by A. R. Moler
Mason eased back slightly so he could loosen his lover’s belt. He unzipped the fly and slid his hands down inside Cam’s slacks and underwear so he could feel skin. His thumb stroked along the top of his lover’s hip and then further forward to slip across the damp tip of Cam’s hard cock. Cam inhaled sharply and swallowed. His face was buried against the side of Mason’s throat, worrying a spot with his teeth.
“I think maybe we should ditch the clothes,” Cam whispered. He pushed himself up to his knees and took off his shirt, then shimmied out of his pants and briefs in one go. Mason’s disrobing was a little slower. The long drive had put a serious dent in whatever energy last night’s sleep had given him.
Cam stretched out beside him and began kissing down the length of his body: collar bone to nipple to the center of his belly, tongue wetting the dark line of hair leading down toward his groin. Nothing hurried. Mason gasped slightly as his lover blew a warm breath across his cock. It bobbed as his balls tightened a little. Cam avoided the obvious destination and licked down the long almost straight length of his hipbone then back up the seam where his leg met his body. Mason bucked a little into the wet heat. Cam made a small snort of amusement and pushed Mason's legs apart. His hand cupped around Mason’s balls, rolling them slowly as he gazed down into Mason’s face.
“Am I driving?” he asked.
Mason nodded. He wanted to feel Cam inside him. He saw his lover grab the tube of lube from the suitcase near the bed.
A slick finger circled his entrance for a moment before pushing in. In, out, deeper, hitting the spot that made his cock jerk and his vision go a little starry. His cock was starting to leak slippery warmth against his belly. More fingers pushed in, stretching, twisting, drawing embarrassing moans from him. Cam was going so slowly, Mason squirmed on the bed trying to increase the pace. Then the fingers were gone and his eyes popped open.
“This week, when you get the chance. Do our blood tests, okay?” Cam said softly, on his hands and knees above Mason. Mason could just glimpse the foil packet tucked between Cam’s fingers.
“Yeah. Got it.” It took a moderate amount of concentration to get those few words out. Comprehension of language was not a high priority with his brain right that moment. Knees hooked against Cam’s biceps, he let out a completely involuntarily moan as his lover pushed into him, slowly, almost excruciatingly slowly.
“Cam... God... Faster...” he begged. His hand groped for his own cock. Anything to hurry the release. He ached. Surely most of the blood in his body was below the beltline at this point. Cam grabbed his wrist and licked the center of his palm. Oh lord, that whimper was his own. His lover’s thrusts were almost leisurely. “Please...” he pleaded, rocking his hips.
Cam’s gaze was locked on his face, watching him come undone. Cam lifted one of Mason’s legs to hook over his shoulder and his hand folded around Mason’s own and gripped his hard cock, stroking. The change slammed Cam against Mason’s prostate and it was all over.
Mason was drowning in that pulsing rush of ecstasy that blew through his nervous system, graying his sight, contracting muscles, as jets of liquid warmth drenched his hand and Cam’s.
A hard gut-wrenching groan came from Cam as he followed heartbeats later, body hitting Mason’s in erratic jerks as he spent himself.
~
Flopping onto the pillow beside Mason, Cam cupped a hand against Mason’s cheek. His lover’s eyes were still red-rimmed and blood-shot, but they had lost some of that look of frustrated misery. He brushed his thumb across his lover’s mouth and kissed Mason softly.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah. Anything that involves touching you,” his lover whispered. His eyelids were already drooping with the combination of release and exhaustion. Cam fished his shirt up off the floor and wiped them off enough to make do. Anything else could wait until morning.
~
The list of patients due for appointments that day scrolled across the screen of Mason’s office computer. Some were post-op, some were pre-op and long term care arthritis patients were interspersed. After a moment of staring at the list, it dawned on him that he was searching for Jason Ambers’ name. It wasn’t there. He leaned out into the hallway and called for Tyra.
“Hey, I thought I supposed to have an appointment with Jason Ambers today, before I sent him to the consult with the oncologist?” Mason said.
“Change in plans,” said Tyra. The solemn expression on the nurse’s face told him that the news wasn’t good. “On Saturday night he was in a lot of pain and his parents took him the hospital. Steve was on call and he admitted Jason. He also took care of contacting Santos. I think they transferred him to CHKD while the parents are trying to decide what route they want to go.”
Mason leaned against the walls, arms crossed, eyes closed. Fuck. When the kid could really have benefited from his talents, where was he? In Philadelphia, saving someone else’s life... God, what a no win situation. If he had been here, the FBI agent would probably have died. So he was in Philly and Jason had been taken to the hospital, A dying child in capable hands of a competent orthopedic surgeon and a reputable oncologist. So why did he feel like he had just so totally dropped the ball?
“You okay? You look like you had a pretty rough weekend yourself,” Tyra commented.
“I... ended up doing some emergency triage duty for DMAT in Philadelphia,” replied Mason. His explanation for all the days he had spent away from the orthopedic practice over the past few months were written off as becoming involved with and trained by Department of Health and Human Services to learn the skills for working with a field hospital team for a Disaster Medical Assistance Team. It wasn’t horribly far from the truth after all. He knew full well the ultimate goal of his lessons with Peter was to prepare him for field medic work on Division P personnel. And he felt like he was failing miserably on all fronts.
The rest of the day was scarcely better: grumpy patients, misplaced records, arguments with insurance companies about what should be covered and what wasn’t. All the while, the half healed road rash on his arm itched like hell at random intervals. By five o’clock he was thoroughly ready for the day to be over. He was standing at the reception desk scribbling notes on paperwork, when a welcome voice broke his train of thought.
“Hope somebody other than you can read that.” Mason looked up from the patient file and saw Cam leaning his elbows on the counter.
“That’s why they call them transcriptionists,” he replied.
Tyra cruised by and started to scoop up a stack of folders. “Sorry, can I help you?” she asked, apparently thinking Cam to be a patient.
“Just here to give Mason a ride home,” Cam said, gesturing toward him.
Mason swallowed hard. The last thing he needed at the end of this crappy day was to get grilled by Tyra.
“You look awfully cute for taxi service,” she smiled. “I take it you’re a friend?”
“Tyra MacCorkindale meet Lt. Cameron Bradshaw,” said Mason. He wondered if his tone sounded as tight to her, as it did to himself.
“Tibial plateau fracture,” she said. “Then you got transferred back to military care.”
“Is that how you remember people? By their injuries?” Cam asked with a slight grimace.
“Occupational habit. So Dr. Flynn, is this your sailor?” Tyra teased and Mason felt his face flush in embarrassment.
“Um, he doesn’t so much sail as fly,” muttered Mason and then wished he had kept his mouth shut.
“Oh? So you’re a flyboy?” said Tyra.
“Guilty as charged,” replied Cam.
“Come on back to my office. I have to finish a couple things,” Mason said, hoping to deflect more questions. Cam followed. Mason pushed the door closed when they got there, and was promptly pressed against the back of the door by Cam’s hand on his chest.
“So what has you in such a pissy mood?” Cam demanded. His voice was low and his gaze fixed on Mason’s face.
“Jason, my os
teosarcoma patient, is in the hospital,” Mason said.
Cam’s expression was calm. His hand slid up Mason’s chest and cupped against Mason’ neck, and he tilted his head slightly as he leaned in to kiss Mason. It was gentle and warm and Mason could feel the sympathy offered by his partner.
“I’m sorry,” Cam whispered. “But realistically, would you being here have prevented it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Since I know you’re not going to stop tearing yourself up about this, put the problem aside for now. Time to suck my blood. It is half the reason I came to pick you up.”
Mason blinked. It took a second for him to remember that Cam had agreed to have his blood tested, to make sure they were both clean and could do away with the condoms. It was a serious step in their relationship. He wrapped his arms loosely around his lover and hugged Cam.
“Thank you,” Mason said. “Stay put I’ll go grab one of the venipuncture buckets.”
“Ew. Could you not mention the puncture part?”
“Chicken.”
It only took a couple of minutes for Mason to draw the sample. Cam gave him the hairy eyeball when he drew his own.
“That’s just plain creepy watching you do it to yourself,” commented Cam. “How long until we get results?”
“End of the week probably. You worried?”
“No, not really. There’ve been a couple times I wasn’t safe, couple of women. I suppose there’s always a chance I picked up something. But honestly I think it’s pretty low. You?”
“I get checked every year. Health professional and all that. Last year was fine. I’m jumping the gun a little on this year, but no biggie. Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Mason asked.
Cam’s hand closed around Mason’s wrist and he pulled Mason’s hand to his chest, placing it over his heart. “I’m sure,” said Cam. Mason’s breath caught a little. “Now how ‘bout we head for your place. I brought your helmet.”
“I take it this means you’re planning on taking me home down 264 going like sixty miles an hour.”
“Yep. All you have to do is sit still, snuggle up to my back and put your arms around me,” Cam teased.
“Only you could make riding your motorcycle sound like a proposition.”
Part Three: Clutching
Chapter 1
“At most, I might be able to prolong his life an extra week or two. Beyond that... the cancer has Swiss cheesed the bone in his leg and it’s spreading rapidly through the rest of his body. But I think you probably know that,” said Peter.
Dr. Mason Flynn paced restlessly across the floor of the doctor’s lounge. His four year old osteosarcoma patient was dying and there was nothing he could do about it. All his healing talent, even that of his mentor was for naught. He paused at the window in the doctor’s lounge of the hospital and ran his hands back through his short dark hair. The darkness outside cast his reflection back at him and he felt like his heart was sinking down into the pit of his stomach. Doctors weren’t supposed to get bent out of shape about dying patients. Usually he was pretty good at that sort of thing. And the average orthopedic surgeon didn’t have the high loss rate that, say a cardiologist had. Maybe it was the age. Mason didn’t run across a lot of terminal children. Maybe it was the stoic calm of the boy. As long as the pain stayed under control, he complained very little.
Mason looked at the image of the other healer in the glass. Peter Vithoulkas was the wunderkind of Division P, a highly secretive government agency that recruited and trained people with psychic talents. They primarily acquired their pool of agents from other government agencies and the military. As a civilian orthopedic surgeon, Flynn was a notable exception.
“If you feel you have to do something, control his pain some, so he’s less drugged out by the morphine pump. Otherwise, leave it to the oncologist and the hospice people,” said Peter.
Mason slowly turned to face his colleague, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I couldn’t be an oncologist,” Mason said softly.
“Me neither.”
“I keep hoping... thinking there must be... something.”
“I know. What you and I do is off the scale impossible to start with,” replied Peter. The senior healer stood up and walked toward Mason, stopping in front of him. “I set up your assignment with the Virginia Beach EMS. You’re scheduled for Station 14 next Tuesday at six a.m. No Tuesdays out at the complex for a while. I want you doing this for at least three months. Remember, 10% of your Talent, 90% of your medical knowledge. I expect a detailed report after each shift.”
Mason nodded. Peter laid a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Some things just get to us all,” said Peter. “I know it sounds callous, but go home, call Cam, stop thinking about it for awhile.”
~
The vibration of his cell phone against his hip drew Lt. Cameron Bradshaw’s attention. It was a blissful distraction from the drudgery of standing duty because he was “med down.”
After having his ear drum ruptured by the blast of a bomb while he was in Philadelphia back over the weekend, he had joylessly reported to the flight surgeon on Monday.
"Oh yeah, it’s ruptured, but not too badly," the flight surgeon had reported.
As if Cam hadn’t already known. There were certain perks to having a man who was both an MD and a psychic healer for a lover. The flight surgeon had declared Cam “med down” for at least the remainder of the week. All the responsibilities of his job and no flying; it just sucked.
Cam flipped his phone open. There was a text from Mason.
NO LUCK W/PETER. TERMINAL CONFIRMED. CALL ME WHEN U CAN.
Cam let out a sigh. He knew Mason had been counting on Peter being able to do something for the tiny cancer patient. The doctor was usually fairly low key about his patients. Something about this one was obviously causing a great deal of heartache. Cam wished he could call Mason and offer him words of comfort, but they had agreed that communication needed to be kept as casual as possible whenever Cam was at work.
SO SORRY. OFF DUTY @ 7.
Cam glanced at his watch as he pushed the button to send the message. It read five fifteen. He still had close to two hours. Back to organizing the maintenance schedule for the jets for the following week.
~
Two sheets of paper equaled the only bright spot in the whole day. Mason sat at his desk in the deserted orthopedic practice office. He had swung back by his office to check on some insurance information. Some of the HMO’s were notoriously tight with authorization of procedures and testing even of patients who truly needed the services.
Two envelopes had been tossed on his desk while he was on his futile quest at the hospital. He suspected what was inside even before he opened them. Blood test results for him and Cam. A brief scan confirmed that both of them were clean, not that he really expected otherwise. Now the biggest question would be if Cam was really comfortable with the idea of abandoning condom use. One more step in a path binding them together.
Mason stared unseeing at the surface of his desk for a long moment. Was he really hoping for forever? Yes. How likely was it? That probably fell in the category of maybe. Being a partner to a Navy man was hard enough on a wife, an openly recognized relationship. Acknowledgement of his and Cam's relationship would never be “okay” except in a few specific places, Division P being one of them.