The Agency, Volume II

by Sylvan, Dianne

  *****

  They intended to go straight back to the base, but on the walk to the tunnel entrance, Rowan was distracted several times—first, by the mammoth Whole Foods market, where he paused, staring up at the edifice of organic commerce, openmouthed.

  "That's a grocery store?"

  Jason stepped up behind him, slid his arms around his waist. "No, it's more of an amusement park for food addicts."

  Rowan gave him a quizzical look. "Doesn't being human make you a food addict by default?"

  "Not the way these people are. They're about to close down, for the night, though. It's almost ten."

  "I always thought of produce as more of a second date thing anyway," Rowan replied, and then asked, "Is this where you get my fruit?"

  "It is indeed."

  "Then maybe I don't want to go in," he mused. "Maybe it should remain a mystery."

  "Oh, no, I think you should someday. It's the kind of place you'd love—they have about eighty brands of tofu and weird things like organic bathroom slippers."

  Rowan's eyes lit up. "Second date, then. What's that over there?"

  The area around Book People played host to a number of Austin-famous businesses, most of which stayed open late; they crossed the street to Waterloo Records, then followed Lamar a few blocks down to Austin Java, just in time for the last half the evening's poetry reading and the crowds that went with it.

  A man with a feather in his hat and a beard that looked like it hadn't been trimmed or washed in weeks was waxing metaphoric about the current administration, likening it to a pair of shaven balls or bells or something that started with a b, eliciting periodic cheers from the audience, whereupon he immediately launched into a rhyming diatribe about losing a single sock in the dryer, connecting that, too, to the evils of the government.

  Rowan and Jason exchanged a look, and got their coffees to go.

  "All right, your turn," Rowan asked once they were clear of the noise. "Where did you learn to play the violin?"

  "From my sire," he answered, looking up at the sky, where a few brave stars had burrowed through the city haze to wink down at them.

  "What was his name?"

  Jason smiled. "How do you know it was a man?"

  Rowan made a noise of amused incredulity. "You'd let a woman get that close to your neck?"

  "Hey, I've slept with women. At least…er…ten, I think." He tested his coffee, still a bit too hot. "I had to sometimes, back then, to throw off suspicion. I wasn't very good at it. They're hard work, women."

  "But worth it," Rowan informed him.

  "If you say so. But I scattered a few butcher's daughters and ladies of the evening in amongst my stable boys, when it seemed like people were watching me too closely. Say what you want about this country in this age; at least I won't be stoned to death in the streets for loving you."

  Rowan's ears turned a little pink at the words, but he returned to the original subject. "You didn't answer my question."

  "Oh. I guess I didn't." Jason hadn't said it out loud for a long time, and the name sounded strange. "Charles Renard Duvalier. A Parisian aristocrat, musician, traveler, and vampire."

  "Renard—that's French for 'fox,' isn't it?"

  "Yes. That's what I called him."

  "And your violin, was it his?"

  "He had it made for me. His was…burned."

  He figured Rowan would ask the next logical question, but he didn't. "Did your sister like him?"

  "Not at first. She thought he was going to be the same as all the others—sleep with me and then betray me, turn me over to the authorities, fire us. He won her over, though. They fought like cats and dogs, but secretly they were quite fond of each other."

  "I imagine they bonded over their bond with you."

  "I suppose so. Over time I learned to trust her taste. Anyone I saw more than once, if she didn't like him, he was history. Not that it happened often. I've…I've been on my own, mostly, since Fox."

  "I'm sorry," Rowan said, tossing his empty coffee cup in a recycling bin nearby, then taking Jason's hand. "I know you must have loved him very much."

  "How do you know?"

  "By the look you got on your face when you said his name."

  They reached the tunnel entrance, this one a modern addition to the system that was disguised as a tall storm drain behind a porn store, and Jason entered his security clearance to open the gate. "Well, if it helps," he said, "Beck thinks you're…what was the phrase she used? The cat's freakin' pajamas."

  Rowan laughed, following him inside. "I'm glad to hear that. I think she's the bee's freakin' knees."

  *****

  Rowan makes no sound as he comes, but he is hardly silent—the entire room seems to vibrate, power singing off the walls and time seeming to bend around itself, contracting, then releasing explosively outward, and it's better than any scream Jason has ever evoked from a lover.

  He swallows reflexively, glad that one bodily fluid is like another to his kind and he won't get sick off his second favorite.

  He feels eyes on him, and feels the body beneath his shaking, but he takes a moment to bestow a few lazy strokes along the softening length, causing a few residual whimpers and aftershocks, the fingers in his hair clenching, then falling back onto the bed.

  Finally he raises his eyes, sees tears, not unexpected. He licks his lips. "Are you all right?"

  A vaguely shaken head is the only reply, but his energy is wild, almost manic, a dozen warring impulses fighting their way free. Jason wonders how long it's been since Rowan was last with a male that didn't hurt him—but he knows the answer to that already, and just thinking of it breaks his heart.

  He pulls the Elf close, wrapping his arms around his sweat-damp body, feeling a tribal rhythm where there should be a satiated, cooling pulse.

  "It's all right," he says. "I'm here, love. Just keep breathing. You know I'll take care of you. You can feel it. Breathe."

  Rowan nods, but buries his face in Jason's shoulder—much better than pulling away, but still an almost childish gesture, and worrisome. Jason thinks of the vial of morphine he has in the bathroom; he procured it from Nava, who gave him a knowing look when he said he wanted to have it on hand just in case. If only life were simpler, and it was a box of condoms instead of a Schedule II opiate. Luckily, even though he has a problem with needles, all Agents have at least some medical training, and he can administer it if he has to.

  Last line of defense, he reminds himself, and concentrates, imagining he can wrap Rowan up in his emotions the way he has in his arms, a Linus blanket of energy. This is how it has to be, they both know it; the only way out is through.

  After a moment, Rowan takes a deep breath, and leans back to look him in the face. There is a shaky, almost shy smile playing about his lips. Amazingly, he seems okay, regaining his equilibrium faster than Jason had expected. Again, he can thank Sara for that, he's sure. He'll have to remember to be nicer to her…hell, by the end of the night he might have to buy her a car.

  "My turn now," Rowan whispers. "What can I give you?"

  "Just you," is his answer. "All I want is you."

  Rowan kisses him just below his ear, and says, "Then take me."

  *****

  They managed to keep their hands off each other all the way back to Jason's quarters, mostly through conversation. They never seemed to lack for things to talk about—one of the benefits of being immortal and having such a long history. Rowan had three hundred years on him, but most of it had been spent in a quiet day-to-day existence in the forest with his kin; there hadn't been much adventure. Jason definitely had him beat in that arena.

  "…so the Steward lights the torch, and we're there in the stall, pants around our ankles, and the Duke's horse is just standing there chewing on his oats like teenaged boys roll in his hay every day. And the Steward thunders something like, 'what's the meaning of this?' and the horse snorts at him."

  "That was, what, the fourth time you were fired?"


  "Fifth. At least that time I didn't end up escorted off the premises naked by the police."

  He unlocked the door to his quarters, and the minute they got inside, suddenly neither of them knew what to say; the easiness between them evaporated.

  Jason made himself busy getting them wine, lighting a few candles, and turning on the stereo, trying not to feel, or act, like a horny teenager after the prom. When he opened the CD changer, he bit his lip—Beck had been there.

  She'd replaced all five discs in the stereo with Barry White.

  He reminded himself to smack the crap out of her, and switched the stereo to auxiliary, plugging his iPod into the dock. In a few seconds, a woman's sultry voice and a few piano chords came through the speakers.

  "Who is this?" Rowan asked. He was sitting on the couch a little too straight, palms on his knees like he'd been wiping sweat off them.

  "Stella Blue," Jason told him. "Local artist. Sort of Norah Jones meets Poe."

  "I like it," he said. "Maybe we can see her, if she ever performs in town."

  "Absolutely. She's amazing live. Even Beck likes her, and she hates anything with an actual melody. She plays piano, 12-string, even the cello—I got to talking to her after a show once. She's also absolutely beautiful, she has these dreadlocks in about eighty shades of blue, kind of like Dru but she's an actual tiny little black girl underneath it all. Skin like 60% cocoa and a voice to match. We were discussing left-hand technique, she had this trick where…" He trailed off, realizing he must be boring the Elf to tears, but to his surprise, Rowan was listening with rapt attention, and seemed to be genuinely excited to hear more.

  "Aren't you zoning out by now?"

  Rowan looked offended. "Why would I do that? You're talking about something you're obviously passionate about. In fact I don't think I've ever seen you so animated. It's absolutely riveting. Keep talking."

  Jason, self-conscious, reined in his tongue, but amended, "Yes, we'll definitely go see her. I think she's doing Stubb's next month. She and I are friends—we email, get a coffee once in a while. She'll probably comp us tickets."

  "I definitely like this song," Rowan said as the track changed to one with a more pronounced backbeat. He swayed a little, and said, "We should go dancing sometime, too. That is, if you dance."

  Jason put his hands on his hips. "Did you forget that whole thing about my being gay?"

  Rowan laughed and stood up, holding out his hand. "Well then, good sir, shall we?"

  Jason laughed, too, spun the Elf around him once, caught him, and dipped him.

  Rowan gazed up at him adoringly. "Do that again."

  He obeyed, dipping the Elf to the left until his hair swept the ground, then lifting him back up and into a more standard slow dance, an easy swaying back and forth, close enough to feel the heat of each other's bodies but not quite touching, not yet.

  "You lead," Rowan said, drawing his hands up Jason's arms to curve around his shoulders.

  "As you wish," Jason acquiesced readily, laying his hands above the Elf's hipbones.

  And as they followed the music, and each other, deeper, Jason couldn't help but think that he'd learned many things in his long life, and the worst lesson had been the sad fact that something wished for, longed for, ached for, if obtained, was almost always a disappointment.

  Almost.

  *****

  He curls up against the Elf, cradling him, trailing soft sweet kisses along his neck and down his spine. "Are you sure you're ready?"

  Rowan closes his eyes. "Yes."

  Jason doesn't want to believe him, but the evidence is there, a beautiful hard shaft pressing into Jason's thigh, needing. Jason rises onto his knees, surveying the lovely, ethereal landscape in his bed—the Elf halfway on his stomach, arms under his head, the candlelight bathing him in shadow and shimmer, the way skin like his was meant to look.

  Perfect. There are no words beyond "beautiful" that sound anything but trivial. Jason leans over to the bedside table and digs around for the tube he's sure is in there; finding his prize, he slides the drawer shut, and sets about sculpting his opus into the perfect form, turning Rowan onto his back, leaning him against the pillows, arms up above his head—not restrained, just resting against the headboard, to give him something to grab onto.

  He kisses Rowan, and then situates himself between the Elf's knees, reaching down to stroke him as before, earning a groan of pleasure that still makes his toes tingle. He gently kneads and caresses the skin, rubbing his thumb over the head, enjoying the way each new touch makes Rowan's body jump or twitch. He runs his fingernails along the shaft, and Rowan moans deep in his throat, falling back with his fingers in a death-grip on the headboard.

  Jason opens the tube and slickens his fingers, still using his other hand to keep Rowan focused on the external so that the internal might not frighten him. This is dangerous ground, he knows, but there's only one way to know if the risk is worthwhile.

  He places his wet hand against Rowan's ass, pressing his legs apart, and Rowan knows what is about to happen, and is visibly trying not to tense up. Warm trust radiates from him, as does fear, but the trust for now is winning.

  Jason meets his eyes. "You say stop, and we stop. No questions, no excuses. It's all in your power."

  Rowan nods.

  Jason strokes him gently, first with the dry hand and then the slick one, first along his cock and then beneath, where the rest of the equipment is normally found but in Elves, apparently, there is only warm, bare skin. He's completely hairless, Jason notices, even his arms and legs; another evolutionary quirk. There is something very sexy about hair, to a point, but it was also nice not having to pick any out of his teeth.

  He finds what he is looking for, and touches one finger to the cleft, rubbing small circles around the muscle, relaxing it. He gradually works that finger in, to the first knuckle, slow circles, barely applying pressure. The soft mewling noises he evinces tell him all is well.

  Jason carefully slides his finger in, stroking, then adds a second, and the stretch and tease of it makes Rowan's hips roll against his hand, drawing his fingers in deeper. He obliges quite willingly, this time adding a third, and Rowan moans, painfully, but doesn't say stop.

  He keeps working his fingers inside the Elf, while his other hand moves to his own cock, coating it with lube, careful to make himself as slick and easy as he can. Finally, he pulls his fingers out—Rowan makes an almost keening sound of displeasure, his breath erratic and his thoughts whirling, only one thing uniting them all: the urge to beg, to plead, to get down on his knees and do whatever it took to make Jason fuck him.

  There's no need for such indignity…this time. Jason leans over and runs his hands along the hills and valleys of Rowan's body, teasing here and lingering there, all the while rubbing his erection against Rowan's, then against his ass, causing tortured sounds of need each time their skin touches.

  Jason's whole body is burning, burning, and if this were any other coupling he would have been done with all this foreplay hours ago and pounded into the boy's ass until he bled, but he holds himself off, teasing, shifting Rowan's position for the best angle, lifting the Elf's feet to his shoulders. From there, Jason strokes him open again, then slowly, gingerly, barely an inch at a time, slides inside the welcoming heat of Rowan's body, slick and tight and waiting, god they've both been waiting, so long, so long.

  By the time they are fully joined together Jason cannot think, can barely move; he's lost, lost in his lover's body, the vortex of their minds so unified that there is no end and no beginning to either. He finally begins to draw out and in, just barely at first, a tiny shift of hips, in and out, growing, deepening, hardening. He tries to keep it slow, but his need to fill and possess the creature beneath him is drowning out any sense of romance or patience, and he slides his arms beneath the Elf, lifting him up, both of them upright, rising and falling against each other's bodies.

  Rowan's nails dig into his shoulders for leverage, and his hips move in sl
ow figure-8s as he lifts them and lowers, taking Jason deeper inside, then pulling out, over and over, building the fire, over and over.

  They both speak, but the words don't matter; the energy says what needs to be said, and the rest is just for decoration. They move against each other faster and harder, more force bringing them together each time, the soft wet slap of skin against skin the only sound in the room besides breath, gasping and sighing and rushing breath.

  Finally Rowan flips over, facedown, and Jason takes him from behind, bone-shattering thrusts, the Elf's body responding in kind, pushing his pelvis back to catch him, each time feeling like he might suck Jason's entire body in and devour him, that they may share a skin. Now they are both moaning, cries building, Jason's nails raking long red welts along Rowan's sides, down over the smooth curve of his back.