Title: Louder Than Words

Author: Dorothy Marley

Rating: NC-17

Fandom: L&O

Pairing: Mike Logan/Ben Stone

PERSONAL NOTE: This was my first published slash story, completed in May of 1998. It's only just now finished its run in a zine, so I'm in the odd position of posting my first effort only now, two years and twenty stories later. If I were writing this for the first time now, I'm sure there are things I would do differently, and I've made some revisions from the original. But I certainly wouldn't change a single moment of the experience.

DISCLAIMER: Mike Logan, Ben Stone and the rest of the Law & Order characters belong to Dick Wolf and Universal. They are being used without permission, and without profit. No infringement on the rights of the owners is intended.

WARNING: **NC-17 Slash** This means that this story contains graphic descriptions of m/m sex. If you don't care to read this sort of thing, please do us all a favor and delete now. By reading further, you are acknowledging that **you have been warned.**

NOTES: This story takes place during the Law & Order episode "Indifference."

This story first appeared in the zine "Law & Ardor," published by Pants Press, Ltd.

SUMMARY: As Mike Logan investigates the Lowenstein case, he and Ben Stone begin to re-evaluate their broken relationship.

"Louder Than Words"
by Dorothy Marley

The offices of the District Attorney were nearly deserted, the lights dimmed over the rows of cubicles, the doors and windows closed and secured. From where Mike Logan sat, he could see the darkened corridor stretching away past the open door of Paul's office, down to where a few lights still burned at the end of the corridor. Next to him, Paul's fingers raced over the keyboard of his typewriter, the quick chatter of the keys almost swallowed up by the silence around them.

A surreptitious check of his watch showed the time to be close to ten, hours past the time when he ought to have gone home. But tonight, Mike wasn't complaining. Better to sit here and numb his butt on what passed for a chair than go home and stare at the ceiling and try not to think about Didi Lowenstein's face.

There were times when Mike wondered if there any use in it at all. He was a cop, supposedly making a living protecting the citizens of New York City, but every day, damn near every hour, it seemed, he got slapped in the face with the brutal fact that it wasn't enough. Hadn't been enough. Not for all the dozens of corpses whose murders he'd investigated, not for all the victims whose lives had been ruined by rape or robbery or assault. And sure as hell not enough for Dierdre Lowenstein.

"Hey. Hey! Earth to Logan."

Mike started, aware only belatedly that the sound of the typewriter had ceased some time ago. Paul waved a hand at him, then pushed the form that he was supposed to sign over to him. "Oh, sorry, Paul." Mike sat up, wiping a hand down his face, running his fingers through his hair. "Sorry," he said again. "I guess I drifted off for a second."

"Long day?"

"You could say that." Mike shook his head slowly. "This case . . ." He leaned his head into his hands, massaging his temple briefly while he tried to find the way to say it. "I've got this feeling about it," he said, his words muffled by his hands. "It's bad already, and I can't help thinking that this is just the beginning."

"Child abuse is always tough," Paul said sympathetically. "But remember our deal? You arrest 'em . . ."

" . . . you put 'em away." Mike lifted his head, his mouth turning up in an involuntary smile at the old joke. "Yeah." His eyes finally fell back to the paper on the desk, recalling him to what he was here for. He picked it up and scanned it briefly, then pulled out a pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom. "There."

"Thanks." Paul took the form back and tucked it into the folder resting beside him. "I appreciate you coming down."

Mike got to his feet, feeling a weak attempt at a grin spread over his face. "Well, I wouldn't want you getting another 'this office is run by Larry, Moe, and Curly' speech."

"Thanks," Paul said with feeling. "I can't believe I nearly tried to go to trial without an evidence summary. Ben would have had them for breakfast."

While Paul sorted through the folder, making sure everything was in place, Mike stood up, shrugging into his overcoat and feeling in his pocket for his gloves. He'd kept the coat on through most of the interview, the city being conservation-minded enough to have regulators on the heating system that turned down the thermostat automatically at night. In the winter it wasn't so bad, but in August this little cubicle could become a hot, humid oven, forcing Paul to flee to the cooler confines of Stone's office, at least on those rare occasions when the other DA wasn't also burning the midnight oil.

Almost against his will, Mike found his eyes drawn down the hall, to where a faint light still trickled from the blinds shading Ben's office. "Stone still here?" he heard himself ask.

"You better believe it." Paul shook his head. "Opening arguments day after tomorrow. He's been working overtime on this one."

"Yeah, I bet he has," Mike said absently. He turned as Paul reached for the thick folder, looking from him back to the door of Stone's office. It didn't take long to make up his mind. "You going to take that to him now?"

"Yeah. He'll need it first thing, might as well have it handy."

Mike reached out a hand. "I can do that," he said, willing his voice to be casual. "I need to ask him something, anyway."

Paul hesitated only a second. "Tell him I left ten minutes ago," was all he said before handing the folder over and splitting.

Mike grinned as he watched Paul scurry away, making it to the elevator in something like ten seconds rather than ten minutes. He tossed him a wave as the attorney ducked inside, the door pinging shut behind him to leave Mike alone in the dark, still air. He turned around in the quiet hall, breathing in the deep silence.

This was his favorite time to be here, after hours, when the place was dark and quiet, only a few industrious souls laboring in the chilly air. During the day, the place was a bright chaos of people, loud and bustling. But every night, all that went away, leaving only the quiet, dark-paneled halls. The precinct was never like this. Day or night, the brightly-lit squad room didn't change, the hustle and bustle and noise continuing, unceasing, twenty-four hours a day. Here, though, there was a rhythm, an order. Here, there was a time to rest, to go home and pretend that the problems of the world could be tucked neatly between the hours of nine and five. A noise from the end of the hall made him look up, and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. For some, anyway.

Ben almost didn't hear the firm knock on his door, distracted as he was by the steady thump of the piles of paper hitting the conference table. He picked up another stack, glanced over the tabs, and added it to the heap as the glass on the door rattled briefly under someone's knuckles. "Come in!" he said, already turning to the piled folders that were stacked along the wall. The door opened behind him, and he spoke without looking up. "I hope to God that's the Masters case, Paul."

"Well, ask and ye shall receive."

Ben jerked up, startled to hear a voice other than Robinette's lightweight bass coming from his visitor. "Detective," he said after a moment, taking in the familiar silhouette standing in his doorway. "You're working late."

"So are you." Logan took a look around, scanning over the piles of paper, the opened cabinets. "Redecorating?"

"Rearranging," Ben corrected. He gestured to the open file cabinets. "Making room. I ran out of space in the 'M's." He gathered up the last of the folders, and stacked them on the table. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"I came by to drop this off." Mike stepped forward, holding out the bulging folder. "Paul said you'd need it."

"Indeed I do." Ben took the file, glancing through the contents. "Thank you, Detective."

"Are you still planning to call me?"

"That was the idea," Ben said, still staring at the file. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Mike said quickly. "Just making sure I had it straight."

He stood there for another moment, and Ben finally looked up from the file. "Is there something else?" he asked at last.

Mike shifted awkwardly, opening his mouth, then he shut it abruptly and shook his head. "No. No, I'm sorry." He turned. "Good night."

"Detective--" Ben stopped himself, and tried again. "Mike? Is something wrong?"

Mike didn't turn back. "No. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come by." He reached for the knob, but his hand hesitated just short of it, fingers reaching, but not willing, it seemed, to touch it just yet, to make the connection that would signal his leaving. The arm fell back to his side, and he sighed deeply. He turned to face Ben again, shoulders slumped, eyes cast down in a mix of despair and resignation. "I shouldn't have come by," he said again. "I know that. But--" He blew out a long, weary breath, eyes closing as he surrendered the final hurdle of pride. "Today, this case . . ." He opened his eyes, lifting them to lock with Ben's, the darkened depths soft, and filled with something that Ben was only dimly beginning to recognize as pain. "I need to talk to someone," he continued. "And you . . ." He hesitated again, then went on. "You were the only one I could think of."

Ben's stomach seemed to have gained a lead weight. *No,* was his first thought. *This isn't my responsibility,* he told himself. *Not any more.* Mike searched his eyes for a second, and must have read the unspoken thought. "I'm sorry," he said for the third time. "Just forget it, all right? No big deal."

"Mike." His voice stopped Logan at the door, and Ben was appalled at the raw, trembling gentleness that had, unbidden, taken over his processes of speech. He swallowed, bringing himself back under control, and steeled himself as Mike turned back, reluctant, his heavy-lidded eyes casting back over his shoulder. "Mike," he said again, soft, gentle, but in control. "Why don't you sit down?"

He almost didn't. Ben waited, saying nothing, until Mike finally nodded and moved toward the table, dropping his long length onto one of the chairs as if making the decision had taken the last of his strength.

"You want a drink?" Ben offered. Mike shook his head. Ben glanced at his desk, at the papers heaped on his chair, and reached behind him for the chair still sitting askew at the foot of the table. He planted himself in it, the Masters file still propped on his knee, and regarded Mike carefully over the tops of his glasses. "You look tired," he observed, and cursed himself again as his traitor voice slipped on the phrase. He made a living with his voice, knowing how to use it and play it and control it, but he seemed to have suddenly lost that control. His brain was sending the appropriate signals: professional, friendly, mild concern. But somewhere along the line, the signals were getting distorted, and he didn't like the feeling.

"Long day," Mike said. His voice had gone quiet, surrendering. Ben knew that tone, and he forced his own voice under control once more.

"You want to tell me about it?"

Mike wiped a hand over his face, pushing his bangs back from his forehead. "It's this case," he said. He sagged forward a little, propping his temple on his fingers. "I'm sorry, Ben. I know I shouldn't be laying this on you. I don't have the right, I know that."

"It's okay." And Ben was surprised to find that it was the truth. "We can still talk to each other, Mike."

"It's just . . . I can't tell anyone else about this. You're the only one who'll understand." Mike gave a little laugh. "Sad, but true."

"Tell me."

Mike sat back again, staring at the bookshelves along the far wall. His hair had fallen back into his eyes, soft and thick, trailing from the widow's peak to spill across his forehead. Sitting there, tie undone, the top of his shirt loose, it was all familiar to Ben. How many times had they sat here, after work, talking, sharing a drink, trading news of the day before it was time to go home? Ben felt an almost painful stab of sudden nostalgia, repressed it ruthlessly with the practice of long months. Instead, he made himself lean back, taking off his glasses and folding them into his pocket. And he waited.

"The Lowenstein case," Mike began at last. "Just caught it this morning." He swallowed. "Child abuse. Little girl's in the hospital, probably won't make it."

"Parents?" Ben asked, and hated himself at once for the casual assumption. And even more when Mike nodded, unsurprised that he'd made that all-too-common leap of logic.

"The mother, probably."

"Oh," Ben said, and knew that Mike heard the wealth of meaning that somehow fell into that one, knowledge-laden syllable.

"Yeah," Mike said bitterly. He dropped his head back into his hand, rubbing softly at his temples. "She did it, Ben. I know she did." His voice tightened. "And she doesn't care. We came to tell her that her daughter was in the hospital, and all she could think about was how it was affecting her. She called her 'it,' Ben. Her own daughter."

"I'm sorry, Mike."

He pushed himself up again. "There's a little boy, too. Four or five." He fell silent, and Ben finally had to ask.

"The father?"

Mike shook his head again. "It was her," he said with conviction. His eyes lifted to meet Ben's. "She did it. I don't care what she says."

Ben regarded him thoughtfully. "What does Max think?"

Mike shrugged. "He thinks the father's to blame, I guess." He nodded sagely. "But I know better."

Ben said nothing for a long time. He wasn't sure what to say. He was moving into uncertain territory here, the waters that much more treacherous because he'd sailed them before. There was a time when he would have known exactly what to do with a Mike Logan in pain. He'd known how to ease that pain, how to soothe the hurt and the fear. But that particular avenue was closed to him now, and he had only words to fall back on. Words were his business, and it should have been easy. But the part of him that might have been composing the pretty speech was being short-circuited by the other part, by the reflex that knew that the proper response was something entirely different.

"I know that it must be hard," he said at last, wincing at the feeble homily even as he offered it. "And you may be right about her. But . . ."

He stopped. No. This wasn't the way to go. "I don't know what to say," he said at last, throwing the speeches aside in favor of simple honesty, all, really, that he had left to offer. "I don't know how to make this easier for you. It's a painful situation, and I don't expect you to be able to turn off all those feelings. But, Mike . . ." He hesitated again, his hand half-extended before he knew it, then he gathered himself and completed the gesture, sliding his hand over Mike's knee, pressing against the soft wool and hard muscle underneath. "Mike, I can tell you this." He tightened his grip, feeling the muscles jump under his hand. His voice was rough, nearly trembling with intensity as he told him, with every bit of conviction he could muster, "She is not your mother."

Mike closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "I know," he said. "I keep telling myself that." He opened his eyes again, and turned to look at Ben, the dark depths shadowed, and haunted. "But then I think, 'maybe she is.'" He shook his head, his eyes still locked on Ben's face. "What if she is, Ben? What am I supposed to do? Let her go? Let those kids grow up like I grew up?"

Ben found himself leaning forward, closer, his hand gripping Mike's thigh, hard enough to hurt. "You do what you're supposed to," he said. "You gather the evidence, you make the arrest, and you let me put her away."

Mike's eyes were burning into his, focused, intent. Ben didn't remember him moving, but now his hand was folded over Ben's, swallowing his up, wrapping around it a familiar, strong squeeze. "I'll hold you to that," he said softly, and his mouth quirked into a brief smile. "Bet on it."

"I will."

The second smile broke the tableau, and Ben drew away, surprised at the mix of relief and disappointment that moved through him as he slipped his hand from Mike's. Mike closed his eyes, then sighed and started to get up. "It's late," he said. "I'd better go."

Ben only nodded, not trusting his voice, not just yet. He joined Mike in rising to his feet, and managed a smile of his own as Mike shrugged into his overcoat. "Thanks," Mike said. "Thanks for listening. I appreciate it."

Ben reached out, gripping his arm gently. "Anytime," he said, and paused. "I mean that."

"Thanks." There was an awkward pause, both of them standing, waiting, then they smiled sheepishly and stepped forward in one another's arms. Ben closed his eyes as Mike's strong arms enfolded him, pulling him close, one hand wrapped around the back of his head. His own arms lifted to hold Mike around the waist, patting his back gently, feeling the familiar soft leather under his touch. They stood there for a long moment, holding each other, then Mike squeezed him gently and pulled back to plant a brief, dry kiss on his temple. Casual, like a brother kissing a brother. "Thank you," he said softly.

Ben nodded once more, and let him go. Mike shrugged into his coat, and turned to the door. "Get some sleep," Ben finally managed. "Everything will look better in the morning."

"Yeah. Right." But he was smiling. "Thanks again." Mike tossed a final smile over his shoulder, then was gone.

Over the next two days, Ben did his best to get on with his work. The current trial occupied most of his time, but in his snatches of spare time he found himself thinking more and more of the Lowenstein case, and consequently of Mike Logan. Child abuse cases were always rough, but this one he was having a hard time putting out of his mind. He suspected that he wasn't the only one.

He was working late Friday, going over his notes from the day's trial and making more for Monday, when his phone buzzed. He snatched it up without looking. "Stone," he said into the receiver, eyes and mind still fixed on the papers in front of him.

"It's Robinette. Max Greevey just called. They need some advice on a case."

That was enough to pull his attention away from the details of the case laid out in front of him. "The Lowensteins?"

"Yeah," Paul said, sounding a little surprised. "I didn't realize you were following it."

"I heard about it," Ben said blandly. "Have they made an arrest?"

"That's what they need advice on. They've brought the parents in, but they're not sure they've got enough to hold them."

Great. Ben looked in dismay at the piled papers in front of him, and at the bigger pile on the conference table that he'd counted on handing over to Robinette. At least he knew now how the case was going, but why *right* now? A trip down to the precinct could take hours, and even if the case was miraculously open and shut he might as well kiss the rest of the night's work good-bye. "Okay," he said at last. "Give me a few minutes to clear some of this up, and I'll go with you."

"You don't have to do that, Ben. I can call you if I need you."

"No," he said, and took off his glasses, dropping them on the pile. "I want to be there on this one, Paul. I don't think I'd get much done waiting here."

Cragen was waiting for them at the precinct, his perpetual look of worry graven even deeper as he ushered them into his office and offered coffee.

"I didn't expect to see you, Ben," he said as he set the mug down in front of him.

Ben took the steaming cup, stirring it by habit before taking a cautious sip. "Child abuse cases seem to have a way of either blowing up in your face, or dying into cold ashes." He stared down into his coffee, and drank again. "This one, I'd like to keep at a nice, steady blaze."

"I wish I had better news, then." Cragen planted himself behind his desk, leaning back to prop his feet on a handy drawer handle. "It's a weak case, gentlemen. Mostly circumstantial, no hard evidence at all against the father. We're still holding him on a drug charge, but we won't be able to make it stick."

"Where's the mother?"

"That's the other good news," Cragen said dourly. "They had to take her to Bellvue. She was hysterical, screaming about her little boy, about her husband."

"Nothing useful, I hope."

"Even if it was admissible, it'd only help her for an insanity defense." Cragen sipped his coffee, made a face, and reached for a package of sugar, forgotten on his desk. "Logan and Greevey are on their way back from there now. Once they get here, I guess we'll see exactly what we do and do not have."

Paul settled back in his chair, holding his coffee on his knee. "Logan seems convinced that it's the mother who's to blame," he said, a shade of doubt creeping in to his voice.

"That's nicely understated," Cragen retorted. "He's already got her tried and convicted."

"Are you so sure he's wrong?" Ben heard himself say. Oh, that was wonderfully objective. Two nights ago, he was holding Logan's hand and telling him that that woman wasn't his mother. Did he think Mike had achieved objectivity in the last forty-eight hours?

Cragen hesitated, visibly struggling. "I just don't know, Ben. This--" He waved a hand. "This is all beyond me. Lowenstein swears he never laid a hand on the girl, but he doesn't even bother to deny that he beat his wife. I just don't see the logic."

"I know exactly how you feel, Captain," Ben said, with heartfelt sincerity. "But just because we can't conceive of it, doesn't mean it didn't happen." And, on the other hand, simply because Logan was projecting didn't mean he was wrong. Great.

Cragen looked like he was about to reply to that when Max rapped sharply on the door and came in, followed by Mike. Ben's gaze fastened at once on the younger detective's face, and felt a tug of worry as he saw the edges of the raw pain beginning to seep through. Ben had known what this case was doing to him, but that didn't make it easier to see it written on the harsh, strained lines of his face. He wasn't surprised, either, to see something of the same look on Max's face, the face of a man who was prepared to find an ugly truth, only to uncover something for which he could never have prepared himself.

Mike's face blanked for a second on seeing Ben, then he nodded greetings to him and to Paul before taking up his usual spot by the window. He leaned there, staring out through the grill while Max summed up their talk with Mrs. Lowenstein. Ben did his dutiful best to pay attention to what Greevey was saying, but his eyes kept straying over and over to his partner, studying the sharply chiseled profile outlined against the dark glass. Mike's mouth was dragged down in an all-too-familiar scowl, his dark brows pulled together over narrowed eyes. He let Max carry the conversation, and indeed Ben wasn't so sure that he was even paying much attention to what his own partner said.

"She was pretty out of it," Greevey concluded. "I'm not sure she's going to be any more help in the morning."

"Well, try, Max," Cragen said. "If we can't dig up something soon, we'll have to let them go."

That snapped Mike out of his reverie. "She was about to stick that kid's hands in boiling water," he said incredulously, turning to fix his scowl on Cragen. "What else do you need?"

"Evidence that she actually hit the little girl would help!" Cragen snapped back. "We don't have anything to prove otherwise, Mike."

"What about forensics?"

"Nothing yet," Cragen said. "In the morning."

"Yeah." Mike turned away again. "Great."

Ben looked at the clock, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Hating himself, not willing to meet Logan's eyes, he said, "Based on what you've told me, you'll have to get something more before you can justify holding either parent for much longer. If you're asking if there's anything the District Attorney's office can do to help, the answer's no."

"In other words, the ball's in our court again," Cragen said. He turned to Max. "Were there any eyewitnesses?"

Max shook his head. "None that have come forward. We canvassed the building, but no one saw anything that night."

"Or if they did, they're not talking," Mike added cynically.

"Hey, someone saw her hit that kid," Max said.

"Yeah, Mr. Lowenstein," Mike offered sarcastically. He turned back to the window, adding bitterly, "And he's been the picture of cooperation."

Cragen glanced at Greevey, startled. "Changing your tune, Max? I thought you were rooting for the father."

Max looked over at his partner, and Ben felt his stomach tighten in a knot. "I think he beat his wife," he said at last. "But I'm not sure which of them beat up Didi."

Cragen swung around to the other detective. "Mike? How are your options?"

Mike wouldn't look at either of them. "I'm still voting for the mother," he said firmly. "She was about to hurt the boy right in front of us. That's enough for me."

"Great. That and a dollar will buy a cup of coffee." Cragen tossed his pen back on his desk and stood up. "Okay. What say we all go home and let the forensics team do their thing? In the morning, we'll talk to Mrs. Lowenstein again."

"Fine." Mike bit the word off and stalked past them, not quite slamming the door behind him as he left.

In the awkward silence that followed, Cragen turned to Greevey, exasperation written all over his face. "What's gotten into him now?" he asked tiredly.

"It's been a long day," Greevey said quietly, and levered himself up. "It's nothing," he elaborated. "I'll talk to him."

"You do that, Max. This case is going to be delicate enough without your partner going off half-cocked."

Ben and Paul followed the sergeant to the door. "Keep me posted," Ben told Cragen. "I don't want to let this one slip through our fingers."

"Neither do I."

In the squad room, they found Mike standing at his desk, scraping papers into piles and dumping them on the corners. "Don't start, Max," he said, even as Greevey drew breath to speak. He looked up, and Ben felt something twist in his stomach as those eyes stabbed into him, too. "Or you, Counselor," he added, after what Ben imagined was a significant pause. "Sometimes I think I'm the only one who wants to see that woman pay for what she did."

*Which one?* Ben almost asked, and glanced over at Greevey just in time to meet his eyes. *He knows,* Ben realized with a shock. He could see it in Max's eyes, the same knowledge that he was sure showed through his own. "We all want to see justice done," he said, still looking at Max.

Greevey finally turned away, back to his partner. "We'll get her, Mike," he said more pragmatically. "Tomorrow, we'll work her and the husband, and one them is bound to crack." Mike only shook his head, shoveling the last of a pile of notes into his inbox and switching off his desk light. "Come on," Max said. "I'll take you home."

Ben wasn't sure why he said it. The sensible thing would be to let Max handle it, to let him take his partner home and, if Ben was any judge of Max's character, drink him into bed. There was no reason why he should open his mouth and say, "That's a long way out of your way, Max. Let me do it."

Mike froze, hands still reaching in his pockets for his gloves. He looked from Greevey to Ben, his expression wary. "I can get home myself," he offered sarcastically. "You don't have to decide which one of you is going to hold my hand."

Max gave his partner a look, then gestured towards him with both hands. "He's all yours, Counselor." He switched off his own light and made his way around to the door, reaching out give Mike's shoulder a silent, comforting squeeze before walking out. "Good night," he said at the door.

"Good night, Max," Ben answered. He turned to Mike. "You ready?"

"You don't have to take me home," Mike said, but there was surprisingly little fight in his voice. "I was only going as far as Mulligan's anyway."

"I can do that, too," Ben assured him. "In fact, I'll buy you the first drink."

Miraculously, Ben found a parking spot less than two blocks from Mike's apartment, and just around the corner from the pub. He and Mike got out, and Mike stood uncertainly for a moment on the sidewalk, looking around the corner to the bright neon signs in the window of the bar.

"I've been wearing this suit since five this morning," he said, almost apologetically. "Mind if I change, first?"

"No, that's fine." To tell the truth, now that he was here, Ben wasn't as eager to re-enter the dark, warm haven of the pub. Too many memories there, too many good times, too many things that only caused him pain to think of. It was only as they entered the vestibule of Mike's building that it occurred to him that no matter how bad Mulligan's might be, this could only be worse.

"You've rearranged things," was the best he could manage as they walked in. And he was grateful for it. He wasn't sure if he would have been able to take it if it had all been the same, everything just as he'd last seen it. When had that been? Six months ago? Probably longer. He couldn't even remember.

Mike hung his coat on the rack, and took Ben's as he shrugged it off and added it to the neat row. "Yeah," he said. "I spread things out a bit. I like it this way." He stood there for an awkward second, then lifted a hand. "Come on." He led the way into the living room, and waved Ben to a seat. "You want a drink?"

"Yes, please." Hell, yes, he wanted a drink. He wanted several. Being here, sitting here on this couch, looking around at the pictures, the books, all the familiar things. He hadn't thought it would hurt this much.

"Whiskey and soda?" Mike moved to the kitchen counter without waiting for an answer. Ben watched him mix the drinks, stretching up for the bottles on the shelf, leaning over to grab two glasses from the sink. "I hope the soda's still good," he said. "I haven't used it in a while."

*Since you were last here,* Ben translated. He took the glass Mike handed him and sipped. "Tastes fine to me," he said. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Mike took a healthy gulp, made a face, then gulped again. He put the half-drained glass down on the end table, and started working at the knot on his tie. "I'm going to go change. Be back in a sec." He disappeared into the bedroom.

Knowing it would be more than just "a sec," Ben sipped at his drink, then got up and wandered to the bookshelves, looking for something to read. The selection hadn't changed much. College books, books on police procedure, a few novels. There was a set of thrillers that was new, all the works of a currently popular author. Curious, Ben picked up the first one, and opened it to read the dust jacket. There was an inscription on the inside cover, which he read automatically, before he even thought. But as the words sank in, he felt his stomach go cold. "Merry Christmas, to my favorite suit. I love you. Maggie."

Ben snapped the book shut, and replaced it on the shelf. Maggie. Who the hell was Maggie? He grabbed his drink and took another sip, and was surprised to see that that finished it off. He turned again, pacing to the window. So. *And you expected him to become a monk?* he derided himself. *Besides, what do you care?* Whoever she was, she didn't seem to be part of Mike's life anymore. *But he still had the books,* another part of him said. And still another part added, *and either way, it's no longer any of your business.*

It was easier to stand here, looking out the window at the street below, his back to the living room, and to the memories. He could pretend that he was anywhere, that he wasn't standing in Mike Logan's apartment, where it had all happened, where it had all gone so well, and then gone so wrong. *And who was to blame for that, Mr. Stone?* "That would be me, sir," he said, and jerked back as he saw his face in the window, speaking the words out loud. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him that he was still alone, and he breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his silent survey of the street. When Mike came back, a few minutes later, Ben was still at the window, empty glass in hand. He'd tried to move back to the couch, sit down and rest his tired body, but it was too hard. The more he stood here, the more depressed he got, thinking about what he'd had here, once. And that it was his fault that he didn't have it anymore.

Mike glanced at him, at the glass he still held, and waved a hand. "You want another?"

Ben looked down, the half-forgotten tumbler still resting in his grasp. "No," he said after a while. "If we're going to Mulligan's I'll need the room."

Mike shrugged. "I don't care." He hesitated, then confessed, with disarming candor, "I was just going there to keep myself from drinking alone in here."

Ben wasn't sure how to take that. It sounded like an invitation to stay, but he wasn't sure he could trust himself anymore to interpret Mike's words objectively. Still, it was pretty clear that at the least Mike was offering another drink. He shrugged in his turn, and held out his glass. "Well, in that case . . ."

While Mike mixed another drink for him, Ben made himself return to the couch and sit, wondering what he was getting himself in for. Wondering if he really cared. He took his glass from Mike as the other man came back, and watched as he settled himself in the armchair, crossing his legs and propping his own glass on his knee. He'd changed into jeans and a sweater, a dark green one. The sweater, Ben couldn't help but notice, brought out a soft green in his gray eyes, and he turned his attention to his drink before he was caught staring. Ben was still in his court suit, tie tied, and buttons buttoned, and he suddenly wished very much that he'd had the chance to change, too. He settled for loosening the tie and unfastening the top two buttons of his shirt, and caught a wry smile from Mike as he tugged the knot down to mid-chest. "What?" he asked, and got only a rueful shake of the other man's head.

"Nothing." Mike caught his skeptical glance, and his smile faded. "Really. It's nothing. Forget it." He finished off his own drink, and got up to refill it. While he stood at the counter, measuring whiskey into his glass, he glanced back. "Ben . . ."

"Yes?"

"Is everything all right?"

Ben felt his brows climb up. "I think that was supposed to be my line."

Mike shrugged it off. "I'm all right. We'll get the Lowensteins, I'm sure of it." He swirled the liquor and soda together in his glass and came back to his chair. "But just now . . . you looked worried, that's all."

"I am worried," Ben said firmly, relieved that the subject had finally come up, glad he hadn't had to make the opening himself. "I'm worried about you." Mike looked down into his glass, not answering. "You can't pretend that you're not taking this personally, Mike."

"So what if I am?" Mike glared at him. "If it wasn't for me, you and Max would be sending her flowers and cab fare home."

"That's not fair," Ben said quietly. "And you know it." He opened his mouth to defend himself, to explain in great detail why the District Attorney's office couldn't justify allowing an arrest. Instead, he heard his treacherous voice asking softly, "You told Max, didn't you?"

Mike looked at him, temporarily puzzled at the non-sequitur, then looked away, nodding. "Yeah." He pushed his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. "After we talked to her. I told him what I thought, and he asked how I knew." He took a drink. "So I told him."

"I'm sorry."

Mike shrugged. "It's no big deal. It was a long time ago."

"Not right now," Ben contradicted softly. "Not this moment, it isn't." He found himself leaning forward, gesturing. "When you came to me at the beginning of this case, it wasn't because it happened thirty years ago."

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Mike got up and paced to the window, staring out into the darkness for a moment before turning back to face Ben again. "I shouldn't have dumped on you. It was wrong."

But Ben shook his head. "No. That's not what's wrong." He stared up, forcing himself to speak softly, clearly, fixing his eyes on Mike as if to convince by their power alone. "What's wrong," he said gently, sincerely, "is you thinking that I don't care anymore what happens to you. That didn't go away." He studied Mike's face, trying to read what was going on behind the anger, not sure if there was anything else there to read. "I've thought about you every day since you told me about this case. I know it must be painful, and I want to help." He sighed. "You said it yourself. Who else are you going to talk to?" Mike said nothing. Ben looked down at his hands, tracing the lines of the veins on the back of his hand while he thought. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. But I want you to know that if you do, I'm here." He raised his eyes. "I'll always be here."

Mike closed his eyes, and looked away. "Yeah."

Ben shut his mouth, only then realizing what he'd just said. "I'm sorry," he said. He waited, then tried again. "I'm still your friend, Mike. I still care about you. If that bothers you, then I'm sorry."

Mike wiped a hand over his face, then shook his head. "It's my fault," he said. "You've been . . . You kept your end. I was the one who crossed the line."

"Maybe it was a line that should never have been drawn," Ben said quietly.

Mike turned away, raising his hands. "I don't want to talk about this, Ben. Not now, not about any of it."

"You never do," was on the tip of Ben's tongue, but he swallowed the words unsaid, taking a deep breath instead. "Okay," he made himself say. "I can't force you to talk." He sat back, crossing his legs, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere, not for a while. "But I think you might feel better if you do."

"I don't." Mike folded his arms over his chest, staring, as Ben had, down the quiet street. "I've talked about it enough for one night. You, Max . . . you'll have my whole biography if I don't draw the line somewhere."

Ben opened his mouth to say more, fully intending to keep on, to try to do his best to draw Mike out, make him talk. But instead, he reached for his drink and drained it down. "I understand," he said, and for the first time that night, he thought he did. "I don't want to push you, Mike. You can make your own decisions."

"Gee, thanks." But the corner of his mouth was turning up, and Ben felt some of the tension leave him as he saw Mike's shoulders relax.

"There is one thing, though." Ben stood up, setting his glass carefully on the coffee table before moving to stand a short distance away, just within the range of Mike's vision.

He didn't turn, keeping his eyes focused on the scene outside the window. "What's that?"

Ben had to pause a second, choosing his next words carefully, not sure if there was any good way to say what he wanted. "I meant what I said before," he began, feeling his way carefully through the maze of phrases. "I haven't stopped caring about you. I know that this is painful. I know you're hurting." He took a deep breath, searching Mike's profile, watching the set of his mouth. "And it hurts me to see you in pain," he finished, not even caring, now, that his voice wasn't entirely steady on the words. "It hurts a lot." Mike was turning towards him now, his face etched with confusion, and the beginnings of some kind of pain of his own. "I'm sorry if that sounds selfish, but it's the truth."

"Ben--" Mike started to turn towards him, but Ben stopped him.

"I want to be here for you," he said, and felt a rush of relief as that simple truth finally spilled out. "I want to do whatever I can to take the pain away." He paused again, letting the words sink in, waited until he saw the understanding beginning to show on Mike's face. "I used to be able to do that, Mike," he reminded, and let himself step closer, let himself reach a cautious hand to lay along the soft wool of Mike's sleeve. "Let me do it again, tonight."

Mike looked as if he'd been hit with a stun gun, his eyes wide and startled, mouth slightly open as he fought to find the words. "Ben . . ." he began, and shook his head. "Ben, I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Would it be better if you'd gone to Mulligan's and picked up some stranger?" Ben softened the harsh words with his tone, but he saw the dart strike home. He let his voice drop even lower, nearly whispering, forcing Mike to stop, to think, to concentrate on nothing but the sound of his voice. "I'm not some stranger. Let it be me."

Mike looked at him again, searching his face, the muscles in his arm bunching under Ben's hand as he raised his arm to touch his side, lightly, as if testing Ben's presence. Ben was waiting for him to speak, to give some sign, but instead he leaned forward and slowly, gently, pressed his lips to Ben's mouth. It was a soft, chaste kiss, but Ben felt the catch in his breath as he pulled back, a mere fraction, only enough to separate them. He stood there, breathing deeply, all the emotions Ben had seen warring under the surface. Anger, guilt, pain, grief . . . and loneliness. Mike closed his eyes for an instant, his throat working as he swallowed, then the dark, smoldering orbs were fastened on Ben once more, just before he stepped forward and caught Ben's mouth with his own.

Their arms went around each other in a second, their bodies meeting with a hard, bone-jarring shock. Ben let his arm lock around Mike's waist, gripping tight with one hand while the other slid up the back of Mike's head, twining his fingers in the thick, soft mass of his hair to force him even closer. He'd all but forgotten the things he'd said only seconds before, discarded all his good intentions of being slow, careful, gentle. None of that seemed to matter so much right now, not while he was kissing Mike like this, devouring his mouth and being devoured in turn, feeling every bit of the passion he sent being given right back. It was like it used to be, and for a moment the memory was so achingly painful that he thought he would die.

He must have made some noise, given some signal that was somehow transmitted to Mike. Ben nearly whimpered as the other man tore his mouth away, pulling back from the kiss as far as Ben's gripping hand would allow. "Ben," Mike panted, his fair skin already flushed, eyes dark. "Ben, if we do this--"

Ben forced his hand up between them, pressing a shaking finger to Mike's mouth. "Don't," he said quietly. "Don't you dare talk yourself out of this, Mike. Whatever happens, we'll handle it. Trust me."

Mike closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and nodded. "Okay."

The respite was enough to allow them to separate, to step back and free themselves from the tight, smothering embrace. Wordlessly, Mike took Ben's hand and led him away from the window, over to the long, broad couch that Ben remembered so well. He sat down and, still holding Ben's hand, pulled Ben down toward him, laying back so that they were lying side by side, Ben's head resting on his shoulder. Mike turned his head, brushing his mouth softly over the top of Ben's head. He began to kiss him, his lips touching his forehead, temples, eyes, cheeks, drawing closer and closer until at last he pressed his mouth to Ben's.

Ben lost track of the time as they kissed there, shifting their arms around each other, hands softly exploring, re-acquainting themselves with one another's bodies. Mike was just as he remembered, hard muscle and broad shoulders, strong arms straining the weave of the sweater as he wrapped his arms around him. His mouth was soft and sweet against Ben's, lips gently mouthing his, then opening to taste him again, drawing him down into his rich, warm heat. Ben tangled his hands in Mike's hair again, this time refusing to let go, stroking the soft sable while gently pressing Mike closer, sealing their mouths together, molding his body to fit to his.

Ben tugged lightly at the raven head, urging until Mike turned obediently, rolling to half-lie on top of him, slipping his knee up between Ben's to urge his thighs apart. He drew his hand down Ben's side, stroking through his shirt until he reached the waistband of his pants and started tugging, working at the cloth until he could slide his hand up Ben's bare back. Ben sucked in a sharp, startled breath, tightening his arms around him to pull himself closer, to seal himself against every part of him. He rolled onto his back, spreading his legs to settle Mike between them, reaching up to pull Mike against him, hard. Mike gasped into his mouth, his breath sighing out in a long groan of pleasure, then he was kissing him again, pressing his full weight down on Ben's body until the thought of stopping was no longer part of either of their plans.

Eventually, though, Mike pulled himself away, levering up on his elbows to give himself and Ben room to breathe. He was beautifully disheveled, Ben thought, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, his hair rumpled and tousled where Ben's wandering hands had mussed it. His sweater had been discarded long ago, and his shirt was hanging open to his waist, down to where Ben's busy fingers had started to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip everything he could reach. He was still panting, his eyes dilated with pleasure, but when Ben reached for his waist again, hands moving to part his jeans, one hand snaked down to stop him, sliding his fingers around Ben's wrist in a gentle, unbreakable grip. "No," he got out, still breathing too hard to speak coherently. "Not here." He gulped a deep breath. "Not like this."

Ben stopped, confused. "What do you mean?" He was only a little more coherent, himself and he was sure he looked as wild and desperate as Mike did, his own clothing rucked up and disordered underneath him. "If you're having second thoughts--" A hard, hot mouth on his disabused him of that within a few seconds, and when Mike drew back he was shaking his head.

"No," he said. "I meant not here. Not on the couch, with our clothes still half-on like a couple of teenagers." He leaned down, sliding his hands up Ben's arms, slipping his fingers through his to pin his hands by his head. He bent closer. "If we're going to do this," he said, his voice purring warmly into Ben's ear, "then we'll do it right." He pressed a kiss to the edge of his ear. "If I'm going to be with you, I want to feel you, all of you." His lips drifted over Ben's face, tongue darting out to gently part Ben's mouth as he whispered, "And I'm not going to end up stuck to this couch, either."

"All right, then," Ben agreed, and closed his eyes to receive another kiss. When it was over, Mike pushed himself up and helped Ben to his feet, then the two of them went back to the bedroom.

Here it was, familiar territory again. The bedroom was the same cramped, tiny space, not nearly big enough for the double bed, certainly not big enough for the bed and the clutter of Mike's clothes. They wasted no time in getting out of their own clothes, too impatient and eager to take the time to help each other, each adding their own clutter as shirts, shoes, and trousers went into an untidy heap at the foot of the bed. Mike hadn't changed much in here, and Ben was suddenly glad of it. Now that they were here, about to make love again, about to share that not-quite-big-enough bed again, he wanted it to be just as it was before. He wanted, irrationally, to pretend as if nothing had happened, that it was just another tumble in the sheets after the day was done.

The illusion, though, was shattered the instant they stepped forward into each other's arms, pressing close before they fell together into the bed, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, naked at last. It had been so long, too long, and Ben suddenly wanted to make this last, to draw out the sensation of Mike's long, lean body against his, to imprint the memory of his hands roaming over the broad shoulders, the long back and firm thighs. And he wanted to remember Mike's hands on him, curving around his neck and his back, one hand wrapping around his nape while the other reached down to grip his buttocks, crushing him close for a long, deep kiss. But, as much as he wanted to make it last, the kiss was nearly too much, and he knew that neither of them was going to last much longer.

"Mike," Ben gasped once he had breath. "Mike, now." Not very elegant, but he was rapidly losing the last fragments of his control. Mike kissed him again, desperate, and searching, then abruptly released him and rolled over, reaching for the things in the nightstand. He handed it all up to Ben, and then spread out on his stomach, the invitation obvious. Fine with Ben. At this point, he was hardly going to argue about who was on top.

Mike gasped as his fingers went in, his back arching to help him. He ducked his head between his clenched hands, pressing his forehead to the mattress while Ben stroked in and out, making sure that he was ready. It didn't take long. Mike was as eager as he was, his body relaxed and willing, impatient now to finish it. It was a scenario Ben was well familiar with, and he withdrew his hands as soon as he was sure Mike could take him, stroking his back in their old signal that he was ready. In answer, Mike spread his legs further, raising himself up to help as Ben guided himself into place and pressed in.

He slid in almost immediately, the unaccustomed surrender making him gasp silently as he sank in, burying himself deep in the heat of the other man's body. He forced himself to go slowly, waiting for a signal from Mike to slow down, or stop, but none was forthcoming, only a low, sighing groan from his partner as he finally settled his full length inside him.

Mike moaned again as Ben shifted carefully against him, nestling himself more securely between his legs, and Ben saw his hands clench in the sheets, wrapping them in his fists while he fought for control. He tossed his head as Ben pulled out, panting desperately when he pushed in again and keeping it up while Ben slowly eased himself in and out, working him until he felt his cock sliding smoothly, Mike's body relaxed and stretched around him. He pushed in one last time, sliding his hands over Mike's back, feeling the sweat trickling down his body.

They were both close, Ben no less desperate than Mike to bring an end, but wanting to make sure that they got there together. He stroked Mike's back one last time, and received a shivering, wordless plea from the head buried in the pillows. That was enough for him, and he began to thrust in earnest, hearing Mike cry out in relief and release. He was crying out with each breath now, loud, hoarse moans that suddenly crescendoed in a long shivering whimper, his body shuddering as he came. Ben followed him a second later, that deep-throated moan almost passionate enough in itself to bring him over the edge. He let himself collapse on top of Mike's back afterwards, waiting until the dual thud of their heartbeats subsided, until he trusted his shaking body to bear him up again.

Mike finally made a sleepy noise of protest underneath him, and Ben realized that he'd nearly drifted off himself, still pillowed on the comfortable broad expanse of his back. He planted an apologetic kiss at the base of Mike's neck, reaching up to brush the damp bangs from his forehead, then levered himself off. Mike rolled on his side immediately, curling up around his pillow and to all appearances falling instantly asleep. Ben took a moment to clean up, and to lock the front door and switch off the lights, then crawled into the bed with him and wrapped himself around Mike's softly snoring body. Within moments, he found himself joining him in sleep.

The next day, Ben worked at his office all day, clearing through the mass of paperwork that had accumulated over a week at trial. Robinette came in around midmorning to help, and Ben gladly dumped a generous share onto his lap.

They hadn't talked. Ben had gone to sleep thinking about what to say, what to do when they got up the next morning, and wondering how the hell he was going to keep his promise to Mike that it would be all right. But Mike had forgotten to set his alarm, and as a consequence he had spent a frantic fifteen minutes rushing around, showering and dressing in record time before dashing off to meet Max. There'd been time for one hasty kiss, for Mike to give him a spare key to lock up with along with a promise to phone later, and that was all. Ben was off the hook, but it wouldn't last.

He should never have done it. It was stupid, and irresponsible, and more than likely had had more to do with two stiff drinks than anything else. And yet . . . He'd meant every word he said last night. Even now, sitting in the bright light of day, stone-cold sober and wide awake, he could look back on everything and still say that if he had it all to say again, he wouldn't change a word. That was the worst of all.

Mike had never blamed him for what happened. He'd been hurt, and angry, and he'd felt that Ben was choosing something pointless and abstract over the very real love and companionship that Mike was offering. But he'd never said that Ben was wrong. And he hadn't been wrong. The only problem was, he wasn't so sure, anymore, that he'd been right.

"Ben. Ben!"

He jerked up, startled, as Paul spoke for the second time from the doorway. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I was thinking."

"Greevey just called. He and Logan arrested both the Lowensteins about an hour ago."

Ben slipped off his glasses, tucking them in his pocket as he leaned back in his chair. "Solid?"

Paul shrugged. "Greevey seemed to think so. They found a witness who saw Mrs. Lowenstein hit the little girl, and he also saw her husband beating her."

"Oh, well, that'll be easy to untangle at a trial," Ben said dryly. But despite the prospect of the legal nightmare that was more than likely about to fall on his plate, Ben couldn't help but feel a little relief. If the charges stuck, then it would be over. For the Lowensteins, and for Logan.

Mike sat on the table by the front window of his living room, and listened to the phone ring. It had rung every half hour for the last two hours, cutting off as soon as the machine picked up. He didn't need a message to know who it was anyway. Ben had left two messages before he got home, both of them variations on, "I heard what happened. Call me." By now, he'd have learned that Mike had left the precinct hours ago, and he'd also have called the rounds of Mike's favorite haunts, too. Just like old times. It used to drive him crazy, that Ben always wanted to know where he was, to have somewhere to check, somewhere to call. The damn beeper, that had been Mike's idea, more to keep Ben from calling half the world than to help the precinct keep track of him. Well, he could just keep calling.

He supposed he wasn't really angry at Ben, not as such. Maybe more angry at himself, for letting Ben lawyer him into bed last night. Damn him, anyway, he thought without heat. That powerful, persuasive voice, so utterly sincere, and those delicate, expressive hands, those piercing blue eyes . . . Mike was helpless, and he knew it, and he hated it. Ben could always talk him into anything. He'd talked him into their relationship, and he'd talked himself right out of it again. Mike wasn't about to give him the chance to do it again.

Last night . . . he'd needed him. Whatever means Ben had used to persuade him, Mike had to admit that he hadn't exactly run away screaming. The chance to be with someone he knew, someone he didn't have to explain things to, had been too much to resist. With Ben, there wasn't any of that awful awkwardness, that forced, fumbling shyness that even the most experienced one-night-standers had to overcome. He felt comfortable with him, secure. And, he had to admit, safe. Whatever Ben might do, he wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't reject him, and wouldn't leave him. At least not until morning.

Mike had awakened in the middle of the night, a few hours after he'd fallen asleep, and found Ben sound asleep beside him, curled up next to his side, his long limbs delicate and graceful against Mike's cruder bulk. Mike had turned over and watched him, feeling a smile curve over his mouth as he found himself thinking a word like "delicate" about a man who'd nearly pounded him through the mattress not a few hours before. He could still feel it through his body, a lingering, pleasant tingle that even if it turned to soreness in the morning would still be worth it. Ben had done it without asking, without questioning Mike's need. He'd given him everything he wanted, no questions asked, no judgments made.

The phone was ringing again. Out of reflex, Mike checked his watch, and felt his brows go up. Only fifteen minutes this time. Ben must be getting impatient. He cocked his head, counting the rings, and listened as the machine finally picked up the call. Only this time, the person on the other end stayed on. Mike swallowed, turning away again as he heard that rough, vibrant voice spilling out of the machine.

"Mike, this is Ben. I'm at the booth on the corner, and if you really don't want to see me you'd better pick up the phone now." He waited. "All right." He hung up.

Damn. Mike closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, staring down at the sidewalk. Yeah, dammit, there he was, walking up the street with his coat wrapped around him, not hurrying, not loafing, just plodding on with that calm, relentless stride. Damn him.

He didn't turn when he heard the key in the lock, just stayed sitting where he was, in the dark. He heard Ben take off his coat and hang it up, then his footsteps crossed the floor, moving to stand just behind him.

"I talked to Paul before I came over," he offered in greeting. "He thinks you have a good case against the Lowensteins."

"He's being polite." Like Mike cared any more about the Lowensteins, anyway. It was out of his hands now, wasn't it?

Ben let that settle for a moment. "You didn't call."

"I didn't feel like calling."

He didn't have to look at Ben to hear the smile when he answered. "I'm not surprised."

Mike closed his eyes. "What do you want, Stone?" Oh, that didn't sound defensive, using his last name. Not a bit.

Ben finally moved, walking around until he was standing next to him, half-blocking the light trickling in from the window. "I want to talk to you. That's all."

That's all. Can't get much clearer than that. "Is this where you give the 'last night was a mistake, let's forget it happened and just be friends' speech?" he forced himself to say. "'Cause if that's all, then you can consider it said and leave."

"Is that what you want me to say?"

"You say what you want to," Mike told him flatly.

"Okay," Ben drawled in that irritatingly patient way he had. "I will." He looked around for a place to sit, and finally settled for leaning on the windowsill, arms folded over his waist. "I don't think last night was a mistake," he said. "But I think that not talking about now, will be."

Same old Ben. Talk about everything, work it out with words. Talk your problems to death. And Mike was sick of it. "Why?" he retorted. "Can't we just leave it like it is? Walk away and not worry about it?"

"Mike," Ben said evenly. "I am not one of your one-night wonders. I deserve a little better than that. And so do you."

Mike couldn't believe this. "Better than what? What do you want, a wedding ring?"

"No." Ben sighed. "I want to hear about Carla Lowenstein."

Back to that again. "What about her? She's under arrest."

"Yes, and you're moping here in the dark."

"So?" He should have known that a man who prosecuted criminals for a living would worry at something like that like a dog with a bone, never satisfied, never content until he'd dragged it all out into the open.

"So, I'd like to know how you feel about it." Ben paused. "If you're going to be okay."

The laugh surprised them both, the bitterness in it tasting foul in Mike's mouth. "Hell, I'll be fine," he said airily, feeling almost hysterically giddy as he realized the absurdity of Stone's question. "I'm great. Yeah." He laughed again. "I got to grow up, Ben. I got to have a life, a job. I'm not lying in some hospital bed with a torn brain stem, waiting to die. That makes me a hell of a lot better off than Didi Lowenstein. And Ezra . . ." Mike shook his head, sobering. "Poor kid."

"At least we got him away from them."

"Yeah." Mike was getting tired of sitting here on the hard table, his back beginning to protest the treatment. It had been another long day, and even the satisfaction of putting the Lowensteins behind bars didn't erase the fact that he'd been on his feet since seven that morning. He slid off the table with a faint groan, stretching his arms over his head.

"Have you had dinner yet?" Ben asked, and Mike had to smile. Ben Stone, mother hen to the last. Well, if it got him off his back . . .

"No."

Ben jerked his head in the general direction of downtown. "I was going to go to Santini's. My treat."

Mike hesitated. Part of him, the part that was both tired and hungry, found a lot of appeal in the idea of going out rather than making the effort to cook here. Another part wasn't too thrilled at the prospect having to spend the rest of the night alone. But then there was the last part, the cold little voice of reason that warned that the more time he spent with Ben, the harder it would be to pretend that last night was nothing, that it was a pity fuck from an old friend, nothing more. Two out of three. "Let me put on a tie."

Dinner was much less awkward than he'd expected. Even in the heyday of their relationship, he and Ben had rarely gone out to eat together. They both kept crazy hours, and it seemed as though they were either working at complete cross-purposes, or working impossibly long days in tandem, leaving very little time for such luxuries as dinner. Leaving very little time, period. There were no old ghosts, then, to spoil this quiet moment in the corner of Santini's. Mike hadn't decided, yet, if that was a good or a bad thing.

Inevitably, they talked shop. Old cases, new cases, and the details of Mike's upcoming testimony, carefully skirting anything that had to do with Mike's most recent arrest. Mike was grateful for that. He'd eaten, slept, breathed, and dreamed that case for the last week, and the only thing he wanted to do right now was forget about it, even for a few hours. Ben, bless him, was nothing if not accommodating. He followed Mike's conversational gambits faithfully, breaking off agreeably whenever Mike chose to change the subject, not pressing him when he refused to say more.

They didn't dawdle over the meal, though, and well before eleven Mike found himself back in the vestibule of his apartment, punching in his keycode and holding the door for Ben to precede him up the stairs. They hadn't discussed whether or not Ben was going to come in, it had simply been taken for granted by both of them that he would. Old habits again, and Mike wasn't sure he was entirely comfortable at the thought. Maybe it explained, though, why, as soon as the door closed behind them, he took Ben in his arms and kissed him for a long, long time. And maybe why Ben enthusiastically kissed him back. Habit, that's all. That's what went fleetingly through his mind just before Ben's hands slid up his back, over his shoulders, and into his hair, long fingers stroking over the sensitive nape of his neck. And Mike quit thinking about it. It was Ben who finally pulled back, withdrawing just far enough to catch his breath, holding Mike back when he would have kissed him again.

"Mike," Ben finally said, a little breathlessly. "Mike, if you want me to stay, I will."

Oh, God, Mike wanted him to stay. Every nerve in his body was on fire with wanting him, wanting to take him back to the bedroom, strip off that damn blue suit, and make love to him until he begged him to stop. It would be so easy to say yes. And it would feel so good to have him, to bury himself in sex and forget all about the Lowensteins, his mother, everything.

But then he remembered that morning, remembered what it felt like to wake up with Ben next to him again, and know it wasn't real, that it wouldn't last. That had hurt. That had hurt more than anything any case or any long-ago memory could do to him. And he realized, with an icy, sobering rush of reason, that he'd rather spent tonight cold and alone than have to face that again in the morning. So he forced himself to pull back, and step away. The words came out harsh, and strained, pulled out of him by his unwilling conscience. "I want you to stay," he said thickly. "You don't know how much I want you stay." He swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling the hand tremble. "But I can't."

Ben didn't argue. "I understand," was all he said. He reached up, and brushed his hand over Mike's face, pushing a feather of hair from his eyes, then let the hand fall. He hadn't even taken his coat off, all he had to do was reach for the doorknob and turn it. "Call me," he said. "Anytime. For anything."

"I will." Mike held the door for him, for half a second wishing he could take it back, half-ready to call Ben back inside. But in the end, all he did was watch him walk away. "Good-night, Ben."

"Good-night, Mike. I'll see you on Monday."

A week later, it was as if the whole thing had never happened. Mike and Greevey tied up the last details on the Lowenstein case, and Mike wrote up the report, filed it, and sent a copy to the DA's office. And that was it. Finished. Out of their hands, and in the hands of the lawyers.

As for Ben . . . Mike was beginning to get used to the idea that it was over. It had been nothing but a one-night-stand after all, just one of those things. He'd been upset, he'd naturally turned to the person he was used to turning to, and that person had responded in kind. They'd fallen back into the habits of their old relationship for a while, that's all. And as soon as he could stop waking up at night and reaching for Ben, he could forget it.

Thoughts like that didn't make it any easier for him to see Ben nearly every day at work, and judging from the tense, set look of Ben's jaw, it wasn't much easier for him. They were both doing their best, but sometimes, when he'd come home to his dark, empty apartment and remember that night, it was hard not to pick up the phone. Merely hearing Ben's voice would have been something. It probably would have been too much.

Today, it was a prep session for trial, the last one before Mike had to testify on Friday. He wasn't exactly a key witness, but Ben was concerned because he and Max had arrested one other suspect two days after the defendant. The other man turned out to have a clear-cut alibi, but Ben wanted to make sure that the defense couldn't poke holes in his case by suggesting an alternative to his own client. So it was Mike on the ropes for the third time, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to getting drilled by Ben in an adversarial mood.

The offices at One Hogan Place were in the process of emptying when he arrived. He exchanged nods with a few of the other Assistant District Attorneys, and scowls with an extraneous Public Defender or two. He'd heard from Paul that *Ms.* Shambala Green was representing Carla Lowenstein, and was just as glad that she didn't seem to be among the crowd this evening. She didn't care much for cops in general, and him in particular, and for him the feeling was completely mutual. A confrontation with her was something he didn't need right now.

Ben's end of the long hall was even more deserted than the rest, and Paul's desk was both empty and tidy. His coat was gone, too, and Mike used the skills for which the city paid him his well-earned salary to deduce that he had already left for the day. Good for him. Ben's secretary was long gone, too, so he simply went up and rapped his knuckles on the door, opening it when he heard Ben's husky, "Come in."

He knew something was wrong the instant he walked in. Ben was sitting at his desk, tie hanging loose, glasses perched slightly askew on his nose, hands folded on a pile of papers in front of him. But he wasn't working, or reading, or doing anything except staring, blankly, at the wall in front of him. He looked up at Mike as he came in, and slowly pulled off his glasses, tossing them carelessly on the clutter in front of him. "Didi Lowenstein," he said quietly.

Mike felt the bottom drop out of his gut. "She's dead?"

"Dying," Ben amended. He shook his head slowly. "Paul called just a few minutes ago. He'll call again, when . . ." He trailed off, not quite able to bring himself to finish

"Shit." Mike turned away, looking for something, anything . . . His open palm made a satisfying smack against the doorframe, the glass rattling under the blow. He leaned his forehead on the cool, smooth surface, closing his eyes as he remembered the little girl's face on the pillow, pale and bruised, already sunken in death. Six years old. Damn.

"I'm sorry," Ben said from behind him.

"Yeah," Mike said to the door. "So am I." He squeezed his eyes shut again, swallowing the lump that seemed determined to crawl up his throat. He held himself there for a moment, then turned and faced Ben again, calm and composed. "So," he said tightly. "You'll be amending the indictment to Murder Two, right?"

Ben nodded again. "They won't get away with it, Mike," he said.

"See that they don't."

Ben looked at him for a moment longer, then retrieved his glasses and folded them into his pocket. "We can skip the prep session," he offered. "It was just a precaution. You did fine in the first sessions, and I have no doubts that you'll do well at the trial."

"I'm fine," Mike said sharply. "I'm ready, I can do it. Okay?" He pulled out a chair and sat at the conference table, tossing his coat over the top of the table. "Let's get it over with."

Ben regarded him thoughtfully, then shrugged. "All right." He put the glasses on again, and bent down to his papers. "Tell me, Detective, about the events of the night of November 4th . . ."

The session took about an hour, Ben playing both the prosecution and the defense until finally he was satisfied that Mike's testimony was sufficiently covered. "Well," he said at last. "I think that should do it."

"You sure?" Mike asked sarcastically. "You haven't asked me what I got for my tenth birthday yet."

"You'd be surprised at what Jerry Somtow thinks is relevant. And what he can persuade judges to allow as relevant." Ben shook his head, leaning back in his chair to lace his hands behind his head. "And one of his favorite tricks is to confuse police officers who testify for the prosecution. I don't like my witnesses to be surprised on the stand."

Mike rubbed his temples, massaging away the headache that had been threatening all day. "Well, unless he asks me where I buried Jimmy Hoffa, I don't think I will be."

"Don't give him any ideas." Ben was about to go on, but he stopped as the phone next to him rang. He stared at it, then raised his eyes to meet Mike's, both of them knowing what that call most likely meant. Ben breathed deep, and picked up the phone. "Stone." He listened for a moment. "I see. No, don't bother. I'll see you in the morning." He hung up.

Mike made himself swallow. "Didi?"

Ben sat back, nodding silently, not able, it seemed to bring himself to speak. He looked deflated, suddenly, slumped in his chair, shoulders hunched under the dark blue jacket. While Mike watched, beginning to form the words to ask if he was all right, he leaned forward, clasping his hands loosely in his lap while he stared at the floor, shaking his head. "I don't understand this case, Mike," he said at last, and Mike was startled and a little shocked to hear the admission of defeat in his voice. "I've tried, but I can't seem to grasp it. I can't even conceive of it." Ben looked at the piles of papers on his desk, his eyes fastening on a folder that Mike recognized as the copy of his own report. "I know that it happened. But I don't know why. I need to get inside her head. And I can't."

He sounded so discouraged, as if Didi's death had been the last straw between him and despair. Mike knew exactly how he felt. But this . . . this wasn't like Ben. When he was in pursuit, he didn't falter. He went on, hell or high water, until he won or lost. "Get a shrink to look at her," he suggested. "Maybe they can get inside her head for you."

But Ben shook his head. "No. That's not what I need. I need to understand her." He paused. "And I'm not sure I want to."

Now, this was going somewhere Mike was sure he didn't want to follow. "Then don't." He stood up. "If you're finished with me, I'm going to--"

"Mike." Ben raised his eyes, the bright blue irises dark in the glow of the lights. He gave a long, frustrated sigh. "I wasn't going to ask you to do this. But . . . I need very much to understand these people. I need your help. Please."

Mike shook his head. "I can't help you," he said softly. "You said it yourself, Stone. She's not my mother."

"I know that. But . . ." Ben stared down at his clasped hands, contemplating them as if the answers he needed were written there. "My problem," he said heavily, quietly, "is that when I look at her, I do see your mother." He raised his head. "And when I look at Didi Lowenstein, and Ezra Lowenstein, I see you. And it's making it awfully damn hard to prosecute this case."

Mike was beginning to feel angry. "What do you want from me?" he asked. Damn him. It wasn't enough that he knew, that Max knew, and probably everyone in the precinct by now. No, Stone had to bring it up again, remind him that no matter how many years went by, how many times he tried to forget, it would always be there. Every mother, every little boy, every little girl. He'd remember. He'd always remember. And now Stone wanted to tear it all out again. "I gave you my secrets a long time ago," he reminded, and didn't care when he saw Ben flinch at the unspoken accusation. "There's not much else left," he added.

"I know," Ben said humbly. "I don't mean that you have to bare your soul for me." *Again,* Mike added sourly to himself. "I just want you to talk to me, tell me how you knew that Carla Lowenstein reminded you of your mother. And why Jacob Lowenstein isn't your father."

Oh, that was all. Hey, no problem, Mr. Stone, just let me borrow that letter opener so I can cut out my heart for your inspection. "What do you need to ask me for?" Mike asked, hearing the hostility cut into his voice. "I told you already."

"I'd like to hear it again."

Mike wasn't sure why he did it. Maybe it was the pain in Ben's own face, the pain that, in spite of everything, he couldn't just ignore. This isn't fair, he wanted to say. If this were Max, or Paul, you wouldn't even think of asking them to do this. And if it were Max, or Paul, they wouldn't. They'd tell Ben Stone to go to hell. Like he should. But he couldn't. *God help us,* he thought. *Here we are again. All he has to do is say it. All he has to do is ask, and I'd do it. I'd do anything.* And the thought scared the hell out of him.

"My father didn't let it happen," he heard himself say. "When he was there, he stopped her." Mike shrugged. "He just wasn't there very much." He paced to the window, staring out at the dim lights of the hallway. "I heard Lowenstein," he said. "He went on and on about how much he adored Didi, about how he loved her. But I'll tell you this: When my old man wasn't home, it was because he was out pounding the pavement until dawn, working double shifts every damn day he could just to keep food on the table. But Lowenstein, when he wasn't home, he was in his office boffing his patients. He could have been there. He could have taken care of her." Mike felt his fists clench. "He knew what that bitch was doing to Didi. And he still says that he loved her."

"And your mother?"

That was going too far. Mike shook his head, turning away. "You know about her. I told you."

"Yes, you did," Ben agreed softly. He sat back. "This is up to you, Mike. If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. I can't force you. But I think there's something here that you're not telling."

Mike looked at him. Honey or vinegar, Mike, which do you want? "She wanted to leave," he said at last. "Over and over. She wanted out, she wanted another family, another life. But she couldn't." He sat down, feeling suddenly tired.

"Why?"

Mike looked at him evenly. "You know why." He sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "No divorce."

"And what about Mrs. Lowenstein?"

"What do I look like, a mind reader? I don't know."

"You talked to her, Mike."

"As little as possible." Mike could feel the edges of his temper fraying once more. "Look, she killed her daughter! What else do you need?"

"I need to know why."

"And you think I know?!" That did it. Mike hurled himself to his feet, leaning over the desk to push his face into Ben's, not caring that he was shouting at the top of his lungs. "You think my old lady ever told me why when she was bashing my face into the wall? You think she ever stopped to explain that to me?!" He stopped, panting, his heart pounding in his chest with the overwhelming surge of adrenaline. He pushed himself violently away from Ben's desk, grabbing his coat from the table. "Go to hell, Stone," he said, and stalked to the door, seizing the knob.

"Mike! Mike, wait. Please."

It was the "please" that got him. Not the word itself, but Ben's voice as he said it. All vibrancy, all mastery gone, no lilting pleas, no beautiful phrases . . . just a quiet, husky word, broken and pleading. From Ben, it was like a shot in the gut. Mike stood there, waiting, and closed his eyes as he felt Ben's hands touching his arms, light as a feather's brush.

"Mike, please." Ben sighed, and turned Mike to face him, curving his fingers around his forearms, forcing him to look him in the face. "Mike, I'm sorry. Please, forgive me."

Mike wasn't sure what to do in the face of this sudden humility. "Ben . . ."

"I'm sorry," he said again, softly and sincerely. And he stepped forward, putting his arms around him. "Mike, please. I'm sorry."

Oh, God, it was too much. Mike surrendered as Ben's hands slid around his shoulders, helpless against the incredible, seductive sensation of his arms around him, his voice whispering the soft phrases in his ear. He let his coat fall to the floor as he raised his arms to return the embrace, squeezing him tight. "I'm sorry, too," he said. He hugged Ben again, pressing his cheek to his. The anger was still there. But it was slowly draining away, melting in the warm comfort of Ben's arms. Just like always. Ben could cure anything like this. Rage, anger, fear, despair . . . all it had ever taken was Ben's arms around him. Now, standing here again in his embrace, he wondered how he'd ever lived without it. Sex, that had been one thing. But this . . . this was something different, and in its own way far, far more seductive than a thousand nights between the sheets. He held Ben tighter, barely registering as Ben spoke to him again, quietly, his voice barely a breath in Mike's ear.

"Come home with me," he said gently.

The words were like a bucket of ice water dashed over him. Mike stiffened, and tugged back. "No," he said. "Ben," he said, hating himself for the weakness as his voice cracked. "I can't. Don't ask me to."

Ben pulled away more gently, but kept his hands on his arms, refusing to break the contact. "I'm not asking you to stay the night," he said soothingly. "I'm just asking you to come home and let me cook you dinner. As a friend. That's all."

Mike searched his face, trying to read what was behind the offer, looking for the catch at the same time that he was trying not to feel the ache of disappointment that it was only "as a friend." "You cook dinner for all your friends?" he finally asked, and had the bittersweet satisfaction of seeing Ben falter.

"All right," he admitted. "There are," he said reluctantly, "some things that I think I need to say to you. And I thought that it might be easier for both of us if I said them in private." He sighed, and looked up at Mike meekly, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "I admit, officer, that the dinner was a bribe."

Mike felt his mouth open and close, for once in his life fresh out of snappy comebacks. He didn't want to do this. If Ben wanted to tell him to kiss off, then there were a lot easier ways than inviting him home for dinner. And what if he wanted to tell him something completely different? *Can you handle that, Mikey? Do you want to?* "Okay," he said. "You talked me into it." Like always.

It had been a long time since Mike had been to Ben's place. In the early days, just after they'd met, they'd fallen into the habit of spending most of their time together at Mike's apartment, and it was a habit they'd never fallen out of. Two floors, seven rooms--Mike had joked once that they could live together without even living together, and yet they'd all but lived in the tiny, cramped space of Mike's two-room apartment. Nights here had always been a luxury, taken only when there was time to enjoy them. Mike's apartment had been the workaday home, the place where the alarm always went off at 6 am, where breakfast was a hastily gulped cup of coffee and a shower nothing more than the fastest way to get clean before rushing off to start the day. Here, mornings had been for sleeping in, and making love. Breakfast was usually eaten around lunchtime, and a shower lasting less than half an hour was considered hurried.

If Ben was thinking any of the same thoughts, he gave no sign as he opened the door and ushered Mike through. Mike let him take his coat, turning around to look at the familiar dark-paneled walls as Ben opened the closet and reached for a hanger. Here he was again. Following Ben Stone back into his life. *You know damn well what he's going to say,* he thought sadly, watching Ben shrug out of his own coat. *He wants us back together.*

And what if he did? That was a question Mike had been asking himself for the last week, ever since that one glorious, disastrous night. Did he want Ben back? Of course he did. But, did he really want to give Ben the chance to walk out on him again?

That was harder. He knew Ben would have his promises lined up, every detail thought out, every contingency accounted for. He'd know that Mike was afraid, he'd have all his assurances ready, counter-arguments poised and waiting in the wings. Mike could care less. All he wanted was what they had. Him and Ben, together. Ben could pontificate until he was blue in the face, and it wouldn't change a thing. *Admit it, Mikey,* he told himself. *It's not like you have a choice. He wants you back, you'll take him. Let's not even pretend that you're capable of saying no.* He felt his lips curve into a smile, his eyes running slowly over the shape of Ben's back as he turned to hang his coat in the closet.

Ben actually gave a little squeak of surprise as Mike seized him, but that was about all he could manage before Mike's mouth was on his, cutting off any further protests he might have made. He froze in Mike's arms for a second, too stunned to respond, then his own arms lifted to wind around Mike's neck and his body melted against him, accepting and surrendering. Mike pushed forward, and they both grunted with the shock as Ben collided with the wall behind him. Neither of them made any effort to break the kiss, though, and Mike heard himself make an embarrassingly helpless-sounding whimper as Ben's arms pulled him closer, urging him to stand hip to hip. Yeah, this was it. He didn't need Ben's words, didn't need Ben to have to ask him back. This way was better.

"Mike," Ben finally gasped. "Mike, this wasn't what I had in mind." He was breathing hard, his chest heaving against Mike's, his eyes just a little wild. And maybe even frightened. Good. He'd held the reins in this relationship long enough, deciding who and when and how much for both of them, even deciding how they were going to get back together. Well, Mike had had enough of that. He knew what he wanted, and what Ben wanted, and for once he wasn't going to let Ben talk him into anything. For once, they'd try things his way and see how it turned out.

Mike kissed him again, hard. "Yeah?" he breathed into his mouth. "You sure?"

Ben was too busy kissing him back to answer for several moments, then he tore away, reaching up to frame Mike's face in his hands. "Mike, I want you to take me back," he said. His mouth came down to kiss him again. "Please."

"See?" Mike said against his lips, licking them delicately. "You were going to ply me with food--" Kiss. "--and wine--" Lick. "--and make some damn long speech about how mistaken you were--" Kisses along his jaw, his throat. "--and give me time to think it over. Right?" He took the strangled whimper that emerged from Ben's throat as a "Yes." "Well, I don't have to think," he continued, dropping his voice to a whisper as he kissed up the side of Ben's neck again. "I've wanted you back since the day you left," he whispered. "There wasn't one damn day that I wouldn't have come back to you. Damn you," he finished, and fastened his mouth on Ben's once more.

"I'm sorry," Ben said when he could speak again. "You win. No more talking." And then it was Mike's turn to yelp in startlement as Ben lunged forward, rocking him back. He thought for a moment that Ben was pushing him away, then he felt Ben's hands sliding under his jacket, pushing it over his shoulders and off. Mike had just enough coherent thought left to fumble for his gun, unclipping the holster and dropping it onto a handy table before Ben's hands were on him again, sliding over his chest and shoulders, then moving to his neck to unbutton his shirt. At least that's what Mike thought, until Ben wrapped the collar in both hands and yanked, baring his body to the waist in one swift move, buttons scattering like shrapnel to the four corners of the room.

"What the . . .?" Mike exclaimed against Ben's mouth, but the protest turned into a helpless moan as Ben's hands moved again, caressing over his bared skin, the long fingers hot and searching as the cool air hit his chest. No more talking, indeed. Ben kissed Mike's neck, then his shoulder, lips moving wetly over his collarbone and up to the hollow of his throat as his hands stroked lovingly over Mike's back, each brush of lips or fingers sending a hot thread of desire straight down Mike's body. Mike wrapped his arms around him again, pulling Ben nearly off his feet as he crushed him to his chest, finding his mouth again. Ben arched up to meet him, curving his hands over Mike's shoulders to urge him backwards, back towards the stairs that led up to the bedroom. The thought alone was enough to send another jolt of blind sensation down to Mike's groin, and he surrendered to it, letting Ben guide him to the first step, and up each of the others until they reached the top. Ben had stripped off the remains of the torn shirt by then, their hands still groping busily over each other, their mouths still locked in the kiss as they made their way up the hall.

Finally, they reached the bedroom, and Ben wasted no time in pushing Mike down on the bed, climbing up to kneel on top of him while he worked at his belt, stripping his pants off with one smooth yank, barely giving Mike time to kick off his shoes before he was on him again, lowering his body over Mike's nakedness. Mike spread his legs for him, groaning again as he felt the soft wool of Ben's trousers caress the inside of his thighs, the cool linen against his chest. He ground up into him, feeling the hard outline of Ben's erection through the cloth, pressing against his own. Ben kissed him fiercely, grabbing his arms and pushing them down beside his head, holding Mike still beneath him while he slowly, thoroughly, devoured his mouth with his own. Mike tried to control the noises he was making, but the maddening sensation of cloth on skin, and the way Ben was kissing him, was all too much. He heard himself moaning wordlessly, pleading, begging Ben to do something, anything other than this torture. Finally, when he was nearly frantic with desire, Ben pulled back, releasing him as suddenly as he'd seized him, and pushed himself off the bed. Mike lay there, gasping, until he had his breath back, then propped himself dazedly on his elbows just in time to see Ben stripping out of the last of his clothing. About time.

He spread his legs for him again, and wrapped his arms around Ben's back as he lay down on him once more. This was what he wanted, Ben on top of him, the smooth, hard shape of his penis pushing against Mike's belly, thrusting against his own. Mike's hands moved down, finding the soft curve of Ben's buttocks to press him closer, urging him into a slow, delicious rhythm. He parted his thighs further, lifting his knees in an obvious invitation that made Ben smile against his mouth. He shook his head, kissing him again, murmuring into his mouth. "Oh, no. I was on top last time. Your turn."

Mike pouted for a second, then his mouth split into a wide, wicked grin. "Okay. Whatever you say." He braced his elbow on the bed and pushed, rolling them both over until he was the one kneeling over Ben, hands sliding down to stroke his thighs and spread them apart. He reached up for the drawer in the headboard, and was gratified to find that Ben still kept everything in the same place. He took his time slicking them both down, stretching Ben with careful, gentle fingers until the other man was relaxed and ready, nodding at Mike that it was time.

Mike knelt down over him, guiding himself into place, lifting Ben's hips on his knees until he was sprawled astride him, ready, waiting. Mike pressed the tip of his cock to the slick little opening, seating it carefully in place, then pushed in, leaning himself on his arms as he slipped slowly inside. Ben groaned underneath him, a slow, faint blush traveling up his whole body as he felt the slow, delicious friction of Mike sliding inside him, his head falling back in the complete abandonment of pleasure. Mike looked down at the man sprawled before him, spread out, open, his whole body flushed with desire. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He forced himself to go slow, easing forward slowly until he was all the way in, and heard Ben give a long, shuddering sigh as he felt the pressure of Mike's hips against him.

"God, you're beautiful," Mike heard himself say, and saw Ben's eyes drift up to lock with his own, the blue depths soft and unfocused, mouth curved up in a gentle, dreamy smile. With an effort, Ben raised a languid hand, brushing a strand of hair back from Mike's face, caressing his cheek softly.

"So are you," he said, and the soft, husky whisper was nearly enough to make him come. Ben stroked his face again, cupping a hand around his cheek, one thumb trailing over his lips. "Mike," he said, and his voice was nearly inaudible, rough and breathless with passion. "I love you."

Mike squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, god," he gritted. He opened his eyes again, staring down, knowing he must look not a little wild. His mouth came down on Ben's with bruising force, his hands reaching up to grip Ben's hands, as much to anchor himself as to hold Ben in place. He took two deep, long breaths, squeezing Ben's hands to warn him, then started to thrust, pumping his hips against him, harder, and faster, and then increasing the speed and the force until he was pounding into him, Ben's hips driving to meet him, urging him on. Mike felt his throat vibrate with cries as he started to come, and swallowed Ben's own scream of climax in his mouth, the two of them locked in the kiss while their bodies shook together. Ben tore his hands free to wrap them around Mike's shoulders, holding him, cradling him with his body while they both slowly shuddered into quiescence.

Mike finally lifted his mouth away, breathing hard, and reached up to stroke Ben's hair back, framing his face in his hands while he leaned up, letting the other man catch his breath underneath. He kissed him again, softly, feeling Ben's arms slide bonelessly around his back, hands draping languidly over his hips. He gave a little gasp as Mike slipped out, then held him tighter, petting his back slowly, sleepily, fingers trailing up and down his spine. Mike let his eyes slide shut, nearly purring with pleasure as he let himself sink into the sleepy haven of Ben's arms. Right where he wanted to be.

He must have dozed off for a while, because the next thing he knew Ben was talking to him softly, urging him to roll on his side and off Ben. "Huh?" he said intelligently, and obligingly turned over, letting the other man ease out from under him.

"I said, 'I need to breathe,'" Ben said, tucking himself in next to him as Mike settled on his side.

"Oh, sorry." Mike wrapped his arms about Ben again, pressing a drowsy kiss to his temple. "I didn't mean to zone out on you."

"No, it's all right. I didn't mind." Ben lay quietly against him for a while, his fingers trailing idle patterns over Mike's chest, his breath soft against Mike's neck. "Mike, I'm sorry," he said at last.

"I know." Mike held him a little tighter, kissing his face again. "It's okay. You did what you thought you had to do."

"Yes. And look what it got me. Lonely nights, empty house, missing you . . . and not one whit less of an ethical dilemma."

Mike felt a brow go up. "I thought that was the whole point," he said, watching his own fingers trace the lines of Ben's face, his throat, his shoulders, learning the feel of him all over again. He had a vague notion that this conversation should be upsetting him, that maybe he should be feeling more indignation, more anger. But all he felt was a happy, blissful lassitude.

"Yes," Ben agreed, pulling Mike's attention back to him. "It was. Pointless, that is."

Mike frowned. "You've lost me."

"The point," Ben said quietly, turning to prop his chin on his hands, "was that nothing changed. All that trouble," he said gently. "All that pain. And nothing changed." He reached up, touching Mike's chin with his finger, trailing it up to outline the shape of his mouth. "It didn't change the way I handled your cases, it didn't change the way I questioned you at trial." He pushed himself up, stretching to kiss where his finger had just traced. "And it did absolutely nothing to change the way I felt about you." He drew back, leaning on an elbow now to look down at Mike. "I thought I could live without you," he said. "But I was wrong."

Mike looked away for a second. "Yeah," he said. "I know the feeling." He reached out, taking Ben's hand, idly lacing his fingers through his. "So what now? We pick up where we left off, boom, like nothing happened?"

Ben was silent for a moment, then he nodded. "Yeah. Boom." His smile faded, and he looked down, his eyes sober and intent. "We had a good thing, Mike. I think we can get it back."

"I hope so."

THE END