| MONDAY The afternoon Tom found himself sitting on the floor in a corner of his kitchen, his back pressed up against shiny laminate, methodically, meticulously, eating tuna-fish from out a can with a fork, he admitted he was probably depressed. He chewed on the dry, flaky tough once-upon-a-time fish in his mouth, looked at the fork dangling between his fingers and tried to swallow. His gullet tightened. His half empty stomach churned and it was only his still sharp reflexes that got him up off the floor and leaning over the kitchen sink before he vomited violently. Fish and bile splattered against stainless steel. Tom closed his eyes, felt the fork slide out from between his fingers and heard it clatter against the linoleum. He reached out for the tap with his right hand and turned on, what he hoped was the cold one. Cold water would lessen the smell that was turning his stomach, again. He felt himself gag, tongue reflexively hanging out over his bottom lip, breath shallow in his nostrils. Stomach clenching, Tom felt the pain of compression and then regurgitated food tickled the back of his larynx as it rocketed out of him. After the retching came relief. If only the memories could so easily be purged. In the days after he'd quit, in what ought to have been a bright, shiny, new beginning, but was instead the fray of a still unspooling ending, Tom had been too worn down to wonder why Harry hadn't packed him off to Tring before letting him walk back out into the world. Harry hadn't insisted on some form of psych evaluation for his cracked up wonder-boy. But then, Harry had washed his hands of Tom and Tom had walked away, the irrefutable proof of his betrayal, a scar on the other man's torso. In the days after he'd quit, trained, honed senses let down their guard. Muscles ached and twitched as they unwound, coming down from their adrenaline high. Tom slept. Woke up. Slept some more. He ate stale cornflakes and thanked the fact that long-life milk did what it said on the box. A trip to the corner shop might as well have been a journey to Land's End, at least that was how he felt about venturing forth past the front hallway. Tom let his life spiral down into nothing but daily minutiae. To shave or not to shave. To shower or to curl in back under the bedsheets and wallow in his stink. He wondered, idly, if this was how the elderly felt when their bodies ran out of steam, when their usefulness was no more. Expired. Expunged. Extinct. Ex-communicated. That was the choice he'd made. Ironically he'd believed that he was walking away from death, reaching out to embrace life. Some days he just let time wash over him, lying silent, foetal shaped, rough cheek against creased, cotton pillowcase. He'd map the shadows on his bedroom wall, where sun met tree branch, listen to birdsong and the quiet roar of passing cars. There was no one to talk to. No one who wanted anything. No one he was responsible for. There was space for his mind to breathe. He just had to figure out how to let it. When he was sure he wasn't going to puke again, Tom turned the tap off. He straightened up, leaned against the sink for a moment, then moved across the kitchen to open the window. It would help with the lingering smell, somewhat but what he really needed was a lemon. The vague recollection that there was one, lurking in his fridge, led to the discovery of something that was closer to fungus than fruit. A dry withering husk that wasn't likely to give up any juice if he squeezed it down the plug-hole, in the hope that it would mask the smell of bile and fish. Lemons, he had to buy lemons and maybe some form of food that had once been alive, or at least was still passably fresh. As he walked out of the kitchen to find his shoes and his house keys, it occurred to him that Ruth would have been horrified to see that state he'd let himself get into. But then Ruth's caring, solicitous and sometimes sarcastic friendship was lost to him now. He was dead. As dead as Harry would have been if he'd aimed to kill. As dead as he himself would have been if he'd turned the gun on himself. WEDNESDAY It was one thing to know, academically, that there were less people out and about in the middle of a week day, another to be able to clearly see stretches of pavement in front of you as you walked down the street. It was a novelty to be able to shop for a box of semi-skimmed milk, a bag of salad, a loaf of bread, anything really, without being jostled and bumped, without having to brave endless, shuffling queues. To be able to shop in daylight. It was a strange thing to notice, but Tom found his gaze drawn to the spaces between people, rather than to the other shoppers. Oh they were still queues. Queues with pushchairs. Queues of harassed looking mothers and cute kids with pigtails. Tom stared at the pink, plastic bobbles on the end of a child's pigtail, that round ball of dyed plastic bringing back memories of a life he'd almost shared with someone. Most days he tried not to think of Maisie. Tried not to think about what he'd done to her and her mother. Most days. That had been the good thing about work, when he'd been on the grid. The hours were long. The pace had been harsh, the sleep invaluable and often in short supply. His thoughts had been honed, as precise as a marksman's rifle sight. And that precision of thought had saved him from maudlin, melancholic what-if's that now seemed to share his bed. Harry's sardonic tone of voice which had become his very own twisted jimminy Cricket, preaching that the job didn't promote friendship, that it was the death knell to relationship. How many people who'd offered up information which had saved his life were single? Or moved smoothly from one bed to the next, connection an almost pleasurable orgasm, with little or no after-glow? How many people in the service were married to people who actually knew where they were, when they went away on business? Tom knew in his gut that he could count those people on the fingers of one hand. He looked down at his hands and wondered if he should count with the hand that held a pen, the one that fired bullets into the soft, yielding flesh of the enemies of his Majesty's Government, or if he should only count loved ones with his left hand, the hand closest his heart. The heart he was no longer sure beat at all. Oh it filtered and pumped blood, the muscle worked, but any purer feelings had been excised by the scalpel of service. Or maybe they'd given him a serviceable-heart with his first legend. Maybe you got a new heart when you got a new name and it was only programmed to love the job. Maybe. Through the shop window, from behind a neat stack of vegetables, Tom caught a glimpse of the shiny-black Range-Rover. The leaves on a bunch of carrots half obscured his view. Still, there was something about the couple who were loading bags into the boot, something about the woman's neatly styled hair. Something that caught his detached gaze. She looked effortlessly stylish, French or European. The little boy looked to be no more than seven, but could have been five and tall for his age. He was clinging to his father's corduroyed leg, his blond head titled upwards. Tom watched as the man leant over, leant down so that the child's voice would carry clearly, over the sound of passing cars, the light roar of a plane passing overhead and the not stop chat-prattle-of teenage-twenty somethings talking on their mobile phones as they walked down the road. He wondered what it would be like to be the holder of a child's secrets, to be that pivotal to someone. His child. A lover. Tom dragged his gaze up the trim muscular form of the man in question. Realised who the couple reminded him of. It wasn't Adam Carter and his wife. His hair was a shade too dark, the woman too curvaceous, her hair longer. He was seeing ghosts where they were none. As the Range-Rover drive off into traffic, Tom wondered, briefly if they would have acknowledged him if it had been them. He resigned himself to ignorance that was far from bliss. Yet, the brief glimpse of the man who could have been Adam stayed in the back of Tom's mind. Two Saturday's later, when they did bump into each other in the men's department of Harvey Nichols, that glimpse seemed almost like predestination. It was a politely awkward meeting. Tom had expected the split second they'd recognised each other. Hadn't expected Adam to greet him smiling, effusive, as if the meeting was arranged. Hadn't expected to be pulled aside by a wall of camel coloured suede jackets. Hadn't expected Adam to fill in the details surrounding Danny's death and funeral debacle. Danny who'd had so much potential and a heart bigger than most people's. Danny who'd survived the loss of Zoe. Danny who'd been on the way to becoming one hell of an agent, according to Adam. Tom had reached out, fingered the sleeve on one of the jackets, letting the material soothe suddenly frayed nerves the way Adam was trying to do with his low, smooth, tone of voice. His eyes had stung for a moment and as he'd looked over Adam's shoulder into Fiona's polished, concerned gaze, he'd wondered fleetingly if grief pangs and a woman's period pains were related. Wondered if the shedding of a woman's womb lining, that death of a child who would never be born, foreshadowed in someway a human body becoming waste, compost, refuse. The finality of Danny's death had hurt viscerally, cut him somewhere in his belly. Danny was dead. Tom wasn't sure how to begin living. It was easier to let days go by. To wallow in the knowledge that the people who would be disappointed in him, for the most part, were either dead or lost to him. He went out to buy papers he didn't read, flowers that withered in stagnant, unchanged water, and food that tasted bland, no matter what he cooked. Half-heartedly, Tom scanned the job section and wondered how he could put his retirement-legend to best use. Wondered how long he could stretch his savings. Some people had phoned. So-called-friends that he'd lied to for over a decade, but kept in touch with, irregularly. Sophie in particular had kept calling, but Tom was faintly aware of a divorce in her recent past and knew he was on her rebound to-do list. Which explained her invitation to birthday drinks. It didn't explain his acceptance, nor the fact that drinks had led to dinner and the led on to a club. FRIDAY: Laughing. Drinking. Dancing. Everyone was celebrating. Tom gazed at friends who were little more than strangers. What had he lied about tonight? He'd been abroad. That was always a good one. Widowed, which was less messy than divorced, and marginally closer to the truth. Was single. When Sophie had leaned into yell something over the loud musical beat, her words had dissolved into giggles. Tom had moved his head slightly, wondering if she'd licked his ear and if she'd meant to. He'd said something non-committal in reply to that hot rush of breath against his ear. Something that only sounded like a sentence. He'd then turned his gaze back to the dance floor, back to the scantily clad bodies that rubbed and thrust against each other. It was the safest sex and usually the prelude to nameless, faceless, unprotected fucking. God, he was too old for this. He'd wake up tomorrow and his hairline would be competing with Harry's, receding unlike the crime and violence that was ... everywhere. Senses long honed and eager to be active scanned the dance floor. Something had caught his attention. A glint of something, something metallic, half-concealed, carried low on a body. As that thought went through his mind Tom sat up suddenly, startling Sophie. He saw her mopping a spilt drink off her shimmery, now stained skirt but all his attention was focused on two men who were pushing and sliding their way across the dance floor. Glinting in the lose grip of one man's hand was something that could only be a knife or a switch blade. Tom was on his feet before Sophie managed to speak half a syllable, looking, searching. What, or who was their objective? Who were they targeting? A sandy-blond headed man in an olive green anorak was making his way through the now parting throng, head bowed slightly. He was oddly dressed for the venue, for a Friday night. More striking, he wasn't on the pull, wasn't making mating calls out to the left and right of him, despite the leering glances being tossed in his direction. He wasn't carrying drinks drinks either. The two men in pursuit had him in sight and were hastily trying to make their way across the club. Tom had visions of some half-clad girl getting a shank in the stomach, or a knife slice along the curve of a surgically-enhanced breast. Tom tracked the blond head that was moving towards him and debated with himself. No back-up. No weapon. Nothing apart from his wits and his hands. It wasn't his responsibility, no longer his jurisdiction, his business. And then the man looked up and familiar eyes widened, just a fraction, as recognition crowded out everything else. And Tom was on the move. He'd actually stepped up onto the cushioned booth and hopped out over it's back, moving fast, actually pushing his way past loitering larger-lovers, looking to see where Adam's two pursuers were, looking to see where Adam was. He longed for the familiar hiss of an earpiece, a friendly familiar voice telling him that Adam was at two o'clock or at four o'clock, longed for the over-sight that came with technology and back-up. He was trying to remember that he'd loathed the deception, the subterfuge, the lies, the game, the chase when suddenly, a strong masculine arm was sliding across his lower back holding him still. The warm solidity of a body pressing up against his was the only warning to he had before a familiar voice yelled in his ear. "You have two seconds to tell me what you're doing here, Tom old boy." "Party." His mouth was dry. "You've been compromised. At least I think you have." "You think?" "Behind you, five o'clock. He's got a shank." Adam was still, muscles tensed with leashed action. "Go with me here." That was the only warning, as the hand that had pulled him close slid up his torso, sliding across muscle tone that had yet to atrophy. "Tilt your head back." Tom did, knowing that if he moved a fraction more, his head would be leaning against Adam's shoulder. Adam who was leaning in, Adam whose hand was stroking his bicep, whose mouth descended towards his. The kiss, if that's what it could be called, landed at the side of Tom's mouth. The rasp of Adam's unshaven jaw abrasive against his own newly shaved and sensitised skin. "Comm's are dead. I figure Malcom's on it, but I'm in the dark here. You sure you saw a shank?" "I'm retired not blind," Tom answered and shifted his eyesight slightly. The two men had stopped at one side of the dance floor and were waiting. "We're being watched." "Might as well make it look good then, eh?" Adam said coolly before leaning in and forcing his mouth against Tom's once more. Tom felt the hot, wet flick of a tongue against his lips. Adam's kiss was urgent, combative, desperate. His tongue was possessive. Tom stilled in the masculine grasp and tired to catalogue the sensations of being passive. He wasn't the explorer. He was the explored. Surprise. Shock. The bright pain of his right nipple being pinched. The deft jab of Adam's tongue taking advantage of his reactionary gasp to slide in against his. Then to his surprise the kiss changed. The hands touching him were more caressing than commandeering, gentle even. The low, burgeoning ache in his balls surprised Tom more than the stubble grazing the side of his face. Oh, he knew that reaction to physical sensation, to stimuli was normal. Was to be expected after months of solitude and over a year's celibacy. Potent when mixed with adrenaline. Tom just wished his mind hadn't coughed up that revelation in the fragment of a half-remembered voice which sounded suspiciously like a psych-evaluatory comment. He pulled away and looked over Adam's shoulder, trying to ignore his own arousal and the strangely arousing feeling of the other man pressed against him. "They're stationery, for now" "I owe you one," Adam said, rubbing his face with his hands. He moved away slightly. Tom felt himself miss, mourn the embrace. He shook his head. "Make it." Tom said."Your call." Tom's gaze followed Adam's. He looked back at Sophie. At the table full of stranger-friends, the collateral damage on the dance floor and two unknown's on the edge of the gyrating throng of civilians. He could hear a song he half recognised, screaming something about desire. His heart thumped unexpectedly as he watched Adam swallow, watched his protruding Adam's apple bounce. Thyroid cartilage, that place of visible vulnerability on a body trained to defend to attack to kill. He could choke a man to death applying the right pressure to his neck. So could Adam. He wondered what it was about the stubbled jaw in front of him that made his cock throb. Tom shook his head. He couldn't think about this now. He had work to do. "If we head for the exit we can lead them away," he volunteered. "Pointless really. This part of the op's blown." Adam sounded more than resigned. He sounded worn down, worn thin. Exhausted. "Drugs?" Tom asked, genuine curiosity welling up within him. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." Adam grinned. "Going to disarm them?" Tom asked. Adam leaned in as a reply, pressing his lips to Tom's swollen ones. The kiss was part bite, part pressure. Harsh like a slap then, suddenly soft and teasing. Adam pulled away and looked up, past Tom. "They're moving off, moving away. I owe you one." "We'd better leave together." Feeling the adrenaline thrumming in his veins, Tom marvelled at how calm he sounded. "What are you going to tell blondie?" Adam asked. Tom looked at Sophie's furious expression. "Nothing." As the song faded away to a different beat they made it to the exit, pushed their way through double glass doors and out into a surprisingly warm night. Adam lengthened his stride heading across the street. Tom fell into step, following. "Where you parked?" There was tight leashed exhaustion in the question and that, more than anything else, made Tom revise his original idea. It wasn't just the op. Something else was wrong with Adam, something else had happened. The yellow fluorescent street light brought out all the craggy shadows in the man's face. He looked haggared, destroyed. And Tom knew viscerally that it had little to do with a blown op. "Where's your team? What happened?" Adam tossed his head back in the discretion of the club. "In there? Got careless..." "No not in there." Tom's hand was suddenly on Adam's arm, gripping slightly. Adam stopped walking. Stared down that the hand that was touching him. Tom resisted the momentary urge to let go, pushed aside the conflicting urge to pull the man close and never let go. "Oh, right you wouldn't know. Out of the loop." Adam's possessive hungry mouth was suddenly twisted and still. Hard. The words spoken were barely more than a whisper. "Fee's dead. Got gunned down in front of me. I'm meant to be... in-active. Fee's dead, Tom." "God I'm..." Sorry was so trite. I'm sorry you lost your wife Adam. That you lost someone you loved. That you're alone. That the job stole your life from you, just as it stole mine from me. "It was Danny's death last time, eh?" Adam said, unlocking his car and sinking down into the driver's seat. He sat sideways, his booted feet resting on the pavement, head bowed. With a deft move he flicked the dead earpiece out from behind the skin-shell of his ear and tossed it onto the ground. "I'm probably next." An in-breath that might have been a chocked sob had Tom moving. It seemed normal, after the kiss, to put his awkward arms around Adam to draw his head against his midriff, to lay a hand on the back of another man's neck. "I'm probably next. And then what the fuck will happen to Wes?" Tom looked down at broad shaking shoulders and wondered when men learnt to cry silently, choking on what Wes, no doubt, still called snot. Wondered how he'd moved past that stage, to not being able to cry at all. His thumb was moving of it's own accord, stroking the tense knotted muscles in Adam's bowed neck. He'd never thought comfort could be sensual before. Never thought another's pain could move him in such a way. Adam's head was heavy against his stomach. Real. Solid in a way that nothing else had been since he'd walked away from five, that autumn day. He felt his cock throb and fill, wondered if Adam could feel it against his bicep, wondered what he'd say. Wondered what it might be like to have sex with a man, this man. When Adam looked up at him, long lashes wet with soundless tears, eyes red and raw, it seemed normal to lean down and kiss that hot, angry mouth, to swallow down the tears that hadn't been cried out. "Do you want this?" Tom asked suddenly, knowing that they were still in the street, that Adam's mike was lying on the tramac between them. Malcom had probably recorded everything. "Do you know what you're asking?" Adam's words were harsh. The fingers moving up to touch the side of Tom's face were not. "In abstract theory." Tom leaned in again, kissing Adam, taking care to tread fully onto the microphone. It made a satisfying crunch as he ground it into smithereenes. "But I'm up for it, if you are." A laugh broke out suddenly from their tangle of arms, legs and pain. "Yes, you are at that." SATURDAY: Tom was expecting awkwardness at the very least, revulsion, if the decision turned out to be one of the worst he'd ever taken. He'd also been expecting a home with a layer of dust. A home solidifying it into a shrine. Anything but the utterly empty white box that aspired to be a home. French windows looked out on a tree-strewn residential square. Cornices and architraves set off high ceilings, in much the same way as jewellery adorned a woman. And, lying in haphazard piles, on polished wooden flooring were boxes upon boxes. Stacks of plates lay half unwrapped from their bubble-wrap beds. Boxes evidently been dipped into, then discarded, spilled forth crumpled clothes. The open plan living room dinning area that was currently doubling up as storage space. "I'd tell you to make yourself at home." Adam shrugged and tossed the keys in his hand onto a solitary armchair. Tom watched as Adam toed off his shoes, peeled off his anorak, pulled off his jumper and t-shirt. Bare-chested he walked away, heading towards what Tom imagined was the bedroom or the bathroom. "If you can find a glass, I can offer you a drink," Adam called back over his shoulder "Unless the bottle is okay?" The pristine kitchen surfaces seemed to still be shrink-wrapped in spirit, if not in reality. Everything about the flat made Tom want to walk lightly on the floorboards. Made him skittish and uncomfortable. Unless that was the upcoming performance. Why was he here? The urgency of desire had abated in the time it had taken them to cross London, find a parking space and make their way up to the second floor of the Victorian conversion Adam was now living in. Reaching out to Adam had made sense in the smoke filled night-club. Made sense as he'd seen the man double-over and fold in on the pain that was ploughing his insides into furrows. And now? The distance was back, the detachment that had been Tom's daily companion for over a year was in this room too. Tom stood still, tasting indecision like heartburn. He heard the shower come on, the rhythmic beat of water distracting his already fragmented thought process. There was only one piece of furniture in the bedroom an unmade bed strewn with creased white sheets. The blanket tumbled in with them caught Tom's attention. Walking forward he leant down to catch a fringed corner in his hand, felt the fabric. Made of rectangular pieces of what seemed to be cashmere, the blanket had been joined together unevenly. Awkwardly. On top of a pile of printed papers and books, to one side of the unmade bed, a photograph of a Fiona stared up at Tom. Looking at her smile, he knew what the blanket was made of. Adam has joined Fiona's pashmina's together using what seemed to be superglue, if some hard abrasive drips were anything to go by. And, the fact that this man had turned his wife's clothing into his blanket, his woven comfort, that was more shocking to Tom than the sight of Adam walking out of the bathroom towelling off damp bare skin, his soft dick swinging slightly with each step he took. "Having second thoughts? Adam asked as he walked back in Tom's direction. "No harm, no foul if you are." The corner of this home-made memorial quilt clutched in Tom's fingers should have made him less decisive. Should have made him question everything, but strangely it didn't. As Adam moved to stand before him, Tom dropped the blanket and reached up, his hand cupping the back of Adam's head, feeling the short spiky hair tickle his palm. "No, no second thoughts. Ought to tell you that this is new territory for me though." The hand that had slid across his hip earlier did so again, moving to settle at the base of Tom's spine, testing him as if weighing his resolve. "I don't need to tell you that I'm..." Adam trailed off. "Not in a good place?" Tom smiled slightly. "Got the t-shirt." He leaned in and kissed Adam again, tasted minty toothpaste, luxuriated in the smooth feel of a freshly shaved face against his. It occurred to him that he ought to ask if Adam preferred him to shower, but suddenly those brisk hands that could kill and main as easily as they could type a report, those hands were pushing his jacket off his shoulders and unbuttoning his fly. His cock surged up in his boxers to meet firm masculine fingers. Tom pulled his shirt up off over his head, then threw it onto the floor by the bed. Adam backed them both closer to the bed. "Do you want to move it, before?" Tom asked, marvelling that touching was easy. "What?" Touching this man was effortless. Tom let Adam kiss his shoulder, suck salt from his unwashed skin. He ached to lean in and kiss and lick, ached to really touch Adam. "The blanket Adam. Do you want to move the blanket?" Adam stilled his hands and stared at Tom. "No. No. Want to come on it." Adam looked startled as he admitted that, looked surprised at the thought that wasn't voiced, that it wouldn't just be Adam's spunk that was shot onto the soft wool. But the symbolism of what they were doing was easily side-stepped as Tom kicked off his trousers, as he fell back onto the bed wondering, momentarily, if he looked daft in his socks. The feel of another man's hardening cock, throbbing hotly against his inner thigh, obliterated all other thought. Adam leaned in aggressively, kissed Tom and captured his mouth. Maneuvered them onto the bed. Pressed Tom down against the mattress. Tom's head swam at the breadth of shoulders he was clutching, caressing, at the harsh breaths that sounded more like grunts and broke into their kissing. The smell of musk, the absence of perfume, a myriad of sensory details was making him high. Making him harder still. Legs tangled he rolled them over so that they lay sideways, diagonally across the bed. Adam's cock was wet and hot against Tom's lower belly. He reached down with trembling, sweaty fingers and palm him, to squeeze slightly and rub, to move his hand as Adam thrust up with a sharp twist of his hips. With him other had Tom reached between them and touched Adam's nipple, watched it pucker, then twisted it mimicking Adam's earlier actions at the club. Why did women ignore a man's nipple's? Why did they never suck on the pale rounds of skin? The flash of half-formed curiosity was stunning to Tom. He wasn't ready to slide down the bed, to take Adam's throbbing sex into his mouth and feel it stretch his jaw until it ached. He wasn't ready for a mouthful of another man's spunk, but the idea was there, seeded, figuratively if not literally. In compromise he sucked lasciviously on his fingers, enjoying the groan ripped from Adam's throat, and returned them slick with his own saliva to Adam's over sensitised nipples. Tom then trailed them down to slide against the underside of Adam's throbbing cock. "Oh fuck, what ......." Tom's hand curled into a lose fist, friction and flesh that another man could rub off against. The breathless groan in his ear was more endearing than arousing, as was the strain visible in Adam's back muscles as he fought to come, or fought not to come. Hand soon cramping and uncomfortable, Tom shifted jerkily, moving his hand so that he was gripping Adam's hip instead. Bright pleasure exploded in his head. Cock brushed against leaking cock. They both struggled to get themselves off in the crease of each other's hip joint. Tom opened his eyes, took in the flaking plaster on the cornice and then looked at Adam who was starring down at him, eyes bright with tears an expression closer to torturous pain than pleasure. "It's okay. I've got you," Tom said, pulling Adam close against him as torsal tension signified the climax that had eluded the other man. "You're not alone. I've got you." Shudders, groans and a splash of warm wetness. The words tasted of his own pain. If things had turned out differently, would he have worked with this man, been on his team? Would he have been the difference between a woman's life or death? His own cock was still hard between them. Tom lay on sweat slick cashmere, holding a sobbing man and tried not to want to shift, to rub, to come. What did one say to another man at a time like this, when endearments where mal-fitting and ridiculous? He was still thinking along those lines when Adam raised his head and shifted slightly so that Tom's erection lay throbbing in the streak of Adam's come. Sniffing, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, Adam looking more like a small boy than a consensual adult. "Sorry. Damn I'm sorry." Sensual adult. He was at that, almost no matter what. Tom smiled. "And all the girls think you're such a smooth operator." "It's been known." Leaning up on his elbows, Adam looked down between them. Tom felt himself stiffen further as the other man stared at his cock. "Want me to suck you off?" Whatever Adam was going to suggest Tom hadn't expected that. The words and the idea of Adam's masculine mouth, of his predatory tongue licking up the underside of his overly-engorged dick was enough to set Tom off. He barely heard his half-swallowed groan as he twisted his head sideways into Adam's pillow, breathing in the scent of him. A spasm of pleasure and come spat out of him, mingling with Adam's spend. They lay there, the scent of masculine sex heavy in the air. Sweaty arms and legs entangled. Lay quiet until Tom's stomach growled. "I could cook," Adam said quietly. "If there's anything in the fridge." "Shouldn't you have reported in?" Tom asked, knowing the answer full well. "No. Said I was in-active didn't I?" Suddenly alert, Adam was defensive. "No. You said you were meant to be. Figured, what with your Malcom comments, that whatever you were up to was off book. I'll ask again: Shouldn't you have reported in?" "Harry will be pleased to hear from me." Adam's sarcasm was almost acidic in intensity. "I foresee another trip to bloody Tring in my near future." "How will you explain this? Will you explain this?" Tom asked sitting up, his open palm brushing against a cashmere lavender rectangle. Adam rolled over onto his side, propped himself up on his elbow. "Hadn't decided." "You could go with temporary insanity if you wanted." Training was a wonderful thing, Tom thought to himself, it enabled you to sound flippant when you felt nauseated. "I could." Fingers reached out to brush against his temple. "Wouldn't want to though." An unexpected kiss followed. Then: "I'd rather say I was affirming life. That okay with you?" Tom laughed. "Well it would be apt." He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling again. Shadows looked so much better on Adam's ceiling than they did on his. Probably the lack of furniture. "You do know that Harry's going to find someway to turn this to his advantage, even if it kills him?" "Would that be so bad?" That unasked for stillness was back, coiled in Adam's body. "Who was it who said you can't go home again?" Tom asked. Adam shrugged. "No idea. Not the same person who said that home was the one place you'd always be welcome." Sadness was palpable in his tone. Tom reached out and stroked Adam's forearm, marvelling at the softness of the hairs scattered across skin and muscle. "Did Fiona know?" "About my varied history?" Adam grinned. "Oh yeah, my spitfire of a wife knew. Kept telling me that one of these days she wanted to watch." "Really?" "Really." As Tom leaned in to capture the other man's mouth in what was becoming an addictive kiss, he caught sight of brown eyes smiling at him from out of a picture frame. He swallowed the lump of sorrow that swelled, much like his cock was doing, and slid into a surprisingly welcome embrace. If there was more to life than this, then Tom hoped that where ever she was, Fiona was watching; and smiling. |