EMS

M/m sex, spanking. If the idea of a discipline relationship between consenting adult men offends you, so will this story.

ELIZABETH MARSHALL STORIES

Body Work

Flynn Kennedy had his CD player on, his keys out, and his shopping cart well in hand as he zigzagged through the parking lot's puddles. He popped the trunk and began piling in sacks of groceries, impatient to get home and get started on the weekend. He carefully positioned the two six packs of imported beer so that they would stand upright and slammed the trunk energetically.

Flynn considered leaving the cart in the adjacent empty space. What was the harm? Then he considered the lately expressed thoughts of his true love on the topic of the Golden Rule, and walked the cart back to the little enclosure.

The alarmed cry of the matron behind him echoed in his ears. Well, maybe he had shoved the cart into the depot a bit enthusiastically.

"Sorry, ma'am," Flynn called apologetically over his shoulder.

The woman looked at the slight young man with his fringe of strawberry blond bangs and his sheepishly lowered eyes splashing hastily to his car and shook her head, amused despite herself.

The skies opened up. Flynn opened the car door a little too quickly, catching it just a hairsbreadth from the side of the adjacent car. Gulp. That was close. He winced, imagining the scratches the door would have left.

Holy mother, he could almost see them. It must be a trick of the light. Flynn tilted his head, puzzled. No, there were scratches. Not just scratches, gouges. Deep gouges in the paint. Poor car. Poor car's owner. He hoped whoever had done it had left a note.

For an empty parking lot, the darn place had certainly filled up. Two cars were eyeing his space. He hadn't, after all, touched the darn car. He'd caught his door. The scratches had nothing to do with him, and no one could say otherwise. No matter how it looked.

Flustered, Flynn climbed into the car. He yanked his CD player out of his ears, dropped it on the passenger seat and started the car. Flynn jumped, startled at the beep of an impatient horn. Drat, what did the guy want, he was going already.

Flynn shifted into reverse, backed up cautiously. He could barely see to the right; a bulky minivan had taken the formerly empty space. He hit the brakes hard as an unsteady older man hobbled into view.

The waiting driver honked him again.

The older man waved him on.

The minivan had left him a bare six inches.

Flynn inched carefully backward. The waiting car pulled forward. The older man had vanished from his mirror; Flynn turned to look for him. He was attempting to squeeze between the rear of Flynn's car and the front of the car coveting Flynn's space.

Flynn braked hard. The blacktop was slippery and the antilock brakes made a squealing noise. Startled, Flynn eased up on the brake and felt the nose of his car bump solidly into the adjacent car.

Drat drat drat drat drat. Flynn pulled forward, back into the space. The waiting car's driver made an obscene gesture and sped forward in search of a different spot.

Shakily, Flynn got out to examine the damage. The integrated bumper of his sedan showed a small abrasion. Traces of his silver paint were visible, right below the gouges on the adjacent car.

At least I didn't make those, Flynn thought sickly. I barely tapped it. That paint will come off with a little rubbing compound. I mean, it's not a big deal. It happens. I'll just leave a note...

...saying I only made one of these scratches, the small one on the bottom, call me, Flynn Kennedy.

Who in their right mind is going to believe me, Flynn thought dejectedly. He looked around. It had begun to drizzle lightly and no one was lingering long in the parking lot. No one had seen the accident.

Why even open this can of worms, Flynn thought to himself. It's not like I'm the one who damaged the car. The scratch I left, you can't even call a scratch. It's more like a smear of paint. Why let myself in for trouble?

Flynn got back into his car and without making any more mistakes, pulled out of the lot and headed for home.

The winding road up the mountainside was green and fragrant. Flynn turned the car's CD player up high and rolled the windows down low.

Eli Souter heard the Showboat soundtrack his partner adored blasting from the car and knew Flynn was home. He laid aside the dough he was kneading and headed towards the car.

"Plastic sacks?" Eli asked. "I thought we agreed we'd get paper?"

"It's raining, Eli!" Flynn protested. "I'll plant an extra tree!" He stepped into Eli's welcoming hug, tipping his chin up to Eli and kissing Eli soundly. Eli was serious about the environment. Flynn was too, only sometimes conscience took a back seat to convenience.

"How was the road? Slick?" Eli wanted to know, hoisting a sack in each hand and heading into the kitchen.

"Not too," Flynn said, grabbing the remaining sacks and slamming the trunk.

"I'm glad you have antilock breaks, in any case," Eli said, leaving the groceries on the floor and turning back to his dough. "Let me get this in the oven, then I'll help you put this stuff away. Why don't you change; you look damp."

"Yeah, sure," Flynn said automatically, his heart racing. Was there a reason for Eli's mentioning the brakes? It wouldn't be the first time Eli had gotten a "heads up" call from the second cousin of his father's high school buddy's son's best friend.

For the thousandth time, Flynn pondered the wisdom of settling down in a small town with the son of one of the community's oldest families.

On the one hand, the Souters were the town's equivalent of royalty, which meant that no one had blinked at Eli's bringing home a handsome young man instead of a pretty young woman. The town had originally been a summer artist's colony; it retained its artsy, liberal biases even though property values had soared and the original artist's shacks had largely given way to second homes for start up kings.

"Flynn, did you get bananas?" Eli called up the stairs. "I said I'd bring something to the library's Book and Bake fundraiser."

"Bananas? Eli, you didn't say bananas!" Flynn came tripping down the stairs, barely avoiding crashing into Eli.

"Slow down, love, I like you in one piece." Eli shook his head. "I left you a note, right--"

"Here on the refrigerator!" Flynn said, peeling off the yellow Post-it and waving it triumphantly. "I didn't see it, Eli, I'm sorry." Flynn took a deep breath. I could drive back in for them, he thought. Fifteen minutes. But what if someone's on the lookout for a silver car?

"Eli? Does it have to be banana bread? I can make chocolate chips. Everyone likes chocolate chip cookies," Flynn offered.

"Would you, Flynn?" Eli sounded relieved. "I just finished this tea bread for us, and I really wasn't looking forward to more baking."

"I thought you liked baking, Eli?" Flynn asked. "Don't you?"

"I like it fine, but I'm an amateur. Baking for the library fundraiser is something else again," Eli said ruefully. "There'd better not be any dents in your icing."

"Oh for Pete's sake," Flynn flared, "If you know something, Eli, just spit it out."

"Flynn? Flynn, what's the matter?" Eli's brown eyes fastened on his suddenly flushed and furious lover.

"Nothing!" Flynn ground his teeth together. Eli didn't know anything, and if Flynn had his way, Eli wouldn't know anything.

"Flynn," Eli said mildly. "Would you like to sit down and tell me what's going on?" Eli courteously pulled out a kitchen chair.

"No, that's all right, Eli, I think I'll just put the groceries away now," Flynn back- pedaled hastily. "I just have a little bit of a headache."

"Why didn't you say something when you came in, Flynn? Go stretch out in the living room. I'll bring you some aspirin and a mug of tea," Eli said solicitously. "It's probably the change in air pressure."

Guiltily, Flynn slunk into the living room.

Eli propped a pillow behind Flynn's head and unfolding the handmade afghan from the armchair, draped the lightweight throw over Flynn.

"Forget the cookies. You shouldn't make work for yourself if you have a headache," Eli scolded. "I do like to confound the stereotypes by baking, but it isn't a big deal. I'll pick something up in town tomorrow. Here, take your aspirin." He handed Flynn two pills and a glass of water.

Flynn made a face, then swallowed them. He wasn't really in pain, but they couldn't hurt, could they?

"Drink your tea and stay quiet. Let me know if your headache gets worse and I'll get you something stronger," Eli said, brushing Flynn's hair back from his forehead.

Flynn winced.

"Hurts that much?" Eli asked sympathetically. "Shh, just give the aspirin a little time. Drink your tea." He cracked the window for a little fresh air and left Flynn resting comfortably under his cover, tea at hand.

This is all very nice, thought Flynn glumly. When I have a headache. But I don't. I feel just fine, thank you, and I am going to die of boredom if I lie here one more moment.

"I feel better, Eli," Flynn announced, strolling into the kitchen. "The aspirin helped." He tried to dump his unfinished tea surreptitiously in the sink, but Eli caught his wrist.

"Uh, uh, uh, young man. You can lie back down until I say you can get up," Eli said severely. "We both know how bad your headaches can get. Let's see if we can't head this one off at the pass."

"But Eli, really, I'm fine," Flynn insisted.

Eli studied his lover carefully. Flynn looked far too good for a man with a headache.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Eli said. "So you had a decent day, Flynn?" He looked at Flynn inquisitively.

"Yeah, pretty good."

"Any idea what caused that headache?" Eli pushed gently.

"It wasn't much of a headache, Eli!"

"No, it wasn't," Eli said calmly. "And it's better now, isn't it?"

"Yes, Eli."

"So there's no reason for you to snap at me when I ask you a question, is there, Flynn?" Eli watched as Flynn paled, his head beginning to ache for real.

"My head really hurts now," Flynn moaned.

"I can see that," Eli said, taking in Flynn's rapidly increasing pallor. "Go lie down, Flynn, upstairs. You need more than aspirin.'

"Ugh, Eli, I feel so sick," Flynn moaned.

"I know, Flynn. Upstairs, please." Eli steered Flynn towards the stairs with a firm, gentle hand in the small of his back. "That's it."

"My head," whispered Flynn, the familiar sick pounding in his temples leaving him cold and shivery.

"Meds." Eli turned back the covers and helped Flynn sit down on the side of the bed. "Let's get those jeans off." He undid Flynn's fly with the easy familiarity of a long time lover and slid his pants down.

"I hate this," moaned Flynn.

"Shh, I know, but you need this," Eli said resolutely. He reached into the top drawer of Flynn's night table and took out a prepackaged alcohol wipe, a disposable syringe and a vial of Imitrex. Opening the wipe, he swabbed a spot on Flynn's thigh.

"No, Eli," Flynn moaned.

Eli ignored Flynn's objection, knowing how important it was to get the medication into Flynn's bloodstream promptly. Cracking the top of the vial and uncapping the syringe, Eli drew up the solution. He flicked the full syringe with his finger, careful to eliminate any air from the needle.

"Ow," Flynn exhaled through his teeth, grimacing. "Ow."

"I know it hurts," Eli said sympathetically, recapping the syringe and sweeping it, the empty drug vial and the used wipe into the small covered pail reserved for just this waste.

"I feel worse, Eli," Flynn whispered. "I feel sicker."

"I know," Eli repeated, well aware that the side effects of the medication were torturous. "Lie down on your side, Flynn, it's better that way. " He covered Flynn and tucked the blanket around him.

"Don't touch me!" One side effect of the medication was the way it distorted sensation. Even a loving touch made Flynn's skin crawl.

"I won't, I know it makes it worse," Eli said reassuringly. "I'm right here if you need me, but I won't touch you. Breathe, Flynn, it'll be over soon and then you can sleep."

"No," Flynn said, "No. My chest hurts. I'm dying, Eli."

"You are not dying," Eli said firmly. "You are having a very normal reaction to some very powerful medication. Breathe, Flynn, you're all right. Just breathe."

Flynn sunk miserably into the covers. Every inch of his skin hurt. His bones ached. His chest hurt. He felt too nauseous even to throw up. And his head felt as if it was being squeezed in a vise.

Eli watched as Flynn's eyelids fluttered. There was really nothing that helped with the medication's side effects; the simple fact was that Flynn needed the drug despite how miserable it made him in the short term. The alternative was a classic migraine, two or three days of pain and vomiting. Eli remembered all too well the headaches Flynn had had when they were first together.

Flynn might despise the Imitrex injections from the bottom of his heart, but even he acknowledged their value. They had given him back literally days of his life.

Flynn slept until early evening. He awoke to the familiar sounds of the television downstairs, Eli puttering in the kitchen, the occasional whoosh of a passing car and the gentle drizzle of rain on the roof. He rolled his head gingerly and was relieved to find that the awful throb and nausea were gone.

Swinging himself upright and trudging to the bathroom, Flynn blessed the miracle that was Imitrex. While the side effects were awful, the relief it provided was undeniable.

The evening was chilly. Flynn stepped back into his jeans, thrust his feet into his fleecy slippers and shrugged into a flannel shirt. Feeling sheepish and incredibly thirsty, he padded downstairs.

"How's my boy?" Eli asked, folding Flynn into a hug. Flynn rubbed his cheek against Eli's shoulder.

"Thanks, Eli," Flynn said. "I'm sorry I'm such a wimp about the Imitrex, it's just it makes me feel so awful."

"You're not a wimp, Flynn," Eli said, rubbing Flynn's back. "Come on, I saved you dinner. Have a seat." He handed Flynn a glass of water, knowing how thirsty the medication always left Flynn, and retrieved Flynn's plate from the oven.

Flynn gulped the water gratefully, but eyed the plate Eli placed in front of him dubiously.

"Just get started," Eli prompted Flynn. "You don't have to eat any more than you want."

The pot roast and mashed potatoes tasted good. Flynn relaxed as the familiar food soothed his tight stomach.

"What about a beer, Eli?" Flynn asked hopefully.

"After a headache like that? I think not," Eli said firmly. "A little common sense, Flynn."

"That's not my forte," Flynn said ruefully. "Eli? I'm sorry."

"You're eating now," Eli said firmly. "I don't want you upsetting yourself. Finish your meal and then we'll talk about what happened."

"Yes, Eli," Flynn said obediently. There was something enormously reassuring about Eli's strictures. He chewed his meat contentedly, happy to be fed and loved and warm.

As Flynn neared the end of his meal, Eli brewed a pot of tea and filled two mugs. Flynn scraped his plate and placed it in the sink. Reached for a dishcloth to wipe down the table. Eli stilled his hand.

"That can wait, Flynn. We need to talk. Here, take your tea and come sit with me in the living room."

"All right, Eli." Flynn sighed.

"Hey, don't look so worried," Eli said, giving Flynn a gentle kiss. "We're fine. Whatever's upsetting you, it's fixable. Trust me."

I trust you, Eli, Flynn thought. It's myself I don't trust.

Eli settled back on the couch and Flynn settled alongside him. For a few minutes they sat quietly, nursing their tea, gazing at the fire Eli had started earlier. Its leaping flames and glowing light lent warmth and comfort to the cozy room.

"I love you," Flynn said, putting down his mug and snuggling into Eli.

Eli set his tea aside and resettled Flynn alongside him. He laced his fingers through Flynn's.

"So how was your day, Flynn?" Eli asked. "From the top, please."

"Normal." Flynn wanted to tell Eli everything, but it was hard. He dreaded the look of censure he was certain he would see in Eli's eyes. He had no explanation for his failure to leave a note. Now, in the soft light of the fire, it seemed like the simplest and easiest thing to do. But it had looked different in the gray light of the rainy parking lot...

"Talk to me, Flynn," Eli said, tracing his free hand over the blue veins on the back of Flynn's pale hand. "You don't have to do this alone. That's what I'm here for, remember?"

"Work was fine, Eli," Flynn said in a rush. "I stopped to pick up groceries. It was just starting to rain. And you know how crowded the lot gets after five, right? So anyway, this car was waiting for my space and this old geezer was doing his best to get himself hit and I braked and the antilock brakes kicked in and startled me and I hit the car next to me."

For a moment there was silence. Then, to Flynn's relief, Eli pulled him into a tight hug.

"It's all right, Flynn, it's all right. I have you now, whatever happened, you're not alone. It's all right."

Flynn pulled his hand free and scrubbed at his face with his fist, not wanting Eli to see his eyes welling.

"Whose car was it, Flynn?" Eli asked.

"I don't know," Flynn admitted.

"It was just parked there, you mean? It was empty?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't want to wait? What did you do, leave a note?"

Silence.

"Flynn? Tell me you didn't just drive off?"

Silence.

"Flynn." Eli's voice was sharper now. "Tell me exactly what you did."

"You're mad at me!" Flynn said unhappily.

"I'm not anything yet, Flynn. I just want to know what happened."

"I got out to look at the car. I barely tapped it, Eli, I swear! I don't think I even scratched the finish. I just got a little paint on it, from my bumper." Flynn felt an unpleasant twinge in the back of his neck.

As if by instinct, Eli massaged the tight spot on Flynn's neck.

"Breathe, Flynn. Don't make yourself sick. Breathe."

"I didn't scratch it!" Flynn said defensively.

"I hear you. You just scuffed the finish. No big deal. Why the production, Flynn?" Eli asked, continuing to knead the knots on Flynn's neck. "What am I missing?"

"There were already scratches on the car before I hit it." There. The words were out. Flynn dropped his head forward into his hands.

Eli's talented fingers continued to work on the tension in Flynn's neck.

"You thought if you left a note you would be blamed for everything. The scuff you did make, the scratches you didn't," said Eli calmly.

"Yes! All right, I'm stupid, just say it already!" Flynn bucked against Eli's hand.

"Flynn, Flynn, Flynn. You're not stupid. Easy, Flynn, this isn't the end of the world." Eli recaptured Flynn's hand.

"Yeah." Flynn closed his eyes. "That's the whole story, Eli. I'm sorry."

"It's not the end of the world," Eli repeated. "No one got hurt, Flynn. It's a car, it's metal and dollars, it's not a catastrophe."

"I was wrong, though," Flynn said regretfully. "I should have left a note. Right?"

"You should have left a note," Eli agreed. "Flynn, not everyone would have thought the worst of you. You overreacted, and by overreacting, you made the situation worse. "

"I'm sorry," Flynn said miserably.

"I know you are. Which is why we're working on trying to get you to think and not panic when you're in a tight spot. When you panic, you overreact. That's never the best solution." Eli had been over this ground with Flynn before.

"You're going to spank me."

"We agreed, Flynn. You don't do things this way. You come to me when there's a problem. Did you have your phone?"

"It doesn't work in the parking lot," Flynn said defensively. "The mountains--"

"Create a dead spot. I know, Flynn. I'm on the committee that's working on the problem, remember?" Eli shook his head. "But there's a payphone by the entrance to the supermarket, isn't there?"

"I didn't think about that," Flynn admitted.

"So if you weren't sure what to do, you could have called me, couldn't you?" Eli continued.

"Yes, but--"

"But?" Eli asked.

"But you would have said to leave a note!" Flynn wailed.

"And would that have been the right thing to do?" Eli persisted.

"Yes, but--"

"But?" Eli asked again.

"I don't know," Flynn sighed. "I didn't really do anything wrong, Eli. A little rubbing compound and the paint will be gone."

"Flynn, if you really believed you didn't do anything wrong, why the guilt? Why not tell me up front what happened? Why the defensiveness? Why work yourself into a headache?"

"I don't know." Flynn looked at his hands. "I was wrong," he said softly. "Are you going to spank me, Eli?"

"Not for scuffing the car, Flynn. Not even for not leaving a note, although I think that was a dubious decision. But for in effect lying to me, for claiming everything was fine and then snapping at me, and for making yourself sick with guilt, yes, I am going to spank you. Don't you agree you deserve to be spanked?"

"I guess," said Flynn without conviction. "I mean, yeah, I do. I just hate it. And I already had a headache. And you gave me that miserable medicine! That's punishment enough, Eli!"

"Flynn, do I give you your medicine to punish you or to help you?" Eli asked, a hint of steel in his voice.

"To help me," Flynn admitted.

"It's a medical necessity, Flynn, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with punishment. Are we clear about that?" Eli asked sternly.

"Yes, Eli. I'm sorry, Eli," Flynn said, repentant. "I still don't want you to spank me, Eli!"

"Of course you don't. It wouldn't be a sanction if you did." Eli said ruefully. "Does any of that change the facts, Flynn?"

Flynn shook his head. No.

"Then let's get this out of the way. Take your jeans off, please, and turn over."

Resignedly Flynn took off his jeans. He settled tensely face down across Eli's lap, forearms on the couch cushions, forehead pressed to his interlaced hands.

Eli rubbed the small of Flynn's back, trying to offer his miserable lover at least modicum of comfort. Easing the elastic of Flynn's briefs down, he rested his hand for a second against the cool white buttocks. Then, with a deep breath, Eli began to punish his lover.

The spanking he administered was brief and thorough and hurt like anything.

Each swat stung, there were lots of swats and their cumulative effect was to leave the formerly pale flesh flushed, shiny and tender.

Flynn was crying when Eli finished spanking.

Eli rested his stinging palm in the small hollow just above Flynn's sore and reddened backside and made soothing noises. After a few minutes, Flynn squirmed awkwardly into Eli's arms and buried his face against Eli's chest, snuffling. Eli stroked Flynn's fair hair back from his sweaty, tear streaked face and let Flynn cry himself out.

"I love you, Eli," Flynn whispered. "I'm sorry."

"I love you too," Eli responded. "I do this because I do love you, Flynn. I hope you know that, too."

"Yeah. I know that. I need this. It hurts, Eli."

"It does," Eli agreed. "I know, Flynn. I love you."

That was about all the emotion one evening could hold, Eli thought as he shepherded Flynn upstairs. Eli climbed into bed along with his tearstained lover and spooned him close, despite Flynn's protests at the pressure of Eli's thighs against his tender butt. Snuggled securely, the two lovers slept.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling so frisky this morning," Eli said, passing Flynn a steaming mug of coffee. "I much prefer this morning's moans to last night's."

"Eli!" Flynn blushed to his hairline. "I wasn't the only one moaning this morning," Flynn added.

"I won't argue with that," Eli laughed. "Eat." Eli placed a plate of pancakes in front of Flynn.

"Eli? What am I going to do, about the car?" Flynn asked plaintively.

"Whose car was it?" Eli asked.

"Eli, I don't know! I'm not you, I don't recognize every four-wheeled vehicle in this town," Flynn said sulkily.

"Well, what kind of car was it?" Eli persisted. "Narrow it down for me."

"Green. A car car." Flynn shrugged. "I don't know, Eli."

"Well, I'm sure we can find it," Eli said cheerfully. "It's a small place, Flynn. And that's why this sort of taking responsibility matters. Because the reputation you make for yourself in a small town stays with you."

"Oh," said Flynn, in a very small voice. Eli hugged him encouragingly.

"That wasn't a criticism, Flynn. You've done a great job making your way here. We'll work this out; you'll see. Come on, Flynn, let's pick up some bakery cake and show our faces at the library."

Eli's optimism was contagious. Flynn settled happily into Eli's car. Eli let Flynn fiddle with the radio. Flynn settled on a cornball country western station and sang along lustily, cheerfully mangling the lyrics. The day was young and the weather matched his mood. Yesterday's rain was gone; it was blue skies all the way.

The street before the library was crowded with local cars. A gaggle of teenagers, dressed for the mall, waited impatiently for their parents leave off socializing with neighbors and move on to more important things. Small children sought out muddy patches in the grass, to the patent dismay of their young mothers. Dogs, abandoned in parked cars, barked loudly through partially lowered windows at passersby.

Flynn admired the Chamber of Commerce flag flying from the lamppost. He had done the design; it looked good, if he said so himself. His eye drifted downwards and came to rest on the car parked beside the lamppost. A scratched green car, with a smear of silver paint below the lowest of its scratches.

"Eli, that's it," Flynn said, pointing with his chin at the car. "That's the car I hit. Tapped."

"This is good luck," Eli said aloud. Flynn looked at him; was Eli crazy?

To Flynn's consternation, Eli rubbed at the smear of silver paint.

"It'll come right out, Flynn. No harm, no foul," Eli pronounced.

"But the scratches!" Flynn looked nervously over his shoulder.

"Flynn, just look. Where are the scratches?" Eli shook his head.

"On the car? I don't understand," Flynn said.

"Flynn, an SUV or a truck made those scratches," Eli said with the assurance of a man whose youth had been spent working on a series of beloved cars. "Your car's too low; it couldn't have done them. See where the silver is? That's as high as your bumper reaches. No way did a car like yours do this damage. Any body shop would vouch for that."

"Yeah?" Flynn looked skeptical.

"Let's go find out whose car it is, buddy. It's going to be all right. It's not a new car and it's not a big repair." Confidently, Eli set off to work the crowd at the library tables.

Flynn hung back, squinting at the scratches, trying to imagine what the owner of the car would make of Eli's SUV or truck theory.

Eli emerged from the crowd, a bearded man in tow. They approached the car.

"Heck, I didn't even notice that little scrape," the man said to Flynn. "I missed it in the rain. I just wish I knew who did the real damage. It happened a couple of days ago."

"Oh," Flynn said.

"No hard feelings," the man said, holding out his hand.

"Thank you," Flynn said, shaking hands automatically. The man returned to the bake sale, leaving Flynn and Eli alone.

"Wow," Flynn said. "Eli, he believed me. He already knew about the other scratches. He didn't even care about mine."

"Remember this next time you're tempted to bolt," Eli said seriously. "You could have saved yourself a few dents, Flynn."

"Yeah," Flynn said wryly. "I could have done without those dents. Eli, are you sure you got a good look at the damage you did?"

"Are you suggesting some of the dents could be rubbed out?" Eli asked, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"You're the expert," Flynn said, grinning. "Why don't we go home and you can give it a try. I wouldn't mind a little body work."

***FIN***

THANK YOU, Hedeia, for challenge and inspiration. EM