The head of Munitions turned slowly, his blue eyes losing their usual twinkle upon registering Michael's presence. "What do you want, Michael?"

That could have come out weary…or sad…or any of a hundred different ways. But today was an anniversary of sorts. Not a celebration. Just a marking of a date well-known to both men.

Michael looked like his entire being ached to say something to cut the seemingly impenetrable tension between himself and Walter, but his mouth closed on air.

Walter sighed heavily, smoothing a hand back over his seriously thinning hair, nearly dislodging the concealing colorful bandanna from its customary place. "It's been too many years, Michael. Don't go there now."

A cold, shuttered look covered Michael's face. Displacing his anger to the most convenient target, Michael snapped, "Like you wouldn't go there back then?"

"That's right, Michael. Blame me." Walter tugged at the offending bandanna, which had somehow been pushed askew.

"I do." The bleak look in Michael's eyes told a long story of pain, both endured and inflicted, over the years.

A story that wasn't always painful…

…to begin with…

There were voices. Everywhere. That was the first thing he noticed when he came to. Echoes, too. Sound crashing into the thick white walls and reverberating back into his ears. It was more than he could stand.

Then he heard it. The one voice that stood out from all the rest. It wasn't a kind voice. It had color, texture, shape. It was like whiskey and tobacco rolled into one. No, it wasn't a kind voice. But it soothed his pain when he heard it.

"You planning on coming to anytime soon, boy?" the voice demanded.

"I feel sick," he confessed.

"I'll just bet you do," the voice agreed. "I sure hope you're planning on staying awake for more than a minute this time. I got a lotta ground to cover, and you're putting a crimp in the old schedule."

He struggled into a sitting position, vaguely aware that his hands were cuffed, his feet bound. "Why am I tied up?"

"SOP."

At the boy's blank look, the owner of the voice said in an exasperated tone, "Standard Operating Procedure."

"Why am I here?"

"Now ain't that the $64,000 question?" the voice asked rhetorically. "Would you like the existential version or the gospel according to Section?"

"What's Section?" the boy asked, frowning. He was quite a handsome boy, actually. Young, of course. Most of the ones they took from the University in Paris were. Students. Lots of unrest there. Demonstrations. Lots of excuses for a covert anti-terrorist agency like Section to take advantage.

"You'll find out soon enough. First things first. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I-I was in prison."

"For?"

"For conspiracy." At the older man's clearly impatient look, the boy continued. "Planting a bomb."

"More than planting a bomb. You made the bomb. It went off. It killed people. That's not exactly just planting a bomb."

The boy winced. Lofty ideals were one thing. Killing real people in the real world was quite another. He learned that the hard way.

"So…my friend…" The older man gave the boy a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You were sentenced to die. Got some good news and some bad news. The good news is…you're out of prison. The bad news is…you didn't make it."

"What do you mean?" the boy quavered.

"Simple. You're dead."

The boy looked down at his arms and legs, as if trying to figure out how that could be possible.

"Jee-zus. You're a college student, for Christ's sake. You were smart enough to build a bomb from scratch, a bomb that killed about a hundred people. Not bad for a kid who seems to have as much brainpower as that glass of orange juice over there," the older man said, indicating the as yet untouched breakfast tray on the floor next to the boy.

Green eyes met blue. "You seem to know a lot about me. Who are you?"

"My name's Walter." He leaned closer, his eyes glowing brilliantly against tanned skin. He was a striking man. Powerfully built. But unusual. His hair was coal-black, and it hung straight to his shoulders. Loose. An intriguing look, but not that common today. It was the early '80's, after all. At least, not that common in a man his age. He was close to 40, if he was a day. But those eyes. No lightweight, pastel blue. No cute as a cornflower blue. They were intensely blue. Like cobalt.

He studied the boy. Shoulder-length hair the color of the earth. Brown, not brown. Red, not red. Yet somehow both and neither. A wonderful blending of the two without being either one. Eyes that flickered between verdant green and smoke-gray.

"What was the name of that group you were with again?"

"L'Heure Sanguine." There it was. He was a native speaker. French. But his English was good. Barely a trace of an accent. But what there was…interesting.

"Yeah." Walter lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the young man's face. The boy coughed and waved his cuffed hands in front of him, trying to shift the smoke away.

"Here's the rundown, Chief. You're dead. No one gives a damn about your sorry ass anymore. This place is called Section. No one gives a damn about your sorry ass in here either. 'Cept me. You're mine."

The young man's eyes grew wide. "What does that mean?" For a moment, he was truly frightened, thinking that he was going to become the paramour of some rich but jaded eccentric.

"Exactly what it sounds like, Sunshine. I bark, you beg. I'm top dog, and don't you ever forget that." Walter reached out and stroked the boy's face with a roughened fingertip. "You're my bitch, sweetheart," he said softly.

His nostrils flared as he moved even closer to the boy. "I say whether you live…or die." He paused for effect. But the effect was ruined when the boy, who couldn't be more than nineteen, stared coldly back at the older man.

"I'm already dead, old man."

Walter nodded slowly. He liked that. That spirit. Good. Despite everything he had been through, the boy hadn't lost his spirit. Of course, Section would greatly enjoy crushing the life out of this one.

His lips curled back, exposing sharp, white teeth. "Be careful. There are worse things than dying in this place…"

The boy met his gaze evenly. "You'd better tell me, then. My imagination isn't that good."

Walter whistled under his breath. This one was going to give them all a run for their money. This…what was the kid's name?

Oh, yeah.

Michael Samuelle.

He was awakened at 4 am. It was difficult to sleep here. The room was blindingly white. The walls were supposedly soundproofed. Yet he constantly heard things he didn't want to hear. For a moment, he wondered if they were importing frightening sounds, piping them into the room via some sort of hi-tech PA system. Keeps the operatives on their toes. Yeah, losing control of your life, or death, had that effect on you.

He opened his eyes slowly. That man was back. The middle-aged hippie. Gut feeling. He always trusted his gut feeling.

Gut feeling said: He's no hippie. No wild look in *those* eyes. No clandestine trips to the loo to smoke a joint. Bet he doesn't even know the words to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.

He blinked and smiled to himself. There were *words* to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida?

Suddenly his eyes started to close, and he drifted towards sleep again. A booted toe kicked him in the forehead. "Hey!"

"Hay is for horses, kid," the dude with the attitude snorted.

Michael mumbled something under his breath, and Walter abruptly kicked him again. "Knock it off!"

"Knock it off? Did you say, knock it off? I ought to knock your fucking head off for talking back to me, boy! Didn't you hear a single word I said yesterday?"

Michael rubbed the place where Walter's boot had connected with his head. "Yeah."

"Yeah, what?"

Michael raised wounded eyes to Walter, but the tragic glare was gone seconds later, as if he'd imagined it. In its place, a blank stare.

"Do you understand the basic concept of a paramilitary organization, Michael?"

Michael shook his head numbly.

"No? Well, why am I not surprised?" Walter's index finger poked insistently and repeatedly into Michael's personal space. It was getting on his nerves.

"Could you n-not do that, pl-please?" Michael asked softly, angered that he was betraying any sort of feeling to these…thought police types.

"Awww, pussycat, did I hurt your feelings? Whatsamatter, college boy?"

"I-I d-don't l-like b-being touched, that's all."

"That's all? That's a hell of a fucking lot, if you ask me." Walter hunkered down on his haunches, his black leather mission pants fitting snugly around his hips. Every single muscle was outlined. Including the very large bump dead center between his legs.

Shit, his crotch was practically in his face. Michael resisted the urge to spit, feeling as though he'd swallowed something vile.

"You're a pretty boy, y'know," Walter mused aloud. "Section just *loves* pretty boys. Yeah…they'll eat you for breakfast."

Michael allowed his apathetic facade to drop, the magnificence of those vibrant green eyes shining through in all their glory. "Shit." The kid was more than just a pretty boy. There was real intellect in those eyes, not to mention that fucking spirit that he refused to give up.

Hell, the kid was beautiful. Fucking A.

And that was just with his senses turned all the way down. Hell, he hadn't lasted all these years in Section without a very strong sense of self-preservation. Getting involved with someone who more than likely didn't have much longer to live was hardly a good career move.

But then…Walter was a non-conformist before anything else. A dangerous trait to allow free rein. Especially in a place like Section.

"I can protect you, son."

Michael's green eyes glinted fiercely. "From who?"

"From the people who run this place."

"And who'll protect me from you?"

Michael proffered his cuffed wrists to the intimidating man who stood before him, waiting patiently to be freed. "If you plan on teaching me anything I don't already know, perhaps it would be best if I ate something?"

Turning his head aside to hide a smile, Walter pulled the small key out of his vest pocket and unfastened the cuffs. "Ya got grit, kid. I'll say that for you. Now eat breakfast. I got big plans for the day!"

With a jolt, Michael sat up in bed. His skin felt clammy and long shudders wracked his adolescent frame. That damned dream. That goddamned, fucking dream! He could not get his first meeting with the Level 5 operative out of his head. And so he dreamed it again and again. Only, the older man had never made a move on him, not really. He had never even said anything remotely sexual.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees, he supported his head in his hands. So why was Michael still dreaming of something that never happened?

Walter had never slid a hand between his parted knees. He had never cupped Michael's hardening flesh in his fingers. He had never run his thumbnail over the bulge in the young recruit's jeans.

Michael shuddered.

But he wanted to feel the older operative's hands on him! He wanted Walter's fingers pinching his nipples. He wanted his erection rubbing demandingly against his own.

A fine would-be operative he was!

Well, he'd just bury those feelings deep inside himself. He'd work hard and make Walter proud of him.

He'd become the best damned operative Section One had ever turned out.

And he would never, *ever* let anyone know how he really felt.

A whiskey-and-smoke-flavored voice woke Michael from the light doze he finally fell into around dawn. "You awake, Sunshine?"

Michael grimaced. There was a terrible taste in his mouth. He felt like he'd been run over by a lorry. But that wasn't the worst of it. He hadn't slept in days, thanks to that recurring dream of his. A dream he had no hope of realizing.

They had left him in here. In The White Room. He always imagined it was capitalized, like a proper place name should be. Whenever someone said it, he could hear the capital letters in their voice. Not a white room. Or a room that happened to be white. But The White Room.

Walter had not been back to see him until now. He assumed that the past 48 hours was supposed to be some sort of 'wait and see' period, where he weighed what was left of his life and decided if he wanted to spend it in here. Or was it Section that got the opportunity to decide if they wanted to keep him or cut him loose?

Somehow he was sure that the word 'cut' was taken literally around here.

His preoccupation did not go unnoticed by Walter. "Must have been one hell of a dream, amigo."

Michael stared at the older man in horror, certain that his secret had slipped out, during his restless attempts to sleep. No longer concealed behind the protective facade of the blank stare, Michael felt like one giant exposed nerve ending. Leading directly to his groin.

Walter lay a big hand on Michael's shoulder, and Michael virtually froze in place. "Don't!"

"Don't what?" Walter gave the young recruit a puzzled look. He adjusted his bandanna in an effort to conceal his already-thinning hair. He was vain about his looks, but there was a good reason for that. In Section, one was only as good as his last mission, report, set of numbers. Part of Walter's stock in trade was his roguish demeanor, his relatively intact 'package', his still-hard-as-a-rock body.

"Don't touch me," Michael whispered, his face flaming as he abruptly realized the sheet was no longer hiding the catastrophically huge erection he had. Something came up, he whimpered to himself, the moment that Walter touched me.

"Why not?" Walter snapped, jumping to the wrong conclusion. He assumed wrongly that Michael had taken a dislike to him. Not that it mattered one way or another. Here in Section, no one gave a good goddamn what your personal opinion of anyone was. Personality? What was that?

It was a shame, though. He liked the look of the boy. He was not traditionally handsome, Walter knew that, but there was something arresting about the look of him. Added to that, there was a charisma, an energy that the boy gave off. It was very…well, attractive, for lack of a better word.

Never mind that Walter was defiantly a man's man. If there was a pair of panties within ten miles, he could be in and out in under an hour. Even if he was forced to make polite conversation first. He was *that* smooth.

Frustrated by Michael's apparent inability to speak, Walter examined him a bit more closely. His color was high, like he was feverish. Damn, he wasn't sick when he came in. How—? And then there was his breathing, all hitches and starts, like he was going to freaking hiccup himself to death. This was definitely *not* the same kid. What happened?

"What happened to you, kid?" Walter asked, unable to mask the concern in his normally effervescent blue eyes.

You, Michael answered silently, not trusting himself to speak. I want you to touch me, so bad I can taste it. But nice boys don't play those kinds of games, and certainly not with dirty old men.

'Did someone hurt you?" Walter had kept a close eye on what happened to Michael during his absence, but he couldn't be sure that someone had *not* tried to take advantage of him. He *was* worth having. Damn, he *was*.

"No," Michael whispered, averting his face.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

All at once, Walter saw the way Michael cradled his crotch. Oh, shit, the kid had an early morning woody. No wonder he was embarrassed.

His blue eyes softening, Walter said kindly, "You're not the first guy to wake up with one of those, you know."

Michael turned wounded eyes on the older operative. "I had a dream," he whispered.

"Yeah, yeah, listen, I know all about those kinds of dreams. Hell, I prolly invented 'em."

Not like this you didn't. You're starring in the technicolor gang bang in my head, old man. You think you can deal with *that*?

"Umm…"

Walter rolled his eyes. "Oh, I get it. You're a bit shy, what with all the surveillance and all. Hell, you won't even notice it after a while, and hey, it's not as bad as having someone watching you pee."

"So…you wouldn't have a problem with me taking care of this?" Michael asked hesitantly, an odd glint in his now bright-green eyes.

"Nah. What's an erection between friends?"

Michael's eyes widened. "Is that what we are, Walter? Friends?"

"Well, not yet, kid. But we could be."

His unexpectedly raised hopes dashed, Michael sighed.

Walter bent down and cupped the boy's chin in his hands. "You do anything you have to, kid, to get yourself a little relief. Okay?"

So Michael kissed him.

On the mouth.

It didn't last very long, what with Walter hooting and hollering and jumping back, like a snake had bitten him, but it was enough. Michael hid his face against his hands, wishing there were a deep, dark hole he could throw himself into.

That was when he realized something else.

Walter was staring at him.

Walter knelt down again, one hand reaching out to cover Michael's massive erection. Michael stiffened. It took all of his control to keep his libido from raging wildly out of control.

"Is this for me, kid?"

Long lashes drifted down and concealed Michael's eyes, which had turned a brilliant green. Although there was a sheet between his naked erection and Walter's callused hand, he could feel it as if they were flesh to flesh.

Involuntarily, his hips thrust upward, driving his aroused cock against the grip that held him.

It just *wasn't* enough! The thrust wasn't hard enough; the grip wasn't hard enough. He needed…more. He needed to feel the older man buried deep inside him, commanding him, dominating him, forcing him to come. He shivered.

"Walter!" The whispered moan shuddered past his parted lips. "I want…"

The senior operative released the younger man and eased back on his haunches. "I know what you want."

Michael turned his face away, ashamed.

He had experimented somewhat while he was at University, and had learned to judge who it was safe to approach. He *never* made mistakes that way: it could be too costly. France was still a Catholic country that frowned mightily on homosexuality. He would have lost his scholarship and his freedom.

How could he have fucked up so badly this time? "I'm sorry!"

Strong fingers cupped his chin and forced his face toward the cold operative.

"It's okay, you just took me by surprise. There was nothing in your dossier that indicated you sailed that side of the lake."

"Am I going to be canceled?" Michael managed to ask the question.

"Nah, Section doesn't work that way. They don't waste a single operative. After you're finished with your scheduled training in blowing up buildings and learning how to kill people 50 different ways, they'll want teach you how to manipulate a person sexually."

"Quoi?" Now Michael was totally confused.

"You'll become a valentine op. I think you'd be very good at it. You've got a good body. Take care of it. You've got beautiful eyes; you'll learn to use them to your advantage. And your mouth…" Walter lost himself contemplating Michael's mouth, the lush curve of his lower lip that just seemed to beg to be taken between the older operative's teeth and suckled.

Although Walter had a reputation as a sex machine who tried his luck with all the female operatives, buried deep in his shadowy past was a time he avoided thinking about. A time when he had been stationed out in California and had met someone…special.

It was during the time of the 'police action' in Viet Nam, just before he was to be shipped out. Things had been so crazy.

There were protests. Oh, not as bad as UC Berkley, but the college students still marched and made their voices heard.

And there was apathy. A lot of their parents just didn't care.

And there was the hedonistic enjoyment of anonymous bodies and chemicals and music. They found refuge in sex and drugs and rock and roll.

Walter had needed to get away from it for a while. He drove up to San Francisco on a three day pass. A tour of the locations of Dashielle Hammett's The Maltese Falcon sounded good, and he shared a seat with a young man who was a low-level white collar worker playing hooky for the day. They had laughed and commented on the various places they saw, comfortable in the way strangers sometimes can become.

The younger man suggested they have lunch. The afternoon wore on and Walter suggested dinner.

Afterwards they went to a jazz club for a drink, which led to another. And another. And another.

And they somehow wound up in a hotel room, in bed. Together.

Walter had never made love to another man before, but that's what it had been for him. Not buggering. Not fucking. Not screwing. Making love.

He hadn't much of a clue as to how to go about it, but he had sucked his companion's cock to a quivering erection, and then a bar of soap from the shower helped ease his entry into the hot, snug passage of the younger man. Walter had tangled his hands in the collar-length, ash brown hair, gently pulling his head back to enable him to ravage his throat with stinging kisses. His cock had teased its way past the tight ring of muscle that guarded his partner's virgin opening and had set up an easy thrusting that took them both closer and closer to fulfillment. The younger man had come first, his semen spattering his chest and the bedspread beneath them. Walter followed with a hoarse groan.

The next morning had found them returning to the real world with a resounding 'thud'. The young man was horrified. His hazel eyes had widened with dismay and he dove into the shower, scrubbing his skin until it was raw. He barely took the time to throw on his rumpled suit, and then he was out the door, without a word, without a backward glance.

Leaving Walter to try to make some sense of what he had done.

He had foolishly, impetuously, hopelessly fallen in love.

"What, kid?" Walter suddenly realized the young recruit had asked him something. He had been so lost in the past he hadn't heard a word.

Licking lips that had gone dry, the younger man gazed helplessly at the operative before him. "Who will train me for that?" he repeated.

Walter gave him a lopsided grin. "That's Section's call, Green Eyes."

But, oh, I would *love* to be the one!

Those eyes. They were what had sent him back to that wonderful, horrible period in his life. Walter rose lithely to his feet and backed away from the younger man.

Michael studied his hands, which were clenched tightly, the knuckles white. Although he had been quite willing to die when he had first been brought to Section, now he discovered that he very much wanted to live.

And he would do whatever Section deemed necessary to keep himself alive: kill, manipulate. Have sex with whoever he was ordered to.

And maybe, just *maybe*, it would be Walter he was ordered to have sex with!