Disclaimers:

I don't own these characters - the lucky people at Pet Fly Productions do. They are simply being borrowed without permission, but no copyright infringement is intended. I'm not making a dime off of this (and neither should you, dear reader). However, I hold the copyright on the words that follow.

Warnings: none

There's a bit of "bad" language, but nothing else that springs to mind. Hopefully not too much bad grammar, though. <g>

STANDARD SLASH WARNING: This bit of slash features graphic descriptions of m/m sex. If the thought of this offends you, there are plenty of other things to read in the world. Go find some. Current US law seems to indicate that people under the age of 18 shouldn't be allowed to read this. I may not agree with this sentiment, but you've been adequately warned so I've done my duty.

Summary:

Well, the "Other Man" challenge pretty much sums it up. Jim recalls, in an angsty sorty of way, a lust-ridden encounter from his past. It may not really deserve a NC-17 rating, but it's usually best to err on the conservative side.

Notes:

This is for Anne. I'd already written most of this piece as part of a larger story, but it fit her "Other Man" challenge so perfectly, and people on senad were clamoring for more fiction, and I'm beginning to despair of ever finishing the larger story, and... well, you get the idea. Here it is. It has been minorly beta-read (thanks Charly!) but I was more interested in getting it into your hot little hands than making it a work of art. <g> All mistakes are mine, of course.

This is a section of a companion piece to the first fanfic I ever wrote, Floored (though you don't have to read Floored first to understand this). Those who read Floored might recall it concerns Blair and a rather, er, *intense* dream he has about Jim. No relationship, no sex (except the rather fuzzy dreamlike kind), and a bit of humor. Then I got to thinking about how Jim would handle such a dream and started working on this behemoth.

I'll put the whole thing up on SXF if I ever finish it -- which is another way to say this ISN'T a zine teaser.

The story to date: Jim's been experiencing some lurid dreams that always seem to end up morphing Carolyn into Blair. He and Blair have been on stakeout duty, so he ascribes it to having to spend so much time with Blair lately (ah, that river in Egypt...). Anyway, after Jim's bad temper manages to provoke nearly everyone at the station, Simon sends him home to get some much needed sleep. He falls asleep on the couch.

Jim woke slowly in the chill darkness of full evening. The muted traffic suggested it wasn't too late -- yes, his watch said that he had enough time to shower before picking Blair up. He rubbed his eyes blearily and sat up, yawning. Wet stickiness on his groin pushed the dream back into his mind; it was the same one he'd had before, only this time Blair hadn't woken him before it ended. And it had been quite an end, too, judging by the state of things.

[Great. Now I've got two reasons to wash these pants.]

He stood up and headed directly for the shower, stripping as he went. As he peeled off the boxers, he tried to ignore what his brain was telling him. But when he stepped under the warm spray, he couldn't stop thinking of the real encounter behind the dream.

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A haze of warm, cigarette-stained air followed them out of the bar and dissolved into the wide, cool night. The two men stood in the rough doorway of the bar, relaxing only marginally when the thick, greasy door swung home behind them.. They waited in the shadows for several long moments. Waiting for danger, their alert posture implied, though what danger this sleepy town could offer was unlcear.

Several long heartbeats passed, then as if on an unspoken cue, they moved simultaneously from the doorway. A slight overcompensation in gait was the only hint that they'd spent an evening downing pitchers of beer as only soldiers can. Clean-cut and solid, they looked competent as hell. Which explained why no one followed them into the street, why none of the rough-looking regulars chose to back up their muttered threats with their fists.

The smaller of the pair reached the car first and pulled out his keys to open the door. Then he abruptly turned around and leaned against the door, exhaling deeply.

"Fucking townies," he observed.

"Yeah," Ellison said as he walked over to Rosado. Rivalry between town and military was common, despite the fact that it was, undeniably, an Army town.

"White trash punks. If I'd had my -- " He broke off, looking sharply at Ellison as the phrase "white trash" echoed in his ears. But Ellison didn't notice, or if he did, he didn't care. Rosado leaned back against the window and shut his eyes, trying to erase the whispered slurs that had followed them out of the bar. He hated the South, hated this hick town, hated having to show his worth by walking away instead of pounding someone's head in.

Ellison watched his friend's internal battle. He wasn't worried, exactly, but neither did he want to finish the night in jail.

Rosado opened his eyes fractionally and regared Ellison from his reclined position. "Relax, *caballero*, I ain't gonna do anything. Stop looking at me like that."

Ellison gave him his best "Who, me?" look.

"Oh, fuck you. I know what you're thinking," Rosado said jokingly as he pushed himself off the car. "'Nother hot-headed Latin's gotta learn to be like 'Ice-Man Ellison'. Let's go home."

Ellison's tolerant smile turned into a frown when Rosado swayed a bit too much as he turned. "Wait. Maybe we shouldn't drive."

"What? Come on, I want my nice, warm bed. And no wake-up call tomorrow, either. I'm gonna sleep for-fuckin'-ever."

"No, I mean it," Ellison said, putting his hand out to block Rosado. He had to concentrate to keep his hand steady. [Shit, I'm drunker than I thought. Used to be I could drink all night. If we drive back, and get into a wreck like those guys last month, it'll be our butts. And our stripes.]

"Look, we can't drive like this. We get caught and there'll be hell to pay. Remember?" Ellison looked at his friend, again leaning on his low-slung black sports car. Inspiration slogged through his beer-fogged mind. "Besides, you wouldn't want to wreck this baby, would ya?"

Rosado pushed Ellison's hand away from his stomach with annoyance. "I'm not gonna wreck it. I'm not *that* drunk."

Ellison stepped closer. "You're drunk enough. Come on, you know better. It'll be okay here -- we'll get someone to drive us out to get it tomorrow."

"And how're we supposed to get back tonight?" Rosado challenged, staring up defiantly.

"Walk. Hey, it's not that far! All in a straight line, no hills, and we got ourselves this nice, flat concrete to step on." Ellison kicked the ground to emphasize his point and smiled at Rosado, trying to charm him into agreement.

Rosado looked at him doubtfully, and, encouraged, Ellison continued.

"Shit, we've been doing six-seven miles a day the hard way for the past two weeks." Ellison waited a moment, then sealed his argument with a challenge. "And you're the one who said you could do it in your sleep, so this should be nothin'."

Rosado snorted at that last statement, but then suddenly gave in. "Fine. We'll walk. Don't grin like that, you asshole."

"Come on," Ellison said, giving him a friendly push toward the sidewalk. "Let's get moving."

They set off down the orange-lit street, moving quickly in the sharp night air. As the blocks passed, the fog of tension and alcohol receeded.. They relaxed into an unconscious cadence, the rhythm of their footsteps punctuating a companionable silence.

Of all the members in their squad, James Ellison and Alberto Rosado were undoubtedly the closest, a fact that their squad-mates found odd but their superiors understood. The difference in temperament was as marked as the difference in appearance. Ellison was cool-headed, some even said emotionless, on the surface, while Rosado's emotions quickened at every provocation. Ellison's bruising strength couldn't match Rosado's speed, though they often tested against each other and inwardly raged when they were beaten. They shared a respect for each other's skills, and somehow, in those first few weeks, came to realize that they could learn as much from one another as they could from anyone. Their rivalry, as well as their friendship, grew until they were an inseparable team.

Neither would put this into words, of course, for while the Army cultivates such relationships, like any good political gambit, its success depends upon a cover of plausible deniability.

After several blocks, Rosado broke off at the opening of a dark alley. "Gotta take a leak, man."

"Damn, 'Berto, you shoulda done that before we left the bar," Jim complained.

'Berto laughed. "We just spent a week pissing in the forest -- you gonna get uptight about this, *caballero*?"

'Berto disappeared into the gloom of the unlit alley, and Jim stepped just inside. [All we need is to be hassled by the local cops for public urination.] He waited impatiently. He couldn't see or hear 'Berto, and, as his mind rambled on, he began to get nervous. [How long is this gonna take? Where is he? I can't see him or hear him. Of course I can't hear him -- no one can hear him when he doesn't want to be heard. The guy is like the fucking Phantom.]

Jim's inner dialogue was interrupted when 'Berto softly called out, "Hey, Jim, c'mere."

Jim sighed. 'Berto insisted on playing his little games; he loved to use his fieldcraft skills to annoy and embarrass his squad-mates. Usually Jim wasn't a target, but if 'Berto was feeling mischievous and there was no one else available... [Damn.]

Jim walked partway down the junk-strewn alley. He couldn't see 'Berto anywhere. [That bastard is going to jump me, I just know it.] He looked up, half-expecting 'Berto to come flying down from above.

"Where the fuck are you?" he growled.

"Right here," 'Berto said from behind him.

Jim turned and peered into the shadow cast by a pile of wooden pallets. He slowly walked toward the darkness until he could see 'Berto. It didn't appear to be a set-up; 'Berto simply stood there, hands in pockets, kicking his toe in the dirt, looking for all the world like a boy whose baseball just broke a window.

"What do you want?" Jim asked. There was no reply, and 'Berto didn't look up at him. "Come on, it's cold out here. Let's go."

"No. I don't want to go back."

Jim sighed. He was in no mood for this kind of stuff.

"Stop dicking around. Let's get out of here," Jim said. He advanced on 'Berto, intending to drag him back if necessary.

"No. I said I don't want to go back," 'Berto said more forcefully.

Jim stopped. "Whaddya mean, 'don't want to go back'?" he asked, eyes narrowed. Concern rose in him as he noticed the strained quality of 'Berto's voice.

'Berto didn't answer. He just stood there in the shadows. His hands were out of his pockets now, and his posture was one of tense awareness. Jim recognized his stance and an icy thread of fear wound through him. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder to find the danger.

"If you don't want to go back, what do you want?" Jim finally asked.

"You," 'Berto said, as he swiftly closed the gap between them and pulled Jim in for a kiss.

It was over almost as soon as it began, but, for Jim, time slammed to a halt. 'Berto had released him immediately, but he could still feel him on his lips, could still feel the tug of his clothes where he'd been pulled down. He looked at 'Berto, now warily standing apart from him. The white plumes from his harsh breathing rose out of the shadows. It reminded Jim that he hadn't breathed, and he sucked in a huge breath.

'Berto watched, his face serious and intent. Dark eyes drew Jim in and held him there. Jim couldn't think, couldn't make sense of anything; all that registered was the electricity in that kiss. Nothing else existed. His hand went out and he moved to join 'Berto in the shadows.

They fell together with lightning speed. Hands burrowed through clothing as they sought one another, their kiss opening a lake of fire between them. They fought to find as much contact as possible, pressing against one another with almost frantic motion.

Jim was dimly aware that he was shaking with the effort to control himself, but he couldn't stop, not now. His hands tore 'Berto's shirt from his pants, and he found the bare skin of his back. He had seen this patch of skin many, many times before, but to be allowed to touch it, to stroke it like this -- it was unthinkable. He slid his hands up and down, caressing the taut muscles, feeling the outline of each rib, trailing his thumbs across the tender skin of his side. His strokes became more insistent, more demanding, as he sought to pull 'Berto even tighter against him, trying to put out the fire within him with the heat of another.

Even as their bodies fought one another, their mouths sealed their consent. The kiss rapidly deepened and Jim's mouth opened to accept 'Berto's fuller embrace. His tongue delighted at the taste, the texture of what was offered to him. Delicate at first, a simple and generous offering, it soon spiraled out of control to become rough and hard. Jim felt 'Berto's soft tongue lapping at his face, outlining his jaw, and finally exploring his neck with a serious intensity.

It was almost too much to bear. He couldn't seem to catch his breath -- every move 'Berto made seemed to force a gasp from him. His arms were wrapped around 'Berto, but he could barely remain upright with each new assault. The earlier shakiness had receeded, but now his head spun and dizziness threatened to topple him. When 'Berto increased the pressure on his neck, now using his teeth, Jim felt that he had reached the end -- there was no place left to go, no greater hunger. With an almost feral cry, he threw back his head to further expose his throat.

The night air cooled his wet skin, and then 'Berto's hot mouth was there again, drawing the desire from Jim in waves. It was otherworldly, the feeling that rushed up inside him. The tongue found a new spot, and Jim tightened even more, unaware of the protest in his overworked muscles. [Glorious] was the single thought that wove through his brain.

But then the world tilted and he felt himself falling backwards. He couldn't get his body to do anything about it, and for a single, crystal moment he waited for the inevitable crash. But then his back hit the brick wall, driving a grunt from him as 'Berto fell against him.

'Berto quickly pulled himself off Jim, an apology on his lips. But when he looked into Jim's eyes and saw the desperate flame written there in the shadows, the words died in his throat. He caught his balance and stepped back. A wicked smile crossed his face, then he kicked Jim's feet further apart, causing Jim to slide down the wall. He stepped between Jim's legs, placed his hands on either side of Jim's head, and leaned in to kiss him again.

With this new angle, it was a different, yet similar, experience. 'Berto had all the leverage, and he used it against Jim, driving him against the wall. Jim felt the biting chill of the brick against his bare back, a striking contrast to the heat in front of him. He wrapped his arms around 'Berto's waist, drawing him closer.

He could feel 'Berto's hardness against him; he felt it before, against his leg, but now it was grinding directly against him, and the knowledge that he was responsible for 'Berto's obvious desire made him greedy for more. He slid his hands under the waistband of 'Berto's jeans, pulling him close with each thrust. A kind of fierce joy seized him when he heard 'Berto's sharp intake of breath, and he thrust even harder, matching the motion with his tongue. 'Berto was moaning now, losing control, and his hands sought Jim's heat as they slid between Jim and the brick wall.

Jim involuntarily jerked his head back, knocking it against the wall, as the fire of 'Berto's touch traced along his cold bare skin.

"Oh, yesss..." he hissed.

Encouraged by this reaction, 'Berto forced his fingers along the edge of Jim's pants. Jim's weight, resting against the wall, denied him further exploration, but he used this new leverage to drive against Jim, twisting and sliding until they were both struggling to breathe the cold night air.

Jim was only aware that he needed more, more contact. He bent his head and tongued 'Berto's neck, tracing along the collar, making do with what skin he could find. He wanted to taste all of him, to know him completely, to drown in him. 'Berto responded with kisses of his own, forging an infinite circle of giving and taking.

It seemed as if this moment could last for eternity, but in a strange moment of clarity, Jim was aware it wouldn't. Thus, he wasn't surprised when 'Berto abruptly pulled away from him, leaving his body straining after more contact. He tried to talk, to say something, *anything*, but he could only dumbly look at 'Berto as his breath sobbed in and out of him. 'Berto returned the look, then smiled. Smiled directly at Jim, and it set his blood roaring faster than their physical passion had been able to.

[What is that smile worth to me?]

Then, before he could do more than begin to smile in return, 'Berto quickly raised the front of Jim's thin shirt, pushing it as high as it would go. He pulled his own up to match and sunk into Jim's embrace. The simple touch of skin on skin was explosive, flaring through them as this outlawed touch drove home the reality of this encounter. 'Berto's pause had brought them back to who they were and what they were doing -- and what they wanted to do -- but this touch of one another burned such awareness out of them.

Jim found himself grabbing 'Berto with both hands and grinding against him like a desperate man, practically lifting him off his feet with each thrust. 'Berto was wild against him, clinging to his shoulders, sliding against him, licking and sucking his neck.

They set a brutal rhythym, each point taking them closer and closer to the finish. 'Berto could no longer concentrate enough to kiss Jim and was only aware of the heat of Jim's bare skin and the hard length he felt beneath his own.

"Uh...uh...uh...Jim...J--uh--mmm" came out of him in time with their motions.

Jim was in another world, an unreal world of the flesh. His hands tightened and it was almost like there were no clothes separating them. He could feel everything, know everything... Then he wondered what it would be like to have 'Berto naked against him, to truly feel 'Berto's body against him, to feel his hard cock straining against him...This last image drove him over the edge, and the orgasm that had been building from the first kiss bloomed up in him.

"Oh, God!" Jim cried, as he held 'Berto tightly while waves of pleasure washed through him. "'Berto, oh 'Berto," he panted as he felt the last spurts leave him.

'Berto tried to hang on, to make it last, but when he heard Jim call his name it was too much for him. He cried out and thrust hard against Jim, holding there while the pounding pressure burst out of him. He felt the fluid warmth come in waves and he hoped Jim understood how he felt. He tried to tell him, but all that he could manage was "Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim..." until his voice faded away into whispers.

Finally, Jim released his tight hold and 'Berto settled more firmly on the ground. Jim stood, wincing at the strain in his muscles from the awkward position, and 'Berto quickly straightened their clothing. From his restored height, Jim looked down at 'Berto and pulled him into a strong embrace, nestling him against his neck. They stood like that for a long time, letting the aftermath recede, calming their breathing, enjoying the peace of the moment.

'Berto shivered, and Jim drew him tighter, kissing the top of his head and letting his warm breath flow over him. 'Berto was still for a few moments, then sighed quietly.

"Time to go," he said.

After a pause, Jim said, "I don't want to go back."

"Hey, that's my line," 'Berto replied, trying to lighten the moment.

Jim kissed him on the temple and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "But I don't want to," he managed. He didn't mean it to sound that desperate.

"Neither do I, neither do I," said 'Berto quietly, and pulled Jim's head down for a kiss. "But we don't have a choice."

He slid from the embrace and started walking toward the street. Jim remained behind, standing in the shadows. Suddenly aware that he was alone, 'Berto turned to look back at Jim. They didn't say anything; they just stood and stared. After an eternity, 'Berto slowly offered his hand to Jim. Jim looked at it, then came forward to claim it. Hand in hand, they walked to the mouth of the alley.

Just before they left the alley, 'Berto released his hand and slung an arm around Jim as he had countless times before.

"Ready?" he asked.

Jim turned his head to look at him. 'Berto gave him a hesitant smile, which broadened into a grin as Jim threw an arm around his shoulders.

"Ready," Jim said, and they continued back to the base.

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Jim came back to himself, standing under the ice cold water. [Good. I need it. I can't believe just thinking about that is giving me a hard-on. Aren't I a little old for fantasies?]

[Yeah, well, it was one of the most intense sexual experiences of my life, right? So why shouldn't it still affect me?

Because I don't want it to. Not after what happened the next day...]

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Jim woke up to a nearly empty barracks. His stomach told him it was late -- very late. But he'd been so tired last night. He took a long drink of water from the bottle he'd prepared the night before, then headed off to take a shower.

He was brought up short by the sight of 'Berto at the line of sinks, freshly showered and leaning over to rinse the last of the shaving cream from his face. Even under the harsh fluorescent lights he looked terribly inviting. Jim moved to stand behind him and unconsciously began to reach out to touch the snug towel. Suddenly, 'Berto noticed him and abruptly stood up, looking at Jim in the mirror. Jim snatched his hand back, embarrassed at his lack of control. They stared at one another in the mirror, grimly noticing the unmistakable marks on each other's necks.

"About last night..." Jim trailed off. He had to look away.

"Yeah," 'Berto said and turned around. "Look, I'm sorry. It was my fault. Just forget it ever happened -- "

"I'm only going to say two things," Jim broke in, then halted. "It *did* happen. It was wonderful. It was fucking incredible. I've never done anything like that before...and...shit..." he faltered.

Jim's mind screamed at him to say what was really going on. [Tell him you want to throw him down on the tile floor and do it all again. Tell him you want to feel him against you again, to taste him again, to fuck him till you can't remember anything else. Tell him! Tell him now! Tell him you've fallen in love with him!] At that last thought, Jim came back to himself. [Damn, I don't really *love* him, do I? Christ. What a mess.]

He found himself staring into 'Berto's brown eyes, trying to convey what he couldn't bring himself to say out loud. 'Berto looked back at him with amazement, his eyes widening at Jim's confession. The passion behind Jim's words frightened him and he felt his body tightening up, preparing for confrontation.

Jim continued before he could say anything. "And it will never happen again. Understand?"

The intensity of Jim's stare was making 'Berto dizzy. The edge of the sink was cool to his touch and it helped to steady him. He couldn't look away, couldn't think, couldn't speak. He just stood there, breathing hard, hoping that this awful moment would end and praying that it wouldn't.

Jim didn't know what he was doing. Part of him wanted to shove all this away as if it had never happened, and another part wanted, desperately, to continue it. 'Berto's dark eyes were driving all rational thought from his mind and he felt himself slipping into the malestrom of desire he had discovered last night.

[One last time] he thought, as he gave in.

His large hand reached out to pull 'Berto to him. His fingers curled under his jaw and his thumb caressed his cheekbone. In the bright light, the difference in skin tone was startling. Jim found himself staring at it as if he were trying to memorize every detail. He ran his thumb back and forth, tracing the planes of 'Berto's face, running his thumb across the tender lower lip, feeling the slight roughness of freshly-shaven skin below the nose. Then it wasn't enough -- he needed something more intimate.

As he leaned in, he knew it would be the last kiss. The thought leant a bittersweet quality to the first touch of lips, but it quickly deepened into passion. Open mouths, battling tongues, stroking lips; it was enough to make them forget where and who they were. Yet neither did forget, and no hands joined the connection. They simply stood there, inches apart, sharing the simple, forbidden connection of lovers.

Finally, Jim broke the kiss. He felt the reluctance in 'Berto and looked deep into his eyes. The power of his gaze stunned Jim, and he felt a crushing ache as he surrendered his soul. The warm flush the kiss had brought out mocked him as he tried to distance himself from it. For a few terrifying, ecstatic moments, Jim felt his resolve beginning to falter.

"It *did* happen," Jim said. [Please don't forget.]

A tear threatened in 'Berto's eye, and Jim wiped at it with his thumb. He allowed himself to become lost in 'Berto for one final moment. Then, he dragged himself back to his original intention.

"But this," he paused to gulp down a breath of air, "this, will never happen again."

Then he turned away and walked back to the showers. It felt like someone had his chest in a vice and was slowly squeezing it. He felt his throat closing up and each breath threatened to turn into a sob. [This is *not* happening. I am not going to fucking cry over this. No. No. No.] He slammed his head against the tile wall in time with his inner denial. The pain helped him regain some control, and he stood under the hot spray, his face a blank mask to hide any tears that may have sneaked past his defenses.

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Jim reached down to turn off the cold water. The desire wasn't in his body, it was in his mind. And the anger was there, too, tempered by a sadness he hadn't allowed in a long time.

[What the hell was I supposed to do? Berto knew. He understood. I *know* he did.] Jim scrubbed at his face with his hands, willing the memories away. Why wasn't he allowed to be with 'Berto? Was that what he really wanted? Lost opportunities.

The damp towel dangled from his hand as he looked in the mirror. Haunted eyes stared back at him, reminding him of 'Berto's face in the mirror so long ago. [fuck fuck fuck Get over it, Jimmy.]

The image flashed across his vision as he whipped open the medicine cabinet. He wrapped the towel around his waist and began to shave, letting the normality of the task take him away from the past. He couldn't let the image in the mirror mock him.

After he finished, a sudden, unreasoning anger flared up inside him, and he slammed the medicine cabinet shut. It rebounded open, spilling bottles into the sink, and Jim wanted to pick them up and throw them against the wall. He wanted to scream and yell and pound something, break something, do anything to vent this fury he had been so carefully schooling.

Instead he grabbed the sink, shaking in an effort to control his temper. As his anger slowly thinned, despair crept in to replace it. A black despair, not unlike what he had felt when his senses first began to betray him.

[I won't go there again. I won't. I can't do it.] Unbidden, another thought rose. [Blair will help.]

Then: [oh god, he can't help... not with this... because this is all about Blair, isn't it? those dreams didn't happen by accident]

[shut up shut up SHUT UP]

Jim screwed his eyes shut and the denial pounded in his head. Slowly, slowly the pressure receded. The ache in his gut wasn't pleasant, but he'd dealt with that before. It could be endured, just like every other miserable thing in his life.

The smile he saw in the mirror frightened him.

Finis.

End Notes:

Anne said she'd award extra points if we'd explain the genesis of the other man, so here goes. There's no doubt in my mind that 'Berto is based on a Tom Clancy character. Which is weird, I suppose, because I get the feeling that my fellow Sen-slashers are not likely to be admirers of his testosterone-laden war/espionage tales. Then again, Clancy does know that real men do hug (something of which TPTB should take note). Anyway, if you've read _Clear and Present Danger_, think of Domingo Chavez, the light-fighter who serves as point man for one of the teams that "invades" Colombia. Small and tough, he's still at the beginning of his Clancy career (he goes on to become the protege of Clancy's field spook, Clark). I like him. A lot. (And there's no less than two hugs in _Clear and Present Danger_.)

Benjamin Bratt played Chavez in the movie, a tarted-up Hollywoodish version of the book. As far as I'm concerned, he's way too big to be Chavez. But he is beautiful, I'll grant that. And he gets his dusky skin, dark eyes and hair from his Peruvian mother -- which makes for a nice bit of closure with "The Sentinel."

My beta-reader suggested John Leguizamo; I know him from "Spawn" where he was totally consumed by his costume, so I won't offer my opinions. Pick any sweet-faced Latino/Hispanic/Mexican with caramel skin, white teeth, mischievious lips, and serious eyes.

End