Archive: Author: Tal

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.

Available Now – Hush

Posted on by Tal

 

A federal judge running from the truth.
A U.S. marshal running from his past.
A trial that can plunge the world into war.
 
Federal Judge Tom Brewer is finally putting the pieces of his life back together. In the closet for twenty-five long years, he’s climbing out slowly, and, with the hope of finding a special relationship with the stunning Mike Lucciano, U.S. Marshal assigned to his DC courthouse. He wants to be out and proud, but he can’t erase his own past, and the lessons he learned long ago.
 
But a devastating terrorist attack in the heart of DC, and the subsequent capture and arrest of the terrorist, leads to a trial that threatens to expose the dark underbelly of America’s national security.
 
As Russia beats the drums of war, intent on seeking revenge, and the United States struggles to contain the storm before it races out of control, secrets and lies, past and present, collide in Judge Tom Brewer’s courtroom. With the world’s attention fixed on Tom and this case, he suddenly discovers he may be the only person who can put everything together in time to stop the spark of a new world war.

 

Available Now @ Amazon.com

A Sneak Peek at Hush!

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to this week’s Bauer’s Bytes!

This week, we get a sneak peek at my new novel, Hush! Meet Deputy U.S. Marshal Mike Lucciano!

 

Simultaneous knocking—banging, like an invading horde was at his door—and a ceaseless rattle of his doorknob broke over his radio belting out Britney Spears on Saturday morning.

Mike threw open the door with a glare, leaning against the heavy wood.

Kris Caldera, his best friend, stood in the entrance, his perfect face curved into a pout, lips pushed out, long eyelashes batting slowly. He held up a key like it was an indictment. “My key doesn’t work.”

Mike held up another key. “I changed my locks. Here’s your new one.”

Kris snatched it out of his hand as he strutted into Mike’s townhome. He was dressed for Paris, for Milan, an haute couture fashion model gracing his apartment with color and style. Shining boots, polished to a high gloss, pointed at the toe and with a heel that was just on the wrong side of scandalous. Tight twill pants, a sunny button-down. A skinny tie, shades of blue competing for dominance. A long Gucci trench coat, and Gucci sunglasses perched on his perfectly spiked hair. Mike swore Kris accented the harsh angles of his face with makeup, dusted his cheekbones with bronzer until they looked like they could cut diamonds. He knew Kris wore eyeliner and mascara. Kris was two years older than Mike, a year away from forty, but he’d cut Mike if he ever said that aloud.

Kris was a walking stereotype. He knew every Tony-winning musical by heart and could belt out Bette Midler, Celine Dion, and Idina Menzel. He was sass on heels, deadly with his tongue, and went through men like a ravenous black widow. Mike had met him out on his first week in DC, after he’d transferred out of the hellhole he’d been working in before. They’d spent the whole evening at the bar trading barbs, verbal repartee that tried to draw blood. Mike wanted to take him home, wanted to unwrap him and devour him, wanted all that sass to shred him to pieces. He’d practically begged. Kris had refused. “You’re too young for me, sweetie.”

They were best friends from that moment on.

Kris stopped in Mike’s foyer, staring at his living room as his perfectly sculpted eyebrows slowly rose. He flicked a hand out to Mike, pushing one slim hip out. “Did you forget to tell me you’re moving?”

Everything from Mike’s kitchen was in the living room, stacked in boxes and bags and piled in haphazard stacks. Half his shelves in the living room were bare, emptied of Silvio’s crap. His hall closet looked like it had been ransacked, jackets and clothes heaped on the floor and spilling onto the hardwood.

“I moved Silvio out.”

Kris pulled his head back, just slightly. His lips pursed. He was being good, so far. Holding his tongue. Waiting.

Mike sighed. Kris would let him have it eventually. “I came home and found him banging some other dude in the kitchen.”

Kris’s manicured hand flew to his neck, his long fingers spread over his throat and across his collarbone. His eyes flared, Spanish fire blazing bright. He blinked, ridiculously long lashes fluttering over his creamy cheeks. “I never liked that bitch,” he finally snapped. “I told you he was no good.”

“I know.”

“I told you he was a fuckboy.”

“I know.”

“I told you you have the shittiest taste in men.”

Mike grinned. “I know.” He reached for a sledgehammer, leaning against the wall of his entranceway.

Kris gave him a flat glare. “What’s that for? Did you keep one of his shitty polyester shirts? Going to whack it to broken threads? I might actually help you with that. Let me grind it beneath my heel.”

Laughing, Mike headed for the kitchen. It was just empty cupboards and bare granite now. His eyes lingered on the spot Silvio had leaned, his elbows braced on the stone, getting drilled by Tall & Swarthy. “It’s time for a remodel.”

“Oh, honey, you know I don’t do manual labor. You called the wrong friend.”

“You’re keeping me company. And your seat is over there.” He pointed to his barstool and a mixing bowl filled with ice he’d set up beside it, perched on his end table. A bottle of vodka rested in the ice and a Martini glass sat beside the bowl.

“Lovely, darling.” Kris sashayed his way across the living room, picking through piles of crap and tossing his jacket over a stack of boxes. He poured a straight vodka Martini as Mike spun slowly in his kitchen, one last survey. It was all coming out. Every last scrap.

“You could at least take your shirt off while you’re being super masc.”

Mike laughed and peeled his t-shirt off. He flung it at Kris, who batted the sweaty fabric down, grimacing and glaring like Mike had spilled paint on his clothes. He brushed his pants, flicking imaginary dust from his perfect pleats.

“Ready?” Mike heaved the sledgehammer over his shoulder.

“Mmm hmmm.” Kris lifted his glass and winked at Mike. “Let’s see it, big boy.”

 

 

 

The kitchen was rubble in under an hour.

Granite cracked and smashed, turning to dust. The cupboards splintered, breaking apart into shards. Wreckage and rubble built around his feet. Only his sink and his fridge remained, stainless steel islands in a sea of dust and ruin.

Kris clapped slowly as Mike stood in the center, breathing hard. “Great job, Fred Flintstone. What are you going to do with the mess you made?”

Kris deigned to help him with the rubble, picking through the wreckage and plucking all the medium sized pieces into bags and boxes that Mike hauled out to the dumpster. He went back to his Martini as Mike swept and vacuumed, and then made Mike wipe down his boots after everything. Only when he was satisfied with Mike’s cleaning was Mike allowed to collapse onto his couch.

“Did that feel good?” Kris poured another drink and brought it over to Mike. He perched on the armrest.

“Yeah.” Mike sipped the vodka. “Yeah, that did feel good.” Getting over Silvio was easy when Silvio acted like the biggest bitch inside DC. Anger had a way of speeding up the breakup process. Silvio was just a mistake. Another one. Another in a long line of mistaken boyfriends and bad decisions.

“I assume we’re going out tonight? You’re going to fuck your way through DC again, until you fall head over heels for another fuckboy?”

Mike scrubbed his face, stalling. Why was it always the same? Why did he always end up like this? Alone, pissed off for one reason or another, and left to wonder why he seemed like he was the only guy to want something real. Mike took another drink. “I… think I need to change how I date.”

Kris almost fell off the arm of the couch. He pressed his hand to his chest, feigning a heart attack as he blinked fast. “I hear the cries and wails of fuckboys from Virginia to Pennsylvania. Lamentations. Bottoms going unfilled.”

“Jesus, Kris. Am I that bad?”

“After a breakup? Honey, you put Madonna and Coco Chanel to shame. I think there’s a mass fuckboy alert when you go out. Some bottom booty call, making them all a’tizzy. They come flocking, holes already lubed. They’re hoping to catch you in their nectar—”

“Okay, okay. Look, I’m not doing that anymore.”

“Really?” Kris couldn’t fit another ounce of disbelief into that single word, he really couldn’t.

“It’s hasn’t fucking worked, has it? Here I am again… alone. The last thing that I want to be is alone.”

Kris sat back and crossed his legs, one foot bouncing delicately. Silence strained the living room. “You are a hot mess.”

He looked down.

Kris took pity on him, though. “You want the gay fairytale, Mike. You want Prince Charming and happy ever after. But… Prince Charming is not going to come wrapped up in the packaging of a fuckboy.”

Mike sagged into his couch cushions with a sigh.

“You’re a good guy. A really good guy. Why do you keep wasting time with twenty-four-year-old flight attendants and wannabe models? They’re not good enough for you, honey.” Kris smoothed his hair, tucking wayward strands off his forehead. “You need someone who thinks you are their Prince Charming. Not the pretty face and attached dick that comes with a credit card.”

He stayed quiet, twirling the glass back and forth, making ripples in the vodka. “I don’t know if that guy exists, Kris. I’ve been looking for him. Where is he?”

“He’s for damn sure not a fuckboy!” Kris sat back, pursing his lips. “I cannot believe these words are passing my perfect lips, but…” He sighed. “Why don’t you take a break from the scene? Focus on yourself for a while. I mean, do you have any idea what your Prince Charming is like? What do you really want? Cause you’re not happy with what you’ve had.”

“I do know what I want.” Mike could picture it, could imagine life with the man of his dreams. He wanted a partner, a real partner, an honest to God relationship. He wanted to find The One, the man he’d marry. He wanted someone to love.

Faces blurred together, his exes and his hook ups a haze of haughty smirks and sneers, flashing eyes and slit-eyed glares. Sarcasm, biting tongues, ferocity when provoked. He loved Kris like a brother, but Kris wasn’t who he dreamt about night after night.

“He’s kind,” he finally said. “I want someone kind. Gentle. Loving.” Nights spent alone, or watching his partner texting all night long. Distance, when all he wanted was closeness. He could count the good times with Silvio, the moments where they seemed to be really close and not trying to shred each other with sass and sarcasm that flayed too close to the bone. “Affectionate. He wants me. Really wants me.”

Days he wanted to talk about his work, the cases he saw. The law, politics, and the world they lived in. Being laughed off, or ignored, or talked over. Being told he was boring. “He’s smart. We talk about things. Maybe we’ll stay up all night talking sometimes.”

The truth was, he wanted someone so out of his league his mystery man might as well be a satellite orbiting the earth. And Mike was an ant. He wanted someone intelligent, grounded, and with a heart of gold. Someone who wanted to hold his hand and cuddle with him, watch movies on Friday nights and sleep in on Sundays. Someone gentle with his heart, with his dreams. Someone who wanted him to be their whole world, the way he would be Mike’s.

“Does that sound like a fuckboy?” Kris’s voice was gentle.

Mike shook his head.

“You’re looking in all the wrong, places. You want Prince Charming, but you’re looking in a swamp. Get away from the bars and the apps. I know God isn’t your thing, but there are gay mens groups at some of the churches, and the center has volunteer gigs you can join. There’s a lot for gay men to do, Mike, other than troll for a hook up or look for The One at the club.”

“I know.” He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them with his fingers. “We already are doing that, though. I mean, we’re in the league. And we volunteer. That’s how we met Billy and Aaron.”

“Do more. This is our culture. It’s not just bars and clubs and hookup apps. If you want to find someone special, go look for him where you think he’s hiding.” Kris tilted his head. “And, be the kind of guy that you want to attract. You’re a good guy. Stop settling for less. Quality attracts quality.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“The flakes will stop hassling you when you stop feeding them your dick.” Kris stood, brushing off his pants. “Doctor Caldera prescribes a cleanse, Deputy Marshal Lucciano. A cleanse of the scourge of fuckboys.” He pointed at Mike, tapping the tip of Mike’s nose with every word. “No more fuckboys.”

“Yes, doctor.” Mike smiled.

“C’mon.” Kris snapped. “We’ve got to get you a new kitchen. And tonight, you’re taking me to the Kennedy Center. Madame Butterfly is playing. I’ll culture you, even if it kills me.”

“Yes, my queen.” He winked as he stood, and Kris tsked at him as he grabbed his trench coat.

He sighed, blowing air out of his hollowed cheeks. “We need to stop by the clinic, too.”

Kris whipped around, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his spiky fringe. True concern poured from his gaze.

“Silvio was banging the guy bare. I don’t know how long he was cheating, but if he was going bare, then I need to get checked.”

Kris turned away and shoved his arms through his trench coat sleeves, bunching the fabric and viciously tugging on the lapels. He took a long time straightening it, smoothing his shirt front, facing away from Mike. When he finally turned, his face was smoothed back to his haughty indifference, but Spanish fire still smoldered in his gaze. “I never liked that bitch.”

“I will listen to you from this day forward about any man.” Mike pressed his hands together and bowed, as if bowing to a master.

“You’re damn right you will. Now go shower and change. We’ve got a busy day.”

Hush releases July 2017!

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The Eagle Has Landed – Jack and Ethan’s Trip to the Beach

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to this week’s Bauer’s Bytes!

Jack and Ethan are headed to the beach, finally. 🙂

 

Finally, it was time to head to the beach.

 

Jack trooped out in his itty-bitty baby blue swim squares, and Ethan tagged along behind, in his bright white pair. He’d tanned before their trip, making sure he’d look at least halfway decent next to Jack. If anyone looked at him at all. He was next to Jack, which meant he was invisible.

 

Jack looked stunning. His stomach was flat, his abs carved into his flesh, canyons running down his obliques with a small divot above his belly button. It wasn’t a six pack, but they were definitely there. And definitely hot.

 

They planted their towels in the sand and let the waves tickle the ends of their toes. The cove was private, huddled next to their beach bungalow, and the ring of palm trees kept the public away. But, it wasn’t Camp David-level security, and Ethan caught the shine of at least one camera lens behind the line of palms.

 

“There’s a photographer. Do you want to stretch and show off?”

 

Jack laughed. He had the decency to blush, at least, before he rose and pretended to stretch to the sky, his baby blue swim trunks falling just below the angle of his hip bones and revealing the barest hint of blond fuzz just above his crotch. His abs seemed carved from marble in the tropical sunlight.

 

Ethan’s mouth watered.

 

Jack was right there, an arm’s length away. He’d never put the moves on Jack in public when Jack was the president. It wasn’t presidential, and he wanted to maintain the dignity of the office. Never let anyone have any ammunition to use against Jack.

 

But Jack wasn’t the president anymore.

 

He reached for Jack, wrapping both hands around his calves, and stroked up the back of Jack’s legs, tugging him closer. Grinning, Jack shuffled forward, looking down.

 

Ethan pressed his face between Jack’s thighs. He bit down, nibbling, and then nuzzled higher. His lips dropped kisses around his leg, tracing the line of his swim trunks and his sun-kissed skin.

 

Jack’s fingers threaded through his hair.

 

Ethan slid his hands higher, until he had two handfuls of baby-blue fabric covered asscheeks. He grinned, and then tugged.

 

Jack’s legs buckled, and he slowly collapsed onto Ethan, sliding down until he landed on Ethan’s lap. He draped his arms around Ethan’s neck, a saucy smile curving his lips. “Hello, handsome.”

 

“I’m not the handsome one.” He stroked up Jack’s sides and let one hand drift over his abs. “These really are amazing. You should be very proud of yourself.”

 

“I am.” Jack lifted his chin. “I’ve been fending off your pizzas.”

 

Chuckling, Ethan kissed his chest, pressing slow kisses in the valley between his pecs, around his nipple.

 

Jack shivered in his arms. “You know the photographer is probably capturing all of this…”

 

“Do you care?”

 

“No. Don’t you though?”

 

“Not anymore.” He winked. “We’re private citizens now.”

 

“So no more worries about ‘Eagle One and where it’s landing’?”

 

Ethan laughed at Jack throwing his words back in his face, his caution to Jack to cool their jets while kissing on the sand while celebrating Jack’s birthday weekend. “Well, I don’t think we can call it ‘Eagle One’ anymore.”

 

“Excuse me? It’s still presidential! I was the president!”

 

“You love that presidential card.” Ethan laughed and kissed Jack at the same time, his cheeks aching from the width of his smile. “You play it every chance you get.”

 

Jack grumbled, but he was grinning too.  He settled in Ethan’s lap, making himself comfortable.

 

Ethan’s body caught fire. He gripped Jack’s hips, stared him right in the eyes.

 

Jack smirked. His body shifted, just so. “Are you saying I’ve been… naughty?”

 

Ethan stopped breathing.

 

“A naughty… president, even?”

 

He hissed. “Jack… You’re playing with fire.”

 

Jack chuckled, and then wiggled, and his eyes lit up when he felt Ethan’s reaction to his teasing, his playfulness, and just him being him. “I think that you need to teach me a lesson, Agent Spiers-Reichenbach.”

 

He tried to breathe, tried to remember that they weren’t really in a private space, tried to restrain himself from just tipping Jack back in the sand and going crazy. But he was just a man, just Jack’s husband, and Jack could always light him up like no one else ever could. He rolled them both, a quick combat tuck and dive that put Jack on his back on the beach, his legs spread and Ethan kneeling between them.

 

He wasn’t the only one affected.

 

Jack bit his lip and arched his back. Tipped his head, and reached for Ethan.

 

Ethan dove down, capturing Jack’s lips, wrapping him up in his arms, bringing their bodies into perfect alignment. The beach, the palms, the sand all faded away, until it was just Jack and his kisses, his warm body, his perfect sighs.

 

They managed to stumble back to the beach bungalow before they were entirely naked, and before they were in danger of being exposed online in a celebrity sex video, presidential edition. If there was one thing Jack did not need, in addition to the rest of his mottled legacy, it was to be the only president with a sex tape. Ethan drew a hard line in the sand at that.

 

* * *

 

Much, much later, as they both laid in bed and listened to the waves crashing, sated and boneless and utterly spent, Ethan’s cell phone vibrated. He fished it off the nightstand. Anderson had texted them.

 

You know, I’m glad you two are able to enjoy yourselves now that you’re out of the WH. The love you have for each other is clearly evident – I married you. I saw it firsthand. BUT… my teenage son looks up to you both as role models to perfectly emulate. Now I have to explain to him that wildly making out on the beach is just on the other side of what we tell him and Gabe are “wise decisions.” 😊

 

Attached to his text was a link to a TMZ article. Smoldering Presidential Beach Holiday screamed from the headline. Presidential Bod an Eleven on the Hottie Scale. Grainy pictures followed. Jack and Ethan on the beach, laughing. Jack stretching, showing off his body. Their kisses, and the way that turned to passionate, uninhibited making out. It was a good thing there was a thick fern obscuring most of the interesting bits, or the whole world would have seen Eagle One.

 

“Oops.” Jack blushed, but laughed.

 

Ethan texted back. [Oops. 😊 ]

 

Oops my ass. 😉 And, someone has been working out.

 

Jack beamed. “See? The rest of the world thinks it’s awesome. I’m an eleven.” He looked very proud of himself. “I’ve never been an eleven. One girl in college called me a ‘beer-seven’.”

 

“Beer-seven?”

 

“A seven, if she’d had enough beer. I’ve always been slender and nerdy. Especially in college. I was a stick.”

 

“You’re perfect.” Ethan rolled on top of Jack, cocooning him in his arms. “And you’re a twelve to me.” He kissed the tip of Jack’s nose.

 

“A twelve, huh? That’s convenient. ‘Cause I think you’re a twelve, too.” Jack winked. “Maybe an eleven.”

 

Ethan gasped and collapsed on Jack, wrapping him up and burying his face in Jack’s neck, nibbling and kissing as Jack wiggled and laughed, escaping and chasing Ethan’s touch, his kisses. They ended up in a tangle of arms and legs and sheets, cramping from giggles.

 

“Are you ready to show off that body some more?”

 

“I guess if we’re vacationing at the beach, we should actually go to the beach, huh?”

 

“It’s recommended.”

 

Jack swatted Ethan’s stomach. “You’d better keep your hands to yourself this time, then.”

 

“No promises. You are an eleven.”

Timestamp: Post Enemy Within and following “Father & Sons“.

Fathers & Sons – Jack and Ethan go to Hawaii

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to this week’s Bauer’s Bytes.

Due to the horrific shooting in DC yesterday, I did not post Bauer’s Bytes.

Today, we’re following up on Jack’s demand request that Ethan take him to the beach to show off his sexy new muscles. Ethan has obliged Jack… and is taking him to Hawaii. Enjoy!

 

“I’m nervous.”

 

“You? Nervous?” Ethan snorted. He reached for Jack, though, and laced their hands together. Across the aisle, an older businessman peered over his newspaper at them for a half second.

 

“I don’t know what to do. Or what to say. I’ve never…” Jack sighed and threw himself back in the first-class plane seat. “I’ve never been anyone’s hero before,” he breathed.

 

“You’re my hero.” Ethan leaned in close. “You’re a hero to a lot of people, Jack.”

 

“Not like this, though.” Jack bit his lip. “He came out to his dad because of us.”

 

Ethan smiled and squeezed his hand.

 

A minute later, the pilot came on the speaker and announced they were making their final approach to Honolulu International Airport. Jack took a deep breath as he buckled his seatbelt. “Why are we doing this, again?” He rubbed his hands over his face.

 

“You said you wanted me to take you to a beach.” Ethan kissed Jack’s cheek. “So I am. And we’re going to meet Captain Anderson’s son.”

 

Jack said nothing. He just squeezed Ethan’s hand, holding it tightly as the plane descended through the fluffy clouds haloing Honolulu, landed, and then taxied to the gate.

 

* * *

 

They were staying at a hotel overlooking the beach, complete with a private cordon of pristine sand and crashing waves reserved for the hotel guests. It was a place where people went when they wanted privacy, and the other guests understood that. Even so, Jack and Ethan got more than one head turn when they walked into the lobby.

 

Beside Ethan, Jack was almost vibrating.

 

It was their first public outing since the congressional hearings and Jack’s very public resurrection and resignation as president. They’d stayed low all summer, focusing on themselves. Buying their house and making it a home. Being together, without the stress and strain of world politics and the eyes of the media. Enjoying themselves, as husband and husband.

 

Putting the past behind them, and ignoring the mixed cries from the public. Jack was a traitor and a fraud, according to some. To others, he was a sacrificial hero, willing to put everything before himself, before even his own life, to save the world.

 

This trip was the first they’d taken outside of their bubble, outside of their protected isolation that they’d hidden in. Eyes followed them everywhere – at the airport, in the plane, in Honolulu, and now in the hotel.

 

Ethan wrapped his arm around Jack’s waist. “I’m here,” he breathed into Jack’s ear. “We’re okay.”

 

Jack silently leaned into him.

 

They were driven out on a golf cart to their beach cabana, a private bungalow at the edge of the resort, resting on a spit of sand with a private, gentle cove of lapping waves. Palm trees ringed the cove, providing a partial screen of privacy.

 

They changed quickly, stripping out of their jeans and polos and donning khaki shorts and Hawaiian shirts. Pineapples for Ethan on a white background, and sailboats on a blue background for Jack.

 

“Do we look appropriately touristy?” Jack held out his hands.

 

“You couldn’t look bad if you tried, Jack.” Ethan took his hand and spun him in a gentle circle, as if they were dancing, and then pulled him close. They swayed for a few minutes, their cheeks pressed together. “You’re going to be great. I’m proud of you.” He kissed Jack’s cheek. “My hero.”

 

Jack smiled, and he nuzzled Ethan back. “It’s time to head out.”

 

* * *

 

Captain Anderson had sent his address to Ethan a few days before, and given him a heads up that his son, Jonathan, was heading off to his homecoming dance that weekend. He and his boyfriend were going together, and Anderson had spent the past two weeks taking both boys to tux shops and florists for their fittings, matching cummerbunds, and coordinating boutonnieres. It was, apparently, a multi-trip excursion when the boys decided to change their color scheme halfway through the process.

 

Ethan and Jack were going to surprise Jonathan and his boyfriend, Gabe.

 

Jack fidgeted the whole drive. Anderson lived in Mililani in a house at the end of a private cul de sac on a hill overlooking Pearl Harbor and Mamala Bay. Ethan drove, and halfway there, he reached over and tangled his fingers with Jack’s.

 

Anderson texted and said they should come straight around to the backyard. Jonathan and Gabe were taking photos, and they had no idea Jack and Ethan were on the way.

 

“Ready?”

 

Jack looked at him with wide eyes, whites ringing his irises. “I’m not a hero.”

 

“You are, Jack. You are for so many reasons. For Jonathan, you’re a hero because you’re you.”

 

Jack squeezed his eyes closed. Took a deep breath. “Jesus. All right. Let’s go.”

 

Ethan had always marveled at the transformation politicians could undergo, transitioning from growling, furious, temperamental beasts behind closed doors to smiling, glad-handing, gregarious crowd pleasers in public, sometimes making the shift in a blink of an eye. Jack never had a sour side of himself to hide, and he’d always been known for his authenticity in the Senate.

 

But he still could transform himself, hiding his nerves, his stress, and his panic as if he gathered his strength into a shield that buried his fears. Ethan watched Jack breathe in again, straighten his spine, and then stride forward, leading the way into Anderson’s backyard.

 

Anderson, his wife Julie, Jonathan, and Gabe were all congregated beneath the covered patio, overlooking the hillside littered with tropical blooms and palm trees. In the distance, the bay beckoned, and the bustle of Pearl Harbor, Navy battleships and carriers, and the marina laid out in long, sprawling lines.

 

Jonathan and Gabe had their backs to Jack and Ethan. Anderson started smiling. Julie threaded one arm through her husband’s, and they both pretended to not notice Jack or Ethan as they crept up behind their son.

 

“I hear someone special has a homecoming tonight.” Jack spoke into Jonathan’s ear, and then jumped back, smiling. He stood beside Ethan and waited.

 

Jonathan whirled around, eyes wider than Ethan had ever seen on someone. He gasped, shrieking as his jaw dropped, and clapped his hands over his mouth. He looked them both up and down.

 

“Hi Jonathan,” Jack said. “It’s so great to meet you.”

 

Jonathan burst into tears.

 

Gabe and Anderson came to either side of Jonathan, both wrapping one arm around him. Jonathan was a slender teen, with sharp lines along his face and a dark, perfectly spiked head of hair. He curled into both his boyfriend and his dad, weeping as he stared at Jack.

 

Jack reached for Jonathan, holding out his hand.

 

Shaking, Jonathan reached back. Their hands met, and Jack gently tugged him forward. Jonathan stumbled, and then, as if he’d tipped over the edge of a cliff, he raced for Jack, burying his face in Jack’s neck as he continued to sob.

 

Gabe stared, his jaw hanging open, blinking slowly as his eyes flicked from Jack to Ethan. Ethan held out his hand. “Hi Gabe. Pleased to meet you.”

 

“Mr. First Gentleman…”

 

“Not anymore.” Ethan pumped Gabe’s hand. “Just Ethan Spiers-Reichenbach now.”

 

Gabe tried to say something, tried to find words, but his lips just moved soundlessly.

 

Beside Ethan, Jack murmured into Jonathan’s ear, soft whispers that Ethan couldn’t make out. Jonathan nodded slowly after Jack spoke, and his sobs subsided, quieting until he was just sniffling. Finally, he stepped back, but he held onto both of Jack’s hands.

 

“Mr. President.” Anderson stepped forward, and he wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulders. “I’m so glad you could make it. This is my son, Jonathan. He’s a real big fan of yours, Mr. President.”

 

“It is an honor to meet you, Jonathan. Your dad has said amazing things about you.”

 

Jonathan’s lips quivered. “Mr. President,” he choked out. “You… I… You have no idea—“ Tears welled in his eyes again. Gabe reached for him, wrapping one arm around his waist.

 

“And this—“ Anderson reached for Gabe, squeezing his shoulder. “Is my son’s boyfriend, Gabe.” Anderson had already texted their names, but the boys didn’t know that. “Gabe and Jonathan have been together for four months.” He grinned. “And, I think they’re going to be together for a while longer…”

 

Jonathan flushed and beamed, squirmed both into and out of his father’s hold. “Dad…”

 

“You two are good together! I like him. I approve!”

 

Gabe smiled wide. Jonathan squirmed again.

 

Jack squeezed Jonathan’s hands. Jonathan hadn’t let go. “Congratulations, you two. Tell me about this dance tonight.”

 

Jonathan started slowly, stumbling a bit as he tried to put words together into coherent sentences. Gabe chimed in, and then they both were on a roll, describing their homecoming dance on a cruise ship in the bay, and how they both couldn’t wait to dance the night away. Gabe edged closer, holding Jonathan, and the love in his eyes was blindingly obvious to everyone.

 

“Reminds me of our Christmas Ball.” Jack smiled at both boys. “It was the first time Ethan and I danced together. We almost didn’t. We were trying to be discreet, and trying to avoid the media. I hated hiding. I wanted to dance with him so badly.” Jack chuckled. “When we finally started dancing, I was the happiest man on the planet. My cheeks hurt, I was smiling so much.”

 

Jonathan’s arms shook as he squeezed Jack’s hands. “I cut out your guys’ picture from the paper,” he breathed. “I wanted that. What you guys have. But I was so scared. I thought—“ He shuddered, his eyes closing as he gulped.  

 

Anderson gave his son a one-armed hug. His eyes flicked to Ethan, and then to Jack. He’d shared this story with them on Honolulu, his former submarine, on the way to the Arctic.

 

Ethan spoke up. “Your father loves you, and he always will. Always. No matter what.”

 

“I know.” Jonathan gave a shaky, brilliant smile. He inhaled slowly. “My dad is the best. Seriously. The absolute best. He helped us get ready for the dance.” He rested his head against his dad’s, and Ethan saw Anderson blink fast and sniff.

 

“I’m proud of you.” Jack lifted Jonathan’s hands to his chest. “I’m so very, very proud of you. Both of you.” He smiled at Gabe. “Being yourself, and being who you are, no matter what, is the most important thing. Don’t ever hide. Don’t ever let anyone else bully you into hiding who you are, or who you love. Surround yourself with people who love you, and who support you.”

 

Jonathan nodded fiercely.

 

“Let’s take some more pictures together.” Julie waved the camera, running her hand down the back of Jonathan’s hair.

 

Jonathan ducked away. “Oh my God, no way. I have to fix my face. No pictures, God, no pictures.”

 

“Get in there and freshen up.” Anderson swatted at his son. “Gabe, go help him.”

 

“Yes sir.” Both boys scampered into the house, sharing a wide smile and looking back over their shoulders at Jack and Ethan.

 

Anderson smiled at Jack, reaching for him and shaking his hand. Jack pulled Anderson into a quick hug. “Thank you for coming, Mr. President.”

 

“I’m not the president anymore.”

 

“You’ll always be the president to me.”

 

Jack’s chin quivered, but he turned to Julie, smiling wide and forcing himself forward. They shook hands, and Julie took a quick picture of Jack and Ethan together in their backyard. Small talk flowed, chit chat about the flowers in the garden and how Anderson was doing after smashing his sub into pieces against the Russian ice. He’d been reassigned to Pacific sub fleet command, and was waiting on a new boat.

 

Ethan moved to Anderson as Julie took Jack on a tour of their house. “Captain.”

 

“Mr. First Gentleman.”

 

Ethan breathed in slowly. “You… remind me of my father.”

 

Anderson stared at him.

 

“We never talked about… me. We never said the words. I never came out to him. But… I think he knew. Or, I hope he knew.” Ethan looked down. “I found some pictures he had kept from when I was young. I barely remember it, but I used to wrap a bed sheet around myself like it was a dress. Apparently my favorite game to play with him was modeling on a catwalk and dancing like a ballerina. Putting on fancy shows.”

 

Anderson chuckled. He looked Ethan up and down. “You? A ballerina?”

 

Ethan shrugged. “I don’t really remember it. I was little. But he had some old pictures of me pretending to strut down a walkway in our little trailer.” Him and his dad, living in a single-wide trailer on cinderblocks on the edge of the dairy farm his dad was a farm hand on. He’d been a scrappy kid, seeking freedom on the back of his single-speed bike, and he’d joined the Army to get out of the twenty square miles he’d lived his whole life in.

 

How had his life ended up like this? How had he become the man he’d become?

 

He’d tried to emulate his father, follow in his footsteps. Work hard, every single day, and believe in what he did. Be a good man, in all things. Dad… I wish I could have introduced you to Jack.

 

“I bet he loved every minute of it.”

 

Ethan’s throat clenched hard. “When I came back to visit, he kept telling me he just wanted me to be happy. He never, ever asked about a girlfriend. He’d only ever ask if I was happy.”

 

“He knew.”

 

Ethan took a shaky breath. “I hope so.”

 

“He knew. I guarantee it. And he adored you, exactly as you were.” Anderson pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. Inside there were two pictures – one of his wife, and one of Jonathan and Gabe, a selfie they had taken, beaming as they laid on their bellies on the sand with their faces pushed together. “Speaking as a dad? We keep what we love close.”

 

Tears welled in his eyes, heat that blurred the world and stung his cheeks. Ethan turned away, covering his mouth with one hand as he tried to force his tears back, push down the pain. “He, uh.” Ethan cleared his throat. “He kept my picture with him. My official Secret Service picture. In his wallet. I found it after he passed.”

 

Anderson reached for Ethan. He squeezed Ethan’s shoulder hard. Slowly, Ethan turned into Anderson’s hold. For a moment, he wasn’t forty-one, the same age as Anderson. He was eleven, he was a little boy, and he needed a father’s love. Anderson wrapped him up, a tight bear hug, and said nothing.

 

I’m happy, Dad. I’m so happy. I wish you were here to see.

 

Footsteps thundered down the steps inside the house, loud enough that Ethan thought the walls were going to blow off the frame. Anderson shook his head, sighing, and they both pulled back. “Two skinny boys, and they sound like a damn herd of elephants.”

 

Julie and Jack appeared after Jonathan and Gabe, and she hustled everyone to the yard, lining up the boys and Jack and Ethan for photo after photo. Anderson joined in, and then Jack and Jonathan took a picture together. The sheer adoration, the hero worship pouring from Jonathan’s gaze, made Ethan’s heart burst.

 

And then it was time for Jonathan and Gabe to head out. Gabe was driving them both to the cruise ship in his bright little convertible. Anderson stood in front of Gabe and squared his shoulders. “You’ll both come straight home right after the dance. I expect to see both of you here promptly at eleven thirty.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

Anderson smiled. He hugged Gabe, holding him tightly. “I’ll wait up for you both. I want to hear about everything. We’ll sit in the back and light a fire, and I’ll pretend I don’t see you two cuddling on the chaise lounge.”

 

Gabe flushed, but he smiled back. “Yes sir.”

 

Anderson turned to his son. His expression softened.

 

“How do I look, Dad?”

 

“Fantastic. Emerald was a good color choice, when you finally made up your mind.” Anderson winked. He kissed his son’s forehead. “Have a great time. I’ll be here when you get home.”

 

Jonathan hugged his father, and Ethan caught the whispered, “Love you, Dad.”

 

All four adults walked Jonathan and Gabe to their car, and then waved and waved as Gabe peeled out. Anderson winced as the tires squealed, and Julie patted him on his arm. Anderson shook his head, but smiled.

 

“Where are Gabe’s parents?” Jack frowned.

 

Anderson’s smile turned sad. He said nothing. Jack’s face fell, and he reached for Ethan’s hand.

 

“Well, now that the boys are off, it’s time for our fun.” Julie beckoned Jack and Ethan into the house. “Are you both ready for dinner?”

 

Timestamp: Post “Strength Training” and post Enemy Within

Strength Training – Jack and Ethan prepare for their next chapter

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to this week’s Bauer’s Bytes!

This week, we’re taking a look at Jack and Ethan as they train for “what comes next”. 🙂 I feel like I’m posting chapters from a forthcoming novel! I probably am!

Enjoy Jack and Ethan in their post-marital bliss (?) as they gear up for their next adventure. And, Ethan, predictably, puts his foot in it.

 

Jack grinned as his eyes slid sideways, checking Ethan out. Ethan huffed and breathed through his last set of bicep curls. Sweat dripped down his face, trickled down his neck. His shirt clung to his back, his straining arms. He’d take his shirt off after this set. He always did.

 

They were in their basement gym, something Ethan had wanted in their new home and Jack had helped him put together. Ethan loved working out, and their relationship had really begun sharing jokes and stories over the treadmill and while lifting weights. Jack loved seeing Ethan like this, at the peak of his power, raw in his intensity, almost animalistic in his strength. Jack responded in a very specific way, desire curling through him like burning fingers scraping through his muscles.

 

Jack finished his own set of leg raises. He watched Ethan, and waited.

 

Ethan finished. He shucked his shirt, using it to wipe the sweat from his face. He grinned at Jack.

 

Jack pulled his own shirt off. He’d been waiting for this, waiting all day. He struck a pose, hands on his hips, and beamed. “Check it out.”

 

Ethan chuckled. His eyes raked down Jack’s body, pausing on his abdomen. His eyebrows quirked up. “You need to eat more.” Ethan squirted water onto his face before taking a long drink.

 

Jack’s jaw dropped. “I need to eat more?” He waved one hand over his abdomen, highlighting his newly-revealed chiseled muscles. “Hello? Did you not see the incredible six pack I’ve developed?”

 

“I see it.”

 

He threw his hands wide, eyes boggling, non-verbally asking Ethan “What the fuck”.

 

“You told me you wanted to gain strength, especially with what we’re getting ready to do. Six packs like that are just to show off. They’re for beach bodies and models. They’re not really strong.”

 

“Not strong? I’m forty-six years old, Ethan, and I can see my abs. This is the third best day in my life.” He glared. “I don’t see your abs!”

 

Ethan slapped his stomach. His stomach was flat, but not chiseled. “I have abs. They’re just protected by a layer of hamburgers.” He winked.

 

Jack snorted. “A protective layer of hamburgers?”

 

“Yes. Because I eat enough to build my muscles. If your muscles are starting to show, then you’re not eating enough to build them the right way. Your body is burning fat, and in danger of burning muscle, too. You want to start giving me the spaghetti jars to open?”

 

Jack gave him a look. “You could at least show a little bit of interest. I’ve never looked this good. Never.”

 

“You always look amazing. You’re the hottest man on the planet, Jack.” Ethan looked confused.

 

“But these—“ Jack pointed at his abs. “—are something that should be given extra special attention.”

 

A light flicked on in the back of Ethan’s eyes. He smiled and padded across their basement to Jack. He rested his hands on Jack’s hips, his thumbs stroking over Jack’s taut tummy, the defined edges of his abs. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I fully intend on exploring all of these glorious muscles. All of your very, very hard work.”

 

Jack crossed his arms. He said nothing.

 

“First, I’ll start with my tongue. I’ll trace every muscle, every inch of your abdomen.”

 

“…that’s a start.”

 

“Run my hands all over your body… Kiss every inch of your skin…”

 

Jack shivered. Ethan’s hands rose, trailing over his abs, his chest. Down his ribs.

 

“Suck your cock until it’s rock hard, and resting against these muscles. Dripping with my spit.”

 

Breathless, Jack moaned, rocking into Ethan. He pressed his forehead to Ethan’s neck and closed his eyes.

 

“I want to bend you in half. Spread your legs and sink into you, and watch these muscles clench as I make love to you.”

 

“Yes. I want that.”

 

“And then…”

 

Jack whimpered.

 

“After I feed you my cock…” Ethan breathed against Jack’s ear. Jack shivered, and he grabbed Ethan’s arms, his waist. “I’m going to feed you a whole pizza.”

 

Jack shoved Ethan away, groaning. Ethan laughed.

 

“Ethan! You really don’t care about this at all?”

 

“I do care, love.” Ethan came back, holding out his arms. Jack glared. “You’re already the world’s hottest man to me. You’re already perfect. Nothing can change that. No matter if you have chiseled abs or an extra hundred pounds.”

 

“An extra hundred pounds! What do you think I’m going to do—“

 

“You are perfect, Jack, and I’ll always love you. No matter what you look like.” Ethan kissed his forehead, gently. “You asked me to help you gain strength. You said we should both be in the best shape of our lives if we’re going to be doing this. Accept the offer. It could be dangerous sometimes, and whether our bodies are able to push ahead through the next mile, the next challenge, or even the next threat could make all the difference. Maybe even between life and death.”

 

Jack sighed. He reached for Ethan, tugging him close. “You really think things will get like that?”

 

“It could get like that. On a bad day. A very bad day. Most of the time in the Secret Service, we stood post in the air conditioning and battled boredom. But on the bad days, we had to be Olympic athletes. And that’s what saved us. Saved you.”

 

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t be proud of these?”

 

“I’m saying you look gorgeous. With a six pack and without one. I’m also saying that we should feed you more so that you gain real, solid strength. Models aren’t action heroes.”

 

“Gymnasts are Olympic athletes. They have pretty great bodies.”

 

“If you want to train to be a gymnast, I won’t complain. I’m teaching you what I know. Military strength training.” He frowned. “Hey. Are you saying I don’t have a great body?”

 

“No! I—“

 

Ethan grinned. He kissed Jack, sweetly. “I want to make sure you can handle everything. Everything that could possibly happen out there.”

 

“I think I’ve proven that I can hold my own. I had an active presidency.”

 

“There’s the presidential card again.” Ethan winked as Jack shook his head, sighing. “And you have proven yourself. Above and beyond. You are a hero. Now let’s make it perfect. Refine it. Hone it. Turn what you did for survival into your natural instincts.”

 

Jack was quiet for a moment. “I’m with you all the way,” he finally said, softly. Ethan beamed. “But!” Jack held up one finger. “But, we are going to a beach. Pull out your itty-bitty bathing suit again, ‘cause you are taking me and my abs to a beach. I want to lie in the sun and act shocked, just shocked, that there are pictures of my abs on every magazine.”

 

“Yes, dear.” Ethan barely held back his laughter. “I’ll take you to a beach, love.”

 

“And! You are absolutely doing that thing with your tongue. And everything else. Everything you teased me with.”

 

Now Ethan did laugh. He dragged Jack close, wrapping him up in his arms, and rested their foreheads together. “Well, no time like the present…”

 

Timestamp: Post Enemy Within

Tables Turned – Scott Inherits the Detail

Posted on by Tal

 

Welcome to Bauer’s Bytes!

This week, we’re going back in time to Enemy of My Enemy, and taking a look at Scott’s POV as he inherits the detail lead position and now has to protect his best friend, Ethan – the First Gentleman – and his boyfriend…. the POTUS. How well did Scott really handle this? What went on beneath his snarky exterior? Read and enjoy!

 

Scott scrubbed both hands over his face, squeezing his eyes closed.

 

Agent Beech kept talking. “And, we’ve got more reports from Atlanta. Three threats made against POTUS and BOTUS over the weekend. Local agents are checking it out.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“The protests on the South Lawn have grown. We count two hundred new protestors as of this morning. DC Metro arrested the three who threw eggs, and chased out the squatters who were setting up tents.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Welby and Caldwell are serving the warrant to the ISP providers this afternoon. If they cooperate, we’ll get all the information the ISP has for the individuals who made the online threats against POTUS and BOTUS. As soon as they have that, Welby is planning on taking teams out to the DC, Maryland, and Virginia addresses. We’ll task offices around the country for the others.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“NSA has passed along international chatter they’ve picked up. The usual anti-American rhetoric from America’s favorite places, but now there’s more. Iranian state TV is ranting about the infidel American president and his gay lover and how the end of days are finally here. They’re encouraging attacks against any gay or lesbian individual a faithful believer encounters, and the mullahs are calling for death to POTUS and BOTUS.”

 

“Fuck. Pass that on to the FBI and all law enforcement agencies.”

 

“Yes, sir. And, there’s a porno circulating the web. Someone put POTUS and BOTUS’s faces on a pretty raunchy skin flick. It gets violent in parts. Definite defilement and debasement of the individual with POTUS’s face. Could be construed as a threat.”

 

Scott heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Put a warrant together for the web hosting center wherever that porno is. We probably can’t get anything, but if we can, we need to go shake them up.”

 

Beech nodded. “That’s it for this morning, sir.”

 

“That’s all?” Scott scoffed. “A light load.” Usually, there were at least ten to fifteen new threats every day made against Ethan and his boyfriend.

 

His boyfriend. The President of the fucking United States. Damn it, Ethan… Why couldn’t he just settle down with some doctor or State Department flunky? Why the hell had he gone and fallen for the president?

 

“I’ll let you know how the warrants go, sir.”

 

“And let me know how it goes with Welby and his team.” Beech nodded and moved off, heading to his desk. Scott threw himself back in his chair, gripping the armrests as he stared at Horsepower’s ceiling. He’d never wanted this job. Ethan was the one who had been career-focused, wanted to climb to the top. He was just along for the ride. Even in the Army, Ethan had made rank faster than Scott. Hell, Scott had only joined the Secret Service because it was the one agency that picked them both up. Ethan hadn’t got into the FBI and Scott hadn’t got into the CIA. But they both got into the Secret Service.

 

Best buds. Friends for life. That’s what he’d thought, all the way back in Iraq and Afghanistan. You deploy with a man once, twice, three times, you either love him like a brother or hate the air he breathes with a searing soul-blasting passion. They’d become men together, growing from wide-eyed soldiers on their first deployment, staying awake and sharing cigarettes and talking about the world and all of their dreams, to professional government employees, Secret Service hotshot agents protecting the president.

 

Twenty-one years of friendship. He’d thought he’d seen it all from Ethan. Even when Ethan came out to him – literally, the day Secret Service training began – he wasn’t surprised. You deploy with a guy three times, you eventually see what kind of porn he hides away, and he’d put the pieces together. ‘No girlfriend ever’ plus ‘super-hot Ethan’ plus ‘that hidden folder on his laptop’, the one he found when he was trying to punk Ethan, equals gay.

 

“Dude, duh. I figured. C’mon, I’m starving. What are we eating?” Ethan had smiled, they went to lunch before reporting in for training, and nothing at all had changed. Well, Ethan stopped hiding who he was, and Scott realized very quickly that ‘no girlfriend or boyfriend’ was not the same as ‘not getting any’. Damn, Ethan.

 

They hopped and skipped their way up the Secret Service career ladder until Ethan got the big job, and Scott was just happy to be his right hand. Fucking Welby was still up there with them, that laugh-a-minute bore. One year senior than them both, Welby’s fabulous personality had kept him languishing just below senior command. God, when Welby had taken over the detail after Ethan was injured at Spiers’s inauguration, Scott had wanted to die.

 

Now, though… Ethan was out of the Secret Service, Scott was in charge of the whole damn operation, Daniels was running Ethan’s detail, and Welby was acting as Scott’s second in command. What the fuck?

 

Welby should be in charge. By all rights, he had seniority. But he’d spent a long afternoon with Director Triplett, after Ethan’s transfer to Iowa, and right after that, Scott was named the detail lead.

 

Protecting POTUS… and Ethan. His best friend.

 

Was this what Ethan had felt like, at least some of the time, when he and Spiers were trying to secretly date? They were fucking awful at keeping it secret, all soft eyes and smiles, and he thought he was going to use up his lifetime supply of heavy sighs and eye rolls over their ridiculousness.

 

But had it been this excruciating? Caring for someone whose life was in your hands? Hearing the detailed threats, day in and day out, seeing the visceral hate? Ethan had built a friendship – and more – with Spiers. Scott was already best friends with Ethan. In both instances, protocol and procedure demanded they both back off, distance themselves. Keep away.

 

But damn it, Ethan was his brother, and the world wanted to hurt him and the man he loved. As a friend, as a man, he was bound to protect Ethan, be by his side, ride until they died like they’d vowed twenty-one years ago in Iraq. The fact that the man Ethan loved was the president – and Scott’s job – was just another layer of fucked-up to the already fucked-up shit-sandwich.

 

He glared at the plain brown bag he’d tucked under his desk. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t be distant. Not from Ethan. Not ever.

 

Grabbing the bag, he headed out of Horsepower and wound through the early morning White House. He passed by the end of the overnight shift, trading off with their morning counterparts and hiding yawns. There were more agents standing post than there had been a year ago. He’d doubled their force in the White House, and on the move. He’d quadruple it if he could.

 

“Morning butthead!” he shouted at the top of the grand staircase, calling down the main hallway in the Residence. Spiers and Ethan’s bedroom door was ajar and the kitchen lights were on.

 

Ethan poked his head out of the kitchen. He wore an undershirt, boxers, and a giant smile. “Morning buttmunch.”

 

“That’s you.” Scott winked as he headed for Ethan. He could hear the shower running in their bathroom. “POTUS in the shower?”

 

“Yeah, he’s getting ready. He’s got an early call. I’m making breakfast.” Ethan flipped an omelet in a pan on the stove. “Grab some orange juice. Want anything?”

 

Was this what it had felt like to Ethan every time Spiers made a friendly overture? That urge to accept, to kick back and be a friend slamming against the need to back away, keep professional distance, stay objective. Jesus, he’d seen Ethan completely lose it out there, blow his objectivity entirely out of the water over his feelings for Spiers. They’d barely survived Ethiopia. Saudi. Storming the White House.

 

Was he repeating history? When would they ever learn?

 

“No, man, I’m good.” He set the brown bag on the kitchen island. “Special delivery.” Inside was a gigantic bottle of lube, an industrial sized bottle with an extra-large pump dispenser on top.

 

Ethan grinned over his shoulder. “Thanks. We need it.”

 

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t need to know that.” He smiled back, though. “And, I expect nothing less, you horndog.”

 

Ethan shimmied his hips, jiggling his ass. Scott sighed, long, loud, and completely put-upon. Ethan laughed.

 

“So… no condoms this time? Or was there a delay in shipment?” Ethan had his order for lube and condoms go to Scott’s house, who then brought them to the White House. Like Welby before him – and, Jesus Christ, did his brain break at that thought – he was their sex supplies mule.

 

Ethan flipped the omelet onto a plate and grabbed toast from the toaster. He poured a cup of coffee and brought everything to the table, setting it down for Spiers. Then he picked up his own coffee cup and came to the island, leaning against it and smiling at Scott. “Don’t need them anymore.”

 

“Well, well, well.” The sign of a serious relationship. Not that they weren’t already serious. Spiers had come out for Ethan on the global stage and Ethan had given up his career to be First Gentleman.  

 

“Sure you don’t want a cup of coffee? You look tired, old man.”

 

If you come under fire, how will I react? If what happened in Ethiopia happens again, who will I protect more? Spiers or you? He’s the president, but you’re my brother. He tried to smile. Ethan frowned. Damn it, Ethan could always read him like a book. I can’t share a cup of coffee with you and pretend everything is normal.

 

Spiers breezed into the kitchen, his tie draped around his neck, suit jacket in one hand. He went straight to Ethan, kissing him with a wide smile, and then dropped into his seat at the table. “Morning, Scott. How are you?”

 

Ethan surreptitiously moved the brown bag to the floor, tucking it out of sight as Scott answered. “Good, Mr. President. You?”

 

“Great.” Spiers shot Ethan a beaming grin and then turned to his breakfast as he scrolled through his phone. Ethan watched him eat and sipped his coffee.

 

Ethan was disgustingly in love. Joy poured off of him in waves, a tidal flood of it. Contentment, pure happiness, relaxed and serene. His eyes shone and he smiled as Spiers ate, happy as a clam that he’d made his boyfriend breakfast and his boyfriend was enjoying it. Delighted with their morning, their life. Content to his bones.

 

It would all change when Ethan left the Residence. He had that hard frown on most days, and panic lay banked in the backs of his eyes. He seemed three seconds from going full Rambo when he was down in the White House, but here, with Spiers, he was the man Scott had always wanted to see. To know. Ethan, deeply, deeply in love.

 

Why did it have to be the fucking president?

 

“Excuse me, gentleman.” Scott nodded to Spiers first, and then to Ethan. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”

 

They both tried to stop him, inviting him for toast, orange juice, or coffee. Ethan offered to make him an omelet. He waved them both off, saying he had to get back to work. Ethan nodded and took a seat beside Jack at the table. Scott watched them lace their fingers together, a one-handed hold as Jack finished eating while Ethan sipped his coffee.

 

He walked away, his feat lead, his heart sinking. How can I be objective? He’s my best friend, and he’s finally found the man he loves.

 

Cold fire settled inside him, a conviction made of heavy plutonium that promised a thermonuclear reaction. God help anyone who tries to hurt these men. God help you if you ever do, because I’m coming for you.

Timestamp: Early EOME