Clan War: A Call to Arms, Part 2

10th Anniversary Edition


Con't from Part 1



***


Horatio Caine was strangely not disturbed at the death of his former colleague, as much as he was pissed at her for making his Mate face her end. His anger then, though somewhat self-righteous, only added to the indignation he felt they had already suffered that day.

For his part, Speed was not worried about Eric. As far as he was concerned, his friend had gained more than enough knowledge of the Vampire since that day when the shooting took place in McCauley Jewelers, to be well able to deal with his own destiny.

And they'd get to handling the fallout later.

"Tell me who this Stillson is," Horatio demanded, "and why he would hate you so much, he'd set you up?"

"It's a very long story."

"It always is with you," the redhead sighed, finally sliding into bed and offering his Mate the strength of his arms.

"I don't want to talk about him right now," Speed murmured, pressing his body into the solid comfort of Horatio's embrace, and letting it take his burdens.

"You'll only have to tell me later."

Which was quite true.

"Damn it…"

"My thoughts exactly." H ran his fingers through Tim's thick hair.

Propped a little against the pillows he was not lying down properly, and could cradle his Mate, who squirmed around some more like an antsy five year old.

"I was still human when I met him. He taught me how to bind books. He lived with the Monks but he never took the Tonsure. I thought he was a good man when I met him again after I was Turned. I was still a young Vampire then. What did I know? About anything? He's a first class fucking asshole. He's got a gift with people. He knows how to give them exactly what they want, before they even know they want it. He can read them. Predict them. It's a whole big con for him. He gets off on it, and he's very good at it. He's been on the edge of political crap for a while. He's ambitious. Devious. Dangerous. Years ago, he used to con the gullible at fairs and fetes. Now, he wants high office." Speed snorted in disgust, unable to believe he was saying so much when his throat just wanted him to stop. "Which is pretty much all the same thing. He can sell snow to Eskimos, and make a profit. Nick wants him dead. I want him dead. Arthur, at Camelot Clan, wants him dead. There's some very angry Irishmen want him dead too. And his own Mate on top of all that. Thing is, he's never been caught. He's got connections in places. Powerful ones. I should've been realizing today, what he was planning. I was just too steamed. I was…" He sighed, and it heaved up from his chest quite painfully. "I wasn't paying enough attention. And I'm sorry about that."

Speed blinked at his Mate, and any further words he might have been contemplating, were stifled by a deep, yet gentle kiss that made him groan in unexpected pleasure.

Firm hands pushed him down to stop him moving, and in no more than the time for to register that heir Bond was filling with need, he was reaching eagerly for Horatio's touch.

It started tenderly.

Caresses sweeping over his face and neck.

Kisses tasting his skin.

How easy such surrender truly was.

Each breath he took, was laden with the scent of his Mate.

Horatio.

The one who made him whole.

Who filled that aching void in his chest, where once his heart used to beat.

And he returned the building passion that simmered between them.

He needed to.

He wanted to, finding all the familiar muscles, in all the right places.

Finding freckles.

Finding love.

Finding that smile he would die for a thousand times.

The blanket and covers were tossed to the foot of the bed.

Kisses grew harder.

Hotter.

Sweat was licked and wiped away.

Exhaustion forgotten.

Speed loathed the layer of cotton between him and his Mate, but could do nothing about it very much as Horatio kept him most effectively still, and a single low growl was enough to have goosebumps shivering along his spine instead.

He could feel the pressing thrust of his Mate's cock against his own.

This was right.

He knew it.

This was where he belonged.

But Horatio pulled back, fangs dropping.

And just as Speed was about to whine his displeasure at the sudden lack of contact between them, he found himself being flipped roughly over onto his stomach, and hauled abruptly to his knees.

In an instant, his pajama pants were torn down his thighs.

As he scrabbled up for a grip on the closest branches of the big artistic tree, so Horatio batted his hands away and shoved him face first into the pillows instead, making it abundantly clear just who was in charge.

Speed took a moment to accept it, even as his wrists were pulled behind his back, and held firmly in the redhead's grasp. His mind flashed to the chains that had hoisted him up and kept him hanging in that old and dusty room at Ellislie, while he was stripped and flogged. It made his shoulders ache the same way. But it wasn't her who held him.

It wasn't bad.

The pillows smelt like H.

It was their bed.

Their room.

In the Manor.

Safe.

He was healed.

The bruises from that chain were all but the faintest line around his wrists.

And well he knew it.

He could have struggled.

But knew better.

So Horatio held him there with one hand, drizzling lube from a bottle he'd pulled from the nightstand, onto his buttocks and between his quivering cheeks.

Speed closed his eyes and fought to relax himself.

He was safe.

And he was loved.

The pajama shirt he still wore, slid up his torso to expose his chest.

It didn't matter.

The first thrust made him gasp.

Hard.

Deep.

No hesitation.

It was powerful.

Swift.

His gut complained at first, still mending somewhat from the whip handle, yet Horatio gave him neither pause to accept it, nor chance to change it, before drawing out and pushing back in.

Fast.

Determined.

Aggressive.

Claiming him.

Fiercely.

Roughly.

It shook the bed.

And shook his Soul.

Moans, muffled in the pillows, Speed let it happen, taking greater pleasure from it than he might ever had thought possible given the terrible situation he had been in mere hours before.

But it was needed.

So badly needed.

And his ass was Claimed with feral passion that roused his own exhausted flesh into a sweaty, writhing mass of lusting agony.

It was brutal.

He wanted to come but couldn't touch himself, and Horatio was certainly not about to help him to fulfillment. He'd always enjoyed being taken from behind. It was a vicious, animal posture that could turn him on faster than anything he'd ever known.

For a moment, he was back in Lord Sean's bed, face down in the furs, inhaling their fragrance as he was pounded into the straw filled mattress, his hands gripping the pillows, his heart bursting with desire, every fiber of his body seared with a frenzy of wanting, pleas spilling from his lips as he was held in check.

The crack of Horatio's palm slapping across his right buttock, hurled him instantly forward again to the present time, making him suddenly more aware of the pain he was suffering and the pleasures he craved.

The warm gush of his Mate's release, pumped into his bowels, and a second later he was hauled further upright on his knees, whimpering as the pressure inside his body changed.

A further slap to his ass was met with a cry of surprise.

Horatio growled in his ear. "You will never go running off again. Ever!"

He pushed his hips forward as he spoke, punctuating the words.

Loosing Speed's hands, he took him by the hair instead, and tilting his head to the left, sank his fangs into the sweat soaked neck he then exposed, drinking from him deeply.

With a cry truly torn through Bond, coming from so very deep within him it shook that part of his being forever confined to the darkest recesses of the past, Timothy climaxed hard enough to pass out in Horatio's arms.

"Damn!" Tony muttered in admiration, slipping into the Great Room just as the moment came to its peak. Barefooted, clad in sweatpants and a dark blue NCIS t-shirt that was at least 2 sizes too big, he was trying hard not to smirk, but he couldn't really help himself. "Squirt got his voice back good!"

Nick was not exactly surprised by his late night visitor. "You never heard a fine Claiming before?" he asked nonchalantly.

Tony snorted. "I was on the Red Stallion, remember? Both times!"

Alexx had, at the very same instant, been contemplating heading back to the Great Room just in case she should be needed, and with a towel over her shoulders, still absent-mindedly rubbing at her hair after a long shower, she synched her robe tight at her waist and eased back just a tiny bit, the heavy curtain at the end of the corridor that kept the light beyond, from disturbing the guests in their rooms.

The long wail of pure, unmitigated, unadulterated sexual pleasure that came from Tim's rooms, was enough to halt her in her tracks and put a startled, yet strangely admiring smile on her lips. Her first thought was to totally fist bump Horatio Caine for being able to make anyone scream quite like that, but when it struck her that it was actually her boy being fucked with what sounded clearly like some considerable vigor, she felt an oddly warring mixture of outrage for his honor, and jealousy for his capacity to be so well and truly satisfied.

She only came to realize that the Clan Leader was still sitting on the couch, when a tall, striking man in the kind of rumpled clothes best meant for bed, appeared from around the end of the corridor that led out to the rest of the house. His lewd commentary on the sexual prowess of her friends, made him easily identifiable as someone close to the Clan power base, and she decided it would be better to leave them with whatever they had to discuss.

She rather wanted to curl into her husband's arms and get busy, until she remembered her kids were asleep on top of him.

It made her snort softly at her own stupidity, but then again she was really rather pleased at having discovered her other child was being more than sufficiently taken care of, and she allowed the idea of having another baby to flit across her mind…

"I was wondering when you'd track me here," Nick chuckled, patting the couch cushions next to where he sat.

"You thought I could even try sleeping now, with what you told me earlier?" Tony flopped down beside his Sire. "Does Squirt know?" he asked, cocking his head over to the door just a few feet away.

"Not had chance to talk. But we will."

"He's going to have figured it out."

Nick nodded slowly. "Let him have a few hours rest first, before that realization comes."

"I figured that was why you'd be here." Tony sighed heavily. "I wish we'd known before this."

"We took too much for granted."

"Richelieu was dead. We were too relieved to care further."

"You were too much in grief to notice."

Tony turned and opened his mouth to refute that, until he came face to face with the fact that he couldn't. "Rochefort needs to die."

"Why not let your Mate finish him at the airport?"

"You know why."

"Jethro was not Turned then. There would be no crime in it."

"You've been talking to Ducky."

"Of course I have."

Tony reached for a blanket off the back of the couch, as much to hide his own annoyance, as to distract himself from wanting to smack the ever living crap out of something.

"You want to finish him yourself," Nick said simply. "You owe him a death that will satisfy the past."

"Such piety for a fucking soulless asshole!"

"I hope you're going to Confess that much judgmental resentment?"

Coming from anyone but Nicolaus Valerius Meridius, such a comment would have resulted in almost instantaneous bloodshed. As it was, it won a loudly disgruntled snort. "Right around the time I kneel before a Priest and Confess to killing the venomous bastard."

"Better book a trip to the Vatican then, when this is done."

Tony had been fidgeting around to try and get comfortable, disturbing the dogs with his squirming, yet such words froze him suddenly solid. He heard no jest in them. "You know what's coming."

It wasn't a question.

"I know only what my imagination is trying to convince me of. Which is precisely why you are here and not safely in bed with your newly Turned Mate, who is most likely going to Hunt you down and probably Claim your ass right here on this couch any second now."

Tony smirked. "He'd never traumatize the dogs that way!"

Nick chuckled deeply, and opened his arms as his kid curled up into his embrace. "You called Robin?"

"Yeah. How…? Oh, wait. Never mind. You called him too, right?"

"He didn't tell you that?"

Tony huffed in his exaggerated eye rolling. "Damn Meridii."

"You love us, and you know it. You have the Soul of one. You were Sired by one. Your best friend in the world is one. You were saved from your own head by one, and when you stopped behaving like an overly possessive Chihuahua with a new chew toy, I knew you'd spoken to at least one of them." He proceeded to pet his Childe's hair like said Chihuahua, and it made Tony sigh contentedly, his head on his Papa's left shoulder.

"Takes time, doesn't it."

"The Bond?"

"It feels… It feels like nothing I thought it would. It's…" He frowned, knowing there were altogether too few words for what he was hoping to say.

"It feels better?"

"Yes," he replied firmly, smiling to himself. "Oh, yes!"

"Have you talked with Jethro? Did you do as I asked?"

"Yes, we talked for hours, and it's not enough. Not by a long way."

Nick nodded. "You'll have time, and plenty of it." As a shiver shook his Childe's body, he pulled him closer. "If I promise you so, will you believe me?"

"Only when Richelieu is truly dead."

"I will not permit history to repeat itself, Antonio."

So fierce were his Papa's words, it made Tony jolt back. "It might," he cautioned.

"We are not a family of helpless infants and untrained servants, to be overwhelmed by superior numbers while we sleep. We are, none of us, as we once were." Nick frowned. "Attacking us would be suicide."

"Perhaps Richelieu wants to die?"

"We should only be so lucky."

Tony closed his eyes and threw his hands in the air. "We were lucky, until he turned the hell up again!"

"Isn't that a fact."

"That he's been hidden so long, suggests preparation of strategy and forces."

"Which we have already began to unravel," Nick quickly pointed out.

"Then maybe we should try and catch one of his people? Alive?"

"Good idea. Why don't you get right on that?"

In trying to determine whether he was being serious, Tony's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Can't I get a snuggle first?" he pouted.

"Maybe you should snuggle with Jethro?"

"He'll find me soon enough. It'll be good practice for his 'Hunt my Mate' skills."

"He would make a good Hunter."

"Totally!" Sylum's Second-in-Command beamed with pride. "He's tenacious! Amongst other things…"

"Did you tell him of Damascus?"

"Some."

"Tony…" There was a warning growl in Nick's tone that brooked no argument.

"I know! I know! Really, you don't have to tell me. I know! But I can't yet. I don't want him to look at me the way people look at other people who've been through that kind of stuff." He frowned, not exactly sure he was making much sense. "That was probably better kept in my head."

"Is Jethro 'people' like those 'others'? Seriously?"

Though he opened his mouth, nothing came out of it, so Tony just sat there and took what was coming at him.

"Besides which, you are no more a 'victim' than your brother in there." Nick nodded at Speed's door. "You have been, but neither of you permit what you've endured to weaken you, or determine the rest of your lives. Neither does Robin, and he knows you better than most can even pretend to." He raised a hand to cup his Childe's left cheek, stroking his thumb over the familiar face he so dearly loved. "Because the past has come back to haunt us when least we had warning, doest not mean we are victims now to its thrall."

Tony blinked, tears suddenly threatening to spill. "Yes, Papa," he whispered.

"It's been a long, emotional, and very tense few days."

"Yes, Papa."

"I'm so proud you have your Mate."

"I had to do it."

"I know."

"You would understand, given your past."

"I know."

"I had to."

"I know."

"I couldn't risk…" Tony swallowed and shook his head. "I couldn't."

"I know!"

"He's okay with it. He's better than okay, actually." He snuggled down into his Papa's lap, tucking his feet up on the couch and curling himself into a ball, his head on Nick's knees.

He sighed as he was covered with the blanket.

"Get some rest now, my soldier, I'll let you sleep as long as you need."

The Hotel Monteleone

"Well someone has interesting taste," Catherine said cheekily, holding up a black leather bustier that came with lace cups and gold buttons down the front. "High end designer. Very expensive. This woman has money, and knows how to spend it. This is 'by Ana'. It's European. Best there is. I've got some at home. Cost me a fortune."

"Tell me about it," Warrick muttered knowingly.

"You have some too?"

"Oh, yeah! Tailor made. Fits like a…"

"Really!?"

He had been examining the bed, only to conclude that Housekeeping were remarkably efficient. Looking over the pillow he was holding up to the light, he grinned. "Yes, really. Anastasia is a Vampire. Passion Clan. It's one of the Kin Clans. France, to be precise."

"Anastasia? As in Romanov? Of the Czar's family? And the kid's movie?"

"Yeah, and the really hot exclusive lingerie. Maybe she's got records we can use to trace this stuff? Find out where its owner might've been?"

Catherine nodded, too dumbfounded for very much else. She was checking through the contents of a small, sleek suitcase wheelie that had been found in one of the closets. "It's looking increasingly like this woman was sleeping with…" She pursed her lips. "What's his name again?

"Richelieu," Warrick muttered, like the sound of it tasted bad in his mouth somehow.

"That name should be familiar from somewhere." She eyed a couple of tiny thongs that were not a million miles removed from something she herself might have worn a whole different lifetime ago.

"There was a time when he had more power than God in French politics. Which is funny, given that he was a Cardinal of the Catholic Church."

Catherine snorted knowingly. "Oh, wait. I'm meant to be shocked?"

Warrick started rummaging through the desk drawers. "There's no proof of any…"

"Ooohhhh la-la?" she asked, waving a pair of black patent stilettos in the air.

His smile was grim. In his hand he held a Bible, of the typical variety found in hotel rooms all over the world. From inside the back of the hard, ruby red cover, he pulled a pair of airline tickets.

One was for New Orleans to DC.

The other from DC to Paris, France.

There was also a European Passport in the name of Clara Devereaux, that showed a picture of a stunning redhead who was allegedly from Calais, on the Channel Coast.

"Jackpot," Catherine chuckled.

"Also." Warrick had found a discarded power cable for a laptop, which seemed to have been left behind when it fell between the wall and the bedside cabinet.

"Prints?" Catherine wondered.

"If we're really, really luck and one got left in some dust, or something sticky." He crouched to reach for the plug end, very well aware of his colleague's gaze being firmly glued to his ass.

For a few moments, his only concern was in what to do with a potential source of trace evidence, though he naturally felt a certain flattery at her admiration of his posterior, even at a crime scene.

"Y'know, I still can't wrap my brain around you sleeping with my mother."

Warrick nearly cracked his skull open on the edge of the bedside furniture as Catherine's words took him by surprise.

She snickered, bagging evidence just to keep her hands busy. "You must've thought I was an idiot, coming on to you in Miami." She sniffed, annoyed at herself. "You and Nick must have an open relationship for him to put up with that. Still, you'd fucked my mother? And you wouldn't take this when it's offered?" She looked down at herself as though to make sure she was still as attractive as she had been when she'd danced on a pole for a living.

In truth, she wanted to be pissed at him, and while she knew it was highly unprofessional behavior at a crime scene, it wasn't exactly like she was clocked in at the Vegas lab.

Warrick sighed, and stood up gently rubbing his head, his fingerprint brush still in his other hand. "I don't think you quite got the whole picture, Cath," he said simply, turning to face her, where she stood at the foot of the bed. "It doesn't work like you're assuming it does."

"Vampire biology doesn't work like regular humans?"

"Not exactly, no."

She shot him a glance that ran from crotch to his face and back down, all the while her eyebrows steadily rising to her hairline. "Damn! What a shame!"

He rolled his eyes. "Woman! Stop thinking you know what this means. Everything you have ever believed about Vampires is all bullshit. And for the record, there is nothing wrong with my biology!"

She pursed her lips, and stared at him archly.

"Catherine, listen. Nick and I have been together for nearly 300 years. But we haven't spent every single one of them side by side. He's my Mate. He is everything, in more ways then there are words to admit, and we talk about what we need, when we need it. I have never betrayed him by sticking my dick where it wasn't wanted." He chuckled, feeling himself blush just a little bit. "Well, it took me a while with that one, at least to start with!" His grin was more than merely lecherous by then.

"I'm not sure what you're saying." Catherine glared.

"Okay." He put his brush down in his kit on the floor. "I never slept with your mother, or had intercourse with her. Does that help?" He watched her blink, but her expression didn't change much. "She was always my Chosen One when I came to Vegas. I Fed from her. I gave her some necessary gratification, and from time to time she would repay me in kind."

"Repay?" Catherine asked snottily. "One her knees?"

"Well, the woman does know how to blow…"

"Warrick!!" Cath took a step backward, a hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh, please! Like this is that shocking. She likes dick. Preferably big and black. Get over it." He saw her face flush as red as her hair, and knew full well he'd hit a sexual kink that she enjoyed too.

"You took advantage of her!"

"Hell, no!" Suddenly it was Warrick's turn to be outraged. "I'm a Pirate! I take what I need, but I'm not that stupid. This isn't the 18th Century any more. Look, Catherine, some Vampires are highly possessive. Some are easier with each other, having what you call an 'open' relationship. When you live for centuries, you make so many allegiances and alliances and friendships, often long before ever you get a Mate. Some are lovers still. And some will naturally always remain close. Some Mates choose never to get in the way of that. I learned a long time ago, that Nick has a considerable past, and he gathers people to himself like a planet with a strong gravitational pull. Yeah…" He nodded as she clearly thought about that. "You've seen it! He walks in a room and people look at him. If he's pissed off, they fall over themselves to help him out. If he needs something, they do just about anything to please him, even if it angers the Boss. Yes?"

She nodded. "Now you mention it…"

"He's always been that way." Warrick's smile was fond and gentle.

"He has other lovers then? That's what you're saying?"

"Had, Cath. Way before me. What I'm trying to say is…" He flailed in frustration. "My relationship with Nick is long and complicated. And we've only had a few centuries! Now imagine Mating to a Vampire who has lived for several thousand. Or meeting with Vampires who have been Mated for several thousand. Nothing is as simple as it looks. Besides, if I threw you down on this bed and fucked you right now, Nick would know about it right now, sure enough. The Bond has a way of transmitting those kinds of powerful emotions and sensations quite clearly."

"Do you want to?" she asked, hands on hips.

Warrick licked his lips. "Nick told me not to," he finally admitted.

"So you're a good little boy who does everything his Mate tells him?"

He growled dangerously, but she refused to back down.

"I won't insult him by testing him like that, Cath. You're family."

"So is my mother, apparently!" she sneered. "Didn't stop you from enjoying her favors, did it?"

"Catherine, are you jealous that she got my dick down her throat, and you didn't?" he asked quietly, knowing full well she would blow him then and there, if his hand so much as moved toward his zipper.

She flushed. "I'm just trying to figure what this is all about! I mean, either you're with Nick or you're not."

"I'm with Nick," he said firmly.

"And when you're apart?"

An image of Aveline de Grandpré riding him like a woman possessed, her skin gleaming with sweat and her gorgeously tight thighs slick with his semen, flitted before this eyes, leaving him smiling with all the wrong connotations in mind. "He sends me messages to enjoy," he murmured.

"Then you're still at his bidding, like Master and Slave. You two must've done just fine during the Antebellum South."

She huffed, and started to turn away when he grabbed her by the elbow, snarling furiously.

She shrieked in obvious surprise, but it wasn't loud enough to raise alarm from outside, where Riddick stood protectively at the door so no one could mistakenly interfere with their investigations.

Catherine struggled in vain as she was hauled backward into Warrick's immovable embrace, his torso solid against her spine, his arms wrapping around her with enough strength to snap ribs, or break every other bone in her body if he had a mind to.

Something told her he could kill her where she stood, and not exert the slightest effort in doing so.

She tried tossing her long hair in his face, but it only got caught between them.

His right hand squeezed her left breast possessively.

His left hand snaked between her legs, gripping her crotch despite all attempts on her part to try to wriggle from his grasp.

"Be still!" he hissed, his lips to her left ear, his voice low and hoarse.

Her chest heaved.

She wanted to panic.

She wanted to scream.

Yet there was something stopping her.

Something she rather eagerly desired.

"I could strip you, fuck every hole you have until you're raw, make you scream for me to stop…" He breathed against her skin on purpose as she panted harsh, frightened breaths. "Fear is a strong aphrodisiac."

She didn't doubt that for an instant.

"I smell it," he whispered, licking the curve of her neck where her blouse had gotten pulled aside. "I hear your heart beating. So fast. So strong."

His fangs had dropped, and he drew them along her trembling flesh, just hard enough to leave a welt behind.

"You want this," he murmured, caressing her crudely, feeling her nipples harden and the seam of her jeans grow damp as he teased her through her clothing. "You think I don't smell that too?"

She whimpered as he ground his growing erection against her.

To his ears, her pulse was wild, hammering harder than he could ever remember it doing in their long acquaintance.

"But I Fed already."

With a shrug he released her, but only a little, relinquishing the pressure that seemed to be building inside her like high-explosives seeking detonation.

"Damn you!" she snarled.

And he actually laughed. "Not the worst I've ever heard." His lips brushed her earlobe. "Do not imagine you understand us. And do not think you can get between Mates. I would kill for Nicolaus. I have killed for Nicolaus. As he has for me. Our very being depends upon each other. If he hurts, so too do I. If he needs, so too do I. If he dies, then so too do I. There is nothing else to understand."

Try as she might, Catherine could not stop shaking. "Does it turn you on, having this power?" she whispered.

"Of course it does," he scoffed, his tongue licking the shell of her ear. "But it's not what I live for."

"Then what is?"

Warrick's growl was deep and knowing. "I live for him…" he said simply, releasing her completely.

She just about sagged at the knees as she struggled to turn and glare at him, having been on the perfect edge of what was the biggest, most effortlessly achieved orgasm she'd ever felt, only for it to be snatched away just as fast as it had built.

"…and if you talk about my Mate like that again, I will not be responsible for the consequences, nor will he if you speak the same way about me."

She shuddered, hearing an element to his voice that went far beyond what she'd heard, even in Warrick's more angry, aggressive moments at work. "This is the Pirate Captain, I assume?" she asked, still breathing heavily, wanting to hate him for getting her in such a state and doing nothing to take things to their natural conclusion.

He grinned in a way that left her no doubt whatsoever about the kind of man he once was.

"Calhoun!" he declared, eyes sparkling, as he made an elaborate bow. "At your service, madam."

She sniffed, getting a much better appreciation for her predicament. Hands on hips, she took a deep breath. "You're an asshole!"

"Amongst a great many other things, I assure you."

With a derogatory snort, she tossed her hair back over her shoulders, itching for the release he had denied her. "Then Warrick Brown is all an act? A lie? Like Nick Stokes? And how many more?"

"Fewer than you'd think. But not lies, more like 'disguises'."

Catherine fidgeted, adjusting her bra. "I see how Vampires are meant to be so sexual…"

He smirked, his eyebrows waggling. "I usually prefer my women smaller, and more virginal." He growled, snatching her into his arms and holding her just as he had a moment before.

"You sonofafuckingbi…"

Her words dissolved as he nipped at the curve of her neck, not sufficient to fully bite, but certainly enough to make her come when he squeezed her in all the right places.

She moaned like a wanton whore, and she knew it too. But she rode it out through all of its intensity.

"Now," he said briskly, once it was over, "let's get back to work, shall we?"

Catherine took a deep breath, leaning against him before she slithered to the floor. "You know, you really are a total fucking bastard."

Warrick laughed. "Pirate, madam!" he assured her fiercely. "Pirate!"


Sylum Manor


Horatio wasn't sure what came first, the fear, or his perception of it as reality seemed to strike him a mere fraction of a second before the Bond struck a violent chord through his Soul.

He knew only that he was asleep one moment and thrown violently awake the next, his Mate screaming with such awful terror, that it pierced his mind in a way which left him disorientated and distressed for no physically apparent reason, other than the immediate fear of something gone as yet unseen.

He barely got chance to offer Speed much in the way of comfort, before Nick was there in the room, seeming to appear as if from nowhere.

In a rush that was equal parts adrenaline and outrage, he found himself being hauled out of bed with abrupt instructions to call immediately for Thomas. There was a part of him that felt idiotically grateful for having gone to sleep with clothes on for once, but he realized that with someone like Nick, such details would absolutely not have mattered in the least.

Still, possibly rummaging about the room like an addled, headless, and very naked chicken, was in no way as disturbing as the sight of his Mate, sobbing hysterically in the arms of their Clan Leader.

"I remember! I remember!!" Speed's voice was almost that of a young child.

A frightened, confused child.

Horatio reached for the phone on the bedside table, but knew not what to say, or what to ask for. Nick had taken his place, and he did not like how that felt, despite it being obvious that Speed and his Papa had been through such moments before.

"I know, little one. But I'm here," Nick murmured.

He watched, as father and son embraced.

"He was here! Right in front of me, Papa! I didn't see it. I didn't see it before…" Tears fell unchecked, spilling down his face as he buried his head against Nick's shoulder. "Why didn't I see?"

"I never told you. I came close to killing him in France, but I never told you. I knew you could not let go of the boy inside you. I'm sorry, my Antonius."

All Horatio could do was listen, and wonder.

"He…" Speed began, "was there. He was there! Marcus! Killing. He had me by the hair…"

God, the memory is so strong.

With all that's happened in the years between Rome and now, I still think like the boy I was then.

There are times when I see through his eyes, and feel with his heart.

The first time it happened - when I was new Turned and dreaming of the home in Ireland that I had lost not once, but twice - I was instead not amongst the rich green fields, but the cool shade of an olive grove, where I sat beneath the trees.

Reading.

It took me home.

To a time I knew nothing of, yet still a place I knew I loved.

To people I knew before.

I was a child then.

As scrawny as I was in Ireland.

As small.

As insignificant.

And as afraid.

The peace turned to violence.

Contentment to pain.

Birdsong to screaming.

There was blood.

And there was death.

And there was Marcus.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each time the same.

His smiling face.

His hands in my hair.

His knife at my throat.

Papa!!

He was there.

He saw.

He knew.

He alone.

Papa, help me!!

Help me?

I can't breathe.

I don't want to die!!

Papa!!!

And every time that dream has come, he has been there.

Every.

Single.

Time.

And the past…

That life I knew once upon a very distant star, was forever the past.

Until now.

Until this.

"I've got you, little one," Nick murmured, pulling him closer, holding him tight as he shivered.

"Marcus…"

"I know."

"It was Marcus!"

I was wailing like the nine year old I remember being.

Terrified.

Why hadn't I figured that out before?

I knew Richelieu.

I'd talked with him.

Stood in the same damn room as him!

And I never saw him for the man he once had been?

I used to honestly believe that I could never forget, and never mistake the man who had slit my throat.

But I had.

Until now.

How was that possible?

How could I not see?

"I know," Nick whispered. "I'm sorry."

"He sat in front of me. Mocking me. And I let him."

"You had no choice, boy."

Speed shook his head in anger. "Richelieu is Marcus! Richelieu! He's Marcus!"

I'd dreamt it.

And it had been the Cardinal who murdered me just now.

Laughing.

Laughing as I choked to death, his looming figure there over me where Marcus has always stood.

Until now.

Until this.

I have to heave.

I taste blood in my mouth…

"I never told you, and I regret that. But he was dead, and Marcus with him. I never saw an occasion arise when he returned. And I never feared it, even if he should. I wish many things to be different in my life, but right now, I wish I had never let you suffer."

"Papa…?"

"The fault is mine, little one."

Speed sniffled, suddenly chilled as the sweat of his nightmares began creeping into his bones. "He wants Sylum, Papa."

Nick closed his eyes, hearing final confirmation of everything he had been trying to deny to himself for the last few hours. "What did he say?"

"He wanted me to give it to him. He thought I would betray you. Betray everything. Everyone!" He shivered, and felt the blankets being pulled up around his shoulders as he spoke, finding the words spill from his mouth easier than he might otherwise have imagined.

Phone in hand, his task all but forgotten, Horatio was frozen, listening to his Mate explain the threats he had been subject to, the torture he had undergone. It was one thing to see the results of it, but quite another to hear it described so very clearly.

And once more his anger and outrage surged through the Bond to Speed, sufficiently powerful enough to have him sit up in Nick's arms, that he might look better at his beloved Mo Shearc, who stood there so close at hand.

And it served as a truly blessed reminder of all that was good.

"My Antonius, there is nothing could induce me to hand all that has been built here, to a man whom all in history has believed long dead, even if he did not have a Soul I loathe. And I know too, how you would never allow yourself to become the pawn in some other man's plot. You were made strong in all of this because we are family, and no one breaks the Bonds we forge together. You have me, always. You have your brother, and now your Mate. Such loves are inseparable."

Speed nodded at his Sire's wisdom. "I am sorry. I should've seen…"

"Hindsight works only when it is well respected," Nick assured him.

Having left Tony outside in the Great Room to await the inevitable arrival of Thomas - whom he felt absolutely certain was already prepared for the nightmares Speed had woken from - Sylum's Clan Leader wanted only to soothe away the hideous pain of what once had been.

It startled Horatio to then hear voices down below in the living room.

Thomas had indeed known full well that Master Timothy would require the one thing guaranteed to grant him some much needed rest. He also knew that Master Anthony would require a sleep aid too, having personally been witness more than once, to how the siblings were so often attuned to each other during moments of the most extreme stress. And finding Master Jethro wandering through the Manor in search of the Mate he had believed he was lying next to for the last few hours, was rather an indication that there had been serious reason enough for the newly Bonded pair not to be safely abed together.

Taking pity on the infant Vampire, Thomas had told him where Tony was most likely to be found, and lead him straight there, steadfastly refusing to relinquish the large, round serving tray he was carrying, though graciously accepting with much dignity, the great courtesy of having Master Jethro open the doors they encountered along the way. For such provided a suitable distraction as well, from having Tony - himself bleary eyed with anxious exhaustion - forced to explain his delinquency that night.

The Clan's Second-in-Command simply took Jethro's hand and led him up the stairs behind Thomas, straight into Speed's book strewn bedroom.

Introductions were made, and for a while there was all the normal civility of polite social etiquette, as Jethro Gibbs discovered he could finally put faces to some of the names that had been repeatedly appearing in his conversations with Tony, Ducky and Lennie.

He liked Nick's smile. It spoke of generosity and great compassion. He recalled having met the man before in DC, but there had been a far different air about him then. Hearing that Sylum's Clan Leader had been there watching over his Turning for several hours the night before, was not as peculiar as it sounded, and felt in Jethro's mind, like something vaguely familiar from somewhere.

He liked Horatio Caine too. The man had a reputation that even NCIS respected. There was also something about that striking blue gaze, beneath a head of bright red hair, which was instantly attractive.

He was not as sure about Timothy Quinn. Somehow, he had not exactly envisioned his Mate's Soul Sibling, being a scruffy, scared looking little boy. Yet he was more than willing to have his initial assessment proved wrong.

Vampires were certainly not predictable creatures. At least as far as his rather limited experience of them went.

Tony clambered onto the bed, wanting only to be near his Sire and his brother, needing their embrace.

Nick moved around until he was sat with his back to the head of the bed, his legs stretched out beneath the blankets, pillows behind him to keep him comfortable. Speed curled into his left hand side, as Tony curled into his right.

Horatio watched Thomas set the tray on the low table by the fire, and prepare the drinks he had brought.

Before he knew it, he had a glass of scotch pressed into his left hand.

He stared at it, then blinked up at the man who had given it to him, smiling gratefully.

"Sip it, slowly," Thomas advised. "It's the oldest and finest in the house."

To Jethro he gave a mug of hot, black coffee, brewed the Naval way with a little pinch of salt.

"Hot chocolate, Master Anthony?" Thomas murmured, giving him a heavy mug upon which there was emblazoned, white against black, a silhouette of Saint Louis Cathedral in New Orleans. "Real milk and marshmallows. Just the way you like it."

Tony grinned at him, and sighed happily, taking the treat that was offered and sniffing at the rich aroma before sipping at it with a childish slurp.

Thomas moved around the bed, giving Speed a Bone Chine mug upon which there was painted a Celtic Dragon in emerald green.

"Chamomile tea, Master Timothy? With a spoonful of honey."

Nick chuckled softly at the Mates his Children had finally secured. "Come, sit with us. We have much to talk about."

"Master Nicolaus?" Thomas give him a mug of warm blood, which he downed in a few quick swallows as Jethro sat on the edge of the bed facing Tony, close enough to reach out and touch him.

A moment later, Horatio did similarly, and sat close to Speed on the opposite edge of the bed.

Thomas smiled with beneficent grace. "Further refreshments will be available as needed," he said quietly, taking the empty mug from his Clan Leader rather than have him disturbed again after finally getting settled.

"Thank you," Nick replied most sincerely.

"Very good, sir. Do you require anything further? Extra blankets can still be warmed up if required."

"No, Thomas. Not right now. I suggest you go spend a little time with Jim."

"Very good, sir."

And with a slight flush of color to his cheeks, Thomas vanished, slipping silently away, satisfied that for the time being his team of night staff could handle the necessary details of the Clan's current situation.

Tony sighed, tugging the bedclothes over his feet, grateful for Jethro's care in assisting him.

Horatio put his right hand on Speed's hip and squeezed gently, winning a sleepy smile.

"Cocoa and chamomile tea," Nick chuckled, slipping his arms around his children, "are the only things will get these two sleeping soundly for the night." He looked at Horatio and Jethro, his smile widening. "I take it, neither of you knew that."

The two new Vampires shook their heads. "Should have," they said simultaneously, nodding at each other in recognition of the moment.

"You have learned more in recent times than either of you ever thought possible, or even imaginable. I understand that, but much of it is going to remain overwhelming for years to come. You have to be prepared for that. I know you are both exceptional men, and I have faith that you can deal with anything, including my boys. You have already proven that just by being here."

Jethro snorted.

Horatio rolled his eyes.

Speed sipped his tea.

And Tony slurped again at his cocoa.

Nick sighed. "If you are to be the very best you can be at this new life, then you need to be made aware of how our history has brought us to this place together. These two will not tell you all of it themselves, and I do not talk about this more than once a century or so. If that…"

It had to come.

I knew it.

Sooner or later they had to hear the truth.

Better it come from me.

"I am Roman. I was born in the year 399AD, and served the Empire as a General of the Roman Army. I was blessed to have been granted four beautiful children by my wife, Julia. The first, a daughter. Elena."

I ran a hand through Tony's hair, and Jethro offered a hint of a smile as his Mate blushed.

"She was much as her mother in looks and charm. But she wished for all her graces, to have been born a boy. She did not understand why only men were trained to fight, or granted honors for their physical prowess, and no amount of teaching could persuade her that her place was to marry and be a good wife. To bear strong sons."

Tony huffed into his mug.

"My first born son came four years later. Antonius Maximus."

I squeezed Tim's shoulder, and he grinned at me sheepishly.

My son.

Always a troublemaker of the most innocent intent.

"His presence in my house was but further inducement for my daughter to wish herself more of a boy."

Tony huffed again at his Papa's words, and Speed just rolled his eyes dramatically.

"I was blessed yet further," Nick continued, "when Gloria was born three years after that."

Jethro nodded. "Abby told me about this."

"Good. There was one more who came into the world six years later. Theodosius Sapio, for whom my dearest Julia gave her life in the birthing."

Horatio gave him a gentle and sympathetic smile. "That cannot have been easy for you."

"It was not," Nick agreed. "Yet I had more help and more love around me, than most men are privileged to know in a single lifetime. My daughter truly became the lady of the house. And I had Razi."

Jethro frowned, especially when Horatio laughed softly.

I was struggling to recall exactly who had met whom in the last few hours, but figured the redhead would understand.

"Warrick," Horatio explained firmly. "Rather I should say, Captain Calhoun."

"Indeed. Before ever he came back to me, he was a Nubian. A slave in my house. One of the few men I trusted with my life."

"Your Mate now?"

Jethro had at least been made more aware of the basics, as they pertained to the current Clan hierarchy, and was willing to ensure he fully grasped the meaning of it.

For that, I give him due credit.

"Has your youngest child returned?" Horatio asked.

"I found him in a friend. A Chosen One from birth, who is now a colleague I work with in the Vegas lab. Greg Sanders."

I saw Horatio nodding quickly.

"And while I feel he is more than aware of it, he would much rather have me utterly taken by surprise the day he gets to find out in an 'official' Clan capacity."

Horatio's chuckle was that of a man who knew precisely where I was coming from.

"I met him. In the lab," he explained, for Jethro's benefit. "He's er… He's special."

Jethro looked at the redhead. "You met everyone already?"

"I was Turned a few days before you." He patted Gibbs on the shoulder. "You'll catch up."

I knew I was smirking.

I couldn't help it.

"It will all make sense, I promise."

The two of them just stared at me.

Lips pursed, Jethro took Tony's empty mug and set it on the bedside table.

"Everything had to change for me to see its significance," Nick continued.

"How?" Horatio asked.

"I was betrayed…"

It was not a moment to relive gladly.

It came so unexpectedly, and yet the years between then and now have gone a long way toward convincing me that I was at least in part to blame for not seeing the signs that were there. Whether I have simply added to the man I once knew as a friend, or misconstrued his behavior, or misinterpreted my own, only we two will ever fully know.

Marcus.

He served at my side.

As Quintus once had to Maximus.

Trusted.

Faithful.

A Roman of old and veritable family.

Like my own.

He knew my home.

My children.

My wife.

He served with honor beside my brother.

But none of that mattered the day he came for me.

And for everything I loved.

I have seen what anger, jealousy and ambition can do to a man.

I have sadly seen such, many times over, and yet none of it compares to that day.

How do I tell these men…?

These modern men.

These new Vampires.

These eager Mates of my Children.

"Elena was 13 years old. She grew into womanhood with greater ease than I had ever hoped, and knew with the loss of her mother that what she once had wanted could no longer be, with the advent of great responsibility. She kept me well in line. And she ran our home with a grace that everyone said Julia would surely have been proud of." Nick sighed, sensing Tony shift beside him. "I found her a worthy husband, named Gaius Quintus Avitus. The son of a Senator. A young soldier, set to rise through the ranks. He had been proving his name and earning great respect, as was ever the way of things."

Elena had once been so terrified that I would force her to take an old and miserable man for her future. Someone she neither wanted, nor could ever love. She drove me crazy with her big, doe eyes and sad face as she pleaded with me to be allowed to stay in the Villa, that she might take care of me in my dotage.

It was sweet though, to hear her rationalize what she wanted, she sounded so very like her mother.

"That she adored this young man, was more than obvious to me. They met for the first time in the fruit market. My daughter is not so much with the subtle things, as I'm quite sure you're well aware, Jethro."

The gruff smirk was enough of an answer, and I could tell I had a rapt audience.

"She dropped a bag full of oranges right in front of the poor boy…"

Jethro paled so fast, Nick actually thought he was about to pass out.

Theo had just had his second birthday the day before.

I took the children out to free us from that all too present memory of his mother's death. And wanting there to be more amusement in their lives, it seemed only fitting.

My youngest was a squirmer.

He barely sat still.

He wriggled out of his clothes.

His crib.

I could hardly carry him without playing a constant game of hide and seek, and needing three or four arms to keep from dropping him on the ground.

Which actually happened.

At least once or twice.

And so it was simply that I rather had my attention otherwise occupied, as Elena took charge of our trip and led us through the stalls, expertly avoiding the athletes showing off their skills, the fake prophets predicting fake doom, and the jugglers hoping for stray coins. I had no desire to be stopped by sympathetic well-wishers, passing me their condolences on the anniversary of such mourning. We were out as a family, and as far as I was concerned, the spirit of my wife was right there with us. We had already paid her our due respects as the day dawned.

I failed to see the young man at first, as I was busy removing the ever roving Theo from beneath my tunic, and contemplating tying him to my belt. Rather, I noticed the older brother who stood beside him, deep in some furious and gesticulating argument with the keeper of a stall selling dishes for the display of artistically arranged fruit slices.

Marcus Calidius Avitus was a distinguished public speaker whose voice was easily notable above the rest of the noise around him. He too failed to notice the eye contact made between my daughter and his sibling, though it happened more than twice, which was what made me pay the boy some closer scrutiny.

For the remainder of the morning, as we ate elegantly twisted strips of apple on sticks, and bought bags of nuts and apricots, the two of them kept discreetly searching for each other through the crowds. And really, they thought they were being so very casual about it!

Not that I had any immediate concerns. He was handsome enough, and appeared quite robustly healthy. And there would be no problem discovering something of his reputation.



Elena however, clearly wanted to take more of an active role in picking an eligible suitor, and with such timing as might today be considered perfect for a television comedy show, she bought oranges we were not particularly in need of and promptly dropped the entire bagful right in front of him on her way back to where we were sitting. She squealed in alarm, looked all suitably helpless, and got the perfect response as her target duly leapt to her rescue most valiantly, batting aside anyone who even so much as turned in her general direction.

It was adorable, really.

Her way of saying, 'Dad, I like this one. This one.'

Telling the story had Jethro forgetting his coffee, which from everything I've heard about the man, was nothing short of astonishing.

He stared at me, his mouth opening.

"I knew you instantly."

I had to tell him.

How could I not?

Tony would not have mentioned it.

Elena's memories were not a topic to be freely discussed either.

"You remember. Don't you."

The look on Jethro's face was enough to convince me.

"You were the one she wanted, even then."

He nodded. "For as long as I can remember, I have dreamt about a girl dropping oranges, and me scrabbling on the ground to pick them up for her. I thought it was something I'd done as a boy. Or maybe it was…" He frowned, trying to figure it out in his own mind. "It was real? Not some scene from a movie perhaps?"

"It was real, Jethro. I was there."

I did my best to be reassuring.

"I have apparently had many lives," he admitted.

"You may not recall them. Or you may have flashes of a place, a time, a person," Horatio explained. "I've been there myself with this. It's not a simple thing to grasp."

Speed stirred against me, finishing his tea.

"He's getting better at it with time," Timothy whispered proudly.

Jethro nodded. "We were meant to be together."

"Right from the start," Nick said firmly.

Arranging the rest had been simple, though persuading others who had thought to present themselves for my consideration in terms of marrying my daughter, was often a matter of rather rude disregard.

I remember a woman name Daria, who would sell olives from my Estate. She had a stall near the fountain, that I recall visiting as a child with my own father. She lost her husband during the same attack on the city, that took my mother from me. She was, however, the bearer of six sons, five of whom she had successfully married off in those intervening years. There were grandchildren aplenty, and she was positively contented but for her youngest boy, who still remained without a wife.

I joked that he would be the one to someday be selling our olives from the farm at her stall, and she would roll her eyes, telling me he would doubtless prefer boys to girls, just so he should not be shoved onto some ill-deserving harlot.

In her own, not very subtle way, I knew she was making a play for her son to be considered a suitor for Elena, but even at that time in our shared Roman history, such a social gap could in no way have been realistically overcome. Besides which, he did actually turn out to be gay, and once made a play for Razi…

Jethro drained his coffee mug, and stared into it for a while as though hoping for more to miraculously appear inside it. "I would never have known," he muttered. "All those years not knowing where I had seen that damn fruit fall on the floor."

"Still this is about more than oranges." Horatio took Speed's empty tea mug and set it on the other bedside table. He had not touched his own drink yet, thinking somehow he might need it later.

Nick smirked. "I got off the track a little, but you're right. There's more."

"Tony didn't leave my side just to sit here and fall asleep with us," Jethro concluded.

I like this man. There is a blunt edge to Jethro Gibbs that is really quite refreshing in a world that has gotten itself so caught up in the egoism of political correctness.

"Elena has reason to be more than anxious. And you must know why," Nick said quietly, being very deliberate in his choice of words.

"This ties in which what came today," Horatio asserted, one hand on his Mate's left knee.

"In ancient years, mostly before even I was born, the Roman Empire would on occasion wipe from existence any and all trace of those whom it found guilty of the worst offenses. Amongst them, treason was the most cited, but it was known to have been done for matters pertaining to personal insults at Caesar or his family. It was called the Damnatio Memoriae. It was meant to have been done as judgment, and only on proof of guilt, or direct order from Caesar himself. When it came to my house, and to my family, there had been no trial, no accusations, no warning…"

It had been a still and quiet day, where the haze of impending rains hung upon the air and made it thick with summer damp. A lazy day, spent lying in the garden half asleep, listening to the fountains while my daughter arranged for dinner and fussed over Gaius, and Antonius argued some point of written language with his tutor.

Even Theo had been still, fast asleep in his crib for once.

Such heat as came that day, is often an occurrence in Louisiana, sapping a man's energy and drifting through his bones.

The servants had been paying close heed to all that Elena demanded. Her wedding fast approached. She wanted everyone to believe she was not in the least bit nervous. And the idea of being scared was never in her vocabulary.

We had arranged for her to stay in the Villa with us after her marriage, as Gaius was returning to the army, and her concerns were adequately allayed about how I would survive and take care of myself once she was all grown up and raising a family of her own.

My concern was that she'd get carried away and find herself pregnant before she was married. Razi had already found her and her betrothed in the garden at least twice, becoming more than a little 'close', and there had been some wandering hands under her dress, that were only encouraged by her rapidly blossoming femininity. She looked increasingly like her mother, especially with her long, fair hair braided high upon her head, and held in place with the same combs I had given Julia every year on her birthday.

I had to accept that I would be a grandfather soon enough. Elena's mother had gotten pregnant on our wedding night, after all.

For years she had been barren, though my brother certainly never hesitated when it came to his husbandly duties in giving our father heirs for the family name, and the honor of our history. Artorius was older than I, and the responsibility fell to him. Many such things did, including watching over me. He was my inspiration in more ways than I could ever have told him, and my debt to him included taking his widow as my wife when I found myself the Paterfamilias of the Meridii.

Julia and I had always been friends, though she was four years my senior, and very much more experienced at the daily business of keeping the Villa household, amongst whom I had hardly lived in the previous years, given that I had chosen to enter the army and follow the pattern of service that my Ancestors laid down centuries before. With the restoration of the family name after Maximus Decimus Meridius became the infamous object of such rage and hate as only Caesar Commodus could have rationally justified to the Empire, so we were looked upon as fine examples of Roman Citizenry.

I understood the terrible symmetry however, when once again we were meant to have been wiped from the face of the Earth. We make enemies, we Meridii, and yet we are never diminished.

Strike us down, and we do not recoil in fear.

We return, and strike back harder.

I had been taught so.

As had Artorius.

And our father before him.

Then there was Marcus.

He had been welcomed as a friend.

My Prefect.

Brother-in-Arms.

Fellow Roman.

Traitorous.

Murderous.

Jealous.

He came with 20 men.

Soldiers for the most part.

I vaguely glimpsed 2 faces amongst them who were familiar…

The rest?

Not so much.

"You fought?"

Horatio's question was startling, though his voice was but a murmur.



"Everyone who could lift a weapon, fought them. The servants fell first. The children's tutor…"

Gil.

Not exactly someone I wanted to dwell on at that precise moment.

Back then he'd been far more humble.

He'd done his best to grab for Antonius and Gloria.

He failed.

I remember her screaming when he fell.

There was so much screaming.

Razi…

I saw him.

He tried…

He…

Damn it!!

All these centuries since it happened, and I still can't get the words out without choking on them.

Razi had done more than any man that day.

He fought to save those who were not his own family by blood, but by the love he bore for me.

I watched him die.

Before my eyes…

My Razi.

My only comfort after Julia's death.

My rock.

The voice of my sanity.

I did not know then how much he was supposed to mean to me.

I have sometimes been forced to lose before I could fully understand how to gain.

And I have clung all the more fiercely to what is mine, once it returned to me.

He fell.

And I knew it.

I had seen enough men die at the hands of others in battle, to know when the life was gone from a man.

And my heart gave out.

Or so it felt, had I been granted time to mourn.

My littlest girl was run through.

She squirmed upon the end of a pike.

Held aloft like someone else's trophy, she bled as she was gutted, her vital fluids spilling everywhere…

My Gloria.

My triumph.

The tiny Soul I had once thought my victory, was lost in defeat.

I felt a rage burn where my heart had been.

Fueled by anger.

Blood.

The screaming…

Gods.

The screaming…

I killed all who came near me, yet it was not enough.

Marcus took my son by the hair, and dragged him out into the garden.

My Antonius.

He had never been one to fight.

A small boy.

Skinny.

Forever reading.

Learning.

He made me so proud.

With a husband secured for Elena, I had a few years to contemplate his future.

Or so I thought.

Dreamt.

Perhaps a teacher.

A writer.

A philosopher, like the scholars of old.

We would debate, long and hard, about many things.

Many topics.

Many subjects of the day.

He was so agile of mind.

And so very quick of tongue.

Steadily sharper of wit as the years increased his courage in the speaking, he had grown to more appreciate his voice in those last two years, and I in turn would wonder at the wisdom of one so young.

Yet Marcus tossed him around a dog would with a rat, and then slit his throat that I might watch him die too.

Choking.

Gasping.

Reaching out for me.

Clawing at the air as if to make it obey him and grant him breath.

I screamed his name.

And Marcus laughed.

He laughed.

I flew at him.

Only to be held back.

Seemed there were more than 20 men.

Sometimes, when I see it all again in my nightmares, I feel certain there were more…

Horatio downed his scotch, grateful that Speed was just about asleep. "Damn," he muttered softly.

"Gaius fought too. He tried so hard to protect his promised bride. And for that, I have always held him in the highest esteem."

Jethro understood. "What happened?"

"He killed two who came at him before he was himself cut down. Elena stayed beside him. She fought because she could. Because she knew how. I was never more proud of her. She did not flinch in killing a third."

Tony stirred, his eyes fluttering, but his own exhaustion was too much. He knew only the reassurance of Nick's embrace, and it kept him at peace.

It always had.

"I watched her kill again, and do serious damage to the next."

"How did she…?" Jethro couldn't quite get the word 'die' to come out of his mouth.

"I couldn't stop it. I was pinned. My ribs… I just couldn't."

The pain in my body was as nothing compared to the torture my Soul endured that day.

But how do I say that?

How can they know what it was like?

Jethro has lost his wife and child to senseless violence he could not control.

Horatio has never married, nor fathered a family, yet he has seen his own share of horrors with his parents and his brother.

These men know that pain is part of life.

They will understand.

In their own way.

I am sure.

Nick shifted, settling Tony's left shoulder against his chest.

"I was overwhelmed by numbers. Too many hands. Too many arms." He swallowed, reminding himself that he was not in that place any more, nor surrounded by death.

He was not alone, and in hell.

Not any more.

He looked at Gibbs. "I don't need to tell you what lawless men, operating without command, and free of legal retribution, did to a pretty 13 year old."

I watched Tony's Mate take a deep breath, and chose not to embellish the scene for him any further, though it still lingered before my own eyes.

As it always has.

She fought.

She fought hard.

And she cursed every man who forced himself between her legs.

She cried.

Desperate.

Needing me.

Needing me to make it stop.

And I could do nothing…

"I was forced to watch it all. Until finally she stopped. She just stopped breathing. Today it would be called 'positional asphyxia'. But they…"

They raped her to death beside the body of her betrothed.

I could hear the other servants.

The gardener.

The cook, Ancilla.

The maids.

The horses were shrieking in the stable.

Then I heard the dogs.

I kept 3, including an old wolf that once ran with me into battle, and had guarded me in camp.

I had the satisfaction of seeing him tear the hand and lower arm off one of the men who came to kill him.

Before he too was gone.

I had no life left in me.

No reason to fight but Theo.

Where was Theo?

Then nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing but Marcus.

"…they still had me. And Theo. Little Theo was in his arms. Marcus held him. He held my son. Who wasn't moving. He wasn't squirming. His face was white. Blanched. Tears… He was…"

"Shock," Horatio offered. "It was shock."

Nick nodded. "He was bruised. His neck and cheeks."

And Marcus petted him.

Like a puppy.

I snarled.

I threw myself at him.

I didn't get very far.

Just about tore my arms from their sockets in the trying.

He laughed at me.

Softly.

Smiling.

It roused a hatred in me that has never truly gone away.

"Why did this happen?" Jethro asked, the frown between his eyebrows deepening.

"I didn't know for sure. It took a while to figure the reasons. Men ransacked the Villa. I smelt smoke. My altar was brought out. My shrine. I was raised in Rome to believe in Christ. The old ways were gone. What my Ancestors knew, their faith and their beliefs, their way of worshipping what might be called 'the powers that be', was lost when Rome became a Christian Empire. The old Gods were scorned. Their shrines destroyed. Their names considered Pagan. Wrong. But my father was not so inclined. His father before him, had been more than willing to incorporate the Christ into his own personal pantheon, but that was not the way it was meant to be. There was some confusion for a very long time amongst the people, about what could and could not be considered legal, or socially acceptable. By the time I was old enough to make my own choices about faith, I, like Artorius too, began to lean discreetly toward our father's instruction in worshipping the old Gods of Rome. I found it personally grounding. It came without politics, and without the power of Caesar. Without false expectations, or public demonstrations of piety. It became a highly personal thing. A very private thing. We kept a household shrine, and hid it on the grounds of the Villa. And I made a smaller, portable Laraerium which I kept always secure in my bedroom. I spoke of it only with those I could trust to not be horrified or morally outraged by my acceptance of things past."

"That can't have been easy." Horatio was also frowning by then, one hand still upon his Mate's hip.

"After Artorius died, I found there was greater comfort in it than the platitudes of the self-appointed self-righteous."

There were those who actually believed that because I once disobeyed the norms and married a slave, I had brought ruin and death to my family.

They had said it before.

They said it again.

Some would say it, even now.

And they would say it was my lack of moral conscience, my selfish lusts, my walking away from their faith.

As though their selfish justification for a God they believe to be merciless, will have me more inclined to blindly follow their way of life?

"You still follow the old beliefs of your ancestors." Horatio didn't offer it as a question, and for a while he puzzled over exactly what Nick meant. The spiritual proclivities of ancient Rome were not really a topic he had ever considered studying.

"I am still cautious about those I share that knowledge with, but now I'm somewhat more protected thanks to knowing a handful of others who are from a time in Rome before my own. They share my beliefs, and we are at ease with each other over it. Back then…? Marcus used the discovery of my shrine as more than reason to justify his deeds. He used it for years afterward. And he did it proudly. I knew there were rumors about me before that. There were always rumors amongst bored soldiers, and even more amidst the gossip mills of political intrigue. Everyone had something to say about everyone else. Not much changes when it comes to political bullshit."

Jethro hissed in agreement. "This Marcus got away with it?"

"Yes. For a long time."

"What happened to your youngest boy?" Horatio asked.

"He lived."

"How?"

"He was stolen. His name changed. He was raised…" Nick swallowed hard enough for it to sound astonishingly loud even in his own ears. "…by Marcus and his wife. She only ever gave him daughters, and he craved a son. It was explained by saying my boy was his nephew, left suddenly orphaned."

It still ties my gut into knots just saying it aloud, and bile rises to my throat.

Were it not for a faithful servant, my Theo would have been lost. His life would have been a lie.

His bloodline would have been forever that of my enemy.

I want to vomit just thinking about the possibilities.

"But Theo was not easily deceived. The Meridii are stubborn. Hard to break. Harder to destroy."

"We're getting that," Horatio assured him. "But something else happened with Marcus, didn't it."

"Many things," Nick replied. "It took 17 years before Theo reclaimed his name. My name."

"I meant on that day," the redhead pushed.

"I know what you meant."

Speed's eyes flickered open. "You don't have to tell them, Papa," he whispered.

Nick offered him a wan smile and squeezed his shoulders. "Go back to sleep, little one," he murmured, kissing the top of his son's head.

"It's okay, Papa," Tony said softly, raising his hands and scrubbing at his eyes. "It's okay."

Nick smiled at the man his daughter had become. "Perhaps I should tell Jethro what you could not."

"Papa…?" Tony struggled to sit up. "You don't have to!"

"But you do."

"Yeah, I just can't."

It bothered Jethro deeply that his Mate should pale so fast, and stare so hard at him. "There's more than what took place in Rome. More than what happened another lifetime ago, isn't there."

Tony nodded carefully. "It was this lifetime at least. Just a whole different era, and a whole different history." He flopped back into his Sire's arms. "I got left behind. There was a battle. It sucked." He sighed, squirming under the blankets. "Templars ride in first, and they never, ever retreat."

"You mentioned that," Jethro reminded him. "You were a prisoner. You said I was there. Someone named Alexis de Chateauneuf."

"My Seneschal," Tony whispered.

Nick pulled him closer. "Try and go back to sleep."

"I can't…"

"Jethro?" Sylum's Clan Leader nodded at the phone.

"Yeah, more cocoa. ASAP," he answered grimly, scooting off the bed.

Horatio took advantage of the pause to down the rest of his scotch, wanting nothing more than to curl up around Speed and hold him in his arms, with no insane people and their ancient grudges bearing down on them from the ancient past.

As Jethro stood up, Nick found his eyes focusing on the man's ass. He wore sweatpants, but they were nicely fitting.

It must've been in thinking about all that was once a tangible element to my life.

The memories were strong, and their effects more influential than just the recollection of old emotion.

But it hit me.

Right then.

I hadn't seen it when I came face to face with him in DC. I guess I just needed to see him from behind…

He stood at the door.

Black robed.

A Medjai Warrior.

His eyes were so startling.

They were about all I could see of him under the turban he wore wrapped over his hair and face.

He never moved.

Solid.

Reliable.

Unless someone messed with one of Lady Heather's boys and girls.

It happened now and then.

Mostly when there were issues of money.

His name was Sabaf.

He never spoke.

At least, not where I could hear him.

He moved with the grace of a man who knew how to keep his actions clean and precise.

My Sire only ever chose the best.

Still, it was his eyes.

So grey they seemed almost white.

The vaguest shadow of a gaze that saw everything without showing a flicker of emotion.

Until…

I had to smile.

It had been worth it.

After Arthur went back to England with his Queen, the memory of his 'death' at Camlann gone for more than a century, I found myself in Egypt.

Bored.

Curious, maybe.

Yes, I like that.

Curious as to where I should go, and what I should try turning my attention to.

I'd done a lot of riding.

Improved my skills with a knife, learning better how to use a blade in each hand.

Studied the stars in greater detail than ever I had before.

My Sire was fretting over me, and pondering daily how to keep me busy. As though being without a specific commitment to someone, or something, was a potentially dangerous scenario.

I would visit her place of business on nights when I needed companionship, or conversation, or a little luxury and pampering. Her girls were always skilled in multiple methods of relaxation, not all of which involved sex.

I wasn't always looking for sex.

Heather, on the other hand, always knew when I was.

She has a way of olde, to sense what I want.

Doesn't always work at peak efficiency though.

Thank you, Gil Grissom…

"I have the perfect woman for you tonight," she murmured knowingly, taking my arm, lingering with me in the warm evening air.

I can smell the Nile.

A thousand different foodstuffs cooking for a thousand different palates.

Spices.

Sweat.

I hear whispers.

Moans.

Promises of passion.

Cries of pleasured excess.

But I know what I want.

There is laughter.

It rains from somewhere behind the walls through a tiny open window, and shatters on the dusty road at my feet.

"I don't want a woman," I replied.

Her eyebrows rose knowingly, and her lips parted in delight. "I have a new boy. Eager to be whatever you desire. Elegant. Beautiful. Remarkably agile."

"As tempting as that sounds, I am not in the mood for soft and malleable compliance."

I wanted a challenge.

I chose him.

Sabaf.

He was the challenge I desired that night.

It was the first time I ever saw the man blink.

Even Heather looked quite notably startled, yet she arranged it without questioning my motives.

In truth, there was nothing she would not do for me if I so desired it, and it was within her power to organize.

And still she honestly seems to think I have no idea she was once my mother, in a time far more distant than Rome.

It's adorable.

Honestly.

He is taller than me.

Lean.

And now we are alone, he is nervous.

I smell it.

Though he makes no outward sign of his concern.

Much wealth will be earned for his action.

And he knows it too.

I watch him slowly shed his robes, steadily revealing for my pleasure, a tanned and well-proportioned body.

Long legs.

Firm buttocks.

Tight torso.

He has the scars of his trade, adorning his chest and shoulders, telling of battles I can only imagine, of fights well won, and victories that flatter the ego.

I am served beer.

The barley is refreshing to my mouth.

Clean.

He watches me, finally removing the turban.

Until I gave him order, he would stand there before me.

Silent.

Unmoving.

He knew what I wanted.

And how the night would end.

He knew he was mine for the taking.

It mattered not whether he had done this before.

I take my time.

Admire him.

Imaging the taste of his skin, the feel of him beneath my fingers, the sounds he would make as I pleasure him.



Arms by his sides, he does not fear displaying himself to my hungry gaze, and I cannot help but wonder at what he DOES fear.

He would be a worthy man to have beside me in battle.

"Turn around."

I instruct.

He obeys.

And for a while I merely admire his back and buttocks, his musculature and steady thighs.

Perhaps he believes this is all I want?

I bid him come to me.

And urge him to undress me.

This he does, with cautious hands and long fingers.

Upon his face there still remains no emotion.

But that will change.

I allow him to discover me.

Carefully.

Slowly.

His interest is then drawn to the jewel in my right nipple.

He licks his lips.

It makes me smile.

His eyes trace a pattern as he looks upon every inch of me.

My cock is lusting.

Arching upward for his touch, it throbs.

I nod.

His hands are on me, shaking just the tiniest amount.

He cups me.

Gently.

Examining my size and weight.

I am shaven.

Just as he.

His breaths are quick and shallow.

I grow harder.

Sounds from beyond this room grow utterly irrelevant.

There is concentration on his face.

A flush upon those high carved cheekbones.

He has seen men naked before.

That is obvious.

And he is trying not to quake as his touch ignites my need still further.

His grip is firm as his fist surrounds me, sliding up and down until my hardness is at its peak, and I am leaking in preparation of climax.

He does not yet know that my stamina will take this, and very much more.

I encourage him, making all the right noises, pushing against him.



"Look at me."

He does.

Those eyes are darkening.

Is that what passes for expression on his features?

I seize him.

Kiss him.



Fiercely.

Deeply.

The pounding of his heart kicks up.

Louder.

Faster.

He tenses.

I imagine he may try and shove me aside to escape, but he does not.

I have no desire to fight him, but I will if I must.

I want his submission, but not meek compliance.

He shudders.

I feel it running down his spine.

And then he responds.

His tongue touches mine.

A spark.

This is new for him.



All of it.

His hands move to my waist.

Skin presses skin.

The kiss continues until I break it.

He blinks rapidly, wondering if he has offended.

I smile.

He realizes.

"On your knees."

His instinct to obey is unhesitating.

Unquestioning.

His hands skim down my legs as he does what I command.

He knows what I desire, yet still looks up at me for instruction.

"Lick your lips."

He does.

Slowly.

Softly.

Then his tongue snakes out to touch my cock, lapping at my length from root to tip.

I needed give him no encouragement for that.

He was willing to explore.

And I permitted it.

His hands gripped the back of my thighs.

And I permitted that too.

It was a reminder of the past in a most unexpected way, taking me once more to thoughts of Arthur, and our first time together.

No words are required, and I find myself moaning pleasurably as he grows bolder, using his teeth, lips and warmly exhaled breath.

He is eager, and he sucks me, only once he has satisfied himself in learning every inch of me.

And it is very good.

A little crude, but nothing that would not be improved upon with greater experience.

"Enough!"

I prefer he not exert himself too greatly.

At least, not yet.

He sits back on his haunches.

His cheeks are flush with color.

His lips are swollen.

His breath comes harder.

He does not question whether what he did was good enough.

He knows it was.

I am still erect.

And lusting.

"Face down, over the pillows."

Again, he obeys me.

There is oil, pressed from olives, and assorted flowers. Heather's own special concoction.

An elegant bottle.

Curved and stoppered, it sits on a small table in the center of the room.

Pride of place.

A reminder in every space that she sets aside for sex, of the need for sensuality and preparation.

He arranges himself, letting me watch as he writhes upon the silks.

His heart still flutters.

I watch him place his hands by his head.

His breathing settles.

Just a touch.

The oil is rich.

Sensual.

Special.

He hears me slick my cock with it, and yet he does not move.

I had thought he would look up at least, if only to see that I intend him no harm.

He is warm.

His skin supple.

I stretch out beside him, finally indulging myself, tracing the curve of his spine its full length, from base to apex and back again. It makes him shiver under my fingers.

His muscles tense then ease.

He buries his head, fighting not to move.

"Relax."

It is an order, and he moans very quietly in reply as I work the smooth, sweet oil between his buttocks.

His hips begin pushing into the cushions.

His body wants what is coming next, but he does not fully know why.

The hole my fingers brush against, is tight.

Hot.

Tremulous.

I am relentless, and will have what is mine.

"Spread your legs."

I draw his right thigh upward, bending his knee.

He does not fight, but this leaves him more open to me.

More vulnerable.

He takes my fingers with a grunt.

A hiss of breath escapes him.

It IS strange, that first moment.

New sensations.

Startling.

It hurts sometimes.

But not for long.

Lying against him, we are closer and more intimate.

Comforting.

Of all the ways I could have him, it has to be simple.

Easy.

He groans as my fingers stretch him open.

Two.

Then three.

Firm.

Possessive.

He IS mine.



Sweat runs into the hollow at the small of his back.

I lick it away.

Lapping like a cat.

And he flinches at my tongue's ministrations.

New sensation.

All of it.

Another groan.

And another.

I work him deeper, and he struggles to be still, his body craving something for which he has no words.

Three fingers serve to make him gasp.

In and out, I draw them steadily through all sign of resistance.

Wider now.

Sweating more.

A hoarse cry.

A shout.

Then, he hisses from between his teeth, and I see the shock of it ripple down his spine.

I have him now.

And it IS shocking at first.

That pleasure.

And wanting more, is a realization not to be denied.

A pain.

That grows into acceptance.

And longing.

And more.

So very much more.

Again I touch that place inside him, hidden within his body, and leave my fingers there, pressing hard.

Though he soon tries vainly to be free, I am upon him, holding him at my mercy.

Legs locked together.

Hooked around his, I refuse to let him find freedom.

Not yet.

Not this night.

Not until I am satisfied.

He cries out.

Louder.

He will plead most delightfully before I am done.

Beg me for more.

And it pleases me to know it.

"Breathe!"

There is a time and place for passing out.

A way to ensure that the Soul will fully know where such a boundary lies, and orders it freely to the darkness.

But that is for the pinnacle.

The very peak of desiring.

Of more than can be borne.

He draws a shuddering breath, allowing me to ease my fingers from him.

"Did you think only women have such places for pleasure?"

He grunts.

His face buried in the pillows, I sense a humorless laugh from him.

A relief that he is not insane.

Without pause, I slide my craving cock into his body.

Such heat.

Slick now.

Burning hot.

So strongly clenching.

Fighting back.

He would be free of the flesh that invades and fills him, and he scrabbles at the cushions until the fear has passed.

The urge to rid himself of me is gone.

He pants.

It is a harsh, rough sound.

I push once more until I am done.

We are as one.

Melded.

Unceasing.

Blurring the edges.

"Be still!"

I whisper in his ear, and he obeys.

How very well the Medjai train, that even then he does whatever I command.

I close my eyes, and lie myself more fully upon him.

Back to chest.

My length on his.

And in his most secret places.

All I want is to rut.

To ride him as one would break an errant horse.

To use what I have now stolen, and fill him with my offering.

It forces me to stop a while.

To breathe with him.

To pause and let him know that this is still so much the beginning.

I have all night.

"Be at peace."

Sage advice that once had me where he is now, learning of myself, held still upon a desert floor.

"I know you have all of me, and you feel all of me."

His hips push upward.

"Be still!"

He stifles the barest whine.

I know what he desires now.

Completion.

Climax.

The first of what will be many at my Will.

I can promise him that.

And finally he begins to relax.

At last.

Allowing me to pull out of him.

He gulps.

Only then do I take him again.

Just as deep.

One smooth move.

His cry becomes a shout.

Fierce.

Animal.

Yes, Sabaf!

Yes!!

Once more I empty him.

Leave him open.

Needing.

Then fill him entirely.

Again.

Again.

His shouts grow louder.

Needier.

His heartbeat climbs.

His fingers dig hard into the silks beneath him.



Tension builds.

All along his shoulders.

I feel it.

Then the rhythm comes.

Familiar.

A primitive response to my cock sliding steadily in and out of him, striking at his core.

His head rises once, as though he wishes to speak, yet there is nothing from his gasping mouth but grunts.

He does not understand yet.

But he will.



I know he is hard.

His manhood trapped between his sticky flesh and the material on which I have him.



He wants to touch.

A touch.

Any touch.

Some twisting hand to jerk him free of earthly bonds.

Some sign that he may draw his own undeniable ecstasy from our coupling.

It is painful.

This I also know.

MY pleasure will come first.

And I will take it before HE ever has release.

I sense him clenching down.

Hard.

A spasm of his inner being rolled the length of my rampant prick.

And I let go that fierce control I learned so long.

It is meant.

Now!

My juices coat his innards.

And he stills suddenly, absorbing that reality.

That remarkable sensation of being used.

Served.

Soiled.

Somehow awash as I give him my all.

He is almost conquered.



My Warrior.

Lax and spent, I slip from his hole, satisfied as my seed trickles from between his red, raw buttocks.

He will be some sore for a while, but such is the price of experience.

Or gold.

An utterly anguished whimper inspires me to have pity on my Warrior, drawing him up to his hands and knees, reaching between his thighs to grasp his thick, throbbing cock.

It feels heavy.

An impressive, solid length that would be just as satisfying if I were in the mood for being taken too.

Which I am not.

Perhaps another day?

For another bag of gold?

He trembles.

Little effort is required to give him climax, and he is spent, falling again into the cushions with a grateful sigh…

Jethro was disturbed when he put the phone down and returned to the bed, that there should be such a strange little smirk on Nick's face.

Their topic of conversation had been thus far, one of the grimmest recollections, tempered by moments of peculiar revelation that were equal parts confusing and terrifying, yet still reassuringly confirmed.

It was a lot to absorb.

"Something else crossed your mind?" he asked, sitting with Tony as he had before.

"After a fashion," came the gruff reply. "There are things… I should say, there are times rather, when you live long enough to see those you once knew, return in unexpected…"

Nick watched Jethro's eyes narrow, and braced himself for more questions.

Yet they never came.

Speed stirred, cuddling into his Papa's side.

Tony blinked sleepily at his Mate. "Are we done yet?" he whispered, squirming around some more, brushing his legs against Jethro's knees.

Nick stroked his Childe's hair.

"There's more coming," Jethro explained.

"Mmmmm, cocoa…"

And Tony's contented sigh seemed to rightly suggest that everything else in the world would be just fine.

"So," Horatio said quietly. "What did Marcus do to you? Besides taking from your life all that truly mattered?"

In that moment, I totally got what it meant to be in the direct scrutiny of Speed's Mate, and while the question was couched gently enough, I had a feeling that there were very few in the world could obfuscate before such a man for very long.



"He had me beaten, stripped and crucified."

Saying it, meant getting it out of my mouth in one go.

Finally.

"The dead were piled at my feet, staring up at me."

Gil had been so close to the whole ugly truth.

I know he's longing for me to confirm it. To admit for him the terrible reality of how I died, like I would be unburdening myself to make it all better. I know he wants to hear me, broken but strong, as though I wrote the heroic past to some historic drama of epic telling.

But I refuse.

My life is not for his dissection and scrutiny now.

He's done that enough already.

I was broken that day.

But I refused to remain broken, even as Marcus rode away with my youngest child in his arms as bounty for his treachery.

I refuse to ever be broken.

By any man.

There followed that admittedly altogether too familiar silence.

It fell heavily.

Inevitably.

Stoically.

The knowledge that shitty things must on occasion befall those who do not deserve them, and come with no way to keep them at bay, and for no other reason than because they can, has great tendency to leave words as naught but pointless in the offering.

It is in knowing what comes after such events, that there is either willingness to hope and cheer, or the devastation of Fated loathing.

To his credit, Horatio seemed shaken, and I wondered whether he might be tempted to cross himself as he contemplated my death. You may lapse as a Catholic, but you're always a Catholic…

Jethro just stared at me in profound surprise. And I cannot for an instant believe that there is much in the world can do that to him. Perhaps then, he was considering the way his own destiny had played out recently, and weighing lost intentions probably better left to the Ages.

"I was set to die. Willing it to come."

The pain was an explosion through my hands.

Up my arms.

Each hammer blow a fresh, shuddering, jarring agony.

Then my feet.

My legs a burning fire.

Why?

Why this torture?

Why this lingering death that came only to those considered the lowest, vilest of offenders?

What had I done, for Rome to think me so deserving of such ignominy?

How did I fail??

It was the sensation that came from digging his fingernails deep into his palms, that crashed Nick back to the present reality of being safely at home, but with the lingering specter of what used to be, still creeping nastily down his spine.

I found a new appreciation for faith in Jesus Christ as a result of that day.

How could I not?

But where He was crucified an innocent man, I was crucified for my own folly.

I had trusted too much.

I had failed to see what was right in front of me.

And there was only guilt to be found in that.

I suffered justly.

Yet nowhere near as He did.

The cross I hung upon was fashioned from two pieces of the gate that once led to my stable.

I hadn't known it at the time, but I've come since then to see it as being symbolic of the family whose name I bear.

Appropriate.

If such things can be said to even be appropriate.

"Crucifixion is a slow death. And yet there are those artists who make it look so very pretty. Lovely, somehow."

Horatio nodded as Nick spoke.

If he hadn't done the math on that already, I would be very surprised.

"I don't know how long I was up there."

Suspended between heaven and earth, not quite dead yet no longer alive…



Time is endless.

How strange, when finally you are running out of it, you realize it was never yours to being with.

How strange, that it never really stops.

That it flows through and around us, and carries us, and continues onward without us.

How fast it moves, when least you desire it.

And how badly it lingers, when least you desire it.

Please, let me die!!

Here!

Now!!

Let me lie with my flesh and blood.

Let me rest in the soil where my ancestors shed their sweat and tears in equal measure.

How could I have known anyone was watching?

How could I know?

Or sense their powerlessness?

Their longing to intervene…

As a scientist, I know now the cruel physical and biological mechanism for such a death as crucifixion brings. I am perhaps cursed by the clinical nature of ever progressing curiosity.

The pain won't stop.

From it, there is no freedom.

No release.

No mercy.

Even now.

Yet the clearest thinking I have ever done, was there on that cross.

Memories flutter toward the end.

Just like butterfly wings.

I saw dance before my failing eyes, the faces of all those long gone.

My father.

Mother.

Wife.

Child.

Brother.

Wife.

Dearest Julia - her knowing smile as gracious and rewarding as her laughter.

Her frown a firmly chiding accompaniment to that mildly disappointed sigh I used to know.

Always one for kind advice.

For loving arms.

For honest vigilance at my side.

Though we had our fair share of problems - broken fountains, sick babies, fired maidservants and worthless slaves, to name but a mere few - she was a steady light and willing partner.

My partner.

My balance in the world.

I knew it was she who held me first.

Her hand then a warm security against my cheek.

How do I feel anything?

How?

The world fades.

Let me no longer see.

I cannot bear it.

Then somehow there is sky.

Above me.

Blue.

Bright.

Death rank in my nostrils.

Is it morning?

I am touched.

No…

Please!

Please, just let me die.

I am ready!

"When I was taken down, I was dying in a way I could never have expected, or imagined."

And I have seen enough death.

Still, to this day, I'm not entirely sure I said yes to Heather's question.

But her face floated somewhere in that blue, blue sky.

Not Julia's.

A stranger, yet strangely not.

She smiled.

Distracting me as the nails were pulled from my flesh.

Had I breath, I would have surely screamed as there seemed no mercy.

Still.

No end to the pain.

Instead there was only pain.

Concerned.

Gentle.

Yes, it was she who touched me.

Her hand against my cheek, almost a benediction.

I recall so well the new fear that rose in me as her eyes flashed with brilliant light, and fangs appeared along her teeth as though she were some creature of the Netherworld set to consume me.

Was I doomed to Hades for all eternity as reward for serving the old Gods of my forefathers?

What justice was this?

What reward?

"I did not know her then as Heather. My Sire. She Turned me even as I lay there, surrounded by the dead. I would never take comfort in Elysium with them, and my house burned…"

The smell was too strong.

So close was Death himself, he brushed against me, leaving his scars as reminder.

Even now there are times my hands and feet pain me, like I am an old, old man with arthritis in his bones.

That smell.

It's not constant, that ache.

It comes mostly in cold and damp.

But still, it lets me know that I am not always the man I show the world.

Yeah, Gil was right.

The fucking asshole.

"I knew Heather then as Shepsit. You'll get to meet her at some point. She's rather unmissable."

"Don't you mean 'unmistakable'?" Tony murmured.

"That too," Nick chuckled. "She's Egyptian. Quite the beauty. It's cute how she honestly thinks I have no idea who she really is in relation to our mutual pasts, but you don't go to the lengths she did in saving me, just to help a total random stranger, no matter the desperate situation."

"Who is she to you then?"

Horatio has a more open sense of curiosity, that Jethro by comparison, seems to internalize. It is a necessary question though.



"My mother," Nick said simply. "Long before Rome grew to rule the known world, she served a Priestess to Ra. My birth was a rather happy, but unexpected accident. She passed me off as a miracle from the Gods, until the end. As a Vampire, she sought my Soul's return with great tenacity, and considerable strength. I was only a small boy when she lost me. And she found me again, a man on a cross."

How the hell she thinks I don't know any of this, the Gods alone can explain, because she certainly never has.

I've gotten bits of it from others who were there at Heliopolis, and who have recognized me for the Soul I once was. I've put odd stuff together for myself now and then too.

But she'll tell me.

Eventually.

Right around the moment there's no other choice.

As drinks arrived, there was a pause for collecting empties and distributing fresh, full mugs and glasses.

Thomas bore the tray himself, just as I knew he would, despite his assertions earlier that he would go spend time with Jim.

Really?

And he says I'm predictable?

Still, what would I do without him?

Seriously.

He gave me a bottle of mineral water, just to make sure I'm doing okay, and it's not an unpleasant necessity after talking so much.

The break in proceedings however, forces me to wonder whether I've been saying aloud any of what has actually been going through my mind as a result of reliving past memories this way. And if I have, does it truly matter?

These are the Mates whom my oldest children have been blessed with, so it feels only right they should come to know me better than most others ever will.

"Please, try and get some rest," Thomas advised sternly, on his way down the stairs again. "You need it, Master Nicolaus."

"Do we dare ask how you acquired such a dedicated Butler?" Jethro was more than mildly contented at having someone put excellent coffee in his hands on a regular basis.

"I'll tell you that one another time. It's complicated, and needs context. But he's not my Butler. He prefers 'Chief of Staff' when it comes to the Manor and the Clan. To me, he has always been indispensable. My Manservant. Also my Childe. I Sired him, though I had no idea then how he would forever repay me for saving his life, and that of his infant daughter."

"Intriguing," Horatio said, smiling.

"Very," Nick replied. "Just don't upset him."

"No one dares to and lives," Speed muttered, sipping his tea. "Ever!"

For a while, we sat quietly in companionable silence, contemplating our thoughts, until my boys, their mugs safely emptied, returned to my arms.

I have to get it through my own head now, that there are other arms to whom they belong, but it might take me a while to finally settle with that.

"Time returns to us, those we have lost. Such philosophy for the Vampire, has never failed, and breeds great patience. You learn this fast enough, and you learn to be prepared for it. If you're not, then…"

Warren.

"…shit happens."

I don't want to talk about Warren.

Not now.

Not yet.

"And people die who don't deserve to die, just because they got in the way."

Ain't that a damned fact?

"My love returned to me in Warrick. Elena in Antonio. And my Antonius in Timothy. Theo came back to me in Greg. Gloria in Abby. My brother, Artorius, came back to me again in Jack Aubrey. He's Second-in-Command of Sanctuary Clan in Rio. My father's Soul is in an old and trusted friend who works with the Vampire Council and teaches children with special needs."

Though I have yet to see my mother, I feel the truth of her presence is currently residing in one particular person best left unremarked upon for the time being.

"There are others whom Fate and I will jointly stalk each passing decade. Timothy was nearly dead in a field when we finally crossed paths. And Tony too was nigh gone when I found him on a dark Damascus street with his best friend."

"Die free, or die trying." Jethro nodded. "He told me."

"He told you some," Nick corrected.

"Dad…!" Tony whined, like a pouty five year old dragging the word out.

"You should be asleep, boy," he answered gruffly. "Two mugs of cocoa you've had!"

But he was fighting it.

Also like a five year old, afraid he'd miss something good if he went to bed too early.

"He was in a very bad way when I reached him," Nick continued, regardless of his kid's feelings on the subject. "Robin too. But they stayed side by side. They went through a hell together that no man was ever meant to survive. Yet survive they did. Together. They shared the horrors. And the tortures."

I could see on Jethro's face, just how much Tony had not actually spoken of, and I had to stop myself from eye rolling repeatedly in mock surprise.

"I don't have to go into detail, but Christians certainly aren't treated much better today in some parts of the world, and for a young, handsome Knight of the Temple, they reserved sodomy as a very special form of humiliation, inflicted until their prisoner lost consciousness, or ceased to respond. Though sometimes not letting that stop them, even then."

Tony shivered violently against me.



"Those men who could not have him, took the prisoner in the next cell."

"Robin?" Jethro asked.

"Indeed. He is better known to history now as Robin o' the Hood. But he was born, Robin Longstride."

I let that sink in for a moment.

"Damn!" Horatio said suddenly, partly from admiration, and partly from shock.

"Jethro, you have to know this. I don't care if Tony says the exact opposite until the sky falls down. He's my Second-in-Command. You are his Mate. And when he gets in his head, you need to be able to snap him out of it."

"Oorah!"

Gibbs said it quietly but fiercely, and I knew from that alone just how well he was following my meaning.

Then I turned to the redhead.

"You and Timothy have had much more time to talk. I know this for a fact. As my Advisor, he needs to be able to function without always having a damn book in his hand. He's been that way from birth though, as far as I can tell. And in more than one lifetime too!"

Truly my little Antonius had been just the same.

"Take the book away and give him a sword," Horatio agreed. "I get it."

"Actually, I was going to say give him a spanking, especially when he pulls stunts like he did today. But giving him a sword works just as well."

The two new Vampires glanced at each other and laughed.

"A good slap works wonders," Jethro agreed firmly.

And Tony sighed most dramatically.

"Wuss," Speed muttered.

"Pagan," his brother retorted.

So I slapped the pair of them gently on the back of the head, just for good measure.

And just to remind them who's really in charge here.

"Gentlemen, I have a feeling there could well be many more nights like this in our collective futures, but for now, you both, as newly Turned members of this Clan, know more than many others ever will. I expect your loyalty, honesty and obedience when I, or one of my people, calls on you."

Jethro and Horatio were absolutely wide awake.

"You are tasked with two members of my Ruling Council, and my dearest children. And I would very much prefer not to lose any of you any time soon."

I was stared at squarely, as both men pulled their shoulders back rigid.

"You have my full support in anything you need. No matter what, or when."

Horatio spoke first, and without pause for contemplation. But then, I had imagined he would. After all, he's lived with the knowledge of Vampires a while longer than his counterpart, and been given more chance to better see its realities as they pertained to his life and experience.

"Mine also," Jethro answered, a fleeting moment later. "Semper Fi."

"The Clan comes before the Corps," Nick cautioned warily, looking him straight in the eye, knowing Marines far better than most.

"Tony comes before everything," he replied firmly, staring steadily back without a blink.

And I fully believed him.

"Then we are good! Some Clans like their fancy ceremonies to swear new members into their ranks."

Cue Arthur Pendragon and his ancient altar on the cliff top you have to climb to reach, up steps cut in a sheer rock face with no safety rail.

"I prefer something simpler, and a lot easier to justify."

Like seeing who a person really is when there's no expectation for 'performance'.

"Honesty. I see it in you both."

They glanced across at each other again, and I realized they were already on the first rung of what would doubtless be a tightly bound friendship in the years yet to come their way.

"All of this has led us back to where we began," Horatio said meaningfully. "And what all this is really about."

"Marcus," Jethro concluded, nodding sagely. "He's going to try and finish what he started."

"And soon," Nick agreed, a cold shudder tracking down his spine once more. "This time though, he's made a mistake. He's shown himself in Richelieu. Gotten complacent, fat and arrogant. He hurt my son today. Again. And he will pay for that. For everything."

"Then we will need to be ready for him," Horatio growled. "All of us."

"Oorah!" Jethro grunted in reply.

And I knew without question, we would be victorious.




***




Tony could barely remember his own name, let alone put one foot in front of the other as he trekked with Jethro, back to his rooms.

Their rooms, as he kept reminding himself.

It was theirs.

A tiny, exhausted smile crossed his lips at such a thought.

After the obligatory petting of the dogs, which was required in order to gain safe passage past them and into the Great Room, he literally faceplanted on his bed like a fallen tree, crashing over in a storm.

In fact, he was so damn tired he failed to notice the small glass bottle that had been placed on the bedside table.

Which meant he certainly also missed the little notecard in an envelope, that lay with one corner tucked discreetly under said bottle.

And even if he had seen it, he would likely not have cared, for the envelope was in fact, addressed to Master Jethro.

Frowning, its intended recipient opened what proved to be very fine quality stationary, made from some unexpectedly heavy weight, cream colored paper, and discovered a folded card within.

Neat copperplate writing in rich, dark ink read:

'A gift from Master Nicolaus, in assurance that it will be put to best use for the purpose intended to fix the problem.'

It was signed by Thomas, whom Jethro could virtually see sitting at an antique writing desk in the Manor somewhere, quill in hand…

He smiled.

The bottle was cut crystal.

Solid in his palm.

The stopper made a light, elegant sound like a musical note, as he removed it to check the clearly visible, golden hued and viscus contents.

His nose was greeted to an aroma of warm, tropical fruit.

"Mmmmm," Tony purred, his head some place between the pillows. "Mango!"

Jethro smiled to himself as he eyed his Mate, sprawled out there before him.

There was only way to 'fix the problem', as Thomas had so kindly put it, for the moment Tony had come out of the bathroom earlier on, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, and refusing to get comfortable or even close to him in bed, Jethro had known there was indeed a problem which needed fixing.

With Nick's most timely explanation for past events, to helpfully clarify the details, he certainly didn't need to be much of an investigator to put 2 x 2 together and reach an obvious conclusion.

He smirked quietly.

What Nick had told him, actually went a long way toward clearing up most of Tony's slightly obscure personality traits, even those which leaked through the 'DiNozzo' act. And suddenly, things all made better sense. But there had certainly been more than enough talk for one night.

No more was needed.

Taking matters more fully into his hands than they had been in quite some days, Jethro rolled Tony over onto his back.

The lights were low.

So too the fire.

It really didn't make much difference to him that all his Mate wanted was to sleep.

He had other things in mind.

"Tired," Tony whispered, blinking at the rude interruption to his slumbers.

Jethro ignored him, sliding himself instead, as close to the prostrate body he could get, leaning in to take that noble chin in his right hand and kiss the mouth that often smirked so cheeky at him from across the Bullpen.

It was not as possessive a gesture as might at first be thought.

More a long, slow, deliberate move that was just as demanding, yet far more persistent. And Tony responded, a small moan escaping him when the kiss finally ended.

He licked his lips languidly. "Sleep now?"

By way of answering, Jethro simply slipped his right hand into his Mate's sweatpants and shifted them down, tugging his expensive silk boxers shorts away too.

Tony's murmur of protest was incoherent, and the feeble little wiggle he gave as a pathetic attempt to try and avoid being still further denied the sleep he was increasingly needing, succeeded only in further enabling the removal of his clothes altogether.

He frowned, and was again ignored, although the warm caress of Jethro's fingers over the muscle of his inner thigh, and the tickle that swept across his skin, left him with no choice but to spread his legs a little.

Had he the strength, or even the capacity to complain, he might have said the word 'no', and forced the situation to an abrupt ending in favor of actual rest. It wasn't that he failed to appreciate his Mate's desires, or carnal needs for that matter. Such significance did not escape him in the least. He was just too damn tired to want anything but sleep. And consequently, he could not in any way have reciprocated the powerful urges rushing at him through their newly formed Bond.

Still, Jethro had no intention of stopping; each move he made, being as slow and purposeful, as it was agonizingly deliberate. And he took the greatest delight in creating much torment as he explored the reluctant form of his sleepy Antonio.

His.

His lover.

His partner.

His very reason for not believing himself quite mad.

In part, he wanted to memorize every inch of the supple flesh exposed to his Will.

The coarse pubic hair that exactly matched the shade upon Tony's head, and other parts.

The ripe testicles that tightened in his grasp.

The pungent heat that rose from between those well-toned thighs.

The swelling of that cock.

Steady.

One touch at a time.

Light.

Feathery.

Teasing.

Tantalizing.

Knowing.

Needing.

Over and over.

Still Tony squirmed, wiggling and sighing, rolling in the blankets, trying to escape.

Still there was no way it could be permitted.

"What do you want?" Jethro asked, his voice a low whisper.

With the utmost care, he ran a finger around the crown of his Mate's hardening erection, gently rubbing the swelling head.

He knew it was excruciating, and Tony's panting breaths only increased in response.

"What do you want?" he asked again, pulling back the foreskin over which his touch had settled.

"Sleep!" his Mate gasped.

"No."

"Oh!" Eyes screwed tightly shut, hands too heavy to move more than in clutching at the bedclothes, Tony groaned. "Please?"

"Please, what?"

There was no answer.

Tony shivered, wishing he had the wherewithal to end his predicament. Yet again and again, he struggled not to prevent those arousing caresses that were driving him insane, but to find in himself the desire for more.

It left him stuck somewhere between wanting and not wanting.

And it was crazy.

Jethro would not stop.

That much he knew for sure.

Jethro was a stubborn bastard of a Marine.

Stopping the man from actually getting whatever it was he set his mind to at any given moment, was akin to nailing Jell-O to a wall.

He knew.

He had tried.

He just somehow never envisioned himself in so frustratingly vulnerable a position before.

Needing, yet not needing.

Jethro's fingers danced still more upon his abdomen, and over his chest.

It tickled.

Again.

His navel was tormented.

Around and around.

His stomach muscles tensed, cramping suddenly at his belly.

"Hush!" Jethro urged, finding Tony's nipples and teasing softly at each, until both were taut, hard and hot.

Though he wanted to scream.

Though the word 'no!' was right there on his tongue.

Though he stayed teetering on the edge of sleep-deprived madness, relief never came.

Nor did the courage to make his torment cease.

"Please," he begged, not altogether certain what he was pleading for.

Jethro leaned over him, licking at his left ear. "Please, what?" He breathed the question against his Mate's skin. "Tell me."

"Please! Please!!"

It was a pretty sound, to hear him cry in such delicious frustration, although for the briefest, nastiest moment, Jethro found himself wondering how much Tony had begged his prison captors long ago, to stop the rape.

But such an instant of unwanted mental imagery, however brief, had him stamping it away with all the disciplined self-control of his Marine Corps training.

Tony's eyes flew open wide as it resonated through their Bond - a spike of fear and anger that was at once both familiar and unnerving.

This was all about power.

He knew it.

About Will.

The need to put what once had been, into a better perspective for them both.

It was the past.

Just that.

An ancient time.

Old history.

So old that it could no longer be permitted the freedom to hurt either of them.

With the softest gestures, and a little of that oil so fortuitously left for them, Jethro rubbed calming, steady circles over his Mate's abdomen, better appreciating the solid muscle and fine physique that was all his to pleasure and admire.

His alone.

To do with as he desired.

Tony started purring, moving against him like a cat seeking more attention.

It was warming.

Calming.

Then just as he was about to fall asleep, Jethro broke the close proximity between them, sitting up and pulling away.

A sudden gasp was Tony's startled response, and he flinched as though stung, whining pitifully.

Naked, hard and desperate for something his brain was still struggling to accept rationally, he whimpered, "Sleep…?"

"No." Jethro poured more oil into his right palm and began laboriously working his Mate's cock in a slowly dragging fist.

"This is mine," he murmured, learning down into Tony's neck. "Do you understand?"

"Yes…" It was but a whisper, yet it meant more than any orgasmic cry of pleasure ever could.

"Mine."

"Yes."

"Mine."

"Yes!"

"Are you sure?"

"What?"

Up and down.

Up and down.

Jethro's hand never gave him the sort of friction required for climax.

It simply slid up and down.

Rhythmically.

Purposefully.

"Pay attention!" Gibbs growled, issuing an order. "This is mine."

Tony shivered. "Yes!"

"This cock is mine."

"Yes!" Tony could hardly form a thought by then.

He was so hard, the terrible ache in his groin consuming every ounce of his strength - whatever minuscule degree of such, he might yet still retain.

"What do you want, Antonio?"

Jethro knew he had to get the strict façade of the Templar Knight to fall away, in favor of accepting the new reality that came with being Mated and Bonded.

"What do you want?" he asked again.

"You," Tony murmured. "Forever."

"You already have me."

"Yeah?"

"You took me and made me yours."

"Oh! Oh, good!" he sighed. "Can't lose you. Won't lose you…"

"You never will. I'm here. Forever."

Still Jethro stroked his Mate's cock.

So very carefully.

Up and down.

"Forever?"

"Forever. I promise you. Just us."

"Us."

"What do you want, Antonio?"

"I want to sleep!"

"Not yet."

"But…"

Up and down.

Up and down.

Jethro worked the full length of Tony's flesh.

"What do you want?"

"I want to come!!" When he said it, the words burst out of his mouth in a desperate rush that was both loud and alarming.

"Not yet, my love."

In his entire lifetime, with his personal history of failed marriages and disturbed ex-wives, Leroy Jethro Gibbs had never referred to anyone, ever, as 'my love'. Not even Shannon, who had until then occupied the very center of his heart.

It felt weird.

Disturbing.

There was no way Shannon would ever be usurped as his first love.

He had fallen for her in a way best befitting those old black and white movies - when a boy meets a girl in a typical little town, and shy kids grow into knowing partners, eager parents, hopeless romantics, only for the dream to end in grief and loss, and death, followed by never ceasing pain and guilt left behind in that place where his heart had once been. It was a perfect love for that moment, that small, brief slice of wondrous time.

Then Tony had changed him.

Changed everything.

Offered him new meaning for his life.

And his death.

Tony completed him in a way he had never expected.

Never seen that he needed.

And it was good.

Better than good.

It was perfect.

Not as Shannon.

But somehow more.

Somehow different.

More purposeful.

Satisfying him in ways that went beyond words.

He had loved Shannon with everything he possessed.

But Antonio Crisafi was his love.

Embodied.

Formed so beautifully, it was earth-shattering to realize the full truth of it.

"Then let me rest?" Tony whimpered. "Please?"

"No." Jethro squeezed his Mate's cock tighter. "This is mine."

"Yes, yes!"

"To do with as I please."

Tighter.

Firmer.

Up and down.

Up and down.

A little faster.

"Yes!!"

"Whenever I please."

"Oh, yes!" Tony thrashed around, giving a feeble, yet so needy roll of his hips before gulping for air he did not require.

"However I please."

"Anything! Anything!!"

Up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Never enough to end the torment.

"No one gets this but me."

"Yes!!!"

"No one touches this but me."

"Yes, yes! Yes!!"

"No one tastes this but me."

"Oh! Oh!!"

"Tony!" Jethro growled once more, yet the rhythm never ceased.

"I am yours. I am yours!"

"All of you, Antonio."

"All of me."

"No one will ever have you again, but me."

"Let me come! Oh, please, please I need to!"

"Listen to me, Antonio."

"I'm listening! I'm listening!!" Tony barely heard his voice crack, but it did.

"No one gets to touch this - touch you - without going through me."

"Yes?"

"Yes. No more hiding from me. You understand?"

It was like conducting an interrogation with all the intensity of sexual intimacy.

Their Bond hummed with certainty.

With surety.

With absolute fidelity.

Devotion unto death.

And beyond.

"Antonio! Do you understand me?"

"Yes!" It was a sob.

"No one gets to hurt you. Not again. Not ever."

"Not ever."

"No one gets to rape you. Not again. Not ever."

"Not ever."

Up and down.

Up and down.

Harder.

"This is us now. You and me. The past is done."

"Yes!!!!"

"You have to tell me if you're ever in pain."

"Oh, yes! But…"

"The Bond will warn me, Antonio. Only you can say the words."

"Words make it real!"

Up and down.

Up and down.

"It was real."

"In my dreams."

"It was real, Antonio."

Tears burned the back of Tony's eyes. "Yes…"

His body felt like every nerve he possessed was on fire.

He was being possessed, and he wasn't sure how.

In his dreams, as Elena, there was terror.

Stark.

Bloody.

Helplessness.

The crushing weight of men lying over him.

Her.

Legs spread wide.

Forced apart.

Held apart.

Flesh tearing into him.

Her.

Fingers.

Mouths.

Stale sweat.

Spit.

Fear.

Screams for Papa!

But Papa never came.

Not once.

In those nightmares when the past intruded on his thoughts, he was lost.

Weak.

Dying.

Or whenever he could no longer maintain the walls that held his enemies at bay, he was on his knees.

A dirty floor beneath him.

Straw that stank of urine.

Death.

And forceful penetration.

His degradation.

Beaten.

Bloodied.

Weak from hunger.

Nowhere safe.

No hiding place.

Nowhere to run.

Hair pulled back.

A filthy cock in his mouth.

No relief.

No release.

No help.

No mercy.

No end.

Vicious and violent.

Until his swollen eyes, beaten shut, could no longer see the line of men awaiting their turn with him.

And he could no longer count the numbers who forced themselves inside him without respite.

The screams and cries of his friend who suffered just as he did, were his only reminder that he was not alone in hell.

Else surely he would have let them kill him there and spill his blood into their rank and sour seed upon the floor.

His gut ached.

Twisted.

Bruised.

He could no longer tell night from day, save by the moment his cell door was flung open, and he was snatched at afresh, to be nothing but a receptacle for the lusts of men.

Protestations were pointless. For each man who threatened to knock out his teeth if he were not silent, so another enjoyed his please and cries.

Some would make him come, just to feel him shuddering inside on their cocks.

Others covered him with their juices and piss.

Spat on him.

Some faces he could remember so well.

Some returned to him often.

They wanted his pain.

And his jailers made much money whoring him out to any of their fellow scum who would pay handsomely to defile the once pure and holy Crusader.

So many times was he possessed by the men who violated him, that to be instead possessed by his own Mate at last, not for gain, not for power, not for humiliation, not for sport, but for passion, for love, for their Bond, for the completion, for their Souls, forever…

It broke him into pieces.

Shattered his resolve.

Tears flowed freely.

Humbly.

Desperately.

He had no right to the possessiveness he had displayed.

Such arrogance!

Such foolish pride!

Born of fear.

Self-doubt.

The nagging concern that all he had gained, all he had found in Jethro, in his Mate, would be somehow swept away again, was there.

Lost.

Gone forever.

In the nightmares left behind, he was alone.

Truly alone.

He shuddered.

And sobbed.

But he was not alone.

Never alone.

"I am yours! Only yours! Always yours!" he cried, choking on the word that came with reality as it hit him.

Hard and clear.

"Good boy," Jethro murmured proudly, watching the fully play of emotions that crossed Tony's distraught face. "Come for me. Now!" he ordered, finally tightening his fingers all the way around his Mate's hot and straining erection, holding him steady as he climaxed with a jolting, grateful scream.

His back arched up off the bed, until his body crashed through tense rigidity into utterly boneless satisfaction.

At last.

At last.

At last.

At last.

At last.

He pumped his seed into Jethro's hand, grunting softly with each spurt, as he collapsed onto the bed again, spent.

His eyelids fluttered.

His hair was a mess.

His chest heaved.

He lay soaked in sweat, smelling of mango and sex. Yet a smile briefly graced his lips as he sighed in contented bliss.

With a growl, Jethro flipped him over easily enough, before freeing his own massively craving dick from the ridiculous confines of his own sweatpants.

Slicking himself with Tony's offering, he promptly laid Claim to that which was also his, by pushing his erection between the ripe cheeks of his Mate's perfect buttocks, to fill the quivering hole that awaited him.

He wanted to be gentle.

Reassuring.

Patient and tender.

Yet the Vampire was done with such matters, and he slid forward into Tony's ass until there was nothing whatsoever between them.

"This is mine," he gasped hoarsely, licking behind his Mate's left hear. "Every last inch of you."

"Yes, please…" It was a tremulous admission.

"Mine alone," Jethro snarled, buried inside him to the very core.

"God, yes!" Tony panted, his Mate's body so smoothly melding to his own that he could no longer distinguish himself from Jethro. "Yours. Only yours. All yours. Forever."

The tears he cried, had neither dried nor ceased to flow, and he sobbed without shame as he was fucked into the mattress with quick, hard strokes that found their mark and brought him swiftly to completion a second time.

"Thank you," he moaned, truly grateful for the sensation of being somehow washed clean by Jethro's juices flooding deep inside him.

"Yours," they whispered to each other, falling asleep, locked in an embrace that could never more be torn apart.


***




Warrick totally hated the drive back from New Orleans to Sylum Manor. It never failed in its utter tedium, especially when he was tired and annoyed.

For all the work he and Catherine had put into the hotel suite where Richelieu seemed to have been dancing the horizontal mambo with a woman who was certainly not his Mate, they had precious little to show but a few phone records they were still trying to get, some personal items, unidentifiable smudges and partials that were probably from Housekeeping, and a credit card number that Nick had told him by text, to forward on to Lucius Malfoy.

The Bond with his Mate had been fluctuating between familiar lows and peculiar highs, with not much in between to balance things out.

Riddick had been pissed at being unable to do more, though a Chosen One had sent Diego a text with a badly angled photo which suggested from figures in the background, that Megan Donner had indeed been at the hotel in the last few days. Stillson had been planning this. And Richelieu probably paid him a ton to do it.

It was insanely annoying.

They had been played.

And were still struggling to catch up.

It only made matters worse when Catherine decided to give him the silent treatment for the entire drive home. Not that he really gave a damn. He had more immediately important things to worry about than her sex life, or lack thereof.

As far as he was concerned, she'd learned a vital lesson about not getting between Mates, and while he could well have been a bit more judicious about what he'd done, he wasn't in the least bit bothered by it.

If she needed an hour to unwad her panties, that was her business. She wasn't his supervisor. She could hardly cry 'sexual abuse' when she'd been more than ready and willing to get in his pants. And if she didn't quite grasp the use of sexual power yet in Vampire terms, he figured she'd probably need to go back to the pole she used to dance on.

When they did finally get to the Manor, he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Not knowing what else might yet be coming at his Clan when least expected, was wearing heavily at his mind, and though Riddick and Diego had been right behind them the entire drive, he felt edgy and stressed.

He needed his Mate.

And just as soon as they'd safely delivered the small assortment of evidence bags that were cautiously stashed in the small trunk of his silver Audi, he intended Claiming Nick's ass in no uncertain terms.

Catherine however, had her own ideas, and leapt out of the car as he pulled up in the parking lot that was framed by the two oldest garages on the Estate.

Without even looking back, saying goodnight, or waving her hand in dismissal, she stalked away toward the main house, leaving him there with a scowl on his face and the bang of the car door still ringing in his ears where she'd slammed it too hard.

"No, no," he muttered to himself, "that's fine. I can handle the bags by myself. Thanks for caring."

He was about to turn into the garage, and had just hit the remote door opener, when Riddick pulled around behind him, and parked his Mustang.

Diego was climbing out, as a moment later his own black Lexus made an unexpected appearance, coming off the road and slipping neatly into the open garage that had been nicknamed 'Summer', where it took its customary place beside Dr. Rossi's little Fiat. Warrick slammed his fist on the steering wheel, yelling a string of obscenities at whoever just cut him off, only to watch Brass leap out of the car and gesture back at him with equal disgust.

"You like my ride?" Diego asked archly.

"I wasn't going anywhere in that piece of shit McGee uses!" Jim answered, throwing his hands up defensively.

Warrick finally managed to park on the other side of Diego's Lexus, and spotted in his rearview, the unmistakable figure of Thomas, who came striding across the lot towards them.

Really, the very last thing he wanted was some long, drawn out briefing on the current state of the Manor. He knew it mattered, but there were others who could deal with it at that point.

He was about to start grumbling, when his presumptions were overridden.

Jim hugged his Mate quickly, then headed straight for the house, talking animatedly with Diego and Riddick, whose tense prowl was highly suggestive of a man in need of his own Mate.

"I hope Eric's ready for that," Warrick muttered, fishing in the trunk for his evidence bags.

"I would say, yes," Thomas assured him. "The Turning has been most smooth for Master Eric, although rather painful. He should be able to cope with Master Richard in a few hours. Although one is inclined to believe that there may be a great deal of explanation where the Delko family is concerned."

Warrick snorted. "There was with Bryon's family too, remember?"

"Indeed." Thomas smiled in recollection. "Please, allow me to take care of the items you are rather impatiently juggling. I believe you might be better off in being at your own Mate's side for the remainder of the night."

"Y'think?"

Thomas took the Pirate's rudeness in his stride, and merely held his arms out. "They are not officially marked for chain of evidence requirements. I shall simply take them to the lab and explain where they are all from."

Warrick, lips pursed, contemplated his options. His Bond with Nick had settled from the violent buffeting of the last few hours, to a warm and steady hum that pulled at him tightly.

"I have already left you clean clothes in the Wet Room. You will find fresh towels and toiletries. Shower, leave your dirty items, and go be with Master Nicolaus," Thomas continued. "He needs you."

"Yeah!" Warrick rather unceremoniously dumped everything on the Clan's Chief of Staff. "Been sensing that. Thanks."

"You are most welcome."

"Where was Jim in Diego's car?"

"Vacherie. The usual places. He will likely brief Clan Leadership in the morning."

"Okay," he sighed, suddenly done with worrying about anything but his Roman. "Thanks, man."

It took him 30 minutes to wash and freshen up. After scrounging around a hotel suite on his hands and knees, and rummaging through a used bathroom, he was more than ready for a shower, and took the chance to enjoy it while he could, calming the nagging anxieties that still refused to leave him alone.

True to his word, Thomas had left him everything he needed, including a toothbrush, a mug of blood, a sweatshirt and matching pants, and a pair of his favorite sneakers.

By the time he was ready to head upstairs, he felt a bit less irritable.

Thankfully, the Wet Room and Laundry were devoid of interruptions, annoyances, and foot traffic. He just hoped everyone was either heading back from Ellislie sometime soon, or safely tucked in the bed at least. But he doubted it.

The Manor was rarely that quiet for very long, even on a bad day.

Padding swiftly up the Grand Stairs, he stretched his senses out a touch, picking through the sounds of life around him, pleased to find there was little in the way of either noise, or puzzling disturbance. A few voices were chattering, and a couple of the children in Speed's wing were fussing, yet still it felt like the calm before the storm.

He shook his head, stopping long enough as he opened the door to Nick's office, for the dogs to offer their customary licks and nose rubs. They got little liver treats from the box on the shelf by the stairs, as reward for their attention to duty, and with that, he scooted up to where he hoped he was going to find his Mate getting some rest.

After the horrifying incident with the crazed stalker who had killed their last dogs and run amok in their rooms only to be found naked in their bed and begging for sex, there had been some serious redesigning of their accommodations, and the insertion of what felt like more doors and extra safety precautions than Area 51. But if that was what it took to ensure Nick could get some sleep at night, then Warrick was good with it.

And he took care to shut said doors at both the bottom, then the top of the office stairs.

He didn't bother with the lights. It wasn't as though he was walking into a strange place, and there were certainly no rugs to trip over.

It always made him smirk.

Nick and rugs never went well together, but then again that was just a matter of perspective, and opportunity.

Locking the door, he crept forward, kicking his shoes off to the right, over by the couches where the fire was still burning high enough to warm the whole place with a comfort that he badly missed in Vegas.

He had lived in many places over the last few hundred years, all of which had varied hugely in size, practicality and function. Some had been a hell of a lot cleaner than others too, or more sparse than he cared to admit. Still, it was only at the Manor he felt truly content, and truly at home.

The couches were a matching pair of wide L-shapes in soft brown leather, deep and sturdy enough to hold him and his Mate lying full length together, side by side. They'd seen a lot of action, a lot of talk, and a lot of life in general.

Their long backs were perpendicular to the fireplace, which was made of the same green marble that Alex had gifted to Sylum Clan centuries before. Placed in opposing symmetry, a narrow table of the same height, sat flush between them, bearing a handmade replica of the Red Stallion in all her glorious sail.

The short side of the right couch, faced into the room, and the one on the left faced toward the fire. That was usually where he found his Mate, if he was still awake, curled into the joining corners, hiding under a blanket.

But not that night.

Still, Nick's laptop lay on the wide, circular coffee table that perfectly matched its twin over with the other couch. Both were of Italian design, and elaborate craftsmanship, made by the same artisan who had tooled both Nick's and Tony's religious shrines, as well as the enormous dining room table downstairs.

Warrick snorted softly at finding his Mate's clothes had barely made it to the nearest armchair, and there was a shoe tucked under the adjacent loveseat at a random angle.

The long velvet drapes were pulled, their gold acreage hiding what was in his opinion, the best view from the house. He loved sitting at his favorite piano - an 1890 Steinway Grand that stood upon a rectangular rug which bore the familiar Fleur-de-Lis of New Orleans in purple, green and gold - watching the sky and the treetops, unencumbered by boundaries, free of restraint. He was inspired right there, framed by a pair of tall windows. And he usually wrote his best music from that every spot.

Brushing past the pool table, his thoughts drifted to the last time he and Nick had played. They could be intense in competition, but never without good cause, and he had some particularly arousing memories of losing, and being spread naked over the baize, lying on his back, gazing up at the dark coffered ceiling, 10 feet or so over his head, as his Mate took what he had won with as much vigor as in the winning.

It was funny, but he usually only stared at that ceiling with his legs in the air and his ass full of Roman cock.

It was a very Roman ceiling actually, the coffers deeply recessed into dropped beams that formed a perfect grid pattern. But instead of being the usual stark white classic architecture, it was instead formed from light brown coffers, the warm color of cherrywood, and darker beams of old oak from the Estate.

A pair of circular chandeliers, like the ones in the Great Room, only slightly smaller, hung in the corridor he was facing, that lay between the bathroom on the right, and the closet on his left. Such lights also matched those in Nick's office.

A full-length mirror in a black, wrought iron frame, reflected his tired and shadowy form, as he turned to the right, where a fully functional kitchen had been constructed in the corner where the outer wall of the suite, and the bathroom wall made a sharp angle. It was stocked with absolutely everything a modern kitchen required, and was big enough to hold a long central island with 3 barstools, and even a wine cooler. They also had a circular dining table over by the window.

Two chairs.

Two place settings.

For private meals.

And personal time.

Warrick loved that table.

It's central leg and three-toed foot was black wrought iron from the city, but it's top had been crafted from salvaged timbers that once formed a certain set of boxes in which Nicolaus had transported the wealth for building a Clan in the New World.

He grinned to himself as he cracked open a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, and gulped it down gratefully. It felt like it had been an incredibly long day, but he knew he ought to slip into his office for a while and check his email. He too had a network of Chosen Ones, not all of whom were inside the United States, and he wondered vaguely if perhaps one of them at least, had heard anything out of the ordinary about seemingly long dead Frenchmen.

He just couldn't quite bring himself to hope for what he knew was a very slim chance.

His office was opposite the kitchen, on the left of their apartment before reaching the closet. It's end wall framed one side of the bedroom, where Nick had his shrine.

He loved that there were two doors to the room, one that faced the kitchen, and one that opened onto the bedroom so he could come and go as he pleased when he was working, without disturbing his Mate - wherever his Mate was at the time of course.

His office had actually been a total surprise, not originally present on the plans drawn up by Michelangelo for the redesign of the central building's upper floor. He'd never really had much of an office until the big unveiling had happened in 2000. He'd always worked out of his jazz club, or the recording studio. And for a while, at the end of the 19th Century, he'd maintained some of his closer business interests from a corner table in the back of the Great Room, until that had proven just too inadequate, and seriously annoying for holding a conversation in private.

Nick had known how much he missed the Captain's Cabin of the Red Stallion, and built him an office that was as close to the original on the inside, that it could possibly be on dry land. Of course, he'd filled it and decorate it as only a Pirate could, complete with the Persian rugs he'd always wanted back on the floor again, and assorted items of Booty in which he'd found more of an intrinsic value than a monetary one - including a certain silver tanked with a dent in it, that he'd reclaimed in 1999 from the thieving hands of Jack Sparrow.

Captain Jack Sparrow!

He chortled as he corrected himself, happy in the knowledge that there was no way his sneaky fellow Pirate would ever know where to find it again.

Slugging back the last of his water, Warrick tossed the plastic bottle for recycling, and realized that for once, Nick had very likely made it into bed. There was no water running in the bathroom, and no clattering around from the closet. And his Mate never invaded the Captain's Cabin without asking permission to come aboard.

Creeping back around the other side of the pool table, he brushed past the display cases that ran along the outer wall of his office. Their content was an eclectic blend of historical eras and Pirate triumphs. Though Thomas did sadly force him to keep the Polynesian shrunken heads in a chest in the attic.

No candles were lit at Nick's shrine, but a mildly sulfurous tang in the air suggested they had been burning earlier.

Their bedroom didn't have a door, but was hidden from sight, tucked in the corner on the left of the main entrance, behind a long, back to back row of 10 foot high bookshelves and glass fronted storage cubbies, which formed a considerably thick wall all by themselves. On its inner side were more shelves for a series of sliding square cubes that held sturdy boxes and baskets for the general bits and pieces of random every day clutter that life tended to generate.

Where that wall ended, a series of carved, dark oak screens, with vertical hinged brackets for folding and reshaping their panels into different lengths, formed the far end of the room, and allowed access to the bed. Each screen had been artistically themed to depict the skyline of Renaissance Rome, and were hand-crafted by Raphael himself. The one nearest the bookshelves, currently had a sock hang off the region of Saint Peter's Basilica. The screens were incredibly tactile, encouraging the viewer to run their fingertips over the mighty edifices that were the glory of Nick's first home.

Warrick snuck around to the furthest end of the panels, where there was space enough to enter.

On the wall in that spot, just high enough to be fractionally above his head, was a marble Titus - an erect phallus with a pair of wings. It was an ancient Roman fertility carving, made as a copy of the one that had been in Nick's possession from the time he first inherited the role of Paterfamilias to the Meridii.

It currently bore a pair of his Mate's hastily discarded boxer briefs.

Warrick snorted, leaving them there like a limp flag at half-mast.

To his immediate left, in the La-Z-Boy Recliner by the bookshelves, was the entire contents of a storage box in which they usually kept phone chargers and cables for laptops.

He frowned at the sight of such technological spaghetti, then realized what the problem seemed to be.

His Mate had a slightly different model of new cell phone.

And no connectors for charging it.

McGee probably forgot to let him have the cord and plug.

Why every phone had a different recharging system, Warrick had no idea. It was pretty ridiculous, and more than annoying, so he was rather inclined toward Angel's opinion that cell phones in general were the work of a bored Warlock.

He chuckled, finally finding his Mate had indeed made it to the bed, though not exactly under the covers.

It was rather adorable to see him sprawled out on his back across the comforter, completely naked bar one sock on his left foot.

Head back against the pillows, he was soundly asleep, his mouth open slightly his left arm flung off the edge of the bed, while his right hand managed somehow to cling to his phone, which was pressed against his right ear.

Warrick rolled his eyes, already knowing who was on the other end of the line. There was only one way to get Nick settled enough on a night like the one they'd been having, when true peace of mind was as elusive as cobwebs in a hurricane.

No cocoa or hot tea, or lavender oil. No relaxing in the sun, or massages. Sometimes not even repeatedly fucking the boy into the mattress would do it.

But he'd learned long ago not to be insulted by that.

Very, very gently, he eased the phone from his Mate's grasp, and put it to his own ear.

"Hey, Maximus," he whispered.

"Are we good?"

"Yes, sir. He's out."

"Finally! I was running short on news from the stables."

Having his distant ancestral grandfather talk quietly in his ear about the Stud Farm he ran in Spain, the horses, the day-to-day business of equine breeding, and just living a normal life away from the voices in his own head and the fears in his own heart, absolutely always did the trick.

"Thanks, General."

"Any time, Captain."

Warrick switched the phone off and put it on the bedside table, next to the 3-inch statue of Saint Michael standing astride the Devil. The little object had arrived one day, as a gift from the Vatican, care of Monseigneur Andrew Kieran. It served as a blessing for when Nick began his career as a cop in Dallas.

His Mate might regularly prefer the old ways of his family bloodline, but there were still certain things that Nick understood all too well.

Grabbing a blanket off the foot of the bed, Warrick covered his beloved, leaving his odd sock in place.

It won him a snort, a sniffling grunt and an almighty snore that he had to stop himself from laughing about.

Really, it was so cute.

With a sigh, he curled onto the bed himself, pulling Nick in against him, melding their bodies together easily.

There had been some long and tedious nights - not to mention days - when he'd been frantic to ensure his Mate not be woken up after struggling like mad to get to sleep. And it was not exactly unheard of for all kinds of shit to test his patience at the craziest moments, which meant he seriously expected something to happen right then, that would have him threatening bloody murder to literally everyone, for disturbing Nick's peace.

But strangely, if not ominously, nothing stopped him from closing his own eyes and letting exhaustion take its natural course.


***


Three hours later, Speed had given up trying to pretend he was entirely comfortable, even though he had his Mate's arms around him. There were too many thoughts, too many memories, too many flashes of the recent past arcing through his brain.

They made him ache.

In all the wrong places.

He knew he was healed.

More or less.

His flesh no longer burned.

His muscles no longer cramped.

His eyes still stung whenever he opened them after being asleep for any length of time, and his vision blurred at the edges bad enough to have him reaching for the drops that had wound up on the bedside table at some point.

It pissed him off.

Made him irritable.

Though he could easily have called for more blood to be sent up, he didn't want to stay in bed any more. There were things he needed to straighten out.

Understand.

Accept.

He smiled fondly at Horatio, grateful to have not disturbed him with all the restless shifting around he'd been doing. There was so much he needed to make up for, but the Bond was acting like a warm blanket he could pull over his shoulders to hide beneath, and it made him see the things he had suffered, with a much better perspective.

Still in his pj's he snuck out of his rooms, suddenly craving something sweet. Normally it was his Papa who had a taste for dessert when he was stressed, so he figured it might help.

It never seemed to do Nick any harm.

Sylum's Clan Leader however, had also had enough of just lying around.

He'd slept.

There was no disputing that.

He'd dreamt of horses.

Of endless green fields and the pounding hooves of an animal beneath him, carrying him with effortless power to a destination he could never quite reach, but knew to be there.

Right there.

In the distance.

Where the light met the horizon.

Where the light beckoned…

It was always the same, whenever he had Max on the phone.

It was his favorite dream.

It urged him on.

Kept him focused.

Kept him working for that future.

That goal.

In the light.

Stretching out a little, he was pleased to find that he actually felt a great deal better than he had in while.

Rested.

Ready.

Sliding out of the blanket he'd been wrapped in like a burrito, he wondered why he hadn't actually gotten into bed, and as he put his feet on the floor he finally figured out why he had one warm foot, and one freezing cold one.

He shook his head and made for the bathroom before his fidgeting woke Warrick. There were cookies in the kitchen downstairs, and they had his name on. Besides which, he wanted to check in with the team he'd left at Ellislie.

With a chuckle, he unhooked his underwear from the Titus and replaced them with Warrick's which had been lying on the back of the chair.

It made him smile as he assessed his reflection with critical consideration in the mirror over the bathroom sink. There were still grey smudges under his eyes, but he was looking a hell of a lot more awake than someone on three-ish hours of sleep really should.

Turning right around, he realized the window by the bath was open a crack, and he strode swiftly across the room to close it. Though he appreciated hearing the birds below in the raptor cages, and the movement of water in the Koi pond, he knew his Mate was averse to the cold, especially first thing in the morning.

Pausing long enough to figure he really didn't need to shave, he cleaned his teeth then padded out to the closet, grabbing fresh socks, a pair of ratty old jeans that were dangerously thin in the crotch but way more comfortable than his irritating sweatpants with the itch inducing seams, and a dark red t-shirt with an eagle on the front, resplendent in full flight.

Dressing on the move, he decided there was nothing another Feed couldn't cure, for he still had a few aches and bruises to remind him of the last few days.

The digital timer on the microwave read 3:56 am as he snuck past the apartment kitchen and downstairs to his office.

The dogs gave him a cursory glance as he appeared, each managing to crack at least one eye open as he passed them by.

It was too early.

Even for them.

He was halfway across the Great Room, in the shadows of the dwindling fire, when he heard it.

The steady heartbeats of Legolas and Gimli had obscured it at first, but there it was…

Nick paused.

He had his shirt partly over his head, one arms stuck through it, and one ear out of the neck hole.

But there it was…

He blinked.

Frozen.

It was unmistakable.

The sounds of sexual coupling.

Soft but persistent.

And quite energetic.

Two men.

One deeper of voice.

Both human.

Racing pulses.

Gasping cries.

He shook his head.

Gil and Greg?!

Yep, indeed.

Gil and Greg were going for broke.

And for a second there he actually wondered if the bedframe in the guest room could stand it.

In the back of his mind, he vaguely recalled that Catherine and Lindsey had moved into Speed's Wing with the other kids, or he would've been beating the damn door down and telling them to quit it while there were kids around.

Then he realized his hearing was perhaps a touch too sensitive.

Tugging his shirt on fully, he heard the moment of climax and shuddered, wishing that particular mental image out of his mind.

He'd never thought Gil and Greg were likely to be a pair, and he had the horrifying thought that just maybe they were destined to be Mates. Weirder shit had happened in the history of his Clan, not to mention the Vampire species as a whole - which was the only way to ever explain Cutler Beckett and William Tavington. But after all the crap that Gil had pulled on him, he wondered if Lady Heather had so completely misconstrued the Bug Man's urgings, she'd actually been trying to set things up for him with Greg all along, simply because they were Mates.

He shrugged his shirt down, smirking to himself.

It wasn't the craziest concept he'd ever contemplated.

Hearing Greg compliment their Boss on his size and stamina though, was just too much, and he walked away with his shoulders back, holding his head up, hoping that Grissom's return from the crime scene where Speed had been found, meant the work there was done and everyone was home safely.

It hardly came as a great surprise when he found his wayward kid sneaking down the stairs, barely three steps from the landing.

"Going somewhere, boy?" he asked.

Tim froze, and sagged a little at being caught. "Kitchen," he muttered, not turning around. "Thought I'd steal your cookies."

Nick laughed lightly. "Nice try."

"Why are you up?"

"Warrick's snoring."

Speed snickered. "He should've fucked you into the bed a little harder."

They trotted down to the ground floor, side by side.

"Should've given Horatio the same advice."

"Like he needed any encouragement?" The deep seated ache inside his gut, was a sure reminder that his ass no longer belonged where it used to.

He wasn't expecting his Papa's hand on his shoulder though, and it made him flinch.

"Hey! Easy there, little one!" Nick stopped him in his tracks and turned him so they could look at each other. "You're going to see Rossi."

It wasn't a question.

Or a request.

"I feel so much better for you reminding me!" Speed grumbled, but he didn't pull away. "I really don't want a lecture."

"Then take a hug?" Nick knew how to read his boy, better than his boy would ever know, and he pulled him close before those infamous 'puppy eyes' could tug at his heart like they normally did. "What's on your mind right now?" he asked, ruffling his kid's hair, feeling him cling to his arms. "Besides my sugar rush, that is?"

"I think I have a problem."

It was muttered into his shoulder, but Nick heard him well enough. "You've just been through all kinds of hell."

"Like I don't know that?" Speed snarked. "It's not that. It's from that." As much as he didn't want to admit it, he knew it was true.

"What?"

"I think…"

"What?" With some concern, he pushed his boy back a little and stared him hard in the eyes, seeing them flicker with an uncertainty that was so very reminiscent of their earliest days and weeks together, when they were just beginning to know and accept one another. "What's going on?"

Speed took a long, slow breath. "I have a problem."

"Okay." Nick nodded firmly. "There's nothing we can't fix. You know that."

His words inspired much in the way of snorting. "If you tell anyone this…!"

"What? Spit it out, boy!"

"I have a kink, okay?" He finally said it out loud, shrugging away from him and looking utterly mortified.

"Is that all?" Nick had seriously been way more concerned. "You've actually discovered the knife fetish you've been suppressing all these years?"

"Do not make this a joke!" Speed growled.

"Look at my face, boy. Do I make jokes about these things?"

"No, sir!" And Sylum's Clan Advisor had to admit it was true. "What? Wait! You know?"

"The large collections of blades you keep upstairs, was a tiny bit of a clue, yeah."

Speed sighed, blushing hotly. "You never said anything."

"Why would I? You'd learn eventually." Nick was nothing if not proud. "So what made you realize?"

"She had a knife. Elise…"

"She hurt you."

"Yes, that wasn't… Yes. Yes, she did. It wasn't what she did, it was her knife." He'd been trying to determine for the last few hours why his thoughts keep endlessly returning to that blade as it moved, rather than the hand which had wielded it. "You've never had… I mean, have you ever…? With a knife?" he asked, not knowing that his Sire's memory was even then, running through some rather remarkable moments in his own experience, the most erotic of which had involved a certain knife with a heavily jeweled handle, and a lusty Pirate who knew how to use it quite creatively. "Yes." Nick kept things simple and honest. "It's not something you should be ashamed of."

Had he the strength just then, Speed would absolutely have flailed in his face and stalked off in disgust. But he didn't. "I am not ashamed!" he hissed. "Did I even say I was ashamed?"

"I think the look on your face is telling me the real truth, right now." Nick smiled encouragingly. "Let's get Heather on the phone later. You can talk to her." He put arm around his kid's shoulders to try and steer him into the kitchen. "She's got to have some advice, if you don't really want to talk to me about it."

"Oh, for the love of God!" Speed muttered sourly. "Did I say I wasn't going to talk to you?"

"I just thought you might find it easier to talk to someone else."

"Yeah, 'cause what I really need right now is more therapy!"

The kitchen at Sylum Manor was perfectly proportioned to the size of the Estate and its regular, as well as irregular occupancy, not to mention the number of social functions that were scheduled annually for its busy calendar.

Once upon a time, it had been physically separated from the main building for safety reasons, to prevent the spread of fire if ever the cooking got out of hand, or someone forgot the oven was lit. But over the years, with expansions, additions, remodeling and redesigns that were encouraged by the growth of modern appliances and assorted labor saving devices, the two buildings had come together until the kitchen finally connected to the Manor, via the main wall of the Ballroom, with which it shared the vast fireplace and chimney stack.

Reaching it from the foot of the stairs, meant turning left if you were just entering the front of the Manor, or turning right if you were coming from the second floor. And though it sometimes felt like quite a trek, plodding past the long Dining Room on the left, and the Ballroom on the right, there was always a welcoming glow at the far end of the hallway, and a place to be found for anyone in need.

The door was of stable design, with a shelf that could be bracketed over the lower half whenever the kitchen was closed, so food, snacks and drinks could still be served. Not that such moments occurred often, but there were times when major cleaning was required, or prep was underway for a big event, or Cook was just sick of the interruptions she so frequently had to tolerate.

The latter occurrence being generally relieved by a lengthy vacation.

And the former, by a great deal of advanced warning.

The doorway mirrored one exactly opposite, that led out to the Laundry and Wet Room, and straight through to yet another door that gave access to the veranda and a view of the brick path and orchard, past which lay the old garage.

To the left was the Butler's Pantry, then a Linen Room, Cold Storage and Food Pantry. Above that was the window into their Chief of Staff's Great Room upstairs.

To the right of the Laundry room door was a giant, walk-in, stainless steel refrigerator, a pair of stove tops with modern extractor fans, double ovens, and acres of white marble worktop space, with cupboards above and below. A toaster sat in the far right hand corner. It wasn't the usual pop-up domestic type, but an industrial size affair with a conveyor belt for putting food on, that dropped toasted goods into a crumb catcher if you failed to maintain eye contact with it long enough. It was positively lethal to the untrained, but after repeated incidents where all manner of products had gotten jammed, or overdone in a more traditional style toaster, and the Fire Insurance had one up in price accordingly, Thomas had commissioned Master Artemus to design something better. Though he had been forced to remove the mechanical spider before anyone would even go near it.

It also had the added benefit of keeping Cook from having a nervous breakdown.

She had been in service to Sylum Manor for just over 30 years, and was training her daughter to take over one day, much as her own mother had previously trained her. Clan and staff members alike, fondly referred to said daughter as 'Cook Lite', given that Cook herself was always just 'Cook', and her mother had been known as 'Cook Senior' until the day she died. For two weeks precisely, following the dear old lady's funeral, everyone could remember her name and the names of her family.

After which, there was a dose of collective amnesia and Cook went back to being Cook again.

Natural light came in through the double-wide windows over the double-wide kitchen sinks on the far right hand wall. Though the draining board was stainless steel, the sinks were also of marble, square, deep, and big enough to actually bathe Gimli in.

When Cook wasn't there, obviously.

The faucets were very modern, with mixer heads and a retractable nozzle that could make gentle shower patterns of water.

Gimli enjoyed that particular facility very much.

There were a pair of dishwashers under the draining board, and a small but powerful garbage disposal that tended to sound like a Space Shuttle launch on a wet morning.

The smaller door to the herb garden, that been planted just beyond the windows, was tucked to the far right of the sinks. It was also of the stable variety, and allowed for those without muddy and filthy shoes, to slip in and out, bypassing the Wet Room.

In the same corner, on the right hand wall, was a hidden concertina style, multiple folding panel door which permitted access to the Ballroom for food plates and platters to be served, or laid out according to need. This made life easier for everyone, especially during a big event with many people coming and going, as the potential for messy, embarrassing accidents was greatly reduced.

So clever was the overall design, with the bolts, hinges and handles being visible only from the kitchen side - if you knew what you were looking for - that from the Ballroom side you would never even realize it was there.

And then there was the fireplace.

Of the same size and dimension as its twin on the other side of the adjoining wall to the right of the main doorway, it could hold an entire pig on a spit, or safely accommodate a six-foot man standing upright under the brickwork.

It was a simple enough construct, easily cleaned and maintained, adorned only with a central carving over the lintel, of the Sylum Clan triquetra.

Nearest the door was what Cook referred to as the 'Grab 'n' Go' - a long countertop on which was habitually laid out a series of daily snack and sweets, from savory pastries to pies and cookies, all arranged on circular silver or ceramic displays, under domed glass lids or wire framed nets that kept flies and bugs say. There was also a large filter coffee machine, and a few jars for candies that were highly reminiscent of the old-fashioned General Store, where once upon a time you could find barley sugar and gumballs, kept up high on the shelves out of harm's way and sticky fingers.

Under the counter was a cabinet on the left for sugar, condiments, napkins and straws. Then a glass fronted shelf space for mugs, plates, cups and bowls, next to which was a chiller for coffee creamer, soda and milk, as well as a small ice maker.

On the right there was a stack of drawers for spoons, forks, knives, scissors and other miscellaneous items that might be needed in a tearing hurry.

No paper plates, disposable cups, or stirrers were permitted. Thomas refused to be seen catering for the 'Freeway Rest Stop Brigade'.

The rear wall above the counter was framed by a blackboard on the left, and a cork board on the right, all lit by three, wrought iron, angled spot lamps.

The blackboard was for Cook's use only. She usually left a brief rundown on it of the day's 'Grab 'n' Go specials, and if anyone was found leaving their own message there (about cleanliness, the stealing of other people's cookies, or the lack some individuals seemed to possess the world over of being unable to refill the coffee pot) they ran into the terrible wrath of Thomas.

No one knew how he knew who did it.

He just did.

And it wasn't worth the risk.

New Clan members learned fast.

That was just the way of things.

The cork board was for family and Clan bulletins, photos, reminders, business cards, and the sundry scraps of information that were forever generated by any socially active group of like-minded individuals.

Items stayed a maximum of 6 months before being trashed, or archived as necessary.

If you wanted your photos back, you never risked the deadline.

Thomas was immune to infantile whining anyway.

A rectangular island had been placed in the 1980s, at the far end of the kitchen floor near the sink. It had proven useful for extra seating occasionally, and actually made it easier for people to move around the place without getting in each other's way.

At both of the short ends, there were shelves holding recipe books, but Cook Lite had finally snuck a microwave into the space at the end by the ovens, which was where it had been originally designed to go. If Cook hadn't stubbornly refused point blank, to even have one in the house.

It only took about 20 years for her to figure out that microwaves weren't spawned from the devil's own hellish kitchen in Hades.

The floor was unpolished Roman Travertine in mosaic squares, the color of which beautifully complimented the oak fronted cabinet and drawers.

But pride of place in all of that was by far the glorious table.

Big enough to seat 14, it was solid oak, heavy, plain and functional.

Scrubbed clean every day, it filled the length of the room, and had borne witness to more of the Clan's life than anyone would ever truly know.

Speed pulled out one of the matching high-backed chairs and sat down, right in front of the low burning fire.

It cast his shadow over the table top.

Nick turned up the dimmer switch by the door, illuminating the room better.

With the final, massive alterations to the side of the building that joined the kitchen to the house, the roofline had been raised to an apex total of just over 20 feet, accommodating the front wall having an upper floor for their Chief of Staff to be properly housed.

It had granted the entire space a huge amount of extra light from much bigger windows, and given it a greater flow of air whenever it got too hot and humid. The roof line was visible through a series of heavy cross beams that added extra support to the entire structure and from those had been suspended two pieces of timber from the old Smoke House, which had finally been demolished around the same time.

One piece was short, age darkened, and ran the length of the island. While the longer piece was at right angles to it, covering the entirely of the main table.

From them hung thick, black cables to varying heights, from which were suspended light bulbs encased in mason jars.

The work of Artemus Gordon, it held 10 in total across the island, and 25 along the table, giving a remarkably clear, yet at the same time a very warm light when fully turned on.

Though Cook had forced the removal of each small mechanical spider that once sat in each jar.

No one would sit down to eat otherwise.

For a while, Nick busied himself getting the coffee machine on. It wasn't so early that his efforts would be in vain.

Then he turned to making tea, filling the big old-fashioned whistling kettle, and putting it on a low gas.

Speed was so still and quiet, one might otherwise have thought him asleep.

His Papa however, knew better. "Stop worrying about it. You're not weird," he said cheerfully, snickering just a bit. "Well, weirder than normal."

"Thanks for channeling Tony there."

"You're welcome!"

Nick pulled out the chair, one up from his kid, and half turned it around to he could sit and look at him.

"Feels weird."

"Everyone has kinks, boy. Trust me on this. Repressing them is what fucks with people's heads. Your problem is that you figured it out in the worst possible way."

"You really picked me right up there."

"I'm helping, and you know it."

Speed growled in frustration. "It's still weird."

"Focus on the knife, not the person who owned it."

"I hate you."

"I know."

"How is it possible that I couldn't even blink but she could get me off?" He watched his Sire's head tilt slightly. "More than once."

"I honestly don't know. Ducky says drugs. But we've got no real idea. Not yet."

"I couldn't even blink!"

"I know."

"I've never come across any drug could do that to a Vampire, but leaves other parts fully capable." He frowned. "I don't even remember being dosed."

"We'll find answers. We always do. It's not like there's limits to where we can dig for information." He paused. "That reminds me, I need to see what McGee found at the airport." Something was nagging at him, and he couldn't sense what it was yet.

"There are too many moving parts in all this."

"Yes, but right now you are the only thing I'm concerned about."

"I can manage."

"Then why are you sitting here, and not upstairs with Horatio?"

"He's got enough to handle."

"Which would be you, boy."

Speed growled again. "This is…"

"What? Too much?"

"Yeah!"

"Look! Your Mate is capable of dealing with more than even he knows yet. You really think he's going to balk at you having a knife fetish?"

"Papa!!"

"Nuh-huh!" Nick shook his head at the outraged Childe routine. "He's already Claimed your ass more than once tonight, even with everything else that's happened to you. He's got more than a firm enough grasp on what it means to be a Vampire. So don't imagine he's not ready for what else could come. The two of you can deal with anything. That's what Mating is about. It's messy. It's weird. It's frustrating. And sometimes, yeah it's even utterly humiliating. But it's how the Gods want it. And it works."

"I still hate you."

"I still know," Nick chuckled, pulling his kid into his arms again. "Now, are you sure you don't want to call Heather or Evy?"

"Hell, no! There's nothing I can't read up on." He sat back, grinning. "You have experience, right? With knives?"

"It's all about trust. But you have that with him. It came when you Bonded. You have to talk to him about this though, or I will call Heather."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Don't dare me, boy!" Nick poked him in the shoulder. "You should know better."

"Ow!" Speed pointed as the kettle started boiling. "Ohh! Tea?"

"I can retrieve the knife you were talking about. The one Elise had. If you'd like it."

Sylum's Clan Advisor felt his eyes narrow as his Sire stood up and moved over to the stove.

"She kept it, huh?" he asked quietly, not exactly surprised.

"You saw what happened?"

"Right in front of me."

"I'm sure it was helpful in providing closure."

"To see that French bitch dead? You're damn right! Only thing better would've been doing it myself."

"That, I figured."

"Aveline is one of yours. She did a good job." He saw Nick's shoulders stiffen. "It's okay. I'm not as easily distracted as Tony. I figured some stuff out when we were in Rome, back along, getting rid of the damn Borgias. There's time to put the pieces together when you're wading hip deep in sewage, rather than swanning around the Church or shinning up every column in the city."

"Now you mention this? You could've said something during that French Revolution stuff."

Speed startled. "You knew I was…?"

"Remember the thing with the fox fur coat and the wine barrel?"

"That was you!?"

Nick's laughter was wicked. "Been waiting a long time to tell you that.

"You were never meant to know I was even in France!"

"Someone was bound to follow me. And while you're good at being a sneaky bastard, I also know my kids." He knew the grin on his face, as he put a big mug of strong, dark Irish tea - ready complete with milk and extra sugar - on the table in front of his son, was positively shit-eating. "It's nice when the old man can still stun one of his Children into silence. Makes me feel young again."

Speed rolled his eyes, but it actually pleased him to see his Sire so amused. "Tell Aveline she can keep the knife. She deserves it."

Nick nodded. "You'll need to Feed again soon."

"I'm fine."

"And once more he thinks he can fool me."

Speed groaned in mock horror. "I'll Feed," he grumbled, "while I tell Horatio what I want him to do with a blade as he pins me to the bed."

"Doesn't have to be the bed," Nick muttered, sitting back down with his own tea. "You can be creative. I believe in you. A little fear can be stimulating if applied correctly."

"I never doubted you'd come find me." Tim stared into his teacup like he was trying to read the leaves. "But I was afraid."

"It's not a crime to be," Horatio said quietly from the doorway, and his Mate nearly spat a sip of tea clear across the table.

"Jesus!" he choked, wiping his chin. "How long have you been out there?"

Nick's tiny chortle suggested he'd known the redhead was listening in the shadows for some time.

"Really??" Speed shot his Papa a filthy glare.

Horatio sat at Speed's left. "Long enough to keep you from needing to have too much of an awkward conversation later on," he said quietly, watching his Mate blush hotly. "Whatever you need, I'm with it." He took Speed's sudden shifting around in his seat, as a positive sign. "You want to show me your knife collection, Mister Quinn?" he teased knowingly.

Nick nodded his approval, and Speed glared at him some more, only to find there was a silent communication going on between the two most important men in his life, that made him wonder if he'd missed something earlier on when they'd been talking upstairs in his room.

"Sure," he finally answered, gulping his tea a bit too fast.

"I'll have some blood sent up, and a Chosen One." Sylum's Clan Leader was not about to be contradicted. "You both need it."

Horatio offered him a grateful smile. "Give us a couple of hours first?"

Nick smirked, and waggled his eyebrows. "Sure!"

Speed's shoulders sagged just for a brief instant before he stood up. "Well, I do have a considerable collection," he said primly. "And a serious interest in the subject."

Voices came to them from outside, as they heard the Wet Room door open.

"Leave now, while you still can," Nick urged, shooing them to the door with rapid hand gestures. "I got this!"

Speed took his tea, then leaned over and kissed his Papa on the forehead, before letting himself be lead back upstairs.

"Oh, my God! Coffee!!" It was Calleigh who burst through the door into the kitchen, Kate close behind her. "I smell coffee!"

"Thank you, God!" her friend groaned.

They'd kicked off their shoes in the Wet Room, and were both eager for a long hot shower and a few hours in bed. They were rather more accustomed to working all-nighters than either of them cared to admit, but they'd also found some common ground between them in their sudden and rather shocking exposure to Vampires, which kept them chatting, and ultimately kept them awake on the drive home.

Naturally then, it took them a momentary pause before they realized they were not alone in the kitchen, even as they honed in on the coffee machine.

It was Calleigh who startled first. "Oh! My! I didn't even see you there!" she cried, one hand flying to her chest as her heart leapt into her mouth.

That was when Cook came in behind them, to get started with the day's routine.

She nodded at those present in her domain, then set about prepping for breakfast, as utterly unfazed as ever by the peculiarities of her workplace.

"I should tell Doctor Grissom that Abby is working on our evidence," Kate explained, rummaging in the small fridge for some creamer. She was so tired, her hand had already brushed over it twice.

Nick almost snickered at her comment. "I would leave him alone right now," he advised, hoping his expression didn't suggest too much of what he was really feeling about Gil Grissom at that point. "Give him a few hours…"

He nearly said, 'of sleep' but wasn't exactly certain that the man would be getting any, from the way things had been going earlier.

Calleigh nodded. "No problem. We all need some rest." She barely stifled a very unladylike yawn.

"Pretty sure Abs in on one too many Red Bulls to stop working any time soon." Kate finally held up a bottle of French Vanilla Cream like a trophy at a sporting event. "Ha! Gotcha!!"

"Is she always that giggly when she's working?" Calleigh asked her.

"There's usually blasting music, caffeinated soda, and eager excitement, but the giggles and the blushing are new. And Gibbs wasn't even in the room!"

"Who was the guy she had with her? Itchy?"

"Icky. I think she said he was Icky."

Nick blinked. "Ichabod?" He'd actually not considered the man's whereabouts in recent time.

"You know him?" Kate couldn't believe she'd asked such a stupid question, but there it was.

"He's one of the founding father's of forensics."

"Seriously??" Calleigh nearly screeched in surprise. "You're sure!?"

"Oh, yes." Nick smiled knowingly, nodding. "He's…" the right word took some finding. "…interesting."

Kate chortled. "Sounds about right, but he and Abby are like two peas in a pod. It's sweet."

"Really??" Sylum's Clan Leader suddenly found himself pondering the potential of that.

"I think it's a good thing," Calleigh concluded, as she and Kate headed for the door. "Maybe they're meant to be Mates?"

"You really think that guy is one of the first forensic scientists?" Kate whispered, the two of them making their way up the Grand Stairs.

And Nick and to smirk at the newbies who hadn't quite gotten a clear idea yet on the full range of Vampire hearing.

"Around this place, anything is possible," Calleigh murmured.

"I'm half expecting to run into Abraham Lincoln, or George Washington."

"Maybe Lincoln was already a Vampire before he got shot?" Calleigh mused.

"Well that would've made life a tiny bit easier," Nick replied, thinking he should swap his tea for some coffee.

He was searching for the French Vanilla when Warrick came in.

"Is the whole household awake?" the Pirate demanded. "Ohh! Coffee!"

He still had his sleep pants on but had managed to find some thick socks and a bright green sweater in the barely awake daze he'd found himself staggering through, when he woke to discover Nick's side of the bed was cold, and their rooms were empty.

He slapped his Mate on the ass as he pulled a chair out and sat at the table. "How's the kid?"

"Which one?" Nick asked, sighing, wondering if he had enough patience to start explaining.

"Either?" Warrick offered.

"One day they might stop driving me crazy. But I doubt it."

"Kids, hmmm?" Catherine muttered.

Unable to sleep, she'd had a moment of surprise when she'd crept upstairs to Speed's wing of the house, only to discover Lindsey was not in the bed where she'd left her. Alexx had thankfully seen fit to leave her a hastily scribbled note though, telling her Linds had woken up and hadn't wanted to be alone, so she was in with the Woods family and they were 'camping' together, so Huck and Tom could get some sleep.

Catherine blamed Warrick for not being able to be there for her own daughter in the middle of the night, but the fact that it was a situation much akin to her normal work routine anyway, wasn't lost on her mind. Which brought her back to thoughts of her mother who normally did the babysitting.

And Warrick.

With her mother.

And it just pissed her off.

She was, however, smart enough to know she had no choice but to figure out whatever the hell her issue was.

Namely, her mother.

Whose face, floating in her subconscious as she showered, was sufficient to cure the raging lust still streaking through her tired body.

After that, there was some tossing and turning in bed, followed by recourse to caffeine.

And lots of it.

Thankfully.

She wasn't expecting company though, and managed to offer Nick something of a smile, while glaring rather disgustedly in Warrick's direction before turning her back on them both in order to pour the coffee she'd come downstairs for.

Nick slid Warrick a 'WTF?' look, and received an equally silent eye roll in return. He wasn't exactly sure what he should say to her given the particular emotional context he'd felt from his Mate earlier that night. And her own body language was hardly the friendliest he had ever seen.

Warrick studiously examined the contents of his own coffee mug after that, while Cook got some biscuits in the oven, and sausage patties in the frying pan.

It was Jim West who showed up after that, sniffing at the aroma of breakfast smells as he slid into the room like a man perpetually expecting a fanfare in acknowledgement of his sheer awesomeness. So very fastidious was his dress sense, and so precise his step in both ease and grace, no one would ever have imagined him to be newly arrived from the airport after spending the last day or so in Los Angeles with Jack Bauer, at the Counter-Terrorism Unit.

He had been there for the initial purpose of enlisting CTU in the creation of a smoother system for liaison with the US Marshal Service. Sam Gerard had never been one for much in the way of bureaucracy, and could see the great advantage of bypassing all that official paperwork brought about by the Patriot Act and Homeland Security. He rather preferred the Vampire to Vampire approach, which Jack Bauer - who was himself as well defined a maverick as Gerard - could fully comprehend, and completely appreciate.

Still a baby as far as the Vampire thing was concerned, Bauer was gratified that someone of Marshal Gerard's considerable reputation should actually prove to be of the same nature. It rather explained a few things.

That he could use the resources available to CTU for then helping the Clan better assess what was potentially being plotted against them, came about with the combined experience of Timothy McGee pulling strings through NCIS, and Leonard Brisco calling in favors with certain contacts he had made over his extensive years spent in New York.

It was a remarkable example of inter-agency cooperation, just without the added benefit of those same agencies knowing it was happening.

In a very short space of time they had tracked Stillson leaving the country for Brazil on 'vacation', and put Sanctuary Clan on alert.

They had determined that William Tavington and his Mate were sailing the Pacific on an expensive cruise, and were not due back for another two weeks.

In trying to discover just what the hell went down at Ronald Reagan Airport in DC after Rochefort was left lying on the tarmac, McGee had come up short, despite finally receiving the security camera footage he'd struggle for hours to get his hands on.

It was black.

Totally blank.

Utterly useless.

It had proven relatively straightforward to assess, and the recording had most certainly not be interrupted, but it simply failed to record anything save an endless blackness.

Which left McGee with a headache, and the lingering idea that maybe there was someone with a satellite over the immediate area of concern, who could fill in the blanks.

Literally.

There had been no way he could legitimately involve NCIS without his superiors asking a million questions he had no rational answers for, so he turned to his Vampire contacts and also had Jim West talk to Jack Bauer.

There had proven to be only one such satellite over Ronald Reagan Airport at the specified time, and Tracy International Geocoms had come into play again, willingly handing over their footage to CTU, not wanting to be held in anyway responsible for failure to co-operate with an active investigation into suspected terrorist activities.

Bauer had been astonished that a simple communications satellites could produce such remarkably crisp and detailed images, but he had known Jeff Tracy long enough to appreciate that the man's work in technological hardware design was not always as it might first appear.

McGee knew better than to ask how the footage was obtained, but it greatly increased his headache as he endeavored to piece together what he saw. With Bauer's assistance, it was swiftly confirmed that several men from an adjacent hangar had emerged to scoop up Rochefort and remove both him and any remaining evidence of the conflict that had taken place. Whereupon they bore their fallen boss back into the same hangar, and were not seen again.

CTU obtained a copy of the flight plan filed by a Russian company who owned the plane in that hangar.

Its destination was listed as Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

Which easily put Rochefort just a couple of hours behind Antonio Crisafi's landing at the Air Station.

Tracking what happened after that, was not as simple as it ought to have been, but McGee wasn't quitting any time soon, and someone would likely be forced to drop a candy bar in front of him before he turned from 'grumpy hacker' into 'full blown miserable bastard', for failing to stop and eat something in the last 24 hours.

Bauer was still at work too, and the pair of them were liaising like they'd been working together for years.

West, however, had felt the pull to get home, especially when his Mate told him about Speed's abduction. Personally, he liked Jack Bauer, though he usually didn't go much for the stubborn headed Neanderthal routine, preferring at least some sense of sophistication in the Vampires he worked with. But then, he'd met Chase Edmunds, put the whole picture together from what Jack was trying so hard not to say with his body language, and found himself having slightly more fun than he'd thought such a trip could actually allow. Still, he figured Chase would probably civilize the caveman. At least a little. If Bauer ever found the right moment to tell his younger colleague the whole truth about things…

Jim slid a nondescript folder across the kitchen table to his Clan Leaders. "You need to talk to Anthony," he said with all seriousness. Having witnessed on the satellite footage just what went down when his Clan's Second-in-Command was attacked, he very much wanted to meet the new Mate who took on Rochefort and walked away to talk about it later.

Nick eyed the innocent looking, flimsy binder, and couldn't decide if he was ready to open it yet.

In the meantime, Jim had realized there was an altogether very handsome woman in the room to whom he'd not yet been introduced, and sliding smoothly up to her at the Grab 'n' Go, he purred, "How is it so beautiful a lady is not in the arms of some lucky man who has all of her attentions?"

He offered her his most rakish smile, and before she even knew she was responding to a line that sounded at least pleasant - if not a little dated - Catherine felt her cheeks flush hotly as she looked at the supremely self-confident black man who was gazing at her in the same way a person might appreciate fine wine.

It was terribly flattering not to be lecherously drooled over, and she fluttered her eyelashes at him, wondering why the hell she always met the nice guys when she'd just come off an all-nighter and was dressed like some crazy, wild-haired bag lady.

"Hi!" she smirked, going for coy and failing at it.

Nick coughed. "Isn't your Mate waiting for you, Marshal West?"

Warrick barely concealed the snort that he made.

Catherine rolled her eyes.

Jim sighed, his attention shifting to look at his Clan Leader. "Now that was subtle." He grinned, and was about to offer his apologies to the stunning redhead he'd been approaching, only to blink and see her side step out of the nearest door, coffee mug in hand.

"You can thank us later," Warrick muttered, but Jim wasn't exactly sure which of them he was talking to.

Clutching his hat, he stifled a yawn.

Barely.

"Is Artemus in his office?" he asked innocently.

Nick sighed. "Really?"

"What?" Jim was nothing if not capable of making the most innocent of expressions. "I shall depart now for more welcoming arms!" He was heading for the back door that would lead him to the path which cut across the herb garden and out toward the stables, where he and his Mate had their rooms. "And some refreshments…" He held his right hand up to make a significant sexual gesture, just in case anyone missed the meaning of his intention, but as he did so, Cook promptly put two brown paper food sacks in his fist.

He chuckled, swept into the savory waft of biscuits and sausage. "You always know how to win me over," he said, winking wickedly at her.

But she'd seen it all before. "Give those to Noah and Jimmy on the way!" she replied briskly.

Having heard Noah talking on his phone over in the parking lot as she'd arrived that morning, Cook knew what he and his Mate were doing patrolling the Plantation, and she reasoned they would be in need of good solid sustenance if they were to keep going with it after being on duty all night.

"Huh?" Jim West was rarely lost for words, but he looked at the bags, then at Cook, then the bags, then at Cook, like he'd just been told there was a crease in his pants.

Which had Cook depositing two more bags in his other hand once he put his hat on, and with that she shooed him out of her kitchen with a threateningly gestured spatula.

Warrick made puppy eyes at the long-suffering woman, and added equally pathetic whining noises for good measure, winning a plate of biscuits and sausage gravy for his efforts, that was put in front of him a moment later.

Nick got one too, grinning at his Mate in gratitude. Somehow, his big, fierce Pirate Captain could always play the sweet little helpless boy to meaningful purpose.

"So what was all that with Catherine?" he asked, as Warrick snagged some convenient silverware, and started chowing down heartily.

"She pushed me."

Nick gave him a curiously raised eyebrow as Cook passed him a knife and fork. "You showed her Captain Calhoun, I presume?"

His Mate laughed in the kind of deeply sensual way that would forever go straight to his groin.

"So does she blow as well as her mother?"

Cook, who could keep a straight face even with the strangest of overheard conversations, hid a snickering laugh even as Warrick nearly spewed crumbs all over the table.

There was some choking, and cries for water.

But no one took pity on the former Pirate Catcher of the Red Stallion until he got a bottle for himself from the fridge.

Nick was the most perfect bastard sometimes, with that innocent stare of his.

"So did I hear upstairs, what I thought I heard upstairs?" Warrick retaliated. "Seriously?"

"I've already had my hand down Gil's pants, so it was either Greg or me…"

Warrick started choking again, and managed to drop his half empty water bottle on the floor. "Shit!" He scrabbled around for a few seconds, chasing it over the tiles.

"And, no," Nick continued, "I wasn't going in there to stop it. Seeing Grissom's naked ass bouncing up and down on my mother was bad enough." He shuddered.

"So you're selling out your youngest kid to save your Roman honor?"

Nicolaus Valerius Meridius made like he had to give that concept some serious thought.

And finally, he shrugged.

"Meh! I'm good with it."