Date: Fri, 21 Mar 2008 12:22:20 -0400 (EDT)
From: Tinnean <tinneantoo@embarqmail.com>
Subject: Mann of My Dreams 1: Happy Birthday, Baby (Revised)

Note: The events of this story take place on February 25, 2002. Needless to
say, there is no such entity as the WBIS. This is for Gail, who first
introduced me to these gentlemen in another incarnation and who encouraged
me to play in her sandbox.

Happy Birthday, Baby
Part 1/1

I stared out the window of my corner office. It was a dismal day, typical
of winter in DC, with the weather forecast calling for icy rain.

I glanced at the calendar on my desk and scowled. February 25th. It hadn't
miraculously changed in the time I had been looking out the window.

Jesus, I hated birthdays.

Yeah, it was my birthday. The big 4-0.

Big fucking whoop.

Why did I hate birthdays? Let me count the ways.

To begin with, I should have been retired from the field five years
ago. The WBIS might have a lenient policy when it came to an agent's sexual
orientation, but not so much when it came to an agent's age: hit
thirty-five and you were consigned to a desk, no matter how good an agent
you were.

Sure, there were ways to get around minor inconveniences like that, at
least there were if you were me, Mark Vincent. What was in my personal file
was what I wanted in that file, that July 4, 1966 was my birthday. As a
matter of fact, the 4th was my father's birthday, and '66 - well, it was
the last good year we'd had as a family.

But I was starting to get the feeling that the Boss had never been fooled,
not much at any rate, and as good an agent as I was, he would only bend the
rules so much. I couldn't blame him. He had to watch his ass. Any day now,
he was going to call me into his office and tell me my days of being in the
field were over.

What the fuck was I going to do then? Become a freelancer?

Yeah, that could work.

Like hell it could. I liked the structure and foundation of the WBIS; it
had been my home for more than fifteen years, more of a home than my old
lady had ever provided.

Could I sit behind a desk and terrorize the junior agents, like that shit
Robert Sperling?

Not fucking likely.

So where did that leave me? On the tiny island I'd put a down payment on in
the Caribbean? And what would I do there? Become a beach bum and
contemplate my navel? And how long would it be before I went out of my
fucking mind?

Before I could continue mulling over all the reasons why I hated birthdays,
my phone buzzed, and I picked it up. "Yes, Ms. Parker?"

"Mr. Vincent, I have Quinton Mann on line two for you."

Quinton Mann, Deputy Director, Operational Targeting, of the CIA?

I'd always had a dossier on him; I had a dossier on all the agents,
officers, and operatives who were likely to cross my path, and even those
who weren't likely to, but things had changed after that incident at the
Wyman Brothers warehouse, when that shit, Bonfiglio, a spook who played
both sides against the middle, had shot Mann.

Until that point, Mann and I had never crossed paths, but his reaction to
the whole thing piqued my interest - he'd been shot for fuck's sake, and
yet there he'd sat on that dirty floor, as cool as the proverbial
cucumber. If I hadn't seen the blood staining his trousers, I'd have
thought he was slumming.

After that, I started keeping a private dossier on him, one that no one
else knew about. I told myself it was strictly to keep track of what the C
fucking I fucking A was up to. The more you knew about the way an agent,
officer, or operative thought, the more likely you were to outthink him.

Well, look how easy it had been to outthink Bonfiglio. He'd had the gall to
gloat about it to me afterwards. 'The CIA has the cyclotron now, asswipe!'

'I guess you do.' I'd shrugged and patted his shoulder, noting with
satisfaction his wince.

'Damn, what was that?'

'Bee sting? Well, I've got to go.'

'Bees? Uh, yeah. See you around.' He'd continued rubbing his left arm, and
I'd known by the time I took my place at the meeting the Boss had set up
with Hazelton, the CIA's DI, Bonfiglio would be halfway dead. By the time
he was all the way dead, I'd have an airtight alibi.

No one fucked with my operations.

But then I found I couldn't get Mann out of my mind. I needed to
know... everything, and not just what I'd been able to get from hacking
into his files. What was his favorite pony's name? Who were his favorite
authors? Why he got that B+ in English lit his last year in college instead
of his usual A?

And did he prefer blondes or brunets? Because, yeah, Mann was bisexual,
something that wasn't commonly known.

I'd gone so far as to disguise myself as an old school friend and
interviewed his mother. After a casual remark by her about a wine-buying
trip they had taken together in the summer of 1980, I'd done a little
investigating, which had led me to discover the very interesting fact that
when he was 15, Mann lost his virginity to a French boy a year or so older.

And wouldn't the shit hit the fan if he ever found out not only that I'd
tricked his old lady into talking about him, but that I'd discovered
something he didn't want discovered? Not that he ever would learn about
it. I was too good at what I did - the best in fact - and I knew how to
cover my tracks.

But when the hell had my desire for knowledge about Mann turned to desire
*for* Mann? I wanted him, not as in 'dead or alive', but as in 'in my bed,'
and that wasn't acceptable. Oh, not because he was a man. The WBIS had
instituted a policy when the Boss took over fifteen years before, and as a
result, an active agent's sexuality was taken out of the equation, as that
pompous asshole James Adams liked to say, and the agent was able to
function at the peak of his ability.

No, the problem wasn't that Mann was a man. The problem was he was CIA.

The CIA got the jobs the FBI wouldn't dirty their lily-white fingers on.

And the WBIS got the jobs the CIA wouldn't handle.

There wasn't any love lost between any of us. And that was the way it was.

That didn't bring me any closer to figuring out why the phone call from
Mann. I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair. I wouldn't find out why
he'd called by just staring at the phone. I took a breath and punched two
on my phone. "Vincent."

"Vincent, this is Quinton Mann."

"So my secretary informed me. My, my," I said in my snidest tone. I was not
about to let a Deputy Director of the CIA know I was caught short by his
call. "The CIA's golden boy is calling the WBIS? To what do I owe this
honor?"

I could have been referring to the state of the weather for all the
attention he paid to my words. "I need to see you. Are you available for
dinner?"

My mouth went dry. The sound of his voice alone had my cock hardening, and
the unruly thought flashed through my mind, 'Sure, if *you're* the dinner!'
The image of him bent over a dinner table and me pounding into him made my
cock even harder.

Shit! That had never happened to me before. *I* controlled my cock, not the
other way around.

I pushed those thoughts and images out of my mind and concentrated on the
matter at hand. He wanted to meet for dinner.

This would be an ideal opportunity to learn more about him. And by
extension, the CIA of course. I cleared my throat, and made a show of
loudly turning the pages on my daily planner, knowing the sound would be
picked up over the phone line. I was a busy man, after all, and I wanted
that to be plain to him.

"Hmmm. I have a 5 PM meeting ... " Someone who saw that the necessary
funding for the WBIS was unobtrusively filtered into our coffers through
contracts awarded to Huntingdon Corp. and who was becoming recalcitrant. As
senior special agent in charge of this matter, it would be my job to show
him the error of his ways, and I could hardly wait. I had no liking for the
good Senator. "... but after that it looks like I'll be free." I couldn't
resist adding, "And don't bother asking who I'll be meeting, or why."

"Of course not, Mark. I know you wouldn't tell me anyway."

I stared at my phone in suspicion.

He'd called me by my first name, something no one did. I was Vince to my
few friends, Vincent to my colleagues, even 'that sociopathic son of a
bitch,' according to certain members of the intelligence community.

*Why* had Mann done that? And why had there been a smile in his voice as
he'd done that?

"Would you meet me at Raphael's?"

"Certainly, Mann." I wasn't going to let him know he'd taken me by
surprise. And I wasn't going to relax my guard. He was still CIA. "What
time?"

"Seven. Will that give you enough time?"

I considered the man I would be seeing at five o'clock. It would be more
than enough time, but Mann didn't need to know that. "Better make it
eight." After all, I didn't want to appear too eager.

Too eager? Shit. I was ready to bang my head against my desk. //All right,
Vincent, get your head out of your crotch. Mann might be bisexual, but he's
the last person you want to get bisexual with. Don't forget you're WBIS!//

"Fine." His tone was almost caressing. What the fuck was going on here?
"I'll see you at Raphael's at eight, Mark." There was a click and then the
hum of the dial tone.

//He called you Mark.//

Mann hadn't told me where Raphael's was, and I wasn't familiar with it, but
before I left for my last meeting, I would know everything about the
restaurant, down to how much the owner had left on the mortgage and if he'd
had to grease someone's palm to get his liquor license.

//He called you Mark.//

All right already! So fucking what?

I shoved the unexpected invitation - and the fact that he'd called me Mark
- from my mind; I had work to do, after all.

I thumbed the intercom. "Ms. Parker, get me a cup of coffee, please?" I
pulled up the Senator's file.

//He called you Mark!//

****

It was a quarter past eight when I arrived at the classy Italian
restaurant. I knew Mann wouldn't want to be kept waiting, but I'd decided
to make him wait anyway. That was how we played the game in the WBIS -
always keep 'em guessing.

It led to dumb mistakes on their part.

As I approached the door, the doorman sprang forward and politely opened it
for me. I checked my overcoat, and as soon as I gave the maitre d' Mann's
name, he nodded, also politely, and led me to a small table in a discreet
alcove. The lighting was subdued, and nestled in the centerpiece of red
rosebuds and ferns were a few candles.

What the fuck? This was the kind of table you'd reserve for your lover - or
someone you hoped would soon be your lover.

Quinton Mann was just arriving from the other direction. So I hadn't kept
him waiting. Post, riposte.

His smile was warm and welcoming as I seated myself. Was he trying to make
me confused, keep me off balance? I scowled at him, and his gaze became
concerned.

"What's wrong, Mark? Difficult meeting?"

In spite of his saying he wasn't going to ask who I'd met with, I wondered
if he was trying to make me slip, and I was tempted to laugh and tell him
not to try teaching his grandmother how to suck eggs. I let nothing slip
except what I wanted to 'slip'.

I accepted the 'difficult meeting' as a reasonable enough excuse and gave a
brief nod, although it really hadn't been anything I couldn't handle. I had
simply explained the facts of life to the Senator. Either he backed off and
stopped sitting on our funding, or he'd do a Jimmy Hoffa. The Senator tried
to bluff his way out of that, claiming that our meeting was under video
surveillance and was being recorded. I simply countered with a little
device that emitted magnetic waves that wiped the transmission.

It was like taking candy from a baby. He caved, the wuss. And his
constituents kept voting him in. Jesus.

"I took the liberty of ordering for us both when I made the reservations. I
hope you don't mind?"

I shrugged. "Not at all." It would be interesting to see what he thought I
would enjoy. I was sure the CIA had dossiers on all WBIS agents, just as we
had dossiers on all spooks and Feebs. That was just good sense. However,
that didn't mean to say that what was in the files they had on us was
anywhere near the truth. Well, witness the tissue of lies that was in mine.

The wine steward brought a pale bottle with a plain label and displayed it
to Mann. Mann nodded and accepted a glass, then took a sip, rolled it on
his tongue and held it in his mouth while he breathed. He smiled and
swallowed. "Yes, this Chardonnay is excellent. What, Mark?"

Damn, he'd caught me staring. I made my grin innocent. "I don't usually see
that done, Quinn." I didn't say that in my line of work I didn't come
across people who treated having a glass of wine like a religious
experience. I had read about it, of course, and had seen it in the movies,
but never in real life. Not in my real life, anyway: I drank beer when I
drank at all, which was rare, and then I preferred Sam Adams.

I took the glass of white wine Mann had poured for me and raised it to my
lips, but before I could take a sip, he caught my eye and frowned. I went
still. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, Mark. I was about to propose a toast, but it
can wait if you'd rather."

What was he up to? I let my mouth quirk in a snide grin. "Here's to the
CIA, who takes it up the ass?"

The waiter who was about to place the antipasto in the center of the table
choked, then turned bright red. He caught the platter before it had the
chance to spill its contents on the pristine white tablecloth, set it down
carefully, and scurried away.

I shrugged and gave Mann a cocky grin; I wouldn't let him see I regretted
that flippant remark in front of a civilian.

To my surprise, instead of getting angry or annoyed, his eyes grew
hot. "Wouldn't you like to find out, Mark? Well, perhaps another time."

What the fuck?

I could feel my trousers grow constrictive. Was he... was he *flirting*
with me? "Well, what did you want to toast?" I asked gruffly.

He raised his glass. "Happy birthday, Mark. Many happy returns."

I almost swallowed my tongue. How the fuck did he know today was my
birthday? Not that I was going to ask; that would be revealing too much.

"Today isn't my birthday, Mann. There must be some mistake. Not that I'm
surprised. Does the CIA ever get anything right?"

He was watching me through his lashes, his expression hooded. "Isn't it?"
His tongue flicked out to catch a drop of wine that lingered on his lips,
and I had to call on all my WBIS training not to moan. His mouth was
solemn, but there was a wicked glint in his eyes. "My mistake."

I pulled my attention away from that mouth of his, realizing that I was
losing control again. What the fuck was wrong with me? I never lost
control, and now twice in one evening...

To distract myself, I speared a roasted pepper from the platter between us
and placed it on my plate, slicing it neatly.

Quinn made inroads on the artichoke hearts, but that was okay. I didn't
like the spiny little hairs that were somehow always left behind and got
caught under my tongue.

He spoke of a show that was opening at the Kennedy Center. "I saw it on
Broadway, and it's excellent. Would you be interested in tickets, Mark? I
would have no problem getting them for you."

This was another attempt of his to keep me off balance. I took a sip of my
wine before I spoke, surprised by how good it was, then opened my mouth to
tell him thanks, but no thanks. "I'd love it, Quinn."

Jesus fucking christ, where had that come from? I didn't hate theater, but
I didn't have the time to waste on make believe.

I glared at my glass accusingly, then shot a look at Quinn. He was nibbling
a piece of proscuitto and didn't seem to notice my intense regard. Could he
have had the wine doctored? It was possible; I'd done stuff like that
myself. But he was drinking from the same bottle and didn't appear to be
affected by it.

"Are you going to eat that last roasted pepper, Mark?"

I could say yes, just to be a bastard, but he'd expect that of me, so I'd
throw *him* off balance. I stabbed it with the fork and held it toward him,
smiling. "Help yourself, Quinn."

Instead of positioning his plate under it and letting me slide the red
pepper onto it, he leaned closer and parted his lips. I freaking sat there
with the fork hanging in the air, while he closed his lips around the
pepper, drew it slowly into his mouth, and began to chew, never once taking
his eyes from mine.

I couldn't get enough air in through my nose; that was the only reason I
parted my lips. I could feel the skin over my cheekbones tighten and heat
up, and I reached for my wine, to find Mann's hand on mine, preventing me
from raising the glass.

"Gently, Mark. This is a vintage to be savored."

I managed to contain a shiver and stared at the back on my hand, shocked to
find the imprint of his fingers hadn't been left behind. I raised my napkin
as if to blot my mouth, but in reality using it to conceal the fact that I
had to lick my lips.

A waiter came and cleared away the plates, and then another brought us the
next dish, penne a la vodka, in a pale pink sauce. As we ate, Mann kept up
an easy conversation covering a wide range of topics - current events, the
business world, the entertainment field - and I smiled and murmured
appropriate comments, making sure he knew I was following him.

I was WBIS, after all. I was also good at multitasking, and while I
murmured and smiled and listened, I also tried to figure out what the fuck
his game was.

The pasta was followed by veal piccata, and the white wine complimented the
capers, butter and fresh squeezed lemon wine sauce. When I could, I would
sneak a look at his lips, unable to forget how they'd parted around my
fork. His tongue slid out to catch a dab of the wine sauce that clung to
his lower lip, and I dropped my eyes and started to reach for my wine
glass, then forced myself to stop. My old lady had a tendency to drink, and
I'd be damned if I followed in her lead.

All too soon the meal was finished; the evening was over. I bunched my
napkin and placed it beside my plate, surprised and a little shocked at how
much I had enjoyed spending it with Mann in spite of him being a CIA spook.

"You're not leaving yet." It wasn't a question.

"I'm not?" I pushed my chair back, about to challenge him.

He looked at me patiently. "Mark, if I take you to an Italian restaurant,
the least you can do is have the tiramisu."

As if on cue, the waiter brought the sinfully rich dessert, along with two
tiny cups of espresso.

The evening wasn't over.

That was *not* relief I felt.

"Anisette, signori?"

Quinn nodded, so I did too, and watched as a splash of the clear,
licorice-flavored liqueur was added to the black coffee.

Interesting combination.

I could only take a couple of bites of the sweet before pushing it away.

"Don't you like it, Mark?"

"It's good, just a bit heavy this late in the evening."

"Take it home with you then." He looked around, spotted our waiter, and
signaled him to come over. "A box for the dessert, please."

"Si, signore." He was back in a matter of moments, and with deft movements
put my dessert in an elegant little box with the Raphael logo across the
top.

"Grazie," I murmured, just to show Mann that he wasn't the only
multilingual person at this table, although most of my knowledge of Italian
was more suitable to the gutter.

His eyes were hot. Was he turned on by foreign languages? I sat back in my
seat and sipped my espresso, and watched as Quinn resumed consuming his
dessert with single-mindedness.

At least, I thought that single-mindedness was aimed at the tiramisu until
I suddenly felt a sock-clad foot caressing my crotch.

"Mann!" Minute tremors ran through me, and I was having trouble breathing
again.

"Relax, Mark." He knew he was getting to me. His eyes took on that hot look
again. This was the man who was reputed to have ice water in his veins? "No
one can see. The tablecloth is concealing what I'm doing."

I glanced around, but he was right. No one was paying any attention to
us. "What CIA shit is this about, Mann?"

"What makes you think this has anything to do with business?"

If it didn't... If it didn't... My mind felt clouded. Had there been a
touch of hoarseness in his voice?

His heel ground against my cock, kneading it until I was almost on the
verge of climaxing.

Why was I allowing this? I closed my fingers around his foot to throw it
away from me.

It felt nice in my hand.

Oh, jesus, what was I thinking?

"What did you put in the wine, Mann?"

"What would you have put in the wine, Mark?"

I ground my teeth. I hated when a question was answered with a
question. Except when I was doing it.

"*Fuck*!" I shoved his foot off my lap and rose abruptly, struggling for
composure. He was just trying to make me lose control, and no one did that
to Mark Vincent. No one. "Goodnight, Mann." Deliberately I left the box on
the table.

His soft laugh followed me as I stalked away from him, and I told myself it
was as strained as my words had been.

It suddenly occurred to me that I needed to take a leak. That was what the
problem was, not that some CIA spook had plied me with wine and gotten to
me. Yeah. I changed direction and headed toward the men's room.

It was empty, except for the old man who handed out those little towels and
gave you a spritz of cologne if you wanted.

"Good evening, sir."

"Evening." I used the urinal, then went to the sink and washed my hands. I
felt better. Although I was still a little tense, so held my wrists under
the faucet, trying to cool myself down.

Had this whole been evening an elaborate mind fuck, or had Quinton Mann
been coming on to me? The CIA, literally in bed with the WBIS?

No. That was impossible!

I blotted some water over my face, then dried my hands.

"Problem, Mark?" Mann walked into the restroom, sending the attendant out
with a jerk of his head. As the old man passed him, I saw a folded bill
pressed into his hand. Then Mann locked the door and started walking toward
me.

I turned a crazy-eyed grin on him, the one that got me such good results
when I needed to intimidate people, to find he was grinning right back at
me. I felt a twinge of admiration. It wasn't often I found someone willing
to go toe-to-toe with me.

Still, I wasn't going to let him know that.

"What the fuck are you trying to pull here, Mann?"

He didn't answer, just kept coming. I backed away from him until I couldn't
go any further; the row of stalls was at my back. It didn't even dawn on me
to push him out of the way and leave.

His hands were busy with my belt and zipper, and the next thing I knew, my
trousers were gaping open and he had my cock out and was handling it just
the way I liked it, long, hard strokes, interspersed with short, teasing
ones, his thumb rubbing circles on the crown, smearing it with precome.

This couldn't be happening! Quinton Mann, Deputy Director of the C fucking
I fucking A, could not be jerking me off in the men's room of a restaurant,
classy Italian or otherwise! Fucking hell in a handcart! He *couldn't*...

Mann dropped to his knees and swallowed my cock down to the root. I bit my
lips to prevent the moans from echoing in the tiled room. That talented
mouth. He knew what he was doing.

But he was CIA. This had to stop. I wrapped my fingers in his hair; I was
going to pull him off me.

Only, suddenly I was holding his head still and fucking his mouth, that
mouth that had been driving me wild all evening. I wanted to see his
eyes. I needed to see his eyes, and I yanked on his hair until he looked up
at me.

He was enjoying the hell out of this. He *liked* having me fuck his mouth!
That thought sent me over the edge, and with short, rapid thrusts, I
came. I could feel the rippling of his throat as he swallowed, and finally,
I moaned.

Mann sat back on his heels, wiped his swollen mouth, and watched me,
satisfaction glittering in his hazel eyes, making them appear green.

I opened my mouth to taunt him - 'Doesn't the CIA take care of its spooks?'
The WBIS had a list of ladies - and a few men as well - who were well
reimbursed for seeing that agents who were interested got their ashes
hauled on a regular basis. - but nothing came out. I shut my mouth and
tucked my cock away. My hands were shaking as I did up my trousers.

He got to his feet in one easy movement and walked to the door, unlocking
it. "I know you've got a file on me, Vincent. I don't know why yet, but I
intend to find out. I *will* find out." He paused and glanced at me over
his shoulder. "Happy birthday, Mark."

I was alone in the men's room, and I looked around. I had to be
hallucinating. Yeah, Mann must have slipped something into my wine. There
was no way...

The old man came back in. "Are you all right, sir? Can I do anything for
you?"

"No. Thanks." I handed him a couple of folded singles and left the men's
room. Mann was nowhere to be seen. I stopped to pick up my coat, slid my
arms into the sleeves, and went out to the street where I'd parked my car.

It was raining.

Jesus, I hated birthdays.


~End~