Twist In Sobriety

NOTE: This is written as a last season three story for me, for now.
After seeing the first four episodes of season four, I know the style of
my writing these two men has to change. This is my goodbye to how they
were, and my hello to how they will be. (I hope that doesn't sound too
pretentious!)

(For you Americans (!) B&B stands for Bed & Breakfast (houses like your motels!) )

***

A Twist In Sobriety
by elfin

(A Month Earlier.)

Garibaldi glared at Susan, his anger and helplessness directed at the world in general. She spoke gently,

"It was a frenzied attack, he's suffered multiple stab wounds, mainly to his stomach and arms, although he does have a deep gash in his forehead. I think he must have been trying to protect himself, putting his arms in the way of the blade. He lost a lot of blood, but luckily no vital organs were damaged."

"Will he make it?" Michael's voice was thick with worry and emotion; he was fiercely protective over his captain, and the fact the someone had attacked the man, could easily have killed him, had upset him deeply.

"Stephen says he'll make a full recovery; it'll take some time though, he'll be out of action for a while."

The chief looked up, over Susan's shoulder into the private room where Sheridan was being treated. They were keeping their voices low.

"I don't understand what he was doing down there, he knows it's dangerous. People down-below don't need motives, they just strike. Usually for money. He never goes down-below alone, off-duty. I've warned him again and again... I wish, for once in his life, he'd listen to me."

Susan allowed herself a sad, knowing smile; he never listened to any of them, such a stubborn pain-in-the-ass. Yet he'd endeared himself to so many. Her anger came rushing back.

"Twelve times? Why stab him that often, he must have fallen after one or two, they could have taken whatever they wanted and just left him..."

"Does he still have his card and link on him?"

She shook her head, unsure. "He has his link, I dunno about his card, I didn't think to check."

Garibaldi lifted a comforting hand to her arm, "Of course you didn't, you had better things to think about, like saving his life. Are you okay?"

She took a deep breath and nodded, "I think so."

They moved over to the observation window to watch as Franklin made him comfortable.

"He looks dead." Michael murmured in a flat tone.

"I know. I thought he was when I found him."

"How did you find him?"

"Anonymous call to my quarters."

"That's odd." She shrugged; she'd known at the time that it was probably a trap, but she'd gone anyway, and found the captain lying face down in a pool of his own blood. Whoever had tipped her off was long gone. "Can you remember what the guy looked like?"

"Dark hair, quite long, good looking; he seemed nervous, worried about something, that's why I thought it might have been a trap."

"And you still went alone."

"I'm a big girl Mr. Garibaldi, I can take care of myself."

He nodded at the scene beyond the window, "I bet that's what he thought."

********************************

(Present Day)

Above the door of the bar, the 'z' of the "Happy Daze" sign blinked on and off, buzzing loudly.

Garibaldi removed his link, stuck it in his pocket, and entered the darkened room as he had done every Friday night for the past few months. He moved through the crowd to the bar, ordering his "usual" and looking around. The small, dirty stage was illuminated by a single, low spot. Friday night was song night. Tables around him were occupied with couples, males, females, aliens, people alone, not too many parties in this place.

Then someone caught his eye. There was a man sitting at the other end of the bar, he was turned away from Garibaldi. The chief could only make out the back of the man's head, and his arm, rested on the surface in front of them, slim fingers wrapped around a glass of amber liquid. He seemed to be talking to someone next to him. Entranced, Michael stood and moved around, behind the crowd bustling around the bar, until he could see the side of the man's face.

"John Sheridan." Michael breathed his name, unable to believe what he was seeing.

His CO was dressed in tight black jeans and a loose black t-shirt, a low neckline showing off the base of his throat, and collar-bones. His hair was tousled, soft and free; he looked comfortable and relaxed in the squalid surroundings. The man he was talking to looked slightly older than John, handsome and strong. The two were laughing, obviously enjoying each other's company, they sat close together, leaning into each other as they talked.

Michael returned to his seat at the bar, keeping an eye on the two of them, thinking things about his captain he'd never expected to think. What was a man like Sheridan doing in a place like this? God, it sounded like a chat-up line! The noise in the room dropped when the owner of the bar strode on to the stage to introduce the first performer. Sheridan and his friend chose then to leave, together; and as they walked passed Garibaldi, unaware of his presence, Michael had a thought that left him speechless; *my god* (the grin spread over his face at the revelation) *he's picked that guy up.*

Unable to help himself, Michael followed the "couple" out of the bar.

In the dark, John pulled on his trousers and fastened his shirt. He fought to stop the tears as they welled in his eyes. He cast one last look over at the sleeping men beside him and left the room.

Sitting comfortably in a darkened corner of the corridor, Michael watched his captain leave; this wasn't right. Earlier on he'd heard muffled cries coming from the quarters that the two men had gone into, he was convinced the cries were John's. Whatever this encounter should have been, did it turn bad? Or was that how Sheridan had wanted it to go? Why did the captain just put himself through that? And was this a one-off or did he often come down here...

Michael suddenly remembered, the stabbing a month back, Sheridan had almost been killed when he'd been attacked down here; they'd never caught the guy - there had been no motive, no one had tried again, sure, the captain had enemies but they were above attacking the man down-below and failing to do their job. Sheridan had refused to tell Garibaldi why he was in down-below, and wouldn't give any details about his attacker. They'd let it drop; other, more important matters had taken over and swept thoughts about the attack from the chief's mind. This is why Sheridan was down here; he'd been to that bar.

John reached his quarters, sat down on his bed, put his face in his hands and sobbed. The pain and the humiliation tore at him until he was curled into a foetal ball on his side. It was a long while, longer than usual, before his rational mind started to pull him out of the despair he was dropping into.

*This happened, sometimes you make a mistake and you pull the wrong guy. That's all that happened, he was stronger than you, he had friends, you weren't to know, and now it's all over. You can wake up in the morning and go to work; the captain and governor of this station, with everyone's respect (would they still respect you of they knew, of course not Johnny boy), people who care about you (why don't you care about yourself), people who love you.*

Drained, still hurting but unable to do anything about it, he forced himself to get up and undress, to take a shower and clean himself up; washing the blood and semen off his body. He was too weary, too distraught to notice the distant opening of the door of his quarters or to see his chief watching him, concerned.

Garibaldi watched from the shadows of John's own living room, knowing that he shouldn't be there but frightened that Sheridan may have been seriously hurt. He watched with knowing sympathy as the man wrapped himself in the blankets and tried to sleep. Michael stood silently for a while, ensuring John was okay; wanting to make sure he was only upset, not physically injured or concussed. Something was driving this man to self-destruction as things had driven Garibaldi to the same state in the past. How could a man who had earned the love, trust and respect from so many, hate himself so much? Did he hate himself? Or was he doing something he needed to do?

What the hell did he really know anyway? That Sheridan had gone to a bar, picked up a stranger, returned with him to the man's quarters and something had happened inside. Garibaldi was betting on them having had sex - it seemed to him to be the only thing that fitted. But later John had emerged upset, distraught in fact. What had caused that? Had the encounter turned sour? Or was that how he liked it? Were those tears of pain? Or of self-loathing? Or humiliation? He left John's quarters to the gentle sound of snoring.

Later in the night, he returned to the room outside which he'd sat, waiting for his CO to emerge. This time he wasn't so discreet. The quarters were a mess; empty bottles and offensive weapons littered the floor and a large percentage of the surfaces. There was a guy asleep on the couch, rough-looking sort, with the exception that he was clasping a soft cushion to his chest. Garibaldi found his way into the bedroom, and the scene there appalled him. He held his PPG, armed, in his hand, but the men seemed out of it; under the influence no doubt. There were three guys on the bed, all naked, all muttering in their drug-induced sleep. Every so often one would turn over, shifting the covers and disturbing the other two. The sight might have been comical.

Under the men, even in the dark, Garibaldi could make out blood stains on the sheets. There were ancient, rusted pairs of handcuffs lying scattered about the soiled carpet. In a chair, in the corner of the room, Garibaldi recognized the guy he'd seen Sheridan leave the bar with that night. Michael realized too suddenly what must have happened. He resisted the urge to throw up. John couldn't have known that he was being brought back to a gang-bang; the man in the chair was much slimmer, more gentle-looking than his colleagues. John had put undeserved trust in the stranger, and he'd been repaid with violence.

He left the room, and called Zack. He told his second that he'd had an anonymous tip-off about a loads of illegal drugs coming onto the station, that they'd been taken to a room down-below. He asked Zack to check it out in the morning.

The staff meeting the following morning was the usual combination of serious conversation and general complaints about the standard of food in the mess hall. Throughout the whole thing, Garibaldi kept an eye on Sheridan; the man was giving nothing away about how he spent the previous night, he was jolly, cheerful, patient as always. The change was extraordinary. Michael desperately wanted to say something, but he had no idea how to; or what words to use.

By the time Michael met Franklin for lunch in the Zocalo he was running out of ideas.

"Stephen, what drives a man to do things which are might hurt him?"

"Are we speaking hypothetically, or personally?"

"We're speaking about someone who's a friend, someone who may be putting himself in danger."

Stephen appreciated the honesty, "Well, usually it happens because the person in question wants something that he or she can only get by doing the things they're doing; sometimes the need for, whatever it is, is so powerful that it's worth the risk. There are other possible reasons; maybe the person wants or needs attention, or maybe they're doing it for the simple thrill. Haven't you ever done anything risky because it felt good, like a rush?" He looked at Michael for a while, then ventured, "There's a lot of tension builds up in a place like this."

Michael gave him the quizzical glance that simply asked, 'where did that come from?'. "It's true. People cooped up together; command staff find it difficult to have a personal life, either cos they don't have the time, or cos there's no one permanently around that they like enough or want a relationship with. So tension builds, because basically people don't get enough sex. I'm not saying this is any reason why your friend is doing... whatever it is he or she is doing. I'm just saying that there is tension building here."

The glance became a stare of amused disbelief. "What?"

"Come on Michael, when was the last time you had any?"

"Stephen! That's what I'd call a 'personal question'!"

"Okay, I'll tell you when I last had any. Two years ago, a girl called Tanyo I met in here in the Zocalo. She stayed nine days, then I never saw here again. Two years ago, Michael. And I'm definitely feeling the stress." The frankness of the confession surprised Garibaldi. He wasn't even sure how they had got on to this subject - he hadn't even mentioned the word 'sex'. "So, what about you? Are you going to tell me?"

"No!" He took a sip of his drink, keeping his eyes locked with Stephen's. And suddenly he realized what was going on. He nearly choked on his drink; he was being hit upon, Stephen was coming on to him. This was definitely what he didn't need right now. Unknowingly, Zack saved him by calling through with an emergency down-below. He excused himself, leaving Franklin unsure whether or not he was getting anywhere.

Garibaldi thought about what Stephen had said - what the hell was driving Sheridan? What could he possibly have got out of last night's encounter, when it obviously left him hurting and upset. Unless last night's encounter had gone wrong, seriously wrong. He'd seemed so relaxed in the bar, so happy with his surroundings, he'd gone there willingly so what had happened? He'd picked up the other guy, followed him to the stranger's quarters... so much trust to put in someone you don't know... But why did John need to go to a stranger for sex? That's obviously what had been happening, but Garibaldi didn't understand why. There were so many around, people John knew, people Michael was sure the captain could approach and not be worried about rejection or getting hurt. But did John see that? Or was he too embarrassed? Was it the risk? The excitement? Maybe that was it - picking up a stranger, going somewhere private for sex... that was certainly one of his own, personal favourite fantasies...

Maybe John would consider picking up a friend one night.

Michael spent the next few weeks going down to the Happy Daze bar every night. Drinking water and chatting to the bar man, looking out for his CO, waiting for his chance to help the man. He did a lot of thinking through the hours he spent there; considering what he was going to do, what Sheridan's reaction was going to be, but also about what this said concerning his own reasons for being there. He thought a lot about the reality of what was coming. In simplistic terms, he was going to offer to fuck his captain. Not that it was an unpleasant idea. Sheridan was an attractive man, and Garibaldi was no stranger to male/male relationships. It had been a slight surprise to find out Sheridan's preferences, though. The prospect of watching Sheridan, sweat running over as body, at Michael's mercy, turned him on. He hoped he was doing the right thing. It would be natural for it to take more persuasion for Sheridan to put this sort of trust in him, than it would for him to put trust in a stranger.

Friday nights he sat and watched the 'floor-shows'; men singing for their lovers, poems read into the darkness, couples touching.

So he waited. And three weeks later, he was rewarded. It was a Thursday night, about 2000 hours, John wondered into the bar, dressed all in black, smiling and confident. He didn't see Garibaldi at the bar, wasn't expecting to recognize anyone; he approached the other end of the bar and ordered a drink, sitting down to glance over the crowd. Michael swallowed hard and left his seat, moving quietly he sat up on the empty bar-stool beside his captain; unseen, he asked,

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Sheridan turned, stunned, staring at his security chief, "Michael?! What the hell are you doing down here?"

*I might ask you the same thing* "I come down here quite often, it's more... private, than the bars up top."

The barman brought John's drink; Michael ordered a "special" and paid the man for both.

"A special?"

"Water, on the rocks." Sheridan laughed. They drank for a moment in silence, but Michael didn't want to drag this out, didn't want John to feel that because of his security chief's presence, he wasn't going to be able to have what he came down here for. "John, why are you here?"

The captain looked down into his drink, "It's somewhere I can get away from everything."

From the tone of his voice, Michael knew he was being honest with him, but it wasn't enough. "I can understand that one. Is that all?"

Sheridan looked across at him, head on one side. He seemed to be considering telling him, but ended up just shaking his head and tipping the whiskey down his throat.

"Okay, if you won't tell me, I'm gonna have I guess. You come down here because it's anonymous, no one cares who you are, and you can just be yourself. That means that you can have a couple of drinks, maybe chat to people, meet a guy, leave with him, go back to his place for mind-blowing, no-strings-attached sex... Am I close?" He looked into John's eyes and saw that he was, maybe too close. When the other man didn't speak he decided to press on, "so, I was wondering if you wanted to come back to my place tonight."

John stared at him, eyes wide. Michael found himself drowning in wary pools of liquid amber, found himself actually wanting this for himself. He started out on this because John was a friend, he cared deeply for the man who had done so much for him in the past. But as he looked into John's eyes, as he saw the hunger burning from them, he began to think that maybe he was doing this for another reason, one he hadn't admitted to because it wasn't about John Sheridan, it was about himself, and his own needs. But hunger wasn't the only thing shining in those beautiful eyes, there was suspicion also, and he had to work that out before anything was going to happen.

"I'm serious John, I'm not going to hurt you. I want to give you, whatever it is you're down here trying to find."

John felt something akin to panic starting to rise inside him. What the hell was going on? Had Michael been waiting for him? How did he know why he was down here? He took a deep breath and relaxed, assisted by the alcohol.

"What makes you think I'm looking for something?"

"....Lucky guess. And believe me, I haven't shared my insight with anyone."

John let out a deep breath; it had been more than a 'lucky guess'. "Michael, you don't know what you're saying. You have no idea about this. Leave it." He smiled, although it didn't quite touch his eyes. "I doubt I'm even your type." He'd aimed at humour, but Garibaldi wasn't going to be brushed off so easily.

"Look, the only difference between you leaving the bar with me, and you leaving the bar with some other guy, is that when we reach my place, I will do only what you want, I won't hurt you. And you can be sure of that."

John met his sincere gaze, he didn't know Garibaldi, but then, he didn't know any of the strangers he picked up here. In a way Michael was a stranger, certainly in this sense, but he would be there, in the morning, when it was daytime and they had to return to their duties. To the war. But the need within him and the burning memories of the previous time he'd been down here, pulled at him, suggesting that perhaps Garibaldi was right; maybe, just this once, he should accept the offer - accept the safety. Even if it meant giving up the anonymity. Finally, he nodded his head.

They went to Garibaldi's quarters in silence. Once there, Michael left the lights off, and took John's hands into his own. "Tell me John. Tell me what it is that you need. Let me give it to you." Sheridan's breath caught in his throat, touched deeply by Michael's gesture. He was embarrassed. When it was just some stranger he was never going to meet again, someone he wouldn't be giving orders to in the morning, it was easy. But Garibaldi... what _would_ happen afterwards?

Michael could hear John's rapid breathing in the dark. He moved forward, shifted his hands to hold Sheridan's wrists, and placed the captain's palms against his chest. Then he moved the hands downwards until they rested against his groin, against his pronounced erection. "Feel that. That is how much I want this, how much I want _you_. Tell me John. How do you like it? Gentle? Rough?" There was a low muttering, and Garibaldi suddenly understood. "You want to be dominated. You want to give someone else the responsibility for a time, be told what to do and how to do it, not have to make any decisions. Am I right?"

Sheridan nodded, "Yes. Please." The last word was strained, and Michael let go of one of John's hands to find Sheridan's own erection bulging in his trousers. Even trapped like this he was as hard as a rock. John was starting to move his own hands over Michael's groin, tracing his huge cock through the fabric.

"A safeword John... you need...." A hand on his arm, fingers digging urgently, stopped him talking.

"No, please, no safeword, no escape. Please. Don't give me a way out, because I'll take it."

"John, it's dangerous without a safeword. I don't do this without some net in place."

"Michael.... you offered to give me what I wanted... I need to believe that there is no escape. That's why I go down there, to the bar." Behind the pleading in his voice, Michael could hear the fear that he'd seen in the man's eyes when they were in the bar; the fear that because Michael was there, he wasn't going to get the release that he needed tonight. He had promised to give what anyone John picked up would give; he knew he couldn't go back on that. At least with him, John would be safe. There was no way he was going to hurt John viciously or purposely.

"All right John. Your way."

Suddenly Garibaldi was gone, leaving John alone in the dark. There were some sounds; the suspense making Sheridan's arousal more intense. He remained still, breathing hard, until he could feel the heat of Michael's body in front of him again. Then his shirt was being removed, his hands pulled behind his back and he felt thick, leather bonds wrapped around his wrists, pulled tight and fastened. He tried to free his hands, and when he discovered he couldn't, discovered that Garibaldi was serious, a low growl of anticipation escaped him.

Michael ensured the bonds were strong enough to hold, then slipped one arm around John's chest, under his arm. With his free hand he pushed into the small of his back and walked him into the bedroom. They reached the foot of the bed, and he pushed; John landed with an 'umpf' sound on the covers. Sheridan tried to look into the dark, excitement building in him as he heard the rustling of fabric; Garibaldi removing his own clothes.

"Michael..." his voice was a groan.

"Did I say you could talk? Maybe I should show you some discipline."

Sheridan gasped as a weight pressed down on the bed; Garibaldi kneeling beside him. Then Michael's hands were at his trousers, pushing their way underneath him, unfastening the button at the top, sliding the zip down. He felt warm air on his bare ass as his trousers and boxers were removed with one pull. Garibaldi shifted, kneeling with one leg either side of Sheridan's knees. The next thing John knew, a hand smacked his ass-checks, hard and sharp, leaving the most delicious pain lingering with the heat of the punishment. "You will do as I say." Another smack. "Do you understand me?"

Michael heard the covers shift under Sheridan's nodding head, he chose to ignore it, and brought another smack down on the firm buttocks, enjoying himself more than he cared to admit. "I said, do you understand me? You can answer."

"Yes, I understand." Sheridan's voice was rough with arousal.

"Good."

Michael stood and removed his own trousers, followed them with his boxers. He moved over to a small cupboard in the corner of the room, took something out, closed the door. Sheridan could feel his own heartbeat against the bed, trying to hear over the noise, trying to work out what Garibaldi was doing. A sharp crack of air made the captain's breath catch; the man had a whip, two, if Sheridan's hearing was accurate. Then he felt cold leather against his back, not hitting, just... the handle of the whip, being run over his skin, following his spine. The leather felt smooth, seamless as Michael scrapped it over the small of his back, and nudged it between his buttocks. John moaned, arching his back, and Garibaldi realized, with a sudden surge of arousal, that Sheridan wanted him to do what he'd only briefly considered.

Throwing the second whip down on the bed next to them, he pushed a finger between John's buttocks, found his opening, and positioned the base of the smooth, thick handle. But this was gonna hurt, and he had to be sure; this was their first time, and Michael was desperately aware it. The discipline scenario would have to go. "John? It's okay, I need you to talk to me, I have to know that this is what you want."

"God Michael, please, do it, I want it... please..." The man was begging, and there was no way that he could ever refuse that. He pushed, hard, and Sheridan let loose a scream of pain as the hard leather opened him, filled him. Garibaldi didn't relent until the handle was completely inside Sheridan's body; then he waited. Waited until John had relaxed again, until he could hear his breathing calm, then he gently began to move the handle of the whip, in and out, around in small circles.

Sheridan's hands clenched and unclenched behind his back. The feeling of being filled by something cold, inanimate, was so erotic, he thought he would come then. But the pain it was also causing, the sensation of being held so completely open, of being so exposed to the man above him, kept him from orgasm, ensured he stayed on the edge of such consuming pleasure.

After several minutes of stimulating the captain with the leather handle, Garibaldi roughly, suddenly, pulled it out of his anus, forcing a cry of pain and loss from the man's throat. He reached forward and unfastened the leather bonds around John's wrists. "Get up on your knees and move forward to the wall."

Sheridan didn't move immediately; he was bracing himself for the pain he'd feel when he did move. But Garibaldi's hand cracking against his ass again made him obey. In the darkness, Michael moved up behind him. He took John's left wrist and wrapped the whip cord around it several times, before lifting it to an small, unseen metal ring in the wall, and tying it off, leaving him unable to escape. Garibaldi did the same with John's left wrist. The result was Sheridan kneeling up, shoulders pressed against the wall, wrists tied to rings just above his head. Not painful, but a position that would become uncomfortable over time.

Michael ran his hands down Sheridan's back, tracing his skin in the dark. He'd kept the lights off to maintain anonymity for John, and although he knew it was the right thing to do, he longed to see what Sheridan looked like, bound in this fashion. Maybe another time... He knelt down until he was face to face with Sheridan's ass, used his fingers to part the buttocks, his thumb to find the raw opening. Garibaldi nudged against the ass, dipping his tongue between the firm cheeks until he was opening his captain, licking, flicking in and out of the anal ring, making Sheridan writhe against his bonds.

Michael kept up the stimulation, until John was begging to be fucked, crying out; he'd been on the edge too long, couldn't come without direct stimulation to his cock. "Please, Michael, fuck me, grab my cock... please, I need it, I need you inside me, please, fuck me..."

"Oh God John..." Although the whip had been used without any lube, Michael felt compelled to use some now. He leant over to the bedside drawer, took out a small bottle and covered his engorged cock. At the same moment he pushed his own, long thick erection deep into Sheridan's ass, he wrapped a strong hand around the man's cock and roughly manipulated it, massaging, pumping, kneading until he felt Sheridan tense, then felt the wet come over his hands, in between his fingers. The contractions on his cock sent him plummeting over the same edge, his own cries mingling with John's as they climaxed together.

Michael awoke in the middle of the night - something was missing. They'd fallen asleep in silence, wrapped around one another. John had been wonderfully warm. Now the warmth was gone. "Lights, low." He opened his eyes to see John sitting on the edge of the bed, fastening his shirt. "Hey, where're you going?"

"Home... I... I always leave...."

Michael sat up, rubbing his hand down John's back, "I don't want you to leave."

John paused, his fingers still on one of the fastenings, Michael felt him start to shake. Gently, he moved his hand onto John's arm and pulled him round, letting him gently fall back against him; dampness on his chest as John curled up next to him and they lay down. Michael wound two strong, protective arms around John's trembling body and held him tight. Carefully he reached down and brought the covers back up over them both, wrapping them in warmth and safety.

John cried for a very long time, with Michael just holding him, stroking his hair, telling him that it was okay, allowing him just to cry, to let out all the hurt and pain of his past encounters, and to rest in the beauty of this one. When the captain started to calm, Garibaldi shifted until he could look at John's face. With one arm still wrapped protectively around John, Michael stroked the stray, damp hair away from his face. "Why do you do this to yourself?"

It was a deliberately open-ended question, he hoped John would tell him whatever he wanted to say, whatever he needed to talk about.

"I've been going down there, on and off, ever since I got here. I've gotten into relationships before, after Anna died, all with men, none worked out. No one seemed to understand what I wanted... Then last night you just stood there and explained to _me_ what I needed you to do, and you did it. And it was so good..."

"Whenever you need me, I'll be here for you John. I promise, you only have to ask."

Sheridan nodded against the pillow. Despite the fact that inside, he knew he'd never be able to ask this of Michael again, for this moment, he could believe that everything would be okay; that from now on he was safe.

Two weeks passed without incident. It was unusually quiet on the station, but none of the command staff were complaining. Garibaldi had several dinners with Stephen, but found himself resisting any would-be advances from the doctor, even though previously he'd thought it was maybe what he'd wanted. At staff meetings he'd found himself watching the captain, taking any opportunities to hold his gaze with his own and read the hunger that was building there.

An evening; one such staff meeting had gone on since after lunch, and the captain was getting edgy. Michael had intentionally taken the seat next to him and watched him, watched as his body became more and more tense through the afternoon. By the time the group broke up, the Sheridan's fists were clenching, trembling.

John stood in the shower for a long time, cleansing himself, preparing for the coming encounter. He had been doing this for so long that it had become habit; when the tension of running the station became too great, he would go in search of someone who could take the responsibility from him, even just for a while. He prided himself on his ability to judge character from the beginnings of a conversation, but now and again, when things went wrong, he found himself wondering if he knew anything at all.

He thought about the last time, about Michael, that night and Michael's offer to be there for him. And for a moment he was tempted to simply go to his chief's quarters and ask if he would be prepared to honour that offer.

At first, it had seemed strange to him that he would be this interested in men. After Anna he hadn't been interested in women, discovering, instead, that he found men attractive. Initially he'd denied it to himself. But his fantasies had started to change; he began to masturbate to a different rhythm, images at first strange to him became familiar in great detail. His relationship with Delenn, had, he had to admit, started to become quite serious. It wasn't what he'd been looking for at the start, but he knew the Vorlons approved of it, and some sort of chemistry seemed to be between them. But he couldn't ask her for what he needed; it would be wrong, both because of the nature of their friendship, and the consequences of them taking things that far, that fast. His relationship with Delenn wasn't just for him. The affairs he found, in the men he met, were.

Michael was ready for John's visit but it never came. At 2300 he called the captain's quarters, having come up with some lame excuse why he was disturbing him at this hour. There was no answer. And suddenly Michael understood everything. Since the night they'd spent together, John had acted as though nothing had happened, the tension that should have been there between them after what they'd done, was non-existent. John had left that morning, and when they'd met later on in C&C, he'd smiled, talked and joked with him; no different to what he would have done if they'd simply sat up playing chess all night.

Not that it wasn't okay with Michael; he believed that he'd made it clear to John that he'd be there if John asked him to be, they hadn't agreed to carry on any kind of sexual relationship. Sheridan's actions had been those of a well-adjusted adult who'd had a one-night fling with a colleague and didn't want the entire 'office' to find out about it.

But the sex had been incredible, the best Michael had ever known. To dominate his captain; a very sexy, very sensual man, had turned him on to *hot*, and now he found his thoughts, his day-dreams and his fantasies turning more and more towards a repeat of what they'd done that night. He wanted to show John the limitless possibilities of the world he so needed to become part of. He wanted to see John bound and gagged, tied to Michael's own bed, naked, aching, begging with his body for Garibaldi to fuck him. He wanted to see the man wearing leather, he wanted to sit and watch him play with himself, with his cock and his ass; in his most private fantasy he wanted to ask Stephen to join them.

What he now understood was that John wasn't going to return to him, wasn't going to ask for a repeat performance from him, of his own accord. Sheridan wasn't like that, it wasn't his style to run from things, to turn to others to solve his problems. Michael hadn't made it clear enough that he wanted Sheridan to return. After dragging the truth of what John had wanted, from him, he hadn't made his own desires clear enough. And again, John would go elsewhere...

He linked in with C&C, got Zack to meet him at the Happy Daze bar, and left his quarters.

The Happy Daze barman was a very friendly, helpful man who knew his clients well. It hadn't taken much persuasion to convince him that telling Garibaldi where Sheridan's "date" resided, was a good, healthy idea.

The moment the door of "Barny"'s quarters was open Garibaldi was yelling at the men around the bed to "get up against the wall NOW!". He covered Zack as the man secured them, but waited only moments before firing at close range, at the chains that held the man on the bed. He knelt, turning Sheridan's head from it's face-down position to look at him. The captain was unconscious, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Michael looked down, across John's naked body; he'd been beaten, maybe some bones were broken, he needed medical attention. When Garibaldi looked back at his trusted second, Zack was standing over the inert bodies of five _big_ men. He smiled, questioningly, and in response Zack shrugged, "They resisted arrest."

They'd done no such thing, Garibaldi knew, but Zack cared for John, respected him, and for what these men had done, they were lucky they were still breathing. On the bed, Sheridan began to groan, swimming up out of blackness. Garibaldi saw his chance and gently took John in his arms, sitting him up and grabbing blankets from the floor to wrap around him. "I need to get him to medlab, we'll be okay down here, but once we get up-top we'll need clear corridors."

Zack nodded and led the way out towards the lift. Sheridan stumbled along behind, helped by Garibaldi's strong, caring arms. Michael's concern was growing by the second; if Sheridan didn't protest, something was very wrong. Zack took the tube first and minutes later Michael's link bleeped twice, the signal that everything was clear to proceed.

Stephen settled John into a private room, leaving the blinds drawn. He'd dressed wounds, scanned for broken bones and thankfully had found none, cleaned up blood and semen and sedated John. "He's bruised over 60% of his body, but he will make a full recovery. Physically. Mentally..." Stephen shrugged. "Michael, how the hell did this happen?"

"I can't tell you, but I can promise you, that it won't happen again."

Dressed in loose clothing, moving carefully, Sheridan wandered into his kitchen area to find something that he could eat. He'd been on sick-leave for three days now, and Franklin had ordered that he take at least a week; he was bored. Despite the fact that he hurt all over, he was healing; he knew Stephen was more concerned about his mental state, but frankly, this had happened before and he'd dealt with it. He was dealing with it now, but not working didn't help. Marcus had spent the day with him playing chess, Susan had been with him the previous day, but the one person he'd really wanted to see hadn't been near him.

The door-chime snapped him out of his reverie.

"Come."

Two bags of steaming, tremendous-smelling food entered the room, followed by Garibaldi.

"I figured you'd be sick of your own cooking by now."

Sheridan smiled, "I am." They stood and looked at each other for a moment longer, before Michael dumped the bags on the work-surface and started unpacking the cartons while Sheridan hunted for clean cutlery and plates. They sat and ate on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, talking about nothing; station business, Londo and G'Kar's fight in the Zocalo, strange people coming aboard for bizarre religious ceremonies. Until they finished eating, and Garibaldi put down his plate.

"Listen John, I'm sorry about not coming to see you earlier. I felt like I'd failed you, after we found you. Then I just wanted to shout at you, yell at you for putting yourself in that situation again..."

"Michael, I thought we'd been through this. Sometimes I need..."

Michael interrupted him, "I know, I understand. And I thought I told you that you could come to _me_. I meant it John, did you think that making love to you that night was a chore?!" Off John's stunned gaze, he went on. "You're a very, very sexy man, very attractive... To think of some bastard hurting you, of you having to go through so much pain just because you have needs, needs we all have... it tears me apart."

"Michael, I didn't want to rely on you, it wasn't fair..."

He took a deep breath, released it and said, "John, listen to me, I want to give you everything you've ever wanted, do the things to you that you need doing. I can do s&m, I can do b&d, I can even do b&b." John chuckled at that, and Michael smiled across at him. "Please, trust me, tell me what you want, when you want it."

Leaning back on the couch, John tried to read the expression in Michael's eyes. "I get something very particular out of picking up strangers. I get an anonymous fling, sex with no consequences, it's a definite feeling. It's something I'm not sure I can get if I know there's someone waiting for me."

Garibaldi signed, he knew he was losing the battle, and he very much wanted to win. "And how many times has it gone wrong? How many times have there been other, painful, consequences? How many times have you left in the middle of the night, gone back to your quarters and cried?" Off that, John's eyes frowned, but he let it go. He thought about it; what he did definitely had its inherent dangers, and recently it had been getting worse. "Please John, use me for those flings. No strings, whenever you want. Please."

"Why are you doing this? What are you getting out of it?"

"Great sex, the knowledge that I'm stopping you getting hurt. I don't need much else."

"Michael, you can't save me from everything... Maybe it's the risk that turns me on." He was trying to put his complex feelings into words, and failing. "The time we were together was amazing, I'm not denying that - I couldn't. I just don't know if it's what I want on a permanent basis."

Garibaldi looked at John silently; after a while his captain stopped trying to avoid his intense gaze and met it. There was so much feeling between them it was difficult for John to say, absolutely, no. He wasn't sure himself. Michael had been incredible when they were together, the sex had been amazing. That first time. Sheridan wasn't sure if the thrill would be there the next time, but something inside him seemed willing to give it a go - or at least, wasn't directly against the idea. But he knew deep down that it couldn't be a permanent arrangement, and that there was a part of him that would eventually drive him back to the bar like a moth to light. It was a longing buried way too deep within his soul, to give it up.

But the prospect of a few more nights with Michael wasn't terrible. "I can't make any promises, Michael. I can't tell you how often I'll come to you. And I don't promise not to go back to the bar. But I am willing to accept your offer, sometimes, if it still stands when I ask."

Garibaldi smiled, it was a start. He couldn't really ask any more from this man, whom, he finally realized, was already offering to give up so much.

*****************

Despite everything that John had said, it slowly became an addiction to one another. Every so often, Michael would find a message left by John, asking if they could meet that night. The conversation they had that afternoon in John's quarters, was the last time they talked about it. If Michael knew John was coming over, he went to certain lengths to set up scenarios. The more he learnt about his lover, the more complex he realized the man was.

Sheridan found himself drawn to Michael. Now and again he felt pangs for the delicate feelings of picking up and stranger; pangs he sometimes satisfied by returning to the 'Happy Daze' bar. His partners were considerate; rough, but only because that's how he wanted it. Slowly, Michael started to satisfy everything else. He had unlimited imagination, knew his own strength and was confident to use it. He could be as rough as any stranger. And on John's journeys to Michael's quarters, he felt the nervousness he would feel going down to the bar. He realized that he never knew what was going to happen to him. The more time they spent together, the more Michael knew, and the more intense the settings became.

Michael started to understand John. He wasn't just looking to be dominated, it went so much further than that; John's reactions to him often took his breath away. The man needed to feel overwhelmed by it; the intensity had scared Michael at first, but when it became clear that Sheridan needed it, he allowed himself to become submerged in his own roles. It pushed his imagination further than he'd ever thought possible. Sheridan taught him how to let go, and once he had, playing the dominant one became frighteningly easy. It was as if this had been inside him all his life, and now this tremendous force that was John Sheridan, had come along and released it.

It never became a relationship, as such. Garibaldi had a couple of meals with Stephen, although he didn't let it lead to anything. Sheridan continued his growing relationship with Delenn; slowly but surely.

Garibaldi watched as the last of the renegade nightwatch were removed from the bar and escorted to the Brig. He stood in the now empty "Happy Daze" site and looked around. It had been a while since he'd been down here.

Sheridan saw Zack as he approached the door. "Is everyone accounted for?"

"Yes sir. All the excitement's over I'm afraid."

Sheridan smiled and dismissed his chief's second, stepping silently into the room. He closed the heavy, wooden door with a hard push, and slid the ancient lock into it's rusted home. The door had character; usually a troll-like one that stood guard over it most nights.

"Just reminiscing, Mr Garibaldi?" Michael turned and grinned. "I let Zack go home, it's late." Michael holstered the PPG, sidling up to John.

"I guess I owe a lot to this place."

John's lips formed a mischievous smile, and he wondered behind the bar. "Can I get you a drink, sir?"

Michael picked the thread up immediately, moving to sit up at the bar. "A special, barman, if you please."

John dropped the icecubes into the water and leant forwards to place the glass on the bar. Michael's hand shot out, grabbed his uniform collar and pulled his mouth down to his own, taking him into a deep, long kiss. Just as roughly, he pushed him away, picked up his drink and moved to sit at one of the small tables close to the bar. Not letting go of John's feral gaze, he ordered, "Strip for me. On the bar. Show off for me. Make me want you."

For a moment, Sheridan faultered; it was both frightening and comforting to realize how quickly he could slip into the subordinate role Michael often allowed him to take. John grabbed hold of one of the narrow metal pillars, that ran from the top of the bar into the ceiling, put a foot up against the edge of the surface and pulled himself up on to the bar in one fluid movement. It was too low a ceiling for him to stand, so he knelt, facing the usually crowded floor, knees apart, balancing himself as he lowered his body weight onto his heels.

John put his hands on the side of his neck, his fingers tracing down, over his own throat, quickly down to the front of his jacket, and started undoing the fastenings there. There was a gentle hum of appreciation from his audience as the jacket pooled onto the floor and he began on the buttons of his shirt, top one first, revealing a little more skin as he went. Keeping his eyes closed, his head tipped forward, his nimble fingers made light work of the few fastenings, and soon he pushed open his shirt, his fingers moving to his own nipples, rubbing them, nipping them until they stood erect.

"Leave the shirt on." John was surprisingly good at following orders, his fingers moved down his body, and he slid one hand down the front of his trousers. Michael also had to reach down and shift his own cock, alleviating some of the strain; he loved to do this, to watch John perform for him, to let him show off because he was so damn good at it. But the urge to reach out, to hold him tight while he filled him over and over, was an urge he had trouble keeping in check.

John was unzipping his trousers now, his other hand still fondling himself. Michael's voice caressed him as he said, "Let me see you, show yourself to me." John dipped his hand further into his pants and pulled his cock and balls out, pushing the band of his boxers under his testicles so that his genitals were out on show for his lover. His cock stood upright, begging for attention from either of them, aching from the intense arousal. Michael smiled in the dim light. "Now get down off the bar, take off your trousers and come over here."

Sheridan did as he was told, stopping just in front of the table where Michael was sitting. There were still icecubes in his drink. He leant forward and took John's foot, bringing it up to rest on his chair next to him. The effect was to bring John's cock nearer to his face, close enough so that he could reach out and touch that soft, taut skin. But he chose not to, instead he murmured, "Touch yourself, play with yourself, show me what you like, show me where you touch yourself."

John took hold of himself nervously at first, even after all they'd done together, in this position he felt very vulnerable; on display. Yet he was so aroused, and his own expert touch was too tempting to deny. As he moved his hand up and down the long shaft, he dipped his other hand down to take his testicles and gently play with them. Michael's gaze moved back and forth between the uninhibited sexual display before his eyes, and John's face, eyes closed, mouth open in rapturous pleasure.

Michael watched him, fascinated, and so hard it hurt. The man was so sexual; he'd opened up to Michael in a way that he'd obviously held back from his past relationships, and that touched the other man. The changes in him every time they made love, no matter what the circumstances were, were always very subtle and maddeningly obvious, somehow all at once. His movements could be shy one moment, begging the next; he was a proud man, but when he wanted to be dominated, he would permit Michael complete and absolute control. Each time Michael saw that beautiful, taut chest, the rippling muscles in his arms, the firm, strong thighs and that deliciously tight ass, he wanted to eat him. Literally.

After a short while, Michael saw the subtle change in John's expression, and immediately reached forward and took the man's hands in his own, pulling them away abruptly from their self-ministrations. "Ah-ha," Michael chided softly, "Don't think I'm going to let you come like that." He stood up, and led John back towards the bar. Once there he unhooked the security bonds from his belt. "Kneel back up onto the bar, and put your hands around the pillar."

John once again did as he was told, and his hands were secured around the pillar. He watched Michael sit up behind him, and felt, for the first time during this encounter, Michael's hands on him, pushing his knees carefully apart. John heard the click of ice on glass, and then something cold was pushed between his spread buttocks. He gasped as the ice was rubbed against his anus, his breath turning to shallow panting as he felt the unyielding cold pushed, forced inside him, roughly lubricating as it went. As Michael slipped the small cube of ice inside his lover's body, he thought again what a dangerous game they played. There had never been a safe-word, John hadn't wanted one; he'd needed the dominance to be total and complete. He'd begged Michael not to give him any way out, saying that he had to believe that the submission and violation was absolute. So Michael had learned to judge John's reactions. He'd been through scenarios, fucking the man in many different ways, sometimes just making love to him, slowly and gently. Every time he learnt more about John, slowly getting used to his vocal and physical reactions, what he felt like and how he sounded when Michael did something that he obviously enjoyed, and when something was done to him that he didn't like. There had been mistakes, but he felt he knew John now better than he'd ever known anyone in his whole life, and that meant that he could push further to explore their sexual boundaries and limits.

John was arching his back, pushing against Michael's fingers, inviting him in. He obliged. Reaching, teasing, Garibaldi's fingers moved in the slick, melted lubrication. He felt John edge forward, clenched muscles urging Michael to move with him; for a moment he did, thinking Sheridan was simply shifting to a more comfortable position, then he realized what the man was doing.

"You mischievous devil," he whispered, amused, despite himself, to find John had moved close enough to the bar pillar to enable himself to rub his cock up and down the cold length. "You don't really want to come like that, do you John?"

In one swift movement he pulled his fingers from the captain's ass, unfastened the bonds from around his wrists, and climbed down from the bar, stepping away, back into the dim room. He reached the far wall, jumped up onto the stage, and lay down, arms crossed under his head.

Sheridan watched him with through dark amber haze, still knelt on the hard, sticky wood of the bar. Michael was playing with him; games that he recognized but didn't know the rules for. He did understand that he had to wait until he was told what the rules were, then he would have no choice but to play.

From where he lay, Michael simply whispered, "John, I want to suck you off. Come over here and put your cock in my mouth."

So this time there were no rules, just the game-play. John leapt off the bar. Michael closed his eyes, heard footsteps, then felt the warmth of Sheridan's body, caught the quickness of his breath. He moved his arms from behind his head in time to wrap his fingers around John's thighs as they came to rest either side of his face. He opened his mouth in a lazy smile, and sunk his lips down hard onto the base of his lover's cock as it was pushed deep, against his tongue. John fell forward onto his hands; the illusion of control was exactly that; Michael had the control here, he could make John do anything, and the subordinate would obey. With strokes of his tongue, dips into the hole at the tip of the wondrous cock, kisses and pressures of his lips, and gentle scrapes of his tongue, Michael made John come. His orgasm was torn from him, his cock pulsing into the hot mouth that held him captive.

Afterwards, they always held each other, whatever had gone before, they shared the afterglow. It was after all, love and friendship that had brought them together, as well as the need for sex.

They sat in each other's arms on the stage, Michael hugging John's naked form as they surveyed the room. It wasn't exactly guaranteed privacy, and it wasn't long before the captain got nervous and pulled away to retrieve his clothes from the bar.

Michael made his way to John's quarters, the expression on his face akin to that of a teenager in the claws of first love. They had a lot to be happy about - their first real victory against the Shadows, thanks to the Vorlons. He wanted to surprise John, even though it was late. It had been so chaotic recently, they hadn't managed to grab much time together; quick kisses in the lifts, quiet moments in Sheridan's office... Now he just wanted to snuggle close to his lover and sleep, to wanted to wake up with him, perhaps share an early morning shower.

He pressed the announce button once, twice, waited.. there was no reply. He pressed again, then keyed in the security override code and stepped into the room: "John?" No answer. He moved through to the bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks; a scene of devastation met his eyes. Bed clothes were strewn across the room, as if dragged from the bed. Personal items that Garibaldi knew were usually stood on the bedside table, had been knocked on to the floor. It looked like there had either been a struggle, and John had lost, or he had left a one hell of a hurry.

Sheridan knelt on the floor of Kosh's quarters, tears streaming under the breathing apparatus. In his hands he held what remained of the headpiece to the Vorlon's encounter suit. He understood everything. Too late. Kosh had been scared because he'd known that this would happen, but in the end he'd done it anyway, for Johnny.

He could still hear Kosh's words in his mind, during the lesson he remembered over all the others. The Vorlon had reminded him of the Inquisitor's visit, and how his personal life was not going the way the Vorlon's had expected it to. Sheridan had gone ballistic, yelling at Kosh about exactly who's life it was, and thus who was supposed to be leading it. Everything had come out then, Sheridan's doubts about leading this 'Army of Light', his fears for the people on the station, his worries about what the future was going to bring. Kosh had listened silently to it all, letting John say all he had to. Then he had asked one simple question; "Do you love him John?"

"I don't know... I don't think so... But that's not why I'm involved in this... You must know it's better for me than what was before."

Kosh had nodded then, but continued: "Do you trust me John?"

"Yes, you know I do."

"Remember, one day it will snow, and after that day, you must turn away from him."

Those words echoed around his head, he still didn't understand them and he would never be able to coax and explanation out of the cryptic Vorlon. His mentor and teacher was dead, and he had sacrificed himself for the human that had been so much trouble.

"I thought I might find you here." Garibaldi took the stool next to Sheridan and ordered a 'water on the rocks'. "I'm really sorry about Kosh, I know how close you too were." John nodded his thanks, tears choking him again. "We haven't found any proof about what happened, I have my theories, but I hope to god that they aren't right."

"Shadows."

Michael nodded, "But that would mean that there are some on the station, and that is not a pretty thought." John tipped the remainder of his drink down his throat. "Can I ask a favour?"

"Sure, anything."

"Can we go back to your place, I could do with the company right now." Michael smiled, placed a hand on John's shoulder, and lead him out of the room, leaving his untouched drink behind on the bar.

The barman watched them go and cleared the glasses away. Drinks seldom got finished around here.

fin
by elfin

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