Title: Charmed, Charmed Life

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer

Rating: NC-17

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: Nothing has changed in the last week or so. <sigh> Bellisario still claims all things JAG. Let him explain that to Webb and Palmer. Red Cell belongs to the LFN universe.

Status: new/complete

Date: 3/02

Series/Sequel: This is part 7 of the Mind Fuck series, and follows Don't Blame Me.

Other Web Site: http://www.angelfire.com/fl5/tinnssinns
http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel

Archive: OK, I surrender. Yes to all the list archives. (I'm so easy!)

Summary: Clay learns he hasn't seen the last of Clark Palmer.

Warnings: m/m, spoilers for Webb of Lies

Notes: Thanks to Gail for the wonderful beta, and the tape of Webb doing his CIA thing.

Charmed, Charmed Life
by Tinnean

I was going to kill Clark Palmer. I had told him that the night before, but he had left me in such a satisfied state that it had been merely a token threat. Now I really meant it.

Cocksucking son of a bitch. He'd had the nerve to jerk off and leave the handkerchief that had caught his come on my desk, next to the handcuffs that had secured me to my bed and a note that said, 'Thanks for a wonderful night. C.'

I stroked the cuffs, then examined my wrists. The skin wasn't sore, and the slight reddening had almost completely faded. My fingers circled them and rubbed lightly, and my cock leaped to attention. Was this part of the game? *Had* he known that was my secret fantasy, or was it something he had wanted to do to me?

~~~~

When I had finally awakened, it was slowly, resurfacing to consciousness in fits and starts. I wondered where I was. It was too quiet for Paris, *any* part of Paris.

Then I remembered that I'd been able to catch a ride on a private jet. Fuck. I hated owing that particular billionaire a favor. Especially since we had wiled away the hours playing poker, and if we had been playing for anything other than toothpicks, I would have owned controlling shares in his company.

I was a mess. My lashes were stuck together, and when I managed to pry my eyelids open, all I could do was gaze blearily at the ceiling. My neck was sore, and I was still tired from too many time zones in too short a period of time. I stretched until my joints popped, then turned over to check the time.

The numbers on my clock radio were out of focus. I blinked and dug the heels of my hands into my eyes, but that didn't alter the time. It lacked a quarter hour to noon. With a groan, I rolled back onto the pillows. How could I have forgotten to set my alarm? I'd have to call Janet, my secretary, and let her know I'd be coming in late.

The cotton sheet rubbed over nipples that seemed more sensitive than usual, and it was odd because my pajamas generally did a good job of buffering them. The memory of the most fantastic dream niggled at the edges of my brain, and a flash of sexual heat shot through me.

I'd dreamed that Clark Palmer had somehow broken into my house and had been waiting for me when I returned from Paris. I hummed pleasurably and reached down to fondle my cock. He'd cuffed me to the bed and...

Fucking hell! I sat up abruptly. The sheet pooled at my waist, and my pajama top hung open, the buttons all neatly removed. My nipples looked as if someone had spent the night toying with them, and I remembered Palmer's avid mouth suckling them voraciously. They grew pebble hard in response to that memory, and my cock quivered.

I pushed the bedcovers further down and found large, hand-sized bruises around my hips. Had he fucked me?

As quickly as the question arose, I dismissed it. Clark Palmer had promised me he wouldn't. And besides, I had categorized my various aches, and that deep internal one of having been well-fucked wasn't one of them.

I looked down at my pajama top and sighed. Even if I couldn't find all the buttons, my tailor was certain to have replacements. How the fuck would I explain it, though? I shrugged and swung my legs over the side of the bed, then stood and staggered a bit, still a little jet lagged.

My destroyed pajama bottoms slithered to my ankles. Clever Palmer. I had felt even more naked than if he'd stripped us both, and I regarded them ruefully as I stepped out of them. They had been a gift from Mother. And had been one of my favorites.

My mother had a rather strange sense of humor at times. Every Christmas she made sure to give me one present that was certain to have me cringing. I would never know which box held it, and she and Markov would watch with bland expressions as I cautiously opened each package as if it contained explosives.

I had a chest filled with shirts and ties and pajamas that I would wear only under penalty of death. One day I intended to donate them to a charity in her name, but not while there was a chance she might still ask me to wear one. Unfortunately, this had not been one of those.

Palmer definitely owed me. I'd have to see about learning where he lived and paying him a visit. I wondered how difficult that would be.

I considered the events of the night before. Clark Palmer wanted me enough to circumvent my security system, incapacitate me, cuff me to my bed and give me the best blowjob of my life.

Maybe I owed him.

~~~

A glance at my clock radio told me it wasn't getting any earlier. And I couldn't understand why Janet, my secretary, hadn't called to find out where I was.

I really wanted a shower, but I'd have to make that phone call first.

"Deputy Director Webb's office. How may I help you?"

"Janet..."

"Oh, Mr. Webb. I'm so glad you called again."

"...I'm ... Again?"

"Yes, sir. I got your message on my voice mail this morning, saying you probably wouldn't be in today, and to cancel all your appointments. Is your jet lag better?"

"Excuse me?" Son of a bitch! Palmer *had* called in for me! I remembered him saying something about it, but I thought he was just being Palmer, and taunting me. "Oh, yes, thank you Janet. I...uh...I just wanted to let you know that I'm quite recovered now, and will be in sometime after two. I'll need you to rearrange my schedule accordingly."

"Of course, sir." She sounded her usual competent self. Sometimes I thought nothing short of the apocalypse would rattle Janet Watson. "Will you be needing me to stay late, Mr. Webb?"

"Possibly, Janet." I'd have to see how backed up this late start would make me. "Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. Oh, by the way, sir, Agent Cooper stopped by." Her voice became a little droll.

"Which one?" It was hell having two Coopers in the Company, although I found it amusing to see outsiders try to figure out their relationship. Spouses? Siblings? They were neither, but they loved to keep everyone guessing.

"David Brendan." Her tone was even drier.

"D.B.? Why?"

Could he have more information about why Special Agent Clark Palmer was keeping a file on me? D.B. had been the one to tell me that Palmer was collecting information about me, which was the final clue I'd needed to solve the puzzle of who had interviewed my mother under the disguise of being Matthew Robinson, someone with whom I had gone to Exeter. The last time I'd seen D.B., on the day of Michael Shaw's funeral, he'd come to me with the intelligence that an antiterrorist organization in Europe was trying to access my personal files. He also informed me that not only did Clark Palmer have connections with Section One, but he had just returned from a trip to meet with Michael Samuelle, that connection.

"He didn't say, sir." Janet's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Shall I let him know you'll be in this afternoon and see if he wants to set up a meeting?"

"Yes, Janet. Thank you. Anything else of importance? Then I'll see you in a couple of hours." I hung up, chewing on my lip. There would be time enough to learn why D.B. wanted to see me.

****

I pulled out a navy blue suit, pale blue shirt, and a red and blue diagonally striped tie and laid them on the bed.

Maid service would be in sometime in the early afternoon. I placed Clark's mementos in the middle drawer of the desk and locked it, realizing suddenly that the key to the cuffs was missing. Had Clark taken it with him? I swore. My erection would no sooner subside than something would remind me of last night, and I'd be hard and ready to fuck in a split second.

I growled under my breath and folded my red and green and black pajamas and stuffed them into the back of my closet. I didn't have time for this.

After a tepid shower that washed away the last of the jet lag, I wrapped a towel around my hips and studied my face in the mirror dispassionately. The spot where Palmer had injected me was barely noticeable. I ran my fingertips over it. A small Band-Aid would conceal it. If anyone asked, I'd just say I cut myself shaving. No one at Langley or State knew me well enough to know I used an electric razor.

I shaved and dressed, then hurried down the stairs to where I had left my briefcase the night before. On the occasional table the picture of JessicaTheDumbBlonde, so named because of her vapid expression, was lying face down. She was my buffer against unwanted inquiries into my unattached state. Both Commander Rabb and Lieutenant Roberts had complimented me on my taste in women. After the incident on the Kamiko Maru, when I had been declared dead, they had gone to my townhouse and had seen her photograph. The mystery woman. Who she was was a mystery to me as well.

I set it upright, made sure it was in its proper position. Then I shrugged into my overcoat and left.

****

My fingers were flying furiously over the keyboard. I must have been typing close to a hundred words a minute. Then I paused to read back what I had keyed and swore. It was all gibberish.

My intercomm buzzed. "What?" I growled into it at the same time my door opened.

"You don't sound like a happy camper, Clay."

"Just wanted to let you know Agent Cooper was here, Mr. Webb," my secretary said.

"Thanks, Janet." I took my finger off the switch and scowled at my friend's cheerful face. "What are you so happy about, David?"

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. "Whoa! The only time you call me David is when you've got your shorts in a twist! Who's been after you, Clay? That asshole, Rabb?"

"No, I haven't been to JAG in weeks." I swore under my breath. Were the remnants of jet lag still clouding my thinking? It would have been better if D.B. thought the Navy lawyer was the one who was making me crazy. I didn't want anyone to know that Clark Palmer had gotten to me, in more ways than one. "Never mind about me; what's gotten into you?"

He smiled wolfishly. Diversion successful. "It's not what's gotten into me; it's what I'm going to get into!"

"Jesus, D.B., not another civilian who's going to rhumba all over your heart, like that redhead last year!" It was easier dating someone who knew the score, who accepted that I'd be called away at a moment's notice. I was up front about that with everyone I saw, but it was exhausting. Maybe that was why I was having such a dry spell myself.

A frown creased his forehead. "How could she throw me over for an accountant, Clay? An accountant, for chrissake!"

"You know as well as I do that anyone not in the intelligence community assumes that when you made a date with her, you'll at least be in the same country to keep it." I sighed. "Well, good luck. You've got my phone number if you need to cry on someone's shoulder?"

"Thanks, Clay. You're a good friend."

I picked up pen and began fiddling with it, tapping it against my desk blotter. "What did you want to see me about?"

Immediately he got serious. "It looks like Red Cell is reactivating."

"Well, isn't that an interesting tidbit?" I pulled up the file we had on the terrorist organization, something from the DSD that Michael Shaw had passed to D.B. because mention was made of an operation run by... "Clark Palmer?" Jesus, every time I turned around, there he was, involved up to his ass! *Fuck*! I forced myself to stop thinking of his ass. "Uh, all this stuff that Shaw let you have. Did he also happen to give you Palmer's home address?"

"Yep. That was the first thing he sent over," D.B. said absently, studying the profile on the man called The Cardinal. "It's in that attachment I sent you with the report on Section One."

"Thanks," I remarked in a casual tone; I didn't want my friend to know how important this was to me.

****

It was well after eight by the time I left Langley, a slip of paper with a certain address in my wallet. It had been a long day, and I regretted not using Palmer's excuse to stay home from work. I called for a cab to drive me home, and almost dozed on the short ride.

The cab pulled up in front of my drive. I handed him the fare and the tip, and got out, observing the areas of light and shadow cautiously. It seemed safe enough. Then again, it had seemed safe enough the night before.

I inserted my key in the lock of my townhouse and let myself in.

Reset the alarm, hang up my overcoat, place my keys on the table... On the table beside the door, next to the mail was a rectangular package, wrapped in the signature paper of an exclusive men's shop. There was a small envelope wedged under the ribbon that decorated it, and suddenly I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Very carefully I removed the pale grey square and teased the flap open, withdrawing the note it held. 'Hi, baby. Sorry about ruining those nice pajamas. This should make up for it. C.'

Palmer wanted me to open that beautifully wrapped box immediately, I could feel it as surely as if he were in the room, urging me to obey him.

Stubbornly, I replaced it on the table. Maybe I'd open that package, and maybe I wouldn't. It was a childish thought, like thumbing my nose at him, but I felt better for it. I stuck the note back under the ribbon and went into the kitchen. I'd heat something up in the microwave and make an early night of it. Tomorrow I'd be back to normal, and then Clark Palmer would learn what happened when you fucked with the CIA.

The sudden image came to me of bending him over my desk at Langley and pounding into his ass with deep, hard strokes. I ruthlessly banished it from my mind.

There was a Styrofoam container on the second shelf in the refrigerator, which I didn't remember seeing earlier. I took it out, and found a note taped across the lid. 'Had a feeling you'd want to eat first. Keep it light, baby. You need your rest, and a heavy meal will keep you up all night. I'd rather be the reason for that. C.'

My cock got so hard so fast that I gasped from the need to fuck or be fucked.

My fingers tightened around the container, which had the logo of a local deli across the side, tempted to heave it against a wall. Instead, I drew in a deep breath, removed the lid and sniffed the contents. Chicken soup. I got a spoon and gave it a stir. Carrots and celery and grains of rice.

A suspicion was gnawing at the edges of my mind, but my mouth was watering and my stomach was making whimpering sounds, and I was suddenly too hungry to pay it any heed. I surrendered and poured a portion into a bowl, then put the soup in the microwave and set the timer to reheat it.

While I was waiting I went into the media room to select a CD to listen to. I found the latest by Diana Krall and loaded it into the CD player. The mellow strains of 'SWonderful filled the first floor of my townhouse. I was about to return to the kitchen but jolted to a stop, that uncomfortable sensation raising the hairs on the back of my neck back in full force.

JessicaTheDumbBlonde's photograph was face down once again. I walked over to it, licked my lips, and then set it upright.

I had assumed that Palmer had had the package and soup delivered while the maid service was here and that someone on the crew had accepted them. Was I wrong? Could Palmer have been in my house again? The timer pinged, and I went back to take the bowl out of the microwave. The fragrant steam tickled my nostrils, and I gave a little hum of pleasure, then set it down and took a bottle of Perrier and a fresh lime from the refrigerator.

As I poured the sparkling water into a glass of crushed ice, I mulled over the possibility of Palmer holding that picture of JessicaTheDumbBlonde. Why? And why place it face down? I rinsed the lime and rolled in on a cutting board, then sliced off a wedge and squeezed it into the Perrier.

I sat at the butcher-block table in the center of my kitchen and thoughtfully tasted the soup that Palmer had brought me.

****

The bowl and glass were rinsed and in the dishwasher. I gathered the elegantly wrapped package and went up the stairs to my bedroom, sparing one last glance for JessicaTheDumbBlonde.

I placed the box on the bachelor chest and undressed, then showered and brushed my teeth and put on another pair of pajamas.

Unable to delay any longer, I slid a thumbnail under the tape that fastened one end of the paper and tried to ease it open without tearing it. Grimly I forced myself to take my time, and I succeeded quite well, freeing the box eventually. I flipped off the top and parted the tissue paper.

They were patterned in swirls of green and purple on a black background, silk so fine that I wouldn't have been surprised if it could have passed through the eye of a needle. I raised it to my face and rubbed my cheek against it. So soft, so sensuous. I wanted to make love to it.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, and I stooped to retrieve it. 'Knew you'd want to eat first, baby. I always figured you to be a believer in delayed gratification! So am I. Don't wear these until I can take them off you. C.'

God*damn* Clark Palmer! My cock was tenting my pajama pants, and I knew I'd never get to sleep without jerking off first. And I'd be jerking off with him in my mind. I growled, folded his gift and replaced it in the box.

I strode to my bed and was about to fling back the covers when I noticed their rumpled condition. Something propped on the pillow reflected back the lamplight. I leaned forward and picked it up.

It was a Polaroid snapshot. Lying on my bed, one hand cuffed to the headboard, the other resting on the bulge beneath his fly, oh, yes, there definitely was a bulge there, was the DSD agent, a smug grin on his face. Bastard. He must have come from work. He was wearing a tailored shirt, the tie casually loosened and a couple of the top buttons undone. His fly was unzipped, and if I looked really hard, I could just make out the wiry hairs that covered his groin.

Handcuffed...

I bolted to the desk and fumbled with my keys to find the correct one to open it. The cuffs were still there, along with the handkerchief and two notes.

Two notes? That wasn't right. I picked them up. One was from the night before, but the second was new. 'You might want to look into having your security system upgraded, baby. I'd demand a refund myself. C.'

I was gritting my teeth as I shoved the notes into the drawer, slammed it shut, and locked it. That system was CIA quality, the very latest that we had been offered.

When I got my hands on Palmer, he'd have a lot to answer for. I pictured myself, with my hands on his body, and I smiled.

Palmer would expect me to go after him, to retaliate quickly. After all, that was how the DSD worked. And I'd been so fucking hot for him the night before, he'd think I'd never be able to resist him, and dammit, there was my dick, agreeing whole-heartedly with that.

But I was also the son of Neville and Porter Webb. Cunning had been bred into my bones.

I sat on the edge of the bed and made sure that this time my alarm was set to go off at the correct time, then swung my legs up onto the comforter and slid my hand past my waistband. My cock was hard and slick with pre come. I ran my fingertips along its hot length and circled the crown. I teased myself higher. Suddenly I remembered Clark's mouth fitting around me, swallowing me, and my strokes became rough and fast. That was all it took to trigger an orgasm almost as good as the one he'd given me.

I reached for a handful of tissues and wiped my fingers off, planning my next move.

I was going to pay Clark Palmer of the DSD a visit, but not tomorrow. Not even the next day.

He was going to be in for a surprise.

I began to laugh as I shut the light and got under the covers.

~End~