Disclaimer: The interior geography of this story is almost wholly my invention; all mistakes are my own.

Author's Notes: Thanks to tx_tart and nifra_idril for fabulous beta-work and to __fallen for the final read-through.

Story Notes: Mild warning for initially dubious consent within a non-abusive context.

The first time it happened, Ben was asleep in his bed.

The cadet in the next bunk, a burly Toronto native named James, was asleep and snoring like a slow lumbering freight train. Ben felt the distinct sensation of a finger pressing against his lips as he came, shuddering, awake, blinking hard against a dreamy fog of confusion.

He felt the weight of another body against his legs, but couldn't see who it was, as this end of the dormitory was lit only by the thin streak of light bleeding under the door from the dim blue emergency bulb in the hall. Ben's white shorts and undershirt luminesced faintly in the gloom. Everything else lay in shadow.

Ben's bed was last on the end, closest to the door and isolated from the others who had more readily grouped themselves together. He heard only the rhythmic sleep sounds of the other twenty-three males of his troop off to his left, occupying most of the beds lined up across the long room.

The finger remained on his lips, and a warm, wet tongue lapped the last of the semen from the tip of his penis and tucked him gently back into his boxers. The finger on his lip moved, traced a line across his cheekbone, and vanished.

When the figure slipped out the door, James broke off mid-snore to slur a protest in his sleep. For a moment, Ben considered following, but if the perpetrator had wanted more than what he had taken (and Lord, it was a he, wasn't it?), surely he would've...done something?

The footsteps had gone toward the left, but that told him nothing. The long corridor of the various troops' dorm rooms, the elevators, and the central stairwell were all located to the left. He lay immobile in the narrow bed, his left hand cupping himself through warm and slightly damp cotton. With his right index finger, he touched his own lips.

James was snoring again.

Ben let the sound lull him back to sleep.



*

In the middle of Police Procedure class the next morning, as the instructor lectured them on the proper ways in which to conduct vehicular searches, Ben realized with a start that he had not consented to the act. Waking in the moment of orgasm, he had not been given the opportunity.

Lying there consumed by the rush of endorphins, he had felt pleasure, confusion, mild anxiety at being left, and a nebulous certainty that he must not wake the others. There had not even been time to formulate the thought Don't go before he was gone.

Now, however, he felt dumbstruck at the audacity, the sheer risk. How dare this person enter his bed and...touch him? There were two dozen men in the room. Anyone awaking to use the restroom might've seen them, besides which, what kind of person would steal into a police dormitory to perform a lewd--intensely pleasurable, but nonetheless lewd--act upon a virtual stranger?

And yet, truth be told, Ben told himself, he had hardly minded. He had not protested, after all. If he'd woken any sooner, he might've been speechless with surprise, but anger? No. He had not been allowed to consent, but nor had he been in any way restrained. The finger upon his lips was a caution, not a threat. The other man had been the one with everything to lose if Ben had made a noise.

It was rather mind boggling.

Someone, another cadet, had performed oral sex on him simply because the man had desired it and made the choice to do so.

...unless it had been a prank, which Ben thought exceedingly unlikely. Perhaps the other cadet had feared rejection so much that he felt compelled to sneak in.

Ben shook himself, making a fruitless attempt to return his attention to the lecture at hand. He realized he had the end of his pencil pressed against his lips and jerked it away, ears going pink. He hadn't dreamed it. It was real, and it could've been anyone.

He would give anything to know who it had been, who had wanted to touch him so badly that he would've done this thing. But apparently anonymity was a crucial part of the equation, and that frustrated him to no end. Perhaps it wasn't right not to ask first, but there was no denying how it had thrilled him.

As the morning trudged on, Ben couldn't help casting surreptitious glances at his male classmates. Learning the correct execution of a search proved extraordinarily difficult.



*

Ben had lain awake for several nights, fighting sleep in the darkness, fighting the hypnotic rhythm of James's loud, rumbling breaths.

Eventually he realized that it had most likely been a one-time occurrence, an anonymous gift which he would not be allowed to repay. Then, several weeks later, he awoke with the numbers 3:05 glowing green from the low chest of drawers at his shoulder and the sudden, shocking sensation of a hot, wet mouth engulfing his penis.

A pair of strong hands held his hips down after his initial uncontrolled bucking. Ben was awake and staring hard in the dark, willing the face to come into view.

It felt so good, too good.

His orgasm hit him before he knew it, blotting out all conscious action. When he returned to himself, Ben found that he had shoved his fingers through his assailant's hair and pulled him roughly down, so the head of Ben's penis was pressed deep within the soft confines of his throat. As soon as he realized, Ben let go, mortified, speechless, and he heard the quiet huff of a repressed chuckle over the drone from the other beds.

Desperate with curiosity, Ben shifted up and caught the man's face in his hand, stroking over lips with his thumb. The lips were thin, the cheek stubbly. Ben caught a whiff of sweet musk in the air; the man was aroused as well.

"Please," Ben breathed, "let me--"

But the man was moving backwards, across the room, turning away. The door clicked shut and Ben heard the footsteps disappear toward the right this time. Maintain le droit, he thought inanely and wondered what in the world he thought he was doing, but he had to know. He had to find out who it was.

He was up and fumbling blindly in a drawer for a pair of sweatpants when James flicked on his tiny reading light with a sleepy grumble. "What's wrong, Fraser? Night drill?"

"No, no, there's no problem," Ben stammered, flushing, and overbalanced with one leg in and one leg out of his pants. He managed to avoid crashing to the floor by falling gracelessly onto the foot of his bed, where he kicked the tangled fabric free as quickly as he could and twisted the black RCMP logo onto his outer thigh where it was meant to be.

"You okay, then?" But James was already switching off the light and pulling the covers back up to his neck.

"Quite all right," he whispered, "thank you." Ben's fingers registered the chill of the steel doorknob, and he was grateful he'd happened to sleep in his socks. "Goodnight."

Ben headed to the right, but by this time, the blue-lit hallway was empty. He jogged lightly to the end of the corridor to look up the long end of the L, but it too was deserted. He retraced his steps, feeling the rush of adrenaline in his blood, and passed by his own troop's room. The corridor and the other turn of the L were both empty as well.

He wasn't sure what he would've done if he'd found anyone. He had no idea what he wanted to say or do. Ben only wanted to see his face.

He stopped in the communal washroom on the way back, hoping against hope, but he was disappointed again. After relieving himself, he stared at his reflected image in the mirror for a long while, wondering what it was his...admirer, for lack of a better term, wanted precisely, and what on earth anyone would see in him to cause them to do such a thing.

Then he wondered if he had jinxed it by rising to the chase. What if the man never came back? What if his possibly ridiculous inability to be sated with a simple orgasm had ruined it?

Sleep was slow to return that night, but while making his bed in the morning he made a discovery. He found in his sheets two blond hairs of just such a length to bury his fingers in as he thrust against the back of their owner's mouth.

As there were not more than a couple of dozen blond cadets in his classes, the discovery did rather a lot to narrow the field of inquiry.



*

Weeks passed, and Ben found himself growing more and more frustrated. He had never felt entirely easy with socializing, and he seemed to have missed out on some crucial step by refusing his classmates' initial invitations to partake of a round with the others. They had stopped asking him along, naturally, and now he felt incapable of simply joining them of his own accord. Now, he wanted to be close to them, perchance close enough to catch a scent of the skin of a particular few.

A particular three, in point of fact, who fit the correct height, weight, and build of his blond...visitor. He had no idea whether he could identify him by the smell of his skin, but at this rate, it was doubtful that he would have the chance to.

He wasn't one of them.

He did not join in their activities, but rather spent his nights studying, reading library books, and diligently answering his grandmother's letters. Once per week, he composed a labored missive to his father, knowing it might be weeks before it reached him in the field, relating news of his training regimen and the multitude of changes being enacted at Depot since the admission of women a few years previous. It was possibly an underhanded trick, but the fact was he was lonely, and the regular post from his grandmother only granted so much relief. A word from his father, even an impersonal diatribe against institutional change, wouldn't have been ill-received.

Still, he was restless, and after completing his studies one evening he wandered out to the lounge to see who was about. A few young men from different troops were watching television, some fast-paced American show apparently featuring a pair of police detectives. "Have a seat, Fraser," one of them invited but he demurred, suddenly shy. He didn't leave, though. Instead, he found himself leaning slightly against the back of the couch, watching the program with them.

After several minutes, he dared to perch on the top edge of the sofa cushions, careful not to disturb the men sitting in front of him. A few minutes later, he realized that the show had him riveted. The police chasing the suspect showed relentless determination in their pursuit. It was rather exciting.

Toward the end of the hour, Ben became aware of more people in the room. It was a popular show, apparently. During a commercial break (demonstrating that owning a fast car would supposedly make one desirable to curvaceous women), a group of young men came in from the corridor, forcing the others to crowd further in.

The young man standing nearest to him was pressed to his side. Ben blushed, embarrassed of the contact, and said, "Pardon me." He had no sooner spoken, though, than a round of hushing went up. The last few minutes of the show were on.

Ben felt delighted when the detectives handed off the perpetrator for booking. The pretty blonde victim kissed the dark and handsome detective...in gratitude, Ben presumed. What was most satisfying, though, was the slap of his partner's hand on his shoulder after the girl had gone, and the casual grin as he said, "You want to go get something to eat? I'm starving." Ben couldn't help grinning back at the television.

The repressed laugh at his side sounded familiar. Ben turned his head, disbelieving, and as he inhaled to speak, he knew. He knew and he couldn't remember the young man's name. Smith-something. Smithson. No, Smithfield. He'd never caught his first name, though, and the moment was passing, was almost gone. Ben was blinking, staring at him, standing so close to him. Less than a foot of space separated their bodies. "I--" he began.

Another cadet entered the lounge then, with three more classmates following in his wake. He was a large, boisterous young man named Steve Henry, a born leader, and more than a little overbearing. He was announcing their plan in a loud voice, which was to conduct a group assault on a local bar until closing time or they were thrown out, whichever came first. "You, too, Mikey! No excuses!" he called, pointing directly at the young man next to Ben, who tensed visibly at being called out, but shrugged gamely and said, "Okay."

When Henry's attention was diverted again, organizing transportation, Mike turned back to Ben with a wry look. "He's my cousin," he said, and it sounded like an apology. "He's got this idea he needs to show me the city or something."

"You don't want to?" Ben asked, not sure what he was supposed to say.

"Nah, not..." Mike's breath seemed to catch in his throat. "Not like that. But I have to."

Ben stared into his eyes, searching for a hint, needing something to tell him that he wasn't imagining things. He was the right shape, the right hair color, the right scent...unless it was only wishful thinking. Then Mike was smiling, or his eyes were. There was a glint of something and Mike inclined his head slightly, but held eye contact.

It took Ben a moment to recognize it for a nod. But it was. It was. And his mouth went dry, possibly because it had fallen open. An amused grin flitted across Mike's face, but was instantly replaced with a scowl of annoyance as his cousin resumed barking orders. Mike sighed and took a half-step backwards. Ben blinked and stood up. This wasn't what he wanted to happen at all. He had to do something, but he hadn't considered anything beyond finding out who it had been. He hadn't been able to imagine what might come next.

"I guess I better--" Mike broke off in surprise as Ben's hand clasped his shoulder.

"I could come with you." Ben's voice was low, a little hoarse. He sounded to his own ears as if he could do with a drink of water.

Mike blinked back at him, and then noticed that Ben had held on for longer than strictly necessary to delay him. Not strictly by intention, but. After a moment, Mike said, "You'd--you want to?"

Ben was smiling despite himself. He wasn't good at this, and he was almost certainly making a fool of himself. It was suddenly all he could do to refrain from embarrassing either of them by looking down the length of Mike's body. He could wait, at least until they were alone, he hoped. He had so many questions. There were so many things he needed to know.

And yet, looking into Mike's face, he felt an unutterable elation. He had nodded. At last, Ben knew who it had been. It was indescribably refreshing to feel so sure of something not contained in a law textbook or manual of correct procedure.

He touched Mike's arm again and nodded in turn. "I would, yes."