Mark wearily climbed the stairs for the last time that night, sore and winded from his latest client. Henry Rawlins wasn't the gentlest of men, although he'd definitely had worse, he reflected ruefully. But he was clean, in more ways than one, and never balked at the fee, and that was compensation for a little roughness during sex. And at least it was inadvertant roughness; Mark had done the whole S&M scene back when he was first starting out, and it was not something he missed at all. Pain and sex were things he had never liked combining, not even when he was paid to do it.

But now the last client of the day was gone, and it was time for some hard-earned down time. *A hot bath and a beer,* he decided as he went down the passageway to the end of the hall. There were two portions of the house; the "public" side, with well-furnished, spacious, empty rooms downstairs and the plain, professional, impersonal bedroom and bathroom upstairs, kept especially for customers. Then there was the "private" portion of the house, the suite he'd set aside for himself, fitted with the best locks money could buy and his own sanctuary from the world.

A large bedroom, featuring huge windows that during the day flooded the room with light now loomed night-dark against the walls. A room furnished with pale blond wood and and rich, comforting fabrics like velvet and silk and wool, in soft, muted blues and greens. Fabrics that he didn't need to worry about how easily they cleaned of semen, saliva, blood, or lubricant. A small refridgerator with chocolate mint ice cream, cheese curls, and bagels--the comfort food he didn't want his clients to share.

He'd carried the beer up with him--apart from a nearly untouched fifth of Jack Daniels under his bed, it was the only booze in the house, and mostly for entertaining clients. Mark Frasier ran a clean house, and anyone who thought otherwise would find himself very politely refunded, rebuffed, and uninvited in the future. He was successful enough now that he could make those kinds of rules, and had been desperate enough in the past to know how precious such a policy was. He hadn't always been his own boss, in his own house, using his own judgements about his own clients. And he had no intention of giving up his hard-won independence.

It had been a hell of a week. *First Jim Ellison calls out of the blue, and gives me barely enough time to get ready before he comes over and fucks my brains out.* Sometimes Mark felt very sorry for Jim--although he'd never say so. He was a client, after all. But that man, lonely and longing for his straight roommate, and far too desperate to keep the friendship of said roommate to make any moves on him. *Poor bastard.*

So he came over, and they did their usual "Mark=Blair" routine, and Jim gained back a little bit of peace. Because Mark had figured out that Jim only came after the bad cases, the ones that went wrong, when his urge to comfort and touch his roommate after the danger and the peril was too great, and he needed an outlet for them.

He didn't really mind being a substitute for the mysterious "Blair"--mainly because he genuinely liked Jim, who never treated him with anything but courtesy and respect, despite the fact that he was, technically speaking, a whore. And he always paid on time, always tipped well, and always met Mark's eyes, unashamed to know him. All hallmarks of the kind of john he preferred, the kind who had showed him a doctor's clean bill of health at the beginning of their association and still willingly used a rubber, the kind who never gripped him too hard, never bruised him, even though he was paying for Mark's body.

But all in all, it had been one hell of a shock, he reflected, when he'd opened the door to find a frantic-looking man with lucious hair and a full, tempting mouth and beautuful expressive blue eyes standing there. Blair--the mythical, much-heard-about Blair. Wanting him. Or rather, wanting *Jim* but too afraid of disappointing Jim to actually make a move until he was sure that he, Blair, could go through with it.

*At which point he comes to me, and all but asks me to be Jim for him.* Mark took another swig of beer and settled into his tub, filled hot enough to be almost scalding in an attempt to ease the soreness. *And he turns out to be a good guy too--good thing, Jim deserves someone like that.* The water soothed his aching body, and the beer buzzed his head, and Mark let himself float, body and thoughts.

*I don't know what I did in a previous life, God, to have two of the most gorgeous men in the world asking me to pretend to be the other so they could sleep with me, but I honestly don't know that I'd want to do it again. I mean jeez, it's enough to give a guy a complex. But at least they both paid well. And...I have to admit--I didn't not enjoy myself. And that's a rare thing in this business.*

The image of Blair, spread out in front of him, moaning and writhing and responding so sweetly to him, swept over Mark in a short firestorm of wistful longing, but he ruthlessly suppressed the image. Blair was Jim's. Even when he'd been making him scream, he had been Jim's.

Off limits. *Dammit.*

Besides, the kind of images he was having in his head of Blair--hell, of Jim *and* Blair--they weren't the images of clients. And *that*--no matter how sweet it might be to dream--could be dangerous.

Soak finished, he followed up with a long shower, doing the necessary tasks to make sure he stayed worth paying for--washing teeth, face, genitals, body, hair. Stuff that usually only women had to worry about--moisturizer on his face and hands, conditioner on his hair. He took his time, and was still done in the bathroom in time to catch the last quarter of the Jags game.

By the time the final score was announced, Jags 128, Sonics 127, Mark was feeling triumphant and ready for bed. Another quick visit to the bathroom for the toilet and he was settled in bed, warm and snug, the lingering soreness in his ass relegated to background noise as he closed his eyes and slowly...slipped...away...

The harsh jangling of the telephone broke his slide into oblivion and he growled half-heartedly as he reached over to pick it up. *Please no tricks. Not now.*  "Hello?" he asked, voice smooth and welcoming, the frustration well-hidden. *No more tonight. None. I won't do it.*

And he knew that, for all his words of denial, if it *was* a client, then he would be getting up and going to work.

*Sometimes,* he thought bleakly as he picked up the phone, *I really hate my job.*

"Hey babe," came the warm, accented voice of the one man on earth he considered his friend--the only one who was his lover, not his john. "How're you doing?"

Mark relaxed, leaning back, and felt peace sweep over him. Happy endings did happen sometimes. Jim and Blair. Him and...

"It's been a long week, Rafe."

The End