NEW YEAR'S DAY

by Kitty Fisher

The trailer park clung to the shoreline with all the grace and elegance of a slug. There was very little of the American dream here, even the ocean seemed to be trying in vain to distance itself from the squalor, from the ragged disintegration of urban life. It might be better to live here than a war–zone like Watts, but then again maybe not; at least in Watts you knew you were alive. Here there was no sense of life at all, merely of existence. This was the dregs of civilisation, anyone with money enough had cut and run. Here, you didn't put down roots in case they strangled you. There were no picket fences, no roses trailed over the fly–blown doors. Any effort to improve things was wasted, drowned in inertia, a fact proved by the vestiges of once bright paint–work now blistered and peeling in the sun and salt–laden wind.

Of course, there were advantages. The welfare spooks rarely made the trek out this far away from the city transportation system. No one complained if your TV blared out inanities twenty–four hours a day; in fact, your neighbours didn't bother you at all, just in case a bullet was the only answer to their goodwill. Privacy was well guarded; to many that was as good a reason for living here as any.

For others, the view alone was worth the price.

If you could blinker your eyes to the despair, to the ripped garbage sacks, to the detritus of decay — if you could forget the ruin of your life — then, perhaps then, living so close to the ocean almost made it worth being alive.

Almost.

In the damp cold of the late afternoon the waves were breaking, smooth and serene, a long way from the shore. Footprints wove their way through the cut–up, rubbish strewn dirt hemming the snaking black–top that marked the edge of the world, down across to the flat expanse of ocean–cleansed sand. There the ribbon–trail meandered unsteadily until it ended suddenly at a figure seated on the damp sand quite close to the dancing water's edge.

Martin Riggs sat with his knees drawn tight to his body, his gaze fixed blindly on the rolling mass of waves. In jeans and threadbare shirt, barefoot, he was quite alone, isolated from the world by more than mere distance. Still and silent, he appeared inhuman, more part of the flow of sea and sand than flesh and blood. He had sat here for a long time.

A winter storm was gathering. Seabirds circled slowly in the heavy, mist–sodden breeze, their high calls eerie against the rhythmic rush of the tide. The sand between his toes was cold, laden with the sea; his jeans were dark, salt–encrusted where the heat of his body had begun the drying process before he himself had grown chill. Not that he noticed. He wasn't really aware of anything other than the ocean and the dark consuming morass of his own thoughts.

The steady progression of the waves usually numbed his brain better than whisky. Not today.

A promise was a promise.

He had to keep reminding himself of that painfully simple fact.

Anyone could keep a promise. Hell, he thought bleakly to himself, it wasn't even New Year yet, so where was the problem?

He shifted, digging his toes deeper into the sand and scowled at the sea. The scowl made his bruised face ache, though it didn't make him stop; the ache was a reminder of how alive he was. Still alive. Going to be alive.

Thanks to that damn promise.

It would have been so easy to die. He wouldn't even have had to do it himself; Joshua would have been happy to oblige. Riggs shuddered as the cold eyes that haunted his dreams were conjured by the thought. He shook his head, pushing that memory away. Joshua was dead. Besides, however painful it had been, Roger had needed him. There had been no choice involved. That one fact had kept him alive through it all, had held him together while the Korean played his games.

Kept him alive.

Damn.

Damn Roger, damn him to hell. And damn himself for being stupid enough to promise something so impossible. What kind of idiot was he anyway?

The answer came smooth and easy into his mind — a complete one. A few words of friendship and he was swearing his life over to someone else's keeping. Jesus. And all for a friendship that was all he was offered, yet a world less than he dreamed of.

Riggs sighed and decided that the word 'idiot' didn't even begin to describe him.

Hell, life was difficult enough without this making it worse. Besides, Roger was too good a man to mess around with. He was different from most people. Even though he fussed and scolded he was okay, really okay. It was hard to deny the man anything, especially after all they had been through. What Roger and his family had been through. At the time the promise had seemed such a small token. Now? Well, now was a different matter.

Riggs snorted in disgust, remembering how sentimental he'd been, wrapping up that goddamn bullet in red ribbon as if it was some sort of lovers' token. Too revealing and really very foolish.

He almost smiled. Then the humour was drained away by an acute wave of despair. He narrowed his eyes against the rising wind, forcing himself to breathe in the salt–laden air until it filled his lungs almost to bursting before slowly easing it out. After a while bright specks of light floated across his vision, but the panic was gone. He cursed. He didn't want to think of anything at all; was out here just so that he wouldn't. He wanted to feel less than the stones; to think less than the ocean. The desolation, the echoing emptiness of this world was all he needed to be concerned with. All he had courage to be concerned with.

He steadied the raggedness of his breathing, blanking his mind. The wind was snapping at the wash–softened cotton of his shirt; it tossed his dark, ragged hair about his face. His thoughts floated, adrift with the unanchored clouds, with the swift, wind–tossed flight of the seabirds. The grey depths of the ocean were close, filling him. Surrounded by the snarl and hiss of the waves, by the cut of the wind, by the cold, by the pain, in his mind he dived deep into the water, and the serenity of those dark endless depths was a sweet, bitter–sweet temptation.

Pain spiked through the muscles of his jaw. The opacity left his eyes and with a shake of his head, Riggs relaxed. Blinking, he stared at the angry sea and shivered.

A bullet was quicker anyway.

There were storm–clouds on the horizon. It was time to go inside. Time to shift before the rain came. Before the deluge. Before temptation filled his soul with a yearning that couldn't be denied.

But he didn't move. Couldn't. Perhaps the rain would wash all the pain away, would wash away the emptiness that lived like acid in his gut.

Perhaps.

If Vicky had lived... No, that was equally destructive and he shied away from the thought as if burned. Her memory, for all its distance, still hurt; like a half–healed wound, it was still painful to the touch. He grinned suddenly, mocking himself, a short barking laugh finding its way past his lips.

"What's so funny?"

Riggs, nerves flaring as adrenalin pumped fast into his blood, flinched. He didn't turn, though the familiar voice startled him more than he would ever have admitted. "Hello, Rog."

"Hello, Martin, how you doin'?"

"Fine."

"Got frostbite yet?"

"Rog," Martin sighed. "Did you come all this way just to fuss?"

"You call that fussing? How about it being plain sensible." He paused and inspected Riggs more closely, walking around so he stood in front of the seated man. He shook his head in disbelief. "You are wet."

"Only from the knees down."

The silence spoke extremely eloquently.

"Rog, stop glaring at me." Riggs shook his head and after a moment explained, his voice grudging. "I misjudged where the water was."

"You...what?"

"I misj—"

"I heard , I heard. I just didn't believe my ears. What were you doing, dreaming?"

"Thinking." He shrugged. "I was thinking."

"Ah." Murtaugh shifted, sniffing the salt–sharpened air and looking around at the emptiness. "I guess you chose somewhere with no distractions."

After a moment with no reply he crouched next to his partner. This close to the ground the entire world appeared to be sea and sky, sky and sea; all of it grey, even the dark, water–logged sand. He cleared his throat, the suspicion that had grown over the last two days finally proved by the desolation that bled almost visibly from the hunched shoulders. Desolation and pain. In a fine moment of empathy Murtaugh felt the world spin around him and, for a moment, he wondered if he was going to black–out. After a while, the sick feeling went away and he took a deep breath; though the violence of his own reaction to Riggs' pain was no longer a surprise. And after all, there was still a chance he was wrong about where the depression was leading his friend, wasn't there?

He watched Riggs and wondered how to chain this man to life; for life without him was quite simply unthinkable.

The object of this intense scrutiny shifted slightly, glancing at where Murtaugh crouched. "What brings you over to this neck of the woods? I thought you'd be with the family today."

"They know where I am."

"Hey, I bet that makes them all feel a whole lot better. And it still don't tell me why you're here."

Because I was worried about you. Because I've thought of little else for the last few days. Because I don't want you to die. Because I needed to be here more than I needed to be at home. And that bullet you so prettily wrapped up in red ribbon didn't fool me at all, not for one minute. Roger thought the words, but couldn't quite bring his lips to say them. You never knew with Riggs quite how he'd react. You never knew at all. So instead of saying any of the things that were weighing on his mind, he merely shrugged and replied, "I guess I wanted a little company."

"On New Year's Eve? What about the family?"

"Oh, they're all busy. Half of them are out at parties and the other half have imported what feels like every kid within two blocks into the house. Trish is fixing hot–dogs and stuff for them — I'm well out of it."

"Oh."

Roger shivered despite his thick clothing. Riggs looked icy, his skin unnaturally white, the finely–muscled forearms goose–bumped with chill. He never wore enough clothes, but bare feet, today...

Roger shivered again and this time Riggs noticed. "Hey, you comin' down with something? At your age you ought to look after yourself better."

"Hey, thanks for the concern, Partner, but I'm not collecting my pension yet and I've got a hell of lot more clothes on than you."

"Good old sensible Rog."

The immediate, emotionless answer was too much. "Riggs, if I was sensible I wouldn't be here. Hell, if I was that sensible I wouldn't even have you as a partner."

Riggs turned for the first time and faced his friend, his eyes were as grey as the sea, cold and without hope. "Yeah, that's right."

Roger shook his head uneasily, the sudden flare of anger gone. "I was joking."

Riggs shook the hair out of his eyes, the gesture a denial. "I wasn't."

"Hell, Martin," Murtaugh spoke slowly, hurt transparent in his voice. "I thought we'd been through all this. What the fuck brought the blues back?"

The only answer was a deepening despair wrought on the pale features. Riggs shook his head, his eyes closing as he turned his face back to the emptiness of the ocean.

"Martin..." Roger reached out his hand and gently held a hunched shoulder.

It was as if he'd touched a live wire to Riggs' skin.

His hand was forced away, pain flowing whitely across the battered face.

"Hey!" Murtaugh held his hands up. "It's all right!" Puzzled and worried, he fought to see his partner's expression behind the wildly tangled hair as Riggs twisted away. The sound though was of laughter; soft, painful laughter. When Riggs turned and the wind bared his face it was clear that any humour was a long way away.

"Rog." Riggs' voice was raw. "Why the fuck don't you leave me alone?" He took a deep breath. "I'll be fine tomorrow."

"Yeah, but what about tonight?"

"Jesus! What do you want?" Wide–eyed, his breath erratic, Riggs stared at the calm face and knew the answer. He made himself reply calmly, evenly. "Roger, I'll live."

"Yeah, you promised."

"Yeah." To gain something, time maybe, Martin uncurled his legs before crossing them stiffly, holding his good arm around the healing one. He knew that Murtaugh wanted more, deserved more. In the end all he said was very simple. "Rog, apart from Victoria–Lynn, you're the only person I've ever promised anything to." His voice was gravelly, rough with emotion. "Don't ever think I made that promise lightly."

"But do you regret it?"

The answer came on a shudder of truth and lies. "No."

Murtaugh wanted to pierce that simplistic denial, to demand the truth, to rip it from the still form. Anger beat inside him, demanding, frightening. He stood up, pushing his big hands deep into the pockets of his padded jacket. This one man confused him more than the rest of the world put together. Confused the hell out of him.

Surprisingly it was Riggs who broke the long silence, his voice low, caught and almost blown away by the wind. "I'm sorry."

Roger almost missed the words, their meaning only coalescing in his mind a while after they'd been spoken. He frowned. "What for?"

"For fucking everything up."

"You haven't fucked up."

"Wanna bet?"

"Yeah."

A worm of self–destruction caught at Riggs's gut and suddenly he knew an easy way out. There really was one simple way to get rid of Murtaugh, one easy way to be left alone. If truth was wanted, well... Riggs smiled as he tore up his personal rule book. "Okay, so you think I haven't fucked up, well, what would you say if I told you that somehow I'd got very close to someone, that maybe even I'd grown to love that person, to want them so bad that it hurts?"

"I'd say great." Murtaugh was about to say more, but the smile that was cracking across Martin's lips held him silent.

"Oh, Rog, you see things so simply, yet at the same time you can be blind as a fuckin' bat."

Scarcely breathing, Roger crouched again to risk laying a hand on a tense shoulder, carefully forcing the strained figure to twist towards him, waiting for the pale eyes to meet his own. Forcing truth to sever the barrier that stood between them. He spoke very softly, "I'm not the only one here with problems seeing what's under my nose."

Riggs slowly shook his head in denial and the skin around his eyes creased with pain.

Then Roger reached up to touch the ice–cold face and the simple contact of skin to skin stripped the truth bare.

There was an impossibility of desire. An impossibility of a world where this desire did not exist.

Shock left Riggs numb. That what he felt could be returned had not once crossed his mind. Rog was Rog. Married–with–kids, normal Rog.

Until I came along. Pain flowed molten through his veins and the joke of it all could have made him weep. He could feel Rog's hand where it touched his face shake very slightly. The expression in the dark eyes that finally met his own was so intense that it was as if all the air had been punched from his lungs. "Jesus Christ." There was no profanity; the whisper was heart–felt. "Does Trish know?"

"Yes. No. Hell I don't know — we haven't exactly discussed this over dinner, you know." Rog let his hand fall away from Riggs' skin and turned to look at the sea as if the answer to his confusion was tossing out there on the waves. He sighed; resigned. "But she's not stupid."

"Christ, what a fucking mess! What on earth must she think."

"We've been married a long time. Hell, she probably knows me better than I know myself. She knows I love her; always have, always will."

"You think I didn't notice? You think that makes this any better, do you think it makes me feel any less guilty, any less like a bastard?" Riggs wiped a sand–dusted hand over his face. "Christ, I wouldn't do anything to hurt any of you." His eyes squeezed shut. "I couldn't. I'll ask for a transfer."

"No." The answer was immediate, full of panic. "No, you can't do that. If you do, you'll be hurting me."

"Rog..." Riggs caught his breath and shivered, whispering: "What do you want from me, blood?"

"No, I want you; the best partner I've ever had." Murtaugh took a deep breath and consigned convention, upbringing and marriage all to the trash. "Let's go inside, we could do something about this." Roger brushed his fingers across Riggs hand, letting the flare of need touch them both. "We could—"

"No! Don't say it. I don't want your pity, for chrissake, Roger, what do you think I need, a mercy–fuck? Anything but that." Riggs stood up, distancing himself awkwardly from the closeness that set his skin prickling with unease. He stumbled slightly as stiff muscles refused to obey, then he was moving, walking down to the grey water's edge.

"Martin..." The word was meant to call his partner back, instead it emerged as a whisper. Murtaugh slowly shook his head and clambered to his feet, spine protesting as he straightened.

At the water's edge Riggs was staring blindly into infinity; his skin was tight–drawn, shadows etched into the hollows under his eyes.

"Hey, partner, what made you think you cornered the market?" Rog stood very close. He was almost smiling.

"In what?"

"In being a God–damned fool."

Riggs, the gentle humour warming him, relaxed his shoulders and he breathed out a soft sound of pain. This was impossible, inconceivable.

A cosmic joke.

"Roger..."

"No. If we're going to talk, let's do it inside. Come on."

Riggs took a deep breath, tilting his head up to the sky. The first spattering of rain made him blink. The drops heavy, solid as they thunked onto his shirt, onto his face. His vision blurred as one trapped itself in his lashes, then it was gone and he saw clearly. Roger was very close.

Murtaugh slipped off his jacket and draped it around the wide shoulders as he repeated the gentle command. "Come on."

Turning within the confines of Roger's arms, Riggs was shaking, emotion, desire and cold seeping all his will away. When the full lips touched his own his knees nearly buckled, but strong arms were holding him up, holding him. Somehow, when Roger turned them both towards the land, resistance was no longer a matter of priority. As if in a dream, Riggs let himself be turned away from the ocean and pushed towards home. The feel of large hands on his body was heat and fire through the fabric of shirt and jacket. Even though the rain began to fall in earnest he couldn't run, couldn't bring himself to pull away, to break this contact that held them together as they walked slowly, awkwardly to the trailer. He went in first, almost expecting Roger to walk away, to leave, but the big man followed him inside and pulled the door shut, fastening the lock with a decisive click.

Standing still, Riggs was shaken by a violent spasm of shivers. He watched under his lids as Murtaugh searched for and found a towel, rubbing it cursorily over his own tight curls before coming to stand in front of the soaked figure of his partner. After a moment of hesitation, when it was clear there would be no objection, the towel was gently used to dry the nest of rats–tails that was Riggs' hair.

After a while, Riggs leant his head back against the wall and stared. His eyes were full of unconscious hunger; the hopeless hunger of a starving man. The confusion in his brain left him incapable of decision. He wanted this with every atom in his being. Yet... When the towel was used to dry the hollows of his throat he moaned in denial, his mouth helplessly, soundlessly forming one word — No.

He was ignored.

Roger smiled to himself and concentrated on the touch of his fingers on drying skin.

Partners. Friends. Lovers.

Was that a mathematical progression?

His family would mean no less because of this. Perhaps they would mean more. At least he would stop being eaten up with need, with worry. At first he'd thought only to bind Riggs to life with his own body, his own spirit. Then he'd realised that he was lying to himself. Lying in the most cowardly way possible. The truth was that this was something he wanted so bad that his dreams for nights had been full of Riggs, full of images that had shocked and disturbed. Repeatedly he watched the nineteen year–old Riggs make that impossible kill in the jungle; he'd seen the rain, the pride, smelt the fear and the blood. Each time the sniper's bullet found its target, the face it ripped into was his own. Then last night, for the first time, the target had been faceless — until Roger turned the body over to be conronted by Riggs himself. Dead. He'd woken sweating, tears wet on his face. Later he'd returned unwillingly to sleep and then he'd dreamed again, this time of Riggs naked, aroused — and he'd come in his sleep for the first time in nearly twenty years.

He shivered and stilled his hands. His lips were dry and he licked them, watching with a flare of arousal as intense blue eyes flickered over the movement. Roger cupped his hand to the beautiful face, feeling the tactile, soft rasp of a day–old beard. Underneath, its skin was very chill. "Hey, you got a heater in here?"

Riggs blinked as if coming out of a trance. Roger's hands still rested on his shoulders, their weight heavy, very alive. He pushed them away and moved to turn on the heater that sat on the floor next to the unmade bed. Then he stood still, his brain disbelieving, so confused that it was like trying to think through syrup. He could hear Roger moving around behind him; he registered the sound of the gun in its holster and then the heavy sweater that Roger had been wearing hitting the floor. How had this happened? And what was he going to do?

"Here, drink this." A glass was thrust into Riggs' hand. A clean glass. The week between Christmas and today hadn't been wasted. Even the sheets were clean.

He drank the whisky in one gulp, thankful as it burned a path through his body. He shuddered convulsively and handed the glass back. "Thanks."

"My pleasure. Now take that shirt off or you'll get pneumonia."

The image of Roger's family was etched suddenly in Riggs' mind. He didn't move. "Roger, if I asked you very nicely would you go away?"

"Nope."

"I thought you'd say that."

"Then why did you ask? Now get out of that shirt."

"You this bossy all the time?"

"You got it in one."

"Scary!"

Roger paused, then pulled Riggs around, staring into the wide–eyed, weary face. "Not as scary as you, brother."

"Me?"

"You. I've known you so little time and yet you've turned my life upside down, you know that? You save my family from those bastards, that fucker Joshua does Christ knows what to you, and what do you ask for? Nothing."

"What the fuck do you expect, a tab? A neat invoice you can present to the taxman?" But the surge of anger left as quickly as it had arrived and he was calm again. "Rog, you don't owe me shit. Understand? Anything I did was for all sorts of reasons. And anything Joshua did to me or I did to Joshua is on my own conscience, not yours."

"See what I mean? You, man, are as scary as anyone I've ever fuckin' met! There you are, the tough narc, giving the world and its sister shit and then all you have to do is turn around, fix me with those big blue eyes, and all I can see is the marshmallow inside. You're soft when it comes to people you like, you know that? Soft. You could have let me deal with all that shit on my own, but no, instead you end up squaring–up to Joshua and nearly getting killed on my front lawn. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Rog?" Suspicion welled up like flood–water. "If this is a way of paying a debt, forget it. You owe me nothing. If I hadn't met you, I reckon I'd be dead by now. I call that pretty even, don't you?" He laughed awkwardly. "You don't have to compromise your virtue."

"Martin," Roger took a step closer, holding his hands out, offering himself. "Can't you take this for what it is?"

"Don't ever think I don't want to." Riggs licked his lips. "But you could end up getting very hurt. So could Trish."

Murtaugh flinched, then went on his face set stubbornly. "Then so could you. Doesn't that worry you? You seem to be worried about everyone else."

"I don't matter."

"Jesus! Why do you think I'm here? Because I'm not getting enough from Trish, maybe? Or maybe I'm just saying a rather extravagant 'thank you' for saving my life. Is that it? Well try this on for size — I've loved you for almost as long as I've known you. I didn't want to, oh no. I wanted to hate you. But somehow you got past every defence I've ever had and then pow! You had me. And you know what? You didn't have to do a damn thing. If you'd let Joshua walk all over me, I'd still feel the same way. Understand?"

"Maybe, but I still don't want to hurt Trish. You think I find this easy? Hell, I could—" Riggs stopped, his imagination running wild with possibilities. Arousal was sudden and utterly painful. "Rog, get out of here before I forget my finer feelings." Moving as far away as he could get, leaning hunched against a cupboard, Riggs sounded calm, but his face was hidden. "Anyway, Trish will be wanting to feed you, so you'd better go."

"She's not expecting me back until tomorrow."

The words fell into a pool of silence. Murtaugh swallowed and wondered if he'd done the right thing, if he'd misjudged the moment, the man.

Riggs was turned away, his back taut, his head lowered. He spoke in a very low voice and it was clear that each word cost more than pain. "Are you saying that she knows you're going to stay the night?"

"Yes."

"Are you saying that Trish says it's okay?"

"I guess so."

Riggs nodded solemnly. He turned back, his head high, a thumb pulled through a loop at his waistband, the winter light etching his scarecrow appearance onto Roger's mind. There was almost no expression on his face and none at all in his voice as he spoke. "Does she know what she's allowing? Does she think you're here to keep me alive, or did you tell her the truth."

"The truth is that I am here to keep you alive; everything else just comes along with the package." Roger shook his head and closed the distance between them, forcing honesty. "I know I want this. You're more than my partner. I love you, though what I feel confuses the hell out of me. Sometimes I don't know if you're older than me or younger. I want you in a way I never thought I'd want another man. The thought of you dying makes me wake up in a cold sweat and yes, if this is going to blackmail you into staying alive, then good, that's what I want. I want you to live, Martin, understand? I want you to live and I want..."

"You want everything."

"Yes. I want you." He pulled Riggs into his arms and bent to kiss his lips. They were very cold, though when they parted there was only heat inside.

"Roger..." Riggs was whispering, need as strong as any he'd ever known warring in his soul. "But Trish..."

"She knows what you mean to me."

"Does she? Does she really know what she's lending you to me for?" Martin was speaking, but the words meant very little. His hands were clutching the heavy cloth of his partner's shirt, holding on tight to the skin underneath. He absorbed Roger's shrug. "If I knew, that even if it was just this once, then, hell, Rog, it would be enough."

"Once? I might like it, then what?"

"Then tough. This is it. It has to be. This once or not at all." Riggs held his breath while a flood of thoughts scattered their way across Roger's face.

"A one–night stand?"

"Yeah, so we remember, but that's all. Tonight you're mine — tomorrow you go back to Trish and we remain friends. Good friends." Amusement flickered around his mouth, then was gone. This was serious. "Okay?"

Murtaugh nodded slowly. "Yeah." He took a deep breath and relaxed. "So, tonight."

"Yeah."

"Come here then." With a sound that was almost a growl, Martin stepped into the offered warmth. They kissed, tentatively at first then as desire swept restraint away, with need that shivered through them both. "Take your shirt off." The demand was whispered as their mouths slid apart and Martin shivered, standing back to strip off the damp cotton. The state of his body made Murtaugh hiss in sympathy.

Martin grimaced and stared briefly down at his technicolour skin before begining to shrug back into the shirt. "Sorry, I'll keep this on?"

"Don't be stupid!" He stepped close and laid a gentle hand on the rise of chest where the cotton parted, then slowly pushed the shirt back. Martin was thin, the bones clearly defined under the muscles and the abrasions. "Hell, you've been losing weight — too many dinners at my house I guess." The grin was fleeting. "Are you up to this?"

"Yeah. I won't fall to pieces on you, 'sides, I mend real fast. This'll be a nuisance, no more." He waved his left arm, complete with bandaging, in the air. He used the same hand to hold Roger's chin lightly. "If you think a few bruises are going to put me off, think again. And if you think I don't remember that you're not exactly doing cartwheels either at the moment, well..."

"I'm fine, what they did to me was nothing." Roger shuddered and tried not to think of what Riggs' body must have looked like a week ago. "That bastard—"

"Hey! He's dead. I'm the lucky one, remember?"

"No," Rog shook his head, "that's me. I'm the lucky one. Come here." And using Riggs' hand he gently pulled them together. They kissed again and somehow nothing mattered anymore, for nothing would ever be able to take this moment away.

Roger kissed the vicious marks that lined the beautiful face and ran his fingers through the still damp hair, sighing at the spiralling pleasure. "Martin, you ever done anything like this before?"

"Yeah, long time ago. You?"

"No."

"Wow."

They kissed again until the room began to tilt around them and they backed off, heavy–eyed. Without words they each began to strip off their remaining clothes. The trailer was warm now, the heater having done its job well. Naked and unconcerned, Riggs clambered up onto the bed and pulled the skimpy drapes across the windows. He turned onto his back and lay still, his breath ripped away by the splendour of his partner.

Murtaugh's body was solid with muscle. His wide shoulders tapered down to a waist that was only slightly thickened by age. His skin was the colour of darkest milk–chocolate; exotic, inviting touch. Martin held out a hand and whispered: "Come here."

Awkwardly, carefully, Roger obeyed and settled close. He was breathing shallowly, his arousal clear, spearing against Martin's thigh. He touched a small nipple and felt a flame of need deep in his belly as Riggs gasped out loud and the pleasure swelled his cock, lifting it away from the dark curls of his groin.

The light touch was repeated, the hand very dark against the pale skin. Riggs arched away from the bed as the hand squeezed. "Jesus..." He gasped and twisted, fitting himself neatly into the warm brown arms, bending his head to kiss the lividly scarred bicep, then without warning nibble at the tight–drawn bud of a dark nipple. Sensation forked like lightning between them, touching each blindly. "Rog..." Riggs' mouth was searching blindly, gasping as Murtaugh bent and kissed him, deep and hard, his thumb flicking across the hard nipple as his hips encouraged the rhythmic press of flesh against flesh.

Sweat made their bodies slick; the sounds were of wet skin and fast breathing, strangled moans and voiced need. Riggs' arousal was so hard and fast that it almost left him behind, but Roger was there, his hands suddenly holding him tight, pumping the velvet heat in his palm, thumb dipping into the need that overflowed until with a cry that ripped their mouths apart Riggs shuddered and came, his seed spilling in racking shudders from his body to spread whitely, indiscriminately, on dark and light skin.

Roger held him close as the tremors left his limbs. He stroked the head that had burrowed its way into his neck and felt the most confusing mixture of emotions; pride and love and affection battling with others less easy to name. He blinked as Riggs' head came slowly up and the startlingly blue eyes met his own.

"I thought you said you'd never done this before?"

"I hadn't. Must be beginner's luck." Roger grinned.

"Yeah." Riggs stretched without letting go, arching his neck so the tendons and veins pulled with the muscle. Roger licked his lips and kissed the taut skin, tasting the animality of sweat and musk under the tang of salt.

This was a man. A man in his arms. The thought made him smile. He bit gently, delighting in the resistance of flesh, in the wriggle of pleasure that the edge of pain provoked. When he raised his head, he saw in surprise that there was a livid bite–mark on Riggs' neck. He kissed it in reparation, then trailed his mouth down, using his hands as well, marking out both the strangeness and the even stranger familiarity.

Riggs twisted in his arms, a hand brushing lightly against the dark groin. "Come on, your turn."

"Mmm?" Roger didn't lift his mouth or open his eyes.

"Rog, will you do me a favour?"

"Wha...?" He wished Riggs'd be quiet.

"Fuck me?"

The mouth that had been busy stilled. Riggs heard the nervous swallow and hesitated, worrying that he'd gone too far, asked too much. He cleared his throat and started again. "Rog, if this is going to be a one–off, which it is, I want to remember it. Please?"

Roger latched onto a single part of the garbled speech. "You really think this is all there'll be?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not going to let you spoil your life. Because we shouldn't really even be doing this. And because I guess I love you."

"Oh, Martin..." Murtaugh spoke very softly, his face close to a curve of rib, his senses full, his emotions strung tight as a wire. He ran a finger down the concave stomach and watched the ripple of muscle. After a moment he looked up, "Just this once?"

"Yeah. So let's make the most of it."

"And me fucking you'll do that?"

Riggs grinned. "Yes."

"I've never thought about what it would be like."

"I know. And I've thought about little else since you first held me." Riggs touched the dark–skinned hand that clasped him tight. A faint doubt clouded his eyes. "Don't you want to?"

"Don't be stupid."

"That's all right then." He shook his head. He hesitated, though in the end all he said was: "It won't hurt."

"Yeah, and I'm the Faery fuckin' Queen!"

"Get your tutu on."

"Jesus..."

Riggs curved his palm about the rapidly shrinking bulk of his lover's cock and balls. He closed his eyes for a moment and quite simply wished. "Rog, please?"

"Jesus, don't!" Roger, eyes wide, scooped Riggs into his arms and held him tight.

The large, muscled body that enfolded Riggs blocked out the world. Roger was taller, heavier, stronger. For a long moment he let himself free–fall; let himself wallow in a luxury he had never known he needed. To just once let go. It would be enough. Have to be. It was all he could allow either of them.

"You okay?"

Riggs nodded.

"Is it what you really want?"

"Yeah."

"You'll have to show me how."

"Wanna bet?" Riggs grinned, his heart suddenly beating loud as thunder in his ears. "I think you'll get the hang of it pretty quick." His words were thickened by desire; almost tasting of need.

They kissed, different somehow now they knew what was to come, then Riggs set off on a journey across the planes and surprising curves of his partner. Awkward because of his right arm, he took a long time to reach his goal; so long that when he slipped his mouth over the dark–red heat of arousal, Roger cried out loud, the pleasure given by the wide mouth deep and exquisitely unbearable, leaving his cock hard, an arc of need.

There was a tube of antiseptic cream on the side of the bed. It wasn't perfect, but there was nothing else. Riggs squeezed some into his palm and spread it lavishly onto his lover's cock, grinning as the cold made the big body jump, then sigh as it warmed. Then, wide–eyed, he sat back on his heels and handed the tube over. "You'd better do me."

"Yeah...yeah." Roger watched as Riggs tucked a pillow under his hips and pressed himself, face down, onto the bed. The rise of hips and ass was beautiful, as erotic as any woman he had ever slept with. He shivered and ran a hand over the smooth, warm skin. The flesh rippled in his wake. The cream squeezed cold into his hand and he held it, warming for a moment before sliding it into the cleft opened so invitingly for him. The tight, forbidden entrance was there, the skin different, almost alien under his touch. But that touch also made Riggs moan and push against the intrusion so that, almost without his knowing, a finger slipped inside and, somehow, that was all that was needed.

The rest was no longer a problem; his body knew what to do.

When the head of his cock forced its way through the tight muscle he was whispering, moaning with unexpected, soaring delight. The slow progress of his flesh into Riggs made him blind, deaf, lost. This was pleasure, life and the sweetness of the world infused into ecstasy.

Sweat dripped down his face by the time he was all the way inside and he finally opened his eyes. "Martin..." He whispered the name in affirmation and delight, moving his hips, sending spirals of lust keening through his nerves.

The long back was tight–muscled; he lowered himself and kissed it, licking the wonderfully smooth skin between the arcing shoulder–blades. He supported his weight on both hands, the change of angle of his buried cock making Riggs gasp with pleasure. Roger slid his hands underneath the hard body and found the small nipples, squeezing them in his hands. Riggs jolted, pushing back, forcing impossibly more of the long spear of flesh into himself with a muffled curse.

Somehow understanding, Roger began to move, a slow, unhurried rhythm that sucked everything but need from both men. He buried his face in the damp tendrils of dark hair and bit the strong neck. Riggs was his, his prize, his own.

The body underneath him was lost, gone far away. Roger slipped a hand down to where its cock pressed into the mattress. He held it and pushed with his hips, the action forcing it through the tunnel of his hand. He could see Riggs biting the sheet, his hands, white–knuckled, clutching air. His face was wet, his eyes tight shut, mouth open, saliva glistening on his chin. Watching all the time, Roger pushed harder, almost taking his cock away with every stroke then going deep, careless now of hurt for either of them, needing only this, only this.

It ended too soon; Rigg's orgasm breaking so hard that the sound forced from his wide–stretched lips was close to a scream. Pushing wildly into the threshing body Roger was there too; pleasure triggered, blinding him, taking the world and setting it spinning wildly as he called out his lover's name.

* * * * *

It was a long time before he could move. He had managed to collapse only partly on the still prone body, but he shouldn't have collapsed at all. Roger shifted and shuddered as he slid wetly from the tight grasp.

"Jesus..."

"Yeah..." Martin's voice was muffled. He didn't move at all.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah... Just don't expect me to turn cartwheels." Riggs began to move very slowly, curling around until he faced the other man. He was heavy–eyed, calm, very content. All the stress had been wiped from his skin; his eyes were unshadowed. "Come here."

Roger moved into the circle of an outstretched arm and pulled Riggs close, inspecting his face. One of the cuts had opened up. "You're bleeding."

"Yeah. It'll stop."

"Guess so."

They smiled slowly; the so–very–different eyes sharing so much. After a moment, Riggs' lids began to flicker shut. In very little time he was asleep. Roger sighed, feeling the weight behind his own eyes, the lethargy in his limbs. He shifted, settling them both more comfortably, pulling the cover over their bodies. He was very content, his mind closed to tomorrow. After a while he slept.

* * * * *

It was dark when he awoke. Roger reached out, but there was nothing there; the bed was empty. Fumbling for the light he sat up, blinking in the sudden brightness. "Martin?"

There was no answer. His eye caught sight of a scrap of paper tucked under his holster where it had been tidied onto the bedside table. Pulling it out, he stared at it. It was a note. Roger read it very carefully and something that might have been sorrow twisted his belly.

Honour could be a bastard. And since when had Riggs become so moral, anyway?

Letting the paper fall through his fingers he pushed the blankets back and stood up, wincing as his arm protested. After a moment he went to make himself a coffee. Later, stirring the steaming brew he climbed back onto the ruins of the bed, and half lying, half sitting, sprawled on the tangled, stained sheets, he picked up the note again. After a while of staring unseeing at the page his thoughts gradually untangled and he twisted his lips in a wry, half–hearted smile. Then he read through the letter one more time:

Rog,

I thought I'd better be gone by the time you woke up. I can't thank you for yesterday, words would never be quite enough, so I'm showing you my thanks. Go home. Trish will be missing you. This is my way of thanking her as well.

I'll always remember last night, but I'll never mention it again. You mean too much to me for that. I'll see you at work next week. Give it a month and maybe I'll be up to dinner with your family. Maybe.

Well, that's about it. Back to business as usual. Don't regret this. Okay? Maybe one day we'll do it again, maybe not. Whichever — it was enough. Just try and believe it.

And either way, remember I'll live. I promise.

Love,

Martin

P.S. Happy New Year. The first of many...

After a long time of thought, Murtaugh finished his cold coffee. He climbed off the bed and padded into the little kitchenette to throw the dregs down the sink. He washed the mug up and straightened the bed, turned off the heater with a decisive click. It didn't take him long to shower and dress, and shrugging into his jacket, he paused before leaving the trailer, smiling unconsciously. He would remember. Perhaps after all it had been enough. Closing his eyes he offered a brief prayer before turning on his heel and leaving.

The car was outside and he stood by it, his keys in his hand, staring at the ocean, his eyes following a gull's diving flight. It had been worth it. More than worth it. The pain in his soul wasn't regret, or despair, or pain — it was closer to sorrow. But there was joy there as well. Happiness.

He shrugged and when the heavy clouds fulfilled their promise and the rain began in earnest, he slipped into the driver's seat. Home wasn't very far away. The trouble was, it was also here, and from now on, it always would be. It would be wherever Riggs was. Riggs and Trish — two more different people you couldn't hope to meet, yet he loved them both. Differently, but it was still love. And Riggs was alive and Trish need never know what had changed. Not really. The realisation was a weight lifting from his shoulders. The future might not be as simple as before, but he would cope. So would Martin. They were strong enough. So was Trish.

The engine started first time and with a last glance at the slightly forlorn looking sea, he set off for home, taking the shortest route. After all, Trish would be waiting.

END