The Night of the Gambler's LuckHe'd always been a gambler—gambling his wit against the bad guys, if nothing more— but sometimes that part of his personality came out in other ways. "Are we going to decorate for Christmas this year?" Jim asked, idly flipping through the Ladies Companion magazine a visitor had left. "Decorate . . . what?" Artie gave him a blank look. "The train?" "Why not? It would be fun. Strings of popcorn and cranberries." He grinned at Artie's face and went on, warming to his subject. "Wreaths, holly, tinsel. A Christmas tree. You know." "And girls everywhere, I suppose?" Artie asked suspiciously. "We don't know if we're even going to still be here at Christmas." "I asked Colonel Richmond to give us a break at Christmas this year. He hasn't promised anything, but I'm hoping." Jim got up and leaned over the back of Artie's chair, ruffling his hair. "Come on, don't be a spoilsport. We can decorate the parlor, and then it'll look like Christmas wherever we are." Artie twisted around to look up at him. "What's gotten into you? We're grown men, for heaven's sake. That's women's stuff. Let them decorate their houses—I don't want gewgaws all over the train." Jim chuckled and went back to the little bird he'd been carving. Artie was always predictable. "All right," he said easily. "No Christmas stuff." Artie was silent for a moment. "You're giving in awfully easily." "I don't want to upset you. If you don't want Christmas decorations, we won't have any." "A tree would be all right, I suppose," Artie said grudgingly. "A little tree, mind you." "Not much room in here for a big one," Jim pointed out reasonably. Artie didn't reply to that, and Jim settled back to begin outlining the little dove's flight feathers with the tip of his knife. "A wreath wouldn't hurt," Artie said noncommittally, after a while. "A dignified, restrained wreath." "Holly," Jim agreed. "Or juniper, maybe. That would smell good. And one red ribbon." Artie gave him a suspicious look around the edge of his wing chair. "Just one?" "You said dignified," Jim reminded him. "Right," Artie said, in a Don't-you-forget-it tone. Jim finished with the flight feathers and began to smooth down the long sweep of the tail. "And no mistletoe," said Artie, popping out around the chair again. Jim pretended to pout. "I like mistletoe." "I like mistletoe too," Artie said with a snort. "But I don't like you when you've had too much to drink and start shoving everyone under the mistletoe." Jim just smiled, hearing what Artie had perhaps not intended him to hear. "No mistletoe, then," he said. There was another long silence. Jim drew his knife down the middle of the tail feathers to show the bifurcation, and carefully cut a small vee at the end. "Fruitcake wouldn't necessarily be a bad idea," Artie said, though Jim had not even suggested that. "Hansen's Bakery is supposed to have good fruitcakes." And just how did you happen to know that? Jim asked himself. Yes, ever predictable. "You probably like fruitcake better than I do," he said. "We should get some, then." "Put enough brandy on it and you'll like it too," Artie said dryly. He was only speaking the truth, but in the irony, and the repeated comment about his consumption of alcohol, Jim heard something else as well. He got up and went back to Artie's chair, crouching down to look in Artie's eyes. "What are you trying to tell me?" Artie shrugged. "I didn't think you really liked Christmas very much. That's one reason I was surprised when you suggested holiday decorations." "Of course I like Christmas!" Jim protested, though he had to admit he had very few good memories of childhood Christmases. "Who wouldn't like Christmas?" "Lots of people don't," Artie said evenly. "Anyone who doesn't have a family to celebrate it with." He paused and then said what Jim had been afraid he was going to say. "Like us, for instance." Jim sighed and turned away, but before he could stand up, Artie took his arm. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said that." Jim did push himself away then and stood looking down at his partner. He could have predicted this part of the conversation too, if he'd thought far enough ahead. "It doesn't matter," he said. "Don't worry about it." Artie looked as though he would like to say something else, but evidently thought better of it. Jim flexed his shoulders and glanced outside. There was enough time for a ride. "I'll be back in a while," he said, and Artie nodded silently. He was aware of Artie's eyes on him as he strapped on his gunbelt and took down his hat, but Artie didn't try to stop him. In the stable car, though, he lost interest in riding. Saddling his horse, opening up the car, deciding where to go—it just seemed like too much trouble all of a sudden. He tossed his hat at one of the pegs, overturned a water bucket and sat on it morosely. Artie wanted him. Wanted him in bed. Wanted to make love to him—or whatever they called it, the men who did those things with each other. He wasn't a prude. He didn't care what any two people did, as long as nobody got hurt. Life was too short and too hard to get all riled up about what got put in where. It just wasn't what he wanted to do. With Artie or anyone else. And yet . . . There was a certain illicit fascination with the idea, that appealed to the gambler in him. The telegraph spoke, early the next day, and by that afternoon, the railroad had found them a crew and they were heading east. So much for decorating the train. He didn't even have time to buy Artie a fruitcake. By Christmas eve they were in Kansas. A fellow Secret Service agent had been found dead—murdered. It wasn't anyone they knew, but that didn't prevent the indignation that one of their own should have been struck down, and for no apparent reason. He hadn't been working a case; he'd taken leave to help a sick friend. If not for the obscene mutiliation of his genitals, the crime might have been considered a random killing, just one of those things that happens in frontier areas and no one ever knows who did it, or why. On Christmas Day they interviewed the sick friend, a very young John Richards. Tubercular, emaciated, near death, with such appalling grief that Jim hardly knew where to look. He didn't inflict it on them. There were no wails, no outpouring of maudlin sentiment. But it was there, in his eyes, agony so deep it hurt to look at him. Jim could feel Artie feeling it. "He came to see me just after Thanksgiving," Richards said. "We were so happy. I was better than I had been all year, and he thought he might be taking a new job near here." He was trying so hard, Jim thought, not to say So we could be together. Richards said, "And then I heard . . . " and the air whistled in his throat and he gasped and choked and sat straight up clutching his chest. Artie hitched himself over on the bed and held him, murmuring, "Easy, easy," and Richards finally relaxed against him and managed to take in as deep a breath as he was probably able to, any more. Artie stayed with him, rubbing his back, pressing Richards' head against his shoulder, and the boy turned his head and began to sob softly. Choking, dismal sobs that tore at Jim's heart. He went out into the parlor, where John's mother sat pale and distraught. She wasn't much more help than the son with facts. Alan had been to see them at Thanksgiving, she confirmed. Alan Hamilton, a tall, narrow-faced Scot. The body had been long in the ground by the time he and Artie came on the scene, but she had a photograph of him and her boy together, grave and serious, but obviously happy. Before Johnnie grew ill with the fever. Before Alan came to someone's attention. Alan had been like her own son, she said, and Jim could see that she knew what they were to each other, or had guessed. They didn't find Alan Hamilton's murderer. The trail was too cold, the clues too few and too unrelated to be useful. John Richards and his mother had buried Alan in the family graveyard, because he had no family of his own in America, and in May, when John died, his mother buried him next to Alan. Artie read out the telegram she sent to them, his voice even and his face unreadable. Jim said, "Hell!" under his breath, though they had both known the inevitable end, and truly, Richards had lived longer than anyone expected him to. Artie went into his laboratory and closed the door behind him, and Jim got up and went outside. The train had stopped to take on coal and water and to change crews before they passed over the mountains into California. Jim opened up the stable car and led both horses out, exercise for himself as much as for them. The photograph of John Richards and Alan Hamilton had been much on his mind throughout the winter and spring of that year, through a gang of counterfeiters, a conspiracy to blow up the Texas state house, and a family of con artists selling shares in non-existent silver mines. The young men looked so . . . ordinary. If not for the dramatic difference in their looks, they might have been brothers. Nothing in the image specifically suggested their relationship. But if you knew of it, everything in the picture shouted it. Hamilton was the taller, and stood slightly behind Richards, his hand on Richards' shoulder. But it was not on the nearer shoulder. His arm circled Richards, held him near. Richards' head tilted slightly toward him, as though he'd been looking up at Hamilton just a moment before the picture was taken. They were appropriately solemn, but it was the gravity required of a formal occasion. Jim could almost hear the photographer saying, "All right, gentleman . . . " to let them know they should compose themselves for the flash. Joy shone out of their eyes and illuminated their faces. He couldn't reconcile this image with what he thought he knew of inverts. These were not two men shopping for sex on street corners—they seemed as much a couple as any man and wife Jim knew. And there was that persistent image of Artie holding Richards, sharing his grief. Artie, who showed strong emotion to only one other person—himself. He realized that he'd equated Artie's promiscuity with his liking for men, in spite of the fact that he knew of only one man in Artie's love life. Artie would fuck anyone in skirts who appealed to him, but as far as Jim knew, he'd been with a man only once since they met. Jim had been away, taking leave to deal with a property conflict in his late father's estate. He had returned to find the train dark and cold, Artie absent, and he'd undressed wearily and gone to bed. Waking in the middle of the night, he'd heard voices in the parlor—Artie's voice and that of another man, laughing softly together with unmistakeable intimacy. Curious whom Artie might have brought to their home, Jim had gotten up quietly and opened the door of his cabin. He hadn't been trying to keep them from hearing him, but he could probably have made a lot more noise than he had without them noticing. The lamp was turned down very low, but the flame was bright enough to reveal Artie and the other man—locked in a passionate kiss. If it had been Artie and a woman, he would just have smiled, shaken his head, and retreated silently. But he gasped, so astonished that all he could do was stand there in his doorway like a pole-axed mule. The other man flung himself away from Artie, crouching defensively as though he expected an attack. Artie had stood as mute and pale as Jim himself, and then drawn in a ragged breath. "I didn't know you were back." "So I see," Jim had said dryly. He knew he sounded sarcastic, but it had been all he could do to get anything out at all. They had stood looking at each other, neither knowing what to say, until the other man began to edge toward the door. Artie had said defiantly, "This is Robert. Robert, this is my partner, James West." Robert had obviously not been interested in being introduced. Jim had nodded curtly to him and then stepped back into his bedroom and shut the door. He heard nothing from the other compartment, and it wasn't until morning that he learned that Robert had fled the instant Jim's door closed. He didn't sleep much that night, turning over and over in his mind this new and totally unexpected image of Artie. By morning, he'd decided that Artie was still Artie, as he'd always been. Nothing but Jim's vision of him had changed, and if Jim could overlook that particular sexual oddity in others, he could certainly overlook it in Artie. He and Artie had talked most of that day—talked in awkward disjointed conversations, as one of them thought of something to ask, or something to say. Artie had shrugged off Jim's surprise that he enjoyed both men and women. "Lots of men like both," he'd said dismissively. "And it's easier to find women, of course." Jim had known his partner well enough by then to hear what wasn't being said. "Do you . . . prefer men?" he'd asked, after they had been silent for a while. "Yes," Artie had said reflectively. "I suppose I do. Women are nice, but they're all . . . they're all the same, somehow. Even the educated ones. You still know how you're supposed to act with them, and you know what they want, ultimately. Marriage, babies, all that." "And you don't know how you're supposed to act with a man?" Jim had asked, a little amused. "A man who wants relations with you, I mean?" "Well—" Artie had said, reddening. "Yes, but each man is different." He didn't seem inclined to elaborate on the remark, and Jim wasn't really eager for details. But there was one thing he thought he ought to ask. Artie had given him a queer embarrassed glance. "Of course," he'd said, so softly that Jim had to strain to hear him. "Of course I want you. Who wouldn't?" He swallowed. "Have I ever done anything to make you uncomfortable? That way, I mean?" Jim had thought about that for a moment. They touched—a lot. They sat so close together, half the time, that either of them could have put his arm around the other. But it was by his choice as much as Artie's, and he couldn't remember even one time when Artie had made him feel strange about it. It was just the way they were with each other. Always had been. Always will be, he found himself thinking, and then had to get up and walk away for a moment to look out the window. "No," he'd said. "You've never done anything I didn't like." He knew how that sounded, knew how Artie would hear it, and still couldn't take the words back. Always will be, his mind echoed. That's how we always will be with each other. He had heard the commitment he was making, and almost voiced it aloud, but stopped himself in time. That wouldn't be fair to Artie. He deserved to find his one true love, if that person were out there somewhere for him. Even with Artie's fickle nature, Jim had assumed he would one day find a woman he could love forever, as he had always assumed that for himself. The fact that Artie might prefer his true love to be a man explained a lot about his approach to women, but the last thing Jim needed to do was saddle Artie, on a long-term basis, with a partner who couldn't be everything he wanted. So he kept that rather amazing realization to himself, and worked at keeping their relationship as it had always been—close friends in an efficient working partnership. Nothing more. And yet . . . There was an edgy awareness between them much of the time now that had never existed before, as though one of them was waiting for the other to do something—gamblers in the game of life, each watching for the other's move. Artie didn't shy away from his declaration of desire, but he didn't make an issue of it either. It came out now and then, in casual—and sometimes not so casual—conversation, in references to the family neither of them had besides each other, and in the occasional glance Jim could feel on his bare skin when he had some occasion to undress in front of Artie. He found himself making excuses to change his clothes in Artie's presence, telling himself that they had never had any false modesty with each other, and half-hoping that Artie might make some advance. And so they went, through the spring and summer of that year. Solving cases, getting shot at, blowing things up now and then. Nothing unusual, nothing much different from how their lives had gone for almost five years now. The cases that had seemed so extraordinary, so fantastic, at first, had begun to run together in Jim's recollections, and he slowly became aware of a fatigue and disillusion that he'd never felt before. Risk had been his vice, always. He could turn his back on tobacco, alcohol, women, even money—all the pitfalls that lay in wait for most of the unwary. His thrill was the challenge, whether physical or mental. But now, like a millionaire who had achieved his goal and had nothing more to work toward, he found that risk-taking had lost its allure. He still did his job competently, still enjoyed the occasional fistfight, still glowed with triumph when he outsmarted the bad guys, but the excitement of it all had dimmed. Somewhere along the way, he'd given up the notion that anything more lay around the corner, that he was working toward a concrete achievable goal. It had become clear to him that unless some catastrophe occurred, he could go right on as he was until he was simply too old to perform any longer. And long before that day arrived, Artie would have had to retire. If Jim continued to work, it would be with another partner. A new man at his side . . . no, not possible. Not again. He'd tried to work with Jeremy Pike during the four months that Artie was in Washington, and what a strained and awkward relationship that had been. Pike had done his best to fit into a another man's place, but he was a square peg in a round hole, never quite what Jim was expecting, and aware of it. Jim wouldn't put himself through that again, nor ask anyone else to tolerate his attempt. He examined his options one winter evening when Artie had gone to a concert—spread them out mentally as though they were the pieces of some puzzle Dr. Loveless had set for him. This kind of analytical calculation was more Artie's forte than his own; he'd rather have a ripping good fight to settle a problem than to pry its secrets out in this cold unemotional fashion. But he forced himself to go on. They could continue as they were for however long fate allowed it, and deal with the consequences when they came. They could part while they were still alive and in good health, and find other challenges, other relationships. Or they could go on together in some new endeavor. There were permutations and variations, of course, but he could see no other fundamental choices. He was already dissatisfied with the first of the three, and suspected that Artie was as well, though they were carefully not talking about it. The kind of festering discontent he was feeling was the quickest way to get them both killed. He mentally wiped out that choice—sweeping away a bad hand, like the gambler he was. He could resign from the Secret Service and simply move on, leaving Artie to make his own decisions about his future. To find someone more compatible, if it came to that. "Look, I know I'm not the right one for you, so . . . here's your freedom." But what arrogance that was, to assume he could make that kind of decision for Artie. Another thought came to him. What would he do if Artie spoke those words to him? If he had come to the point of considering their future in such cold-blooded terms, surely Artie had already done so. And Artie hadn't left. With nothing to gain and a lot to lose, he still hadn't left. But how long, Jim had to ask himself, would he continue with a partner who was virtually flaunting himself, yet would offer no more than teasing glimpses of what Artie couldn't have? That question ruled out the second option—the instant wrench of his heart told him how he'd react if Artie wanted to leave. So he was left with the third. Go on . . . together. Do something new—together. Together . . . how? Pals? Business partners? He made himself say the word. Lovers. His breathing quickened, but was that anticipation, or fear? He found that he had clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him, had drawn his elbows in tight to his sides, had dropped his head instinctively to his chest. He'd seen men do that before—make themselves small, avert their eyes and protect their vitals. "Dammit!" he said, softly and violently. He didn't hide from physical threats—why was he reacting to Artie this way? He visualized Artie standing before him, big, solid and smiling, and instantly relaxed. His shoulders dropped and his head came up and he could feel his mouth curving into a responding grin. So it wasn't Artie he feared. "What, then?" he demanded under his breath. "What the hell are you afraid of?" The apparition he had conjured up reached out and laid a hand against his cheek. He drew in a deep breath but didn't jerk away. You're afraid of yourself, the ghostly Artie told him. Afraid that you'll like what I do. Afraid that it will change you. "Will it change me?" he asked, still speaking softly to himself. He hadn't flinched from the idea of Artie's hand on his face. He sat with his eyes closed and felt what it would be like for Artie to put that hand somewhere else. He imagined the warm hand across his belly, just lying there asking silently for permission to move lower, and gasped at the stab of sensation in his groin. Clearly his body was having no problem with the notion, even if his mind couldn't fit it in to the rest of his world. Afraid you'll like what I do . . . The taunt whispered through his mind again. What did they do, the men who loved each other? Hands, mouths, bodies sliding together—and without conscious volition, there came the image of Artie's bare skin against his own, Artie's mouth on his. Through the instant conflagration in mind and body, he perceived one inescapable fact: if Artie had ever said to him, I want to touch you, or I want to kiss you, they would probably have been in bed together long ago. It was only Artie's essential decency that had kept them apart, his reluctance to push Jim for something Jim wasn't ready for. "And are you ready now?" he asked himself. But hearing that irresolute tone in his voice, he stood, shook his head and reached for his buttons. He wasn't a man to sidle into things, to be cajoled or wheedled. Artie knew that, and had waited with a stolid patience that Jim wasn't sure he could have found in himself. He wouldn't make Artie wait longer. He hadn't spoken of decorating the train again, but he had purchased ribbon and mistletoe, along with the fruitcake he had wanted to buy for Artie last year; it was aging nicely in the chest under his bed, helped along with half a bottle of the best whiskey Jim had been able to find. But he'd save that for Christmas Day itself. Now, he got up, shedding clothing as he went, and rummaged through the top layers of the chest, pulling out the spool of ribbon and a length of wire. The mistletoe was hidden in his wardrobe, tucked into the lapels of his best evening suit where Artie was unlikely to see it even with the doors wide open. He twisted one end of the wire around the sprig of greenery, with its waxy berries, and then, lighting a candle and setting it on his bedside cupboard, he took down the oil lamp that normally hung over his bed. He laid the lamp carefully in the bottom of his wardrobe and affixed the other end of the wire to the bottom of the lamp's supporting chain, letting the mistletoe hang, swaying slightly, over what he hoped would be a strategic spot when he lay down in the bunk. He cut a two-foot length of the red ribbon and wrapped it around the appropriate portion of his anatomy, folding and looping the ends into a huge bow. Then he lay on his bed and waited for Artie to return. He had thought he would be quivering with tension, but to his surprise, he relaxed into a drowsy half-slumber. Artie would come home, Jim would call out to him, all would be well. It wasn't until he heard Artie's voice outside the car, heard him speaking to someone else, that the awful risk he had taken flashed over him. What if Artie had brought someone else to the train? Jim's compartment door was half open, and his bunk in full view from the corridor. Anyone passing by his door on the way to Artie's bedroom couldn't help but see him. He froze in indecision as Artie opened the outside door, afraid to move and spoil the tableau, in case Artie walked immediately to his own sleeping compartment . . . more afraid not to close his door in case Artie had brought someone home with him. "See you for breakfast, then?" he heard Artie call, and though he couldn't make out the other man's words, he recognized the voice. Stephen, a former agent who had left the Secret Service to practice law in San Francisco, and whom they regularly met when they came to town. Stephen, with whom Artie had gone to the opera—no one else. He took a deep breath and fell back against his pillow. His erection was being held up mostly by the red ribbon. Artie took his time about coming to bed. Jim could hear small noises from the parlor—the metallic thunk of tongs against grate as Artie spread out the coals, a soft thud that was probably a boot hitting the floor, the clink of a glass, and finally, a sigh. Jim was impatient suddenly, nervy as he had not been before, anxious for Artie's presence and his reaction. "Artie," he called softly. "Come here." "Hm?" Artie asked. "What is it?" He appeared in the doorway in stocking feet. "I didn't think you were still awa—" he was saying, but his voice broke off and his jaw dropped when he saw Jim lying there. He took a deep breath, looking more shocked than pleased. "Merry Christmas," Jim said hesitantly, with the awful realization that he might have just made a horrible error in judgment. "I—I don't know what to say." Artie's shock had changed to outright distress, and Jim closed his eyes with a long exhalation and a sinking heart. "Never mind," he said dully. "It was a bad idea. I just thought . . . " He shrugged. Artie must know what he'd thought. "You left it a bit late," Artie said slowly, with unmistakeable frost now in his voice. "Never mind!" Jim said again, the tearing disappointment making his voice sharper than he'd intended. He rolled to his side and sat up on the bed. "It was a stupid idea." But Artie was taking off his coat, a dark, closed expression on his face. "You want to know what it's like with a man?" he asked. "Fine. I'll be happy to oblige." This was an Artie he saw only occasionally, the secretive man with the unknown past. The real Artie, he guessed, under the suave urbanity that he affected most of the time. It was not the man Jim had wanted to evoke, but it was still the man he loved . . . and that thought was enough to make him go very still for a moment. "Backing out?" Artie asked caustically. He was down to ruffled shirt and evening trousers, unbuttoning the shirt with measured deliberate haste. Jim shook his head. "No." The man he loved . . . There was a long distance between "lovers" and "loved," a distance he'd been careful to keep in the past. He realized that he'd done it instinctively now, too, assuming, without ever considering the consequences, that he and Artie could add sex to their friendship and keep it the same otherwise. Realized also that his "gift" to Artie, the offer that he'd thought so generously made, was as arrogant in its way as his idea of just walking away from their partnership and freeing Artie to find someone else. Artie had seen through that in an instant. No wonder he was so angry. "No, I'm definitely not backing out," Jim said softly. He got up from the bed and advanced on Artie, who was standing on one foot to pull off his trousers. Artie's shirt lay in a heap on the floor, and he had slung his swallowtail coat over the doorknob, testament to the state of mind of someone who normally walked around picking up after Jim. Jim took his arm in a tight grip. "Artie," he said, "look at me." Still entangled in his trousers, Artie tried to shake him off. "You're not getting out of this!" he snapped. "Let me go, God damn it!" This was obviously not a moment for gentle persuasion. Jim shoved his partner against the wall, and before Artie could get any leverage to push him off, moved in hard and fast. "Not letting you go," he growled. "Not ever." He took Artie's face in both hands and kissed him with all the passion he could summon, forced his tongue through Artie's shock-slackened lips, ground his pelvis against Artie's. Artie went rigid for just a moment, and then, with a groan, slid his arms around Jim's naked waist and returned the kiss fiercely. He tasted of brandy, smelled of cigar smoke and of the lime and ginger shaving tonic Jim had watched him splash on before he went out for the evening. Smelled faintly of something else too, another scent that Jim couldn't identify but which made him think of Stephen. Stephen . . . He hadn't thought Stephen was one of them, had seen nothing in appearance or manner to suggest it. But he'd obviously been close enough to Artie tonight to leave his scent on Artie's skin. All of that went through Jim's mind in an instant, and it was followed by a flash of pure white-hot jealousy. He eased away from the kiss with a sharp intake of breath and pulled back enough to see Artie's face. "Why didn't you stay with him tonight?" he demanded, his voice uneven with the need for oxygen. Artie didn't pretend not to know what he meant. He looked aside for a moment, getting his breathing under control. "I wanted to talk to you in the morning," he said finally. "Tell you I was going to leave the Service. Stay here with Stephen. I didn't want to be coming back from—from . . . him when we talked." He gave Jim a bleak look. "I told you that you'd left it late," he said. "Too late?" Jim had to ask. If Artie had committed himself to Stephen, he wouldn't try to interfere. At least, he hoped he would not. He wasn't sure how firmly in order his scruples were where Artie was concerned. The kiss hadn't been enough, by a long shot. He wanted another. He wanted to strip Artie's remaining clothing and throw him down on the bunk and kiss every inch of him. He could feel himself rising fast and hard and couldn't restrain his instinctive thrust against Artie's hip. Artie looked down him, at the mauled red ribbon, and then back to his face, his expression wavering between sardonic amusement and fear. "Don't toy with me, James." "Tell me whether it's too late," Jim insisted, hearing the steel in his voice. Artie sighed. "It's not that I wouldn't walk away from Stephen," he said unhappily. "We're hardly a couple of lovestruck kids." He took a deep breath. "I want more than you're willing to give." "And Stephen will give you what you want?" Jim asked, hoping he knew the answer to that question. "No," Artie admitted, with a little shrug. "He's as fickle as you." He gave Jim a sideways look in which accusation mingled with rueful acceptance. Then it changed to resignation. "But I didn't expect any more than that from him." "And from me?" Jim asked. His voice was low, intimate, but the edge in it hadn't left. Artie twisted away from him, and this time Jim let him go. "I expect no more than that from you either," he rasped. He got himself out of the trousers finally, and bent to pick up his shirt from the floor. He had his hand on the door, on the collar of his coat, when Jim spoke. "Don't go," he said. He'd given Artie that space of time to see whether he really wanted to leave, and had breathed out in silent relief, knowing Artie wouldn't be so careful with each piece of clothing if he was determined to be out of Jim's presence. "Don't go," he repeated. "You know you don't want to." He took a step and barred Artie from the door. "Give me those." He removed the trousers and shirt from Artie's hand and laid them neatly them on the stool by the wardrobe. He took Artie's coat off the doorknob and hung it next to his own evening clothes. Artie stood with a still, pained face and allowed himself to be undressed—undervest, stockings, drawers, until he was as nude as Jim in the little compartment. He wasn't aroused. Jim performed the actions in equal silence, knowing he risked an outburst and departure if he pushed too hard right now. "Come, lie down," he said softly, when they were both shivering in the cooling night air. "Lie down with me, Artie, I'll warm you." Artie crawled obediently into the bunk, settling as far as possible from the edge. Jim shook out one of the blankets from the shelf overhead and spread it over the sheet, and then climbed in after Artie. Artie didn't shrink away from him but he was stiff and unyielding. Like a frightened bride . . . Jim thought, an apt analogy. Like a virgin, Artie had no idea what to expect from him. They were virgins together, he a newcomer to it all, Artie a stranger to this version of his partner. The thought pleased him, and he raised himself on an elbow to see Artie's face in the guttering candle light. "No smile for me?" he whispered. "I did think you'd be glad to see me." Artie's lips softened. "Damned surprised to see you," he admitted. Not 'glad,' Jim noticed. But he would change that. "May I kiss you again?" he asked softly. He liked the words, liked the inherent presumption of his right to ask them. And he knew it would please Artie to hear them. Artie didn't answer, just turned toward him with his eyes closed. Jim kissed his lips, brushing over them lightly. Artie followed the pressure of his mouth, lifting toward him with a soft husky breath of sound. He kissed everywhere he could reach from that position, Artie's lips and eyes and temples. He sank his fingers into Artie's thick hair and buried his nose in it and kissed down to Artie's ears, intoxicated with the scent and taste of his lover. Artie was still reticent with him, still mostly passive, lying there and allowing Jim to explore, but when Jim returned to his mouth, he parted his lips and invited Jim inside with a little incoherent murmur, and suddenly they were fiercely locked together, bodies thrusting and rubbing against each other as passionately as their tongues. It was tempting to just go on as they were, and he knew Artie would allow it, but he wanted more intimate, more specific, lovemaking than this. He wanted what men did with each other, and if he had no prior first-hand knowledge, he wasn't so innocent that he couldn't guess. He pulled his head away from the kiss, and Artie's hands from his ass, stopping Artie's moan of loss with a finger against Artie's lips. "Not yet," he murmured huskily. Artie lifted against him as he moved away, and he smiled at Artie's still half-bewildered expression. He threw off the covers, wanting to see Artie clearly as well as feel his body. There was no question about Artie's arousal now; his member rose as urgently as Jim's. The sight of it stopped Jim for a breathless moment, driving home to him just what he was about to do. He hadn't truly seen another man aroused before now. The casual glimpse of other men's morning erections in the latrines during the war, the unmistakeable bulge in men's trousers in a bordello, true, but those were no comparison with the sight of Artie's erect cock straining toward him. Artie was circumcised, and the exposed head glistened wetly in the flickering light. He touched it with a finger, first tentative exploration, and it pulsed and quivered. Artie shivered and drew in his breath. Less hesitant now, Jim drew a finger along the rigid length, tracing the underside that was obviously as sensitive as his own. Artie hissed, and his fingers clenched into fists. Jim bent over him again. "Artie," he whispered. Artie's eyes opened, wide and questioning. "You'll have to tell me if I'm doing this right." He wanted Artie to watch, wanted the thrill of Artie's eyes on him, and the verbal confirmation of Artie's pleasure. His questions had wrung the first expression of desire from Artie, almost a year ago now; he'd never forgotten the words, nor the power they had held over both of them, bringing them to this moment. Artie said with a shaky laugh, "I think you've got the hang of it." "Tell me," Jim insisted, sliding his hand loosely over the cock. He stroked upward, and Artie's whole torso followed his hand. "Like this? Is this what you like?" "God, Jim!" Artie groaned. "Yes, dammit, like that!" "Tell me what else," Jim commanded inexorably, knowing what the next step had to be, demanding the same kind of honesty and vulnerability from Artie that he was offering himself. He thought for one scary moment that Artie wouldn't be able to say the words, not to him. But Artie slowly relaxed and breathed in deeply, and the smile Jim loved returned to his face. "Suck me," he whispered, his eyes bright. "I want you to suck me." Joy welled up in Jim, and he bent to Artie's cock with a passionate tenderness that he hadn't known he possessed. It's beautiful, he said to himself, not quite ready to voice that aloud, but knowing he wanted to say it. Strong, and big, like Artie himself. He was a little amazed at himself—describing his partner's more intimate physical attributes was not something he had done before, even silently. It was all new, all wonderfully different and untried, virgin territory. He touched the head with his closed mouth, noting the musky aroma. Nothing of Stephen here, just Artie's own scent, intensified by his arousal. The slit opened under his lips, oozing viscous ejaculate. He had wondered, in the very brief thought he had given to this moment ahead of time, whether he would find the physical manifestations offensive. But in a strange, mirror-image sort of perception, holding Artie's cock, touching it, seemed almost as though he was seeing himself through the eyes of another person. There were differences: he was uncut, like most men, and more pale in coloration, and perhaps slightly longer, though not as thick. But the essential characteristics were the same, and the outward evidence of Artie's arousal seemed no stranger to him than his own. He opened his lips and allowed the head to push in a little, curving his lips to match its circumference. It felt bigger than it looked; he wasn't accustomed to putting anything this large into his mouth. The silky-smooth-over-firm-as-steel texture pleased him, though, and he sucked it in gently, playing with it. Artie groaned something unintelligible, trembling beneath him. His balls contracted; they moved within the furred sacs. Jim smiled around his mouthful, knowing what Artie was feeling. "Turn around!" Artie said to him, sounding desparate. "Let me touch you too." His voice was hoarse. "Let me have you!" Jim shifted along the bunk until he could feel Artie's hot breath on his cock. In a moment, Artie's hand slid over his hip, anchoring him, and Artie's mouth covered him, strong and hot and wet. The sensation was more of a shock than it had been to feel Artie in his own mouth. It stabbed into him, owned him, almost carried him away. He could hear, dimly, Artie's satisfied chuckle, could feel it against his over-sensitized skin. No, you don't, he thought, guessing that Artie meant to turn the tables on him, to demonstrate Artie's own prowess. He inhaled deeply and sucked Artie in, and let his tongue slide fiercely across the underside of Artie's cock, tasting him now for the first time. Artie jerked and moaned aloud, and copied the motion of Jim's tongue, and they teased each other with ever more passionate and stimulating caresses until, almost without warning, Jim came so violently that stars showered down inside his closed eyelids. An instant later, he felt the strong pulse of Artie's climax and the flood of bitter fluid in his mouth. He hadn't thought this far ahead, in the little mental planning he had managed at all, and the volume surprised him, flowing out around his slackened lips to coat his cheek and Artie's leg. Even so, the sensation was not distasteful, just another new thing to be experienced. Artie was silent, only his gasping breaths giving away what he was feeling. When he had his own breath back, Jim hitched himself around so he could see Artie's face, and found it hidden beneath an arm. "Artie," he said softly. "Look at me." The arm slid away, and in the pale light he could just see the gleam of Artie's eyes. "Stay with me," he said, not quite an order, definitely more than a plea. "Stephen doesn't really want you." He hesitated. "We don't have to stay in the Service, you know. There are lots of other things we could do." Artie breathed in deeply, and then out, his face unreadable in the near dark. Finally he said, voice rasping with effort, "You take too many chances. And you still haven't learned not to run my life." But there was no real objection in his tone. Jim bent closer. "You'll have as many years as you want to change me," he promised. There was a period of silence. He had gone as far as he dared to go, his gambler's instincts telling him to shut up and let Artie decide. Artie sighed. "Stephen is anxious to show me off to his friends," he said. He didn't sound as though he had any real enthusiasm for the idea. "You'll make a great decorative accessory," Jim said dryly, and Artie pushed himself up to sit cross-legged on the bunk. "You took an awful chance," he accused. "Suppose I'd already made a commitment to Stephen." Jim shrugged. Taking risks was one of the things Artie was unlikely ever to change in him, despite his promise, but he didn't have to rub that in right now. "You're right," he said honestly. "I was lucky, as usual." There was a long slow chuckle from Artie. "Damned right you were." He slumped back down on the bed and pulled Jim down next to him. "But you've got a lifetime to collect your winnings . . . " The moon sank below the treeline, and dark fell inside the private car, and Jim thought drowsily that if every risk worked out like this one, he wouldn't be able to call himself a gambler any more. It was not an entirely unwelcome thought. |