Archive: Author: Tal

Ever After: Day One – Sergey & Sasha post-Enemy Within

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to Bauer’s Bytes!

We’re going back to Sergey & Sasha in this week’s Byte, picking up immediately after Ever After, A Work in Progress. ***Ever After, A Work in Progress & Ever After: Day One are both set immediately post-Enemy Within, and contain significant spoilers for Sergey & Sasha’s storylines! If you have not read Enemy Within, this Byte is NOT for you!***

I’ve had multiple requests for Bytes about how all the characters are doing post-EO series. I have been careful to keep all the Bytes to the very immediate future surrounding the EO series. I do this because I want to keep some secrecy around where the next set of books is going, and where the characters are journeying in their next trilogy. Occasionally, I drop some hints as to what is coming next… such as in last week’s Byte, High Holy Halloween! 😉

Happy Reading!

 

 

 

Sasha’s hand stroked up and down Sergey’s arm, fingers ghosting over his skin.

 

They lay side-by-side in Sergey’s bed, Sasha’s leg hooked over both of Sergey’s. Sergey propped his head up on one hand, gazing at Sasha. Sasha bunched a pillow under the side of his head, and both of his hands were touching Sergey, stroking his arm and his cheek, fingers sliding over his face and down to his jaw, into his hair, as if he couldn’t get enough. His gaze seemed to memorize Sergey, an endless, unblinking stare.

 

“What can I do for you?” Sergey kept his voice to a whisper, trying not to break the spell that seemed to wreathe them both, wreathe the bed and his bedroom. Since Sasha had returned with him to the Kremlin, each moment had seemed like a dream, each second that passed where Sasha stayed an impossibility. Panic hung over Sasha like a raincloud, a tension that clung to his skin. The air surrounding him seemed to vibrate, chords of anxiety rumbling in Sergey’s soul. “Sasha, I will do anything for you. Anything that you need.”

 

Sasha shook his head. His cheeks mashed into the pillow. “I do not know what I need,” he rumbled. “I’m trying not to think.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling slowly. “I should not be here,” he breathed.

 

Sergey grabbed his hands, tangling their fingers together. It hadn’t even been one day. Not even one, single day. He’d just screamed Sasha’s name, shouted down the Kremlin with his release. Sasha had come undone, burning Sergey’s thigh with his own release after pleasuring Sergey with his mouth. Couldn’t they have one day? Couldn’t their happiness last past this moment?

 

“Sasha… please…”

 

Sasha prickled like a cat, every part and piece of him twitching as his eyes closed. He squeezed Sergey’s fingers. “I should not be here… but I want to be.”

 

Yobaniy nasos, finally. Sergey exhaled, and his heart started to beat again. “I told you, we will make this work. I promise. I will do whatever it takes. We will figure it out, zvezda moya.”

 

Frowning, Sasha nodded, short jerks of his head. He said nothing.

 

“Don’t run. Please, don’t run again.” He couldn’t deal with it if Sasha fled… again. His heart couldn’t take it. He’d have to turn away, forget about Sasha, and forget about the supernova that existed between their souls.

 

“Let me protect you?”

 

“What?” It was Sergey’s turn to frown.

 

“We need to keep this quiet. Secret. Let me do that. Please. Don’t… try to push…”

 

“I won’t push, Sasha.” Sergey slid his hand up Sasha’s arm, over his shoulder, and cupped Sasha’s cheek. “But don’t let the secrecy kill this.”

 

Sasha nuzzled his hand, pushing into his hold. He shook his head. Pulled Sergey closer, dragging him with his leg until their hips were pressed together, their bellies. “I am yours,” he whispered. “You have all of me. You always have, from that first night.” He leaned in—

 

In the front room, Sergey’s apartment door flew open. The heavy wood creaked, hinges screaming, and the door slammed back into the jamb. Footsteps thundered into Sergey’s Kremlin apartment, like an elephant on a stampede.

 

Pure terror flooded Sasha’s gaze. His spine went rigid, and he grabbed Sergey, hauling him close before scooting away, trying to grab his clothes and leap out of bed and pull up the sheet all at the same time. Sergey rolled up, searching left and right for his pants. Govno, Sasha had pulled them off at the foot of the bed! He couldn’t reach—

 

“Sergey! Where the hell are you?”

 

Sasha froze.

 

Sergey relaxed, slumping as he sighed. He closed his eyes. “I will be out in a minute!”

 

Of course, Ilya wouldn’t accept that. Sergey heard Ilya’s heavy boots stomping all the way through his apartment, all the way to his bedroom. Sasha bounced on one foot, trying to shove his leg through his jeans and pull them up. He was shirtless, and as red as the Russian flag. Sergey flipped the edge of the sheet over his naked crotch, as Ilya’s footsteps came closer.

 

The bedroom door pushed open.

 

Ilya strode in, as if he owned the place. For the past month, he practically had. Sergey hadn’t wanted to leave his apartment after giving everything he had to the country, and he stubbornly stayed ensconced in the walls where he remembered Sasha’s smile. Where he could relive the evenings he’d heard Sasha’s laughter, when things were simpler and his heart wasn’t broken. After spending the day rebuilding Russia, all he wanted to do was come back to Sasha. But Sasha hadn’t been there like he said he would be, and instead, Sergey had tried to live in his memories.

 

Ilya put up with exactly none of that. From the first night, he dragged Sergey out for dinner, then drinks. Late nights at the gym, when Sergey didn’t feel quite so broken and old any longer after the Arctic. A trip to basketball games in Moscow, and then hockey games. He kept Sergey moving. Kept him from wallowing, when all Sergey wanted to do was replay memories and the soundtrack of ‘what if’.

 

Sasha froze, his pants just zipped up, the fly undone. His chest heaved, rising and falling like he was about to pass out.

 

Sergey smiled at Ilya, tilting his head to the side. “Hello, Ilya. What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

Ilya had stopped dead, his boots scuffing on the wooden floor. His jaw dropped, practically unhinged, and he stared at Sasha as if he was seeing a ghost.

 

Eyes narrowing, he whipped to Sergey. His voice dropped. “What is he doing here?”

 

Sergey smiled wider. He looked down at himself – naked, just a sheet corner over his lap – and then back at Ilya. “Oh, come now, Ilya. You are not the head of the FSB for nothing.”

 

Ilya didn’t care for Sergey’s humor. He scowled at Sergey before turning to Sasha, his glare going frigid, murderous. “Fucking him over last night was not enough, hmm? You have to do it here, too?” He cursed, bitter Russian spitting from his lips. “When are you leaving? Just hurry up and get it over with!”

 

“Ilya—”

 

“Sergey needs to figure out that you are never going to actually stay! You are never going to be what he needs!”

 

“Ilya—”

 

“Sergey doesn’t need you! Doesn’t need what you’ve done to him! Some days, I wish you’d never crawled into the Kremlin, or into our lives!”

 

“Ilya!” Sergey stood, dropping the sheet. He towered over Ilya, completely naked. Red ringed his vision as if he were a hawk, a predator on the kill. His hands clenched and his breath came fast. “Out. Now,” he ground through gritted teeth.

 

Ilya glared at Sasha once more before he stormed out. Sergey heard him in the front room, dragging out a chair at the dining table and flopping into it. Heard the slam of a crystal tumbler and the slosh of vodka being poured.

 

Sergey turned to Sasha.

 

Sasha had flinched with every one of Ilya’s words, full body shudders that had him curling over himself, folding over until he dropped, crouching on the floor with his hands laced behind his head. He stared at nothing, his face stone.

 

“Sasha…” Sergey swallowed. What could he say? Ilya’s fears were his own. He’d told Ilya everything, every single thing that had happened between him and Sasha. When he’d found Sasha hiding in Shipunovskaya, elation had carried him straight to Ilya, hope filling his fantasies that he could go to Sasha and bring him home, convince him that all was good, that everything would be okay.

 

Ilya had reminded him of how Sasha had left, not just once, but over and over again. That Sasha had always chosen to leave, to flee the hard parts, to escape his feelings for Sergey. Flying to his death in the Arctic. Running from Sergey when Sergey admitted his own feelings. And, leaving for good, after everything. After all they’d become together.

 

Making the decision, on his own, that their love wasn’t worth the risk, or the struggle.

 

How could anything possibly work between them? Was Ilya right? Was Sasha just going to leave anyway, sometime, somehow? Could Sasha stay, with Sergey’s boisterous, all-encompassing love?  

 

“I… will go talk to Ilya.” Sergey reached for Sasha, his fingers brushing through Sasha’s blond hair. Sasha didn’t move.

 

Sergey pulled on his pants, grabbed a sweater, and then marched out to the front room. Ilya sat hunched over the dining table, glowering into a tumbler of vodka. He spun the glass on the tabletop, making the crystal warble against the old wood.

 

“That was uncalled for.” Sergey growled as he padded to Ilya, collapsing in the chair opposite him. “Sasha worked for you. He was dedicated to you. He did good work, too.”

 

“That doesn’t change what he did.”

 

Sergey scrubbed his face, squeezing his eyes closed. “Ilya… what is this about?”

 

Ilya knocked back his vodka, downing everything in one gulp. He dropped the tumbler on the table, the crystal twanging as it settled. “I have been your friend for more years than he has been alive.”

 

“And?”

 

Ilya sighed. “Are you sure this is what you really want?” He shook his head, looking away.

 

Silence. “You’ve never been homophobic before, Ilya.”

 

“I don’t mean that you want to fuck a man.”

 

Sergey kept quiet. He didn’t try and correct Ilya; what he wanted, more than anything, was for Sasha to make love to him.

 

“I mean, him. Sasha. He’s not stable. Everything he does proves that. We’ve known him for only months, Sergey. Who is he truly? What does he really want out of this? Out of you?”

 

“You think he’s using me—”

 

“I think I don’t know him enough to trust him with you. And you don’t know him enough. You didn’t think he’d leave you, but he did. What else don’t we know?”

 

What else, indeed. The things Sergey knew, really knew, about Sasha could fill a single page. But, didn’t going through hell with a man show you the depth of his character? Didn’t surviving the end of the world together reveal the center of a man’s soul? Sasha had ripped him from the crashed plane, had pulled a miracle out of broken machinery and saved Sergey’s life. He had a wall in his cabin devoted to Sergey, to his rebuilding of Russia. Those couldn’t be the actions of a man who didn’t care.

 

“Ilya, I know I want to try this. I have to try this. If it does not work, it does not work. But if it does…” He let his hands fall, palms hitting the table. “I feel more with him than I ever felt for my wives.”

 

“You were not this reckless with either of them.”

 

“What can I say? I am happy with him. He makes me happy.”

 

Shaking his head, Ilya poured another shot of vodka into his glass. He grabbed another tumbler, though, and filled it for Sergey, then pushed it across the table. “Russia will fight you, if they find out about this. They will eat you alive. You are supposed to be their savior. Not fall from grace.”

 

“I am a man. Not a savior. And I won’t make any excuses for this. For us.”

 

“If you are smart, you will hide this.”

 

“We are going to keep it quiet, yes.”

 

“For as long as he stays?” Ilya snorted into his vodka.

 

“Ilya—”

 

“I’m staying.” Sasha’s voice, his low rumble, broke through the apartment.

 

Sergey twisted, staring over his shoulder. Ilya froze.

 

“I’m staying, as long as Sergey will have me. As long as he wants me. Because I—” Sasha’s hands were clenched at his sides, tight fists that trembled. His knuckles were white. “I want—” He shook his head. “If he weren’t the president… if this wasn’t Russia… I’d—” His voice choked off. He looked away, his jaw clenching hard.

 

What would they be, if they were anyone else? Would Sasha still have the darkness inside him, the stain on his soul? Would Sergey still chase him to the ends of the earth? Was there any possibility, in any other universe, of their souls not combining, their love not sparking against each other? Or was theirs a fated love, something meant to happen, no matter what?

 

If so, then why had—

 

No. He couldn’t second guess the past. Sasha was here, now. That was what mattered. They’d come back to the Kremlin together. They were home. Together.

 

Ilya stared hard at Sasha. His glare flicked to Sergey, and he reached into his jacket pulling out a folded envelope. He set it down and slid it across the table. “I got these because I thought you would need a distraction tonight. After he left.”

 

Sergey flicked open the envelope. Inside were two tickets to the Red Army hockey game in Moscow for that evening with impressively good seats. Of course.

 

Ilya waved his hand, as if dismissing the tickets and Sergey and everything else. “But I am busy tonight. You take them. Do what you want with them, I don’t care.”

 

* * *

 

Sasha looked, if possible, even better than he did at the Heroes’ Ball in his tux. They’d showered – together – and changed into slacks and sweaters.

 

Sergey had collected Sasha’s things from his old apartment in the Kremlin and kept them, after Sasha had disappeared. He’d felt like a crazy person, hiding Sasha’s belongings in his own closet like a stalker.

 

But Sasha smiled at the clothes he’d kept, and he picked through the box until he pulled out a navy-blue sweater and a pair of black slacks he’d gotten from the GUM. Sergey watched him dress, watched him brush his teeth and style his hair, and the whole time, his heart seemed to beat like a hummingbird’s, running wild in his chest. I want this. I want to see him like this every day. I want to keep him only an arm’s length away? How do I? How do I keep this going?

 

He rushed to dress after, and they grabbed their coats and raced down to the limo waiting in the courtyard. His security detail didn’t blink when Sergey appeared with Sasha.

 

Sasha sat like a man being led to his death in the back of the limo. Stiff and facing front, like he was being read up for mutiny and treason charges before a court martial. “Is okay, Sasha. The president can spend time with a Hero of Russia. Is normal.”

 

Sasha nodded, once. His hands gripped the leather seat, denting the cushion. Sergey tried to read emails on his phone, catch up with the world. Scan the headlines. But his gaze kept sliding sideways to Sasha.

 

Once, Sasha looked back. For a moment, he almost smiled, and it was like the sun rising over the ice caps in the Arctic, turning the world back to rights.

 

They arrived at the private entrance to the CSKA Ice Palace in Moscow and were ushered in by Sergey’s bodyguards. Sasha didn’t know how to act, where to walk. The security detail tried to keep him with Sergey, walking them like a pair. Sasha tried to disappear, slink away, evaporate from the world.

 

The men on the security detail were all new, his old team shot dead in Sochi. Ilya had picked his new team once they were back in Moscow, after everything. Sasha didn’t know any of them. They treated Sasha like he was someone special, though, someone important with Sergey, and not like he was just an afterthought. Sasha clearly didn’t know how to deal with it.

 

Their seats were center ice, right on the arena floor. Sergey was recognized immediately, and a cheer thundered down the arena. Spotlights circled over their heads. Sergey waved and waved to the crowd, and his face appeared on the jumbotron screen at the end of the arena.

 

Sasha sat stiff in the chair beside Sergey, trying to disappear. But, the camera caught him looking up at Sergey, and that image went straight to the jumbotron.

 

Sergey had never seen that look on Sasha’s face. It was something beyond adoration, beyond caring. Beyond love, even.

 

Sergey looked down, back at Sasha. The camera caught on that Sasha was someone special, a VIP with the president, and they zoomed into his face. For a second, the feed caught a fraction of a smile curling up Sasha’s lips before he realized that every eyeball in the arena, and across most of Russia, was fixed squarely on him. In a flash, he turned into a turtle, trying to disappear into his wool jacket. Tried to turn invisible through sheer force of will alone.

 

The cameras panned away, respectfully deferring when Sergey waved them off. Sasha vibrated beside him for the entire pregame, silent and tense, hunched in his seat with his hands pressed between his knees. He brushed Sergey’s shoulder, though, when they stood for the national anthem.

 

During the first period, Sasha pressed the side of his shoe against Sergey’s. Let their ankles and then their calves ghost each other.

 

In the second period, Sergey bought them both Baltika beers, #6, the mid-range porter. Not the #9, the heaviest, strongest brew. But something to take the edge off. Halfway through the beer, Sasha leaned his elbow on the seat rest between them and left it there.

 

By the third period, Sergey was speaking into Sasha’s ear, explaining the Red Army’s team history and his memories of coming to the games for years. He and Ilya used to sit behind the goal, drinking beer and shouting at the players. Sasha chuckled in all the right places, and he looked up at Sergey from underneath his long eyelashes.

 

Sergey wanted to kiss him, plant one on him in the middle of the arena. He didn’t care about the game, or the cameras, or the country that would pillory him. He just wanted Sasha to keep slouching against him that way, keep turning his head toward Sergey. Keep looking at him, just like that.

 

Please. Don’t… try to push…

 

Sasha’s words – had it only been that morning? – came back, echoing through him. Let me protect you. I cannot bear it if you were attacked like I was. The only thing Sasha had asked for was time. Patience. Discretion.

 

He could give him that. Sergey smiled and leaned back, away from the temptation of Sasha’s lips.

 

When the Red Army team scored again and the arena burst into cheers, everyone leaping to their feet, Sergey wrapped one arm around Sasha and pulled him close, hugging him tight.

 

He felt Sasha’s arms wind around him in return.

 

Their eyes met.

 

Quiet happiness, contentment, the sheen of muted joy. Things Sergey had never, ever seen before were there, in Sasha’s gaze. Delight. Gratitude. Hope.

 

After the game ended, the Red Army team solidly winning against Finland’s Jokerit team, they were whisked out by Sergey’s bodyguards and escorted to the limo. Sasha stayed by Sergey’s side, close this time, as if he was meant to be there. Sergey’s protective detail didn’t bat an eye.

 

Finally, they were in the limo and headed back to the Kremlin. Sergey slouched against the back seat, his cheeks aching from all the smiles, all the laughter. He rolled his head on the black leather, gazing at Sasha.

 

Sasha stared back at him, small smile on his face. “I have never done that.”

 

“Gone to a hockey game?”

 

“Gone… on a date.”  Sasha slowly slid his hand across the seat, opening his palm between them.

 

Like a child being offered candy, he reached for Sasha, almost embaressed at his own blunt desire, his obvious thrill at holding Sasha’s hand. He wrapped his long fingers around Sasha’s heavy palm and watched Sasha swallow, watched a tendril of fear slide back into Sasha’s eyes, warring with the contented lassitude that had been there before. But, Sasha kept their hands joined. Kept their gazes connected. Kept holding on.

 

Sergey spoke softly, just above a whisper. “You said, earlier, that if I was not the president, and this was not Russia, you would…” He trailed off. “What were you going to say?”

 

Sasha squeezed his hand, painfully hard. The limo threaded through Moscow and neon light spilled over Sasha’s face, melted in swirls and drops down his skin, painting him in rainbows. “I would do this,” he breathed. “And I would never let go. Ever.”

 

Sergey’s breath hitched.

 

“I would—” Sasha breathed in, a sharp inhale. His eyes widened. “I would take you to the ends of the earth, like Jack and Ethan. And I would—”

 

Sergey yanked him close, pressing their lips together, kissing Sasha like he’d dreamed of every single night Sasha had been gone. Sasha squirmed, grunting and trying to stifle all sound, trying to press closer and trying to disappear. He grabbed Sergey’s jacket. Tried to lean away. Squeezed his eyes shut, like he was in pain, and leaned in, deepening the kiss.

 

The limo turned, and slowed. Bumped over the cobblestones of the Kremlin.

 

Sasha flew back, pressing against the far door, as far from Sergey as he could get. He stared at Sergey as he trembled, wild like a trapped animal, panicked and terrified and caught.

 

Please. Don’t… try to push… All Sasha wanted, all he asked for, was that Sergey not push him, not push this. They had to keep it hidden, keep it contained. It was the only thing he wanted, patience and control, and Sergey had promised he would give it. He’d done well at the game… Had he lost everything? One kiss, in the darkness in the backseat? Was that enough to undo it all?

 

Could he not control himself for even a moment? Was Sasha right to worry and fret, to fear and run away?

 

Sergey shook his head, apologies falling from his lips. Sasha didn’t move. He stared, shaking, quaking, frozen against the seat.

 

What would his security detail say? They were inches away, sharing the same car. How had he ever thought he could keep his love for Sasha secret from his detail? They were his own shadows. They would know everything.

 

What next? Govno, what next? After everything, their first actual date, to this?

 

Would Sasha leave?

 

The limo rolled to a stop. Ahead, the security agents slipped out. Sergey heard their boots on the pavement, heard their voices speaking in low Russian. Were they talking about them? Discussing who to call? Who to alert? Was this the beginning of the end?  

 

The door opened, and the lead agent held out his hand. “Mr. President? Mr. Andreyev? We’ve arrived. You are home.”

 

Timestamp: Immediately following Ever After, a Work in Progress, and set post-Enemy Within.

 

 

High Holy Halloween – Jack & Ethan’s first Halloween together

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to Bauer’s Bytes! And, Happy Halloween! This week, we’re tagging along with Jack and Ethan, and the first Halloween they truly get to experience together. Happy Reading!

 

Jack plopped down on the couch in their home office. He watched Ethan, frowning at their computer screen and plucking at the keyboard. Jack had taken care of the legalities involved in their new company, but Ethan was working through the operational logistics.

He needed a break.

“So… what are we doing for Halloween?”

Ethan froze. His eyes flicked up, over the monitor, and fixed on Jack. “Halloween?”

“It’s a week away.” Jack shrugged. “We were separated last year.” He’d been holding down the White House, handing out candy to underprivileged kids from DC who were bussed in to trick or treat around the rooms of the White House. Ethan had been in Des Moines, sitting alone in his apartment. He didn’t get any trick or treaters.

“I didn’t think you would be interested in doing anything for Halloween.”

“What? I’m not anti-Halloween. Do you think we’ll get any trick or treaters? We could decorate the yard. Maybe dress up for anyone who comes by?”

Ethan lowered his head, hiding his smile.

Jack squinted. “What? What did I say…”

“It’s me.” Ethan shook his head, still smothering his grin. “My mind went somewhere else. Sorry.”

“Where’d your mind go?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Ethan.” Jack leaned forward. He frowned. “What were you thinking I meant?”

Ethan sighed. He sat back, folding his arms. Licked his lips. Looked over Jack’s shoulder as he bit his lower lip. “Halloween is… one of the high holy days for gay culture.” His eyes snapped to Jack’s. “It’s our holiday. For gay people, I mean,” he said, gesturing to himself.

He conspicuously didn’t gesture to Jack.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it. It’s one night a year when everyone is campy. Everyone is encouraged to be outrageous. Everyone can put on a costume and go a little crazy. For us, for a lot of our lives, it’s the one night we can be… free.” Ethan’s voice dropped.

Jack’s spine snapped straight. His mouth worked, but he couldn’t find the right words to say. He’d stumbled into something, something deep, something he hadn’t expected to find in a night of candy and pumpkins and glitter.

“I remember when I was a kid, really, really young. I guess I was more effeminate. I remember my teachers in Kindergarten and first grade telling me to stop acting like a girl. That that wasn’t how little men acted.” Ethan swallowed, looking somewhere beyond the center of the computer monitor. “But on Halloween, I could be anything. And I was. One year, in second grade, I think, I was Dorothy. My dad was the Scarecrow.” He smiled, but the edges of his lips turned down.

Jack breathed fast through his mouth. His hands squeezed the couch cushion, hard enough that his knuckles ached.

“Halloween has always been the one night that we could feel normal. Because the world around us was crazy, and everyone was being something they weren’t. It was like… being Alice in Wonderland. For one night, we didn’t have to pretend to be straight. We could be as gay as we wanted, and it was just Halloween. Everyone was crazy. Straight people, too.”

“Are… you talking about when you were in the Army? Or before? Growing up?”

Ethan nodded. He still wouldn’t look at Jack. “Yeah. When I was in high school. I always made everyone laugh because I always came in some kind of ridiculous drag. I was the big football linebacker, and there I was, in an off the shoulder evening gown from Goodwill.” Ethan snorted, laughing. He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. “In the army, if we were stateside, I would sneak out of base. Drive a hundred miles and find someplace where I could get lost. Be myself, for one night of the year.”

“You came out, though. Right? After?” Jack was hunting for the happy, desperately searching for the moment Ethan clawed his way out of the despairing edge of his memories. Ethan hadn’t ever shared much of his past, especially not his younger years. The Ethan Jack knew was confident in himself, sure of who he was in the world. Self-doubt was something alien to Ethan, something Jack had never seen.

“I did. I didn’t want to go through life that way anymore. So, I came out the day I started at the Secret Service.” Finally, Ethan looked at Jack. “It was hard,” he said softly. “But it was better than being in the closet.”

Jack bit his lip. “Did you still go out for Halloween?”

“Every year.” Ethan smiled. “For one night, I could be anything. Even myself.”

Jack’s heart cracked. “I didn’t think you ever hid yourself. You were out, and you were proud… You said so…”

“Every gay man hides parts of himself.”

“Even now?”

Ethan was quiet. He frowned. Stared at his keyboard. “No,” he finally said. “No, I don’t think so. Everything came out some way. Between the newspapers and the Congressional inquiry—”

Jack buried his head in his hands. “God, I’m sorry, Ethan. I’m so sorry.” Why had Ethan even put up with him? Why had he ever agreed to “figure something out” with Jack? Ethan had lost everything, everything he’d spent a lifetime building. He’d been exposed, brutalized in public. Was Jack’s love truly worth all of that? He felt woefully inadequate, a feather on one side of the scale weighed against Ethan’s sacrifices.

“Don’t be sorry.” Ethan’s voice was soft. “This, our love? This is freedom.”

Jack’s throat clenched, words lodged against the shards of his shame.

“I’m happy, Jack. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. With you. And, being me. Really being me.”

Slowly, Jack nodded. It took a few tries, but he finally swallowed the lump in his throat, finally breathed in without tears shimmering in his gaze. “Thank you,” he whispered, “for sharing. I had no idea Halloween was so important to you.”

“It is and it isn’t.” Ethan shrugged. He squinted. “I mean, yeah, I felt free on Halloween. I could be me. But most of the time that meant I was getting crazy at a club. I was trying to get lucky.”

Jack laughed. The weight in the air fizzled, rising like bubbles that made Jack dizzy. “How’d that go for you?”

Blushing, Ethan shrugged. His cheeks turned cherry red, and he swept at a speck of dust on the desktop.

Jack laughed again, long and loud. Ethan’s expose, the vivisection of his sexual history, was a thing of the past. Ancient history. Yes, once, Ethan had been a player. But Jack had let go of the fear that article had planted in his heart sometime between realizing Ethan was the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with and whispering his wedding vows to Ethan on the Honolulu, in the frigid waters of the Arctic circle. Somehow, Ethan had fallen for Jack. Out of everyone in the world, Ethan chose Jack. He’d beat all the other men who’d ever tried to capture his heart. How was he that lucky?

“So what did you dress up as? When you’d go out?”

If possible, Ethan’s blush flared brighter, as if someone had put him under a ruby spotlight. He coughed. Wouldn’t meet Jack’s gaze.

Jack scooted to the edge of the couch. “Oh, this is going to be good…”

Fumbling, Ethan laughed helplessly, stumbling over syllables before he spoke. “Gay guys are kinda… shameless… especially about our bodies…”

“Oh, I know.” Jack winked. Visions of Ethan in his tiny bathing suit flashed in his mind. Itty bitty white fabric, Ethan’s tan skin, his broad, furred chest. Ethan still sometimes slipped out to tan at a salon. He maintained his body, his appearance in a way that made Jack’s head swim. Jack still had to remind himself to trim his nose and ear hairs, and get a haircut. Ethan’s hair was perfect, always, and Jack had never seen an errant hair on his body.

“Uhh… sexy army guy worked for a few years…”

“Sexy army guy?!” Jack’s eyebrows shot straight up.

Ethan coughed, pitching forward as he laughed. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this!”

“You cannot stop now. C’mon. Spill. What does ‘sexy army guy’ look like?”

“You know…” Ethan shrugged. He stared at Jack, embarrassment making him squirm. He snorted, almost giggling. “I cut up some old army pants and made them really short shorts. Wore the jacket, but left it open. Combat boots.”

Jack could picture it. Ethan’s long, long legs on display, his chest framed by camo. His trim waist, hugged by a tiny scrap of fabric. His mouth dried out, and his cock stirred.

Ethan stared at him. “One year, I wore a leather harness with it.”

Jack’s breath hitched.

“Sexy federal agent was a big hit, too. Same idea, just with a business suit. I wore a tie, too.”

Jack whimpered. He closed his eyes. Bit his lip.

Ethan laughed. “I might have to cut up an old suit for you…” He winked.

Lightning slammed into Jack, desire that went from his belly to his brain. He couldn’t decide what he wanted. Wrestle Ethan out of his costume, take his time exploring his body, opening him up, and loving him until Ethan screamed his name at the top of his lungs. Or, let Ethan scoop him up, press him into the mattress, kiss every part of Jack until he was a shivering mess, and then lose his mind to the stars as Ethan made love to him. Could he have both?

Breathing deep, Jack opened his eyes. He saw Ethan laughing, saw his open happiness, the hint of a flush on his cheeks. Saw joy in Ethan’s gaze.

“Let’s go out for Halloween. Like that. To a club together.”

Ethan sobered so fast Jack thought he’d hurt himself. From laughing to serious, as serious as Ethan had been in the White House. He leaned forward, almost scowling. “Jack… what?”

Part of him wanted to take it back. Did Ethan not want to do that with Jack? Was that part of his life off limits to Jack?

No. They were married. They shared everything. Ethan wouldn’t push Jack away, not from this. Not from anything. “Let’s go out, to a club. We’ve never done that. You used to go out a lot, before. I want to do it with you.” He smiled. “Let’s go out for Halloween. Like you used to. It’s our holiday, right?”

Ethan’s jaw dropped. He blinked, but said nothing. “Are… you sure you want to do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Gay clubs can be… intense. They’re our spaces. We can be free there. Free to express ourselves in… every way. A lot of people aren’t comfortable with that.”

“You think I’d be freaked out by guys having a good time together? I expect we’ll be having just as good a time.”

Ethan flushed. “Things can get… kinky.”

“Cool.” Jack grinned. He sobered, though, standing and reaching for Ethan’s hand across the desk. “We’ve never had that. Have we ever just cut loose? Had a crazy wild time together?”

“Your birthday was great.”

“But you were worried about our image, and the press, and how it would look in the papers. We have nothing to worry about now. There’s no image to take care of. We’re us. Just us. Let’s celebrate that.”

Ethan watched him for a long moment. “I don’t want you to be overwhelmed.”

“I don’t want to hide from our culture. I love you, Ethan. I’m in love with a man. I want to embrace that.”

Ethan looked away. “You could have avoided all of this. The attacks against you, the rumors, the gossip, the way they talk about us. If we hadn’t gotten together—”

“Then I’d never have found out how truly happy I could be in life. I’d never have found what I really want in this life: you, and us, and everything that goes with that.”

Silence. Ethan picked at the edge of the desk, chewing on his bottom lip. “What would you want to dress up as?” he finally asked, quietly.

Jack beamed. “You.”

“What?”

“Sexy Secret Service agent. And I want to protect the sexy president.” He winked. “Will you dress up as my sexy president?”

Ethan’s jaw dropped again. “Even going to a gay club is going to be crazy enough, but you want to dress sexy, too?” He frowned. “I don’t know how I feel about other people getting to see you like that.”

Jack laughed. “It’s a good thing I have been fighting off your pizzas.” He patted his flat, firm stomach. “I have an old suit I can cut up. Can I borrow an old ear mic?” He watched Ethan shift, cross his legs. His smile grew. “You’d make a great sexy president.”

“I’d… have to wear your yellow tie.”

“That can be arranged.”

“We have to have detail agents with us. We have to have the Secret Service there.”

Jack sighed. His shoulders slumped.

“I’ll make sure we get the coolest agents in DC.” Ethan winked. “But I won’t be able to focus. Not if we’re out like that together.”

“Good.” Jack squeezed his hand. “I don’t want you working, or protecting me. I want us to have fun together.”

Ethan smiled.

“I’m going to go pull out my suit and start cutting. Want to help?”

Eyes twinkling, Ethan followed him to their closet. Hour and hours later, they finally had their costumes… after a detour or two back to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Halloween night, Ethan opened their front door and found Welby and Beech standing on their stoop. Beech had a mile-wide grin. Welby looked like the cat that stole the canary.

Ethan wanted to shut the door on their faces.

“You two are not the coolest agents in the DC Secret Service.”

Beech laughed. “We’re the ones who won the arm wrestling contest for this detail.”

“Arm wrestling contest?”

“It was almost leg wrestling. Daniels doesn’t play fair.”

“What the hell?”

Welby finally spoke up. “It’s you guys. Everyone always wants to work you guys.”

“You… do know where we’re going, right?”

“Everyone wants to be on your detail. No matter what.” Welby held out his hand. “Good to see you again, sir.”

Ethan shook his hand, then Beech’s, and let them in. “Grab a soda and anything you want in the kitchen. Jack and I are getting ready.” His two former coworkers wandered inside, eyeballing his and Jack’s new DC house. Ethan sprinted back upstairs.

His hands shook, his palms slick with sweat. Ants crawled under his skin, and he felt like he’d just run a marathon. Adrenaline and apprehension warred with in him. He hadn’t been out since he and Jack had started texting, back at the White House. He hadn’t wanted to chase any other guy, not once, not since he’d fallen for Jack. Now Jack wanted to go out, dive into the deepest part of the deep end of the gay pool. Would Jack get freaked out? He’d sucked up everything about life with Ethan so far. But he’d never faced gay culture so squarely, had never inserted himself into a world that, to be realistic, he didn’t have to be a part of. Jack wasn’t gay. He was just in love with Ethan.

Jack was in their bathroom, styling his hair. He’d debated between going for stern conservatism, mimicking a true Secret Service agent, or going all out with his sexy costume. He finally decided on going all out, and his hair was styled into messy spikes. He looked dangerous, and damn sexy. Ethan’s throat clenched as he watched from the door.

Jack lined his eyes with eyeliner next, and spread a sheen of highlighter on his cheekbones. They seemed carved from his face when he was done, arches that Ethan could fall in love from all over again. His eyes popped, the dark liner making every glance Ethan’s way seem to smolder. His legs were toned and hairless. He’d shaved, and they seemed to go on forever. Every other moment, Ethan reached for Jack’s thigh, stroking the warm skin beneath his cut up suit.

He was shirtless, and Ethan’s old ear mic stretched from his ear to his jacket’s collar.

He was hotter than Ethan had imagined, more gorgeous than he’d dreamed. Beyond his body, toned to the best physical perfection of his life, it was his joy, his boisterous excitement, and his confidence that melted Ethan’s soul.

Please, let this last.

“Ethan, your turn. You have to get dressed.” Jack pretended to pout, winking. “We don’t want to be late.”

“It’s a club. There’s no such thing as late.”

“I’m excited. I want to go.”

“I am going to need a drink first.” Dutch courage, and some liquid control, or he’d never get out of the house. Not with Jack looking like that.

He changed into his own cut up suit. Jack tied his yellow tie around Ethan’s neck. Ethan’s hands strayed to Jack’s waist, rubbing circles into his warm skin.

Ethan spiked his hair as well, though not as high as Jack’s. He put on a tinted lip moisturizer, plumping his lips to a full, dusky pout, but bypassed the eyeliner. He’d never look as good as Jack did.

Ethan poured a shot of bourbon from their bedroom dry bar, knocking it back as he watched Jack tie his boots on.

They wrapped up in trench coats, hiding their outfits as best they could. They couldn’t hide their bare lower legs and boots, though. They looked like fabulous flashers. Oh well. At least it was just to and from the car.

“Beech and Welby are here.”

Jack froze. He stared at Ethan, both eyebrows arched.

“They apparently ‘won’ the challenge to get tonight’s detail.”

Jack’s face flushed. But, he held out his hand for Ethan. “Ready?”

Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. He trembled from head to toe. But, he clasped Jack’s hand tight. “Ready.”

They headed downstairs together, and Beech and Welby wandered out of the kitchen, Beech holding a diet soda and munching on a cookie. Both agents looked them up and down, but didn’t say a word.

“Let’s head out.” Welby gestured to the door.

This was it. Ethan squeezed Jack’s hand again, hard. They wouldn’t be able to take this back, after they did it. The internet, and infamy, was forever.

They headed for the SUV on the curb, Beech climbing into the driver’s seat and Welby taking the command position. Jack and Ethan slid into the backseat. “Travel time to Club Divine is twenty-one minutes.” Welby looked back and forth between them, and then turned back to face the front. He rolled up the privacy partition.

Ethan looked at Jack. Jack stared back.

Ethan reached for Jack’s leg, pushing the trench coat open. His skin, so warm and smooth, seemed to glow. Like a magnet, he was drawn to Jack, and his hand stroked up the inside of his thigh. Jack shivered.

Ethan moaned.

Their eyes met.

They met in the middle, kissing like they needed to to live, to breathe. Jack’s hands wound into Ethan’s hair, and Ethan cradling Jack’s cheek in one hand as he kept stroking Jack’s thigh. Jack’s legs opened, and he turned, lying back on the bench seat. He pulled Ethan down on top of him, the kiss never breaking. Ethan’s body was on fire, every part and piece of him wanting to climb inside Jack and burrow into his love forever. Jack was perfection, shivering beneath his touch, his kisses. He could never get enough.

Welby called over the intercom when they got near. “Three minutes until arrival.”

They hadn’t gone crazy, hadn’t descended into a frenzied madness of ripping off clothes and trying to blow each other in the back seat. They’d been slower, rocking together, enjoying the feel of each other in their arms. Still, Ethan felt like he died a little as he pulled back, out of Jack’s embrace, and sat back on the seat.

Jack grinned and wiped his thumb over Ethan’s lips. “Your lip gloss smeared.”

“Your eyeliner wings are a little smudged.” Ethan tried to wipe away the stray black marks on Jack’s cheeks.

“It’s okay. Everyone knows the sexy president kisses his sexy secret service agent in the limo.” Jack winked.

And then they were there, pulling up to the club. Ethan had reached out to the owners and asked for a private entrance through the back, away from the crowds. The owners had fallen over themselves being considerate. They met the SUV by the owner’s entrance in the back alley. One man covered half his face with his hands, bouncing on his feet. The other couldn’t stop smiling as the SUV pulled to a stop.

“Ready?” Jack kissed the back of Ethan’s hand.

Butterflies danced in Ethan’s veins. “Ready.”

They hopped out, after Welby opened the door. The owners shook their hands, looking they were meeting movie stars. They took their coats as they ushered Jack and Ethan into the club. “We’ll hold onto your coats in our office,” the first man said. He shook, just slightly, like an excited puppy. “If you need anything, anything at all, we’re here for you.” He bounced and bit his lip. “I’m just so excited you both decided to come out to our club.”

“Thank you for having us. And for being so accommodating.” Jack squeezed Ethan’s hand. “We heard great things about this place.” It was somewhere neither of them had ever been. Something brand new, just for them.

The second owner looked like he was about to faint. “Let’s get you out there, having a great time. Down this hallway, through the door. You’ll be at the back of the VIP area. You can come in and out of this entrance anytime you want. You have a private lounge in the VIP section, and bottle service. On the house.”

Ethan smiled as Jack thanked them again. He’d already told Welby to leave a healthy tip for the owners, enough to pay for the VIP lounge and bottle service, and more on top of that.

Welby kept his gaze fixed on their faces. “One of us will stay in the VIP area. The other will be with you at all times. We promise not to interfere in your evening, though.”

“Thanks, Agent Welby.” Jack bounced on his heels. “Let’s get out there!”

 

* * *

 

The club was everything Ethan expected: mostly naked men, half naked men, and shameless Halloween costumes. Fairies and vampires and sexy police officers, firefighters, construction workers, and everything else. Butterflies and men in leather, men in collars and leather harnesses. Glitter everywhere. Go-go dancers on platforms. Men twerking, dry humping, practically having sex as they danced together. Sweat and sex, the scents of men on the hunt. Testosterone choked the air, the heady scents of so many gay men, unbridled and free to express themselves.

Music blared, basslines pounding through the crowd amid pumping dance remixes. Lights flashed, a rainbow of strobe lights and spotlights beneath disco balls and black lights.

It was a cornucopia of men, of masculinity, of gayness. Ethan turned to Jack, hesitating.

Jack spun slowly, taking it all in, a smile breaking his face in two. He didn’t know where to look first, it seemed, and he tried to see everything, feel everything. “This is amazing!” he shouted into Ethan’s ear.

Relief seized Ethan, wrapping around his heart. Jack’s smile kept growing, and he kept gazing at the club, the people, the men letting loose. Being free, and being themselves. Happiness poured off Jack, giddiness and excitement.

A few guys around them were staring, whispering to each other. Their eyes were wide, like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. One brave guy stepped forward, reaching for Ethan’s arm. “Are you… really… them? Like, actually Spiers and Reichenbach?”

Jack beamed. “We are!”

“Oh my god!” The man, dressed like a sexy butterfly in glitter paint and a tiny set of wings, clapped his hands over his mouth. One of his friends screamed. “Thank you,” he started blubbering, turning to Jack. “Thank you so much. Thank you for showing the world who you were. For not being scared, or disgusted. For accepting who you are, and who you love—” His voice choked off, and he shook his head, shook his hands next to his face. “Thank you for making us feel good about ourselves. For giving us a hero.”

Jack pulled the man close, folding him into a hug. His wings trembled as the man sagged into Jack’s arms, clinging to him. Welby stood opposite Ethan, bracketing Jack and watching the man’s every move.

Finally, he backed off, tears smearing his glitter face paint. He apologized to Jack, over and over, and retreated to his group. He blew a kiss, though, to Jack and then to Ethan.

Jack’s eyes were glassy as he turned to Ethan.

“Dance with me?” Ethan held out his hand. Jack took it, squeezing hard.

Dancing with Jack was a drug addiction. Jack sliding into his arms was a hit of the best intoxicant. The way his body fit against Ethan’s, the way they moved together. The way Jack’s eyes met his. The way their hearts beat as one.

This wasn’t dancing at the White House, though. They weren’t in tuxedoes. They weren’t on the world stage. They were in a gay club, and they were barely dressed.

Ethan’s hands slid down Jack’s back, to his ass. He squeezed, hard, and Jack pressed into his grip. His hands kept sliding, drifting over the tops of Jack’s thighs, the smooth skin beneath his cut offs.

Jack pressed closer to Ethan, pulling his suit jacket open. One hand wrapped around Ethan’s borrowed yellow tie. The other wrapped around Ethan’s neck, finger playing in his dark hair.

Time merged with the music, with the beats of the dance floor. Shimmering lights were their heartbeats, in time with the movements of their bodies. They synched, became one, grinding against each other on the dance floor. Kisses started and never ended. Hands stroked, traveling everywhere.

At some point, they broke for air, wandering back to the VIP lounge. Beech had a bottle of vodka on the table, unopened, and he broke the seal in front of them. A waiter poured vodka tonics, sneaking glances at them as they rested on the couch and held hands, catching their breath. Jack watched the crowd, eyes glittering. He kissed Ethan’s hand, his knuckles.

They headed back to the dance floor, vodka in their veins and hands roaming. As the music sped up, Jack spun, pressing his ass against Ethan’s crotch. Ethan wrapped his arms around Jack, kissing his shoulder, his neck, his jaw, before Jack twisted and captured Ethan’s lips in his own. He spun again, sliding his thigh between Ethan’s legs and pressed against the hardness there.

“If you keep that up, I’m going to lose it.” Ethan’s fingers dipped into the back of Jack’s waistband, stroking his ass.

Jack nibbled on his chin. “I want you. But I want more than a fumble on this dance floor.”

“Then it’s time to go.”

They made record time back to the VIP lounge. Beech got their coats and the car as Welby discretely waited at the back entrance, pretending to ignore the way Jack pressed Ethan against the wall and swallowed his tongue, wrapped his tie around his fist and stroked his chest. Ethan tried, and failed, to hold back from pressing their hips together, grind their erections until he couldn’t see.

Welby poured them both into the backseat of the SUV. He didn’t bother announcing the drive time, and he kept the partition raised.

It was everything Ethan could do to not strip Jack in the backseat, unwrap him, remove the sweat-soaked costume and brush off the glitter, kiss his way down Jack’s flushed chest, and bury himself between Jack’s legs. If he didn’t make love to Jack, that moment, he was going to explode. He held on to his sanity by the skin of his teeth.

Jack clung to him, his kisses his words, his hands his pleas. His shaking thighs wrapped around Ethan’s waist, and he breathed into Ethan’s ear, “Make love to me.”

Ethan gave himself forty-five seconds for the SUV to get back to their house before he started fulfilling Jack’s wish.

Somehow, Welby got them home, out of the car, and into the house before Ethan had Jack naked. Their jackets were gone, though, crumbled on the floor of the SUV.

Welby didn’t stick around after dropping them off. He opened their front door, watched Jack and Ethan stumble through the opening, kissing like they’d die if they stopped, and shut the door.

Ethan hefted Jack into his arms, carrying him up their steps two at a time. He dropped Jack on the bed, shedding his costume as Jack wriggled out of his. They met on the mattress, arching into each other, nothing between them, finally.

 

* * *

 

Sometime before dawn, Jack traced patterns on Ethan’s chest. His eyeliner was hopelessly smudged, a dark smear against his cheeks. Ethan rubbed up and down his back, his movements slow and languid.

“Thank you,” Jack breathed. “For tonight. I loved it, everything about it.”

“I was scared. I thought you wouldn’t like all… that.”

“All that gayness?”

Ethan swallowed. Jack felt it, felt Ethan’s body tighten.

“Ethan, there is absolutely nothing about you, about who you are, about what you like, that I don’t love and adore. There is nothing you should feel ashamed of. Nothing. I loved being out there with you.”

Ethan laced his hand through Jack’s, on his chest. He was quiet for a long time.

“Maybe… one day… we could go back?”

Jack smiled, big and bright. “I’d love that.”

 

 

Timestamp: Post EO, Jack & Ethan’s first Halloween together.

 

Haunted – Sergey reflects on Sasha, after rescuing Jack from the river (Enemy Within)

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to Bauer’s Bytes!

This week, we’re exploring a scene in Enemy Within, this time from Sergey’s POV. If you have not read Enemy Within, this Byte is NOT for you! Come back and read it after you’re finished the series! You will enjoy the series so much more for having experienced it without spoilers! 🙂

For those of you who have read Enemy Within, this prompt comes from Alexi, who wanted to see the scene where Jack and Sergey wake up in Siberia together, after Jack falls into the river, and Sergey has his realization.

Happy Reading!

 

Jack is so peaceful when he sleeps.

 

Sergey’s gaze traced the lines of Jack’s face, the planes of his cheeks. The curve of his lips, relaxed and almost smiling. Asleep, the tension hidden in Jack’s expression had melted away, and he looked a decade younger, a man nearing the prime of his life. There was only a hint of crow’s feet at his eyes, echoes that looked that shadows on Jack’s smooth skin.

 

Color was coming back to Jack’s face, his body. He’d lost that deathly-pale sheen, the gray tinge to his skin, shortly after he started breathing again. Sergey had held him in his arms, pressed their naked bodies together. Rubbed his hands and his arms and even his legs over every part of Jack, trying to pour his own body’s meager warmth into his friend.

 

Slowly, Jack was coming back to life. Unfreezing, after the icy river. His heart was strong. And he had everything to live for.

 

But Sergey’s world, his heart and soul, was coming apart.

 

He traced Jack’s lips with his gaze again, his breath stuttering. They were centimeters apart, their bodies firmly pressed together. It would take nothing, nothing at all, to reach out and close his lips over Jack’s. Something gentle, something sweet, instead of the rough way he’d breathed into Jack hours ago.

 

If it weren’t for Ethan—

 

Govno, what was he thinking? Jack was his friend. His plucky, crazy American friend. He couldn’t kiss Jack! He wasn’t—

 

Sergey squeezed shut his eyes.

 

Jack transformed into Sasha, safe in the bleak darkness of his mind. Sasha’s body, hard and firm, smooth and sleek, in his arms. He was muscled where Jack was more trim, but they were both relatively hairless. It was easy to pretend, suddenly, that Sasha had slid into his arms in the bunker, had nuzzled his way into his sleeping bag. Was breathing softly against his neck.

 

He pulled Jack closer, keeping his eyes shut as he fought back the sob that strangled his chest.

 

Sasha, damn it. Why? Why had he flown off like that? If they had just a few more hours, they could have come up with another way. He didn’t have to sacrifice his life—

 

Why had Sasha left him?

 

Why had Sasha kissed him?

 

Blocks tumbled in his mind, a baby toppling a wall of wooden toys. Memories he’d hidden, buried, appeared like vapor, fog that threaded through his entire life. Noticing a man. Noticing his body, his shape. Wondering—

 

No. Those were normal thoughts. It was normal to recognize other people, their beauty. Man or woman.

 

Wasn’t it?

 

How many people had he been close to in his whole life? Out of two marriages and his friendship with Ilya and Sasha, where did his heart prefer to be? What memories did he cherish? What inside jokes did he remember? If he could turn back time, where would he go?

 

He knew exactly where. He’d go back to the flight line, and the cold wind of Volga whipping beneath his jacket. The smell of burned metal and scorched asphalt. Old diesel fuel. Jet engines, and oil. And Sasha.

 

He’d go back to the moment Sasha reached for him. He’d reach back, holding on to Sasha as he kissed him. He wouldn’t let Sasha pull back. He’d pull him closer instead, wrap his arms around him, finally.

 

He wouldn’t let Sasha get into the jet.

 

He wouldn’t lose Sasha, just moments after he’d found himself.

 

Was that it? Was this the truth of his life? Had he deluded himself for years, for fifty-two years, and now, after losing Sasha, he was finally able to face the truth? That the only times he ever deeply connected with someone… that someone was a man?

 

That his wandering eye had less to do with aesthetics, with admiring suits and sweaters, and more to do with the person beneath the layers?

 

The sob in his chest swelled, cutting off his breath. He gasped, gripping Jack hard, tangling his fingers in Jack’s hair and squeezing his shoulders as he practically climbed his body.

 

How many times had he looked at Sasha? Teased him about his superhero good looks, the way he could pass for ‘Captain Russia’, a play on Captain America. How many times had he told him he was beautiful, as a joke or in playful banter?

 

How was he to know that his idle words were actually the secret of his soul?

 

It had been easy, so, so easy, to pretend his glances meant nothing. To ignore his thoughts as mindless fascination. To turn his gaze to women, and relax into the ease of normalcy.

 

But what woman had ever touched his soul the way Sasha had?

 

Thoughts of Sasha made his soul stir, his heart bleed tears down his ribs. Anguish made his spine curl, and he wrapped himself around Jack. Tears built in his eyelashes, burning droplets hovering on his frigid skin. Too late, he was too late. Sasha was gone.

 

What could they have had, though?

 

Thoughts tumbled like diamonds, like water slipping through his hands. Dreams like falling stars, or a jet fighter exploding in midair, and debris raining to the ground.

 

They could have had a true first kiss.

 

They could have had a moment over dinner, when their eyes locked. Maybe a moment when their hands, their fingers, laced together. He’d have spoken with his eyes, tried to tell Sasha everything he felt with the heat of his gaze.

 

Could he have danced with Sasha? Sasha was a block of stone, an ice giant, most days. Could he ever have folded into Sergey’s arms and swayed, a small smile on his face? Could they have twirled around a dance floor, chests brushing, hips aligned?

 

Perhaps, they could have had a moment like this. Naked body to naked body, wrapped so closely around each other. Sasha would be intense with him, like he was intense with everything in his life. They would kiss, really kiss, not like their fumble at the flight line. Sasha’s hands would be everywhere, govno, everywhere, in his hair, sliding down his side, cupping his thigh as their bodies aligned—

 

Sergey’s thoughts hardened, became real. His body, dreaming of Sasha and pressed against Jack, responded to his galloping desire. His cock, hard, pushed against Jack’s hip.

 

Fuck. His eyes snapped open, and he stared, panicked, into Jack’s sleeping face.

 

I wish you were Sasha.

 

The thought hit him like a train, like Sasha’s jet ripping apart over Siberia. I wish you were Sasha. Jack, I would give anything for you to be Sasha, right now. Jack was vibrant, gregarious, American as apple pie and the crack of the stars and stripes in the wind. Beautiful, in ways Sergey only cautiously admitted to himself. A part of him had been drawn to Jack from the first moment they met. A worthy adversary, or a friend and partner he could cherish. He hadn’t known which at the time.

 

He’d wanted a closer relationship with Jack. He’d wanted to get closer to the president and the man. He’d never asked himself why.

 

Until Sasha had stolen his soul.

 

“If you were Sasha,” he whispered, “I would kiss you. I would make love to you. Fuck, I would.” His sob hit him sideways, surprising him. Curling forward again, his lips landed on Jack’s forehead. “Sasha…” tears fell, streaking across his cheeks as he kissed Jack’s forehead.

 

Would there be another man who captured his heart so completely, like Sasha had? Perhaps Jack could have, if it weren’t for his heart already being wholly owned by Ethan. But had he missed his one last chance at true love in this life? Had his cowardice at facing himself condemned him to losing what he wanted most?

 

Sergey kissed Jack’s forehead again, inhaling the scent of Jack’s hair. He could pretend it was Sasha, for a moment. If he kept his eyes closed, this could be his stolen time. He could fantasize, for just this once, and imagine what it would have been like. He was a degenerate, using his half-frozen friend in this way, but…

 

If only he had been braver, he might have actually known what having Sasha in his arms was like.

 

Oh, this was torture. Jack shifted, moved. His body was responding to Sergey’s, his own cock hardening. Jack’s arms slipped around his waist, and his head pillowed on Sergey’s shoulder.

 

If he kept his eyes closed, it was still Sasha. Sasha’s touch. Sasha’s hardness, matching his own. Sasha desiring him, as laughable as that thought was. If only! He just had to roll his hips, align his body, and he and Sasha would finally be making love—

 

Jack stirred. Shifted. Sighed. His lips, still chilled, pressed against Sergey’s collarbone.

 

Fuck.

 

Jack’s hips rolled, his hard cock rubbing up Sergey’s thigh, toward his own cock, achingly hard and—

 

Sasha.

 

“Jack.”

 

Jack froze. He didn’t breathe.

 

“Sergey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know where I was.” Jack tried to pull away, looking down, away, keeping his eyes closed.

 

No, he couldn’t let go. Not yet. Sasha and Jack were merging, mixing in his mind. His soul was a firework, blasting into shards that burned the sky, pieces of Sasha’s jet that had come apart around him, debris that rained down, the broken remnants of a life and a love that could have been. He needed something; comfort, affection, care, he didn’t know what. A balm to the heartache, to the loneliness. Something that could pretend to put a bandage over the crevasse in his heart, the void that had opened when he heard Sasha’s voice say, “Sergey, I—“, and then—

 

Silence.

 

Jack kept pulling away, out of his arms. He’d die if Jack let go now, pulled away while his soul was bleeding in every direction. He’d die, he knew it.

 

“Jack.”

 

Jack looked him dead in the eye. Faced him, and his naked body, their naked bodies, and the secret that pressed hot and hard between them. That was Jack, that was his friend. Facing head on what life gave him, no matter what. Sergey was unlike him in every way. Did it really take Sasha dying for him to face that he loved the man?

 

“Sergey?” A single word, a question.

 

A heartbeat, and he was back in Moscow, laughing with Ilya, watching and waiting for Sasha’s gentle smile to be teased out. He was ribbing Sasha, poking fun at his stories about flying, about training, about the mothballed way the Russian Army Air Force operated on shoestrings and duct tape. Sasha had chuckled, smiled at him. “Sergey—” he said.

 

A heartbeat, and he was in the forest outside Volga, clinging to the sat phone, desperately trying to hang on to his last connection to Sasha. Static, a high-pitched warble, Sasha’s gruff voice shouting information over a roar that sounded like an oncoming train. That was Sasha, flying at nearly the speed of sound, running away from missiles, running into certain death, all for the mission, for a shot at intelligence. Damn Madigan, he’d taken everything from Jack, and now he was taking everything from Sergey, too! Sasha’s voice choked off, and the roar came back. Was it over? Was that the—

 

“Sergey, I—” Sasha said.

 

He heard the missile’s impact. He heard Sasha’s jet come apart, metal tearing, sheering, screaming. He heard the fireball erupt. He heard everything, except what Sasha was going to say.

 

And now, he’d never hear Sasha say his name again.

 

Sergey pitched forward, crashing into Jack. There was a black hole in his chest, a void, aching with the memories of what he’d lost. Not lost. Never had to begin with. He’d never been able to admit what he wanted. Not to Sasha, and not to himself. Not ever. Tears raced down his cheeks, trails of fire that scalded his soul. He pressed his forehead to Jack’s, trying to escape himself. “I am not brave enough,” he whispered. “I am not brave enough.”

 

Jack was kind, compassionate, when he shouldn’t have been. Sergey had been cherishing him as if he were Sasha, had grown hard imagining Jack was another man. Jack had awoken to Sergey’s arousal. He should be furious. Instead, he cradled Sergey’s cheeks and turned his face up. Sergey closed his eyes. He couldn’t face Jack. “What are you talking about?” Jack whispered gently.

 

“I am not a brave enough man. I am not like you. Or—” A sob choked him, cutting out his voice. “Or Sasha.”

 

“Sergey… Are you saying you’re—”

 

“I do not know what I am!” Sergey ripped out of Jack’s careful hold, turning his face away. Shame licked up his bones, curled through his body like fire eating him alive. “When you were sleeping, I imagined you were Sasha.”

 

Sergey inhaled, waiting for the blow.

 

Jack sighed slowly as he cupped Sergey’s cheek. “Is this the first time you’ve thought about another man this way?”

 

Dare he confess? Dare he bare his soul? Dare he admit to the secret he’d kept from even himself? What was there to gain by keeping this all hidden anymore? If only he’d been more honest with himself, and with Sasha! Would it all have ended this badly?

 

Sergey dug his forehead into Jack’s, shaky inhales bouncing off Jack’s cheeks. “No.”

 

“No?”

 

Jack was never shocked. Never stunned. Except for now.

 

“I noticed men. Noticed how they looked. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like. Two men together. But they were just thoughts! I thought everyone thought the way I did. Wondered, sometimes. But you said you never thought about it before you were with Ethan.”

 

“No. I never did.”

 

Memories of the Soviet Union, growing up in a world where being different, being not like everyone else, was a death sentence. His relief, palpable, as he grew that he found women attractive. That he was, and could be, normal. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder, every day and every night, live with the corrosion of a secret. He fumbled something to Jack, bitten off words and whispers.

 

“So you hid what you felt?”

 

“I never knew what I felt! It was never a possibility!” Being with a man, loving a man. Inconceivable. Utterly inconceivable, in the Soviet Union or in her successor, the Russian Federation. But wasn’t he the man who was trying to change Russia? Wasn’t he the president who championed equality, and freedom for all? Somewhere deep, deep inside his mangled heart, had there been a faint hope? When he’d met Sasha, had there been that flash, that spark, that crazy chemical signal that goes off between two people destined to be lovers? Had he felt the pull toward Sasha? Had everything started to align then, his heart and his head and his soul coming into focus on one man?

 

Sergey didn’t speak for a long moment. He shifted, pressing their foreheads together again. Swallowed. “If I could go back to any point in my life and have just ten seconds… I would have kissed him back. Held on, and never let go. Not have let him go on that mission. Damn the information. It wasn’t worth his life!” Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, down his cheeks again, silently. “Or I would go further back. Tell myself to not be a fool. We could have had time together—” His voice cut off as his lips clamped shut, a shaky breath escaping from his nose.

 

I would take it all back, Sasha, every moment, every dream, every particle. Every compromise. To be with you, even for just one more moment. To kiss you. To let you know… I felt it too.

 

“Is it… just Sasha?”

 

“No, Jack.” Sergey finally looked back into Jack’s gaze. Sasha had captured his heart, his soul. But it was never just Sasha. He’d been teetering on the edge of his psyche for his whole life. “I have always thought you were a beautiful man. If things had been different, I may have fallen in love with you. You… captivate me. You always have.”

 

Maybe Jack would have pushed him over this edge. Maybe he would have flirted, under the guise of diplomacy. Maybe Jack would have flirted back.

 

But it wouldn’t have been the same.

 

He couldn’t breathe suddenly, seared by Jack’s warmth, no longer comforting. He was scalding, the heat of him so at odds with the man he loved. Sasha, chiseled from ice, a snegurochka snow maiden from olden times. He shifted, almost afraid to move. But he wasn’t hard anymore. Maybe he never would be again.  

 

Sergey pulled away, sitting up and leaning against the wall next to the bunk. He covered himself with blankets, with the remains of the bed nest he’d created. Dried blood flaked off his chest and down his arm. Sasha would have thrown a fit if he’d seen the wound, would have scowled and insisted on cleaning it personally. He would have let him, too. When had he happily given over his soul to Sasha? If he had to point to a moment, could he? Could he say, ah, this, this was when I fell in love with him?

 

“We are straight out of classic Russian literature, Sasha and me. The man who loved the hero went away, and the hero learned, too late, that he did love him in return.” He shook his head. “So now I know. Now I must live with this.” He sighed, sniffed, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Live with knowing how much of a coward I am.”

 

“Sergey—”

 

“No, no. Do not try and make me feel better. I do not want to. I need this. This feeling, my heart in a vise. Pulverized.” He made a fist, squeezing slowly.

 

Somewhere, he once heard that a person’s soul traveled for forty days after their death, revisiting their loved ones, their old life, before saying the final goodbye. Was it true? Was Sasha there? Was he just a breath away? Would Sasha even want to visit him, after Sergey had failed him so spectacularly in life? If the roles were reversed, he would have returned to Sasha’s side. Spent every hour next to him, greedy for every moment of those forty days, drinking in all that his soul could take.

 

If there was a chance, even the slightest chance, that Sasha could hear him, could sense him…

 

Sasha… I love you.  

 

 

Timestamp: Enemy Within, Chapter 17. Sergey & Jack in Siberia, on the run, after Jack falls into the icy river while being pursued by Milos.

 

First Impressions – Executive Office

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to Bauer’s Bytes! This week, I’m completing Charlotte’s prompt request. Charlotte asked for the first impressions of her favorite characters. We take a look at The Executive Office, and Jack and Ethan, today… as well as a surprise character at Charlotte’s request! 🙂

 

 

Ethan

 

“Agent Reichenbach.” Director Peter Stahl looked him in the eye and shook his hand. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” Ethan smiled wide. He couldn’t not. Finally, after months, the Director of the Secret Service had issued the orders: he was now in charge of the White House Presidential Detail. Him. He was the first openly gay Secret Service agent to climb the ranks. To earn the top spot. After this, it was almost guaranteed he’d head over to Headquarters and serve on the senior staff.

 

One day, maybe even be in line to be the Deputy Director. Or, even the Director.

 

But first things first. He had a president to serve, for four years, or perhaps eight.

 

“As part of your promotion, I’m sending you out to take the lead on Senator Spiers’s campaign detail. He’s predicted to win, even this far out. The margins aren’t even close. It will be good for you to get a feel for his style before he moves into the West Wing.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“You have your senior team picked?”

 

“Yes sir. Agents Collard, Daniels, and Inada will be on my detail. Agent Welby will serve as my second in command.”

 

“Good choices. I expect you’ll run a tight ship. Secret Service Presidential Protections will be a brisk operation under your leadership.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” Again, Ethan smiled, so wide his cheeks started to ache.

 

“You’ll join Senator Spiers’s campaign Monday, July 11th. The Senator’s chief of staff will brief you, and then you’re in command.” Stahl shook his hand again. “Lead Agent Reichenbach.”

 

* * *

 

Monday, July 11th, Ethan wore his best suit. He picked out his best shoes and shined them to a mirror polish the night before at the hotel in Cincinnati, where Senator Spiers was stumping for the weekend. He got a haircut the Friday before he, Scott, and Daniels left DC. He put up with Scott’s good-natured ribbing about how he was trying to look too good, and was already there to work over the big boss.

 

“Let him win the election first,” Scott had snorted. “Then you can go all Rambo on his ass. These are his last months of freedom. Let him enjoy them, before the White House cage snaps shut.”

 

He took a dawn coffee briefing from Senator Spiers’s chief of staff, a thin, reticent man named Jeff Gottschalk. “The Senator knows you’re arriving today. He wants to meet you all.”

 

They waited in the campaign’s mobile command center, drinking coffee and trying to stay out of the way. Not easy, when they were each hulking blocks of muscle, strapped with guns on their hips and enough ammunition hidden on their bodies to take out a small army. Their trench coats, the Secret Service unofficial uniform, swept the floor.

 

“The Senator likes to keep us waiting?” Scott leaned into Ethan’s side, almost whispering, but not quite. “This should be good. Great start. Four years are going to go so fast.”

 

Daniels rolled his eyes. He went back to checking out some of the ladies working down the line.

 

Finally, the air in the room shifted. People moved faster, seemed to perk up. Heads turned toward the far door across the hotel’s conference room. The hotel’s plans flashed in Ethan’s mind. An inner staircase that Senator Spiers would be using to move around the hotel. He straightened. Elbowed Scott in the side.

 

The double doors opened, and Senator Jack Spiers strode in. He had two cell phones in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and was listening to Gottschalk, walking beside him and talking quickly into his ear. Aides buzzed behind him, checking their phones, clutching newspapers under their arms, balancing tablets in front of them as they walked. Frenetic energy surrounded the Senator, all focused on him.

 

But in the center of it all, Senator Jack Spiers seemed as calm as ever.

 

Ethan appraised him like he would a military target, taking in everything from head to toe. Spiers’s blue suit, a shade lighter than was usual and customary in DC. It set off his skin, his blond hair, and made both seem brighter, more golden. His hands were quick, swiping through his phone and sipping his coffee. His eyes were bright and vibrant, peering intently at Gottschalk as he listened to his chief of staff, nodding along, softening at times.

 

This was a man in control. Confidently in control, content in his surroundings. He had power, but wielded it under a governed layer of calm surety.

 

No wonder he was ahead in the polls. Just watching him enter a room, Ethan was already willing to cast his vote. Of course, he never voted. It didn’t seem right, putting his finger on one side of the scale, when the president’s life was going to be in his hands. His job was to remain above politics, outside of politics. No matter the cost.

 

Scott whistled under his breath. “So that’s him.”

 

Ethan grunted.

 

Senator Spiers’s gaze swept the room, still listening to Gottschalk’s endless chatter. Had Gottschalk told him they were here? They needed to brief the Senator, explain the procedures for campaign security. The protections they were going to institute, starting that day, and when they traveled that afternoon to Detroit.

 

Spiers’s eyes landed on Ethan. Their gazes locked.

 

He’s got great eyes.

 

Spiers smiled, beaming. He reached for Gottschalk, politely extricating himself from his chief of staff’s briefing, and headed their way.

 

Spiers had been called the most attractive politician in memory. He had pretty boy good looks, the news said, and he was the kind of candidate Hollywood would drum up in a movie. Some accused him of being all style and no substance, lean on the parts of governance where it really mattered. Lean on experience, where it counted. Ethan hadn’t paid attention to the particulars. Politics wasn’t his job.

 

But, as Spiers walked toward them—

 

Wow. That smile…

 

He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders. Squared himself, and clasped his hands behind his back.

 

“Gentleman.” Senator Spiers kept smiling the whole way across the room, kept smiling as he said hello. “Welcome to the campaign.”

 

“Sir.” Ethan held out his hand. “I’m Agent Reichenbach.” He introduced Scott, Daniels, and Inada.

 

Spiers took it, wrapping his free hand around Ethan’s as they shook. “I am incredibly grateful for your service. Thank you for joining us. Thank you for doing what you do.”

 

Clearing his throat, Ethan shook his head. “All part of the job, sir.”

 

“What can I do for you gentleman? What do you need from me, and from us?”

 

Scott, just faintly, snorted. Ethan could practically read his mind. Sir, we need your complete and total cooperation as we turn your life upside down, put you in a zoo, and throw away the key. Alright, into the straightjacket, there you go, be a good president…

 

“Sir, we have a briefing we’ll present to you later this morning. It will outline our needs. We will need dedicated office space, your schedules and access to your scheduling staff, and close coordination with your chief of staff to ensure that your protection is now our, and this campaign’s, number one priority.”

 

“I think winning the election is the number one priority for most everyone here. But, I’ll see to it that you get everything you need. If you’re not getting what you need, Agent Reichenbach, please address it with me personally.”

 

That tie really sets off his eyes. Have I ever seen a brighter blue?

 

“Thank you, sir. We’re very happy to be here working with you.”

 

He could feel Scott’s eyes bore into the back of his skull.

 

Spiers smiled, again, that beaming smile of his. Ethan couldn’t help it. He grinned back, just slightly. Oh, he’s definitely going to win the election. He’s a shoe-in. And no wonder.

 

“I look forward to getting to know you all. Please, make yourselves at home. This campaign is open to you in every way. We’ll talk more later today.” Spiers nodded once and moved off, heading back to his senior staff and Gottschalk, scrolling through his phone as he drank from an extra-large thermos of coffee.

 

“‘We’re very happy to be here’?” Scott leaned into his shoulder, snorting. “That’s not the line. ‘We’re here to do our job’ is what you’re supposed to say.”

 

“Whatever.” Ethan shook him off. “Let’s go get our gear and get set up. We’ve got five hours until we’re on the move to Detroit. Let’s get some work done.”

 

Danger, his mind whispered. Danger.

 

* * *

 

Jack

 

If someone had told him that the presidential campaign would be the single most exhausting endeavor he’d ever undertaken, he might have thought twice before deciding to make a run for the White House.

 

He was beyond tired. His exhaustion was exhausted. But, he never let it show. He just called it training. The presidency was going to be intense.

 

And, when he was tired, he knew his staff was even more so.

 

“This is what it will be like in the White House,” Pete Reyes, his campaign press manager, had said. Of course, he’d been grinning like a madman, bouncing a basketball on the hotel’s court at 2 AM as they both tried to exhaust their insomnia.

 

“Except, instead of speeches, it’s going to be world leaders and threats that will keep us up all night.”

 

“Think the White House has a basketball court?” Pete tried for a shot from the three-point line. He missed.

 

“They have a swimming pool. If you can’t find me, check there.”

 

“On the surface or at the bottom?” Pete winked.

 

Jack had chucked the ball at Pete, and they played for another forty-five minutes before turning in, finally physically exhausted enough to quiet their racing, raging minds.

 

There was always something to think about. Something to consider, or reconsider. Something to mull over, or obsess about. A speech to fine tune. Policy positions to examine. And, dreams to dream.

 

The White House. The presidency.

 

It was really going to happen.

 

He was finally starting to believe it. The poll numbers were there. The metrics were positive, and trending even more so. Hell, his Secret Service detachment had arrived that day.

 

“Four agents, Senator,” Jeff Gottschalk had said, briefing him in his hotel room over breakfast. “They sent the White House lead detail agent, Agent Reichenbach. They think you’re going to win this. They expect you to be in the White House.”

 

He’d needed a moment, after that.

 

The Secret Service agents were exactly what he’d expected, what he’d seen around DC so many, many times. Tall, hulking men, scowling at the world around them. Distrust wafted from them, a projection so strong they seemed to be holding signs that told the world to stay the fuck away from them. They were the linebackers of the political world, lions that lived in their protectee’s shadow.

 

He’d wanted to make them feel welcome. Wanted to make them feel at ease, especially if these were the men he was going to be seeing so much of for the next four years… in the White House. He’d tried, he really had.

 

But, Agent Reichenbach was as hard as they came. His handshake felt like granite. His jaw could have been chiseled from marble. If he smiled, it was a rare occurrence. Jack had teased a tiny grin out of him during their conversation, and that alone felt like he’d won the Texas primary, for a moment.

 

Was this his future? Being shielded and surrounded by a man who was built like Captain America, but had all the personality of the government distilled into a teaspoon? Concentrated lack of government humor?

 

No, there was more to Agent Reichenbach. That miniscule smile proved it.

 

And, what had happened later.

 

The campaign had been getting ready to break down and head out, make their way to Detroit. He’d needed another cup of coffee, stat, and he’d headed for the coffee bar the campaign kept in their command center at every stop.

 

Reichenbach was there, too, making his own cup of coffee.

 

“Senator.” Reichenbach nodded as he’d approached. He tried to step out of the way halfway through his pour.

 

“Please, finish. Don’t interrupt your coffee on my account.”

 

Reichenbach nodded. He took his coffee black, no cream, no sugar.

 

And then, he’d poured a fresh cup of coffee. “How do you take yours, Senator?”

 

“Oh, there’s no need for you to do—”

 

“It’s in my purview as a Secret Service agent, sir. I need to know everything, absolutely everything, about you. Your dark secrets. Your dirty laundry. And how you take your coffee.” He finished pouring and winked over his shoulder.

 

“When I was seven, I ran a stop sign on my bicycle.” Jack smiled. “I think I still have an unpaid parking ticket at my college. And, I take two sugars in my coffee.”

 

Reichenbach had chuckled softly as he stirred two sugar packets into the second cup. “I think the statute of limitations has passed for both. Though, I’ll have to check on the traffic violation on your bicycle. You are very young, Senator. You might still be on the hook for that crime.”

 

Was that the faintest hint of panic that flashed in Reichenbach’s eyes? For a moment, it had almost seemed like Reichenbach regretted what he’d said, the dry humor peeking out of the hard shell of the agent.

 

Jack had laughed as he accepted the coffee Reichenbach made for him. “If it helps reduce my sentence, I was very remorseful. I couldn’t even eat dinner that night.”

 

Reichenbach’s smile had reappeared. He’d looked down, as if he was trying to hide the evidence of his little grin. “Sir—”

 

“Is there coffee?” Gottschalk had appeared beside Jack, then, sighing and squeezing his eyes, more sleep deprived than even Jack was. “Please, God, say there’s still coffee.”

 

Reichenbach had stepped aside, freeing the coffee bar for Jeff. He’d started to leave.

 

“Agent Reichenbach?”

 

“Sir?”

 

“Maybe you can help settle something between Jeff and I.” What had he been thinking? Jack didn’t even know. But, he’d barreled on ahead anyway, the way he always did. “What do you think of my tie?” Jack smoothed his hand down his chest, over his sunny yellow tie, as Gottschalk groaned.

 

“God, for Christ’s sake, take that tie off. You look like a carnie.” Gottschalk had glowered at him, and then turned his ire toward Reichenbach. “Please, Agent Reichenbach, for all that’s good in the world. Tell him to take that hideous tie off.”

 

Jack had waited, grinning.

 

“I like the tie. It brings out your eyes, sir.”

 

Gottschalk almost inhaled his third swallow of coffee and hacked out a lung, coughing as he glared at Reichenbach.

 

Jack had beamed.

 

But, before Jack could say anything else, Reichenbach raised his cup of coffee, a kind of salute, and strode away, moving quickly. As if he wanted to escape.

 

Jack had turned his grin to Gottschalk, who rolled his eyes at him. “I don’t care what it does to your eyes, it’s still ugly.”

 

So what had that been? Hours later, and Jack was still mulling it over. Still trying to puzzle through the mystery that was his new Secret Service agent.

 

It wasn’t like he didn’t have a billion other things he could be thinking about. He was speaking in four different places in Detroit tomorrow and then flying down to Boulder, Colorado, after that. He had exactly no time to be ruminating on the odd behavior of Agent Reichenbach.

 

Jack flopped onto his side in the hotel’s king bed and dragged a pillow into his arms. Sometimes, he thought it would be nice to have someone there at night. Someone to hold on to. But he’d long ago decided he would remain single, remain a widower, for the rest of his days. There was just no one else in the world he wanted to get close to. No beautiful faces made him yearn. No laughing personality made his heart race. Pillows would be all he ever held close, ever again.

 

His thoughts drifted as he fell, finally, into his exhausted slumber. Agent Reichenbach, there’s more to you. I know there is.

 

Maybe one day, he’d get to find out.

 

* * *

 

Blake Becker

 

Oh God. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Oh, God, no. Anyone but him. Anyone, literally anyone.

 

Why the hell was Agent Ethan Reichenbach, the fucking boyfriend of the president of the United States, coming to the Des Moines, Iowa, field office?

 

Shepard, the agent in charge of their nine-man operation, looked like he’d lost a fight with a gorilla. He delivered the news in their weekly staff meeting with all the enthusiasm of a man condemned to die. “Agent Reichenbach will begin his assignment here in two weeks’ time.”

 

Stares and dropped jaws, all around the table.

 

“He’s still… in the Secret Service?”

 

“Shouldn’t he be fired? Totally fired?”

 

“Isn’t he, like, the worst-case example of what not to do as an agent?”

 

Shephard held up his hand. “Director Triplett has made the call. Reichenbach is coming here.”

 

“So, he and the president aren’t staying together, then? He’s just being quietly reassigned so everyone forgets about him?”

 

“God, I hope so.” Shephard scrubbed his hands over his face. “I hope he just keeps his head down and the press ignores him. If they’re not together, all the novelty of Reichenbach and where he stuck his dick will wear off. If we’re lucky, he’ll just fade away, like all the attention he’s been getting will, after they break up.”

 

* * *

 

Except, that wasn’t true at all.

 

Reichenbach and the president were staying together. In fact, they were keeping up a long-distance relationship. The president and his boyfriend… who now lived in Des Moines.

 

The media attention didn’t decrease. It increased, about a thousand-fold.

 

Shephard blew his top. He screamed on the phone, railed at the Director inside his office and behind closed doors. She talked him down, but it was a long three hours that they all spent waiting for the grenade to go off in Shephard’s office.

 

And then, the two weeks were up, and Reichenbach’s first day arrived.

 

Becker and the others all huddled outside of the breakroom, waiting for their first glimpse of the man. What did a man who had seduced the president of the United States look like? Did he exude some kind of raw animal magnetism? Was he a maverick? Did he think the rules didn’t apply to him anymore? Was he going to be a raging, apocalyptic asshole?

 

The door to their office clicked open. Someone walked in.

 

Everyone’s heads turned. Stared.

 

Ethan Reichenbach, boyfriend to the president, walked into the Des Moines office. His shoulders were hunched, and he looked left and right as if trying to find someone. He seemed lost, and even though he was a large man, well-built, and obviously stronger than a bull, he seemed small. Diminutive, in a way. As if he was trying not to take up any space, draw any attention to himself.

 

Finally, he saw everyone waiting outside the breakroom, clustered in a tight knot just to the right of Shephard’s office.

 

Becker stared. Reichenbach stared back.

 

It wasn’t an arrogant stare, though. The haughtiness, the rancid smugness, the air of superiority they all expected was missing. Reichenbach looked like a man who had come back from war. Like a man who had learned all his lessons the hard way. Like a man who had left something precious, something integral to himself, behind. Like a man that wanted to be anywhere but there.

 

No, not anywhere.

 

He wanted to be back in DC. Becker could see it, plain as day.

 

“Reichenbach!” Shephard yanked open his office door. “In here. I’ll brief you.” Shephard scowled at Becker and the rest of the agents. “Don’t you have cases to run?”

 

Becker and the others scattered, vanishing back into their cubicles. He stopped, though, outside of his. The cubicle next to him was empty. Was Reichenbach going to be working there? He was the only agent without a partner. He was the odd man out. Was he going to get Reichenbach as a partner? Was that even allowed? Was Reichenbach, really, even an agent anymore?

 

What could he learn from Reichenbach, though? The thought, the idea, that there was something he might be able to pull from Reichenbach, was tantalizing. What stories he might have. Of course, not the stories of seducing the president, or of being the worst agent in the history of the Secret Service. But, before that. He’d been the lead detail agent. He had to have been hot shit at one time. He had to know thing, real things.

 

Becker looked back toward Shephard’s office. The door was closed and the blinds were drawn. Who knew what was going on inside.

 

Once, Reichenbach had to have been something pretty special.

 

Now, he was just a man with a broken heart, forced into exile, and forced to wear his bad decisions, public humiliation, and his personal shame for everyone – literally everyone – to see, played out on the national and international media, day in and day out.

 

Becker almost felt sorry for him.

Timestamp: Before Enemies of the State, when Jack & Ethan first meet on the presidential campaign (referenced in Interlude); Blake Becker’s first impressions of Ethan at the end of Enemies of the State.

 

First Impressions – Hush

Posted on by Tal

 

So sorry for the day delay on Bauer’s Bytes! I have been under the weather, and yesterday, I just couldn’t beat back this flu enough to get the Bytes up. So sorry!

This week, I tackled one of Charlotte’s prompts. Charlotte wanted to know what the first impressions of some of her favorite characters were upon meeting. This week, Mike and Tom from Hush. Next week, characters from the Executive Office series! 🙂 Thanks for a great prompt, Charlotte!

 

 

Mike

 

“Here’s another one.” Winters dropped a thick binder on Mike’s desk. It was bigger than the other binders Winters had dropped off over the years, much bigger. “Tom Brewer. Former AUSA. The Senate confirmed him as the newest DC federal judge. I don’t think you ever crossed his path when he was AUSA. Here’s his background investigation.”

 

Mike pulled Tom Brewer’s binder across the desk. It felt like a brick. “Why is his background so huge? Does he have a colorful past?”

 

A colorful past. A polite euphemism for a fucked-up history, a professional past littered with complaints, sexual harassment issues, covered-up affairs, and more. DUIs that had been wiped by the DC police. Former staffers that had quietly been moved across the country.

 

“Exactly the opposite. He’s squeaky clean. Too clean. Made people nervous.”

 

Mike flipped open the binder, flicking through pages and pages of cleared background forms, endless “no” answers to all the bad questions, explanation sheets that said “not applicable” over and over again. No experimentation with drugs. No run ins with the law. No DUIs. No affairs. No tricky finances. No secret babies. No proverbial dead bodies. “Huh. We don’t see this often.”

 

“Not from a male judge. It’s the women who are perfect.”

 

“Hopefully he’s as easy to manage as this was.” Mike shut Tom’s binder with a quick snap.

 

Winters snorted. “That was a shitshow to assemble, Lucciano. No one believes that’s all there is to Judge Brewer. You might be in for a surprise with this one. Keep your eyes open.”

 

“Will do.” Mike filed Tom’s binder on the shelf over his file cabinet. He turned back to his computer, to the recent threat briefing, and pushed Judge Tom Brewer from his mind.

 

* * *

 

“Your Honor?” Mike waited a polite ten and a half minutes after Tom Brewer, newest federal judge to the DC bench, began his first day. He stood in the doorway to Tom’s chambers, waiting.

 

Tom was circling his tiny office, running one hand over the polished Cherrywood desk. His eyes bounced over the empty bookcases behind the desk, the wood paneled walls, the bare floor. Was he mentally decorating? Planning to put his mark on the office? Preparing to order brand new everything? How difficult was Judge Tom Brewer going to be? Mike could foretell the entire future in the next minute.

 

Tom turned to Mike, smiling ear to ear. “Hi, sorry, I didn’t see you there. Please, come in.” He beckoned Mike into his office and waved him to one of the leather club chairs in front of the bare cherrywood desk. “This is amazing. Just amazing.” Tom leaned one hip against his desk and gazed at his office again.

 

He wasn’t redecorating. He was admiring. Taking in the tiny walls and the wood paneling with all of its nail holes, the scuffed floorboards, the cherrywood desk with the worn spots on the corners. Tom looked at his new office like he’d walked into a surprise party.

 

Mike almost didn’t want to interrupt Tom Brewer’s boyish adoration of his new space. “Your Honor, welcome to the DC federal bench.” 

 

Tom’s full-watt smile turned to Mike. He chuckled, almost giddy-like, under his breath. “I don’t think I’ll ever be used to this.”

 

Damn it, this was cute. Mike had never dealt with a judge who was adorable before. They were arrogant, uppity, entitled, or far, far too busy for the mere mortals around them. They never took the time to indulge in the moment, grin with excitement over their new office, or giggle, embarrassed and thrilled at the same time.

 

This was exactly the kind of guy that would have a completely boring background investigation. Maybe Tom Brewer had been too busy aw-shucksing his way through life to get into trouble.

 

Thought, it would have been easy for him to fall into a love affair. He probably had to fend off attractions and invites for dates from all the ladies. Tom Brewer was attractive, in that career-DC way. A politician’s patrician face, dark hair combed to the side, a body made for a slender suit. He had kind eyes, though, and that stood out. In the ocean of DC politics, the eyes said it all about the person. Hard eyes, cold eyed, lying eyes, dead eyes. They were a dime a dozen. But, kind eyes? Those were special.

 

He smiled back at Tom. So far, awesome. Judge Tom Brewer seemed like a decent guy. This should be an easy assignment, at least as far as personality went. There would be hard cases, and there would be threats – there always was, with everyone – but if Tom Brewer was as awesome professionally as he was personally, working with him would be a breeze.

 

“Your Honor, I am Inspector Mike Lucciano, Deputy US Marshal, and I am in charge of your security here at the courthouse. Are you ready for your first security briefing?”

 

* * *

 

Tom

 

“Are you ready for your first security briefing?”

 

Jesus, he was going to be spending more time with this man? Inspector Mike Lucciano, Deputy US Marshal?

 

His mouth was dry. His tongue was heavy. He glanced back to his bare bookshelves, trying to recapture the awe he’d felt striding into his very own judge’s chambers. Him, a judge! Unbelievable. Inconceivable. His heart had beat too fast, a pitter patter that left him breathless as he circled the desk.

 

And then a man had appeared at his doorway.

 

Tall. Almost six feet. Muscular. He filled out his suit in all the right ways. Thick shoulders. Trim hips.

 

Blue eyes, the color of a perfect September sky. Golden blond hair, combed into a swept and carefree pompadour, like waves of sand tumbling toward an ocean. Dimples in his cheeks when he smiled.

 

His suit was too stylish for DC. On the slender, form-fitting side, like the Europeans liked it, and a lighter blue than what crammed the halls of bureaucracy in the federal government. The fabric clung close to his legs, almost curving around the shape of his muscles.

 

His heart pitter-pattered for a whole different reason.

 

Damn it, stop. He’d put this away, long, long ago. He’d stopped seeing men who could take his breath away, had stopped looking for men who burned the blood in his veins. He’d built a safe world at the United States Attorney’s office, tunnel-visioned on his professional life. There was no one who made his heart go crazy, made his palms sweat until he thought beads would drip from his fingertips.

 

Tom folded his arms, clenching his sweaty palms in the bunched fabric at his elbows.

 

New job. New role. New people in his life. He’d done this before, built up his walls and shored up his barricades. He would do so again. Twenty-four years he’d kept his own secret, and look at the life he’d managed to build. If that wasn’t proof that he’d done the right thing, made the right choice, then he didn’t know what was.

 

He turned back to Mike, his polite smile pasted on his face. “Yes, Deputy Marshal— Inspector—Uh…”

 

“Inspector is the correct title, Your Honor. But, please. You’re more than welcome to call me Mike.”

 

There was that smile again. Tom’s bones turned to jelly, and a thousand fire ants seemed to be racing up the insides of his skin. He nodded, tried to smile, and scooted the chair beside the desk a little farther away from Mike. Tried to hide it as he pretended to turn the chair more to face him. Was this better or worse? He wasn’t next to Mike, but now he was looking right at him, looking right at a man that could have stepped out of his fantasies, out of his deepest, deepest dreams.

 

Maybe Mike would be an asshole. That would be perfect, actually. If Mike was an asshole, then he’d be cured of his fascination, lickety split.

 

God, he wanted to lick Mike’s chest—

 

Jesus. Stop. Stop.

 

Mike passed over a binder with another heart-melting smile. The front read: Security Procedures for Judges.

 

“This is your security manual. Please, Your Honor, take the time to read it. I know it’s dry, but the procedures in here are important. My job is to keep you and your courtroom safe and secure at all times. Mostly, this will be behind the scenes for you. I will be monitoring all threats made against the bench, and if any come specifically against you. I’ll investigate any and all threats made to ensure your complete safety. Also, for any high-risk trial that you preside over, I will be creating a security plan for both your protection and for the courtroom during the trial.”

 

“I used to see Villegas, and another guy before him, when I was an AUSA.”

 

Mike nodded. “Villegas is the other Inspector here. Before him, it was Edwards. We all have slightly different styles to our protections. I’m a little more hands-on than Villegas. I like to be thorough. Better safe than sorry.”

 

Shit.

 

“But, don’t worry, Your Honor. Your first year or two, you shouldn’t get very many high-risk trials. The other judges are figuring out which cases to offload to you to build your book. Unfortunately, you might be stuck with the boring ones.” Mike winked. “Which means you definitely won’t be seeing me at all.”

 

Shit, shit.

 

Tom chuckled, almost breathless. Mike wasn’t an asshole. He was funny, and kind, and seemed oh-so-competent. Tom had always had a weak spot for people who were deliciously smart. And who made him laugh.

 

If he got a load of boring cases, then he wouldn’t be seeing Mike, though.

 

That was good. He could build his walls higher, take time to re-center himself. Dig a deeper ditch around his heart and soul’s hideout.

 

Mike spoke some more, rehashing courthouse security procedures, which he already knew, and going over the special judges-only information he needed to know now. He listened, nodded along, and watched Mike’s Adam’s apple work up and down, watched the vein on the side of his neck slowly pulse.

 

“If you have any questions, Your Honor, my office is right down the hall. I’m here if you need anything. Please, read your manual. If you need something to put you to sleep, that’s the thing.” Mike grinned.

 

“I will read it. I promise.” Tom stood and held out his hand. It only trembled slightly.

 

Mike didn’t seem to notice. He clasped Tom in a firm handshake, pumped once, and then started for the door.

 

The zing from Mike’s touch went from the bottom of Tom’s feet to the tips of his hair. Handshakes were the only touches he allowed himself with another man. The only male contact he ever received. Fingers on the back of his hand, a warm palm resting in his own. He closed his eyes, exhaling softly. Mike’s touch, as brief as it had been, was like lightning.

 

“Your Honor?”

 

His eyes snapped open. Mike was waiting in the doorway, his perfect body cased in light from the hall. His golden hair gleamed, and his blue eyes sparkled, laughter and gentleness mixing in their glow.

 

“Welcome, again, to the DC federal bench. Congratulations. I think you’re going to do great here.” Mike smiled again and disappeared down the hallway.

 

Shit.

 

Tom turned away from the door and gripped the edge of his desk. He closed his eyes and breathed, in and out, slowly.

 

In his mind, he imagined himself putting bricks up, stacking them higher, building his wall taller, stronger. Building his wall against the man with the perfect smile and beautiful eyes.

 

Building his wall against Mike.

 

Timestamp: One year prior to Hush, when Mike and Tom first meet.

 

Through the Lens – White House Photographer in Enemies of the State

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to Bauer’s Bytes!

I moved last week and took a hiatus from Bauer’s Bytes. This week, Randi sent in a prompt: “I thought of the Christmas present that Jack gave to Ethan. Those pictures that were taken by the White House Press Photographer, I was wondering if you could give us a scene of when he was taking those candid shots of Jack and Ethan since they did become his favorite subject. If the photographer ever suspected anything was more than what they were playing off for every one else.” What a great prompt!

Enjoy!

 

The job, on the surface, is simple. No different than any other photography job.

 

Capture the presence. Capture the personality. Capture the power, the magnitude of the moment. The history.

 

Most subjects, though, aren’t the President of the United States.

 

Photographing President Jack Spiers is a thrill. He’s vibrant, vivacious, and fun. Much more fun than the last few guys in the Oval Office. He’s got a sparkle, a flair for life. Even in meetings, you can feel his presence, the depth of his consideration behind those blue eyes. He might be just the pretty-boy candidate who became a pretty-boy president, but Spiers, so far, has taken over the Oval Office in a way that few presidents manage to do. Empty-headed, his detractors claimed, he is proving he is not.

 

He connects with people, too. He listens, more than any other president. He was criticized on the campaign for not having the experience for the job. He was just a Senator, and a junior senator at that. He was too young. He was just a pretty face. But I’ve seen him turn his entire focus on another and truly listen to what they have to say. Size up the person in front of him, take in their competence, their experience and expertise, their character, and even their heart, in a matter of seconds. He seems to be able to put his finger son the pulse of another person’s soul in moments, and those who are the best choices to guide him, help him, assist him in all the ways big and small that he needs are the ones who help him lead the nation.

 

His Cabinet adores him. The staff of the West Wing knows he listens to them. They know he wants their expertise, the best of the best that they can provide. They know he relies on each of them to be extraordinary, so that he can bring the combined force of their efforts to better the world. He’s created something special in this White House, without the infighting, the sniping, the stress fractures, and the panic that seized other administrations.  

 

And then there’s Reichenbach.

 

Secret Service detail lead, Special Agent Reichenbach. A cool cucumber if I’ve ever met one. The Iceman, a stone-cold monolith on the campaign and in the White House. If you saw a picture of any of the last few presidents, and you saw a tall, dark scowl somewhere in the frame, that would be Reichenbach. He can cut a man down with his frigid eyes, scatter crowds with his intimidating power. I’ve seen reporters flee his presence, leave a wide berth around the bubble of his ferocity.

 

If we were a thousand years in the past, he’d be the axe-wielding barbarian hulking behind the prince’s shoulder, beheading anyone who got too close to his ward without a second thought. There would be legends about him in the kingdom, something about a witch stealing his heart, or that he was actually a monster, or a boulder spelled to life, and that there was nothing inside him except a need to protect and a dark power that lived in his soul and shielded the throne.

 

He’s been a reliable fixture in the West Wing, like an armchair or a clock. There’s the George Washington oil painting above the fireplace, and beside that, the Reichenbach with his Tuesday scowl. All is normal in the world.

 

But now my camera is capturing fantastical images.

 

I feel like a man who has photographed aliens. A unicorn. Spotted the Yeti in the wilds. I’ve seen Reichenbach smile. Laugh, even. And I’ve captured it on film, saved for all time.

 

There’s something about President Spiers, we all knew. Something about the man that rocketed him from the Senate to the presidency. He worked his magic in the Senate, on his campaign, and now on the American people.

 

And, Reichenbach seems to have fallen under his spell.

 

Shared smiles in the hallways. Reichenbach quietly laughing with President Spiers as they move together through the West Wing. Shared conversations over cups of coffee, jokes shared back and forth. Reichenbach seems to have slotted into Spiers’s life as more than just a barbarian guard, a scowling Secret Service agent. He seems to be, almost, a kind of friend.

 

Reichenbach glows, every part and piece of him coming to life under the brilliance of President Spiers’s unfiltered attention. What must it be like to be the recipient of all of Spiers’s focus, his joy, his happiness? Reichenbach has blossomed, the hard shell cracking, and the man within appearing like spring bursting through a winter’s long night. The dark witch’s spell has broken; the young prince has saved the barbarian.

 

Is it just friendship, though?

 

I catch more than I try to, through my lens.

 

Reichenbach’s hand ghosting over the small of Spiers’s back as they slip down the West Wing hallway.

 

The both of them standing just a little too close, shoulders and arms brushing as they stand side by side.

 

The look in Reichenbach’s eyes when he gazes at President Spiers. Something that mixes adoration with pride, longing with conviction. More than just an agent protecting his man. Something deeper. Something fundamental. Something that lives in the center of Reichenbach, as a man.

 

The smiles President Spiers gives to Reichenbach, the smiles he gives to no one else. Smiles that are reserved for Reichenbach alone.

 

Reichenbach is openly gay. He’s not loud, but he’s proud, and he’s never hidden his orientation. His ascension through the ranks was watched with joy by gay rights advocates, and his promotion to the top spot was met with cheers from all. He’d earned the position and the honors, twelve years of perfect, dedicated service. He’s at the pinnacle of his career.

 

He’s never slipped. Not once. He’s never been tarnished by scandals that have hit the Secret Service. Never been a part of the wild sections of the agency. He’s always been a straight shooter, a reliable, steadfast, perfect professional.

 

But is President Spiers his kryptonite? Has the Iceman’s heart started to melt?

 

Has he fallen for his president?

 

Impossible. The thought is impossible. Reichenbach would never compromise his professionalism like that. And, President Spiers isn’t gay. He isn’t interested in men. There’s no possibility, no probability, no way at all that these two men would be together in any romantic way. A president and his Secret Service agent? Preposterous.

 

My camera turns to them over and over again. I can’t get enough of the electricity crackling between them, the raw power in their presence. The way their eyes meet and hold, and how so much happens between their gazes. Their smiles, and the way Reichenbach’s quiet joy could power Air Force One.

 

I tell myself there’s nothing going on. That Reichenbach would never violate his oath, his professionalism. That I’m not party, in some small way, to the biggest secret in the world.

 

But I look at these photos, the light in their eyes, and I can’t deny what I’m seeing any longer.

 

The barbarian has fallen in love with his prince.

 

Special Agent Reichenbach is in love with President Spiers.

 

And President Spiers is looking back at Reichenbach like he might be a little bit in love, too.

Timestamp: Enemies of the State, POV of the White House photographer.

 

Crave – Jack’s POV of “the bathroom scene” in Enemies of the State

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to Bauer’s Bytes!

This week, I’m writing a lovely prompt submitted by Vanessa, who wanted to see Jack’s POV from the “bathroom scene” in Enemies of the State.

***Warning! Explicit content ahead! If you are not of legal age in your location, please do not proceed.

 

Jack stared at the mirror, his eyes locking on his own gaze. His hands gripped the edge of the dresser.

 

The shower had turned off a minute ago. He’d heard Ethan step out, close the glass door. He’d heard the towel Ethan used get pulled off the hook, the folds of terrycloth start to ruffle over Ethan’s body.

 

He’d never gone in the bathroom while Ethan was showering. While Ethan was naked. It was Ethan’s private time, his private space. And, no matter what else they’d done, they’d still never seen each other completely nude.

 

The towel was probably moving all over Ethan’s body by now. Rubbing up his legs… over his chest… down…

 

Jack’s fingernails dug into the wood. A month ago, if someone told him that he’d be fantasizing about his lead Secret Service detail agent’s naked body, he’d have laughed in their face. But, here he was. Fantasizing… and wanting.

 

Footsteps, from in the bathroom. Ethan, padding to the sink. Water being turned on. The sound of teeth being brushed.

 

Ethan would be wearing the towel now. He’d have it wrapped around his waist.

 

His chest would be bare. Maybe still damp, some of the hairs on his chest catching droplets of water that clung close to his skin. He’d be warm, warm like the shower, and smell like the evergreen soap and fresh mountain body wash Jack used in the shower.

 

Jack closed his eyes. Images paraded through his mind: Ethan smiling, laughing, winking. Blowing him a silent, tiny kiss across the Oval Office, or in the West Wing. Ethan, shirtless, lying with his head in Jack’s lap as they watched the ball game. Ethan, beneath him on the couch, their cocks straining against their suit pants as they made out like giddy, love-struck teenagers.

 

His gaze slid toward the closed bathroom door. Would it be alright if he just went in and said hello? Just was there, near Ethan? It was the only place he wanted to be anymore.

 

Ethan spat, and Jack heard the water turn on. He was done with his teeth brushing.

 

Now or never.

 

He headed in.

 

Ethan froze when he saw Jack enter the bathroom. Jack flinched. Bad idea. He shouldn’t have barged in. He should grab something and pretend like he forgot it, that he needed it in the bedroom. But, damn it, he was already dressed. Tie tied, slacks pressed, starched shirt buttoned, and cuffs on. Nothing to do but go full steam ahead, then.

 

Jack leaned back against the counter, by his own sink, and crossed his arms. His gaze strayed, dropping down from Ethan’s eyes, his lips, further down, wandering over his chest. Landed on Ethan’s towel, knotted around his waist.

 

“See something you like?” Ethan’s voice was rough, deeper, edged in an emotion he so rarely heard from Ethan. Nervousness, and a hint of fear. Caution. Trepidation. Ethan held on to the towel like it was a shield. Shoulders tensed, like he was ready to run.

 

God, what was he doing? What if Ethan didn’t want him in here, really didn’t want him in here?

 

Jack gaze flicked up, back to Ethan’s. He saw everything in Ethan’s eyes: fear… and expectancy.

 

Ethan was waiting for the end. For rejection. For dismissal.

 

Jack’s throat clenched. The words wouldn’t come, not to his own mind, and not to his brain. But his heart was racing, galloping across his ribs hard enough to shatter his own fears. He wanted Ethan in so many, many ways. As his friend, as his confidante, as his mentor. As his partner, and, yes, as his lover. He wanted Ethan in every way.

 

Slowly, Jack nodded. He stepped forward, reaching for Ethan’s towel. If Ethan stopped him, he’d back off. He’d apologize, retreat, and never make the first move again.

 

He held Ethan’s gaze, hoping his eyes were speaking for him. I want everything about you. Even this. Especially this.

 

It’s been so long since I’ve been wanted.

 

The thought slammed into him, a shotgun blast of realization, despair mixed with hope. It’s been so, so long, since anyone desired me. And it’s been just as long since I desired anyone at all. Since I burned up inside for someone’s touch, or their eyes on me. Ethan, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.

 

His eyes dropped to Ethan’s waist, to the towel, to where he was slowly tugging it loose from Ethan’s hips. Ethan’s breath sped up, his chest rising and falling faster, each breath shakier than the last.

 

And then –

 

The towel fell to the floor, and Ethan – all of glorious, gorgeous, amazing Ethan – was right there. Completely naked, right in front of him.

 

His eyes roamed over Ethan’s body. Down his legs, over his chest – dusted with droplets from the shower, tiny beads of water clinging to the ends of his dark chest hair – and down again… past his belly button, and past a trimmed thatch of hair… down to his cock.

 

As Jack watched, Ethan began to harden, swelling and rising under Jack’s gaze. Ethan shuddered, a husky gasp breezing past his lips.

 

Jack’s heart sped up, galloping faster, pounding out a wild drum beat. His mouth seemed to water and go dry all at once. This was Ethan, the man he adored, the man he chose. The man he craved. He was practically dizzy, reality spinning away as he faced the man he wanted to know as a lover.

 

He bit his lip. “Can I touch you?”

 

“Please.” Ethan shuddered again, and his eyes squeezed shut. “But only if you’re sure,” he amended, the caution back in his voice and his eyes open again. He was giving Jack an out, an “oops, sorry, I didn’t mean it when I said I wanted to try this.” Or, “I don’t want to go this far.” Or even, “I don’t want to touch or see your body.”

 

None of that, God, none of that was true. He hungered for Ethan, in every single way.

 

Touching Ethan’s cock for the first time felt like stroking raw lightning. He felt their skin connect, felt the jolt, the sizzle, pure raw power twined with lust rocketing up the nerves in his arms, sprinting for his heart, and for his own cock. “What do I do?” I want to be good for you.

 

“Anything,” Ethan breathed. His knees wobbled, almost buckled. “It’s like touching yourself. Just do what you like.” Ethan bit his lip after he spoke.

 

I will make this good for you. Jack wrapped his hand around Ethan and stroked, firmly, his hand a constant pressure, up and down. He added a twist to his wrist and Ethan gasped. Sounded like he almost swallowed his tongue. Jack rubbed his thumb over Ethan’s cock head, swiping away a bead of pre-come and smearing it on Ethan’s skin. Ethan moaned again, loudly.

 

“Faster.”

 

Ethan was close. Jack could feel it. The way his body quivered, the way he bit his lip. The way he whimpered, just barely, with every breath and every stroke. He was doing this to Ethan, him, Jack. He was making Ethan come undone. Exhilaration shot through him, a mad mix of delight and wonder and frenetic energy. His own lust, his own desire, roared.

 

Ethan pitched forward and his hands rose, grabbing Jack’s shoulders. Buckling, Ethan seemed to try and crumple into Jack, fold himself into Jack’s reach and his hold. He hissed, clenching his teeth together, and held Jack’s gaze.

 

Warm come drenched Jack’s hand as Ethan trembled, as he bucked, as he exploded, coming apart beneath Jack’s touch.

 

Holy God. Jack stared at his hand, at Ethan, shattered and dragging in deep gasps of air, and at the come covering his fingers. He could smell Ethan, Jesus, he could smell his musk, his scent, the power of his soul –

 

“Are you okay?” Ethan’s eyes were wide, fear firmly back in place even stronger than before. His face was red, flushed.

 

What could he ever say after that? He couldn’t even form words in his brain, couldn’t line up the letters of the alphabet to be coherent.

 

He, Jack, had brought Ethan to orgasm. This must be how Eve felt, tasting forbidden fruit. I can never get enough of you, Ethan.

 

He grabbed Ethan and pulled him close, dragging his naked body hard against his suit pants and dress shirt. Ethan’s hands landed on his hips, roamed up his sides, down his back, and squeezed his ass as Jack captured his lips. The kiss turned filthy fast, tongues dueling, lips battling, sucking. He wanted to crawl into Ethan’s arms. He wanted to be naked, all the way naked, now. He wanted to feel everything, absolutely everything, with Ethan.

 

His hands dropped to his fly, working the button, the zipper. The sound was too loud in the bathroom, a siren in between their kisses and sighs.

 

Ethan pulled back, enough to catch a breath between their lips. “Jack… Are you sure?”

 

“Yes! Touch me! Ethan, please!”

 

Ethan backed him up roughly against the counter and then batted his hands away from his zipper. In a moment, in between one kiss and the next, Jack’s pants were undone and his boxers were pulled down, his cock jutting free and arching to the sky. Ethan dropped to his knees, groaned, and nuzzled Jack’s crotch, his nose buried in the hairs above his cock, his cheek brushing over Jack’s shaft.

 

Jack fumbled on the counter, searching for a handhold before he collapsed. God, Ethan’s mouth, his lips, his breath—

 

He knocked over his deodorant and toothpaste as his hands scrabbled over the tile, fingernails digging into grout. Ethan’s lips dusted up his shaft, and then—

 

Jesus, none of his dreams, nothing he’d imagined, none of the furtive, desperate strokes and gasps he’d buried facedown in his pillow could ever compare to this. Could ever compare to the feel of Ethan, Ethan on his knees in front of him, nuzzling, sucking, swallowing—

 

He moaned, some breathy kind of grunt mixed with a howl. A primal noise, something that came from somewhere deep, deep within him, something that hadn’t ever been touched. He looked down, and found Ethan looking back up at him. Jack reached for him, one come-wet thumb stroking over the hollow of Ethan’s cheek.

 

Ethan moaned and closed his eyes, and then swallowed him whole.

 

It had been two too many decades since he’d had a blow job, and Jack had exactly zero stamina for this kind of soul-shattering pleasure. Ethan’s moans, his tongue, that look in his eyes when he gazed up at Jack, like he’d been yearning for this, had been aching for Jack, like every part and piece of him was tuned into to making every atom in Jack’s body sing – everything came together in a heartbeat.

 

He came with a shout, his orgasm surprising him. Like a hurricane moving through him and being sucked out of his cock, his orgasm shredded him, ripped him to the four corners of the earth by Ethan’s lips and tongue.

 

Ethan moaned and his eyes rolled back, closing. Just barely, Jack caught sight of Ethan furiously stroking his own cock. Ethan shuddered and shook, gasping around Jack like he was coming again, too. But that was just too incredible to think on. Ethan, coming again because he’d blown Jack?

 

His thoughts wouldn’t add up. Jack floated, the universe and everything in it reduced to the feel of Ethan’s lips sliding off his shaft, the delicate kiss pressed to the side of his cock head. Ethan’s face, his cheek, resting against his thigh. Warm breath on skin no one had ever kissed.

 

Jack collapsed, falling to his knees and sliding down the bathroom cabinets right in front of Ethan. His pants were ruined, crumpled and wrinkled. His shirt was disheveled, and his tie was undone, askew. His cock was still hanging out, softening.

 

“I’m sorry.” Ethan’s voice was rough, gravely in a way Jack had never heard. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

 

That had been exactly what he’d wanted. Exactly what he’d craved without even knowing it.

 

Maybe he’d pushed the envelope. Maybe starting this in the middle of their morning routine wasn’t the most ideal time. Maybe they should have talked first. But, he wanted to be closer to Ethan, closer in every way.

 

He wanted to be Ethan’s lover. Wanted to make love to Ethan. Wanted Ethan to make love to him.

 

“Shut up.” He grinned. “And kiss me.”

 

Ethan surged forward, wrapping him up in both arms and kissed him deeply, tingles running all the way down to his toes, bursts like fireworks going off in his heart.

 

This is working, Ethan. This is so working.

 

We’re going to be lovers.

 

And I’m going to fall in love with you.

 

 

Timestamp: Enemies of the State, Chapter 27. While Jack and Ethan are secretly dating in the White House.

 

Shattered – Adam and Faisal move to Bahrain

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to this week’s Bauer’s Bytes!

Today, we’re diving back into Adam and Faisal, and where we left off after Enemy Within. How is Adam dealing with all of the massive changes in his life? How are Faisal’s family treating him? What’s on the horizon for them both? ***Spoiler Warning! If you have not read Enemy Within, this Byte is not for you!!***

 

 

Bahrain.

 

The Island Kingdom of Bahrain, eighty-six islands governed by a king, connected by a causeway to Saudi Arabia. Home to the U.S. Fifth Fleet in the Persian Gulf.

 

Adam had been there before, when he was a Marine. He’d been in Juffair and strolled on the cornice, sweated it out under the Persian sun. Eyed the one or two men who made him ache for Faisal, with their slender bodies hidden in thawbs as their mirrored sunglasses reflected rainbows across the sand and sea.

 

Now, he was in Bahrain as the Saudi Arabian ambassador’s husband.

 

He felt adrift, like a hot air balloon that had lost its tether, and he was floating high into the sky. What world had he stumbled into? When would he wake up from this dream? Surely, he was still on the ice in the Arctic. Surely, he’d taken a bullet, maybe to the brain, and he was living a lifetime in the last gasping breaths of his real life, spinning a fantasy of his perfect dreams that could never, ever come true.

 

Sometimes he stayed up, watching Faisal sleep through the long hours of the night. He tracked the moon across the sky, watched the stars twirl in constellations. Don’t ever, ever end, he pleaded to the darkness. I don’t care if I’m mad. If I’m insane. This is the life I want.

 

Faisal would always stir and catch him, sleepily nuzzling closer and pulling him into his arms. “I’ve got you,” he would whisper. “It’s okay. I’m here, habibi.”

 

When he did sleep, there were nightmares. Endless stretches of ice, Arctic wilderness, and Cook’s dead eyes. Cook, rising from the ice like a zombie punching out of his grave, clawing his way back to the surface. Sneering, boasting about how he was going to kill Faisal and drink his blood, slobbering and snapping like a wild, feral beast. That moment in the RusFuel station, and this time he wasn’t fast enough, and Cook pulled the trigger. Faisal, dead on the deck, a growing pool of blood spreading around his lifeless body. Faisal’s eyes always stared up at him, pupils blown wide in death, and full of shock. Betrayal. How could you do this to me, habibi?

 

“I’m here, habibi.”

 

Sometimes his tears soaked the back of Faisal’s neck as Faisal slept. He kissed each one away, every tear and every kiss a promise of another lifetime at Faisal’s side. Forever and ever and ever. In shaa Allah.

 

The first week, they stayed at King Faisal’s massive palace in Riyadh. Adam walked like a cat in a room full of angry rocking chairs, rocking chairs with shark teeth that were waiting to eat him. Never before had a westerner been in the Saudi Arabian king’s residential palace. Spent the night, and dined with him in the morning on his private terrace, eating dates and nuts and drinking yogurt and fruit juice. Prayed at the king’s side, listening to his wizened voice whisper prayers for Faisal and himself amidst the salat, the daily prayers.

 

Never before had a western man made love to the Saudi crown princeling in the king’s palace.

 

Faisal kissed him on the terrace at breakfast one morning, and he was certain he’d lose his head by the afternoon. But King Faisal and Uncle Abdul just smiled and chuckled, clucking before they turned back to their dates and morning briefings on Kingdom security and global politics. Faisal squeezed his hand tight, relief and love and so much more bursting from his gaze.

 

If he really thought about it, he was probably in seventeen different kinds of shock. His soul was yoyoing, flinging between memories of the Arctic and the aching emptiness he’d felt, the way the whole universe had seemed empty at the thought of Faisal’s death. There was no point in the sun shining, in the earth spinning, if Faisal was gone from the world. No point at all.

 

From the Arctic to the desert, and being flung into the deep end of the Saudi Arabian monarchy. Whispered words and gentle footfalls on marble, servants that scurried always out of sight, gold everywhere he looked. He couldn’t quite bring himself to sit on the gold toilet, or the gold bidet. In his whole life, he’d never earn enough money to afford one gold toilet. There was one in every bathroom he saw.

 

Wealth that was impossible to imagine. A culture that, even for being with Faisal for years, was still alien to him. The slowness, the way the days bled together, the hours smearing. A conversation started over breakfast could wile away the day. As a Marine, he’d done a thousand different things before lunch. Here, he was lucky to be dressed.

 

A faith that was new in his heart, and prickly on his bones. He prayed whenever it got too quiet, whenever he started to hear himself think. Allah, I give everything in my life to you. My life is a top that is spinning and spinning and spinning. Let it spin forever.

 

Help me be a good husband.

 

Help me know what to do now.

 

He didn’t know what he thought would happen with Faisal’s family – with their family – but they welcomed him in warmly. He prayed beside King Faisal and Uncle Abdul, prostrating together with them, listening to whispered prayers, and felt his soul rise in time with theirs. Afterward, they held his hands, kissed his cheeks, and called him son.

 

His hot air balloon floated higher and higher, and the air he breathed seemed to get thinner.

 

Finally, and all too soon, he and Faisal were on their way to Bahrain. He didn’t want to leave the palace, at first. The king and Uncle Abdul had become more family to him, in just a week, than his own family had ever been. He saw the same twang of loss in Faisal’s eyes as they said their goodbyes, and, for the first time, he understood exactly how much Faisal was willing to give up to stay with him. He almost ran for the nearest gold toilet, the shame slamming into him like lightning. He swallowed down his bile, his rising vomit, his guilt. Allah, I’m not worth that much. I am not. Help him see that.

 

Help me be worthy of his love. Of his devotion. Because I am not now. Allah, guide me.

 

An hour-long flight on the king’s private jet took them to Bahrain. Manama’s skyline, shark teeth skyscrapers against the Arabian blue waters and the scorched sand, stood out in shimmering heat waves. Green grass, manicured and curated, gleamed alongside the mosaic walkways of the cornice and the promenades. Islands snaked around the capital, spits of sand that boasted a thousand homes each.

 

Faisal leaned in, pressing his cheek against Adam’s, and pointed out the window. “See that little island, shaped like a nine?”

 

Adam’s breath stuttered. He nodded. It was an island paradise in every sense of the word. Spacious villas that dotted the curly end of the island, front yards pointed to the private lagoon, back yards to the ocean. On the other side of the tiny island, promenades and cafes, shops and restaurants, and a marina filled with classic dhows and Gulf superyachts. A millionaire’s island, wreathed in luxury, drenched in sunshine, and resting in the diamond blue waters of the Persian Gulf.

 

“We live there.”

 

He squeezed Faisal’s hand until his knuckles went white.

 

Their driver took them from the airport to the island shaped like a nine, Reef Island. A private causeway separated their island from the mainland, and even in the road, mosaics had been laid with care. He expected diamonds in their driveway, more gold, maybe emeralds and rubies on their fenceposts.

 

His breath faltered again as they drove into the high-walled gated yard surrounding their villa. Almost a compound, but not quite. Sprawling would be putting it mildly. His and Faisal’s new home stretched around the bend of the island, facing the sea. Sailboats lazily drifted in the distance. Marble and gold filled the home, and Middle Eastern accents, relics of history from a dozen civilizations that museums the world over would pay millions for. Pottery from Sumer, art from the Assyrians. Tablets of the Babylonians. Swords from Arabia. Mesopotamian statues. Framed papyrus from ancient Egypt. Silk chairs and couches, linen and gauze curtains. Even the air he breathed felt expensive.

 

In the back, an infinity pool reached for the sea, tumbling down a short waterfall at the edge of the yard, as if he could swim from the pool to the ocean and back. Decks and gazebos were artfully hidden behind overflowing blooms of flowers, private niches where they could hide and be undisturbed.

 

“Our bedroom is here.” Faisal guided him down one hallway, off the three-story foyer and grand sitting room. A gold filigree map of Saudi Arabia hung on one wall. The sun glinted off the sea through massive windows, sparking the golden threads within the map. Sparkles followed them everywhere.

 

He’d never seen a more massive bed. He could live his whole life in the silk sheets, in the continent of the down mattress, and within the folds of Faisal’s arms.

 

Faisal squeezed his hand and led him back through the house, pointing out the kitchen – which they wouldn’t use – the dining room, and the prayer room. Mosaics covered the walls, and banners proclaiming the shadada hung in black and gold filigree. A niche in the wall pointed west, toward Mecca, and a plush rug had been laid out for their daily prayers.

 

“Do you like it?” Faisal still held his hand. “I wanted to get something nice for you.”

 

“Nice?” Adam chuckled, still struggling to breathe the expensive, ornate air. “This is more than nice. This is the kind of wealth I— No, I actually don’t think I ever imagined something this grand. I… I don’t belong here.”

 

Faisal frowned. “Of course you belong here.”

 

“This is far, far, far too good for me.”

 

“Every star in the sky is not enough for you. Every pearl in the ocean, or diamond from the earth is not enough for you, Adam.”

 

“Oh, God.” Adam turned away, covering his face with his hands. His thawb bunched at his elbows, and his keffiyeh tickled his neck. “Don’t say that, please. I’m not worth that much.” I almost got you killed. Loving me almost ripped you from your family. I’m nothing but a drain on you, and I always will be.

 

Faisal’s gentle hands pried his away. He smiled, his radiance shining on Adam, and one delicate hand ghosted down his face, over his lips. “Habibi. Ya rouhi. Enta habibi ya hayati.”

 

Adam flinched, gasping, and his eyes screwed shut. Faisal’s hand cupped his cheek. “That’s what you said to me on the ice. After we married. When I was—”

 

The memories played like an Imax film, perfect clarity, perfect sound, perfect emotions. Like he was back there, reliving every nanosecond, every heartbeat. Every one of Faisal’s tears. His decision to die, and the agony of saying goodbye to Faisal for this life. Goosebumps rose, the chill of the Arctic flooding his soul.

 

“I will say those words to you every day, every hour, until the nightmares fall away, habibi.” Leaning in, Faisal pressed his forehead to Adam’s, nuzzling close. “I’m here, with you. For you. Ya rouhi.”

 

“This really is too much,” Adam breathed, after a moment.

 

“Nothing is too much for you.”

 

“You don’t see it, do you? The wealth, the expense? You come from a completely different world than I do. It’s… overwhelming, habibi.”

 

Faisal smiled, and his hands rose again, cradling Adam’s cheeks. “I see it all.”

 

“I don’t know if I can get used to this.”

 

“Hani, I see it, but I never let it have power over me. These things, they don’t matter. I want to give you the best at all times, but that doesn’t mean the best of wealth. Or of trinkets. The best is us, together, wherever that may be. Here, in this ridiculous villa.” He smiled, and sneaked a kiss on Adam’s lips. “Or in a studio in Paris. A flat in London, over a pizza place or an Indian restaurant, where we always smell of curry. A farm in America, where we hide from the world. A tent in the desert. A cardboard box on a street corner.” Another kiss. “Nothing is too much for you, habibi, because everything of me is for you. Is yours. For all time.”

 

And that was the end of his control. Adam sagged into Faisal’s hold, the tears flowing freely, burying his face in Faisal’s neck as he clung to him. Faisal held him close, stroked his skin, and whispered words of love into his ear. Soft Arabic on warm wind, the feel of sun on his skin, Faisal in his arms. Perfection. Perfection in every single way.

 

When he pulled back, he finally took a deep breath. His throat didn’t close, didn’t reject the golden air, and as he took in the villa, the wealth, the majesty, he saw it with new eyes. It was a beautiful home, a stunning backdrop, but the true wealth, and where their lives truly centered, was in the space between them. The juncture of their hands. The meeting of their lips. The curves of their hearts, nestling together, and the way the folds of their souls merged and joined whenever their eyes caught and held.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.” Thank you for waiting for me.

 

“Subhanallah.”

 

“Ana bahibak.”

 

Faisal beamed. He held out his hand. “What shall we do first? Swim? Eat? Make love? Run naked through the house and the gardens?”

 

Laughing, Adam kissed the back of his hand. “We’d swim naked at your old palace. That always led to good times.”

 

“Swimming it is, then.” Faisal stepped back and pulled off his keffiyeh, and then his thawb. He left both on the marble floor, piles of white cotton, and stood before Adam, completely nude. He winked. “Your turn.”

Timestamp: Adam and Faisal, post Enemy Within.

Faith (Part II) – Scenes from Enemy Within

Posted on by Tal

 

This week, we’re concluding the first person switcheroo scenes with three from Enemy Within. *** If you haven’t read Enemy Within, this Byte is not for you!***

How did Levi handle discovering Scott’s secret? What was Ilya thinking, keeping the faith in Siberia as he waited for Sergey? What went through Scott’s head as he made his final decision?

Happy reading!

 

Levi

Wondering, at the White House

 

It can’t be. It can’t be.

 

But of course it can. Madigan has shown us all, over and over again, that we cannot trust our own friends. Our own minds.

 

But Scott? No… it can’t be. Scott is Ethan’s best friend. They have more history together than a high school textbook. They’re salt and pepper shakers, a matched set, the dynamic duo, the wonder twins, the terrible twosome. There’s nothing those two haven’t done together. They’ll probably be in the same retirement home, the two of them together, still, bitching about the satellite and cracking jokes, and telling stories about the good ole days.

 

Scott would be the perfect man to turn, for Madigan. If Madigan can turn Scott, he can shred Ethan’s world. And Spiers’s world. The entire world, right from the center of the heart.

 

If Scott turns, that will be it. The world will be over. For Ethan, for sure. For Spiers. For everyone. Scott would be the key to Madigan’s victory. He could destroy everything. Everything.

 

Has he been a plant all along? How many years has this been in the making?

 

Jesus, the walls are fucking moving, shrinking in on me. I can’t fucking see right, can’t hear. There’s a Goddamn train approaching, coming up behind me, but I can’t see it. I can’t see anything. Not even the obvious.

 

Where the hell is Scott’s background investigation?

 

What is he hiding?

 

What the hell do I do?

 

If Scott has turned, then it’s over. The world is over. I can’t fucking stop it, not here, not now, when I’m in DC and Scott is a million miles away, right beside Ethan and Spiers, racing… to Madigan… at the top of the world.

 

How will Scott do it? How will he kill Spiers? Betray Ethan? Will he look Ethan in the eyes? Or will it be a knife in the back?

 

I puke before the images come, just the thoughts, the dread, enough to make me grab my trashcan and hurl.

 

Scott…

 

It can’t be. I don’t care what the evidence says. I cannot believe that Scott will stab Ethan in the back. There is no evidence, no calculus, no facts and figures or probabilities that can override what my heart is saying. Scott, Goddamn it, is Ethan’s best friend.

 

He has to be on our side.

 

I rest my forehead on the edge of the garbage bin. Black plastic digs into my skin. I can smell my sour vomit, see flecks of my cereal in the bile.

 

Fact. Scott has no background check.

 

Fact. Madigan has a traitor in Ethan and Spiers’s inner circle.

 

Fact. Scott is Ethan’s best friend.

 

Fact. Madigan has proven that we can trust no one.

 

Not even best friends.

 

I stack all the background check folders again, and I crumple the sticky note with Scott’s name on it. Toss it into the trash, on top of my vomit.

 

Accessory after the fact. Accomplice. I’m neither, but if Scott’s a traitor, and if civilization is around to try me after this, that’s what I’ll be tarred and feathered for. Covering up Scott’s tracks. Not turning in a traitor. Not saying something, when I damned well should have.

 

Please… please be on our side.

 

* * *

 

Ilya

Waiting for Sergey in Siberia, just before Sasha arrives with Kilaqqi.

 

Siberia is a cold, heartless place.

 

I’ve always known that Siberia is a tomb, a graveyard of hopes and dreams, built on bones and frozen tears. If I tried to calculate all the people who vanished into Siberia, all the prisoners, all the victims, my mind would shut down at the scale of the numbers.

 

Will it be my tomb, as well?

 

Is it already Sergey’s tomb?

 

Every day, I stand on the snow-covered track – only the most generous person would call it a road – and stare into Siberia. I smoke my cigarettes into the wind, clinging to the edge of town, as if the embers of my cigarette are a lighthouse for Sergey to follow home.

 

He’s out there. I know it. I’ve spent thirty years at the man’s side. I know him better than he knows himself. I know all his faults and foibles, his blind spots and his weaknesses. How he plays the jokester just a little too long. How quick he is to anger, a short fuse with a hot temper, but how that peters out in moments, leaving him like a sagging parachute.

 

How lonely he’s been, since Natalia. Probably since Irina, his first wife. Natalia was a political move, both into and out of his second marriage.

 

How he never knows what’s going on in his own heart.

 

Sergey has been wedded to Russia for years, ever since our wild-eyed fantasy of a better country slowly became a reality we could work for. Moving up the ranks, carefully. Positioning ourselves, in Putin’s crazed, criminal state. Ready to take advantage when the cards came tumbling down. Sergey was smart not to be the first president after Putin. Of course that one was going to be assassinated. No, he was the second president. The one who lived.

 

And he put all his hopes into our plan. Scheming, calculating, building up the evidence. Preparing for the final day when it was enough, when he could sign the arrest warrants and order the strike, and change Russia more in one day than any president had in almost a hundred years.

 

After the sweep, Sergey was different. How could he not be? Everything he had dedicated his life to had come to pass. The big moment, the event he’d worked toward for years had come and gone. He was left on the other side, a seasoned man with exactly one friend and an empty home.

 

Was it any wonder that he’s fixed his attentions on Sasha?

 

A new project, I thought. His and President Spiers’s friendship was breaking the airwaves. He is truly serious about equality, and care, and changing the country, I said.

 

Sasha was a difficult friend to make.

 

As gregarious as Sergey is, Sasha is silent. As joking as Sergey is, Sasha is withdrawn. Dour. But I watched that twinkle in Sergey’s eye, the one that came when he was trying to wheedle conversation out of Sasha, or a story, or even a smile.

 

He got that same twinkle in his eyes with both of his wives, early on.

 

But the idea was ludicrous, the thought preposterous. Sergey…? No. I would have known, if so.

 

Sasha is as obvious – to me – as a billboard erected on the Garden Ring, proclaiming his free fall for Sergey, his massively deepening crush, in screaming neon colors. Sidelong glances that flick away and back, like he can’t bear to look or look away. The way his whole body angles toward Sergey, as if his center of gravity is Sergey’s heart and soul. The way he tries to run from his feelings, stoic and ferocious in his silence and his nearly-invisible yearning.

 

Sergey is as blind as ever. Or, I  think, perhaps it’s his silent way of saying no.

 

Whatever is going on between them, Sergey is happy again. As happy as I’d seen him in years. I thought no further than that.

 

In Russia, I’ve learned to accept happiness when it comes, as it so very, very rarely does.

 

Wherever they are, they are still together. I know that in my bones, in my blood. As I smoke my cigarette, and watch the smoke mingle with the snow and the fog, the ever-present gloom of Siberia, I know at least this much. Sasha will never leave Sergey’s side. Not unless Sergey dies.

 

Or unless he goes to die for Sergey.

 

What would Sergey be after Sasha?

 

Two men, two unlikely men, who have now become entirely fused. At least, in my mind. What about in the world?

 

Sergey, damn you, where are you? The country needs you. Crawl out of the wasteland, the tomb of Siberia. Come back. I’m doing everything I can, putting the country back together piece by piece, for you. For you. There is no other man who I will give Russia back to. Come back.

 

Sasha, wherever you are, bring him back. I know you’re together, side by side. You’d never leave him, Sasha. Never.

 

Sergey wouldn’t know what to do if you did.

 

I stand in the snow, staring down the fog-covered track into Siberia, willing two men to appear from the dead, from the graveyard of Russia. My smoke swirls with the gloom, indistinguishable from the haunting, ever present malaise.

 

Come back, both of you. Together.

 

* * *

 

Scott

After Jack goes to Ethan on the Veduschiy.

 

Save yourself, Jack said. I promised I’d bring you back to your family.

 

Go. Flee. Escape. Save your life.

 

Let Jack and Ethan die.

 

Ethan’s screams had raked down my bones, clawed through my brain. Made me want to rip out my hair and gouge out my eardrums. Tears stream down my cheeks, every step taken away from Jack, Ethan and Madigan a knife in my back, in my spine. My tears freeze on my face, cracking as I try to breathe, my inhales quaking, my soul trembling.

 

Ethan is my best friend. And Jack is my president. Ethan’s husband.

 

I close my eyes. My wife, my daughter, flash in front of my eyes. I love you so much. So, so much. Remember me.

 

Turning around, I head back for Madigan’s base. For Jack. For Ethan.

 

Ethan is my best friend. I will never leave him behind.

 

Timestamp: Enemy Within

Faith (Part I) – Scenes from Enemy of My Enemy

Posted on by Tal

 

This week, I’m giving you something a little different. I’ve strung two shorter Bytes together to form the first part of a multi-part series where we look into specific moments in the series, told from another character’s point of view. This week, two scenes from Enemy of My Enemy.

How did Scott handle the attack in Sochi? How does Uncle Abdul deal with Adam coming back into Faisal’s life?

Spoilers for Enemy of My Enemy! If you haven’t read Enemy of My Enemy, do not read ahead!

Next week, we’ll look at moments in Enemy Within.

Happy Reading!

 

 

 

Scott

 

It happened again. Jesus fuck, how can it happen again?

 

In training, at the Secret Service Academy, we’re all taught the numbers. The statistics, the probability. The likelihood that you’re going to take a bullet in the chest for your protectee. We get the street rep for being tough bullet-sponges, but in the history of the Secret Service, not many have had to face that. We’re too anal-fucking-retentive on the back end to get surprised on the front.

 

But we got spanked in Ethiopia. After, we realized we weren’t playing with a full deck, and Ethiopia was always going to happen, no matter how tight Ethan’s planning was, how secure his operation to protect Spiers had been. How can you win when you’re going up against traitors inside your own government?

 

But this… Jesus Christ. Sochi was supposed to be a retreat. You can’t call it a vacation when two world leaders are planning massive military operations and a rogue general is sinking Russian naval ships. But this wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. Russia, and Puchkov, are our allies now.

 

So why the fuck am I running with Ethan and Spiers and ducking bullets… again?

 

It can’t happen twice. I told myself that every fucking night, after Ethan moved back to DC and into the White House. It just can’t happen twice. There can’t be two attacks on a president. The numbers, the statistics, they don’t support it.

 

Still, I went apeshit with protections, once I had command of the detail full time. Triple the number of agents, closed ranks, tighter security cordons. I kept Spiers in, too. He didn’t travel. Not unless he absolutely had to.

 

What if it does happen again? What if they’re both attacked? I kept myself up at night, my brain like a hamster on crack, spinning its wheels until the screws in my head came loose. If what happened in Ethiopia happens again, who the fuck will I throw myself in front of? Who will I catch a bullet for? Spiers? The fucking president? Ethan’s love of his life?

 

Or Ethan? My best friend, my brother, my fucking knuckleheaded shitshow brother who went and fell for the Goddamn president of the United States. Fucking Ethan…

 

It can’t happen again, I said. Every night.

 

Now, Ethan is shadowing my moves, acting like he’s some kind of Secret Service agent again. God, I wish he was. I wish he was still Ethan, still the other half of me in these kinds of fucked-up situations. I wish I could predict what he’d do, how he’d move, where he’d go next. But everything is fucked now. His focus isn’t on the mission or on me, his battle buddy. His focus is on Spiers. Just like Ethiopia, and Saudi, and the fucking White House, all over again. He’ll give everything, sacrifice everything, to this man. Damn it, Ethan.

 

Olympic Stadium is in sight. I can see it. The chopper is coming in. We’re almost fucking out. I swear to fucking God, we’ll never leave the White House again. Spiers will be the first homebody president. House arrest. I can fucking do that, after all this shit. I can bench him. It’s a digital world now. Spiers doesn’t have to go anywhere. He can tele-fucking-commute.

 

Then, the hostage. The man in the street, taunting Spiers, seemingly summoned by Madigan’s voice over the comms.

 

Ethan was all out of fucks to give. He executed the man, a single shot to the center of the forehead, and dropped him. Ethan is terrifying, when he gets into this mode, this beastly protective warrior mode; he’s ruthless. That ruthlessness has saved my life more times than I want to count. We’ve never talked about it. It’s just something inside Ethan, some cliff edge that he can leap off of and do anything – fucking anything – to save the people he cares for. Some edge of his soul, and a yawning darkness, a pit inside of him, that waits.

 

I get agents to the hostage before the body hits the ground. What is this? What are we dealing with? Is this a bomb? A booby trap? A suicide bomber in disguise? My agents weren’t gentle. They rip off the hood and strip open the jumpsuit, roughly patting the hostage down as fast as they can. There’s no time. The chopper is coming in, and we have to go.

 

I need to get Ethan and Spiers out of there. Right fucking now.

 

And then Spiers is running, taking off like a bat out of hell for the hostage, screaming at the top of his lungs. Ethan, damn him, is chasing the man, and everyone looks like they just saw a fucking ghost.

 

“Les! Les! It’s me! It’s Jack!”

 

Leslie Fucking Spiers.

 

It’s a clusterfuck hurricane after that. Spiers is a prick and won’t listen to anything we say. He’s 200% focused on his dead wife, holding her in his arms, carrying her to the chopper, ignorant as fuck about the raging gun battle still going on around him. Or of Ethan, watching the love of his life gaze down at his dead wife with tears in his eyes.

 

Ethan was as still as a statue, creepily unmoving. Like if he moved, he’d shatter. He just watched Spiers with the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen on him. What the fuck is going through his head? I’ve known him for years, decades, and, for the first time, I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling.

 

He and I are last in the chopper. I should be with Spiers. I should be with the president. I’m the fucking presidential detail lead.

 

But… I can’t pretend Ethan doesn’t mean more to me than Spiers does.

 

Spiers is a job. Ethan is my brother.

 

Jesus, I can’t even look at that asshole Spiers right now. He’s holding his dead wife and sobbing, and he hasn’t once fucking looked at Ethan. Does he even fucking care? Fuck him. Fuck Spiers.

 

“Are you with me?” I leaned into Ethan, trying to shout into his ear over the roar of the rotors.

 

Ethan said nothing. He grabbed a rifle and racked the slide, chambered a round, and then leaned out of the edge of the cargo hold, scanning. If only there was something to shoot. Goddamn, I’d have given anything for something to fucking destroy, for the two of us to shred with bullets, as Ethan screamed and raged into the night.

 

But there was nothing. I stayed at Ethan’s side the whole flight, our backs to Spiers, and as the roar of the battle faded, Spiers’s quiet sobs were the only sounds in the chopper. I felt Ethan stiffen beside me. Felt the pull of his energy, that dark, dangerous force that was Ethan’s soul, draw inward. I reached for him, grabbed his leg, and held on. He trembled beneath my touch.

 

Ethan was in freefall. He’d leaped off the fucking edge. He was gone, fucking gone.

 

And I didn’t know when – or if – he was going to hit bottom.

 

 

Uncle Abdul

 

“You!” My blood boiled, hotter than the sands of the Rub’ al Khali. “What are you doing here?”

 

It was him. That man, the one who’d –

 

I shook my head. No. Don’t think it. Don’t bring it to life. Don’t give it power.

 

Before me, Adam Cooper hung weakly in my guard’s grasp, hefted up by his neck and pressed against the wall. His wide eyes pleaded with mine, and his fingers scratched at my guard’s hand, closing around his throat.

 

“Yallah.” Drop him. This worthless man wasn’t worth the headache that would come from his untimely death in the hospital. “You… you pretended to be that journalist.”

 

How dare this man, this American! After everything, to come back here? Now? I wanted to murder him. I wanted to give into my rage, my frustration, give into my need for an outlet. A target. A reason.

 

And I wanted to pretend he was nothing. That he didn’t exist. That he never, ever had existed.

 

I watched him stand, slowly. Unsteadily. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, like he’d been crying. “Your Royal Highness, Governor of Riyadh, Prince Abdul al-Saud,” he grunted. “I’m here to see your nephew.”

 

“It is forbidden!” Never again. Never again would I allow these two men together. If I could, I’d forbid them from being in the same country together. This man should be refused entry to the Kingdom. He should be ejected, deported, packed onto the next flight, never to return. “Faisal told me it was finished! That you had left him!”

 

Adam cringed. “It was. It is. But he’s hurt—”

 

“And you think you have some kind of right to see my nephew? After what you did! Wallah! You should stay away from him!”

 

“I love him.” Adam breathed, the tough exterior he was trying to cling to shattering. His face twisted, and he gasped again. A sob strangled his voice. “I love him!” Tears built in his eyes.

 

No, no, this man did not love my nephew. If he loved him, if he truly loved Faisal, then he wouldn’t have left. I would not have had to watch Faisal turn to a shell, a wraith that stalked the halls of the palace with dulled, lifeless eyes. I would not have had to pretend not to notice his tearstained cheeks every morning. I wouldn’t have had to carefully rearrange everything so that I was constantly at Faisal’s side, never leaving him alone.

 

We said nothing, never spoke of it, these long months, as spring rolled to summer, and then autumn, through winter, and back to spring. A whole year of mourning. A year of Faisal’s broken heart, day in and day out.

 

Faisal tried to hide himself from me. He dried his eyes, made excuses for his lack of appetite. I watched, and I waited, and I stayed. I stayed.

 

That is love, caring for someone, even if you cannot say why. Even if you cannot speak the words, cannot break open the secret binding your souls. I love my nephew. I always, always will.

 

This man, this pretender, this infidel. He is nothing. He is less than nothing. He hurt my blood. And for that, he will never be anything, ever again. “That makes it worse!” I grabbed him and hauled him down the hallway. He followed like a broken toy. “Do you not understand? The mutawwa’in could kill him! He is not safe from their punishments, just because he is royal. Not anymore!”

 

I won’t let this man’s arrogance, his Americanism, his ignorance of everything, lead to the end of my nephew’s life.

 

“We were careful-”

“This is not careful! Storming into the hospital? How many saw you? How many will ask questions?”

 

I turned away from him, my hands clenching the gold-braided edges of my robes. My teeth clenched. I wanted to strangle this man. “When Faisal’s father and mother died, I promised my brother’s memory that I would raise his son and care for him. That he would be safe, and he would be loved. Faisal is my blood.” I turned back, my gaze hard enough to cut diamonds. I could feel my wrath pouring from me, outward, like swords stabbing Adam until there was nothing left, and his influence had vanished from our lives, and the hurt of his abandonment had fled from Faisal’s soul. “My blood. My family.”

 

“Please,” Adam whispered. “Please… Can you tell me if he’s all right?”

 

How dare this man! To keep pressing— I recited sūras in my mind, du’a for patience, for guidance.

 

What do I do? What do I do, faced with a man I pretended didn’t exist? When faced with a man who has hurt my blood so fiercely? How do I navigate this? What is the right path? Allah, guide me. I spoke carefully. “His liver was punctured. Almost all of it has been removed. He’ll need a new one cloned and another surgery. But…for now, he is resting. They say in time, he will recover completely.”

 

A sob burst from Adam’s chest. Tears built in his eyes, and he turned away as he buried his face in his hands. He heaved one shaking breath after another, seeming to sob out his soul into the palms of his hands.

 

Finally, after an age, he wiped his eyes and faced me again.

 

Misery. Dejection. Loss. Aching loneliness. Despair.

 

I have seen these emotions. I saw them every day in my nephew’s watery eyes. In the slump of his shoulders. In the quiet sigh of his anguished prayers.

 

What happened between these men? What happened that sent my nephew into a depression that has lasted for a year, has rooted an unshakeable gloom on his soul?

 

Why this man? Why this choice? Faisal has the Kingdom and the whole world in the palm of his hands, and yet he mopes for this one bedraggled American. Why?

 

Faisal claims he loves this man. He loves Adam. Loves him enough to tell me no, he will not agree to an arranged marriage. He will not marry any woman. Will not follow the path laid out for him, the one that led to the crown.

 

“I will marry him, if he’ll have me,” Faisal had breathed, once.

 

Why Adam? Why this man?

 

I frowned. “I thought that he was merely exhausting his lust. It’s not unheard of for young, virile men to seek out a willing body for their needs, provided they end up with a wife in the end.”

 

Adam looked away. “It was so much more.”

 

“It would be easier if it was just lust. Love makes it complicated.”

 

Faisal… Do you still love Adam? Do you still dream about this man? “Are you familiar with Abu Huraira?”

 

“A bit. Faisal used to speak of him. He was a scribe of Mohammed?”

 

“′Alayhi as-salām. Yes. There is a hadith that speaks of Abu Huraira’s torment as a young man. His lack of desire for women and marriage, namely. He went to the prophet, begging for advice. Four times he asked for the prophet’s guidance, and on the fourth time, the prophet spoke.” I took a breath, and prayed. Faisal… May Allah guide my words and thoughts, my actions and deeds. Everything I do… I do for you. I only want your happiness. “‘The pen is dried to what you are experiencing,’ the prophet said.”

 

I held Adam’s stare. He wasn’t getting it. Of course. He was only an American. “What is fixed is fixed. A man’s fate is sealed when the pen’s ink over his life dries.” I rubbed my forehead. Chewed my lip. Faisal… Allah help me, I hope I am doing the right thing for you. “Al-hamdu lillah, my nephew’s ink may be dried in this matter.” I swallowed. “Faisal has refused all talk of marriage. He’s refused all of the brides I have arranged for him.”

 

Adam flinched, and he hunched like he’d been punched in the gut. He closed his eyes, took a shuddering breath. I watched him, for a moment, reveling in the anguish rolling through him. Multiply that anguish by months, by sleepless nights and hollowed eyes, and he’d feel a portion of what Faisal had felt, after he’d left.

 

“Inshallah, he says he is waiting for you.”

 

I only want my nephew to be happy. Happy, and loved. Is that this man’s purpose? Is he the one to love and cherish my Faisal? “We have been talking at great length.”

 

I scowled. This isn’t the life I imagined for Faisal. This isn’t the choice I wanted to make. This isn’t how I imagined anything would play out.

 

“He is my blood,” I snapped. “My family. And I will do anything for my family.” Another glare, fixed to Adam, as I looked him up and down, as if I could see into Adam’s soul and read his fault lines. Read the cracks and tears that had made him weak in the past, had made him walk away from Faisal. Never again. “You will never bring him harm. He will never hurt, ever. Not from the body, and not from the heart.”

 

“No,” Adam breathed. He licked his lips, his breaths coming fast, practically a frantic pant. “No, never. Never again. Your Royal Highness…”

 

“This is not concluded. We have much to discuss, Faisal and I. I do not condone this, or you. Especially not you. What you have done. What you left behind.”

 

I sighed, like my soul was being crushed. My blood, my family, my life. Faisal, my favorite of my children. His life has always been planned, and he never resisted that, my interference in his existence, my shaping and molding of his path. We’ve discussed him – his truth – exactly twice.

 

I’ve never seen Faisal look as alive as he did, those two times. Speaking his truth. No matter the consequences.

 

“He is my nephew. And he speaks only ever of you. Wallah.”

 

Adam pressed his trembling lips together. “Please, Your Highness. Can I see him?”

 

“You will find the men that did this to my nephew. You will make them suffer.” I stared at Adam.

 

I hope I am doing the right thing. I hope this is what Faisal wants. Allah, I place everything in your hands. Take care of my nephew… and this man he loves. Al-hamdu lillah.

 

“Faisal is down the hall. The recovery suite.”

 

Timestamp: Enemy of My Enemy, Sochi & post the assault on Faisal by Madigan’s forces.