Sex Tête by alyse [ - ]
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Category: CI5: The New Professionals > Slash > Drabbles
Characters: Chris Keel
Rating: NC-17
Genres: Drabble
Warnings: None

Summary: A collection of six drabbles. Sam's perspective.

Was that it?

Somehow I thought there would be more.  I'm not stupid enough to believe that there would be fireworks or anything like that – I'm nineteen for chrissakes, not sixteen – but was that really it?  Less than twenty minutes from start to finish?

Talk about fucking disappointing.  And painful.

Oh, I knew it would be uncomfortable at first, but...

Oh fuck it.  Face it, Sam, you got screwed – literally.  I'm never going to have sex with a man again.  I'm going to stick to girls.  At least they don't roll over straight after and start snoring.

Well, not usually.



Blame adrenaline.  Blame the brandy.  Blame anything but your libido.

You decided six years ago that men weren't for you, so why the hell did you have to go and screw up now?

Or get screwed.  And by your superior officer, no less.

Must admit, though, it was better this time.

Much better.

Good in fact.

Oh, who am I fooling?  It was fucking fantastic.  Guess older guys really know what they're doing.  Wish I'd known that six years ago.  All that wasted time.  Not that it's going to be easy – being gay, being in MI6.

Being with Dietrich.


Idiot, idiot, idiot!

A roll in the hay or two does not a grand passion make.

What now? 

Paste that expression on your face, the unreadable one, the one you hide behind when an assignment goes wrong, the one he calls 'the mask'.

At the time he thought he was being complimentary.

Concentrate on the bad things.  The way he snores.  The way he picks his teeth when he's concentrating.  Not the way that it feels to fall asleep in his arms.  Or how your heart's breaking.


Move on.

Don't cry.

Go back to girls.

Forget Karl.

Die inside.


New job, new deal, new partner.

He's attractive – in a fresh-faced, clean-cut, all dimples and blue eyes, American boy-next-door type of a way.

But I'm sticking to girls.  And even if I wasn't, I prefer mature not puppy-dog eager.

Not to mention gung-ho and without the sense he was born with.

And I'm sorry he has nightmares, but we all have our own nightmares so he's nothing special, really.

Even if I have seen beyond that joker façade to something else, something more complex and complicated. 

Even if I slipped up and let him catch a glimpse past mine too.


He's trying to kill me.  If he's not trying to blow me up he's trying to give me a bloody heart attack.

Gung-ho, hotheaded, fool rushing-in, bloody Yank.  Car bombs, landmines, what's next?  He's suggested a dip in the pool here so what's he going to find, a sea-mine?

Oh, he has his good points.  He's smart, he's funny, he's good at his job.

He's cute.

I can't do this.  I worry about him and I'm not used to worrying about anyone.  I don't want to worry about him.  I don't want to care about him.

Oh fuck.  Too late.


Someone remind me why I stuck to girls for so long.

I'm warm.  I'm comfortable.  I'm happy.

I'm loved.

There's an arm thrown casually across my waist, fingers curled against the curve of my hip, his leg, still in its brace, crossed over mine.  A face, I presume, is resting on my shoulder blade as I lie on my front, my head pillowed comfortably on my arms.  I can't see him, just hear him.  And you know what?  The snoring doesn't bother me at all, a soft rumble against my skin.

He told me he loved me. 

I believe him.

The End