

And, what about this `breakup'?  It sounded like Mike was in a 
Relationship, with a capital "R", and that said Relationship 
busted up.  And that he was upset by it enough to have trouble 
sleeping.  Jack suddenly remembered the first time he'd seen 
Mike, a cold, wet stranger who'd gone jogging in freezing rain for 
some crazy reason.  And, last night--he remembered Mike 
dressed in the same sweats, looking tense, surrounded by 
paperwork in the middle of the night.

Jack ate his omelette, barely tasting it as he mused over the 
overheard phonecall.  He felt vaguely guilty for some unknown 
reason.  Certainly not for listening to a phonecall that wasn't 
his--Jack had no problem invading others' privacy if it served his 
needs.  But, still, there was something a little...scary...about 
being given a glimpse into the secret world of Michael Logan, a 
man whose body he knew intimately, but whose mind remained 
a stranger.  Maybe, that was the problem right there.  He knew 
too much about Mike to be just a casual fling, and he enjoyed 
sex together too much to just give it up cold, as these past few 
weeks had proven.  But, maybe, just maybe, they could become 
something more than just ships in the night.  Aquaintances? 
Perhaps casual friends?  Jack finished his coffee, then placed 
his dish and mug in the sink and moved back towards the 
bedroom.

Mike slept on, and Jack felt a wave of smug satisfaction at his 
peaceful face. `Not such a bad influence after all, Dr. Olivet.  Bet 
your sleeping pills couldn't do half as good a job.'  He moved to 
sit next to Mike on the bed, rubbing his back with gentle 
persistance that slowly increased in strength as Mike slept on. 
God, he was a deep sleeper!  Finally, a moan issued up from 
amidst the blankets, and Jack watched the long lashes flutter as 
Mike blinked and rolled over.   Sleepy amber eyes focused on 
him, then smiled even as a hand crept around Jack's waist.

"Mmmorninnnn...."

Jack grinned, strangely relieved that Mike was glad to see him 
still here. "Rise and shine, Detective."  He noted with amused 
satisfaction the darkening bruise against the pale skin at the 
base of Mike's throat--it looks like Detective Logan was going to 
need a high collar to cover up that hickey. He risked a kiss, and 
was pleased when it was returned with sleepy enthusiasm even 
as the arm tightened around his waist, trying to draw him down. 
"Mike, stop that--I've got to go.  I'm due in a Judge's office in 
three hours, and I still have to go home and change."

"Mmmmm....crap...d'ya'hav'ta?"

"'Fraid so.  Listen, sit up for a second.  I need to talk to you. 
C'mon, Mike."  He dragged a reluctant, limp Logan to a sitting 
position, waiting until the hazy eyes cleared of sleep a little 
more. "You awake?"

"As much as I will be at five fucking thirty.  Shit."  Mike shot the 
bedside clock a dirty look, and Jack couldn't resist a smile.

"You can go right back to sleep as soon as I'm done here, OK? 
Two things.  First, I managed to scrounge enough together to 
make a decent breakfast, no thanks to your shopping skills. 
Coffee and omelette await in the kitchen."  Jack felt a delicious 
shiver of pleasure at the surprised grin *that* produced.  Good, 
because the hard part came next.  "Second...Mike, I really 
enjoyed last night.  I get the feeling you did, too."  He watched 
carefully as the amber eyes became a little more guarded, a 
little more hesitant.  "I think we both scared the hell out of each 
other when we met that first morning at my office, and I think 
we've both been reacting to that ever since.  But, it doesn't have 
to be this way.  If we're careful, this can work.  We're both 
reasonable adults, we both love our respective jobs, and we 
both like sex together.  There's no reason that all three of those 
things can't exist together.  I've managed to have friends that 
share both my workplace and my bed in the past."

One dark, glossy eyebrow arched delicately.  "Yeah.  So I've 
heard.  Claire told me about your in-office batting average.  The 
thing is, Jack, how many of those women could you work with 
once the sex was over?"

Jack sighed, took a deep breath, then plunged on.  "Claire, like 
everyone else in that damned building, only knows part of the 
story.  Wanna know how many co-workers I've slept with? 
About seventeen--most of whom were male. Guys Claire and 
the secretarial pool never suspected.  Guys I still share cases 
with.  It's different with men, Mike.  We understand the need for 
casual sexual relationships.  We don't need to romanticise them. 
We can be friends who happen to work together and happen to 
have sex.  Surely, you've done something like this before with 
another guy."

Mike regarded him thoughtfully for a long, silent moment, then 
smiled slowly.  "Yeah.  Haven't had a fuck buddy since college, 
though.  It'll be weird having one again."

Jack laughed, more out of relief than anything else.  Mike 
understood.  It could work--just friends, who happened to have 
sex once in a while.  Simple, easy.  "I think I prefer the term 
`friend' to `fuck buddy', but I'm flexible."  They chuckled together, 
sharing a moment of silent ease that boded well for their future 
friendship.  Then, because he couldn't resist, Jack ran his hand 
through the thick silken mop of hair once more, hoping the scent 
of shampoo and Mike would linger on his fingers for a few hours 
at least.  "So, you'll call?"

"Count on it, Counselor."

The End
(December 1997)