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The Eternal Major

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For the first time in his life, Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach made love. He had had sex before, yes, even the good kind of bone-rattling sex that left him dazed with satisfaction. Made love? No. His father has always warned him against giving away his heart. An Eberbach only loves once. That's in their bloods; in their genes. When an Eberbach loves, it is forever. So while Klaus had, on occasion, laid down with a woman or a man; even felt a brief kind of affection for them, he had never allowed himself to develop any kind of permanent attachment.

Not that he had been given a choice, in the end. His heart had been stolen with the same effortless ease as the master thief stole whatever else he fancied. Well, perhaps not with quite the same ease – it had taken far longer than normally would have been the case, for one. Klaus, knowing the danger ahead, had put up a spectacular fight. But ultimately he never even felt the theft; had only gradually come to terms with that something must have happened. He had held out with his body even longer; knowing how much harder he would then fall; how much more it would hurt to give everything up, afterwards.

For just as he had had no choice about falling in love for the first and last time; just as he had been physically unable to turn down Dorian's final approach no matter how frantically he should have rejected it; Klaus knew that what would follow was inevitable. As he made love for the first time in his life, treasuring each touch and sensation deep, deep in his heart; burning the event into his memory forever more, he also knew that it would not only be for the first time – it would also be for the last.


"Where have you been, Sven from Rosenyard?"
"I've been in the stable, dear mother ours.
You'll wait for me until late, but I will never come."



"So, you work for Major von dem Eberbach?"

"Yup. You're looking at the new R."

Klaus stood by the elevator when he heard R's boost over the lobby din. Normally he only used the elevator, as the Yanks would put it, "once in a blue moon", but he still wore a cast on the leg he broke on the latest mission. To jog up the stairs might have caused some suspicion. So wait for the elevator he did, even though he much rather would have taken the stairs. He glanced to the side and located R by the metal detectors just inside the doors. He was speaking to one of the security guards.

"I don't envy you. Or I do. Kind of. The Alphabet division has the best record of any in this branch of NATO. But Major von dem Eberbach has a bit of a reputation ..."

"Yeah, the man yelled at me the first day for taking a too long toilet break!"

"That's what I heard. Well, not about you specifically, but about things like that."

By then, Klaus seethed. This new R would not be with him for long, that was for sure. He's a worse gossip than G, for fuck's sake! What went on in the Alphabet, stayed there! But he didn't interfere, willing to give R longer rope to better hang himself with. With any luck he would say something truly verboten and Klaus could march him straight to Z, rather than to the office, and have him relocated post haste to somewhere cold and mainly populated with ex-Alphabets. If that was not the case, to wait would have more of an impact anyway. When R turned the first thing he saw would be Klaus. Who would smile at him – yes, give him his "good boy" smile, and crook his finger. Poor boy would wet his fucking pants – which would serve him right. The elevator dinged and opened, but Klaus didn't get on, preferring to wait.

"He's good at what he does, though. Scarily good. My first mission – I can't tell you about it, top secret you know – but the Major broke a leg and two fingers and he just kept going. Like some kind of war machine."

Klaus winced. That had been a mistake, yes, but it wasn't as if he had had any choice. Half the Alphabet and the thief would have died if he hadn't.

"Yeah, you know, some people claim that—" the guard started to say, but then lowered his voice. Klaus blanketed his presence and stepped closer to hear, hiding easily among the other people and the lobby plants. As he listened to the security guard's last words he mentally scheduled R in for some extra terrain sensitivity training. "—thinks he made a deal with the devil, you know."

"Oh come on! That's just stupid."

"Yeah, that's what I say too. She does have a point, though, silly little bint that she is. There's something funny going on, that's for sure. I mean – look at the guy; he looks thirty if he's a day. The man's fifty-eight!"

"What? Major von dem Eberbach? Get out of here! That's impossible. He can't be."

"It took the girl, the cute one, weeks to track down any record with information. She had to resort to contacting the army about it. Seems that the rest has just vanished somehow. But yeah – born in 1951."

"That's just crazy – as you say – Mr War Machine doesn't look a day over thirty."

Klaus closed his eyes briefly. Fuck.


Dorian on the bed in Klaus's hotel room, with his hair spread around him like a halo. His body, still strong and firm – no extra fat and with pale English winter skin. The nest of curls around the base of his erect penis was still fully golden, unlike the grey-tinged mane on his head. He was beautiful beyond compare. Had Klaus been of a more religious sort, he would have accused the man of making the very angels jealous.

For a man in his early fifties, Dorian had aged with grace. Some early grey, yes, - a little surprising, perhaps. Klaus had always thought Dorian would colour his lion mane, should it become necessary. Instead the man made the colour shift look completely deliberate, giving him a sophisticated air – as if the born aristocrat needed one. His face bore minor signs as well - faint wrinkles and worry lines. Not many, but clearly visible despite what Klaus had heard to be the best plastic surgery in the world. The eyes were indisputably older than before; wiser, but still filled to the brim with joy of life and passion.

Klaus stood by the end of the bed, drinking in the vision offered before him. He wished he had a camera; one of those digital ones that kept the images inside them so that one could look at them whenever one wanted to. He would have taken a thousand pictures. Dorian wouldn't have minded. If there could have been a second time, Klaus would have done so. There would be no second time, though, so he made use of his training, memorizing each line, each pale freckle, forcing himself to etch the image into his heart.

When he felt convinced that the look Dorian gave him was only encouraging and eager, he knelt on the foot of the bed, supporting himself with his left hand as he let the right slowly move up the Earl's long calves. He wanted to feel the faint, golden fuzz against his face and – since he would regret it forever if he didn't – bend to rub his cheek against the silky, warm flesh like a friendly cat. He kissed the knees and scratched his teeth against the swell of the strong thighs. From above him he heard a sharp intake of breath. Then a hand touched his head in the lightest of caresses, trailing off with a strand of his hair. The latter remained a dark, luscious seal brown, bordering on black, though cut slightly shorter than he had worn it for the first decade or two of their acquaintance.

He slowly licked his way across the thigh towards the slender, long cock. He had seen it before – that time in North Downs, yes, that had been the first time. In the bath in Rome, despite the bubbles. In Bonn, when he had come home to find Eroica nude on his bed on his birthday. That time in Berlin, when he had thought Dorian intended to rape him – but that had just been part of a rather frantic get-away from a theft gone spectacularly bad. Other times over the years. This time, though ... He turned his head up, to look the thief in the eyes. "I want to ... I want you to ... come in my mouth. I want to ... taste your come."

That was something he had never done before, sucked cock, and he desperately wanted to know how Dorian tasted.

The cornflower blue eyes widened impossibly. "Ah ... feel ... Oh Major ... Darling ... Klaus ... Do ... Do feel free."

So he did.

"Why are your clothes in such disarray, Sven from Rosenyard?"
"Because the white mare kicked me, dear mother ours.
You'll wait for me until late, but I will never come."



The mission had been a success. Of course. Practice makes perfect. After the many years, they worked together seamlessly; Klaus and the Alphabet and the thief and the latter's gang. Oh, Alphabets in particular came and went – died, were promoted, quit. Of the 26 men working for Klaus at the time he first met Eroica, only a handful remained. Of those, two had accompanied him on this particular mission.

"A! G! Essen fassen!"

To save time, they had taken to eating together at the end of the day; to discuss what had happened and plan for what they would do next. Now the mission was done with, but they still had some things to talk through.

A and G quickly joined him, as the rest of the 'bet went on their separate ways – back to their hotel rooms or for a meal, to shop or whatever they liked to do. Klaus waved for the two to proceed to the dining room as he checked to make sure Eroica hadn't sneaked back in. He reached the entrance just as the crisply dressed waitress smiled towards A and G and said, "We have a table for three available now. Sir, ma'am, if you and your son would like to come this way?"

None of them moved. Then, stiffly, A turned around, looking as if hoping to see some other couple, preferably with a chubby little offspring, who the waitress might have addressed. G's eyes, round with fear, met Klaus's. Klaus forced himself not to react, but the words rang in his ears. Fuck!


As Klaus sunk into Dorian's tight sheath he gave up all pretence of indifference – what little remained after having clutched the other's sides so hard as he suckled him that red hand prints still marked the creamy flesh. He tilted back his head, breathing harshly through gritted teeth, as he pulled on all his strength not to slam in full force the way all his instincts demanded him to.

Over the roar of blood in his head he heard the thief call his name – but not as if he wanted Klaus's attention, more like in wanton worship.

After an eternity of penetrating the clutching heat, he finally hit rock bottom. His entire self felt nestled inside the Brit, with the way Dorian's thighs squeezed his sides and the long legs anchored him firmly in place. Klaus leaned down, shoved his arms under the thief's body, raked his teeth over the chest close to him and forced himself to stay still just a tiny bit longer.

Strong hands caressed his shoulders, arms, sides and chest, over and over again, as if the other man just couldn't get enough of his skin. Klaus licked tentatively over the chest muscles before him and was awarded with pleading moans and, again, his name said as a prayer.

He pulled out almost completely before sinking back in. Moments later, all he knew was the body he frantically pounded into. It felt ... glorious.

"Why is your shirt so bloody, Sven from Rosenyard?"
"Because I have killed my brother, dear mother ours.
You'll wait for me until late, but I will never come."



The trio claimed a table at the back of the dining room, with a good view over the other guests. Neither A nor G mentioned the waitress's slip-up and Klaus most certainly did not want to address it either.

"A – good work on helping the Earl switch the discs. G – you and your men did well on apprehending the second group. Director Birchwast will be pleased."

Birchwast. Formerly known as Z. Now the local NATO director and Klaus's immediate superior. Z had made quite a name for himself. Which was not to say that he didn't still automatically stand at attention when Klaus entered a room.

G blushed and A straightened a little further.

"As you know I will go on a one man mission tomorrow. It should take about a week. A – you are in charge of the Alphabet until I return. G – I want you to schedule a series of exercises. Work it out between yourself, you're capable of it. Some of the new men, especially R, need training. How to detect when you are being shadowed would be good."

"Yes, sir."/"Yes, Major," they answered simultaneously.

"Sir?" said A, after a moment's pause. He sounded hesitant. "With what happened on this mission ... Have you spoken to Director Birchwast? Are you sure it is ... wise ... to go back out so soon?"

"I'm not shirking my duty," Klaus replied curtly. "There shouldn't be a problem, it's not a bloody suicide mission or anything."

A looked as if he wanted to say something more, but instead G broke in, "Only, with your wound ..."

"Just a scratch," he said firmly, meeting each of their gazes in turn, daring them to contradict him. And it was really just a scratch. Now. And never mind that the bullet had only yesterday torn through his shoulder. Never mind that he should have bled to death.

"Of course," said A.

"Just a scratch," G repeated.

And never mind that half the Alphabet had seen the damage.

After having eaten, they walked towards their rooms. Briefly, when he pushed his way between them, Klaus rested his hands on his subordinates' shoulders. Just for a moment he squeezed, with perhaps just a hint more strength than the situation warranted. And perhaps his hands more slipped down their arms rather than just let go. He wondered if they knew what the gesture meant, but he rather thought that they did. They should know, after all this time. It meant, "Goodbye."


With a broken leg and two broken fingers, Klaus had fought three men to the ground. Once it had taken eight direct hits (and three slaps on his wounded arm), courtesy of an ex-Olympic boxer cum KGB-agent, to bring him to his knees. He had special training in how to withstand torture – and had had to draw on this training, on occasion. Pain was not unfamiliar to him. Pain could be swallowed; forgotten; pushed aside. Pain was not a reason not to do his job. Pure pain, in itself, was nothing to fear. So it wasn't the pain that might follow that had him momentarily tense up when Dorian's clever fingers began to inch their way up between his thighs.

"Shhhhh," Dorian breathed, caressing Klaus's back with his other hand. "We don't have to do this. Not tonight, if you don't feel like it. Not ever, if you don't want to. It wouldn't matter to me, I swear it."

"We will do it. Tonight," Klaus said and made his body relax – shoulders, back-muscles, arse, thighs and calves. He lay face down in the middle of the big bed, with his hands tucked under his chest. He wasn't quite sure what to expect. He had slept with men, yes, but had always been the aggressor, never the one getting fucked. As an afterthought he spread his legs further. Not more than a centimetre or two, but enough to make sure Dorian got the invitation loud and clear.

He watched over his shoulder how Dorian bent down. Then he felt the man's lips and tongue on the swell of his buttocks in a series of quick kisses and faint little swipes down the crevice, before Dorian pulled up again. "Of course, my love," the Englishman said softly, before returning to his task. "Whatever you want, tonight, Klaus. Whatever you want."

At those words, something in Klaus relaxed. Everything that he wanted. Yes. For he wanted everything tonight. For tonight would be all they ever had.

"Where will you then go, Sven from Rosenyard?"
"I'll flee the country, dear mother ours.
You'll wait for me until late, but I will never come."



After having taken his farewell of A and G Klaus, feeling unaccountably exhausted, trudged back towards his room. He had visited Z before the mission started. While he hadn't known he would get shot again, the rumours that had begun to circulate in the NATO building were bad enough. Not only that ridiculous "deal with the devil" shit, but more dangerous rumours – that he had been used for some kind of government experiment to create a super soldier – a "war machine". Klaus wanted to serve his country – that was all he ever really wanted – but not to the point of ending up tied to a slab in some scientist lab. Pain he could deal with. Vivisection was an entirely different kettle of fish.

His father was dead, as was the butler. They had died together, in a car accident twelve years ago. There was Sister Theresa, but he had made a point of visiting her every fifth year. That would have to be enough. Her nunnery would get part of his inheritance, once he had been declared legally dead. The Eberbach land would go to cousin Hans, a good man who would take proper care of things. Klaus had always kept his affairs up to date, so there would be no doubt about how he wanted things; nor any sign that he had done anything out of the ordinary. G and A might suspect that something was up. He didn't mind them knowing. They might tell Z. That was also fine. Those three he trusted in so far he trusted anyone. The mission he was to embark on was real too, only somewhere on the route he would simply ... slip away.

Everything was prepared. His escape route had been ready for years. Never the same for long, of course, but continuously updated and improved. This time he would be Hans Mulhen and – with a sigh he ran his fingers through his hair – almost completely bald. That was one of the reasons he kept it so long in the first place, in case he needed a quick disguise. People might think he had defected, but if they thought that of him, Iron Klaus, he couldn't care less for them. More likely they would think him captured by enemy forces, but that was a risk agents always ran and that everyone must be prepared for.

He felt the presence behind him like a pressure against his skin, so he whirled – hand going for his trusted Magnum even as he identified his pursuer. His very persistent pursuer. The Earl of Red Gloria had been after him for nearly three decades now.

"Peek-a-boo, darling!"

Klaus just looked. He was tired. For once he did feel his years. Besides, this would be the last time he ever saw the man – who if he had but let himself, he could have so easily loved. He had thought the last time already past, when the Earl had blown him a kiss, dodged a half-hearted blow and run off to a catch a cab. To have the other flitter out from his life like a colourful butterfly had felt suitable. Sad, but suitable. Apparently that was not to be, though. "Peek-a-fucking-boo, you nuisance," he answered, dredging up enough strength to make just one more stand. "NATO will pay your greedy bug accountant as usual, now get out of my face."

"Oh, you don't mean that, darling."

"I do! Now, excuse me, I have a new mission to prepare for. You are not invited. Get."

Dorian laughed. The sound cut through Klaus's defences like a flamethrower. He wanted to just listen to it forever. Suddenly he felt more tired than he ever could remember being. When the fop went in for the killing blow – a soft, lingering kiss – he couldn't lift a finger to defend himself. For the first time in his career, Iron Klaus willingly surrendered.


He sat up against the bed's head, with his back to the cold wall. Faint light fell from the moon and night lamps outside, letting him survey the room and, most of all, the man currently snoozing with his head in his, Klaus's, lap. In darkness all cats are grey and all thieves are young again: faint grey turning to just another shade of blond amongst the shadows. One of Klaus's hands was buried in the curls, resting on the soft skin on Dorian's nape. He had been awake for hours, sitting there, quiet and still and just looking, feeling and experiencing the beauty before him. Storing it, for the years to come.

Part of him felt broken. Had he never given himself to the thief, things might have been easier. On the other hand he wouldn't have traded this night for the world. No matter how many sleepless ones it would cost him in the end. For the first time since his mother died, Klaus felt like crying. He didn't – couldn't, perhaps, after such a long time, but a small, vulnerable part of his heart wanted to. Instead he just sat there, waiting for the night to grow a little older, for morning to come a little closer, until he must leave.

"Can't you sleep, love?" a husky voice asked from the vicinity of his lap.

"Can you get it up again?" he replied, rather than answering the question.

A startled laught and then the thief moved, getting up on his knees while rubbing his face against Klaus's pectorals and kissing his nipples. "Normally I don't try for more than trice a night, my dear, but yes – for you I do believe I can make an exception."

Klaus's hand was taken and brought low, pressed against a rapidly firming cock. He grasped it and stroked it on its way. Dorian arched, sighing with obvious appreciation.

"Oh, that feels divine. But as I said, Klaus – tonight is for you. What do you want this time?"

To his surprise he heard himself say, "I want to dream—" and hastily snapped his jaws shut.

"Dream, Klaus?" Dorian leaned away a little, so they could look each other in the eyes. His hips kept pumping slowly. "Anything you want, I swear it, but you must tell me."

Impulsively, Klaus let go of the erection to instead lean forth and initiate a long, nice kiss. Partly to give himself time to think, but mostly because it felt so damn good. He didn't want to tell Dorian what he wanted – or at least not why he wanted it, but on the other hand he did want Dorian to know. He would never see Dorian again and he wanted to give Dorian whatever he could of the night, including something so sentimentally sappy that he felt positive that Dorian would ...

"Laugh at me. You'll laugh at me."

He was hugged. Tight. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had hugged him.

"I'll slit my wrists first," Dorian promised, sounding sincere.

"Fifteen years ago or so. Trouble with North Korea. Got sent to a safe house for three fucking weeks. Nothing to do. There was one fucking book in the whole house. I read it, because I was fucking bored. Then I read it again to try to make some sense of it. Couldn't. Stupid book."

Dorian rested his head on Klaus's shoulder. "What was it called?"

"Don't remember. About some girl. She got married to some guy she hated but it was all some stupid misunderstanding and he loved her."

"A romance novel?" Dorian said and there was a chuckle half-hidden in his words, but not clear enough so that Klaus could call him on it. "You, Major Iron Klaus, read a romance novel? Oh, pray tell me, did this novel, by any chance, have the word 'Harlequin' anywhere on it, my dear?"

"Fuck you."

"Hands and knees, on my stomach or do you want me to ride you like the prize stallion you are? On my back again, perhaps? I really liked that. Or do you want us to get acrobatic about it?"

Klaus growled a little. "I want you to take me again. On my back. Like I took you."

The very start of a smile that had lingered on Dorian's lips melted away. "Oh, darling – there's nothing I'd like more, but ... you're not ... very used to this and ... I really wouldn't recommend it. You'll be very sore. Trust me. It'll hurt like dickens. You'll be feeling it for days."

"I'm not fucking afraid of a little pain! I want you to fucking take me on my back!" It was important, damn it. Besides, the pleasant ache he had enjoyed as he sat up during the night had all but vanished.

Dorian backed off – literally, holding up his hands in placation. "All right, love, all right. As I said – there's nothing I'd like more. If you're sure, I'll do it."

Perhaps he had been a little too forceful. Just, "I'm bloody well sure!" Not a chance he would tell Dorian the reason now, though. In the stupid book – which he was dead certain did not have "Harlequin" of any kind on the cover, as he would rather have spent the time in the safe house poking at his eyes with sharp sticks than reading something like that – the vapid "heroine" lost her virginity to the brooding "hero" in an overdone scene spanning three chapters. Afterwards, she had dreamed about the sea, rocking her like his thrust. All her life, whenever she travelled by boat, she had been reminded about that first night. For whatever reason, the idea had stuck to Klaus's mind even if he remembered very little else about the purple-prose novel. He wanted to dream about the sea. "Will you fucking well do it or not?"

"Of course." He was kissed. "You only ever had to ask. Slide down a bit and I'll fetch more lube."

So Klaus slid down to lie on his back, spread his legs and waited for the sea to claim him.

"When will you be back, Sven from Rosenyard?"
"When the grey rock floats on water, dear mother ours.
You'll wait for me until late, but I will never come."



1989. America. Kansas. A quiet little hamlet by the name of Smallville. Creamed Corn Capital of the World. Population 25,001. Also home of Peter Walterson, a man with considerable connections to the KGB and suspected of relaying information between the Russian agents in America. He was 183 cm tall, with black hair and blue eyes and he ran as if he should represent some country for the Olympics in both 200 meters and marathon. Klaus had to use all his speed to even keep the man in sight.

They made their way across a corn field, when a bomb exploded just to Walterson's right. The man was tossed into the air. Klaus threw himself to the ground and felt the blast like a hot wind over his back. He had just about time to think, "What the fucking hell—" when another bomb exploded some distance away, followed by another and another. He climbed to his feet and jumped to survey the area. Before him a burning rock fell from the sky, setting off another boom.

Meteorites! For a brief second he froze, utterly bewildered. There was no recommendation in any course he had ever taken on how to best protect himself from rocks falling from the sky.

Another boom blew just behind him and he was thrown like a rag doll, up and away and then down with such force that he blackened out. He came to in time to see another rock hurling towards him. With a supreme effort he flipped and scrambled and slipped on something slick, rolling to his side with his arms stretched before him. That's when a small shard of the meteorite hit the ground. Right through his hands.

"Nein! Nein! Nein!" he heard himself scream, through the cold shock of seeing the ruins at the end of his arms – flapping flesh, broken bones sticking out, burn marks and so much blood ... "Nein ... Nein ..."


This ... can't be happening! No! I can't serve my country like this! I can't do my duty! That's all I ever wanted! No! I need to be whole to do my duty! Always! Please! No! No!!

Mercifully, he fainted only moments later, falling limp among the bent corn stalks. He never saw how the meteorites all around him began glowing a sickly bright green.


His arse had ached something fierce when Dorian entered him for the second time. Soon enough though, Dorian plowed him with strong thrusts that rocked him back and forth on the bed. The sensation of having warm flesh fill him, over and over again, was something he thought he would never tire of – it felt good; even necessary. Partly because of the awed expression on Dorian's face. As the man bottomed out on the next stroke, Klaus clenched his internal muscles and was awarded with a long groan of pure pleasure.

He did his best to meet each thrust and the horizontal dance continued far longer than the previous one had, slowly building the tension in his belly and balls. Dorian was good at what he did, stirring the burn higher with each well-aimed thrust, until Klaus was painfully aware that the soft, keening noise probably did not come from Dorian as he wistfully hoped. Not that he doubted that Dorian was enjoying himself. And had he doubted, Dorian took care to tell him exactly how good he felt.

It could have been half an hour later – or an hour or even two - when Dorian's thrusts became hard, short and irregular. Klaus was thrown off stride, but did his best to clench whenever he had Dorian's shaft fully impaling him. Soon enough the blond Englishman threw back his head and, with scream of utter joy, emptied himself.

Klaus, still fully erect and writhing with need, forced himself not to take matter into his own hands. Only when Dorian collapsed on him – breathing hard as if he had run a marathon – did he hiss, "Suck me? Please!"

That was the last on his agenda – fuck, get fucked; suck, get sucked. Enough that he could pretend that he had tried the vital options, even if there would still be countless variations left untested. He ought to have covered that base before, really, rather than to insist on getting fucked a second time, only he hadn't been able to stop.

"Never ..." Dorian mumbled as he moved, sluggishly sliding down towards Klaus's straining erection. "Never have to beg for that, my own. Always ... always ..." Then he spoke no more due to a very full mouth. Klaus hissed again, this time in pleasure. He let his head fall back on the one remaining pillow and concentrated fully on the skilful mouth on his organ. Now, this he had experienced before – many times. However, this was Dorian and quite besides the fact that Dorian was a master in the craft, no one could ever have pleasured Klaus like the British thief, of that he was certain.

The blow job was over with what would have been embarrassing haste if not for the long, hard fuck that had proceeded it. Then Dorian climbed higher up in bed again, to wrap himself around Klaus's left side like that rose vine he had once likened himself to. Only then did Klaus allow himself to close his eyes. Even as he drifted off he heard the first swell of the rocking ocean.

"When does the grey rock float on water, Sven from Rosenyard?"
"When the raven turns white, dear mother ours.
You'll wait for me until late, but I will never come."



When he woke up, several hours after that the last meteorite had descended on Smallville, his hands had healed. At first he thought he had hallucinated the entire thing; perhaps had been knocked unconscious and had dreamed the whole fucking nightmare. So he had ascertained that the Russian had broken his neck in the fall and continued to the next lead. But as the years went by, it became clear that something had changed. The power of the meteorites had granted him his wish, if perhaps not exactly how he might have wanted things.

His wounds healed. The shallow ones slowly; the deep ones faster. A blessing, but a nuisance, as people expected wounds and scars to linger. That was one reason why he tried to never let anyone see him naked. Even the older scars, from before the meteor shower, had faded with time.

When he and a group of Alphabets had been captured by the North Korean terrorist group he had been almost pathetically grateful that they had hauled him away from his subordinates before shooting him in the head. Coming to life two hours later and scaring the bejesus out of the Asians, he had been able to claim that he had only been knocked unconscious, not killed. If any of the Alphabet had seen the sea of blood where he had lain and reflected that no one could bleed that much and remain alive, much less conscious and in fighting form, none of them ever mentioned it.


When Klaus woke up, a purple herald of dawn touched the dark clouds outside the hotel room window. Neither he nor Dorian had moved in their sleep. He felt content.

"Will you tell me now, then?" the Englishman beside him mumbled.

"Was?"

"What you wanted to dream of? Did you, by the way?"

"I dreamed. Ja. Und nein – I will not tell you."

"I won't laugh, Klaus. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Klaus snorted. "Nein. Not now."

"Next time, then? Will you tell me next time?"

Klaus's contentment melted away, like snow during a rainfall. "Maybe," he lied. Or perhaps it wasn't a lie, as he still hadn't promised anything and besides, there would be no next time.

"When will next time be, Klaus?"

"I will go on a mission. You can't come."

"When will you be back?"

"They estimate that the mission will take a week. They can't be sure, though."

"So ... Shall I meet you in Bonn, two weeks from now, perhaps? At your castle?"

For a moment, Klaus wavered. The mission had been entrusted to him, even if it wasn't of vital importance. To not go through with it went against all he had ever believed in. And, if he did go through with it, even if someone at NATO had heard about the wound the Alphabet had seen heal they would wait to do anything until he had been properly debriefed. Z would keep an ear to the ground too – he and Klaus had a bit of an understanding. Chances were, Z would hear something first and be able to alert Klaus before the big shakedown. Perhaps he would be able to afford waiting until the next mission? To meet Eroica at the Schloss; to lay him down in Klaus's own bed; to create more memories. Perhaps take those pictures ...

Stop at once, von dem Eberbach! That way lies ruin! You should never have gone with him last night! Thinking with your dick, this is where it gets you!

"Ja," he said, partly just to let himself dream of the possibility for a little longer. "At the Schloss."

Dorian tweaked Klaus's right nipple, making him gasp in surprise when a fizzle of want seared him. That had happened last time Dorian had done so too, but Klaus had thought that was merely because the Brit was fucking him at the time. Apparently not and he moved into the fingers, wordlessly letting the other man know he liked the touch.

"Only, if I go there in two weeks time, you won't be there, will you?"

Klaus glanced sharply at his lover. "I can't guarantee it. The mission might take longer than they have anticipated." Like, say, forever.

He was pinched again. "But you're not going on the mission, are you?"

Ignoring the nice feeling in his breast he rolled away, on his side so he lay facing the other. "What are you talking about?"

"You're going away."

"I told you. On a mission. To Boston."

Dorian lifted himself up on his elbow. "I'm not stupid, Klaus. You're leaving. And you're not planning on coming back, are you?"

Klaus wanted to pull away further, but to do so would rouse even more suspicion. "It is not a suicide mission. Of course, when going on a mission, there is always a risk of something happen—"

"Bull!" Dorian hissed and rolled off the bed, only to at once kneel back down on it, putting a hand on Klaus's shoulder. "You're leaving. I want to go with you. Take me with you, Klaus!"

Klaus shook off the hand and got to his feet. Dorian also rose and they stood facing one another, Dorian with his hands on his hips and his chin up.

Fuck it. I didn't want it to end in a fucking fight ...

Perhaps the same thought had occurred to Dorian, for his serious expression melted away. Then he carefully stepped closer, arms out. "Our first argument, dear. Make-up sex?"

Klaus snorted and stood still as Dorian embraced him and initiated a new round of kissing, with care manipulating Klaus until they were back on the bed, Dorian on top this time. Klaus had been no more able to resist than to gauge his own eyes out with a spoon – less, probably, should a situation have demanded it.

"I love you forever," Dorian said softly between kisses. "You do know that, don't you?"

Klaus nodded slowly. Dorian had told him before and he had believed him then too, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it.

"Klaus?"

"Ja?" he asked, suspicious as to what the thief was up to and hoping he had let go of the whole "When will you be back?"-thread.

"I love you," Dorian repeated, enunciating each word with care.

Oh. "Ja. I do. Too. Liebe. Dich."

The smile Dorian gave him was positively beatific and he looked all of twenty-one again, for a second, just like the first time they met. Then he ducked his head and rubbed his cheeks lovingly against Klaus's collar bones, before going up on stretched arms to thrust gently against Klaus's cock. Drinking in the apparition above him, Klaus answered the slow motions with his own. Neither were fully hard, but the rub felt pleasant and promising. Then Eroica had to go and stop.

"Klaus? I want to take a quick shower. Twenty minutes, tops – no, make that a quarter of an hour. I really will hurry."

Klaus shrugged. "Shower, then." Gives me plenty of time to dress. I should be out of the hotel by the time he's finished. I'll stop at a McDonald's and use the restroom there to cut my hair in. Impulsively he reached up and kissed Dorian one more time.

Dorian answered him willingly, but much too soon pulled away. "Shower. All right? Klaus?"

"Ja. Sure. Shower."

"Join me?"

"You haven't seen the bathroom in this place yet, have you? Go."

Dorian dismounted, then reached up with a hand to cup Klaus's cheek. "Will you be here when I get back?"

"Ja," he lied effortlessly.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Good. Because if you're not, I'll chase you to the ends of Earth."

The threat/promise was made with an intense seriousness that Klaus recognized. It was the same tone Dorian had used that very first time they met. The words echoed once in his mind, "Well, I like what I like. And what I like, I always make mine." Instead of going, though, Dorian leaned down again, to kiss Klaus one more time – just a sweet, light kiss, over in a heartbeat, but still lingering as Dorian finally made his way, stark naked and with an air as if he hadn't the faintest idea why this should in any way be improper, to the bathroom.

Klaus waited until he heard the water start pouring. Then he dressed and waited another three minutes before he left.

"When does the raven turn white, Sven from Rosenyard?"
"Never, dear mother ours. The raven never turns white.
You'll wait for me until late, but I will never come."



Five minutes later, Dorian took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door to an empty suite. He neither swore nor stomped, only sighed deeply. Then he retrieved a necessaire from the bag he had brought with him and sat down by the mirror. From the pink plastic carrier he unearthed a very small no-name bottle and a handful of colourful cotton tissues. He dosed the first tissue with a couple of drops from the bottle. The stinging scent of alcohol quickly filled the small room, to his dismay blotting out the delightful sex aroma.

Still, it felt unreasonably good to swipe his face; stroke by stroke erasing each line and wrinkle.


On short distances Dorian could outrun Klaus, but he knew himself to be a sprinter, while his stubborn love could keep up a strong pace until the cows came home and likely until they went back out to graze again as well. So when Klaus dashed through the corn field at breakneck speed, Dorian calmly got out of the mill, returned to the rented truck he had parked behind the building, turned on the engine, shifted gear and stepped down on the accelerator. He had followed Klaus to Smallville and just been about to show himself when Klaus had finally found his prey. With a pleased growl, the car bolted forwards and he took it in a smooth arch along the field, keeping an eye on the rows of moving stalks and the occasional glimpses of the running men. He already anticipated the look Klaus would give him when he saw him waiting by the road once the Ruskie had been caught. I'll say ... "Want a ride, stranger?" Emphasis on "ride" of course. Oh yes, that should do it. He loved teasing Klaus – lived for it, sometimes, since Klaus wouldn't let him live for what else he would love to do to Klaus.

The chase went on and on – truly impressive, really. Dorian let the car stay parallel to the men, until about half an hour later, when the road took it upon itself to curve, cutting off the field. A little uncertain as to what to do, he stopped, waiting to see if the men would cross the road or turn to the side. They were still some distance away, but closing in quickly. As he waited he glanced into the mirror to make sure he looked good.

That's when he saw them.

Grey hair!

All over his head!

Grey hair!

And that's when the sky fell. His last thought, as he was tossed through the car's front window by the force of the meteorites that crashed into the vehicle, was, No! I can't die like this! I don't want to die old! I want to be young! Forever!


I was so silly, Dorian thought as he carefully brushed out his golden hair. Purely blond now, as he had washed out the grey highlights while showering. Meal, that was all it was, from when I tripped in the mill.

He took another look at himself in the mirror. "Looking good, darling," he said and winked. He did look good. Better than good. He look like himself again. He might not be able to use his real name - at least not for a decade or two, though Bonham would keep an eye on things until then, good old Bonham - but he was back. Watch out, world. Or rather: watch out, Klaus.

The game was on again.

"Ready or not. Here I come."

The End