By Nomad
May 2002

Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: This is not a style of writing I would use. This is not a story I would write. This is not subject matter I know what to do with. And yet the damn thing wouldn't leave me alone. So here it stands.


He's not sure how or why or where it came from, but he's thinking maybe that he'd like to screw Sam Seaborn.

Seaborn's pretty. Too pretty, poster-boy pretty, sugar cotton-candy with no substance. But tonight, there's something going on under the surface. He's angry and he's disillusioned, and it rolls off him like sweat and pheromones. He smoulders, and he's sitting too close on the faded couch in this hotel room, and Hoynes is thinking maybe that he'd like to screw Sam Seaborn.

The speech lies between them, a document resting on both their legs where they lay a millimetre away from touching. Seaborn's frowning at it, full of intensity, the way that Hoynes is looking at him now.

And they're shoulder to shoulder, close enough that it would be easy to reach out and lay a hand on that shoulder. And it would be easy, because he's always been one for casual contact, and maybe it wouldn't mean anything. And maybe it would be the mother of all stupidities to try it.

And maybe that's why he does it.

And Seaborn doesn't speak, doesn't say anything. Doesn't look up from the speech, so maybe it doesn't mean anything at all.

Except that he reaches out to flip a page, and his hand is lightly resting on Hoynes's thigh.

And he's thinking maybe that Sam Seaborn would like to be screwed.

And he doesn't know what it is that makes Seaborn look up, but he knows that his eyes are on fire, and very, very blue. And he doesn't know what's burned him to make him look like that, but he knows the flavour of bitter disappointment when he tastes it, and he knows that to lean forward right now would be the worst thing he could do.

But maybe it isn't him that starts the kissing.

Seaborn tastes like coffee and mouthwash, and something further all his own. And it doesn't feel like romance, and he isn't sure it feels like sex, either. It's a dry heat. Intensity.

And maybe it's him that stands up first, or maybe they both do. But he knows it's him who pulls away and walks towards the door.

And maybe just this once, he'd like to be wild and dangerous, and leave the door unlocked and not care if the Secret Service or the rest of the staff in this hotel or anyone else walks in.

But he's always been a pragmatist, and he locks the door.

And Seaborn looks at him from across the room.

Neither of them speaks, as they make their way to the hotel bed, but that doesn't matter because it isn't love and it isn't sex and it isn't even comfort. It's all about intensity.

And then it's slow and powerful, and in a strange way small. It's as much about silence as it is about sensation; it's keeping the motions firm and contained, so not the tiniest sound escapes through the too-thin walls to the world outside. It's control.

Maybe that's what it's all about.

And afterwards, he toys with the idea of having Seaborn stay, but he knows it's only because he likes to pretend that he would let somebody see and be shocked. But he knows he wouldn't. He's always been a pragmatist.

And maybe Seaborn is a pragmatist too, though the others never see that side of him. There's no sentimentality as he slides out from under the sheets and pulls his clothes back on. They button up their shirts, tie laces and straighten collars, and they're the same two men they were before.

The exact same men they were before.

And they still don't speak as Seaborn takes his speech and unlocks the door and leaves. And Hoynes sits back on the couch where he was before, and goes back to his reading.

And neither of them will ever breathe a word of this.

After all, they're both used to getting screwed.