Title: Upside Down With Love

Upside Down With Love
by Silk
*****

"You're fired."

"No, I'm not," Catcher Block replied with an audible chuckle in his voice.

He headed into his office, Peter MacMannus right on his heels. Peter followed Catcher so closely, he nearly collided with him when the older man abruptly stopped to thump softly onto the leather couch that faced the window with its breathtaking panoramic view of the city.

Catcher ignored the beseeching look in Peter's blue eyes and pulled off his shoes and socks.

"Catchhh..." Peter whined. "I called all over for you. But no one knew where you went."

"I was on a story."

"I know that. I sent you there, remember? But Catch, you were supposed to be investigating Nazis in Argentina-"

"I was."

"How?" Peter's soft, sensual mouth curved into a wide "o". He was a very attractive young man. Despite the countless neuroses that plagued his every waking moment. "You were seen leaving the Copa last night." Peter pointed a long, elegantly shaped finger in the direction of Catcher's chest. "With a woman."

Catcher raised an eyebrow, his blue-gray eyes glinting mischievously. "You would prefer I was out with a man?"

To his chagrin, Peter blushed. "You're trying to change the subject, Catch. I'm your boss-"

"But I'm your star reporter. I'm the king of exposes. I'm the-"

"Man's man, ladies' man, man about town, yeah, yeah, I know. But Catch, you were sent out to get a story and if you didn't-"

"You worry too much, Mac," Catcher said with a wink that made Peter feel hot and cold. But mostly hot. "Here, I brought you a present." With that, the eligible sophisticate turned on his heel and left Peter staring after him in awe.

Catcher Block was taking off his clothes.

Granted he was in his private bathroom, but the thought of him washing, shaving, and changing his clothes just a few paces away from where he stood gave Peter pause. Suddenly Peter registered what he was holding in his hand. "A Top Secret NASA security pass! I've always wanted one of these!" he exclaimed with delight.

"Wait a minute. Where did you get this?"

"I took the Bossa Nova triplets to Cocoa Beach. There was a fascinating luau and-"

Suddenly Peter's handsome but grim face grew even more shuttered. "Yeah, well, unless there were Nazis at that luau, you're still fi-"

Catcher stood in the doorway and gave Peter a rakish grin. Good God, he was wearing nothing but a dark blue towel that hugged his slim hips and threatened Peter's resolve to keep their relationship professional.

"There were Nazis at that luau!" Peter cried out, his blue eyes growing wide and round.

Catcher turned back to regard his mirror image and stroked the side of his freshly shaven face. Peter involuntarily took a step forward before he realized what he was doing and froze. "Umm...but what were they doing there? Why would NASA be involved with Nazis?"

"I think it has something to do with technology. Some of them really are rocket scientists, y'know."

"But Nazis are bad. We're good." Pause. "Aren't we?"

"It's one helluva story. You should read it," Catch suggested cheerfully.

"It's written? Oh my God! How did you manage that?"

Astonishment seemed to be Peter's permanent state of being sometimes, but Catcher Block was not immune to the younger man's charm. "Blame it on the Bossa Nova." Catcher began shaking his hips in a vaguely sensual manner that completely unnerved Peter. Even as it set his heart to beating much too fast.

"Maria shook her maracas," Catcher said, undulating his hips towards Peter in a way that made the other man back up hastily.

"Mitzi played her bongos," Catcher added with a lascivious look as he pantomimed that very act. He moved closer and closer to Peter, swaying to a rhythm that only he could hear, seemingly totally oblivious of the effect that his half-naked state was having upon his boss.

All at once their bodies came into sizzling contact for mere fractions of a second as Catcher leaned over Peter and reached for something that was behind the younger man. He plucked the thick sheaf of papers from the pocket of his suit jacket and plopped it into Peter's inexplicably nerveless hands.

"And Monica typed. 120 words a minute," Catcher proclaimed proudly.

Peter flushed bright red and struggled not to stare at Catcher's bare chest. "Im-imagine th-that," he squeaked before regaining control of his voice.

Catcher patted Peter on the shoulder, and the dark-haired young man caught himself before he sighed openly. "I'll go see about getting this into print," he said hoarsely.

"Great," Catcher answered, his eyes flickering interestedly over Peter's lean but well-developed body for just long enough to give his boss a rigid erection. Peter gazed at the strikingly beautiful journalist in horror.

But Catcher never noticed. He was too busy planning his next major seduction.

*****

"I know what you're thinking."

Peter almost choked on his water. "You do?"

"Yes," Catcher drawled. "I promise to be a good boy and make nice with the spinster rom Maine."

"Oh," Peter said softly, contemplating whether or not one could actually drown drinking a glass of water.

"The food is pretty good here. Not that I intend to be here long enough to eat anything," Catcher said with a wink.

Peter's mouth settled into a pout. "You said you were going to be nice."

"I will be. But it's not like there's a time limit. I can be nice for a minute or two."

"But-"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Mac. I am not staying till dessert making small talk with a ditzy broad who thinks that eating chocolate ranks right up there with the best sex I've ever had."

"You don't have to believe in her theory to interview her, Catch."

Catcher rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I rarely do."

Peter gave his dark-haired head a shake as if to clear it. "On the contrary, you always do. You never write anything unless you believe in it."

"Peter..." The way Catcher said his name made certain parts of Peter's anatomy sit up and take notice.

"Don't mind me," Peter muttered. "I think I just added another neurosis to my repertoire."

"Well," Catcher said in a sultry voice that raised Peter's temperature a few more degrees. "All creative people are neurotic."

"That's nice of you to say that, Catch, but you're not."

"Oh, but I am, Mac. I simply don't let it show."

"Catch-" Peter leaned forward, his entire being clenched so tightly that it hurt. "I-"

"Yes?" Catcher's eyes twinkled. Peter told himself that the attraction between them remained hopelessly one-sided. Ha. One side. His side.

"I need to go put in my shoe lifts," he said lamely before pushing himself away from the table.

Catcher laughed. "I don't know why you insist on using those things. Women don't care how tall you are," he said huskily. "Just how big you are," he continued with a cheeky grin. "Which, I can assure you, is not the same thing."

Peter winced and made his way to the men's room, all the while wondering if monasteries accepted people his age.

*****

A pair of soft, perfumed hands clasped themselves over his eyes. ""Guess who this is?" the feminine voice called out throatily.

"Tell me you love me."

"Blimey, Catch, you know I love you."

"And I love you, too...Gwendolyn."

Moments later, Catcher had his arms wrapped around the amorous British flight attendant. "How long have you got?" he asked, kissing her passionately.

"Not long enough," she said sadly.

"There's always time for a matinee," he replied with his customary charm.

*****

Peter tottered awkwardly back to the table, immediately noticing that Catcher was gone. While Peter held his head in his hands and despaired of making it through the day, Catcher disappeared, his arm slung low around the hips of what was evidently a very well-endowed airline stewardess. Peter watched Catcher vanish from sight with hungry eyes that relished every last glimpse of him.

"Peter!" The CEO of KNOW Magazine looked up with a startled glance. He brushed an imaginary speck of lint off the shoulders of his dark blue suit before breaking into a rare smile that took years off the somber executive and lent him a decidedly boyish appeal.

"Vickie!" Peter exclaimed. The tall brunette editor from Banner House settled comfortably into the seat adjoining his.

"Where's Miss Novak?"

"Making an entrance, I think."

As one, their eyes swung towards the door where a lovely young blonde posed. "So," Barbara Novak inquired, once the proper introductions were made, "where is Mr. Block?"

Resisting the temptation to yell, He went thataway!, Peter shrugged. "I don't know."

As if on cue, a waiter brought a phone to the table. "Phone call for you, Mr. MacMannus. It's Catcher Block."

Peter smiled, but the effect was so brittle that he was sure everyone could tell what he was thinking. Pressing the receiver to his ear, Peter said brightly, "Catcher! Where are you?"

"Is she there?"

"Yes! Yes, she is!" Peter burbled, hoping that his sudden attack of nerves wasn't as obvious as he feared.

"Put her on. I want to talk to the spinster," Catcher said, amusement drenching his cultured accent.

"Catcher Block wants to speak to you," Peter announced, proffering the phone to Barbara Novak. The reverence in his voice made it clear that Peter considered this quite an honor, but Barbara wasn't impressed.

"This is Barbara Novak."

"Miss Novak..." Catcher drawled. "I'm so sorry," he said insincerely. "The darnedest thing..."

Catcher's eyes danced merrily as he catalogued the reason for his no-show at the restaurant, which was patently false. He stroked a finger down Gwendolyn's arm while he calculated just how long it would take to get rid of Miss Barbara Novak.

"Could we raincheck till dinner?"

"Of course," Barbara said coolly.

"Till dinner then," Catcher confirmed. Then he hung up the phone. Gwendolyn sighed inside his embrace.

So many willing women. So little time.

Certainly no time for a pitiful spinster from Maine. Even if she had written a book destined to become a controversial bestseller.

*****

Barbara Novak entered the restaurant accompanied by her editor. Both women were dressed to the nines. Not that Peter paid much attention to either one of them. All he could think about was what Catcher Block was probably doing.

The trio shifted uncomfortably in their seats and strained to make polite conversation. By now it was readily apparent that Catcher Block was avoiding Barbara Novak. Something Peter might have applauded if only Catcher had been ditching the blonde to play hookie with him.

"What's keeping him this time?" Barbara asked tightly.

"I...have no idea," Peter mumbled, wishing he didn't.

When the waiter appeared with the requisite phone, Peter sighed, so perturbed that he forgot that he had an audience. "Catch?"

"Of course. Is she there?"

"Of course," Peter echoed mournfully.

"This is Barbara Novak," Barbara announced evenly, the only sign that she was annoyed a slight narrowing of her full, sensual lips.

"Miss Novak, I'm so sorry...the darnedest thing..."

The blonde stopped listening somewhere in the middle of Catcher's ubiquitous excuses and gritted her teeth. Despite her desire to reserve judgment on the eligible young bachelor until she actually met him, Barbara snapped sarcastically, "Till breakfast, then."

Catcher smiled. His plan was working. Eventually she would give up, and he could go back to his neat, well-ordered life. Well, inasmuch as chaos could be thrust into any kind of real order.

He kissed the French airline stewardess in his arms and murmured endearments guaranteed to keep her interested. Women were so much more forthcoming when they thought they were in love. For some unknown reason, his casual manipulation of the women he slept with started to gnaw at him.

He frowned as he felt his attention wander. Then he was stunned to discover just where it had wandered. Mac. He was holding Yvette, but for a moment, the pale, smooth skin he had been kissing wasn't hers.

That was disturbing. That was...just plain wrong.

*****

"I...don't know where he could be. This...isn't like him," Peter stammered.

"No, you're right. He usually cancels on time," Barbara said acidly.

As if by prior arrangement, the waiter brought a phone to the table. "Mr. MacMannus? It's Catcher Block."

Peter couldn't smile. He couldn't even open his mouth to force out the words that would end this purgatory. He merely nodded and accepted the phone.

Barbara glared at Peter when he passed the phone to her. But the minute she heard Catcher Block's suave tones, she exploded. "No, Mr. Block, I do not want to see you later today or tomorrow or even next year! I wouldn't meet with you in a hundred years! Goodbye forever!"

Barbara leaped to her feet gracefully and ground out, "I am calling a taxi, Vickie. Goodbye, Mr. MacMannus."

Vickie immediately stood up and began pulling on her gloves. "You're going?" Peter asked. He didn't want to be left alone. Everyone always left him alone. What was wrong with him that he always seemed to fall for the wrong people?

"Yes, it's sad, isn't it?" For a second, Peter thought she was answering his thought, but he quickly realized that he was mistaken. "This is the first time I've had to give up a future with someone before I got a chance to have a past with them."

She liked him. She liked him. He liked her, too. He really did. She was the first person in a long, long time who had made the effort to be nice to him. Now she was leaving.

And it was all Catcher Block's fault.

*****

Vickie was good at her job. When the conservative all-male editorial staff at Banner House failed to make the most of Barbara Novak's book, she realized that she was going to have to take matters into her own hands. There had to be a more original way to promote the book, one that circumvented the powers-that-be, one that would give Barbara the acclaim she deserved.

There was. It was called The Ed Sullivan Show. Broadcast live every Sunday evening, the Sullivan show was a rarity in television. It was something that everyone watched, and more to the point, if Ed Sullivan supported it, it was something that everyone wanted.

After Judy Garland sang Down With Love, the switchboards went crazy. A few weeks later, the book was sailing out of the bookstores like it had wings. It became a national hit. Then it became an international bestseller.

Barbara Novak should have been a happy woman.

But she couldn't get picked up if she was arrested. Suddenly persona non grata with every man in the known world, she couldn't find anyone brave enough to take on the woman who espoused the idea that love was an unnecessary distraction that prevented women from fulfilling their rightful destinies.

The woman who brought sex a la carte into the minds and hearts of women everywhere couldn't get laid.

She would never in a million years admit this, but...chocolate made a poor substitute for sex. Screw the endorphins.

And it was all Catcher Block's fault.

*****

"You didn't tell me she was beautiful."

"It...didn't seem important," Peter lied.

"You told me she was a brunette."

"I never did!" Peter exclaimed.

"Funny, she didn't sound blonde on the phone."

"Call her. I want to do the expose."

"Catch, you're wonderful!" Peter was beside himself. Life could go back to normal. Besides, Catcher was wonderful. He was only stating the truth.

"Just call," Catcher said acerbically.

*****

"What do you mean she's too busy to see me?" Catcher howled. He slammed the door to his apartment shut and almost caught Peter in the chest.

"She's famous now. She doesn't need your publicity anymore, Catch. She's, well, everywhere."

Catcher shrugged out of his shirt and pulled out a clean one, taking a brief moment to click the remote at his TV. Peter bit his lip and tried not to notice how good Catcher looked half-clothed.

That was when they both heard it. That voice. "It's Barbara Novak!" Peter cried.

Catcher turned up the sound in time to hear something that pushed him right over the edge. "What was the name of that chapter again?" asked the host of the television show.

"Men who change women the way they change their shirts."

"Oho, sounds like you have someone particular in mind there, Barbara," chortled the host.

"You want me to name names?" she asked with a wicked gleam in her bright blue eyes.

"No, of course not," the host hastened to assure her.

"Catcher Block," she declared, staring intently into the camera. The studio audience went wild. The host mumbled something about going to a commercial break.

And Catcher Block? Catcher clicked the remote and snapped off the TV.

"Just your luck, Catch. Four million women in the city and all of them listen to her," Peter said, unable to keep a certain gleeful note out of his voice. It wasn't that he wished something bad happened to Catcher, but if all the available women rejected him, well...

"The four million I date do not listen to Barbara Novak," Catcher barked.

The phone rang before Peter was forced to answer that remark. "Gwendolyn..." Catcher's voice softened noticeably. "Where are you?"

"At the airport."

"Well, hurry up. We've got dinner reservations for 10 pm."

"Actually, I'm full," she said, taking another huge bite of her chocolate bar. "Besides, I have a good book, and I'd like to catch up on my reading."

"Reading? What on earth are you reading?"

Whatever Gwendolyn said would remain a mystery. Catcher banged the phone down and glowered.

Peter took a delicate sip of his martini and said, "Lose another one, Catch?"

"I am going to bury that Novak broad," Catcher sneered, plucking an olive from the bowl. Seizing the olive between his teeth, he tugged it off its toothpick and started to chew almost angrily. "I am going to prove that Barbara "Down With Love" Novak is just like any other woman who wants love and marriage."

"But Catch...how? She won't even see you!" Peter protested.

"That's right. Novak won't even see me coming." Catcher swallowed the olive and ripped his shirt off without unbuttoning it first. Buttons flew in every direction. Peter blinked at the soft plop that the button made when it landed in his drink.

It was going to be a long night.

*****

"Okay, you need serious cheering up."

Peter blinked morosely at his best friend. "You're a man on a mission. Are you sure you can afford to take time out from your busy vendetta against Novak?"

"Well, it's not like I actually have anyone left to date anymore."

Peter couldn't prevent his heart from jumping into his throat at those words. He knew that Catcher didn't mean that the way it sounded. But God, he wanted to misunderstand in the worst possible way. "Is that what you've been reduced to? Dating me?" he asked rhetorically, sensing instinctively that he could trust Catch not to guess how close to the truth he wanted that to be.

"We'll go to the Astronette Lounge and get bombed. You'll like that."

I like you, Peter thought, chewing anxiously on his bottom lip. But you can't see me for dust.

Catcher's blue-gray eyes darkened perceptibly. He gently cuffed the younger man on the jaw, and Peter's brave smile was almost heartbreaking. He knew that Peter looked up to him. He wasn't an award-winning reporter for nothing. Even the endless parade of women through his bedroom couldn't dim his powers of observation. Peter needed to get blitzed out of his mind so that he could forget how often he had been rejected.

Yeah, that was the ticket.

*****

The girls onstage at the Astronette Lounge were breathtaking. Sheathed in vivid blue satin costumes, each and every girl was more beautiful than the next. "Will you look at those rockets?" Catcher commented, evidently pleased by the size of their...attributes.

"You're a good friend, Catch," Peter slurred. He put his head down on the table, narrowly missing the almost empty bottle of Scotch.

Catcher chuckled and pulled Peter back up into a sitting position. By the hair. "Ow!"

"Whatever you do, don't close your eyes. Don't...close...your eyes."

Peter was mesmerized by the sound of Catcher's voice, not to mention the look in his smoke-gray eyes. "Umm..."

"You'll get an attack of the spins."

"Too late." Peter let his head fall onto Catcher's shoulder, and predictably, Catcher caught him. "I'm drunk."

"Yes, you are, Mac."

"So are you."

"Mmm-hmm," Catcher agreed.

"So...if you're holding me up...who's holding you up?"

Catcher laughed, his straight white teeth glinting under the neon lights. His mouth curved into an infectious grin that was part and parcel of Catcher Block's charm. "I think we're going to need a cab."

"For what?" Peter blinked myopically at Catcher, and Catcher caught his breath at the unexpected thrill that ran through him. He had never wanted to kiss a man before. He tried to count how many drinks they'd had and when he couldn't, he realized that was undoubtedly the cause of this...well, attraction.

"To take us home..." Catcher whispered, slowly drifting closer to the younger man. When their mouths were mere inches apart, Catcher froze with a groan that was two parts anticipation and three parts "I can't do this."

Peter stared at him, his breathing growing more and more erratic. "C-Catch?"

"Shit."

*****

Catcher Block was a master of persuasion. That was so well-known that it would have been stating the obvious to say so. But he had never taken on such a difficult task before. Convincing Peter MacMannus that this was exactly the right time to take a chance on love was probably the hardest thing he had ever done.

The man was impossible.

"She's with that football player," Peter lamented. Finally someone had shown him some kind of interest. But it was all going to be ruined because of Catcher and his vendetta against Barbara Novak.

"He's leaving. Go over there."

"I can't. She hates me."

"She doesn't hate you. She hates me. Now go over there and tell her you like her."

"But-"

"If you don't do it now, you will lose because once my expose comes out, she will hate you and it'll be too late."

His heart wasn't in it. Peter stood up shakily and wished, not for the first time, that Catcher's opinion didn't mean so much to him. "Okay."

"You can thank me later," Catcher said with a grin.

No, I won't, Peter thought. Whether she falls into bed with me or not...I still lose. Cause she's not you.

*****

As he strode over to the table where Vickie now sat alone, Peter chanted under his breath, Relax, be cool, stay calm. He almost pulled it off, too, but his insecurity and inexplicable jealousy surged to the fore. "Are you in love with that football player?"

"Not anymore."

Peter resisted the urge to cheer madly and sat down. "Oh?"

"The stupid jerk wanted me to read his manuscript. He didn't even have the decency to try to seduce me first."

Peter struggled not to smile.

"I mean, the men who resent my success won't give me the time of day...and the men who respect my success won't give me the time of night."

"If you gave me half a chance, I'd respect and resent you all of the time, Vickie," Peter said breathlessly.

Despite her earlier misgivings about Peter and his best friend, Catcher Block, Vickie visibly relaxed. "You would?"

"You bet."

"Okay, Peter, you're on."

*****

Catcher watched the proceedings with more than a passing interest. Why should he care whether or not his best friend succeeded in bedding the attractive young editor? It wasn't his place to wonder. About either one of them.

But he did.

And without realizing he was doing it, Catcher traced his fingertips over his bottom lip and contemplated what it might feel like to kiss someone...else. Peter's skin was so pale and untouched. He began to ponder if it was like that...all over.

*****

After lunch, which consisted of a couple of hastily-eaten hot dogs, Peter and Catcher prepared to board a taxi to return to the office. Suddenly Catcher spotted his quarry across the street. Barbara Novak in the flesh, he thought, I've got you now.

Unfortunately, Peter saw the lively young blonde at the exact same time. He opened his mouth to shout some kind of greeting, but before he could make a sound, Catcher clamped his hand over his mouth. "Not a word, Mac. Not a bloody word."

Peter nodded mutely, still in shock from the inadvertent caress of Catcher's fingers across his lips. Without conscious thought, Peter pressed his mouth to the older man's hand. The kiss, as slight as it was, took Catcher by surprise. He jerked his hand away with a muffled noise and shoved Peter into the cab.

"Go back to the office," he said hoarsely.

Peter tried to protest, but Catcher shook his head. "And Peter...try to stay out of trouble."

*****

All the way back to the office, Peter wrestled with his feelings. He called me Peter, he mused. I finally got to him. Even if it was an accident.

Peter managed a half-smile as he stared out the window, his chin cupped in his hand.

Sometimes accidents were meant to happen.

*****

Catcher loped across the street and headed directly for the dry cleaners, not even risking a quick glance in Barbara Novak's direction. He had the luxury of knowing exactly what she looked like. But she, on the other hand, had no idea what he looked like. Something that was about to work very strongly in his favor.

He hoped.

He had no real plan in mind. He was strictly a flying by the seat of his pants kind of guy, but that type of strategy had always served him well in the past.

Of course, he still felt vaguely unsettled. Peter's kiss, no matter how innocently meant, had made him feel off-balance, and he had yet to regain his equilibrium. But he would. He had no doubts on that score.

He was good at thinking on his feet, and it looked as though he was going to have to tap dance his way through his inevitable meeting with Barbara Novak. That was okay. He thrived on a challenge.

*****

Catcher stood patiently at the counter, expecting someone to come out and wait on him. But the heavy-set woman in the back seemed more interested in discussing her husband's shortcomings. He supposed that was another thing that men all over the world could thank Barbara Novak for.

Once Barbara arrived, the woman clearly favored her over Catch. That might have bent his nose out of joint, but for one thing. It was to his advantage to work slowly. In truth, playing hard to get wasn't one of Catcher's better attributes, but he knew it was the only way to whet the young woman's appetite.

She was used to people fawning all over her. Well, he was going to be refreshingly different.

When she glanced at him curiously, he smiled, but he didn't let the smile reach his eyes. He was polite, but he was definitely not encouraging further conversation. He intended to make her do all the work.

After all, that was what she was fighting for, wasn't it?

"Novick!" the dry cleaner's wife cried out.

"Where's your husband?"

"In the back. I got him doing the ironing." The older woman snickered, and Barbara inclined her head conspiratorially as if to say, Of course, where else would he be but at your beck and call?

"I'll get your things." The woman gave Catcher a cursory peek before adding, "Yours, too, Mister."

"Excuse me, but are you--?"

"Yes, I am," Barbara declared proudly.

"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. Wait till I tell the folks back home that I took my clothes to the same dry cleaner as Miss Kim Novick."

"Um...not Novick. My name's Novak." Barbara managed a brittle smile.

"Oh, of course, Miss Kim Novak," Catcher said in a perfectly dreadful Southern twang that had more in common with Hollywood than Arkansas.

"Umm..." Now Barbara was decidedly uncomfortable. She didn't want to be rude, especially with someone as strikingly handsome as this, but she couldn't let him labor under such a massive delusion. "I'm not Kim Novak. I'm Barbara Novak."

"Oh," Catcher allowed his voice to drop in a convincing imitation of major disappointment. "Well, that don't ring a bell. Sorry."

Barbara was stunned. "You've never heard of me? Or my internationally acclaimed bestseller, Down With Love?"

Catcher scrunched up his face in the most homely way possible. "No, ma'am, I have not." Then he turned away from her to pretend an absorbing interest in dry cleaning.

Mrs. Litzer chose that particular moment to bring their dry cleaning out. "You, Mr. Absent-minded Professor, you left a lot of things in your pockets," she said amiably enough before realizing that her husband was evidently burning something. "Take care, Novick! I gotta go!"

Catcher dug into the small paper sack and produced his Top Secret NASA ID badge. "Why, look, it's my NASA security pass. I've been looking all over for that," he said with a sheepish grin.

"You're an astronaut?" Barbara asked in an awestruck voice. Well, that explained it. No wonder he had never heard of her. He was probably off orbiting the earth or something.

"Yes, ma'am, I am."

"Wow. What's your name? Maybe I've heard of you."

Catcher's eyes darted to the sign above the cash register that read, Zippers Repaired Here. "Zip."

"Zip what?"

Catcher improvised rapidly, his eyes flickering to the sign on the other wall that said, Martinizing Done Here. "Martin," he added, staring intently into the paper bag. "Major Zip Martin. At your service, ma'am."

He pulled out Peter's glasses and put them on, completing his transformation from Catcher Block, man's man, ladies' man, man about town, to Zip Martin, astronaut and all-around geek.

"So...tell me, Major, is it true what they say about those wild parties in Cocoa Beach?"

"Oh, now, ma'am, I really couldn't say. I'm not much of a one for parties."

Catcher moved to the rack and picked up his dry cleaning, only to find that it was tangled with Barbara's. He expertly pulled them apart and handed her clothing to her. Then he walked to the door with a cheerful, "Have a nice day."

Barbara couldn't wait to follow him. He was the first man she'd seen in weeks who didn't despise her or fawn all over her. "Wait! Are you going to be here in New York long?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm working on a special project for NASA."

"Oh? What kind of project?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Me, too," Catcher exclaimed gleefully.

When they reached the sidewalk, Barbara said huskily, "Wouldn't you like to go somewhere and get to know each other a little better?"

"A little better?" Catcher blinked owlishly at her.

"A lot better."

"A lot better 'n what?"

"All the way better," Barbara said with a flash of her eyes.

Catcher pushed his glasses up his nose and tried hard to look shocked. "All the way better?" he asked softly, as if he was afraid that someone would overhear him. "I'm afraid I couldn't get to know you all the way better until we knew each other much, much better."

"Well, do we know each other well enough for me to buy you a drink?"

"Well, ma'am," he drawled. "I sure would love a Tang."

*****

Catcher Block was growing more and more fond of Barbara. They'd been dating almost a month. He'd never been in love before. He wondered if it felt anything like this...this fondness he had in his heart for her.

On their last date, they had gone to an amusement park and had their pictures taken in one of those arcade photo machines. He carefully scanned their laughing faces, and he smiled wistfully when he reached the very last one. There was something between them. Something he could almost see in his own face as he gazed into Barbara's eyes. He was getting serious about her. He didn't know if that admission scared him or not. But before he could decide, the phone rang shrilly.

It startled him out of his reverie and he tipped back his chair, his feet hitting the floor with a loud thump. Dropping the pictures on his desk, he stood up and answered the phone. "Mac. Mac. Mac! Calm down!"

"I'm coming right over."


*****

When he got to Peter's apartment, he didn't know what to expect. But it certainly wasn't the sight of Peter dressed in a frilly, flowery apron. The younger man held out a spoon and asked anxiously, "Taste this. Too tart?"

"This is the emergency? You called me over here to taste your...sauce?" If he sounded incredulous, it was only because he was. He hadn't given Peter's summons a second thought. Peter needed him. So he dropped everything and took off like a rocket. What on earth possessed him to do such a thing?

Peter sighed dramatically and walked back to the kitchen, taking great care not to spill any sauce on the carpet. "Well, it's important. To me. I've never gotten this far with a woman before. I want to impress her."

Catcher chuckled. "I'm impressed. But your cake's burning," he pointed out.

"Oh! Oh, no!" With a sudden flurry of activity that made Catcher feel almost breathless, Peter plucked the hapless dessert from the oven and set it down on the counter.

Catcher sniffed appreciatively and lifted the lid off a steaming pot of pasta. "Mmm...so is this how you do it?"

"No," Peter said, grabbing the lid away from Catcher and replacing it on the pot. "It's not how I do it. But if I did do it, this is what I'd do."

Catcher smiled faintly and wandered back into the living room, taking a seat in what looked like the most comfortable chair. He pretended to be oblivious to Peter's culinary efforts, but reading the paper didn't hold nearly as much appeal as watching Peter.

"So...the two of you have been spending an awful lot of time together. Could it be that Catcher Block has finally met his match?" Peter struggled to keep the jealous note out of his voice, but it was hard.

Catcher couldn't stifle the smile that rose instinctively to his lips. Nor the light that came into his blue-gray eyes when he thought of Barbara. "Don't be silly," he told Peter, unaware that he was addressing his friend with more affection than he usually showed Barbara. "We're not together that much."

"Twenty-nine dates in twenty-three days? Sounds pretty serious to me." Peter winced. He couldn't believe that he had actually counted the number of times Catcher had gone out with the ubiquitous Barbara Novak. Hopefully, it would escape Catcher's notice.

To cover his inadvertent revelation, Peter added a pinch of sugar to the sauce and proffered the wooden spoon to him one more time. "Taste this. Too sweet?"

Catcher waved him away with one hand and laughed. "I don't know how I missed this side of you before, Mac. You're so...I don't know...domestic."

Peter turned on his heel and sped back into the kitchen. "Nice of you to notice," he muttered.

"Oh, you'd be surprised what I notice," Catcher said with an insouciant twitch of his eyebrow.

"Really," Peter said, his voice suddenly so thready as to be nonexistent.

"Really," Catcher said, drawing out the word as though it had more than two syllables. His almost predatory appraisal of the younger man unnerved Peter.

"I thought...maybe you like spending all that time with her." If Catcher hadn't been looking in Peter's direction, he would have missed the mournful expression that transformed the beautiful features.

Catcher frowned, disquieted for reasons he either couldn't identify or chose to ignore. "Maybe I do. What's it to you? Are you jealous or something?"

Peter flushed and busied himself with the myriad pots and pans that littered the kitchen counter.

Catcher abruptly sat up and stared at his boss. "You are. Jesus, Peter..."

"Well, we are best friends, Catch. I don't see much of you outside the office anymore. You're always with her."

"I like being with her."

"And you don't like me anymore?" Peter asked in a small voice, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"Of course I like you, Mac. I-" Catcher blinked as if something had suddenly clicked into place. Something he wasn't sure he knew how to handle.

Peter couldn't look at Catcher. On the surface, he appeared inordinately fascinated by the variety of dishes in front of him, but what Catcher couldn't detect was the imperceptible trembling that had set up in Peter's hands. Hands that ached to touch someone who didn't understand the now-frantic tattoo that beat in Peter's heart.

"Anyway," Peter began softly, still avoiding eye contact with Catcher. "Tonight's the night."

"That's the advantage of dating a Down With Love girl. One date, no waiting." Catcher wasn't merely oblivious, he was gratuitously cruel. Or he would have been...if he'd been aware of what Peter felt.

"Yeah, well...they might be used to having sex like men, but I'm not," Peter blurted out, confirming what Catcher had suspected all along. Peter MacMannus was scared of his own shadow for a very good reason. He was still a virgin.

Catcher Block had never spent a single moment thinking about whether he was a good guy or a bad guy. But all of a sudden, he felt incredibly if inexplicably guilty. It's not like I'm leading him on, Catcher told himself. I don't swing that way. I never have. Just because I can't stand the thought of hurting him doesn't change a goddamn thing. It doesn't mean what I think it does. It can't.

Cause I'm not in love with him.

"Peter..."

The object of his concern shifted nervously and backed up against the refrigerator. "Wow. I completely forgot. I have to call Vickie and give her directions."

"Why don't you use my apartment?"

"What?"

"Why don't you take her to my place? It's so much...um, bigger than this one," Catcher tried to be diplomatic, but Peter saw right through him.

"Nicer, too."

Catcher smiled. "Just let yourself in with the spare key. You know where it is."

"You'd let me use the key reserved for your...girlfriends?" Peter sounded as if he thought he didn't deserve such consideration. Catcher immediately sought to reassure Peter that he was in fact important. The most important person in my life. Except for Barbara, of course.

Of course, his inner voice echoed, managing to seem amused.

God, things were bad when your own conscience laughed at your pitiful attempts to connect with someone.

"You might as well. It's just gathering dust anyway."

"Thanks, Catch!" Peter exclaimed. "You're the best friend a guy could have."

"Yeah," Catcher whispered. So if that was true...why did he suddenly feel so lousy?

*****

Peter let himself into Catcher's apartment with the spare key and stopped just over the threshold to stare at what had to be the quintessential bachelor pad.

"Wow," he whispered.

It was a pretty amazing place. For anyone. But for Peter, who harbored a secret obsession with the owner of said apartment, it was more than that. It was like having a lucid dream, one that Peter could move freely through, touching and tasting all the bits and pieces that made up Catcher Block.

There were all the usual accoutrements of any bachelor flat. A state of the art entertainment center. In more ways than one. But that wasn't what drew Peter's rapt attention.

He moved forward slowly, as if he was slightly dazed, and again he couldn't help but utter an awed, "Wow."

Catcher's bed. It dominated the room, its royal blue bedspread mussed as if Catcher himself had just gotten out of bed, and Peter could pretend for a few seconds that Catcher was in the bathroom. Brushing his teeth. No, that wasn't right.

He told himself to have the courage to indulge his own fantasies and sighed. Catch. In the shower. His lean yet muscular frame naked and glistening wet. Peter closed his eyes on a wave of need that threatened to consume him. He wanted him so...badly.

Sometimes that scared him. Because he knew he could not bring himself to act on those feelings. And he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it wasn't just desire.

It was love.

He choked on a sob that he couldn't quite stifle. Unrequited love. And it would stay unrequited. It had to. Because Peter couldn't risk losing Catcher's friendship. He needed his bright presence in his life, the same way he needed air or water.

Peter opened tear-filled blue eyes. "You already have what you want. It's not your fault it's not...me."

He sat down on the edge of the mattress and looked into the smiling faces of Catcher Block's parents, captured forever in the glossy 8 by 10 that stood on the table next to the bed. "You look like your dad," he said softly, trying not to smudge the glass as he ran his fingertips over the photograph. "But you have your mom's smile."

He promised himself that he wouldn't fall asleep. Vickie would be there soon. He couldn't afford to get caught sleeping in Catcher's bed. But that didn't stop him from giving in to the temptation to lie down on the same sheets that had caressed Catcher's body all night long. With a shudder, he
buried his face in Catcher's pillow. It smelled like him. Not like his aftershave. Not like his cologne. But like the man he loved.

He flung himself onto his back and stretched his arms as wide as he could, but he still couldn't touch both sides of the bed. He didn't intend to go to sleep. He just wanted to lie in Catcher's bed and pretend that he belonged there.

And for a little while, it was a little bit true.

*****

Catcher surveyed the apartment that Peter lived in. It was a curiously homey place. Not unlike the man. He glanced at the knick-knacks that decorated an entire walnut-paneled wall with something like amusement. But his smile faded the longer that he studied the flat.

Peter had pictures of the two of them.

Granted, it wasn't the work of a stalker who had little else to do but study his victim. But it made him wonder how well he really knew the man he called his best friend.

God knew, Catcher never thought of himself as someone who needed a home. He was happy enough, wasn't he? He had somewhere to live. What was wrong with that? he thought defensively. Then he wondered why he felt defensive. No one was accusing him of anything.

Except there was a fleeting look that he saw in Peter's eyes every once in a while. That look accused him of something. But it wasn't his fault that he didn't feel that way about Peter.

Only it felt like it was.

All this time he had forced himself to look away from that look. Maybe not because of what it accused. Maybe because of what it promised.

I don't need someone's promises.

Then his troubled blue-gray eyes fell on a framed photograph that obviously held a place of importance in Peter's apartment. This was no ordinary picture of the two of them. It said nothing...and everything.

Because the camera had caught Catcher in an unguarded moment. Peter's face was turned away from Catcher, his attention evidently on something or someone else. But Catcher...the expression on his face was a revelation. Because he was gazing at Peter with something that looked very much like adoration.

How could that be? He didn't feel like that about Peter.

Did he?

The camera doesn't lie.

Catcher had never confessed to anyone how much he wanted someone to belong to. That would have been an admission of weakness. He liked being in control, needed it, but sometimes he truly wished that he could stop living his chaotic existence and lean on someone. Just once, it'd be nice to let someone else make the decisions. Just once, it'd be wonderful to hang onto someone instead of letting them go.

Just once, he wanted to be loved.

He shook his head briskly as if to clear it. That was the silliest thing he had ever heard. Catch Block wanting to be loved? Weren't there lines of women forming everywhere who claimed that very thing?

Wait, that was the past. Now he couldn't get arrested if he turned himself in.

He smoothed his fingers over the slick surface of the glass that enclosed the photograph. He'd never realized how much he depended on Peter to be there. For years, he had taken the younger man for granted. Now Peter was finally starting to move on. With Vickie.

Catcher stared longingly at the smudge left behind by his thumb. Vickie was going to take Peter away from him. And Catcher had given her the means to do it. By pushing Peter into her arms with his blessing.

He made a wistful little sound in the back of his throat and wondered why he felt betrayed. It would be all right. Barbara Novak would make a fine trophy wife. There would be children, noisy and cheerful, and for a few moments, he convinced himself that would be enough.

Peter wouldn't desert him. He was too loyal to do that. But he would bury himself in that woman and have his own kids and...things would never be the same again.

Catcher would never come first with Peter again.

He didn't know how he was going to give that up. Or if he even could.

But he would have to. He was a grown-up. That was what grown-ups did. They grew up.

Even if they didn't want to.

*****

Peter was shocked awake by the staccato knocking at the door. Asleep. In his best friend's bed. He jumped off the bed as though he'd been stung and crossed to the entrance on shaky legs. "Vickie!" he called out with more enthusiasm than actual welcome.

"Hi, Peter," the tall brunette said softly.

"Come in, come in," he chanted nervously.

Vickie sat down on the couch, primly smoothing her skirt over her knees. "Ah...those must be your parents," she said, reaching out to pick up the framed picture on the table next to her. "Um...no, those are Catch's parents," Peter replied absently, still concentrating on finding the bar
that he knew had to be somewhere.

"Would you like a drink?" he sang out over his shoulder, attempting not to trip over his own feet, and missing the thoughtful look that she gave him.

"Catch's parents? Why would you have a picture of Catch's parents in your apartment?"

"Umm...what would you like to drink?" he asked her, carefully evading the obvious answer to that question.

"Mmm. A martini?"

Peter smiled weakly and searched for the well-hidden bar, hoping that he wasn't showing his obvious distress at the way things were going so far. "Just a minute."

"You don't know where the bar is?" she asked incredulously. "In your own apartment?"

"It was here a second ago. Honest." Peter's hands roamed blindly over and under the stylish black counter, and he almost fell onto a similarly colored stool. He stared at the dizzying array of switches that he found concealed beneath the surface and prayed that he was toggling the right one.

Vickie lit a cigarette and inhaled languorously. Peter was...interesting...for lack of a better word. She was definitely attracted to him, and she was not at all uncertain about sleeping with him. She
thought that would be...interesting...as well.

That was the last coherent thought she had before she hit the carpet.

Zap!

"Eek!" Vickie screamed as the couch behind her abruptly transformed itself into a bed, the edge of the mattress knocking her down. Before she knew it, she was engulfed by it, the smoky trail of her lit cigarette the only visible sign that she was still there.

"Vickie!"

"Peter!" she yelled, her voice muffled by the weight of the bed pressing down on her.

Peter pulled Vickie out from under the bed. The young woman seemed dazed but curiously unhurt, her crushed cigarette the sole damage. "I'm so sorry," Peter said, unconsciously echoing Catcher. "I don't know how that happened."

"It's all right. I'm okay now," Vickie said a bit breathlessly. Peter's eyes were so blue, and he really was a handsome young man.

He guided her by the elbow onto the couch, which strangely showed no apparent desire to swallow either one of them, and they sat next to one another, suddenly awkward and ill at ease. "I apologize, Vickie. I must be worn out from all that cooking."

Her dark brown eyes lit up. "You cooked? For me? No one's ever cooked for me."

"But I didn't. Cook. For you, I mean. I cooked for Catch," Peter stammered.

"You cooked for Catch? Here?"

"No. Not here. There. At Catch's apartment. Which is...not here," he finished lamely.

Vickie nodded slowly, but it was clear that she was puzzled.

"Why don't I put on a little music? We could get to know each other...better."

"But I'm starving," she protested.

"Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes and maybe both of us will forget all about dinner," Peter said huskily, trying his best to sound seductive when every nerve in his body was shrieking, Wrong, wrong, this is wrong.

"Ten minutes?" she asked brightly.

"Ten...minutes."

His hand reached back to switch on the turntable as he slanted his mouth over hers. Their lips met...but were pulled apart moments later. Strains of the 1812 Overture filled the apartment at a deafening volume, and they scrambled to their feet as the turntable proceeded to malfunction. As though it was possessed by evil spirits.

Record after record shot across the room, narrowly missing them as they raced for the door. Suddenly anything and everything that was electronic seemed to be using them for target practice. The TV, the bed, even the walls appeared to be on the attack. Doors opened and closed, snapping shut with a ferocity that could easily hurt them if they were unlucky enough to be trapped within their clutches.

"We need to get out of here!" Peter shouted over the swelling music.

For once, Vickie didn't have a snappy comeback.

*****

Dinner was, well, dull. Catcher didn't know what he expected, but inhabiting the wholesome yet dense character of Zip Martin added a layer of complexity to things that he could easily have done without.

"Do you like it?"

"Oh, yesss," Barbara cooed. "I've done this so many times before, but never with such a...powerful...instrument."

It was indeed. It was Peter MacMannus' most prized possession. A $6,000 dollar telescope mounted outside his rooftop apartment. It briefly occurred to Catcher that he should have been looking at the stars in Barbara's eyes, not the heavens, but he couldn't quite shake off that nagging sense that something was wrong with that picture.

"You see the man in the moon then?"

"Yes. It's so beautiful."

"Yes, it is," Catcher said, but his eyes weren't on the moon at all. He stared at Barbara Novak and willed himself to feel something more than boredom.

She glanced at him and seemed to note his uncommon interest in her. A sly little half-smile appeared, tugging at the corners of her full, sensual mouth. "You're not even looking at the stars," she chastised gently.

"I know."

Barbara fluffed her hair and pouted prettily. She couldn't help but be moved by the striking bachelor's ardent pursuit. If only he would stop playing hard to get...

With a sigh, she left the balcony to return to the dining room where dessert awaited. It was eminently suitable for her present mood. So that's why it was called Death By Chocolate. If she couldn't have sex, she could at least have the next best thing. Chocolate triggered off the same pleasure pathways as sex, and it didn't have the unfortunate side effects that went along with
lovemaking.

Like falling in love.

Resisting the urge to lick the spoon clean, she smiled politely at her companion. "Y'know, I love a good dessert, don't you? Puts me right in the mood." Barbara brightened expectantly. "Yep, I sure am ready to go to bed."

"You are? Well, Zip, I must tell you that I feel the exact same way."

"You do?" Catcher grinned. "Then I'll just call you a cab and-"

When Barbara gasped, Catcher managed an apologetic look that transcended his very real desire to pack the petite blonde into a car and be done with her. "Oh," he said, drawling the word so slowly that he sounded like a cross between Gomer Pyle and Forrest Gump. "I am so sorry. When I said, bed, you thought I meant," he winced to punctuate his misunderstanding, "bed."

Barbara huffed. She was such an elegantly crafted creature that even an impolite noise sounded refined when it came from her lips. "Well, this is getting a little too much for me. Thanks for dinner, Zip. You're just so...." Barbara diligently searched for the right word. "Nice." Coming out of her mouth that seemed like damning with faint praise.

She stood there, clutching her purse like it contained her life savings, and carefully brushed him off. "I'm afraid we can't see each other anymore, Zip."

"Why?"

"You're making me feel like...well, that's it. You're making me feel," she said, sounding completely horrified. In an extremely genteel manner.

"Barbara, give me another chance, please."

"I'd love to, Zip. But you see...the very fact that I want to give you another chance...is the reason why I must not." She paced to the door, instinctively seeming to understand how to make a grand exit. "Goodbye, Zip."

Catcher looked at her blankly, frozen in place, unable to make himself move. This was what he'd been waiting for, right? The big moment when he could make Barbara his. There was only one problem with that scenario.

He didn't want Barbara at all.

But they weren't done yet. He wanted to see her again. He had to.

Because suddenly proving his point seemed more important than anything else.

He pounced on her, the angle of his kiss awkward, even uncomfortable, as he strained to keep the rest of his body from touching hers. It was as though he feared that she would discover his secret. He breathed hard with the effort of trying to make the kiss convincing and...

...Barbara broke away finally, a dazed look in her eyes.

"Give me another chance. Please," he begged quietly.

"Ummm...okay," she said, her voice squeaking mid-syllable.

"Then we're on for tomorrow night?"

She nodded and left. But not before striding back into the living room to claim what was left of dessert. Chocolate was the only thing that would save her from expiring in a haze of frustration.

*****

The moment the door closed behind Barbara, Catch tore into the bedroom and headed for the shower. He felt as though he needed to wash off the flowery scent that she seemed to exude everywhere she went. God, she raised perkiness to an art form. Suddenly he couldn't stand the idea of smelling her on his body. It seemed almost...disrespectful somehow.

That thought brought him up sharply. There was someone else he wanted to kiss. Someone he had only dreamed about touching before.

He stripped quickly and jumped into the shower, unable to resist sliding his soapy hands over a part of him that had remained defiantly unimpressed by that kiss. His hands were just about to close in on their target when the phone rang. Loudly. In what seemed to be an almost deafening silence.

"Mac? Is that you?"

"Hi," Peter slurred, giggling merrily.

Catcher tried to hold onto the towel he'd hastily wrapped around his middle, but despite his best efforts, it slid down his slim hips, exposing the furry vee that arrowed down into his groin. "Are you drunk?"

"Ummm...yep," Peter chirped.

"Where's Vickie?" Catcher grimaced when he said her name. She was a very nice young woman, but he couldn't help but think of her as his rival.

"T-took her h-home," Peter said, beginning to stammer.

"Home where? Home to my place? I know you're not here."

"Don't...confuse m-me," Peter managed to say, and Catcher could imagine the tiny furrow that probably formed between Peter's brows.

"Did you have a good time?" Catcher was starting to think he had a masochistic streak. He couldn't think why else he would be asking Peter this. What did he expect him to say?

"A little," Peter hiccupped.

"A little?" Catcher exclaimed.

"We were att-attacked in your apartment. You didn't tell me how dangerous it was there," Peter said quite earnestly.

"Attacked? By who? Are you okay? Where are you?" Catcher was beside himself and didn't have the presence of mind to realize that his interest was far from platonic.

"M'kay," Peter mumbled. "Vickie likes me, y'know," he whispered, so low that Catcher had to strain to hear him.

"I know," Catcher replied huskily.

"She likes me a lot."

"Yeah."

"She wants to sleep with me."

"Um...and how do you feel about that?" Catcher caressed himself absently, seemingly unaware that the smoky sound of Peter's voice was arousing him.

"I wish she was you," Peter blurted out, intoxication clearly loosening his tongue.

"Mac..."

"I know. I s-said too m-much. You must hate me-"

"I don't hate you," Catcher protested.

"But you don't love me," Peter murmured brokenly.

Catcher was saved from responding by the raucous laughter of someone female. Someone close at hand. "Peterrrr...come here, pussycat..."

"Bye, Catch," Peter whispered.

"Mac!" Catcher shouted.

He was too late. Peter had hung up. But Catcher could hear his last words echoing in his brain long after he'd put down the phone himself.

Bye, Catch.

How many times had he said goodbye to all the people in his life? Not just the ones he slept with, but the ones he truly cared about. The ones who didn't know. Couldn't know.

1...

How many times had he counted off the seconds till they called him back ? Because they always did. Always.

2...

But Peter wasn't going to call him back. Not this time. He thought Catcher didn't want him. He thought he wasn't worth caring about.

3...

His first time was going to be with an ambitious young woman who clearly had her own agenda.

4...

But that didn't matter nearly as much as the fact that...it wasn't going to be Catcher.

She doesn't love you, Catcher's mental voice wailed at an imaginary Peter. Not like...Catcher gasped as reality struck him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

And he hadn't even finished counting to five.

*****

Catcher dressed hurriedly and raced back to his own apartment, uncertain what he truly expected to see. Peter falling down drunk? Peter passed out?

Peter kissing Vickie Hiller. Ardently. Enthusiastically. Too eagerly not to be real.

"What's going on?" Catcher shouted.

Misunderstanding, Peter opened his eyes and blinked at his best friend. "I took Vickie into the Village to get a demi-tasse. But the place was raided. So I brought the party here. Wild, huh?"

For the first time, Catcher actually noticed the hundred or so black-clad strangers milling restlessly about the apartment. Great, just what he needed, a beatnik party in full swing.

"I thought..." Whatever Catcher was going to say was lost. He had assumed...no, he'd hoped...oh, hell...

Peter's light blue eyes widened before the younger man shifted his gaze away from Catcher. His hands tightened around Vickie's shoulders, and the lively brunette pressed an affectionate kiss to his chin.

For one long minute, Catcher was so overcome with jealousy that he literally couldn't see straight. Then he shrugged off the unwanted emotion with frightening ease borne of years of practice. What was that saying? The best place to hide was in plain sight. Catcher Block should know. He was an expert at it.

Burying his feelings as deep as he could, Catcher forced a brittle smile to his lips and contemplated the nubile young female approaching him with a decidedly predatory look. She wasn't really his type. Long dark hair, almost to her waist, covering...hmmm...he raised an eyebrow at what she wasn't showing. She was naked to the waist, a fact not immediately evident, but once his body registered the proximity of an available woman, Catcher moved towards her involuntarily. After enduring almost a month of celibacy, he wanted this, this meaningless act. It was only sex. It couldn't change anything.

Could it?

"I mourn for you," the girl intoned, gazing intently into his blue-gray eyes.

"Why do you mourn for me, baby?" Catcher drawled, leaning forward to catch a closer glimpse of the flesh that beckoned tantalizingly.

"I mourn for you because you wear the Madison Avenue suit that you will be buried in someday."

"Well," he chuckled insincerely, "you can help me out of it, if it'll make you feel any better."

The girl grasped the end of his tie and pulled him after her like an obedient puppy. Catcher sighed gratefully. Finally. Something he knew how to do. Something he was good at.

*****

There was something decadent about remaining fully clothed while having sex. The long-haired beatnik girl was now completely naked, and to Catcher's utter astonishment, she had shown a level of expertise with oral sex that women rarely attained. Unless they were prostitutes, of course. Nice women weren't expected to like sucking cock. Nice women, as Catcher soon found
out, weren't allowed to be a man's equal in bed.

Luckily for him, the beatnik girl's politics weren't sexual. She didn't seem to mind prostrating herself at his feet, and her mouth was warm and wet and...Jesus, he was coming before he could warn her. He wanted to say something, anything, but words escaped him, even as he spilled himself down her throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to form a coherent thought, but the only thing that came to him was a name. "Peter..." he whispered, reaching out to stroke his lover's hair.

That brought him back to earth with a snap.

He bent over the young woman, his back to the door, to caress her face. He'd used people before, usually without giving it a second thought, but suddenly things were different. He didn't want to take his pleasure at someone else's expense anymore. No one deserved that. Especially her. Not when she had been kind enough to satisfy his very real need. "Thank you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the middle of her forehead.

She smiled again, in the same enigmatic way as before, and he was struck by her pale, nearly luminous skin. So like someone else's. "Peter..." he murmured, strumming her cheek with the back of his hand.

God, he had it bad. Calling out someone's name when you came was one thing. Throes of passion and all that. But now? What the hell was his excuse now?

If the girl thought he was reacting in an odd manner, she didn't say so. In fact, come to think of it, she hadn't uttered a word since they'd entered the bedroom.

Some people would say that made her the ideal woman.

But Catcher was too preoccupied to notice. His desire to keep his feelings for his best friend under control made him agitated. He wasn't sure how long he could hold back. Right now, he wanted to march into the living room and kiss him senseless. And given his relative state of satiation, he couldn't even claim it was lust.

It was love. He knew that. But he was too late in coming to that conclusion. Peter belonged to someone else now. Someone who could make him happy. He had no right to interfere.

No right at all.

He just loved him.

*****

Suddenly someone entered the bedroom and excused himself when they discovered that the room was occupied. "Catch!"

Catcher instinctively turned in the direction of the voice. To his horror, it was Barbara.

Barbara gasped loudly before pulling her coat back on and heading for the nearest exit. She was halfway to the elevator by the time Catcher caught up with her. For a moment, he asked himself why he was bothering to continue his pursuit of the young woman. But on an unconscious level, he already knew the answer to that question.

Right now Catcher had a desperate need to belong to somebody. Anybody. Barbara Novak was the closest thing to an emotional connection he had.

Even though she wasn't the one he wanted.

She was his last chance at having a family. If he let her go, he knew that he would die alone and unhappy.

"Barbara! I can explain-"

"I don't think so," she said frostily. "Well...you said you were ready for bed. I'm so glad that you found someone you felt comfortable taking there."

"But I didn't know what I was doing!"

"Oh, really?" She stared pointedly at his groin. "Her hat's off to you."

"I mean-" Catcher glanced down and saw that the beatnik girl's beret was caught in his zipper. He extricated the offending hat and tossed it into the hallway before zipping up his pants. In the meantime, the elevator doors closed in his face.

Catcher took the stairs and managed to catch up with Barbara one more time. The two of them strode past the doorman who gave them a bemused smile.

"Barbara, I swear this wasn't my fault."

"Uh huh."

"I mean it. That girl gave me some funny tobacco she got in San Francisco and the next thing I knew we were on the bed."

Barbara blinked curiously at him. "You mean she drugged you?"

"She must have. The next thing I know, everything went hooey." Catcher dropped his voice into a dark growl that rasped across Barbara's senses and made her insides clench.

"Hmm...but what were you doing at that party anyway?"

"I didn't know about any party. Some journalist...Snitch...Snatch..."

"Catch?"

"Maybe." Catcher talked as fast as he could, and he hoped that Barbara was only listening to half of what he said.

"He told me to meet him in that apartment. I think he wanted to talk about my NASA top secret project and-"

"Zip, don't you see? You were set up."

"You think so?"

"Yes, that's just how that sneaky Catcher Block operates. I bet he had that girl drug you so he could snap embarrassing pictures of the two of you in bed. Then he could do an expose about how NASA's top secret project fell into the hands of dope fiends and beatniks."

"My goodness, Barbara," Catcher didn't have to search very far to get in touch with his sense of outrage. It sounded exactly like something everyone assumed he would have done. "You make it all sound so simple, and I'm just a country hick. God, I feel so stupid now that you went and pointed it out." Catcher leaned on the lamppost and stroked a finger along its length, managing to look both forlorn and hopeful at the same time.

"Oh, Zip, I'm sorry I made you so sad."

He looked at her then, his heart in his eyes. "And I'm sorry I made you so mad."

Barbara sighed heavily. "Oh, no, we're behaving like...two people...in love. This argument is just further proof that we should stop seeing each other."

"Barbara," Catcher began, sounding hesitant as well as humble. "This argument has made me see that I must really care about you. I hate to tell you this, but...Barbara, I love you."

He gazed expectantly into her face and true to what he knew about Barbara Novak, she did not disappoint him. "Oh! Well, I don't have any rules about men falling in love-"

Catcher moved in closer and took her into his arms. "Then I could make love to you, wild and passionate...and you could still have meaningless sex with me?"

"Well, I suppose..."

"Barbara," he announced, "I think I'm finally ready to get to know you better."

She eyed him suspiciously. "How much better?"

"All the way better," he whispered.

He knew the moment she gave in. It was written all over her glowing face. "Then we're still on for tomorrow night?"

"Yes."

He pulled her into a full-body hug. She was warm and pliant against him, and she had never looked more radiant. But he had to wonder about the future of a relationship where she looked so hopeful...and all he could feel was relief.

She still wanted him. That was what mattered.

Right?

*****

Catcher channeled his nervous energy into writing his expose. The truth was, he didn't care about the expose anymore. That was his career. What he'd once considered the be-all and end-all of his existence. But his life had taken a turn and he was struggling to hang on these days.

Days that would soon have everything to do with Barbara and...nothing to do with Peter. He tried desperately not to think about that, but it was hard. Seeing him and not being able to talk to him the way he used to. Not being able to touch him.

"Catch?"

Schooling his features into some semblance of a bland façade, Catcher looked up. "Yes?"

"You're not still writing that expose, are you?" Peter asked tentatively, as if his innate shyness had abruptly escalated in his best friend's presence.

"Yup. Listen to this." Catcher jumped to his feet, his well-shaped hands framing his imaginary cover story. "Catcher Block on Barbara Novak. Penetrating the myth." He gave Peter a cheeky grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"Wow," Peter commented, attempting to match Catcher's toothsome smile and failing miserably. "We'll have to sell it in a brown wrapper."

Catcher chuckled, but his eyes slid away from Peter's. "Wish me luck, Mac. Tonight's the night."

"Really? Then I guess I'd better make my big move on Vickie at the same time. Tonight. Wow. All this pressure. It's enough to make a man...explode." Peter practically choked on the last word.

Catcher smiled and said softly, "Finally." But his gaze was far away and turned inward, already cataloguing the loss.

"Catch?" Peter looked at his star journalist expectantly.

"Never mind," Catcher said huskily.

*****

This was it. The BIG DATE in capital letters. He was going to make Barbara Novak a very happy woman. He only wished she could appreciate the sacrifice he was making.

Giving up the one person who understood him.

Catcher dressed as though he was attending a ball at the Waldorf. Or an execution. It felt the same to him.

He winked at his reflection in the mirror, and he was struck by the bleak look in his eyes that no amount of clever banter or heartfelt flattery could hide.

It was over. Before it ever started.

*****

She was beautiful. But she wasn't for him. He knew that now, knew it with every fiber of his being.

He'd never felt so nervous in his life. And that was saying something given his chronic level of anxiety. But it wasn't because he was anticipating sleeping with Vickie. It was because he knew where Catcher was at that very moment. Doing something irrevocable.

"Is something wrong?" You seem nervous," Vickie asked solicitously.

"Why would you think I feel guilty? I don't feel guilty. Do I look guilty?"

"I didn't say guilty. I said nervous. Don't worry, Peter," she said, placing her hand over his. "It's all right. I know. I've always known."

"You know?" Peter cried out incredulously. "How do you know?"

"Oh, Peter, it's so obvious. I know you're a homosexual...and I know you're in love with Catcher Block."

"I am not a homosexual!" Peter started to shout, quickly lowering his voice when he saw how some of the other diners were staring at them.

"But you are in love with Catch, aren't you?" Vickie asked kindly. "It's okay, Peter. Just because you love Catch and know you can't ever have him...that doesn't mean we can't still be married."

Peter stared at Vickie in disbelief. She wasn't just wrong. She was delusional.

Suddenly he started to laugh. "That's not it."

"Then what is it you think I know?"

"Catch is setting up Barbara Novak privately so he can expose her publicly." Peter gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Oh, my God!" Vickie bolted for the exit without looking back. "The wedding is off!"

She hated him.

Thank God for small favors.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. He needed to see Catcher. To stop him before it was too late.

He needed to tell him.

Even if Catcher didn't want to hear what he had to say.

He'd make him listen. He had to.

He just had to.

*****

Catcher took Barbara to his apartment. His real apartment. And he realized he couldn't go through with it. The expose. It didn't matter. Maybe it never did.

He needed to tell her the truth. But he was afraid. She was the only solid emotional connection he had now, now that Peter was...whatever he was.

They sat down on the couch, awkwardly, like not-so-perfect strangers.

"There's something I have to tell you."

Barbara smiled and fingered the tiny microphone concealed in her purse. "I know there is."

"I don't know why you want to be with me, or even if you do, but..."

"Oh, I do," Barbara agreed. "But you said you had something to tell me," she prompted.

"Yeah." Pause. "Barbara Novak, I am not who you think I am."

"You're not really with NASA?" she asked coyly, fluttering her eyelashes.

"I'm not even Zip Martin. There is no Zip Martin. There never was. I'm Catcher Block."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I'm not who you think I am either, Catch. There is no Barbara Novak. My name is Nancy Brown. You probably forgot about me, but...we met over a year ago...when I was your secretary. You asked me out, but I turned you down. You see, I loved you too much to become just another one night stand."

She went to explain how she carefully plotted his downfall...right down to the last detail. Not out of a desire for revenge. But to beat him at his own game. To match him, wit for wit, like some outrageous form of oneupsmanship. In the end, love fell by the wayside, supplanted by the fiercely growing seeds of ambition. She didn't want to marry him. She wanted to be him.

And she was. Only she was better at it than he was.

Catcher went numb. She wasn't Barbara Novak. Barbara Novak didn't exist. She was someone named Nancy Brown. She didn't want to marry him. She didn't even love him. She'd never loved him.

"You wanted to make me love you," Catcher said, blinking back unshed tears. Men didn't cry. Not even when the last of their dreams died an ugly and unnatural death before their eyes.

"Well, gee, when you put it that way...I guess I got a little...carried away." Barbara bit her lip. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm...sorry."

Catcher didn't say a word. He couldn't. His throat was so tight, he couldn't imagine speaking.

"I really did love you, Catch."

"Just not anymore, right?" he choked out.

She shook her head. "I think somewhere along the way, I got lost. I...thought I was merely...intensely focused. But now I see I was so obsessed with winning...I didn't care about what would actually happen when I did."

"In the process of pretending to be Barbara Novak, I actually became Barbara Novak. Don't you see, Catch? I proved my theory. I am a Down With Love girl. I don't want love." Barbara looked pained. "And I don't want you."

Catcher winced. That was cutting right to the heart of things. Which was the kindest thing to do. He was sure he would appreciate that kindness...if he made it through this.

Barbara gently clasped his arm before releasing it...to walk away.

He stood there for several seconds, not really comprehending what was going on. Then he cried, "Barbara!" and followed her down to the street.

"Barbara, don't go. Please," he pleaded, his voice breaking.

"I have to. Goodbye."

1...

2...

3...

4...

She wasn't coming back.

Catcher watched her get into a taxi, watched as the taxi sped off, watched until he couldn't see the taillights any longer. The crack of thunder shouldn't have taken him by surprise, but it did. He stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes wounded and wet, the torrential rain washing away
hope.

*****

He didn't remember going back upstairs to his apartment. He didn't remember taking off his wet clothes and stepping into the shower.

He didn't remember sinking to the floor, the water pounding down on his head as he pulled his knees to his chest.

When he raised his head again, it was to stare into the concerned blue eyes of his best friend.

"Are you all right?" Peter asked hoarsely.

Catcher laughed, but that didn't last long. Within moments, he was squeezing his eyes shut against the terrible sight of Barbara walking away. For good.

"I'm fine. Never been better," he said, waiting for God to strike him down for such a blatant lie.

Without waiting for Catcher to get up on his own, Peter reached in and pulled him to his feet, ignoring Catcher's naked body. And the effect all that glistening pale flesh had on him.

Adopting a curiously avuncular air, Peter managed to bundle the shivering man into his favorite flannel bathrobe. "There. Doesn't that feel more comfortable?"

Catcher stared at him, his bottom lip quivering with the cold.

Peter disregarded the entreaty in those blue-gray eyes, now more gray than blue, with a stronger will than he knew he possessed. He ruffled Catcher's hair with a towel, stopping only when it was nearly dry.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

Catcher shook his head wordlessly.

"You sure? I could put some honey in it, sweet, just the way you like it."

"Sweet...just the way I like it," Catcher repeated. Suddenly without warning, Catcher sank his fingers into Peter's hair, anchoring him for a kiss that took both of them by surprise.

Peter was the first to break away, but Catcher refused to let go of him and buried his face against his neck. "Don't leave me this way."

*****

Peter guided Catcher onto the couch before disappearing, albeit briefly, to prepare the tea. When he returned, he sat carefully, taking great care not to spill any of the hot liquid on either of them. "Here," he murmured, "drink this before it gets cold."

He offered the cup to Catcher. Catcher's eyes flickered over Peter, and it took everything he had not to bolt. "Sorry about that...you know," Catcher said, uncharacteristically shy. For a moment, it'd seemed like Peter wanted the kiss as much as he did. But now that the moment had passed, Catcher wasn't sure anymore. Had he crossed some line that he couldn't see? What happened next?

"I'm not," Peter whispered. The younger man slid closer, but it was a subtle, almost graceful movement.

"You're not?"

"No." All of a sudden, Peter frowned. "Are you?"

"God, no. I mean..." Catcher cleared his throat self-consciously. "I don't want to come between you and Vickie. I know that you two are-"

"-no longer a couple."

"What?"

"Vickie said..." Peter reached out to stroke Catcher's cheek, and he leaned into the touch like a plant craving the sun.

"What did Vickie say?" Catcher asked, slightly dazed by all the attention that Peter was suddenly giving him.

"Well, for one thing, she said I'm a homosexual."

"Are you?"

Peter tilted his head to the side and regarded Catcher with something that could have been amusement. "I'm thinking..."

"About what?"

"The other thing she said."

"What was that?"

"That I'm hopelessly in love with you."

"Are you?" Catcher asked huskily, unable to mask the unexpected tension within him.

"Yes," Peter mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

"That's good."

Peter's head came up sharply, and he stared at Catcher in wonder. Catcher cupped his chin with one finger, and for long moments, the two of them were more than content simply to look into one another's eyes.

Suddenly Catcher's changeable blue-gray eyes twinkled. "In case you hadn't noticed, you've just answered the $64,000 question."

"Which is?" Peter couldn't help but be riveted by the sight of Catcher licking his lips. The way someone moistened his mouth...right before he kissed...well, him.

"Do...you...love...me?" Catcher punctuated each word with a series of tiny almost-kisses, all the more dazzling for what they revealed about him.

Peter nodded wordlessly.

Catcher smiled at the picture they must make. Two men, one barely out of his twenties, the other barely out of his teens. One dressed to the nines, the other wearing a plaid flannel bathrobe. One with refined features and an improbable smile, the other with rumpled hair and sleep-kissed eyes the color of rain.

"If you listen very, very hard..." Catcher whispered, bringing his mouth closer and closer to Peter's ear. "...you can hear the sound..." he continued, caressing Peter's ear with his lips.

"...of me loving you right back."

Peter found that he couldn't speak. He could only murmur inarticulate noises and pray that Catcher understood.

Catcher nuzzled Peter's neck gently. It was completely unlike him to deny himself release this way. And yet he found that holding Peter satisfied him in a way that he couldn't have predicted.

"Will you...will you be with me? N-not now, if you don't want to, but...sometime?"

"Catch...wherever you want this to go...I'm there." Until that moment, Peter had let his natural shyness rule him, but now that he saw how vulnerable Catcher was, he couldn't help but be brave.

"I want this," Catcher said hoarsely. He did. He was surprised at just how much he did want it.

"Me, too," Peter whispered, unconsciously snuggling closer. "I want to, I do," he said, his voice muffled against Catcher's neck.

"We can go as slow...or as fast...as you want." Catcher couldn't believe that he was saying that. In his relatively vast experience, he always controlled his sexual liaisons. He was assertive, even aggressive, if it meant getting what he wanted. But that was another lifetime. Nothing to do with this.

Nothing to do with love.

Peter's eyelashes fluttered against Catcher's skin, and Catcher felt a surge of protectiveness as well as affection well up in his chest. "Don't be nervous," he whispered.

Peter raised his head and gave Catcher a wistful look. "I just want to make you happy."

"You already have," Catcher answered, threading his fingers through Peter's thoroughly disheveled hair.

"Really?"

"Really." Catcher began unbuttoning the younger man's shirt, unable to resist touching, then kissing the freshly uncovered flesh beneath. Peter chuckled. "That tickles."

"You want me to stop?"

"God, no." Pause. "Can I...ummm...touch you back?"

"God, I hope so," Catcher said fervently, capturing one of Peter's flat brown nipples with his tongue.

With a genuinely rakish grin, Peter quickly revealed that while he might indeed be as innocent as he looked, he was perfectly willing to be corrupted. "Catch...I have a confession to make."

Catcher immediately stopped what he was doing and released Peter, a deep furrow appearing in the middle of his forehead. "You're having second thoughts?" he asked in a nearly inaudible voice.

"No!" Peter all but climbed into Catcher's lap in an effort to show him just how far he was prepared to go. "I just wanted to tell you...I'm glad you're going to be my first."

Catcher gave Peter a heartstopping smile and wrapped his arms around the younger man. "Me, too." Peter's blush was as charming as it was unexpected. Catcher kissed him, gently insinuating his tongue into Peter's mouth.

Peter's full, sensual lips parted on a gasp, and Catcher took full advantage to deepen the kiss. He had kissed and been kissed more times than he could possibly count. But this kiss, this first claiming, was right in a way that none of the ones that went before could ever be.

He wanted to be closer. He wanted to be inside Peter. But as hard as he was, he wanted this to be more than a simple act of possession. He wanted to bring him to the brink of climax and force his name from those lips. He wanted to know that more than their bodies would be joined, that their very spirits would become one.

He wanted to stop wasting time fantasizing each and every overblown romantic moment they would share. He groaned against Peter's mouth and sucked on his lover's kiss-swollen bottom lip.

Peter trembled all over as they finally broke apart. "I hope there's more where that came from..."

Catcher smiled, his own body betraying him with an improbably delicate sigh. "Baby, you have no idea."

Blue-gray eyes twinkling, Catcher broke into an even broader grin. "You know, one of us is wearing entirely too much clothing. And it's definitely not me."

"Does that mean you're...um...naked under that bathrobe?" Peter asked almost apprehensively.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," Catcher said, planting a light kiss on the tip of Peter's nose.

"How do I find out?" Peter asked huskily, his blue-eyed gaze growing visibly heated.

"Let's move this into the bedroom and see what happens," Catcher breathed, unable to resist pressing one more kiss to his lover's mouth.

*****

He rarely used the bedroom. The couch in the living room opened into a bed, and that was fine. For seduction. But until now, his bedroom had been used only for sleeping. It was as though Catcher was keeping part of himself separate and unknowable from the multitude of women who made their way through his apartment.

But that would end now. With Peter.

He wanted Peter to know him, in every way possible, and that meant letting him into a place he seldom went.

"This is it," he said, waving an arm at the strangely Spartan bedroom.

"I love it," said Peter, his eyes never moving from Catcher's face. "It's beautiful."

"You're not looking at it."

"I know." Peter smiled shyly before kissing him. "Was that okay?" he whispered.

"Very."

"Take your shirt off."

Peter complied, but he knew that his nerves were showing. His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips. Catcher stroked a hand down Peter's bare arm and watched the muscle ripple beneath his pale skin. "So pretty." He kissed the place where his hand had been and raised warm gray eyes to Peter's. "How come I didn't know all this was for me?"

Peter shook his head slowly. "I don't think you ever really saw me. Till now."

"Oh, yes, I see you now." Catcher deftly unbuckled Peter's pants without breaking eye contact with him. The longing in Peter's light blue eyes was almost unbearable, and Catcher slid his hand down the front of Peter's shorts to caress the nearly rigid hardness there.

"D-don't. I m-might-oh!" Peter hid his burning face against Catcher's neck and almost sobbed with equal parts relief and embarrassment.

Catcher gently nuzzled his lover's hair. "Ssh, it's okay. We're not done yet."

"We're not?" Peter asked, hesitantly raising his head.

"Nope. I promised you more, remember?"

Peter sighed happily and relaxed into Catcher's embrace. Catcher might have been content to hold him, but both of them were desperate for the kind of release that only making love could bring.

Catcher reached out with one hand and lightly pushed Peter back onto the bed behind him. Peter watched him with hungry eyes as Catcher quickly stepped out of his bathrobe. "You were naked!" Peter cried out, not a bit disappointed to find that he was right.

"Still am," Catcher commented cheekily.

"Mmm."

Catcher leaned forward on the bed, his hands on either side of Peter's legs, before grasping his lover's shorts and pulling them off. Peter gasped as Catcher buried his face in the younger man's groin. "Oh, God."

"Not quite," Catcher said dryly, chuckling against Peter's fevered flesh. "But I'll take that into consideration...when it's your turn."

Catcher didn't know why he suddenly felt so self-assured. He had never done this before. The thought of making love to another man hadn't even occurred to him. Till it became obvious, even to someone as blind as him, that making love was easy...when you were in love.

He gripped Peter by the hips and licked his way along the entire length of his cock. The little noises that Peter was making aroused Catcher, but he ignored the demands of his own not-so-inconsiderable erection. He swallowed a couple of times, taking more and more of him into his mouth, and found that Peter couldn't hold back any longer. Peter grabbed Catcher's hair and tried to pull him away from his cock, but Catcher refused to budge. "Please. I'm going to come," Peter chanted in distress.

But Catcher smiled and pulled him deeper. Moments later, he was rewarded with the hot salty taste of Peter coming, hard, down his throat. Peter flung an arm across his eyes and panted, but Catcher wouldn't let him hide. He licked the wet tip of Peter's cock before kissing his way up the center of Peter's body to his mouth.

"You didn't come," Peter groaned, feeling guilty at the way he'd submitted t o Catcher's ministrations without thinking of the other man's pleasure.

Breathing hard, Catcher flung his arms around Peter and tumbled onto his back, pulling his lover on top of him. "So...damn...close," he whispered. Then he kissed Peter, his tongue swirling inside the younger man's mouth as his fingers dug deep into Peter's buttocks. Catcher came within seconds, his cock jerking against Peter's warm, damp stomach three or four times before it settled down to an occasional twitch.

Catcher kissed him again, this time with more affection than passion, and Peter blinked sleepily at him when he finally broke away. "What? You look stunned."

"I think I am," Peter admitted. ""Did we just do what I think we did?"

"Not only that, baby, but we're going to do it again."

"Now?" Peter squeaked.

Catcher chuckled and kissed him, a bit more insistently. "Well...if you think you could use a nap..."

Peter lay his head down on Catcher's chest, uncaring that he wasn't scrupulously clean for once. For the first time in a long time, he felt safe. As well as loved. "Can we sleep together? I mean, just sleep?"

"Mmmhmm..." Catcher murmured into his hair.

"I love you," Peter said drowsily before closing his eyes.

Catcher listened to the sound of Peter's breathing as it evened out and knew that his lover had drifted off to sleep. His fingers played restlessly with Peter's hair as he thought about what all this meant.

He could get used to this falling in love thing.

He really could.

End