elrhiarhodan

Title: No Good Deed
Author: elrhiarhodan
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairing: Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Moz/Clinton
Fandom: White Collar
Spoilers: Reference to events in 3.01
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Pain play
Word Count: ~3700
Summary: Moz accidentally discovers Clinton’s kink, and it is oddly complimentary to his own.

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A/N: Expansion of an idea contained in a very short ficlet I wrote for MMOM 2011 - Unexpectedly Perfect (May 28th was unofficially Clinton Jones’ greatest day). jrosemary had asked for some follow up, and it took me a while, but I finally got my teeth into it. Written for Kink Bingo – Bodies and Body Parts.


The Downtown Boxing Club was not a place that Moz usually frequented. It was populated by men (and some women) who seemed to have more muscles than brain cells, and the overt displays of physical prowess made him uncomfortable. But the owner of the club, Stanislav Kronski, was once a communications officer in the Red Army and he frequently had access to, and was willing to part with, some of the most intriguing military hardware.

The gym was a clean, brightly lit place – almost too sparkling, too polished. Moz was reminded of the Hemingway story, in a roundabout way. It was a paradise of physical culture and members paid a hefty fee just to get in the door. But if Kronski didn’t like the shape of your eyes or the cut of your suit, the color of your credit card didn’t matter. You weren’t allowed in at all.

Maybe that’s why it was so successful. Like the best clubs, it had an aura of exclusivity that made everyone want to be part of the action.

Moz made his way past the rows of punching bags and speedballs. He didn’t look up as he passed the sparring rings; keeping his head down seemed the best policy when around large people who like to hit things.

Which was why he walked right into a Suit. Not The Suit. Not the Old Gray Suit. Not the Lady Suit (though it wouldn’t surprise him that she came here). No – it was the Young Suit – the one that Neal had to rescue. The one that cost them all their plans for living the good life on some island paradise.

“Moz?”

“Ahhh, Agent Jones. You’re here, I gather, to improve your physical abilities to crush the lives and dreams of the common man.” Moz pushed his glasses up and gave the man a hard, threatening glare. At least he hoped it was threatening.

Jones grinned at him. “No, I’m just here to get a little exercise, that’s all.” He rolled his neck and slapped his boxing gloves together – now that was a threatening gesture if Moz had ever seen one.

The coach in the sparring ring called for him and Jones gave him a bit of a salute before popping in his mouth guard and climbing into the ring. Moz watched him warm up, shadow boxing. The guy had a nice form. His strong shoulders and back weren’t overly bulked up and the lines of his muscles were aesthetically pleasing – in an academic sort of way.

Jones’ partner was about the same size, but quicker and obviously a much better boxer. Moz winced when the man landed a series of punishing rabbit punches, and he wondered why the Young Suit was even matched up with this bruiser – he was taking quite a beating.

Moz was so engrossed in the sparring that he didn’t notice that the club owner, Kronski, was standing next to him.

“Ahhh – you are interested in the young Special FBI Agent Jones?” Stanislav was putting on his best Russian villain accent.

“He’s FBI?” Moz was at his best, playing dumb. “I’m surprised that he can afford your fees.”

“He’s interesting American – comes here every couple of weeks, takes good beating and goes home happy. I give him discount.” Kronski gave him a sharp eyed look. “You know I like to collect interesting people. Interesting people are worth more than money.”

Moz hoped he kept his face blank. “He’s on your payroll?” As much as he despised Suits in general – the thought of any of the Suits that he knew personally being corrupt was distressing.

Kronski chuckled. “Nyet, I wish – it would be nice to have an inside eye on the Federal Bureau of Investigations. But no – Mr. Agent Jones is incorruptible. He just has some – how shall I put it – fascinating habits. And doesn’t seem to care that I know about them.”

Moz relaxed. “What sort of habits?”

Kronski looked at his manicured nails and commented in a sly tone. “Habits that you might appreciate, my friend.”

“Hmmm.” Moz didn’t know if he liked the sound of that and changed the subject. “You have the parts I asked for?”

“Always so blunt, so forthright, tovarich. You need to better learn the fine art of misdirection. You should learn to play chess.” The Russian laughed.

Moz kept his thoughts to himself and followed Kronski back to his office. He accepted a small cup of strong Russian tea and they dickered good-naturedly over the price of the equipment. Kronski wanted twice what Moz was willing to pay, but they both enjoyed the negotiations – Moz threatened to leave twice, Stanislav cursed at him in Russian, Polish and a dialect that Moz didn’t recognize, but thought might be Estonian. The third time Moz got up, Kronksi threw his hands in the air, said something about not having enough money to pay for prayers to be said for his mother’s soul and agreed to Moz’s last offer.

He handed Moz a key to a locker, Moz gave him the cash and they were both quite satisfied with the transaction.

The locker rooms for the Downtown Boxing Club were as spectacular as the rest of the facilities. Unlike the ultramodern gym with its high polish and brightly lit corners, these rooms resembled the physical fitness palaces of the old Soviet Empire with saunas and steam rooms and mosaic tile floor and walls – all kept immaculately clean. Moz appreciated both the artistry and the cleanliness as he made his way through the empty facility to locker 547.

And found Agent Jones sitting on a bench, a white towel wrapped around his waist, pressing on a bruise left by his opponent’s boxing glove. Moz watched in fascination as Jones dug his fingers into his shoulder, kneading and twisting. The man closed his eyes and hissed – a sound of pained pleasure – one that Mozzie was all too familiar with. The towel no longer fell smoothly between Jones’ thighs. It was developing an impressive tent, and Moz wondered if he was going to take himself in hand, or just take pleasure from his pain.

Maybe he made a sound, or something disturbed Jones’ concentration because Jones opened his eyes and found him standing there. Moz held up the key Kronski had given him.

“I – ummm – just need to get something. Excuse me.” He ignored Jones’ glare and opened the locker. He probably should have waited for the Young Suit to leave, but Moz was unnerved enough as it was.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, just some radio equipment?”

“That just happens to be in a gym locker?”

“Yeah – and why should that matter to you?” The best defense and all that jazz.

Jones wasn’t the least bit cowed.

“Look – you mind your … business – “ Moz looked down at the still-impressively tented towel, “and I’ll mind mine. Okay?”

“Yeah – okay. Sounds good.” Jones didn’t sound the least bit ashamed. This must be what Kronski was talking about.

Moz finished emptying the locker, trying to ignore the almost naked and obviously aroused Agent Jones. There was more here than he expected – a lot more. He struck a good deal, but it was worthless unless he got it out. Those were the rules with Kronski.

“You’re going to need a hand with that?” It really wasn’t a question.

Moz turned around, ever reluctant to admit weakness in front of a Fed. Jones had put on sweat pants and had a Harvard Law sweatshirt in his hands.

“I’ll manage.”

“I’m sure you will – but it would be easier if you just handed me some of the bigger boxes.”

Jones hissed as he put the shirt on and Moz couldn’t help but see his increased arousal. Sweatpants were terrible in these situations. It should be an uncomfortable moment, except that Moz was experiencing a similar reaction.

“You sure you’re not too banged up?” Moz couldn’t really see a way out of this, short of an outright snub, and the Fed had been proven useful on more than one occasion, even if he did screw up their escape to paradise.

“I’m fine.” Jones held out his hand and Moz gave him the largest, heaviest box - it looked like a shortwave transmitter. Jones hefted it as if it were nothing and picked up his gym bag. Moz emptied the rest, left the key in the locker and led the way out.

His precious Citroën was waiting curbside.

There was, however, a parking ticket stuck under the windshield wiper. Moz plucked it out from behind the wiper and was about to toss it when Jones pulled it out of his hand.

“I’m not paying it, Fed. I am not interested in supporting the current administration’s draconian abuse of power against the electorate.”

“You’d risk getting this classic impounded for a $50 ticket?”

“What makes you think I’ll use these plates again, now that you’ve seen them?” Clinton hefted the transmitter into the back seat after Moz finished loading the boxes he had carried out.

“Well, thank you. Suit.” He knew he shouldn’t be so rude – but the whole thing in the locker room was sort of disturbing.

“No problem, Moz. See you around.”

Moz got into the car just as it started to snow. Jones was walking away, tall, stalwart, everything he hated and everything he admired. Against all his better judgment, he rolled down the window and called out. “Need a lift home?”

Jones looked at him with no small amount of suspicion. “Don’t need, but it would be nice.” He got in and gave Moz the directions.

Moz was surprised at the address. An apartment on West 65th near Columbus wasn’t the usual digs for a bachelor on a government salary, but he kept his mouth shut. Maybe the Young Suit moonlighted – men who liked to dish out what he seemed to like to receive paid well. And it wasn’t his place to judge, since he’d often paid for that himself.

By the time he pulled up to Clinton’s basement apartment, it was snowing heavily. Getting the car and its cargo back to Sunday wasn’t going to be easy. The Citroën had a ragtop and was extremely impractical for winter driving.

But even if he parked it here and hoofed it over to Monday, the nearest safe house in his network of properties, the car would get buried as soon as the plows passed and the ancient canvas top wasn’t strong enough to hold the weight of all the snow. He could always try to get up to Neal’s – June had space in her garage, but he didn’t like the odds of driving even that far.

Jones interrupted his cogitations. “If you want, you can wait out the storm here.”

“Wait it out?”

“Yeah – it’s supposed to turn to rain in a few hours. If it doesn’t, then we’ll haul your stuff inside and keep an eye out for the plows. Would be a shame for this beauty to get buried and damaged.”

Moz peered at Jones, instantly suspicious. “You’re very … generous. Why?”

The man shrugged. “Doesn’t cost me anything. Besides, if you hadn’t offered me a ride, you’d be home now – wherever that is for the night. So – one good deed deserves another?”

Moz wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but there were no alternatives. “I think, more appropriately, ‘no good deed goes unpunished’ but I will take you up on your offer, Suit.”

“Havisham, you are quite a cynic.”

Moz didn’t answer, but he followed Jones into his apartment. Even for a ground level place, it was exceptionally nice. Reminded him of Gina’s.

“What’s your poison?”

“Hmm? What?”

“Drink – what would you like to drink?”

“Umm – tea?”

Jones gave him a look.

“Okay, gin, neat.”

The drinking didn’t get serious – they both kept their eyes on the weather. The reports were wrong – it never turned to rain. Jones helped him bring in the equipment and clean the snow off the Citroën. Sometime around nine, they both heard the sound of a snowplow and rushed out to move the car. They got it out just in the nick of time, shoveled out the spot and re-parked it. Of course, there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t get plowed under again.

Moz actually felt a little guilty. After all, Jones had taken a beating this afternoon, and he had to be sore. Yet he lifted and carried and shoveled.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” Jones made to flex his arm muscles and winced. “Okay – a little sore.”

“Well, standing around in the snow isn’t going to help.” He actually ushered the man back into his own place.

The heat in the apartment hit him like a fist, and combined with the earlier alcohol, everything was looking a little rosy. “Get out of your wet clothes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on - I’ve already seen what you’ve got. And yes, it is very impressive. But unless you want to be stiff as a board tomorrow, you’ll get me some ben-gay or liniment or whatever, and let me get to work on those bruises. The cold and damp is going to make them unpleasantly painful. Which probably isn’t the sensation you’re probably looking for.”

Moz stood there, chin raised in challenge. He’d taken down guys bigger and harder than Clinton Jones. But he was sure he’d enjoy this one the most.

The Young Suit nodded and pulled off his sweatshirt. From the way he was moving, it wasn’t hard to see that he was stiffening up. “I’ll get a jar of rub.” Jones disappeared into the recesses of his apartment.

“Get a towel too - you’ll need to do this laying down. Your bed would be better than the couch.”

Jones came back. “Sure - whatever.” He gave him a look and tilted his head. “This way.”

Moz followed. The bedroom was extremely tidy - bed made so tightly you could bounce a quarter off of it. Jones pulled the covers back and draped the towel over the plain white sheets.

In an odd moment of prudery, Moz turned his back when Clinton stripped down to his shorts and lay out on the bed. The white sheets were an intriguing contrast to his smooth, dark skin.

Moz swallowed, suddenly dizzy from the gin he consumed earlier. He picked up the jar, it was a basic formulation. Moz sniffed it - not unpleasant. He’d used worse.

There were some rather spectacular bruises on Jones’ shoulders and upper arms, and Moz focused on those first. He didn’t know quite how far he was going to be able to take this, but he was not averse to pushing some limits. He worked the balm into Clinton’s skin, noticing how perfectly smooth it was. Like velvet over polished rocks.

He touched the first bruise and Jones hissed.

“Sorry.”

“No, that’s all right. You can work it. Work on it.”

Moz smiled to himself. He’d just been given the green light. He put pressure on the edges of the swelling and was rewarded with a light moan. The rub was a little greasy - and probably didn’t contain any analgesics. It was simply slick.

He didn’t overwork any of the bruises, but he had the man lightly moaning in pleasure. Or more accurately, in pain-filled pleasure. But he had to admit that Jones was a gentleman - he wasn’t humping his mattress, yet.

Moz lifted Clinton’s impressive arms above his head, to work on the bruises left on ribs.

“Do you want me to … roll over?”

Moz stepped back. Frankly, it was going to be easier if he straddled the man. The queen-sized bed wasn’t really made for massages. “It would probably be more effective.”

Clinton creaked a little as he turned on his back. Moz ignored the massive erection tenting the man’s tighty-whities and focused on the darker patches of skin. There were bruises blossoming across his upper body, deep, round discolorations.

“You know that this…” Moz held up the jar. “Isn’t going to do a damn thing for you.”

Jones grinned. “It’s going to make your hands feel very good - they already do. I don’t want to be numbed up.”

“You like the pain.” That was stating the obvious.

“Yeah - I do.”

“Kronski told me he tried to blackmail you.” Moz said in a very matter-of-fact tone. He slicked up his hands and started toying with the bruise that formed near Jones’ left nipple. He pressed the edge of his nail into the injury and let it slide up against the sensitive nub.

“Did Kronski tell you that I didn’t give a damn?”

Moz watched Clinton’s face as he continued to dig his fingers into the area. Even in the dimmed light, he could see how his pupils were dilating.

“Yes he did. He was rather surprised that you didn’t seem to care.”

Jones hissed again as Moz pinched him. “I’m single and I have no one that would really care that I like to get beaten up on occasion.” Moz didn’t gentle his hold and Clinton added, “I get sexually stimulated by pain.”

“But you’re not submissive.” Moz tossed caution to the wind and straddled Jones. Better to reach that very tempting spot where the shoulder met the clavicle.

“No, and I’ve tried the D/s scene. That’s not what I want. I’m not interested in playing by anyone else’s rules. I’m not into power games.”

Moz sat back on his haunches, highly conscious of the other man’s cock resting against the crack of his ass. “You’re not a masochist, either.”

“No - not into humiliation. Like I said, power games aren’t my scene.”

Moz smiled wryly. “I guess when you carry that badge and gun and can summon the might of the entire U.S. Government down on a poor, unsuspecting citizen’s head, Severin and Wanda’s games seem rather pointless.”

“Trust you to bring political invective into the moment.”

Moz licked his lips. “Are we having a moment, Agent Jones?” He bit his lip against the look the other man gave him. He was reminded of a sleepy tiger.

“Now, when a man comes into my bedroom, straddles me, toys with my body and is practically sitting on my cock, I usually think that’s a ‘moment.’ But who am I to say?”

“Put like that, I’d have to agree. This is definitely a moment.”

Jones gave him a different sort of look. “Funny - I never suspected this from you. Always thought you and Caffrey were … an item.”

“Like this?” Moz tried to keep the laughter out of his voice.

“Well, yeah.”

“Not hardly. This is not his scene.”

Jones grinned. “Hmmm, I should have figured. Kate Moreau, Alex Hunter, Sara Ellis. A girl in every capital city in Europe, right? He’s not one for the boys.”

“Oh, please. Neal? He’s as bi as a Blue Point oyster.”

“Huh?”

“Bi - as in bivalve. I thought you’d at least be able to keep up with me.” Moz had hopes for the well-educated man beneath him. “Neal’s a romantic. Hearts and flowers. True love. Happily ever after.”

“Ah. I see.”

No, he probably didn’t and Moz dropped the bombshell. “That’s why he’s schtupping The Suit. And Mrs. Suit. They’re giving him just what he wants and what he thinks he needs.” He started paying attention to the contusion on the opposite shoulder, pressing hard.

Clinton brushed his hands away and tried to sit up. Moz pressed him in to the mattress. “What the hell do you mean?”

He kept his voice casual. “Neal, Peter and Elizabeth have been going at it for a while now. You’re supposed to be a trained observer - isn’t that why you’re always in the surveillance van?”

Clinton shook his head. “I guess so. They are better at keeping secrets than I would expect. Secrets like that. I had no clue. ”

Moz sniffed. “To be honest, I didn’t either, until I walked in on them. It wasn’t the happiest moment of my life.”

The other man laughed. “I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“So - to answer your question. Neal and I aren’t. I am not interested in a candy-box relationship, while Neal won’t settle for anything less than the proverbial white picket fence.” Moz worked on the bruise and enjoyed the heat from Jones’ body - all the heat.

“So, if I did this,” Clinton reared up, grabbed Moz by the hips and flipped him over, covering him like a blanket. “You wouldn’t object?”

Moz grabbed a patch of tender flesh at the point where the man’s waist met his hip, just above the band of his shorts. “Provided you liked it when I did this.” He pinched, hard.

Jones bucked his body against Moz’s. “Yeah, that’s good. That’s very good.”

Somehow, Moz got out of his clothes, got a condom rolled on and rode the Young Suit’s tight perfect ass like it was a prized bronco. The heat and resistance was almost as good as the feel of the muscled flesh that he gripped tightly between his fingers, adding bruises on top of bruises. The taste of skin and sweat and slick on his tongue was equally delicious, and Moz was reminded of a very fine Amarone he once drank with a man who called himself the Duke. He bit down hard on one perfect shoulder and felt Clinton’s ass clamp around his cock like a fist as his came. As they both came.

He rolled off the other man, panting. Clinton turned at looked at him, his smile a combination of bemusement and satisfaction.

“You good?” He’d never been one for post-coital conversation.

Thankfully, Jones wasn’t either. “Yeah, Moz. I’m good.” He said nothing else and rolled over carefully before dropping off.

Moz left the sleeping man to his bed. He washed up, dressed and went back to the living room. His glass of gin was still on the counter. As he sat there, contemplating the still falling snow piled up against the window, Moz smiled and shook his head.

Despite all the disappointments, the betrayals, the losses, his life had just become unexpectedly perfect.

FIN