The Jigsaw

Just as I promised, here is the next part :)
I carry on amazingly fast lately, with both my stories. (You might want to take a look at the second one - The Broken Road: http://original.adult-fanfiction.org/story.php?no=600098319. It is somehow close to my heart.)

Apparently The Muse strikes from time to time :D

Lusia - sure, there must be a progress finally :) No progress makes the story boring. I know it, as I've come across very fascinating fictions that became tiresome because of no progress in plot.

Berlin - nice to meet you here :) I guess that the Christmas gift is still ahead ;)

ASOTA - yes, definitely, you're my gem here :] You have no idea how important it is to have some constant "points" in my writing adventure, like your reviews :)

Oco - weeeeell, THIS is what I call a mind-blowing review! Maybe I'll print it out to hang on my wall? :D Thank you for your time and analysis. I appreciate it!
Stay here with us, enjoy the next chapters and let me enjoy your comments if you have more observations :)
Oh, and I'm not Spanish. I come from Poland :)

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The Way Down

Someone knocked at the door. Sam's hand twitched slightly at the sudden sound and the needle stuck painfully in the wrong place. "Fuck!" he cursed quietly, yanking his head with irritation, but he didn't move from the bathroom. He didn't need or expect any guests.

Once again he took aim with the syringe and stuck the long, thick needle deep into the muscle between his ribs. Casey's rough treatment of his torso had resulted in a serious bruise that covered his whole left side. Now that the level of adrenaline had gone down, it hurt like fucking hell. He’d had a hard time earlier, going back to the hotel, climbing the stairs, taking his shirt off, and finally trying to administer the murderous remedy.

Sam threw the used syringe into the bin and sighed with relief, for the intramuscular painkiller worked immediately. Not until then could he straighten up and take a deep breath.
The knocking reverberated throughout the small room again, but Sam didn't intend to respond. He pulled out a surgical cotton-wool pad and a roll of bandage and threw on a light, composite orthopedic brace. His ribs and internal organs needed the best possible protection from further injuries, if he didn't want to wind up on an operating table again.

This time there was no knocking; the door just cracked open and Casey's head peeked inside. Sam saw him through the open bathroom door, and after a second Casey noticed him too.

"That's all I need!" Sam sighed and lowered his head, leaning his elbows on the sink.

"May I come in?" asked Casey calmly, still waiting beyond the threshold.

"No," Sam answered, not raising his head.

"Well, thought I’d take a chance." Casey smiled and took a step inside, closing the door.

Strangely enough, Sam was satisfied with that reaction. He would have been disappointed if Casey had just turned and left. "What do you want?" He straightened up and looked at Casey with tired eyes.

Casey liked him this way. It was honest and intimate. Almost human.

"I'm a mess, Sam," the blond man confessed helplessly, taking a few steps toward the bathroom and leaning against the doorway. "And you have everything to do with it. I cooled down a bit, thought through some things, and came to talk."

"There’s nothing to talk about." Sam's face got cold and hostile, which contrasted highly with the almost tender note in his voice. That was the expression Casey disliked the most.

"There is, Sam." Casey shook his head. "You wanted to fuck me."

"No shit!" The agent sneered. "And you think that makes you special? There are plenty of people I’ve wanted to fuck, and we didn't talk about it. Give me a break, will you?" His grin was ugly, his face displaying a mix of scorn and dissolution.

"Okay, shove it." Casey knitted his brows. "I'll be honest. I wanted to fuck you."

"Jesus Christ...Casey, that makes you even less special, you know?" Sam drawled his "eeeven" melodiously and rolled his eyes, leaning his hip against the sink.

Casey only nodded, strongly resolved to swallow all humiliation Sam was ready to treat him to. Yes, he knew he wasn't special. He knew it all too well.

"If that's all you wanted to say, there's the door." Sam indicated the exit.

"No. That's not all. I came up with some backup subjects." Casey looked him in the eyes, his expression sad and vulnerable.

Sam knitted his brows, a bit startled. He had expected Casey to either leave obediently or get provoked. But this? Once again, the man played unpredictably.

"You know," Casey continued in a soft voice, "I've reached one important—for me—conclusion: that whatever you do or say, it's me who's responsible for my actions. And though I'm perfectly aware of your share in my messed-up shit, I wanted to say my personal 'I'm sorry'."

Sam cut in with a laugh. "You're sorry," he repeated. "And what are you sorry for? I don't need your apology, you holy fucking Joe."

"Don't flatter yourself." The corner of Casey's lips lifted barely visibly. "I'm not doing it for you. But you don't get it, do you?" He sighed, but his expression was forgiving. "For my own sake, I'm sorry for what I did." He indicated Sam's ribs with a jerk of his head. "I wanted it, as God's my witness, I wanted it so fucking bad. And now I'm sorry. I won't get in your way any more, I won't try to come to any sort of arrangement with you, I won't expect anything. To put it simply, I'll try not to have anything to do with you, as much as possible. Yes, I know you'll carry on making things worse for me and it's meaningless to ask you to stop. I'll handle it, somehow." He smiled sadly. "Maybe," he added. "I'll do my best, anyway."

"Woooow.... That was pretty fucking amazing, man! Really. I have to hand it to you. Almost had me in tears. Only what a shame you can't even be honest with yourself," Sam jibed, knowing he couldn’t come up with anything more hypocritical if he tried.

Why? Why couldn't he shake Casey off like dust off his shoes, as he’d always done with others, and free himself from this exhausting existence? Why did he care? What was it that bound him to the man, that he couldn't overcome? He didn't know the answers and it annoyed him unspeakably. Or maybe he actually knew the answers, and that was exactly what made him so edgy.

Whatever.

He couldn't refrain from throwing out what was on his mind. "You're like a fussy girl who would like to but is scared of. You play weird games like 'catch me if you can' and then you pretend to be pure and noble—and fuck, even generous! You say 'I'm sorry' and you think I'll burst into tears with emotion. That's pretty fucked up, if you ask me. But, well, you don't."

"Actually I do. I really do." Casey said, his face concerned. "Look, I came here hoping for an honest talk. But then you say you have nothing to tell me, only to shout at me a few seconds later." He closed his eyes and rested his temple against the doorway. "I don't get you, man. As much as I'd like to, I really don't."

"And why would you want to get me, Casey?" Sam crossed his arms on his chest and took a defensive pose. "’Cause you see me as a wild, lost animal that needs redemption? ‘Cause I'm some rotten bastard you can mercifully convert to righteous ways if you're magnanimous enough? Or maybe you entered some kind of fucking competition that I even don't know about! Huh? Tell me!" With his head lowered and eyes hurling lightning from under knitted brows, he looked like one big accusation.

Casey opened his mouth, struck dumb. For the first time since they’d met he had a chance to peek into the dark soul of this wild man, for Sam unguardedly opened up for a moment. What Casey found there was far from his expectations.

So they’d wound up in that gridlock only because one was too much prouder than the other to reveal their real doubts and anxiety?

"Holy fuck, Sam." He shook his head, raising his hands to his face and running them up into his hair. "You know what amazes me? Sharp as you are, you don't even consider the simplest explanation." He was resigned and ready to give up.

"That is...?" Sam arched his eyebrows questioningly, mildly ashamed of his outburst.

Casey's heart beat so fast now, so violently. He took a deep breath, and with a desperate attitude of "come what may", pushing his hands into his pockets and shrugging involuntarily, he said simply, on an exhalation, "That I fell in love."

The silence that reigned in the apartment was so deep that it hurt. Both men stood motionless, both shocked—Sam at hearing something that had no right to appear in that game of two fiery egos, and Casey at having said it, since it was the last thing he’d intended to do.

Ta-da! The game was over.

Except for one small fact: Sam didn't feel like a winner, and certainly neither did Casey.

The dark-skinned agent’s heart was full of the swelling rage and uneasiness.
Why hadn't he immediately laughed the confession off, like he used to when pretty, easy girls or boys had looked at him with their cow eyes, swearing eternal love for him?
He wanted to crush Casey completely with one last cruel jibe, to finish him off and put his foot on Casey's chest. He had won, after all! But he couldn't do it.

Casey let the air out of his lungs that he’d held for long seconds. He was still alive. Nothing had happened. At least this once Sam turned out to be more merciful than expected.

"Fuck. I didn't really want to tell you that, you know. I've never had suicidal tendencies." He chuckled forcefully, his voice trembling, and nervously combed his long hair with his fingers. "That's all there is to it, I guess." He made a comical effort to put on a cheerful face that would convey the impression of "it's not a big deal, life goes on", but it was a complete disaster.

"You win," he said finally. He couldn't stand the silence. He was scared of it. He wanted to say as many words as possible to erase the memory of those he’d blurted out before. "Here—here’s your cup—" he reached for a glass vase standing on a small table near the entrance to the bathroom and handed it to Sam, who accepted the item thoughtlessly, as if under the spell— "your first place trophy." Casey gave in to an irresistible urge to clown about out of fear that if he didn’t make fun of himself, Sam would do it for him. "Salve victoria! The audience is going mad, bravo, bravo...." He was dwelling on his indignity, going all melodramatic.

His voice was breaking, so he cleared his throat and took a deep breath to calm himself a bit. "I've got what I deserved for being stupid enough to believe I could stand against, or by, you. We, the defeated, will retreat and lick our wounds out of your sight." He smiled gently and turned to leave, his ears burning as well as his face and chest.

"Wait," he heard behind him, and it was the most dreadful thing he could anticipate. So it wasn't the end yet. Sam had to have the last word, apparently. Fine. I'll survive. I can manage pretty well without my dignity, after all.... He turned back reluctantly and waited, like a convict awaiting his execution.

Sam eyed him thoughtfully, his face completely expressionless. The vase in his hand slowly tilted forward, more and more, and finally slipped out of his grasp to shatter into thousands of pieces on the ceramic tile floor. Sam followed it down with his eyes, unmoved, then raised his piercing gaze to Casey. "I need some help," he said simply, and held out his hand with the bandage and some cotton wool. "Will you help me?"

God, thought Casey, as if nothing happened. But on second thought he reached the conclusion that for Sam, really nothing serious had happened. Casey was neither the first nor the last to be run over by that bulldozer.

"Sure," he whispered and reached for the dressing. But before he got a grip on it, Sam caught his outstretched arm and twisted it, pinning Casey to the wall. Casey was too surprised to react; and besides, why would he? He had nothing to win. Or to lose. So he just stood there, his forehead pressed against the wall and tears welling up in his eyes. For the first time in his life the truth had cost him enormously, and for the first time he had offered his feelings not only to a man, but to one who wouldn't respect them properly—if not returning them, then at least treating them with gentle understanding. One might say Casey was a fool. And maybe he was. Screw that—he knew he was. But he just had to cut out that ulcer growing in his heart. There was a chance that the truth would make him free.

Sam's body pressed lightly against Casey's back. Casey felt his heartbeat. It was fast, just like his own.

The half-naked agent let go of Casey's hand, guessing, not without reason, that the man wouldn't fight. His palms rested softly on Casey's hips, their touch gentle but firm, as if he was holding his prey. And, Casey thought, it was probably exactly like that. He cried silently, swallowing his bitter tears. He didn't want it to end like this. Not like this.
He should feel free now, shouldn't he? He was supposed to want to react somehow; he should gather his strength to refuse and keep his defenses up. But he couldn't do it. He just couldn't.

He shuddered unintentionally when Sam buried his nose in his long blond hair and touched Casey's head with his forehead. His warm, calm breath ghosted over Case's nape, giving him goosebumps and making him involuntarily tilt his head back, for which he cursed himself inwardly.

To be closer to that touch. To get as much as possible before it all transformed into something more cruel and devastating. As if it could.

The sensation was nerve-wracking. A sob stuck in Casey's throat like a choking lump; every fibre of his being was being stripped off and exposed to attack. Somewhere deep inside it hurt. So much.

"I like it when you're scared," Sam whispered, pushing slightly against Casey’s bottom with his hips.

God, you're so fucking inhuman. Casey closed his eyes tightly to keep the tears from flowing. "I don't, Sam," he answered, also whispering. Stop it, please...stop. ‘Cause I can't stop you.

"Uncomfortable?"

Casey couldn't tell from the whisper if this was exceptionally sophisticated mockery or just the unusual incidence of Sam's human kindness. Whatever it was, it caused a pang of pain. He snorted, making a sound reminiscent of desperate laughter on the brink of a heart-rending sob. "Yeah. Like if someone made me wear a dress and high-heeled shoes." He made an effort to hide his fear and pain behind a lousy joke; to tame them a bit, to remove the spell. It didn't work, though. "Can't live without kicking others when they're down, can you, poor bastard?"

Sam could feel Casey's pain and fear perfectly, and he fed on it like a cancer on helpless cells. "I don't think so. Bear with it. I know you can." Sam's mouth whispered that dangerously close to Casey's ear, the warm, wet flow of air caressing his earlobe. His words were mean, but his hands and lips were sweet and gentle.

Casey hissed quietly, shivering from a sick, unwanted pleasure. It wasn't safe to get close to Sam. It wasn't. His body was betraying him once again.

"I don't like it." He didn't even have a shadow of hope that his words would stop Sam from whatever he was planning to do. Casey wasn't even trying to fight.

"This?" Sam’s hands slipped under Casey's shirt, and his fingertips made their way from Casey’s hips up his belly and chest, leaving a trail of tiny contractions as they moved. His nerves were reacting powerfully, as if by electricity. Casey trembled and clenched his teeth to prevent a hiss from escaping. Tears were running down his face.

"You know exactly what I mean, Sam," he said in a trembling voice. "I don’t want to surrender to you. Not like this."

"I'm not surprised." Casey could tell Sam was smiling, but from the whisper he couldn't tell what kind of smile it was. "I promise to keep it in mind." Sam's voice was gentle now, touching strange chords in Casey's soul. The ones it shouldn't.

"Satisfied?" Sam asked. The touch of his fingers, light as a feather, wandered across Casey's chest, brushing his nipples. They got smaller, harder, perky...sensitive. Way too sensitive. Casey felt like a cheap whore, selling the paltry remains of his pride, his dignity, and everything that remained of his ideals, for that dirty, wonderful touch. He pursed his lips to keep all sounds locked inside, although a suppressed sob almost stifled him. With the greatest effort he managed to utter a sensible sentence: "It's only a body. It has nothing to do with satisfaction."

"I know. I know a lot about it." Sam's voice was hoarse and soft. Its sound was almost as erotic as his touch on Casey’s skin.

No. Nothing was as terribly erotic as his touch.

"I don't think so."

"You might be surprised." Very slowly, Sam slid his hands lower and placed them at Casey’s groin, pressing slightly.

Eyes closed and full of tears, Casey frowned and bit his lower lip, feeling an overwhelming carnal urge to cling to Sam’s hands with his half-erection. At that very moment he was experiencing the most disgusting pleasure and desire of his life. "Surprise me, then." He laughed unhappily.

It seemed that Sam could read his prey's desire but had no intention of fulfilling it. He only strengthened the pressure, digging his fingers into the soft flesh and rubbing the jeans fabric with his thumbs.

Casey closed his eyes and unconsciously rocked his hips forward, chasing the touch. It was a subtle, shy movement.

"Why are you doing this?" He sobbed openly at last, unable to hold it back any longer.

"I don't need a reason, Casey. I just feel like it. Do you need an answer for every fucking question?" Sam got impatient, which was as inexplicable as it was painful to Casey.

"No. I need an answer for this single fucking question." Casey sniffed, feeling snot run down the bow above his upper lip. He didn't manage to suck it back in and it crawled further, over his lips and chin.

"And what if you don't get it?"

"I don't know, Sam," he whispered. "I have no fucking idea. Nothing, probably." He leaned forward with his upper body, clinging to the wall with his face, dribbling on the cool ceramic tiles and getting snot all over them. He was in a desperate state, wanting to die but still hungry for that devilish man. He was losing it. I'm going insane. Fucking disgusting sickly insane!

"Then what's the point?" Sam asked rhetorically. He stopped Casey’s movements by pressing him tightly to his crotch. His right hand crawled to Casey’s belt, his fingers making a shallow dive beneath the waistband, just far enough that he could feel the touch of pubic hair. His left withdrew and slithered into Casey’s hair against his nape, grabbing a handful of it almost painfully and with one long, powerful movement pulling Casey’s head back to expose an ear, the crook of his neck, and his throat. Sam blew a soft breath into Casey’s ear, sucking the earlobe in between his lips and licking the sensitive point just below the ear.

"Aaah!" Casey half cried, half moaned. He jerked his head and craned back. The agent moved his hand from between Casey's hair onto his throat, clinging to it with the whole palm.

"Stop...please, stop," Casey sobbed in panic, grabbing Sam's hand and tearing it away. To his surprise Sam didn't try to overpower him but let go obediently.

"Why? You in trauma?" The agent asked quietly, slipping his hand back into Casey's hair and caressing his head.

Casey laughed a bit insanely, really amused this time. "Trauma? No, not really."

"Then...?" Sam pushed harder, his cock pressing against Casey's butt.

"Nothing." Casey couldn't tell Sam that the hand on his throat, when added to the other caresses, was making him crazy with ecstasy; a harmless fetish. "Sam, why don't you just fuck me good and hard now?" He put all his strength into sounding firm and mocking. "You know you can; you have me knocked into a cocked hat. So what do you want from me, playing like this?" He wanted to get it over with. The faster and less pleasant, the better.

"Why? I'm being nice, aren't I?" Sam smirked and rocked his hips a couple of times, shameless, obscene thrusts.

"If you fuck me like one of your toys, it'll be easier to leave it all behind. Go ahead, let me hit bottom so I can rebound. " He turned his head to give Sam a challenging look. He was scared shitless, but determined.

And then Sam let him go.

"Get out, Cas." He didn't know why the hell he called Casey that. It wasn't mockery. He just stupidly felt that the other man was "Cas" to him at that moment.

Casey stared at him, stunned. What had just happened? "Wha—oh, fuck!" He laughed, and the sound reminded Sam of sobbing. Casey actually was sobbing, and started toward the door. "I—" He turned back from the threshold. "I hoped for some kind of a break point, coming here. But reality, well, it sure exceeded my expectations by a long shot. I've never felt so much like shit as I do right now." He sniffed. "If that's what you wanted, you got it." With those words, he left.

Yes. Sam wanted it. He wanted Casey to feel like a whore. He wanted to fuck him, to trample him, do whatever it took to get rid of this burden. Yet he didn't. Not because he was merciful, but because Casey had said he would rebound from rock bottom. And it hurt so fucking much that it scared the shit out of him. Suddenly he was afraid he would be staying at rock bottom alone. It wasn't supposed to end up like this—him being a stepping stone on Casey's way up.

It hadn’t happened in a very long time, that Sam couldn't ignore someone, although he was avoiding accepting that fact. He didn't want someone to get over him.
No, not someone. Casey. Casey, who was in love with him.

"Fuck!" he shouted, and taking a half-turn swing he pounded his fist straight into the mirror, smashing it to pieces and injuring his knuckles. "Fuck!"

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The clerk took a deep breath when she saw the scary man descending he stairs. He looked like death. The woman didn't want to have anything to do with the freak, especially after the series of scary sounds she’d heard earlier coming from upstairs. And that crying man, young Moore, as she recalled...something was wrong here, and she was seriously thinking of calling the police if anything alarming happened again.

Sam put his door key on the desk and pulled out a wad of banknotes.

"I'm leaving," he said.

Thank God! The clerk sighed inwardly with relief and answered, "So you wish to cancel the reservation for the next five nights?"

"I wish to leave. This is for the room—" the man counted out a round sum and put it in front of the clerk— "and this—" he looked at her, adding more bills to the payment— "is for damages." Having said that, he took his luggage and walked out, not bothering to take his change.

It took him only five hours to get to Maoro, driving like crazy. At the speed of eighty miles an hour he felt calm, all his senses and his mind focused on the road and the wheel.

As soon as he parked in the base car-park, his cell phone rang.

"I'm waiting for you." It was Ramson. He said only that one short sentence and disconnected, but Sam knew this talk would be a hard one.

God, does he never sleep? Sam snapped the phone shut angrily. It was almost three in the morning.

When he got to the Ramson's office the colonel welcomed him with a cold glare and arched brows, asking only, "Well?"

"I did what you wanted." The agent sat down, not waiting for permission.

"That was quick. You had the whole week to take it slow."

Sam didn't answer but entwined his fingers and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"So he was an easy target, huh? I thought he'd be tougher." Ramson shrugged his shoulders and put on a disdainful face.

"He was tougher." Sam snapped, suddenly annoyed by the fact that someone else was treating Casey condescendingly. He could do that, sure. But only him.

"How come—" The boss frowned, not understanding. "He was, but you’re back already?"

Sam gritted his teeth and stood up. After a moment's thought he decided to tell the truth. "I did throw him out of balance. But I also lost mine."

"You?" Ramson laughed mockingly. "Weeell, that's something to celebrate!" He stood with arms akimbo, his gaze merciless. "What a nice surprise."

"Yes, indeed. Enjoy. I'm going to sleep." Sam twisted his lips in a disrespectful sneer and stood up.

"No, you're not." Ramson's voice turned cold, as well as his expression. "I want a full report."

Sam gave him a murderous look. It crossed Ramson's mind that if not for Simon, who he had in the palm of his hand, he would never dare challenge Sam directly. But he had Simon and he could savor the feeling of superiority and impunity.
He was like a dog trainer, swinging his whip over the head of a Doberman that was kept on a chain. Pathetic, but fulfilling.

"You got your fucking report," Sam hissed, knowing he was playing with fire and somehow enjoying the thought of Ramson getting annoyed, even if it meant having to take a kick. "I was there, I made a mess, I took a beating, I've had enough. What else do you want?" Sam narrowed his eyes in an expression of hatred, still standing, ready for a blow. But it didn't come. Ramson was apparently in his playful mood.

"Dismissed, agent." He finished the conversation with a mocking expression. It's not your business what else I want, doggy.

When the door closed, Sam sighed heavily and shook his head. He was not so much angry as tired. Very, very tired. To the extent of wanting to lie down and die; just like that.

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The next part is also ready ;)
It'll get published soon.

Can I get my review now? Can I? Please? ;) :P
Isn't it too much? Isn't it too long? Isn't it too weird? Or anything else?