Interception

“I'm curious about one thing,” murmured Strahm, curling his fingers around his chin, utterly rapt. “Why? I mean, why now?”

He had seemed honestly surprised to hear from Jill so soon, and she could see that a portion of that surprise had been distilled into fairly understandable suspicion. There was nothing overt, and nothing that she could identify as being directed at her personally, but she nevertheless thought quickly.

“I warned you before that you underestimate John,” she said, calmly. “He probably knows the FBI have become involved.”

Feeling that she ought to make some kind of good faith gesture, Jill had agreed to talk at the FBI building downtown. She'd requested the privacy of Strahm's office rather than the indignity of an interview room, and when he had produced a tape recorder and set it on the desk between them, she'd caught his eye and offered a small shake of her head. Strahm had set his lips in a hard line at this refusal, but had acquiesced without comment and taken his thumb off the switch. He was now giving Jill his full attention, accompanied by a strange half-smile that she wasn't sure she could fathom.

Jill had in turn been studying her surroundings, trying to discern something of the nature of the man who'd shaped them. While it was true that she saw a few touches about the room that were evidently personal to Special Agent Strahm, none of it was so personal as to be familiar or even telling. No photographs, no gifts, nothing to indicate the presence of so much as one other human being in his personal life. She stole another fleeting glance at the ring he wore and frowned minutely.

“Why don't we start at the beginning?” he was saying. “John called you again. I need a little detail, Jill. Ideally, a lot of detail, but right now I'll settle for whatever I can get.”

(It's imperative that Special Agent Strahm believes you to be reluctant to assist me)

“He needs medical care,” said Jill, keeping her chin raised and her voice perfectly steady. “I'm the only one he feels he can trust.”

(I am reluctant, John. I don't need to fake anything)

“This makes no sense,” said Strahm, flicking a hand dismissively. “So far he's been perfectly happy to rely upon Amanda Young. Besides, you're not an oncologist. I don't see why he needs you.”

“You told me to call you if John contacted me again,” said Jill, her tone razor-edged. “So far I've done exactly as you requested. It's not my job to psychoanalyse, is it?”

“Easy now,” said Strahm, raising both hands defensively. “I'm not trying to harass you, Jill, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't keep making me feel as if that's what I'm doing.”

That's the second time in less than a week that you've been a bitch to this man, said her subconscious, and she flinched, wishing she could find the courage to direct her bile at Hoffman - the one man who genuinely deserved it. She returned her attention to the situation at hand to see Strahm regarding her levelly, idly toying with his pen, both thoughtful and wary in equal measure.

“Do you still love John?” he said, abruptly. The question came out of far left field, and Jill reeled a little. The word 'no' was at the back of her throat even as she realised that it would be a preprogrammed lie, and a poor one at that. Most lies, she knew, suffered a little more damage with each repetition. She bit her lip and fought the urge to look away.

“Yes,” she said, “if you want the simple answer. The complex one may take more time than either of us has at our disposal.”

Strahm nodded sagely. “Would you lie for him?” he asked.

“Would you believe me if I said no?” she replied with small and rueful smile.

“I'm trying to think the best of you, Jill,” he said, quietly.

“Try harder,” said Jill, her jaw set. Strahm dropped his gaze; a small retreat.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling heavily. “This is going nowhere and it's getting late. Will you at least let me take you home?”

Strahm took Jill back to her apartment in silence, although she, for her part, took the chance to watch him out of the corner of her eye as he drove. He was as careful on the road as in everything else she'd watched him do, his manner so courteous as to verge on archaic. At the third red light, however, she tired of the quiet, turned away from the scarlet glare in the gathering drizzle and looked at him directly.

“You were married?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap. Even in the gloom she saw a small muscle twitch at the corner of Strahm's mouth, and she knew she'd hit a crucial point.

“You're good,” he said, a shade bitterly, hands tightening on the wheel. “I was, yes. Elizabeth died six years ago, just before I joined the Bureau.”

The light changed and Strahm pulled away smoothly, everything about him indicating a man under complete control. Everything, that was, besides the pallor of his knuckles and the small, unhappy knot in his brow. He kept his eyes fixed upon the road. Jill shook her head slightly but furiously, and would have gratefully bitten through her own tongue if it could have taken back her inordinately clumsy question.

“I'm sorry,” she said, reaching out, tracing her fingers along his shoulder, feeling the tension there, “I shouldn't have asked that. It was stupid of me.”

Strahm drew the car up outside Jill's building and pulled up on the parking brake with an impatient jerk. Only now did he turn to face her, his eyes turbulent in the darkness.

“What are you playing at?” he asked her, his tone wavering between anger and pain, both of which struck a blow at Jill that might as well have been a physical one. She was conscious, however, of the fact that her hand remained upon his shoulder, and that he had made no move to reject this contact.

“I'm not playing,” she said, miserably, then drew back and wrenched the car door open, climbing out into the rain. The wind caught the shower and whipped it across her face, blinding her for a second as she recovered what little was left of her dignity and walked away. She heard the driver's door open and close behind her, and then all at once, Strahm's hand was on her shoulder, turning her around. The rain rustled down out of the endlessly foul city sky, and for long seconds it was the only sound in the world.

“I can't do this,” he said, his voice rough.

“I didn't say anything,” said Jill, holding his gaze. Acting on instinct, she crossed what little distance remained between them and reached up, grazing his cheek as softly as she dared. He was by now soaked with frigid rain, but she was sure that this bore only part of the blame for the shiver she felt beneath her touch.

“Jill...” he said, but the rest of his words were lost, swallowed in sudden incoherence; and then her arms were around his neck and she was biting softly at his lower lip and there was, suddenly, no more resistance left in Special Agent Strahm. He groaned softly into Jill's mouth and lifted her into his arms, pulling her out of the rain and into the shelter of the doorway. She gasped as Strahm pushed her up against the door and plunged his hands into her wet hair, but unlike Hoffman – she flinched at the comparison – his actions were born of passion rather than brutality, and she gladly gave into them and returned her own, raking her nails across the back of his neck.

“Wait, wait,” said Strahm, drawing back a little and unhooking Jill's arms. “Let's get inside, huh?”

By the time the front door had slammed behind them, the storm was reaching a crescendo and lightning whip-cracked across the sky to the discordant tune of thunder. The rain lashed and twisted outside the window like a shoal of tiny fish, turning every so often to batter the glass. Jill and Strahm pulled at each other's clothing between urgent kisses, and she whimpered with delight when he leaned close and licked at her neck with unalloyed enthusiasm, then ran his hands over her trembling flesh in random, exploratory patterns and kissed his way down to her bare breasts. When he raised his head again he was grinning like a schoolboy. She smothered the grin with her mouth and pulled him to the floor, straddling him, hands pinning his shoulders.

“Not so serious now,” said Jill, wryly amused at this change. Strahm laughed out loud beneath her, making them both quiver.

“Not so much,” he agreed, then yelped as her nails scratched twin paths through the soft hair of his chest, leaving vivid welts in their wake. From her position astride his hips, Jill felt his cock throb against her inner thigh, and now she shifted position, one hand finding his crotch, pressing down, stroking and squeezing his growing erection through his pants. She kept her eyes on Strahm's face all the while, and heard his breathing deepen and roughen. Another snarl of thunder punctuated the ceaseless rhythm of her fingers, and then she unzipped his pants and shifted position, gliding lower still, moistening her lips before closing her mouth tenderly around the head of his cock.

Strahm convulsed, issuing a guttural, throaty sound that was far more animal than human. Jill ran her hands up his belly and continued to scratch lightly at his flesh as she ran her tongue up and down his shaft, never pausing, finding his sweetest and most sensitive spots and suckling hungrily. She felt a tell-tale shudder beneath her palms and drew back, smiling gently, taking his slippery erection from her mouth. He groaned, momentarily frustrated, but Jill moved to quiet him with a kiss that shared the subtle taste of him, then mounted him, guiding his aching length up between her thighs and into the warmth of her body.

Jill rocked back and forth, face twisted in grateful pleasure, savouring the feeling of having Strahm buried deep inside her. She flexed her thighs and began to move, riding him slowly, watching his expression as she did so. After a while, his hands found her hips and gripped her tender flesh, urging her down onto him a little harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Jill gritted her teeth and moved faster, leaning close, enjoying the quivers racing up and down her spine as she worked towards a climax.

Without warning, Strahm closed his eyes and exhaled harshly, back arching, as he came. Jill cried out as his fingers tightened on her waist, and shivered pleasantly as his cock pulsed over and over inside her. He jerked his hips up once or twice in the throes of his orgasm and then, shuddering, subsided a little at a time beneath her. She sighed, catching her breath on the second try, then lowered her head and nuzzled at his chest.

“God, Jill...” said Strahm, his voice shaking, face flushed and gleaming with sweat. She moved gently, withdrawing, then moving to lie beside him on the rug. Her mouth was an inch from his ear and her fingers traced the contours of his cheek.

“Don't say anything,” she told him, gently.

“But I...”

“It's okay.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Outside, lightning ripped the sky in two.