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That night with Jeff had been so sweet. He could see it in his Commander's eyes when they passed in the corridor, when they spoke, even while their words were about something else. There was a strength in those eyes, the dark amber gaze embracing him with every glance. An unspoken chant, soft and warm, passed between them each time they dared make that eye contact; again. Do it again.

But there had been only that one time. It hadn't seemed like the kind of easy, comfortable relationship they might have wished. Hell, that Garibaldi wished. He didn't know what Jeff wanted. Not beyond the pulse of the words that Jeff had spoken to him that night:

I want to hear you yell my name. You yelled his, didn't you? So I can't have that.

I want to take you myself. Show you how it should be done.

Hell if I can't make you forget you ever wanted that bastard psi cop.

And the way Jeff spoke his name, Michael -- the sound of his own heartbeat, blood pounding in his chest, his throat, strangling him with desire and joy and warmth. Oh God, that voice.

Another day went by. Jeff said nothing to him, made no invitation, no suggestion. But the look in his eyes, heated and passionate in all the wrong moments -- glancing up at him from his desk in C&C, the instant before he would leave a room, that terrible hesitation in the breath before one of them would break the spell and walk away.

Garibaldi started dreaming about him. The dreams mingled with dreams of psi cops, of Bester. Bester talked to him in the voice of a god, that seductive heat in his mind, the agony/bliss of a kind of fuck that denied the word itself and made the sexual act into a mating of desires, pure and burning.

Torn between memories and fantasies, they tormented him nightly. The hour of the wolf, Susan called it. Getting up to pace the room, unable to sleep, unable to stop, so tired he wanted to sink to the floor and just rest forever. It was when he began dreaming of Jeff that the wolf came to the door and climbed in bed with him, and he would wake howling, crying out, his body aflame with hunger as his loins tightened and he would spend himself, soaking his pajamas in his own come.

The dreams of Bester did it as much, and with a desire for Jeff now fighting that need in his own head, the sexual urgency of all the dreams intensified. He could come again and again in the dreams, Bester wrenching the pleasure out of him so sweetly he thought his heart would burst. When he awakened he was crying with joy, his loins spent again, and he called out Jeff's name.

***

Sinclair felt like he was sitting a suicide watch. That haunted look in Michael's eyes... the look of someone terrified to live, afraid to move, flinching from his own urges, unable to escape the inside of his own thoughts. It hovered in all their shared moments, across C&C, across a desk, across a corridor. Terrible. Yearning.

And Sinclair knew what he yearned for. The rough grip of a black-gloved hand. The brutality of a savage will, invading him, cock and mind together. A psi cop's hoarse, gasping laugh at the moment of climax.

He stood up suddenly, pacing the floor of his quarters. Damn Bester. Damn psi cops, all. Taking Michael, taking him in spirit, in heart and soul, now in body too. All before Sinclair had ever even known that Michael longed for that. Taking the sweetness that Sinclair wanted, the taste of Michael's mouth, heat of his skin, strong body given to him so willingly. Screaming.

Sinclair let out a snarl and punched the wall with his fist as he reached it and turned again sharply, pacing, pacing. Fuck Bester. He couldn't have Michael. No one could have Michael. Bester wasn't even here and the jealousy burned him still. The man held Michael from a distance, with nothing but a memory, a half-promise sealed in nothing but a whisper, an ache. Sinclair could give Michael everything. Possession flamed in him. He wanted to grab Michael every time they saw each other. Grab him and drag him into his office, anywhere halfway private, and ravish him on a table, the floor. Anywhere. Just to taste him again, hold him, make love to him.

He held back because of that haunted look in Michael's face. He couldn't push. Not now. Not yet. Too rough and Michael would have nowhere safe to go, nowhere that eased him except death.

He stopped pacing in the middle of the floor, breathing hard, eyes closed. Michael had to come to him. Michael had to choose him. He prayed softly... he hadn't spoken to God in a long, long time. Wasn't sure even who he was talking to. Show Michael that there is a path to take in life. Please.

***

Sinclair was still awake late that night, lying in bed, staring up at the dull ceiling, when the door signaled. He started, and got up quickly, dragging his bathrobe with him and putting it on.

"Come," he said as he came out of the bedroom.

It was Michael, that anguished look deep in his blue eyes. Desperation, pride, need, all fought in his body language as he entered the room and the door closed softly. A dark, bronze shirt clothed him over gray trousers. He moved like a nude man, not carelessly, but as if wanting Sinclair to see him bare. On seeing Sinclair, he shied oddly, struggling for composure. It wasn't fear, Sinclair realized suddenly, and saw the stiff bulge in Michael's trousers. Sweet Jesus.

"Make me forget him, Jeff."

Permission. Acceptance. Hunger. Oh, there was delicious lust in the voice. Sinclair moved, trembling, trying to not just pull him to the floor right there and take him. Instead he embraced Michael slowly, holding him possessively, firmly, pressing his chin into Michael's shoulder, his lips to warm skin. Michael's arms went around his back, strong, a little uncertain about Sinclair's demeanor.

"Michael," he whispered. Love. Such overwhelming love said in the name. Desire. Protectiveness.

"Make me forget everything except you," Michael said.

Sinclair let out a shuddering breath, and pulled back just enough to kiss Michael's neck. He meant to leave it at that one kiss, to introduce Michael a little more gently to what it would mean to be his lover. But the scent and taste under his mouth made him mad with desire and suddenly he was feverishly kissing up under Michael's jaw and chin. Michael lifted his head to allow it, and made a soft noise, a whimper. It cut Sinclair to the bone sweetly and he pulled Michael's head down to consume his mouth gloriously.

Nothing ever tasted so good as Jeff's mouth then. Garibaldi groaned softly, holding tightly to the man who devoured his soul with that kiss, owning him with the embrace. He felt jealousy and tenderness in the strong hands that clawed lightly at his back. Jeff was so warm. He had a flashback to their first night together, Jeff lying naked next to him, fingers deep inside him, making him cry out, making him cry...

"Jeff, God," he groaned as the fiery mouth left his and started down his throat. Jeff's lips reached the top button of his shirt -- and teeth suddenly pulled to unfasten it brazenly, the snap giving way. "Jeff, just take me." The searing kisses were on his breastbone, mouth pushing the shirt aside to search for a nipple. "It's hurting you to hold back. It hurts me to feel it bottled up in you like that. Just do it." He gasped hard as the nipple was sucked. "It's okay. I want you to--"

"Michaellll." It was a growl, low and rumbling, breathed hard against one of his nipples. Hands worked at his shirt swiftly, pulling all the snaps apart and jerking it free of his trousers. "You're mine, God dammit. You're mine."

"I want to be yours, Jeff," Michael gasped. "God, you don't know how much." Sinclair's mouth teased at his nipples, licking and sucking eagerly and making him whimper. Then Sinclair turned him around and kissed him with a "be still" look in his eyes before glancing back to set the privacy lock on the door. Michael watched a large, sensuous hand deftly touch two controls, and then the burning, gold eyes returned to him.

"You want to be owned, do you?" Sinclair breathed, and Michael realized the other man was shaking. Jeff slipped strong arms around his waist underneath his shirt, pulling him close. Another sweet kiss, this one gentle and hot. Michael felt his sanity beginning to desert him, the desire to lose himself completely in the master who held him taking its place. Jeff was more than a man who had risen to command of the station. He was a force of nature, a man destined to command a great deal more, intimately and totally. "I won't be as gentle as last time," Sinclair said, pushing him back toward the bedroom. The tawny eyes blazed. "But I expect you to tell me if you don't want something."

"Okay," Michael said, swallowing. In the back of his mind, in the furthest reaches of his soul, he was certain that this man could do anything to him and he wouldn't protest. And yet he knew that Jeff would never hurt him, would somehow always know not to go too far. But what was too far? Where were the edges? Michael shuddered. "I don't want you to be gentle." God, where did those words come from? "I want you rough."

"Good," Sinclair rumbled, his hands firm on Michael's shoulders, pushing him toward the bed.

"As rough as you want to be, Jeff."

Sinclair made him lie down on his back, motions smooth but restrained. So much power lay hidden in the man's body that Michael hadn't seen, not even that first night. The dark robe that Sinclair wore was no longer tied completely shut, and Michael realized he wasn't wearing anything under it. He knelt on the bed over Michael's legs, aware that the robe was open but not caring. His big, stiff cock jutted out from the gap, a glimpse of thigh to either side, hairy chest farther up. Sinclair paused for a moment, displaying himself to blue eyes that drank in the sight feverishly, naked worship and desire plain in them. "Dammit, Jeff," Michael gasped. "Stop holding back."

He saw Sinclair shudder, a visible ripple up the length of his body, eyes closing briefly. Then Sinclair got up, climbing off the bed gracefully, urgently, the robe still hanging open on him. He vanished into the lavatory for a moment, and came out holding the slick lube he had used last time. He put it down on the nightstand, and let the robe drop to the floor. "Jeff, Christ, fuck me. Please. Do it hard. God, I want you so bad."

Sinclair got back onto the bed with him, straddling his hips. Michael felt the soft weight of testicles against his own groin and whimpered. Sinclair leaned down and put two fingers across his mouth.

"You will not say another word until I allow it," Sinclair murmured in a voice like stone. The words carried heat, the threat of punishment, the threat of pleasure. "Scream all you want to. Purr and yell and cry. But if I hear a single intelligible word other than 'no,' you'll find out how rough I can be. Understand?" Michael nodded mutely, and sucked Jeff's fingers into his mouth. Jeff hissed, surprised, but let him. Jeff moaned softly, then chuckled. "Hot for me, aren't you? Want me to put them in you?" He nodded again, vigorously, and Jeff grinned. "You aren't even naked yet," Sinclair purred. He shifted back to expose the trousers to his hands, pulling on the belt and buckle quickly. "Let's see what you've got for me."

Sinclair got Michael's fly unzipped and used both hands to forcefully pull the trousers and boxers down, just enough to admire Michael's naked, hard cock and balls. Sinclair swore softly. "God, you're beautiful, Michael. You're so beautiful." He looked up into Michael's eyes. "I saw you were already hard when you came here," he said, and Michael swallowed. "I don't know if you know how it felt... to see you get hard just by being in my presence. God, I wanted to push you up against the wall and shove my cock into you right then and there. Hold you and fuck you." Michael just looked at him, blue eyes like talons, and Sinclair felt the silent question.

So why didn't you, Jeff?

"No more waiting," Jeff muttered.

Sinclair dragged his trousers and shorts off. Michael made a strangled sound, a word half-formed, and Sinclair growled at him warningly. He whimpered instead, wanting to say Jeff's name, to call out to him, to try to reaffirm the reality of this ecstasy being done to him.

Sinclair pulled Michael up by one arm and tore the unbuttoned shirt over his head. He threw it on the floor fiercely, denying clothes to this gorgeous, sexy man who wanted him so much. His fingers were dry from Michael's mouth, and he nestled himself between Michael's thighs, covering two fingers with the lube. Pale, sapphire eyes watched him breathlessly, starving, the body under him quivering. Michael's hips shifted restlessly and Sinclair licked his lips, thinking of what a raw expression the movement was of Michael's need for his penetration.

Michael gave a choked cry when Sinclair's fingers touched his hole, the man's large hand and darkly haired arm reaching down between them to find the sensitive place. The two fingertips teased for only a moment before one thick finger drove inside, forcing past the muscle.

"Ah, G--" Michael remembered just in time that he wasn't supposed to speak words, and clenched his jaw down on the oath. He groaned, a throttled, harsh sound, and Sinclair chuckled.

"Difficult, isn't it?" Jeff observed, pushing his finger deep and making Michael keen softly. "You talk a lot to show your pleasure. I'm going to force you to find other ways of expressing what you've always used words for. It's a barrier for you. If you swear you don't have to really let the emotion out. The word's already there for you to use. This is going to be hard, Michael. You have to talk to me using nothing but your tone of voice, how loud you can be, how much you can put into a moan. It will frighten you, because you'll be more honest with me than you've been with anyone all your life. Tell me and I'll stop." He slid another finger into Michael and Michael bucked, crying out hungrily. But he didn't speak, and Sinclair grinned.

Michael's cry rose to a wail. He wanted to yell out "God!", to yell Jeff's name, to beg for more, to beg for Jeff's cock. But he couldn't use the words, and had to shout in pure frustration. Jeff laughed, a low sound, and he wanted to swear at the man, tell him to fuck himself, damn him for being so mean. Instead he snarled, and Jeff's laugh suddenly paused in amazement.

"There you go, Michael," he whispered. "That was so raw. Good. You want another finger? You want three? Ask for it. Beg me."

Michael went silent abruptly, panting, looking into Jeff's eyes and seeing the eagerness, the lust, in them. He whimpered, the sound choking on a pant. The two fingers inside him moved slowly, maddening him. He whimpered again, a drawn out, trembling purr of such pleading that he saw the reaction in Sinclair's face. "Shh," Jeff whispered gently, nudging a third finger in. "That what you want? God, you want it so much you hurt, don't you?"

Michael arched back against the bed as three fingers spread him open, his mouth open wide to draw a harsh, shaking breath. He wanted to moan, to hiss, "Jeff," but held the name inside his heart. He tried to find a sound that would express how he felt, the intense delight and joy, and anticipation of the cock that was going to follow. His throat couldn't find a noise that was right, and the joy built and built until it couldn't be held back. He cried out inarticulately, a sharp sound of pain, need, ecstasy, emotion so huge he realized there was no word for it.

He stopped thinking about the process, and began to howl loudly, the sound like a knife into Sinclair's soul, sweet and private.

//Oh, yes, Michael,// Sinclair thought fiercely. //Just like that. Just let it out.//

And then Michael sat up suddenly, grabbing his wrist where he had his fingers deep in Michael's body. There were tears on Michael's face, his eyes bright with wanting, with love. He groaned, anguished, panting hard and begging with his eyes.

"So soon, love?" Sinclair teased softly, smiling at him. "Don't you want to play a little more?"

Michael didn't shake his head, or give any other obvious negation, but just stared at him nakedly, lips parted, breathing hard. If Michael were to have spoken, the emotion that would have been behind it was in his eyes now. Sinclair hummed softly. "All right," he murmured. "No more playing."

The fingers left him, and Michael groaned, empty. "Over on your stomach, love." The command was enforced by a strong hand on his shoulder. He obeyed eagerly, and Jeff's huge warmth was looming over him, one hand on his buttocks, big cock impaling quickly. He gasped, yelled, shocked by the sudden sweetness of being filled again. He'd expected it more slowly even though Jeff had warned him it wouldn't be. It was too fast to comprehend right away -- Jeff's cock bucking into him all the way, deep, hard. He clenched both hands into the bedcovers and howled with his full voice, feeling it come up from deep in his belly. His body rocked brutally; Jeff slamming into him once... twice... low voice grunting hollowly. "Yeah, Michael, take my cock. My God, you're tight."

It was so intense, the deep thrusts, Jeff's balls slapping his to send flashes of heat up his spine, that he had to force himself to breathe. More often than not, his exhales came out as ripping yells of delight and frustration. "What's that?" Jeff growled, laughing. "Harder, you say? Want it fast and deep?" He chuckled. "You thought I already was, didn't you? Yeah, I'll give it all to you, Michael. Every bit. Here you go, just for you."

Michael yelped on the next thrust -- it seemed to pierce his heart, so deep it reached a sacred place inside him. Oh, Jesus, Jeff was so big, so big. Jeff went still, buried all the way, leaning over his back and trembling with the effort of keeping himself sheathed so Michael could feel it. "I love you, Michael," came Jeff's soft, masculine voice close to his neck. Jeff grunted, a sound of strain, of pleasure, and Michael shivered. "Oh, I love you. I can't believe you're taking me so deep." Jeff's hips pressed into his buttocks a little harder, searching for a limit but not finding one. "My God, Michael, you're so hot and tight--" Michael clenched around Jeff's cock, hard, and Jeff gave a roar that shook the walls. "Oh, Christ, Michael! Oh, fuck, yes!" He gripped again, holding it as long as he could, really feeling the size of Jeff's cock as he did so, and that delicious bellow came out of Jeff's throat again. "Oh my GOD, Michael. Careful or you'll make me come!"

Sinclair felt a wash of shock when Michael laughed, and the grip around his cock tightened again, rippling, threatening him. Another strong clip, stroking the length of his member, and he groaned helplessly. "Trying to make me, huh?" he laughed, able to see the grin on Michael's face where his lover had his head turned into the sheets. The clenching grasp became steady, a smooth rhythm, and Sinclair exhaled a long, shuddering breath, laughing shakily. "Oooohhhhh, yesssss."

Michael knew he had Sinclair when the man started pushing against him gently; small, short thrusts. It was just enough to rub the ridge of Jeff's cock over his prostate, and he sighed blissfully. Jeff was panting softly, mouth open, breathing in sharp time with his quick, shallow bucking. "Oh yes. Oh Michael. Oh my God. Ha! Ahhh, so sweet! Yes!" He growled through his teeth, grinning.

Jeff was riding him at just the right angle, his prostate so sensitive he thought he would scream every time Jeff pushed. It made him crazy, driving him hard up to the edge of a climax, almost ready to burst from him. His cock was pressed hard into his belly and into the bed, so erect it was an uncomfortable presence against his stomach. But it was rubbing the bedsheets, wetness dripping from the tip to cover the sensitive head as Jeff moved him gently. He kept gripping Jeff's cock, his hands twisted into the covers, trying with all his might to make Jeff come before he did.

"Ah, yes," Jeff hissed. "Michael, yes. Oh yes. Oh yes. Take my cock. I'm gonna come in you, Michael. Jesus, you're so tight, oh my God, soon, oh soon. What's the matter, love?" Jeff was chuckling through his gulping breaths. "Can't hold back? Oh, you look like you're going to come any second. Huh, Michael? Is my cock so good you can't hold it?" He watched Michael's hands move in the bedsheets, white-knuckled, and breathed a laugh. The laugh caught suddenly. "Oh, hell yes, HELL YES! Dammit I'm coming, oh Michael you want to talk? Go on, Michael, you can talk now, oh dammit I'm cominnnng--"

"Oh shit I'm gonna explode, oh fuck, Jeff!" Michael howled. Sinclair roared to rattle the walls, a huge, male bellow of release and mastery. Michael screamed with him, almost as loudly, bucking back against Jeff's quick thrusts. He could feel Jeff's cock flooding him inside, pulsing hard as his own cock exploded violently against his belly, soaking the bed and his chest and stomach. And in those seconds, in that sweet abandon, nothing existed in the entire universe but Jeff and that incredible feeling.

The first thing he became aware of after that was Jeff's hand on his sweat-dampened back, stroking lightly down his spine.

"Oh, yes, lover," Jeff whispered. "Filled you with my come, didn't I? God, you pulled it out of me so quick... I didn't think I'd come so fast..." He hummed, amused. "And I think you've got a delicious mess of your own under there."

"Yeah, I...I'm not sure but I don't think I ever came that hard in my life," Michael gulped. "Jesus."

"I'm going to pull out before the endorphins wear off," Jeff murmured. "Hold still," A strong hand settled on his back, and the huge presence in his rectum began to withdraw.

"Oh God, Jeff, you're so big, it feels so good," Michael breathed. "Ohhh..." Jeff slid carefully out of him and he sighed heavily, going limp on the bed. Jeff lay down next to him, smiling. Michael looked at him for a moment, relaxed and happy.

"I want to see this mess you made," Jeff said mischievously. He was amused to see Michael's brief embarrassment. "Come on." He pushed on Michael's hip coaxingly. Finally, Michael rolled up onto his side, and Jeff's eyebrows went up. "Hoo, Jesus, you did come, didn't you?" He started to laugh.

"Told you I never came that hard before," Michael muttered sheepishly.

"God, I don't think even I come that much!" Jeff exclaimed. "You've got the balls of a bull, Michael!"

"We'll have to jerk off for each other and see, won't we?" Michael said, and Jeff guffawed.

"Oh, yes, we will indeed." He reached for Michael's face, stroking affectionately. "And you flatter me to let go like that. Nobody ever responded to me like you did. It scared me a little."

"I can't help it." Michael swallowed. "You just make me. I can't do anything else." Jeff trailed fingers across his lips and Michael sucked on them briefly. "You're so sexy, Jeff. God, I couldn't believe it when you came on to me. I guess I... didn't want to think about it too much. Didn't want to wreck our friendship."

"How long have you wanted me?" Jeff asked him softly, still tracing lines over his jaw.

"Shit, I don't know," he muttered, glancing down. "I can hardly remember back to when I didn't. At least a little. But you were always with someone. I just sort of pushed it all back and... just..."

"Slowly fell in love with me," Jeff murmured, touching his mouth again. "I think that's what I did, too. Didn't know it for the longest time. I was working up my nerve to break the ice these past few weeks. You know... trying to come up with some way to mention it. Dammit, I was never any good at that kind of thing. And then Bester... God, I want to break his neck when I think about him here... with you..." Sinclair went silent for a moment, his breathing curiously labored. "Was Bester the first?" he asked suddenly, his voice gruff. He needed the answer, but didn't really want to hear it.

"What?" Michael asked. "The first psi cop? Yeah. But the first man to fuck me? No. Why? Does it matter?"

Sinclair's jaw muscles worked silently for a moment, his gaze averted.

"I wish I could have been the first," Sinclair said finally, almost inaudibly. His voice was tight, wistful, angry to some great, strange depth. "But I can live with the fact that I'm not. As long as it wasn't him."

"Don't talk about him," Michael said. "Forget him. Being with you erases it."

Maybe Michael would never know what it meant to Sinclair that he said that. Maybe it didn't matter if he knew. Sinclair rose up and took his face in both hands, kissing passionately, loving him more in that moment than he had ever loved in his life. They embraced fiercely, breaking the kiss to just hold each other quietly.

***

The day after was a lightness, like walking in the sky, everything clear and bright. Jeff smiled and it was the sun flashing across a rippling mountain lake. Michael's blue eyes would meet his across C&C, the desk, the corridor, and there was no darkness in them anymore. Just the rising dawn.

Ivanova was conscious of the fragile thing that had come onto the station suddenly... this gentle, distantly heated dance whenever Sinclair and Garibaldi were around. She found herself unable to speak in the face of it, when one of them would look at her and ask her something. No reply could come out as her throat closed up. What she saw in them was so beautiful, and she had no name for it. Even the obvious words for it meant nothing. Love. Devotion. Loyalty. All endless and immutable.

She tried to work around it, but each day she would wake up and smile, thinking of it. It was a delight to be around. They had both been so forlorn in the weeks past, especially Garibaldi. Something had changed, and it was good.

She fell over the beauty of it without meaning to, even after swearing to herself that she was going to give them all the room they wanted. Sinclair had asked her to do something for him, and she had attended to it as she did to many other things in her job. Later, she went to his office in C&C, thinking nothing of doing so, and not expecting what she found.

Sinclair had Garibaldi against the wall, holding the security chief there firmly, kissing him as brazenly as if they were alone in a bedroom somewhere. Sinclair stood with his legs slightly apart in the most frankly masculine, masterful pose she had ever seen him assume, his muscular rump obvious through the uniform trousers. It was Garibaldi who caught her out of the corner of his eye, and broke the kiss with a chagrined expression. Sinclair turned his head, faintly surprised, as if having forgotten where he was. Ivanova gestured vaguely with the report she held.

"Uh... the, uh, cargo manifest for the Oliver J. Grant you asked for, sir."

Sinclair looked oddly sheepish in some way that only he could get away with, and Ivanova realized he was sheepish because he had forgotten about the request for the cargo manifest, and not because he had been caught playing nookie with his chief of security.

"Just put it on my desk," Sinclair said, still with that hint of a smile.

"Yes, sir," Ivanova said. And then, for some asinine reason that she never fully understood, she saluted. Then she left. She could hear them laughing behind her as she retreated, and she smiled.

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