Elaine walked slowly back to her desk, eyes tracking Fraser across the office as he went to sit at Ray's side. She watched them talk; quiet, conspiratorial murmuring across a stack of files. Side by side. Inseparable. She smiled.

          Ray had watched Fraser walk through the door into the office; he'd spoken first to Elaine, who had listened intently to the voice but not the words: her wide, beautiful chocolate-brown eyes drifting down the tall, muscular frame, undressing him slowly.

          God, it was so blatant! Ray forced his eyes front and centre with a pulse of illicit, possessive pleasure. Elaine wasn't the only one to behave this way whenever Fraser was around, although some found it harder than others to keep the undressing to eyes-only. It bothered Ray that Fraser seemed to accept the rather unorthodox greeting without protest... he hadn't yet decided if this indifference was intentional.

          Elaine, apparently satisfied, released Fraser from her gaze and turned to walk towards her desk.

          Despite his scepticism, Ray smiled. He liked to smile at Fraser; it made the man nervous.

          "There's no justice, Benny. You dress like that" – he waved a hand at the red jacket – "and get drooled on. I wear this" – he pulled at the lapels of his Armani jacket – "and no one takes a second look. Why?"

          "I really have no idea, Ray."

          Ray tried not to let his voice convey the sudden, unreasonable annoyance he felt at this entirely reasonable habit that Fraser had of being honest. "No, you don't, do you."

          "Don't what, Ray?"

          They exchanged glances. Ray simply could not continue to believe that Fraser had no idea of the effect he had on people around him. The mischievous blue eyes had a glint of a challenge in them; a kind of 'go on, say it, I dare you' look. Oh, Ray felt the need to say... the only words he did want to say were close... breathless... explicit...

          Fraser leaned back in his chair, the look changing to a smug 'hmmm, thought so...'

          Ray shook his head. "Never mind. You doin' anythin' this evenin'?"

          "No. Why do you ask?"

          "Ma's issued another invitation for supper. You ready to accept?" Ray leaned forward, his tone of voice suggestive. "You gonna risk being drooled on by another slavering female?"

          The blue eyes widened as a slight flush spread across Fraser's face. "I really have no idea what you're talking about."

          Fraser's genuine embarrassment made Ray smile at him again. "Remind me to tell you sometime." He would, too. If he could ever pluck up the courage. If he didn't think he'd... those eyes. Damn him! Well, it would have to wait. For now.

Ray pulled the car up to the kerb outside Fraser's apartment building. He waited for Fraser to get out.

          Fraser didn't. "Ray, can I ask you a question?"

          "Um, yeah, sure."

          "Is there anything wrong? You seem... distracted."

          This man was just too damn perceptive. "Everythin's fine, Benny."

          "Oh, well, that's good. I'll see you at, say, eight?"

          "Sure."

There was no sign of Fraser outside his apartment building at eight. Ray waited for a while, not too concerned at first. If he knew anything about Fraser, it was a safe bet that he was repairing something belonging to one of his neighbours. At eight-thirty, there was still nothing. Ray left the car and walked up the stairs to the third floor. Fraser was not in his apartment; it looked as if he hadn't been back at all. What was going on?

          Mr Mustafi opened his door cautiously at the insistent knocking. "Yes?"

          "You seen Fraser?"

          "I heard him get back around six. I don't think he went inside his room. He said he had to go back to the office, but he'd be back by seven. Then he left."

          Great, thought Ray, he's wandering around Chicago after dark. "Thanks," he shouted over his shoulder as he ran down the corridor. Next stop the Consulate.

Ray screeched the Riv to a halt outside the Canadian Consulate. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, not quite in time to the music that played quietly in the background. He dialled Fraser's office 'phone on his mobile. It rang for over two minutes before it was answered.

          "Yes?" The tone was brusque.

          "Benny? That you?"

          "What do you want?"

          Huh? "I said I'd pick you up at eight. What the hell you doin' in there? The Dragon Lady got you doin' extra-curricular duties?"

          There was a sigh, then a long silence.

          "What's goin' on, Fraser?"

          "Nothing!"

          "Ow!" Ray pulled the phone away from his ear. That had hurt!

          "Nothing." Fraser's voice was quiet now; he sounded so tired. "Just leave me alone." There was another sigh. "Go home."

          "Benny, what the..."

          "Go home, Ray."

          Ray looked out of the car window up to the floor where Fraser's office was situated. He wondered if he'd committed some sin that Canadians couldn't forgive, but didn't ever tell anyone about. Wouldn't be the first time.

          "If I go home without you again, Frannie's gonna give me a real hard time, and I promised Ma you'd be over for supper tonight."

          "I really don't care."

          What? "What?"

          "Look, please," Fraser's voice sounded as if every word was choking him, "just go away."

          "Wha... Fraser?"

          The line was dead.

          Ray sat looking down at the phone that he held loosely in his hand. He got slowly out of the car, and walked towards the Consulate, feeling his anxiety level increasing, wondering what he was going to find.

Fraser sat staring at the phone, not wanting to believe what he'd just done. He vaguely heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs.

          He was caught between fight and flight; in his haste, he had forgotten to lock the door. He really did not want to see anyone, and momentarily considered hiding in the closet. He giggled to himself, closer to hysteria than laughter; that was just too obvious. Would Ray notice if he hid under the table? The hysteria grew, but before he could get up out of the chair the door to his office crashed open.

          Ray marched in and stood, hands on hips, in front of the desk. He looked as if he was about to interrogate a particularly stubborn suspect. "Okay, explain."

          Fraser shook himself out of his reverie and looked up, very briefly. "Explain what?"

          "First, why you're back here, second..."

          "It's not your business." Fraser's voice held an edge that Ray had never heard before, but his body language, his eyes, expressed some other emotion that Ray had thought – wished, hoped and prayed – that he would never see again.

          "I'm not leavin' 'til you tell me what's goin' on."

          Fraser rearranged the sheaf of papers on the desk, just to avoid looking at Ray. "It has nothing to do with you." His hands were shaking; he put the papers down.

          "Yeah, it does. You're my friend, and I can see you're upset. That makes it my business."

          Fraser pushed himself up and slowly walked around the desk to stand directly in front of Ray. "Oh, really? Well, let me make myself perfectly clear, so that even you understand. It's not your business, Vecchio, so... fuck off."

          The expletive had been accompanied by a sharp jab at Ray's chest, but the Italian didn't seem to have not noticed that; he seemed more astounded that Fraser had the nerve to say... that word. He shook his head, as if he didn't quite believe what he'd heard.

          Fraser was now at the window, the drapes pulled apart to let in the streetlight. Even with that and a small desk-lamp, the room was still quite dark. Ray looked around properly, the first time he'd done so since he'd burst in. There was nothing unusual in the room, nothing out of place.

          Except for the file, the contents of which were spread over half of what was normally a fastidiously, almost obsessively tidy desk. Ray looked towards the motionless figure standing at the window, watching all the while for some reaction, then walked slowly to the desk to look more closely. As he reached out to pick up a photograph that was enticingly close, he was sent reeling by a punch to his jaw.

          "Just get the hell out!" Fraser pulled Ray to his feet and frog-marched him towards the door. "Leave me alone!"

          The door slammed behind him. Ray turned and seized the handle. The door was now locked. Fraser? Locking a door? Ray stepped back against the opposite wall, took out his gun and aimed it at the door handle. He paused, his breathing slow and controlled in an attempt to reduce his heart rate.

          It was only then that he seemed to become aware that he actually did have his gun pointed at the door. A look of alarm replaced the look of anger on his face. Quickly, he replaced the gun in its holster. "What the hell am I doing?" he asked himself out loud. He had never drawn his gun in anger before, there had always been a good reason. So, he'd been thrown out of Fraser's office... shooting his way back in was, at the very least, an over-reaction...

Fraser sat down at his desk, and rested his head on his arms. What had he done? What was he doing? He couldn't trust himself to leave this sanctuary. He couldn't trust himself to be with anyone. Not now, maybe not ever.

          That was Victoria's legacy. He had been led back from the darkness of a place he didn't know; towards the light, towards a place where he could start to feel safe again. The reconciling of the end of their relationship with the tumult of emotions he'd had raging inside him had left him physically and emotionally exhausted, as he crawled out of his cocoon.

          Then this. Her death. The same death she'd once eagerly, arrogantly, claimed for herself was now truly hers. Should he be pleased? He supposed he should, but everywhere he looked he could see her face, shadowy and transient, accusing him, tormenting him. He could feel himself drifting, and through the door he heard Ray's voice; it sounded very far away.

          "You got ten minutes. Ten minutes! After that I don't... ever... wanna see you again. Ever. You got that?"

Ray checked his watch; he'd been waiting almost an hour and he wouldn't be able to stay awake for much longer. He closed his eyes. "Okay, okay, damn you," he muttered "I'll wait." He would probably have to sleep all weekend to make up for this. He checked the time again; two hours late, but could he honestly drive away and never see Fraser again? He doubted it. Maybe his ultimatum would be enough to bring the man to his senses.

          Ray yawned, hearing his jaw crack. It was now gone eleven. He leaned back into the seat. He was so tired. Fraser's behaviour had taken a heavier toll than he'd thought. It wasn't fair. Why had whatever gods there were decided to deal him this card?

          It had taken Ray months of painstaking detective work, at least two cars and numerous ruined suits to even begin to explore the complex labyrinth of Fraser's mind. Was he now faced with having to do the whole thing again? Would waking up during the early hours of the morning once more become part of his life?

          He recalled lying in bed unable to find the rest he so desperately needed, as it fast became apparent that there would never be enough hours in the day, or years in his lifetime, for him to understand Fraser completely. And he so wanted to understand him. Sometimes it mattered; sometimes just being with him was enough. He swore. The guy pushing the boulder up the mountain had it easy.

          Five minutes later Fraser appeared and, yes, appeared to be walking towards, not away from, the car. Ray leaned over to open the door for him. He bit back a sarcastic remark when he saw how tired, how... depressed?... Fraser was looking. This was an avenue he didn't want to go down just now, thank you very much, because he had absolutely no idea what to say.

          "Where to, Benny?" Ray fumbled with the keys.

          "Home." Depressed.

          "You hungry? There's still supper." He pulled up at a stop light and looked at Fraser, who remained impassive. "Okay, your place it is."

          The car drew up outside the run-down apartment building; they'd driven the rest of the journey in silence. Fraser was staring out of the window, his head resting on the glass. "Fraser?"

          When there was no response, Ray touched his arm. "We're here."

          Fraser jumped. "Oh. Yes."

          "Y'know, you don't look so good; I'll walk you up."

          Fraser continued to look out of the window, making no moves to go. "You don't have to."

          "I know." Ray leaned across him to open the door. "You hungry?"

          "Yes."

          "You want supper?"

          "Yes."

          "I'll cook. You do have some food in that flea trap of yours?"

Ray watched Fraser push the food round the plate. He put his fork down and folded his arms on the table. It took a full five minutes for Fraser to realise Ray had stopped eating. "An' I thought you liked my cooking. You gonna eat that?"

          Fraser looked up; it seemed to take him longer than usual to focus.

          "'Benny, are you sick?"

          "No."

          "And I'm the Pope." Ray leaned across and touched a hand to his forehead. "Well, you don't have a fever. What's botherin' you?"

          Without a word, Fraser went into the kitchen and brought back a large brown envelope. He put it on the table and sat down.

          Ray looked at the envelope, then Fraser. "What's this?" He knew even as he asked. He could feel his heart pounding. Victoria. "Have you looked at it?"

          Fraser nodded. "Yes."

          Ray leaned across the table, his concern growing as he saw just how pale Fraser was. "You need a doctor."

          "Will you stop it?"

          Ray recoiled from the unexpectedly vicious tone. He felt helpless as Fraser pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. Ray could see the anguish but, in Fraser's current state, the Italian wasn't at all sure how to approach him.

          After a while, Fraser raised his head. "I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't mean to shout." He took a deep breath. "She's dead. Victoria's dead."

          Ray didn't dare open the file for fear of worsening the effect it already seemed to have had on Fraser, who was looking at him with eyes that were filled with a pain Ray could feel. His heart sank. She'd already inflicted so much damage; how much more was still to come?

Fraser rested his arms on the table and stared at them, inspecting the pale scar on the back of his left hand; his eyes unfocused.

          Even with all the turmoil inside him, he could feel the void that had been there for the last six months. He'd had all the kindness and sympathy he could ever have asked for, but the empty space stubbornly refused to go. Nature abhorred a vacuum, but what was there to fill it?

          He had to try to make sense of what he was feeling, but he doubted whether Ray would thank him for dredging up the whole sorry mess again. He came back to the present as he saw, then felt, Ray's hands settle on his. He stood abruptly, breaking the brief contact. "I have to get out of this uniform."

          Fraser changed as Ray sat on the window ledge. Occasionally, the Italian would glance out of the window into the street below, but most of the time he just watched Fraser.

          Fraser, his face slightly flushed from the exertion of taking off his white undershirt, shivered as a gust of cold air went through the apartment; he glanced towards the open window.

          Ray was looking at him. As the Italian realised he, too, was being watched, he averted his gaze. This apparent sensitivity – Ray seemed genuinely reluctant to intrude into what his friend was obviously not ready to share – caught Fraser off guard, and felt his eyes fill with tears. He looked down at the floor and pretended to button the front of his shirt.

          He startled at the sound of the window closing; the sweater he'd picked up from the chair fell from his hand. He went to pick it up, but Ray was faster. Their eyes locked.

          Slowly, Ray stood up, brushed some stray wolf hairs off the sweater and put it into Fraser's hands. "When d'you find out?"

          "The file arrived at the Consulate this afternoon, just after I left. There was a message pinned to the door when I arrived. Said 'FYI. VM deceased. File on desk'."

          "Why didn't you call me?"

          "I..." Fraser didn't want to say it, but he was still not that good a liar; Ray would know straight away. "I panicked."

          "You panicked?" Ray teased, in mock surprise.

          Fraser was irritated at a reaction that he'd fully expected. "Yes," he said, testy, "I panicked. I did the first thing that came in to my head, and went back to the Consulate."

          Ray picked up the envelope and emptied the contents onto the table. "This everything?"

          Fraser nodded. "It would appear she died in a car crash, at almost the exact spot her sister did... only the car Victoria was driving hit a tree, which stopped it from going over the cliff. She died... almost immediately. It's all in there."

          "Did they actually get a positive ID this time? Dental records and stuff?" Ray thumbed through the papers.

          "They had to."

          "What d'you mean?"

          The image of Victoria's charred body flashed vivid and brutal – like a bolt of lightning – in front of Fraser's eyes. He had to try to detach himself from it; they had been – for a brief moment in time – lovers. Now she was... dead... and he was... alone?

          In truth, all he had seen was just a carcass; it had no soul, no dreams, no hopes and fears, no anger, no revenge, it was just burned flesh and bone. If it had been difficult to look at, it was impossible to describe.

          Fraser walked over to the window. Even looking at the photographs had made him physically sick. He turned the sweater over and over in his hands, absent-mindedly tugging at stray bits of wool. "There... um" – Fraser's voice faltered on the edge of... tears?... madness? – "there wasn't much else left."

Ray bundled up the file and stuffed it back into the envelope. He was silent for a long time. Damn! if he hadn't been thrown another curve just as he felt as if he was close to solving the mystery that was Benton Fraser. He usually felt way out of his depth. Now he was drowning.

          He could see the confusion, the re-emergence of a pain they had both been unable to handle first time round. Had either of them learned anything since then? How far had Ray managed to convince Fraser that anyone who'd caused such pain and suffering was not worthy of him? That he deserved someone to love him for him? That he would have been better off dead than with her?

          Ray moved to stand by the window. Fraser was so complicated in some ways, and so... well, almost childlike in others, and none of it made sense. The paradox had mesmerised Ray right from the start. At first, Ray had been cautious around his new and rather eccentric friend. Gradually, he became used to him. Eventually, he learned to like him.

          Now, Ray would sit and just watch. At times, he would devour the sight of him. He often wondered how he could have been so stupid to not notice what he'd been almost living with for over two years.

          At first, he hadn't been aware he was doing it, but right now he would have given anything... a year's wages... the Riv... his life... just to run his thumb lightly across Fraser's cheekbone, tangle his fingers in Fraser's dark hair, draw him closer...

          Mentally, Ray smacked himself round the head. How could he be so selfish at a time like this? It was obvious to anyone with more sensitivity than a house brick that Fraser needed to talk, needed him to listen, to just... yeah, it was about time for a clich... be there. The thought made Ray feel... no, not now. Anyway, what was more important? His feelings, or Fraser's?

          Ray put a comforting arm around Fraser, feeling him startle slightly, then relax. Fraser turned his head. His eyes were downcast, mouth half open, within touching, within kissing distance. Ray's hand tentatively went up towards his face, then pulled back – too fast, slow down, back off – "Benny, I'm sorry. Why didn't you say?"

          "I was going to, then you called the office. I'm afraid you caught me at a bad time."

          "You're tellin' me. You swore! I was shocked, Fraser!"

          "I'm sorry." Fraser looked embarrassed.

          "You got a lot on your mind, I understand." Ray pulled him closer, he hoped in a gesture of reassurance.

          "You do?"

          "Yeah. D'you wanna talk about it?"

          "No," Fraser said, his tone unconvincing, "it's all right. Really, I'm fine."

          "Liar."

          "Excuse me?"

          "You wanna talk, I know you wanna talk, you know I know..."

          "Well, if you're sure you don't mind." Fraser looked at his watch. "It is rather late... perhaps another time." He stopped as Ray scowled. "Ray?"

          "Just talk, Benny."

          "Oh."

          Ray smiled ruefully. If past experience was anything to go by, he'd be talked to the gates of St. Peter and back, so he settled himself on the bed for a long night.

Fraser was quiet, pensive, for a while. Then he turned, leaned back against the window, arms folded, head lowered. "I honestly thought I'd recovered. I thought about Victoria less and less, and when I did think about her it didn't hurt. Not like before. I didn't want to feel like that again." He took a breath. "Ray, I know what happened upset you, and I truly regret putting our friendship in jeopardy. I know I hurt you, and I'm really sorry."

          Ray shrugged. "What are friends for?" Not for shooting, he thought bitterly.

          "Do you know what the most difficult thing was for me? The fact that I stopped trusting people. Victoria told me she didn't trust anyone and I didn't understand what she meant at the time. When I finally understood why she behaved like she did I... well..." he paused, lifting his head to look around the room, gather his thoughts.

          "Anyway, as I started to trust others again, I started to trust myself. Then, this. I feel so... so angry, with Victoria for reminding me that she still existed, and with myself for letting her affect me this way again. It's just" – he looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and lowered his head again – "ridiculous. I'm sorry."

          On other occasions similar to this one, Ray's conscience would be screaming at him to go and comfort a fellow human being in pain. Now, he said nothing and did nothing. Fraser had his own way of dealing with grief, as did everyone else; Ray was painfully aware of that. If he was needed, he would know.

          Fraser wrapped his arms across his chest. A dam inside him was about to burst. The threads of a dull ache were knotting – a slow, terrible reawakening – and growing into a sharp pain. If he was not on his guard, if he relaxed – even for an instant – the emotion the dam was holding back would likely rip him apart.

          Ray spoke quietly. "Are you glad she's dead?" Well, someone had to say it.

          Fraser looked up, the anguish on his face disappearing at the sound of Ray's voice. "Yes. No. Maybe."

          "O-kay, which is it?"

          "There's a part of me that still believes that she could have changed."

          Ray sniffed in disgust. "And there was me thinkin' I was optimistic."

          "Not that it matters, because at least now she can't hurt anyone anymore."

          "True."

          "I find myself thinking that maybe she did love me."

          Ray pushed himself to the end of the bed, eyes wide. "Are you serious?"

          "Yes, maybe. No."

          "Well, I'm glad you're clear on that." Ray clenched and unclenched his fists in the blanket that hung over the end of the bed. He felt exasperated; how could someone so smart be so stupid? "Benny, the way she treated you was not love. No way. If she'd really loved you, she would have accepted that you did what you had to do, and forgiven you. Eventually."

          "Maybe." Fraser looked strangely calm, even hopeful, at this, as if suddenly realising that the decision he'd made to stay had been the right one. He looked suddenly at Ray, staring, the scales finally fallen from his eyes. "Is that what love is to you, Ray?"

          Ray, half-way back to the top of the bed, stopped and stared, open-mouthed. He hadn't expected that. It had been said with such candour that Ray laughed. At the look of genuine hurt he went to the window, turning an initially reluctant Fraser to face him. "Okay, Benny, listen up, 'cos I'm only gonna say this once. As far as I'm concerned, when you love someone you accept them for who they are. What they are. Even if you think some of the things they do are crazy. Love is about trust and respect. Being able to say stuff that no one else would dare because you know they'll at least listen..."

          Ray's voice died and the words echoed around his head, around the room. If he believed only half of what he'd just said, had he just told his best friend he loved him?

          "Not Victoria, then."

          Ray shook his head. "Definitely not."

          "Ray, you do realise that you now have to admit that you were wrong."

          "About what?"

          "I don't know everything."

          Ray smiled. "You don't, do you?"

          "Apparently not. I guess I need reminding now and then. Thanks, Ray." Fraser smiled back.

          It was the most beautiful thing Ray had ever seen. It was like the sun shining after a violent storm. He smiled tentatively, suddenly and painfully aware of just how strong his feelings were, and how close he was to revealing them.

          Friend? Had Ray always wanted more than that from him? Fraser was still so vulnerable, so close to the edge. Any more emotional trauma might just finish the job that Victoria had started.

          Ray looked into the depths of those cerulean blue eyes, and felt as if he was suffocating. They were deep enough, full enough to drown in. He felt a bitter-sweet ache building inside him. They were so close now, he could feel warm breath on his face. He would surrender willingly if such a fate could be his, but was it too soon? He was unsure if he could leave but he had to get out... or was it already too late?

          The distracted look didn't go unnoticed. "Ray?" Fraser watched him, looking confused, as he walked away.

          Ray sat on the bed, sat facing the door, resting his elbows on his knees, hiding his face. His self-control was at breaking point. Dark thoughts and too-long suppressed desires forced themselves up out of the hidden recesses in his mind, finally surfacing in a tangled, sordid mess. He gasped, overwhelmed before he could do anything about it...

Ray regained sight and hearing slowly, breathing deeply, trying to clear his head. The rush of blood from his head had made him feel dizzy. Oh, he knew what had happened, the question now was did he ignore it, go home and take a cold shower? Or...?

          His hands shook as he lifted his head. Fraser was still looking at him. Blinking several times to clear his vision, all Ray could see was the end of his life if he continued to deny his feelings.

          "Ray, what is it?"

          He refocused as the soft sound of Fraser's voice reached the part of his brain that hadn't already been occupied by thoughts of the rest of him. "Um?"

          "Are you all right?"

          "Sure." Ray could hear the concern. Who was meant to be comforting whom here? He felt a thread of unfocused anger through the desire. He didn't want concern. He wanted – he couldn't think properly – he didn't want to think about what he really wanted. He felt the final approach, his blood surged. It was far too late now, for either of them.

          Fraser sat on his heels, hands resting on his knees, in front of Ray. "Look at me."

          Ray looked. The vision that brought his whole life to a standstill when he closed his eyes was before him in glorious, sensual colour. He saw... and he felt... Oh, God, he felt... the only thing he wanted more than life... the only thing he would break all the rules to have. Ray swallowed. If he didn't get out soon... he stood, unsteady, and aimed for the door. He reached out, a hand groping through air.

          "What on earth's the matter?" Fraser moved to stop him falling.

          Ray, now held upright through sheer force of will, and the strong arm around him, looked up. "You are." He brought his hands up to push himself away, and felt the warmth through the fabric under them. He felt frantically for buttons and heard the sharp intake of breath.

          Fraser's protest was barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"

          "Something I shoulda done ages ago."

          Fraser looked genuinely scared. "And what might that be?"

          "You." Saying it out loud just made it all the more urgent. He wanted. He did... oh, God, he did. Ray pushed Fraser the short distance to hold him against the wall. "How could she have let you go?"

          Without waiting for a response, and unconcerned that he would probably open his eyes to find himself in the nearest hospital emergency room, Ray slid his arms around a bewildered Fraser and kissed him full on the mouth.

          Fraser's face betrayed his absolute astonishment; not even Victoria had ever kissed him with such intensity. His hands pushed uselessly at Ray's shoulders as his eyes radiated panic and disbelief.

          Ray moved his right hand from Fraser's waist to the nape of his neck. The Italian's long fingers threaded through the dark hair to hold Fraser's head, to keep him in the kiss.

          Fraser's eyes tried to focus on Ray but couldn't. Tears flooded them and Fraser blinked, washing fright and frustration down his face. When his eyes opened, they shone with a desperation born of remembering intimacy now dead and best forgotten. But in remembering, Fraser seemed also to forget it was Ray, his best friend, in whose arms he was now held; his eyes flickered once and then closed, as he surrendered...

Ray finally pulled away. He needed to breathe; at least he was still alive. "I've wanted to do that for so long." The fact that he'd done it at all so amazed him he couldn't remember anything before this moment. Could anything before this moment exist again? Was there any going back? What did he tell Fraser? The truth. "I've wanted... loved you... for ever... I guess I only just realised how much."

          Fraser's eyes widened as the reality of his situation appeared to sink in. As he spoke, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "I can't... Ray, I just... I can't... please... Ray, you should go. Please, go."

          "Go?" Ray's blood ran cold through him. He didn't mean that, did he? How could he turn away what he knew he so desperately needed? Ray stared at him. He did mean it. Ray wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life, or if he was about to. Fraser looked determined, terrified, beautiful. Trapped.

          "Okay, I'm goin'." Ray knew full well that he couldn't. "No, I can't." He shook his head. "I won't. I'm worried about you." What the hell was he saying? Worried? No definition of 'worried' in any dictionary he'd ever read included this.

          "There's really no need. I'm fine."

          Ray pulled away from Fraser to look at him with a mixture of shock, disbelief and not a little admiration. If the roles had been reversed, Ray would have been nowhere near as polite. "I kissed you."

          "I am very aware of that, Ray."

          "And you say you're fine?"

          "Well, um, I have to admit it was, um, a bit of a surprise, but I'm fine. Now. Really. I'm fine." He looked it, too. Hair mussed up, clothes disordered, face flushed, he looked, well, actually he looked gorgeous.

          Ray released him and went to pick up his coat from the chair. "I'm sorry, Benny, you're right, I should go. I might do something I'd regret." As he walked back across towards the door, he noticed that Fraser hadn't moved. Ray stopped in the middle of the room and looked at him. "What?" How could he manage to be infuriating and gorgeous at the same time?

          "Was it your intention to do it?"

          "To kiss you? No." Ray stared at the floor, wondering what lie he could come up with to follow that one. His head came up. Those eyes; they were all Ray could see. "Yeah, it was."

          "Why?"

          "I don't know." Ray knew it was impossible not to tell the truth. Was this how Fraser felt, always having to be honest? It was frightening. "Yeah, I do."

          "Tell me."

          "You don't wanna know."

          "I was involved, Ray, I think I have some right... I want to know why."

          "No, you don't." Ray was beginning to become annoyed. He didn't know who with, or what for. He began to panic. He just wanted out, but he knew he wouldn't be allowed to leave without explaining himself. Not that he'd be forced to, of course. Oh, no. He would just get The Look and he would find himself babbling incoherently about friendship and loyalty and respect and love and truth and then where would it end? All this would be in great detail, and probably with an enormous degree of embarrassment, until the hole he'd dug for himself was deep enough that he wouldn't be able to see daylight.

          Fraser watched from where he had remained standing since he'd been pushed against the wall, and looking unnerved at the rising level of agitation. For most people, observing a caged tiger at a zoo without the some of the safety features required for viewing wild animals in such close proximity – like cages – produces a similar reaction.

          On the other hand, Ray thought, he could swear Benny to secrecy, on pain of Francesca, leave and nothing need ever be said about it again. Well, it might work, if he was prepared to deny everything he felt. Could he do that? Another look into Fraser's eyes convinced him he couldn't. He felt a rush of emotions, and swore under his breath. They'd known each other long enough; he'd made his feelings perfectly clear; he didn't have to explain any of this.

Ray walked slowly across the room, reaching to tug at a handful of Fraser's shirt to get his attention. He used his other hand to illustrate his point. "I don't need to explain what I did. I kissed you. Nothing else to it. Just a kiss." He was trembling with frustration and more desire than he knew what to do with. "That's it..." He stopped mid-sentence. He had to; he'd said far too much already.

          "But?"

          Damn! "But what?"

          "I thought you were going to say something else."

          "No. It's nothing, forget it."

          "Forget what? Ray, I really don't understand what you're trying to tell me. It's all so contradictory; first you kiss me until I can hardly breathe, now you tell me it's nothing and I should forget it. How?" Fraser paused as Ray looked away. "What are you so afraid of?"

          "Nothing!" Ray snapped. "I'm not afraid of anything."

          Fraser frowned. He tried to ease out of Ray's white-knuckled grip, but found he couldn't even pry the fingers loose. Increasingly, it seemed as if he no longer had any control over what was happening. "Ray, would you please let go of me?"

          "Why? You got someplace to go?"

          "Well, no. It's almost one o'clock in the morning."

          Ray waved his hand around in the air, narrowly missing Fraser's face. "We gotta sort this out."

          "Well, if you think now is a good time."

          "Okay! Just forget it! Forget it! If you're gonna be like that, then I'm goin'." Ray let go of Fraser's shirt, rubbing his hand to bring the feeling back to his fingers. He struggled into his coat, his hand tingling with renewed sensation, and pointed an accusing finger. "You breathe a word and I swear..."

          Fraser looked completely baffled. So many conflicting signals! It was like a Semaphore convention. "Ray, you said, as I recall 'I kissed you. Nothing else to it.' Was that the truth? If not, what else is there?"

          "The truth." Ray muttered to no one in particular. He looked back at Fraser. "The truth. You wanna know the truth?" He could feel himself getting very warm; he took his coat off again and threw it on the bed. "It was just a kiss, but you looked like you needed it." Ray took off his jacket, pacing around in the space near the bed. "I know I did."

          "I beg your pardon, but would you mind repeating that?"

          "I said I did."

          "I heard that. No, before then."

          Ray opened his mouth.

          "Who are you to tell me what I need?" Fraser's tone demanded total honesty.

          "I'm the only person who's ever accepted you for who you are and what you are. I've trusted you with my life. Okay, everythin' you do and almost everythin' you say drives me crazy but at least you listen to me when I tell you so."

          Fraser looked as if he was experiencing a sense of dj vu. "What are you really trying to tell me?"

          Ray placed warm hands on either side of Fraser's face, then kissed him with infinite tenderness. "I love you. But then you knew that."

Even the world outside seemed to have fallen silent. Fraser swallowed. "I had... I had no idea you felt... anything but... friendship towards me until... until now." His voice grew stronger as the shock of the second kiss wore off. "As I see it, I told you Victoria was dead, and we talked about it. I was, for want of a better word, upset and then, then you kissed me. Twice. Now you tell me you love me, and also you tell me that I knew even though I didn't and I really really think you should go." The last six words were garbled. Ray had a look in his eyes that Fraser could not fail to miss, and had no hope of understanding. He was grabbed by the shirt again, this time much closer to his throat.

          "Do you have any idea what I went through while she had her claws in you? I could see what she was doing, but you wouldn't listen to me! I saw the way she looked at you, and the way you looked at her. Did you think I was stupid? Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Ray knew he shouldn't be shouting, but it helped him regain some control. He was near to tears, but he would not cry. If he cried, he'd be comforted. He didn't want comfort. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to feel this anger, and he wanted to make it felt, no matter what the consequences.

          Ray lowered his voice. Letting go of the handful of shirt, he tipped Fraser's head up. "You knew how I felt about you, and when she came along you just pushed me away. D'you have any idea how that made me feel?"

          Fraser's whole body tensed as Ray breathed against his face, threatened a kiss at the corner of his mouth, and tightened the grip on his jaw...

The next few minutes passed in a blur. Fraser twisted free, stumbling blindly towards the door. Ray's grip on his wrist slowed his fall, a blinding pain in his shoulder made him yell. Fraser fell as his wrist was suddenly released, hitting his head on the edge of the cupboard before he dropped to the floor, dazed. Ray grabbed his other shoulder roughly, pulled him to his feet and held him up against the door. The pain was almost bearable; the fear of what might be happening was not. He'd been scared before, but not like this.

          Ray was breathing hard now. Like an animal poised to strike at its prey, his senses too would be heightened to danger level. He would be wound tight inside, ready to snap. Fraser knew he was vulnerable. As Ray's arm slid around him, Fraser opened his mouth to speak.

          Ray's hand went around his throat and forced his head up. There was no passion this time, just force. The brief violation took Fraser's breath away. A few situations in his life had left him feeling totally powerless, but none that he'd ever experienced could have prepared him for this. Victoria's last trespass into his life had started out so subtly that he'd almost been unaware of it happening; now she was dead and he was confused, both with that, and this vehemence from someone who – had he actually said it? – loved him? If he did, why was he so angry? What mistake could warrant this severe a punishment?

          Fraser had truly believed that he'd been in control. Victoria had proved that was a lie, but he'd had to put his life at risk yet again before he would even reluctantly admit it. How many more times did his life have to be threatened before he would accept that he was vulnerable, out of his depth, out of luck and now, it seemed, out of time? He knew, logically, that he either had to stay and fight, or escape and run, but he simply could not move. The adrenaline rush that always accompanied the fear when he was in danger was there now, but the ability to act upon it was not. Fraser knew that its absence could very well prove fatal.

Ray could see Fraser's fear. Part of him rebelled against the destructive turn this relationship had taken – it could well be the end of everything – but a greater part of him had been expecting it, even looking forward to it. Fraser was so different; did opposites attract? Ray supposed they did, he'd heard people say it often enough. But he recalled that after a certain point, opposites also repelled each other. Violently. The closer they were brought together, the more violent the reaction.

          Yet, despite all Ray's protests, the two of them were also very much alike. Was this what made him so uncomfortable, and so determined to get the upper hand? Was the raging jealousy that he now felt the effect of Victoria's possession of Fraser? A possession that made him appear so unobtainable? Victoria's physical form was gone now, but some vestige of her still remained in Fraser's mind, in his heart.

          Ray had fought to get this far, turned the corner, only to find he had more to do. He'd been patient, but could he wait forever? He looked into Fraser's frightened eyes and shuddered as something dark and deadly worked its way through him. No, it was now, or never. He would never be able to live without him. He certainly would never be able to live with him. The fact that they both might kill each other in the process was irrelevant. Matter and anti-matter? It didn't need an Einstein to work it out.

          He knew that Fraser would resist. How far was he prepared to go to override that resistance? The humiliation of rejection on more than one occasion had only served to strengthen Ray's resolve. This was no longer a matter of an appetite to be satisfied; this would be more of an occupation. Ownership.

          It took a monumental effort for him to push Fraser away. They stood, not quite touching, not quite seeing, assessing the situation and their chances of escaping half-alive; Ray's reactions were quicker this time. He seized the front of Fraser's shirt, spun him round and pushed him backwards onto the bed.

          Fraser's head struck a glancing blow against the wall as he fell and he lay still with his eyes shut tight. Ray gripped his arms and pushed them above his head. Fraser cried out at the violent movement of his injured shoulder. His eyes snapped open. Ray was above him, his face mere inches away.

          "People take advantage 'cos it's easy." There was a cold edge of danger to Ray's voice. "You make it easy! Why? What d'you get out of it? You a sadist?"

          "Masochist."

          Ray acknowledged the correction with a wry smile. "The most annoying man in the world. All you gotta do is be you, people just take whatever they want. Now I want you, you decide to fight back." He leaned closer. "I want you." The sentence was punctuated by gentle kisses. "I want you to feel like I did every damned time you... I want you to hurt like I did when I saw you with her. Every time you pushed me away I wanted to kill her, and you. Every time you left me for her I wanted to die. I wanted to make you want me, make you love me, let me love you. But you never" – he kissed Fraser's neck, biting him, feeling his body tense – "never opened your eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, to see that I loved you. I can't forgive you for that. But I waited, because I knew eventually I'd get what I wanted... you."

          Fraser glanced at the face that loomed above him, at a raw look of desperate desire, of a hunger that had to be satisfied, of wanting something so badly you would kill. It was a look he had seen before, in a mirror, in his own eyes...

          Ray's voice betrayed a kind of desperation that was almost madness. "I didn't want to fall in love with you. It was your fault; seeing you with her made me crazy. I knew she'd hurt you. I wanted her to hurt you so you'd come back to me. And you nearly did! Now she's dead, and she's still between us. You won't let her go. God! It makes me so angry! Benny, I don't know what to do to make you stay. I love you, and it's gonna kill both of us."

          Fraser was having trouble breathing. "Why are you doing this?"

          With the madness closing in on him, Ray smiled to himself. "Because you're letting me."

          "Do I have a choice?"

          "No." Ray was over an emotional precipice. There was no way he could live the rest of his life without finishing what he'd started; if he had the strength. His need to claim Fraser, to possess him, was absolute. He leaned forward, only to feel Fraser turn his head away. Ray sat back, furious. How could someone so beautiful do such an ugly thing? How could someone who knew how desperately he was wanted turn away again? Ray's anger overwhelmed his desire, and the more he tried to control it, the more irrational it became.

          Fraser didn't see the fist that hit him...

          Ray felt the stimulation of control as he saw terror replace defiance in Fraser's eyes. He needed control. To be able to control his life again; his feelings, thoughts, desires – even the darkest of them – and, ultimately... he looked at the blood on his hand.

          How could regaining something that had been his to start with be wrong? He would use force if he had to. He raised his hand again but it wasn't necessary; he lowered it, caressing his captive's face gently, circling the cut mouth slowly with his fingers, feeling Fraser's body tremble beneath him. Ray kissed him on the forehead. "I don't want to hurt you. I love you."

          "Then stop this."

          "I... no. I need you."

          "No, you don't."

          "I do, and you need me."

          "Don't tell me what I need."

          Ray's fingers reached for his face, his eyes, his mouth.

          "Please... don't..."

Fraser felt Ray's hand run up his body, rake through his hair to the back of his head, pulling him up to a hungry, exploring mouth. As Ray pulled away Fraser suddenly, desperately, did not want the kiss to end. This reaction left him shaking, angry and bewildered. He was angry with himself for being unable – maybe now even unwilling – to resist, and angry with Ray for his assumption that such intimacy would be permitted, let alone welcomed.

          The confusion left him paralysed. All he could say was no; all he wanted to say was yes! It should have been that easy! When had someone wanted him for no other reason than they wanted him? When had any love he'd been offered not been conditional? Fraser was tired of being on his own, of living with the almost unendurable need for some emotional release, but scared to death at the prospect of what was being demanded of him now.

          Fraser felt Ray's hand suddenly pull his head back over the edge of the bed. Did he black out? No, he could feel a hand undo the rest of his clothing, and Ray's warm mouth moving inexorably downwards...

Ray tangled the fingers of one hand in Fraser's hair. Other fingers brushed tenderly over Fraser's face; across his eyes, across his cheekbones, round his jaw and finally to his mouth. Ray leaned forward and kissed him again, gently this time. He was shaking now, the raw look on his face betraying a hunger that was as sadistic as it was desperate. He had wanted this for so long, had wanted this so much, that he seemed to have finally reached, and then moved beyond, the point where he was prepared to risk anything, everything, to get what he wanted. It was as if he knew, without really knowing why, that no matter what he did, Fraser would never hurt him. Was that what made this so easy for him?

          Fraser tried to stop himself thinking about what was happening to him by thinking about nothing at all. He was dragged from the bed to kneel on the floor. The fierce grip on his shoulder made him light-headed with pain, but he was gripped all the tighter. A particularly savage twist of his hair made him gasp. Ray used his thumbs to stop Fraser closing his mouth completely, and forced himself inside.

          The physical impact of being abused this way left Fraser feeling horribly nauseous. He saw Ray kneeling in front of him, felt Ray's arm go round him and press their bodies together. Fraser looked into the feverish green eyes. There was a need there that frightened Fraser almost as much as the need he himself felt to see it there; did he really want to be needed so much?; did something deep inside him want only to feel what he was feeling? Where did he start explaining this to Ray? What did he say? How did he say it?

          Fraser was pulled to his feet by his shirt as Ray stood up. Ray's fingers disentangled themselves from the material before his hands slid under the warm cloth. As he looked at Ray's face, Fraser realised that the man was already unable to hear, or understand, a single word he might say.

Ray buried his face into the bunched-up fabric of Fraser's shirt. The scent filled his lungs; his head swam. Ray was aware of the rapid rise and fall of Fraser's chest against his own. A soft, warm skin-on-skin caress, every touch sending a pulse of electricity through him. He was now no longer content to be an outsider; Fraser's presence alone was not sufficient reward for his suffering. The desire he felt was too strong, too overwhelming, and far too near complete fulfilment...

          Ray heard Fraser's breathing become erratic as he was pressed against the wall. He sought emotional nourishment from the unwilling mouth. As he pulled away, Ray felt the breathing stop, just briefly, then quicken again; had he only imagined the reluctance to end the embrace? A weakness like that could not go unpunished. Ray smiled. It was time that Fraser learned the price of submitting to great evils.

          Ray gripped Fraser's wrists and twisted his arms behind him, forcing his hands up his back, scraping his flesh on the rough surface of the wall. Instantaneous warmth on Ray's own hands told him he'd drawn blood. He heard Fraser's laboured breathing as he increased the pressure on his ribcage, crushed him against the wall, trapping his hands between the wall and his back. Hurting him.

          Ray had his hot, wet mouth on Fraser's skin now, feeding on him, suckling, sucking, trailing his insatiable hunger across Fraser's shoulder, up his neck, behind his ear. He panted, rhythmic, hypnotic on the man's neck, forced his hard cock and its heavy pulse between Fraser's thighs, against his groin. Ray's mouth trailed its hot wetness across Fraser's cheek to his mouth, forced hot sweet wetness between the man's lips, across his tongue, into his throat, pushing the dark head hard against the wall, pushing, pushing into him... tightening his arms around him, forcing out his breath, feeling the pulse increase...

Fraser was abruptly turned round, and his heart pounded in his chest as the cold metal encasing his wrists was tightened to a point beyond pain. He was pulled away from the wall, swung around and pushed across the floor until he was against the bed. Ray pulled on his wrists and Fraser fell backwards onto the mattress. Ray's tongue was in Fraser's throat, across his tongue, on his lips. Ray's mouth sucked, bit its way down Fraser's neck, his chest. Words murmured against Fraser's skin were lost in the harsh sound of breathing.

          Ray's hands clawed frantically at Fraser's remaining clothes, tore a strip of material from his shirt, folded and wound it tight before forcing it into Fraser's mouth and tying it behind his ear. Fraser's eyes widened in horror. Ray had no intention of being gentle – whatever he wanted was now his for the taking – and the possibility of him killing Fraser after he'd raped him was now a very real one.

          Ray's voice was husky and thick in a throat tight with jealous desire and repressed rage. Brisk, bruising kisses were trailed over Fraser's chest. Ray bit the sensitive skin on his neck which elicited a sharp intake of breath. Fraser looked scared. Ray looked pleased; Fraser's possession by Victoria – Ray was unable even to say the woman's name anymore – needed to be exorcised. Fraser obviously understood and accepted this or he would not be here, ready to be purged of every last shred of her memory until he was clean again. Ray was obviously intending to pursue Victoria to Hell and back in order to accomplish this. He accepted that it might take time. He had the rest of his life, and there was the rest of Fraser's life, as well. Ray accepted that it could take as long as both of them might live.

          Ray forced Fraser's thighs apart with his knees. Fraser stared up at Ray and shook his head frantically. Whether or not Ray would have been able eventually to persuade Fraser into a sexual relationship was academic. What was happening now wasn't about sex; it was about the power of one individual over another, and the control it affords them. Victoria had exercised near-fatal emotional control over Fraser. Ray now had emotional and physical control over him. Emotionally, Fraser was struggling with needing but not wanting Ray physically while at the same time needing him emotionally, but being unable to tell him so.

          Bound and gagged, Fraser was losing the struggle to free himself. His body went tense as the knowledge of what this might mean for him finally registered on his face. Seconds later, he was struggling frantically, terrified for his life. In an attempt to defend himself, he pushed against Ray with his knees. Ray kicked his legs viciously. Fraser cried out, tears filling his eyes.

          Naked now, Ray lowered his body over Fraser. As they touched, Ray sighed. The heat radiating from the man underneath him was phenomenal. Ray lay still for a second, soaking it up. He could feel Fraser's heart beating rapidly in the broad chest, hear the slight catch in Fraser's breathing. Ray smiled. Fraser's body, his gorgeous, taut, perfect body now belonged to him. Ray had waited a long time to get it but, strangely, he seemed to be in no hurry now to go any further. Perhaps it was because he had waited so long that he held back; what would a few more minutes matter? Perhaps Ray simply wanted to increase the tension before he experienced what he regarded as the most sublime enjoyment he would ever know.

          Knowing the reason would make no difference to Fraser. He took sudden advantage of Ray's moment of apparent reluctance, and looked for a way to get out from underneath him. Ray's eyes snapped open as Fraser's lungs began slowly to fill with the very necessary deep breath. Fraser winced as Ray pressed a thigh hard against his genitals. The look in his eyes begged Ray to relent, show some mercy, but Ray's eyes were hard and cold, devoid of any emotion but hatred.

          Ray's hatred of Victoria Metcalf had been consuming him from the inside since the very first time they'd met. It had caused a slow but inexorable meltdown of his core of self-control. Ray accepted he was volatile, but claimed that his flashes of temper usually dissipated quickly, painlessly. His pent-up fury concerning Victoria could not be vented on her, but it had to be vented. Fraser was guilty by association and, in her absence, Ray would inflict her punishment on him. Not only that; Fraser had submitted to her. That would require a second punishment. Ray had it all planned; catch Fraser while he's off guard, vulnerable, needy. A bullet would have been quicker, but that would still leave Ray his anger to deal with.

          Ray ripped the gag out of Fraser's mouth, not bothering to untie the knot. Fraser opened his mouth to gulp in a breath. Ray's mouth was on him instantly, kissing him roughly, pushing his tongue deep into Fraser's mouth. When he finally lifted his head, Fraser pleaded with him. "Stop," he croaked, breathless with panic and the weight of Ray's body on his chest. "Don't do this... please Ray... don't do this..." The look of naked, angry lust in Ray's green eyes was all Fraser needed to see, to see that he was wasting his energy.

          Ray replaced the gag in Fraser's mouth and retied it. Then he smiled and shook his head. "You know it's for your own good. You made a mistake and you have to be punished. I have to know that you really are sorry."

          Fraser attempted to push himself further up the bed, perhaps to avoid or even prevent the probable assault. He stopped the pointless struggling as the assault became inevitable. He took a deep breath in an eleventh-hour effort to remain calm but, as Ray forced two fingers into him, and then another, the storm was upon him. Fraser's jaw muscles spasmed as he bit down hard on the gag. A look of numb shock on his face followed the grimace of pain. He gagged as nausea came to his throat, threatening to choke him.

          After what seemed to Fraser like an eternity, Ray withdrew his fingers. They were bloodied, shit under the nails. Ray wiped the blood and faeces casually across Fraser's abdomen. Fraser moaned, shutting his eyes as the fingers caressed his skin. The same fingers that had Ray had forced into Fraser's ass now touched him with a hypnotic, almost sensuous rhythm. It was a cruel, perversely erotic interlude in this violent struggle. An unearthly quiet surrounded them. If he had been able to speak, Fraser might have prayed. He might have prayed that his agony would be short-lived should this be where and when and how his life was to end. He might even have prayed for Ray's soul. 'Forgive him... dear God, please forgive him.'

          Ray dug his fingernails into Fraser's sides and dragged them along his skin. Vivid red welts appeared in their wake. Fraser's body curled in spasm in sudden shock of the sharp pain. Ray continued to rake his nails down Fraser's thighs, finally digging them into the skin behind his knees. Warm blood trickled from these new wounds. Fraser's gag stifled his scream; by the time he'd regained control over his breathing it was too late.

          The gag muffled another scream as Fraser was violated a second time. His back arched as pain exploded in his bowels and sent a searing arc of pain lancing through him, up his spine, into his head. Ray drove into him hard and deep, tearing further the injuries he'd already inflicted. Fraser opened unseeing eyes and stared blankly upwards. Ray's terrible rage fuelled his voracious hunger for revenge as he continued the brutal pursuit of his sworn enemy.

          Each successive thrust of Ray's pelvis was harder, more powerful than the one before. He was invading and retreating, occupying and withdrawing, filling and emptying, pushing and pushing and pushing... Fraser's head went back into the tangle of bedclothes... Ray was pushing pushing pushing... Fraser was a mass of pain, the boundary between himself and the agony too blurred to see... Ray was pushing pushing pushing... Fraser was delirious... he prayed for unconsciousness to end the pain... prayed for death... what if the pain never ended...? emptiness inside him... deep, uncharted territory... stubborn aching void... a void he longed to be filled... Ray pushing pushing pushing... tearing Fraser's body... tearing at his soul... tearing his soul... pain threatened to fill the void... anything...! anything to fill it...! would tearing his soul in two finally fill this void...? fulfil him...?

          Ray looked at Fraser's face, saw his eyes flicker once. They flickered twice more before Fraser squeezed them tight shut, forcing out a line of tears. Ray pushed his hands under Fraser's head and lifted him up. He kissed the tears away, kissed the tight-shut eyes. "I love you..." Ray murmured. "Benny... I love you..." He buried his face into the crook between Fraser's neck and shoulder. Fraser moaned and shook his head, leaving his sweat on Ray's forehead.

          Ray had long since learned to live with an image of the face that had taunted him for months; Victoria. The vision was pin sharp when he closed his eyes. She was there now and, as Ray watched, the face began to twist and contort in pain. Long, bony fingers extended towards him, bloodless claws reaching for his throat. Free from its restraints, Ray's mind magnified the vision until it filled his head. He could even hear her voice: 'Come with me... come with me...' Suddenly, the voice deepened in pitch. It seemed to be coming from another place, beyond any reality that Ray knew. It seemed to emanate from the very depths of Hell. A dark laugh echoed around Ray's mind. It was his laugh. He was imagining her imprisoned and screaming in the tangled wreckage of a burning car. Flames were consuming her flesh, her eyes, her hair. As they ate into her soul, Ray knew she would burn forever in Hell. He imagined her claws tearing at the air, at her bonds, at her throat as she was dragged down...

          Ray's eyes snapped open and he yelled in triumph. He glimpsed the flicker of blue and his eyes met Fraser's. Ray saw only terror in their depths. He pushed himself up onto one hand and caressed Fraser's flushed, frightened face with the other. "It's all right now..." Ray whispered, his tone that of a madman "she's in Hell... burning forever in Hell." Fraser shook his head frantically. Ray pressed a hand to Fraser's throat, and pushed himself up.

          Fraser struggled. Ray had to fuck himself harder into the body under him before he was able to lift his free hand and bring it down heavily across Fraser's face. The struggling lessened, and Ray raised his hand again. This time his fist caught Fraser's cheekbone. Ray was more aroused by this than he had ever thought possible. The blood rushed from his head into his groin. Bright lights danced in front of his eyes. Ray's rage turned to madness. He fucked himself deeper, harder into Fraser. He didn't hear Fraser's screams.

          Fraser had not been expecting the fist that cracked across his cheek. As his head recoiled, Fraser realised that he'd bitten his tongue; with the gag in his mouth, he began to choke on the warm sweet-salty liquid as it trickled down his throat. He attempted to force the gag from his mouth. Ray grabbed it and pulled it free. Fraser gulped in some air, coughing violently, spitting blood onto the sheets. Ray grabbed Fraser's hair, pulled his head around and up, forced his hungry mouth on Fraser's bloodied lips. Fraser's head throbbed, his heart pounded. There was nothing in him except the searing pain that ravaged him. "Stop... Ray, please... stop... it... hurts... oh, God... it hurts..."

          "I know!" Ray nodded in agreement. "It's s'posed to hurt... wan' it to hurt... you gotta learn... just how much... it hurts..." Ray dug his fingers into Fraser's sides and heard the intake of breath. He rocked back and forth on the heaving chest. Fraser's heartbeat pounded through his head. Ray smiled and murmured softly against Fraser's warm skin. "You hurt so well..."

          Fraser closed his eyes. Ray was right; he did hurt very well. Some people did Angry, others did Stupid, he did Hurt. And he did it brilliantly. The years of longing, of wanting had carved out the void inside him. This void now ached to be filled and any desire, any lust, any hunger would suffice. It wanted. It wanted so much that it would take anything it could get. Anything...

          Fraser could feel his hands trapped under him. He flexed his fingers as best he could but, above the wholesale assault on his body, he could feel nothing. He was close to something, but didn't know what. Perhaps it was Death. Perhaps it was Fulfilment. Fraser knew it was a close call as to which was which. Death would be a release from the pain. He was scared of dying like this. To die in pain would mean he'd be in pain for ever. Alive, he had the prospect of feeling less pain. Fulfilment? The void would be filled. Fraser had already accepted the reality of this scenario. All he had to do was submit to it.

          It seemed to Fraser that perhaps this was what he was meant to do; submit, totally and unconditionally. The pain would melt away into the void's darkest depths. The part of his soul that Ray was tearing away would fill the void. It would take away the pain. Ray would take away the pain. Fraser would be eternally grateful to Ray. He would be indebted to Ray for ever.

          Ray would own Fraser's soul.

          Never! Never ever! Fraser fought with all his remaining physical strength to resist again the deadly draw of emotional possession. He reached deep into his soul to seek out the emptiness and embraced it. He embraced the darkness of it, the depth and the utter silence of it. He stood on the edge of it, turned his back on it and prepared to defend it. He would repel all that threatened it or die in the attempt. Ray's burning rage threatened now. Fraser could feel the fire spreading, burning its fierce, uneven path through him. His voice in his head calmed him, gave him courage. The courage to love and the courage to suffer.

          "Finish it now." The voice was strong now and certain. "You took what you wanted. You can't hurt me anymore." Fraser felt Ray's body go taut. It was now or never. If Fraser was going to live, he had to decide to do so now. He let himself fall back into the abyss.

          Submission! Fraser willingly gave himself to the void. It sucked in the tattered, bloodied remains of his soul and scoured him for more. It was voracious, insatiable. It took everything it could find. It sucked his fragmented soul into its depths and held it there. Then it spat it out, whole and undamaged, into the waiting emptiness. The void filled, flooded, flowed over and Fraser embraced it. And he screamed.

          Ray's breath caught in his chest. Blinding lights in his eyes robbed him of his sight. Every muscle in his body spasmed as his soul was ripped from him. Fraser's scream tore into his head. Ray reached out to claw at the bloodied chest, the exposed throat, and blacked out.

Ray regained consciousness a minute later. He was lying on his back, close to the edge of the bed. He looked around the room without moving anything but his eyes. Somehow, Fraser had managed to get his cuffed hands from behind his back; he had even managed to get partly dressed, and stood at the sink, frenziedly working to undo the metal that had dug into his flesh. Slippery with blood, the cuffs refused to budge. The unintelligible muttering ceased abruptly as the lock-pick was hurled across the room and Fraser swore explosively.

          Ray hesitated, then sat up. He reached across to the pile of discarded clothes, digging into a pocket. He pulled on his pants and shirt and approached Fraser, who was resting his head on his arms on the cupboard door. Ray reached out and touched his shoulder, backing away as Fraser lashed out to defend himself. He was looking at Ray but didn't seem to see him. Ray saw him, and the damage – some of the damage – he'd done.

          Fraser's eyes were still half-focused on Ray's face as he extended his arms to allow the cuffs to be removed. Ray waited for him to say something, do something, anything; produce a gun and put a .38 through his skull. As the metal bonds clattered to the floor, Fraser looked at them, then looked directly at Ray as if seeing him for the first time. Looked at him as if he were from another planet. He blinked slowly then turned and walked to the window.

          Ray crossed to the bed and sat down, the springs yielding with a creak. He watched Fraser, studying every move in great detail, cataloguing every scratch for future reference, recording every bruise for posterity. He found that he'd given himself too much to remember. He sat on the end of the bed, idly noticing the blood that stained the white sheet. God, he was so tired. He slid to the floor and rested his head on his knees.

          Whatever forces had occupied his soul, whatever forces that had incited him to brutalise his best friend in such an appalling way, they were long gone. He was empty, a hollow shell. The vision of Victoria had shocked him, appalled him even as he had revelled, delighted in its horror. As she had been dragged down, so he would follow. He felt an almost unbearable ache in his chest, an emptiness that he could not place. He recalled the look of terror in Fraser's eyes, and the pain seared a mark on his soul like a brand. He would never be free now.

          Ray had been so sure that Fraser had been on the point of acquiescing. Then, at the eleventh hour, Fraser had denied him. The power Ray had thought he'd had over Fraser had drained away. Tears stung Ray's eyes as he realised how much he had lost in his desperate search to gain something that would never be his. He glanced across the room at the figure huddled under the window. The pain of loss reared its ugly head. Ray quietly cried himself to sleep.

The room was dark and cold. Fraser sat on the floor in the corner of the kitchen, curled against the wall. His arms were wrapped round his knees, pulling them up to his chest, and his head rested against the stove. He had sat, unmoving, looking out of the open window, for so long that his fingers were now numb. As the clouds scudded across the night sky, it occurred to him that it might be wise to move out of the draught and get properly dressed.

          He turned his head and peered towards the other end of the room. The figure against the end of the bed could have been his mirror image, except that Ray's head was resting on his knees. Was he sleeping? Was he all right? Fraser reproached himself for having any concern for someone who'd hurt him, someone else who had betrayed his trust. Why had Ray done it? Was it because he'd been allowed to? Fraser closed his eyes; he had no energy to do anything more.

Ray turned his head to see if he was still being watched. No. Good, now it was his turn. Even with the light from the street through the window, he couldn't see the face, or the bruises, but he knew from the body language that he would not be allowed to approach, even to speak. Why had he done it? Had he done it because Fraser had allowed him to? He stood, pulled on his jacket and coat, stopping to pick up Fraser's sweater from the floor. He went to the door, his eyes never leaving a sight that would probably haunt him for ever. Fraser turned his head.

          The look stopped Ray dead in his tracks. There was no way he could just leave. Cautiously, he went towards Fraser and knelt on the floor, draping the sweater over Fraser's arms. "You'll get cold." Fraser's arms hugged tighter around his knees, his eyes closing he turned his head away. "I'll go." Ray locked the door on his way out.

Early morning in Chicago. The only noticeable difference was the light. It was noisy no matter what the hour. Ray looked at his watch; it was just after three when he walked up the steps to his front door. He could not stop the voice in his head... his own voice... accusing... threatening...

          He looked at the bottle.
          "...something I shoulda done ages ago..."

          He picked up a glass, noticing the blood on his hand.
          "...I don't need to explain what I did..."

          He remembered how it had come to be there.
          "...you breathe a word and I swear..."

          He remembered the look in cerulean blue eyes.
          "...I don't want to hurt you..."

          He remembered the spirit he'd broken.
          "...you hurt him and I'll kill you..."

          After half a bottle of 40% liquor, he remembered nothing...

Fraser pushed himself off the floor under the window, and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. The harsh light hurt his eyes so he switched it off; he didn't need it to see the state he was in. Shaky fingers traced the bruise on his face, the marks around his neck. He ran a towel under the tap and wiped the blood away.

          Dragging the towel along the floor, he lay down on the bed and looked at the ceiling. He was vaguely aware that his shoulder still hurt; the endorphins had done a good job of masking the pain. He got up again, unsure of what to do. If he went to a doctor, he'd be questioned about how he'd come by the bruises. He would not be able to lie. If he went to his neighbours, they'd do the same, only they'd ask each other and not him. He would have asked Ray... well, he would have to deal with this himself.

          He tore a strip off the bed sheet with his teeth and, with some difficulty, tied a crude sling around his neck. He pulled himself up to sit against the wall, trying to piece together what he could remember. What had he done wrong? What had he said that he shouldn't have? Had he overreacted to Victoria's death? Had he, at any point, led Ray to believe that he'd wanted anything more than a friend to talk to, someone to help him understand his confusion? Had this confusion left him so vulnerable that he had allowed himself to be hurt? Had he wanted to be hurt so that he would know he could still feel?

          Fraser shivered in the cold air through the apartment. The physical injuries he would recover from; the scars would fade in time. The emotional trauma he would have to come to terms with. He tried to think logically; it was obvious that Ray no longer regarded him as just a friend. But how did he see Ray? Their relationship had undoubtedly been damaged. Was the damage irreparable? Could any shred of friendship still exist between them? He let out a sharp, painful breath; was he just avoiding the fact that he might feel the same way? He closed his eyes against this, the only images he could see were those of violence and betrayal; if that was what it really meant then he had no choice but to leave. He got up. His legs failed him. He lay down on the floor under the window... he had to rest... he'd leave in the morning... he'd go and tell Ray... he'd understand...

Ray woke from his self-inflicted stupor with a hangover the size of Mt. Rushmore. Every tiny sound was like a bomb going off inside his head. The light hurt his eyes. What time was it? He pushed himself off the bed. He felt sick and exhausted. He dragged himself into the bathroom, forced himself to look at his reflection in the bathroom mirror while he ran the events of the previous night through his head. Months of mounting frustration had been released in one violent night. What had finally provoked him? He wasn't sure if anything had. Truth was, he couldn't remember much after that first kiss. Only the jealous rage that screamed in his head, and Fraser pleading for him to stop.

          Fraser. Now he remembered.

          "Did I say I loved him?" He trudged into his room and sat on the bed. Love? He wouldn't recognise real love if it pistol-whipped him to within an inch of his life. He had loved Angie, been desperately in love with Irene, but what words did he have to define what he felt for Fraser? Lust? It had to be more than that, more than just the physical attraction he'd felt for so long. Even lust was no excuse for what he'd done. Desire? God, yes, but not with such brutality. Obsession? If that meant you thought about someone every waking minute and couldn't sleep for thinking about them, well, then yes. Addiction? You just had to be with them or die? Yes. Yes! A thousand times yes. So why had he felt it necessary to hurt him? And what had happened in that split second before Fraser's acquiescence had changed to defiance?

          "Yeah, I said I loved him." No, he didn't love him. He didn't. He adored him, worshipped the ground he walked on, would die for him, would willingly sacrifice anything to erase the last six hours. The last six months. He grimaced. Who was he kidding? He had just seen what he'd wanted to see in those trusting eyes. How could he hope for forgiveness? He could pray from now until the end of everything and still be consumed with self-loathing and guilt.

          "That's how you treat someone you love, is it, Vecchio?" But... oh, God... the memory made him feel weak, he'd smelt and tasted and felt so good! His skin, his hair, his mouth... he could still feel the reluctant warmth of Benny's mouth against his. Ray could feel his own body responding to the memory, and he felt sick as he realised what destruction this desire had wreaked.

          He'd got it wrong. He'd gone too far. It was that simple. He had done it because it was what he'd wanted. He'd never bothered to ask what Benny wanted. But why had Benny never thought to tell him anyway? Why had he kept quiet; to spare his feelings? Damn that stupid, stubborn politeness of his! So, whose fault was it? No one Ray had ever known had provoked the emotions he'd felt last night. What had been the difference? Benny? Yes, Benny was the difference. So it was Benny's fault; he'd asked for it. He'd deserved it.

Ray wasn't aware of the looks that he got as he walked slowly through the office, and sat down at his desk, head slumped in his hands. Elaine placed some files in front of him, but he didn't see them, or her. The day went by in a haze. He couldn't think about life further than one minute ahead. He didn't think about Fraser... except for that one time... between waking and sleeping.

Seven days and seven nights passed and there was still no word. Apart from a few missing clothes, there had been no clues at Fraser's apartment and the Consulate would tell him nothing. Ray rubbed his eyes, they were gritty and sore from a week's broken, tormented sleep. Fine. Okay. Go north. Go as far north as possible without falling off the end of the world. And then some... Ray simply wouldn't think about him any more, and he really didn't care at all.

For a while Ray ignored the presence in front of him, even though his senses had set alarm bells ringing the moment the door had opened. He finally looked up to see a sight that made his head spin. Desire mixed with anger and regret. He had to look away.

          "I believe this is yours. I found it at the apartment." Fraser placed a small gold crucifix, on its now twisted chain, carefully into Ray's outstretched hand. Briefly, their hands touched.

          Ray looked up at Fraser, his stomach turning as he remembered that it had been his hands that had inflicted those injuries. As he lowered his eyes he caught sight of the backpack. "Where are you going?"

          "Away. Home."

          "Benny... please."

          Fraser laughed ironically. "Please? I wasn't aware you knew the meaning of the word." He pulled away as Ray reached out to grab his hand again, as if the touch would burn him. "Take... your hands... off me," he hissed.

          "You gotta let me explain."

          Fraser looked disbelieving. "Haven't you had enough of telling me what I have to do?"

          "Please, let me explain."

          "Or what? What else could you do to me that you haven't done already?"

          "Benny..."

          "Ray, I can't" – Fraser took a breath – "I don't... really don't... want to talk to... to see you... again." His voice was strained, uneven. The slightest provocation might be too much.

          Ray saw the fury, masked by a forced calm. All he wanted to do was say he was sorry; was he not even going to be allowed that? "Please, five minutes."

          "I thought... you said..." Fraser hesitated. "No." He picked up the backpack, and turned to leave.

          Ray shot out his hand, grabbed Fraser's wrist and walked around to the other side of the desk. "You have to listen to me." He tightened his grip and pushed Fraser the short distance to hold him up against the wall. His free hand went round Fraser's throat. "You can't walk away from me again! Wherever you go I'll find you!"

          "Let... go of me... now."

          "No. Not this time." Ray shook his head. He felt other hands on him, pulling him away, trying to pry him loose. He simply tightened his grip.

          "Ray... please... it hurts... let go." Fraser backed away slightly as he was abruptly released. Ray's vice-like grip had broken a bone in his wrist, but the additional pain seemed to make little difference to Fraser. He walked to the door and pushed against it with his shoulder.

          Ray, now restrained by four other people, raised his voice at the retreating figure. "I mean it, Fraser! I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth!"

          Fraser stopped, leaning against the door, and turned. Head slightly inclined, he looked at Ray with a mixture of pain and profound sadness. He shook his head and backed through the door, not once breaking eye contact.

          Lieutenant Welsh had observed the argument from his office. Chalking up another round of US v Canada, he just shook his head; they'd sort it out. They always did.

          Then it became violent. It was past 'sorting it out'; Welsh broke through the cordon around Ray and grabbed him by the arm, propelling him across the room. "Okay, people, back to work! Show's over!" Welsh pushed Ray into his office and slammed the door.

Fraser started the long walk to the airport. He could easily have taken a taxi, but a taxi driver would want to talk, and Fraser didn't want to listen. The cold air made his eyes water – at least that was what he told himself – and numbed the pain in his shoulder and wrist. He was so tired, and so desperately unhappy. How had things ended up like this? Surely only he had the right to ruin his own life? Is that what he wanted? He hurt and it didn't make sense. He had to get away or he would end up dead. He might anyway, but at least the further away he was the more likely it was that no one – at least no one he cared about – would come to his funeral.

          He stopped at a corner and leaned up against a shop window, breathing hard from the exertion. He rummaged around in his backpack to find something to bind his wrist. As he tied the cloth around his hand he started to wonder what he was doing. Would Ray follow him? Would it matter if he did? Would he try and talk him out of going? Where was he going? Fraser forced himself to think one thought at a time, to try and reduce the tension in his head, the ache in his chest. If Ray did follow him, he would just have to deal with it.

Welsh guided Ray into the office and locked the door. He closed the blinds, and pulled up a chair in front of his desk. "Sit down, Vecchio."

          Welsh's hands were firm, his voice firmer. "What the hell was that all about? What's been going on between you and Fraser?"

          Ray's eyes closed briefly.

          Welsh poured himself another cup of coffee, and handed one to Ray, who was sitting, head in hands. The Italian looked up and shook his head. Welsh put the mug on the edge of his desk. "Vecchio, talk to me."

          "I can't. Sorry."

          Welsh smiled sadly. Before Fraser had arrived, Ray didn't apologise even if his life depended on it. Maybe now it did. Welsh kept his tone no-nonsense; he had a serious message to get across. "Detective Vecchio, you can talk to me in here, in private, or I can make it official. You attacked Fraser in front of a room full of witnesses. I would like to know why, because if he decides to press charges, there won't be much I can do to help you."

          Ray sat up and his eyes met Welsh's. Oh, Ray knew he meant it. Without any complicated emotions to muddy the waters, Ray also knew it had been a pretty dumb thing to do, but could he really tell Welsh everything that had happened? "What d'you want to know?" he asked diffidently.

          "Everything."

          "Everything?"

          "Everything that might be relevant."

          An escape route. Ray tried to look grateful; he picked up the mug and drank the coffee quickly. It was black and sour. Somewhat appropriate. He stared into the bottom of the mug for a while before putting it down and standing up to pace the floor. "After Victoria... after he left hospital... I thought he was doin' okay. He seemed to be back to normal. Then... he finds out a week or so ago she's been killed..."

          "Yes, I know. The Consulate called me. So, he found out. Presumably he told you."

          "No."

          "No?"

          "He didn't have to. I knew something had happened."

          "How, if he didn't tell you?"

          Ray leaned up against the wall, arms folded. "It was... shit, this is ridiculous!" He began to pace the floor. "I invited him over for supper, but he wasn't at his apartment when I went to pick him up. He was back at the Consulate, and when I tried to find out why he was there, he went crazy. He swore at me, and punched me, before he threw me out."

          Ray's tone was indignant. Welsh smothered a smile. He had often wondered just how much provocation it would take for Fraser to resort to violence. "What did you do to provoke him?"

          "Nothing, I swear! I saw the file on his desk, but before I could get to talk to him about it, he threw me out."

          "After he punched you?"

          "Yeah."

          "Then what?"

          "I waited in the car 'til he decided to show."

          "Why did you wait?"

          "I was worried 'bout him."

          "Seems reasonable."

          "I drove him home, and cooked supper."

          "This is all very touching, Detective, but what's your point?" Welsh could see that this situation was becoming increasingly difficult for Ray; his expression showed that he didn't fully understand why. Ray usually found expressing himself easy; after he'd accidentally shot Fraser at the railway terminal he had been semi-coherent for days, unable to articulate his grief without a great deal of anger. Welsh had put that down to guilt and stress, mainly guilt. It was going to be up to Ray to tell him what this was all about.

          Welsh was certain that it was serious. He was determined to find out, no matter how much it upset Ray. He got up to pour himself another coffee, and stood next to Ray. "I can only help you if you tell me what happened."

          "Well, we talked about her. He said he was confused. Said she loved him, he loved her. After everything she'd done, I was... angry, I guess. I told him she never loved him. She couldn't have to have treated him like that."

          "He's an adult, Ray. He's allowed to make mistakes."

          "He asked me what I thought love was."

          "That gives you the right to beat him up?"

          "I didn't!"

          "Don't lie to me, Detective, I saw his injuries!"

          "Well... yeah, but not then. I told him what I thought."

          "How did he react?"

          "He didn't. Not as I remember."

          "How d'you mean?"

          Ray shifted his feet uncomfortably. He really didn't want to say it. Not to Welsh, not to anyone here. He only wanted to say it to Fraser, who would never believe him now. He walked across the office, wondering how to say what he needed to; he closed his eyes, briefly imagining himself in the enfolding warmth and seclusion of the confessional. "I said... I told him... I loved him."

          Welsh stared at the floor. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. He gulped down a mouthful of coffee. How could he respond, how should he respond; as Ray's superior officer or as a human being? Welsh smiled ruefully; was it possible to be both at the same time? "You attack and threaten everyone you love, do you?"

          Ray shook his head.

          "Why did he leave?"

          Ray felt absurdly calm. "I hurt him. I didn't mean to, he told me to stop but I wasn't listening."

          "That's when you hit him."

          "No."

          "What did you do?"

          Ray was silent for a while, trying to control his breathing. The next thing he said would end his career. Somehow, weighing that up against having ruined the life of the man he loved, it seemed the absolute minimum he could sacrifice. He looked Welsh directly in the eyes. "I assaulted him."

          Welsh looked at him for a long time. Ray held his breath, he could see Welsh's mind working, and he doubted he would have to say anything else. "You don't mean just physically, do you?"

          A slow shake of the head, and the downcast eyes, told Welsh all he needed to know. There was nothing he could say or do that would make Ray feel any better. "Detective Vecchio, I'm going to have to ask you for your shield" – Welsh held the badge in his hand, loathing this part of his job – "your weapon, and your backup. You're on suspension from now. Without pay."

Ray met every red light, every slow moving vehicle, every roadblock on the drive to the airport. It would have been quicker to walk, he thought, the light pulsing in his eyes in time with the blood thundering his head. He screeched the Riv to a halt at the main doors and ran, his mind a jumble of thoughts and images.

          The familiar sound of the car screeching to a halt stopped Fraser in his tracks. There were maybe ten minutes left before Ray found him.

          Ray's head was spinning. Get outta my way! He scanned the departure lounge, no sign there. The loudspeaker announced the next flight to where? For God's sake, shut up! He ran up the stairs, the escalator too crowded.

          "Fraser!" He yelled above the noise. People impeded his every step in every direction. Ray could hear them talking, see them looking, thinking, prying. Where was he? 'I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else.' He ran back down the stairs. I gotta find him, gotta tell him.

          The check-in desk! Where? Benny? Yes! Get out of my way! "Police coming through, get back!" Don't lose him. "Fraser!" Stop, damn you! "Stop!" Calm down, calm down. "Police! Get outta my way!" Get a grip... I swear to God...

          Fraser looked at his watch. Ray had taken nine minutes and eighteen seconds to find him. He almost smiled.

          "Fraser!" Ray's voice was hoarse.

          Fraser's head turned. The sea of strange unseeing faces intruded, moved in bizarre slow motion in front of his empty eyes.

          Ray pushed his way through the crowd to get to Fraser, grabbed his jacket and pulled him round so they were face to face. "She's gone... she's dead!" Ray was trembling, on a knife-edge. He laughed, in the grip of a madness of his own making. "She can't hurt you anymore!" He drew Fraser closer to him, their faces almost touching. "I love you."

          Fraser turned away and continued to walk up the stairs. Ray's hand grabbed his arm again. As he twisted out of the grip, Ray tugged him backwards. Off balance, the floor under Fraser's feet moved, and he fell...

Ray took the steps three at a time. Fraser lay at the foot of the escalator, unmoving. There was a gash on the back of his head, and several smaller cuts on his face. Ray struggled to open Fraser's backpack to find something to use as a temporary dressing, but his hands were shaking so much it was hopeless. He took off his jacket and ripped his shirt in half.

          Fraser stirred and sucked in a breath. Pain from a broken rib made him cough. Ray was close; Fraser did not need to open his eyes to detect the warmth and the smell of him. His head was lifted up and a pad of material was pressed to the back of his skull. He turned his eyes to the sound of a siren and running feet. He lay still as one pair of hands examined his body. Another pair paid close attention to his head injury. Now there were voices; one distant, giving orders, the second closer, intimate.

          "I love you." Ray pressed his mouth against Fraser's head. "I can't lose you, I won't..." he whispered into sweat-damp hair; God, he was so cold! "I love you," against a cool forehead, kisses stolen in the frenzy of hands keeping him alive.

          "You have to move back, sir, we need to stabilise him."

          "I'm his... a..."

          "Please, move back."

          "NO!"

          "Who are you?"

          "I'm his... friend." Ray's eyes stung as he forced himself to look into blue eyes, half open... like they were before... But not like this! "I'm sorry. I love you. Hold on to me. Breathe with me. Take my life, I don't want it. If you die it's no good to me."

          Ray watched as Fraser's mouth formed the shape of a word, but there was no sound. Ray buried his face in Fraser's shoulder. They think I'm trying to listen... they can't see... Ray breathed in Fraser's scent, kissed his neck, ran his fingers through the dark hair. "I love you," Ray said, wiping tears and blood away. "Don't die."

          Fraser's blue eyes flickered. Ray held his breath. Just a look, please. The blue eyes opened. "Tell me you'll live for me..." They closed. "Just hold on, hold on to me, I love you. Oh, God..." Ray whispered against Fraser's mouth. He's so warm. Fraser looked so vulnerable. It would be so easy.

          Ray pulled back from the ache in the hazy blue eyes. How could I? His hand pressed to Fraser's chest, near his heart. Ray felt the quickening pulse echo in his own. "Live for me, only for me. Benny, I love you."

          Fraser's head was warm. Blood? No. Ray? The pain was increasing. It was almost exquisite. Fraser did not turn his head from Ray's surreptitious kisses, in his hair, on his face, his neck. He did not flinch from Ray's cold fingers tangling in his hair, from Ray's warm, rapid breath. How easy it would be... to submit... just let go... die... Fraser caught a glimpse of green. How could you? Green became emerald... slowly fading to dark olive... finally fading to black...

Ray waited, beyond impatience, as the doctors performed another miracle. It would never be enough. The miracle he most needed was not to be found here; Ray doubted if he would ever be granted it now.

          The frustration, the ever-increasing jealousy, had woken him almost every night for the last three months. Ray had been angry and resentful as, again and again, he thought of the time he'd spent since... since she had left coaxing Fraser out of the self-imposed isolation, gently bringing him back to the real world to which – to whom – he belonged. Now, without warning, Ray was in the midst of a second horror that could surely only lead to the loss of the person he loved more than anyone in the whole world.

          There had been moments when he'd seen a distant look in Fraser's guarded blue eyes. He would look, time would stop until Fraser pulled himself back to the present, and the whole cycle would start again. Every time, Fraser would come back just a little closer. Ray knew that it might be a long time before this healing process was complete, and Fraser was ready to let him get close again. He had often wondered whether Fraser would ever let anyone get close to him again.

          But Ray would wait now. Forever, if necessary. Every time he looked at Fraser he had to steel himself against the stab of remembered pain, wondering when the day would come that the knowledge of how close they'd both been to self-destruction would not send an involuntary shiver down his spine, as if someone was walking over his grave.

          Ray closed his eyes against the vision of Fraser lying on the cold, hard ground at the airport, frightened eyes once more searching Ray's face for an answer that Ray did not have to a question that Fraser could not ask.

Ray returned to the hospital the following day. He hadn't slept or eaten, and he knew he had to find the strength from somewhere in order to begin the task he'd set himself of rebuilding bridges. He would draw strength from seeing Fraser. He stopped at the end of the corridor as he caught sight of two red-jacketed figures outside the door. He asked to speak to the doctor in charge.

          "No, you can't see him... no, it was his decision... there's no point waiting, he won't change his mind... no, I can't take a message... no, I'm sorry... no, I can't... no... no... no... no..."

          NO! The word tore into Ray's head, and whirled around, swamping all his senses, suffocating him. It was all he could hear, all he could feel... the sound followed him like an animal in search of blood... his blood... head pounding... heart racing... stomach heaving... he staggered down the corridor, crashed through the emergency exit and collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, shaking with rage and fear.

The report from the doctor who examined Ray was quite specific; he was suffering from stress and acute exhaustion. He was signed off work for a month.

          Ray sat impassive as they argued over him, slowly twisting and untwisting the crucifix, on its knotted chain, around his fingers, as a small trickle of blood traced an uneven path down the back of his hand.

Fraser left the hospital after ten days, against the advice of the doctor and two specialists. As far as he was concerned, they were simply failing to understand his reasoning. They argued with him, demanding his written assurance that they would not be held liable for any aspect of his welfare once he had discharged himself.

          Fraser smiled benignly, said he greatly appreciated their sincere concern for his health, assured them that he would see a doctor when he arrived in the Yukon, and gave them had his word that should he drop dead between then and now, he wouldn't sue.

The Yukon.

As the light plane flew over the undulating whiteness, Fraser wondered why he'd started this journey. He'd sat in the departure lounge at the airport for hours, staring blankly at the spot where he'd fallen, until the only thing he wanted to do was curl up and sleep for ever. Was that why he'd started running? What was he really running away from? He felt like a fugitive; would this be his life from now on? On the run from...what? Himself?

Fraser boarded the plane again two weeks later. The man at the desk had looked at him, impatient to begin with and then with the measured tone of an adult talking to a particularly resolute, but patently mistaken child. Or an idiot. "Yes, it is a return ticket."

          "To where? Chicago?"

          "Yes, Chicago."

          Fraser pursed his lips. So, he was going back to Chicago. The problem was he just could not remember leaving. "So, I flew out of Chicago... when?"

          The desk clerk pulled the ticket out of his hands; Fraser didn't want to let it go, but he had little choice. "That was the date you flew out."

          "And now I'm going back?" Fraser just could not assimilate this at all.

          "Yes, sir. You must have left Chicago in order to be going back there."

Chicago.

Lieutenant Welsh studied his unexpected visitor. The dark smudges under Fraser's eyes betrayed a lack of sleep and a considerably weakened physical condition. "Constable Fraser. Come in." Welsh wondered just what was keeping him going. "Sit down, please."

          Fraser walked across the room and leaned against the wall. "I'm not staying."

          "I understand you don't want to see Detective Vecchio."

          "That is correct."

          "May I ask why?"

          "You may not."

          Welsh sincerely regretted the change he was seeing. Fraser had been so candid; whatever else this brutal emotional tug-of-war with Ray had done to him, it had taken away his gentleness, his openness, his virtue. "All right, so how can I help you?"

          Fraser's voice was ragged. "To be honest, I'm not sure."

          "Vecchio told me what happened between the two of you."

          "When?"

          "After he'd attacked you out there," Welsh gestured towards the deserted office. "I told him he was damn stupid... room full of witnesses... I threatened to make it official."

          "You gave him a way out." It wasn't a question.

          "I didn't really have much of a choice. He was ready to snap; I haven't had much sense out of either of you since this Metcalf business."

          Fraser was suddenly on his feet, angry. "Don't ever mention her again!"

          Welsh was taken aback at the sudden flash of temper. "Hey! I'm sorry! I'm sorry."

          The outburst seemed to have calmed Fraser down. "No, I'm the one who should apologise." He rubbed his hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry."

          "Look, are you sure you don't want to see Ray?"

          Fraser stood looking through the blinds into the main office. "He came to see me when I was in the hospital, but I didn't want to see him. He probably thinks I still don't."

          "Don't you have anything to say to him?"

          "Oh, I have plenty to say, though I doubt he'll want to hear any of it."

          "All he wants is the chance to apologise. He's been in a real state since he..."

          "Nearly killed me again?" There was a long silence. "I know it was an accident. All right, I'll go and see him."

          "D'you want to use my office?"

          Fraser leaned up against the wall to steady himself. "He's here?" It was barely a whisper; he felt like a deer caught in headlights.

          "Can't keep him away. He's meant to be at home." Welsh finally noticed that Fraser was on the point of collapse and guided him towards a chair, made him sit down. "Do you want to use my office?"

          Fraser, still in a trance, looked around. It was comfortable, warm. "No."

          "One of the interview rooms, then."

          "Where is he?" Fraser asked, quietly.

          "In the cafeteria."

          As Fraser moved to the door, Welsh put a hand on his arm. "Fraser... Ben, I know what happened." Welsh hesitated, then carried on. "Ray told me what happened between you. He also told me he loved you."

          Fraser's composure didn't waver this time, but a melancholy smile played across his lips. His eyes were dark and as he glanced towards the light, they shone. "I know he does."

Ray and Fraser stood against opposite walls of the Interview Room exchanging the occasional wary look but no words.

          Ray would have preferred it if Fraser had just beaten him to a pulp, but instead Fraser stood with his arms folded, his expression inscrutable. Ray held the gaze until the guilt made it impossible. He looked at the floor, trying to decide what to say to the stranger who looked at him.

          He decided to start with something neutral. "Where've you been? You check out of hospital, then nothing. I was worried."

          "You sound like your mother. Worried about what?"

          "You, of course."

          "Of course." Fraser repeated, sarcastically.

          "Where were you?"

          "I went to the Yukon." Fraser looked annoyed at having answered. "Not that it's any of your business."

          "Why?"

          "Have you ever seen a body burned beyond recognition? Twisted, black, the mouth pulled open, so contorted you can't even tell it's human? You look at a mess of charred flesh and bone and know that it was once someone you made love to?"

          "No. I haven't." Ray kicked himself for not having read the file. After what had happened that night, he'd completely forgotten that it existed.

          "I felt genuine distress that she'd suffered so much; I wouldn't have wished it on anyone. After the cremation, I took her ashes – what there were – back to Fortitude Pass, to where I'd found her. I sat there for hours, thinking about her, you, us, life. It was snowing. I could hear her voice, see her face; God, Ray, I missed her. I never thought I would. I just held the urn and talked to her, told her all the things I couldn't tell her before..."

          Ray reached out a hand, a gesture of comfort... and stopped himself just in time.

          "I talked until I couldn't speak. I scattered her ashes along the route we'd taken to the town, and buried the urn in the snow at the place where we'd camped. It was the strangest feeling leaving her there. I slept in the church, until someone shone a flashlight in my face at around four and told me it was time to go. As I left, I noticed there were only one set of footprints outside the door; as it hadn't snowed overnight, I knew they must have been mine." He paused. "Did you know that most people who die during the night do so at four in the morning?"

          "No, I didn't."

          "Well, it's not important now."

          "Why're you telling me this?"

          Fraser took off his jacket and placed it on the table. He ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath, and paced across the room, pausing as he leaned his hands against the wall, head lowered. "It's ironic..." he lifted his head, turning it slightly in Ray's direction, then scrutinised the paint on the wall, picking flakes off as he spoke. "I had a speech all worked out and now I can't remember a word of it."

          "Just tell me why you came back, how you feel." Oh, shit! That was exactly the wrong thing to suggest, thought Ray, damn all amateur therapists, as Fraser's hand closed, vice-like, around his throat. The blue eyes burned into his head like two lasers. He was pinned up against the wall and yelled at until his ears rang.

          "I have to tell you how I feel? You don't know? I feel used! I turned to you for help, for some comfort and you used me! I trusted you! All I wanted was for you to listen but you never heard a word I said! I thought you understood how I felt! You of all people! You even had the nerve to say you loved me!" Fraser laughed bitterly. "I actually... Jesus! found myself wanting to believe you!"

          Ray felt himself being pushed further up the wall. He fought for breath, tried to stay calm, but his ears were buzzing. "Let go." The words caught in his throat.

          "Why? Does this scare you? Are you scared I might hurt you? I was under the distinct impression" – Fraser leaned forward, his hand closing tighter around Ray's throat, his voice low, dangerous – "that you enjoyed violence."

          "Stop it."

          Why? So you can pretend that it never happened? So you can forget what you did to me and hope that I will too? So you can carry on with your life without having to feel guilty? Do you feel guilty? Do you?"

          "Benny, stop it..."

          Blue eyes narrowed, but still burned. "Say please," Fraser hissed. "You didn't say it before. Say it now."

          "Please." Ray coughed, his voice almost inaudible.

          "Very good."

          "Don't."

          "Don't what, Ray? Just what is it that you don't want me to do?"

          "Benny..."

          "Say it!"

          Ray's courage nearly failed him. "Okay... damn you... you wanna hear it... will it make you feel... any better?" He struggled to loosen the grip around his throat; he was starting to see stars before his eyes. "Okay... I'll say it... the word you... want to hear... is rape... I raped you... I wanted to hurt you..."

          It couldn't be unsaid. Fraser's grip eased perceptibly as he fought to remain standing, but he never once broke eye contact.

          Ray swore silently; he had hoped to avoid having to explain himself. Something about his predicament – possibly the fact he was being slowly strangled – made that impossible. He spoke as clearly as he could, but it was getting increasingly difficult to breathe. "Things just got... outta control... you were my friend but... all I could think....we got so close... after Victoria left... I thought you'd forget her... it hurt... when you pushed me away...I didn't know what... was going on... in your head... Benny, I thought..."

          The grip loosened abruptly. Ray rested against the wall, massaging his throat. It took a while before the buzzing in his ears subsided enough to let him hear what was being said to him.

          "Were?"

          He focused on the face just a foot or so away from his. "What?"

          "'You were my friend'?" Fraser's eyes widened. "Did I hear you correctly?"

          "Don't twist my words! That's not what I meant!"

          "Then say what you mean!"

          Beyond rational thought, Ray gripped Fraser by the front of his shirt, pulling him as close as he dared. He spoke slowly, as he would have done to a child. "I'm sorry."

          Fraser pulled back, looking stunned. "You're sorry?"

          "Yes. I'm sorry."

          "You're sorry..." Fraser repeated the words as if he didn't quite believe he'd heard them. He ran his hands through his hair and held his head as if it might explode. "You're sorry?"

          "Yes! I'm sorry! How many times d'you want me to say it? I'm sorry! What else can I say?"

          "I want you to tell me why! I want to know why!" Fraser grabbed Ray's jacket and, as if more emphasis was needed, with every word shoved the Italian across to the opposite side of the room until he hit the wall. "Tell me why!"

          Ray was unsure what hurt more, the hands pounding his chest, or the knowledge that he'd brought all this on himself, that it was all his fault. "I was jealous!"

          Fraser looked as if he hadn't heard right. He stopped pounding, and gripped the crumpled jacket by the lapels. "Jealous? Of Victoria? Of a dead woman?"

          Ray felt the remorse, the shame well up. It stuck in his throat. He looked directly into mystified, angry eyes. "Yes. Even though she was dead I knew you still felt something for her. I got angry. I loved you... I still love you... I didn't want to lose you again."

          "Are you telling me the truth?"

          Ray nodded. "Yes. I was jealous and angry and took it out on you in the worst possible way I coulda done. I was gonna..." he paused. No, he wouldn't lie to Fraser, not now. "I thought about killing you."

          Fraser moved back, sitting on the edge of the table, all his anger gone. Now he simply looked exhausted, desperately sad. "Ray, I know how difficult that was for you to say. I appreciate your honesty. Thank you for that, at least."

          Ray felt the bond between them stretch to breaking point. What could he do – what would he do – to make Fraser stay? "I never wanted this to happen. I just assumed..." He stopped as he saw the faint, unexpected smile. "Big mistake, huh?"

          Fraser nodded. "Ray, I believe you are really a good person, but you had no right to treat me the way you did. You hurt me, you betrayed my trust, with no justification at all but Ray, I cannot – I will not – spend the rest of my life being consumed by hate or revenge. I can forgive you for what you did. I only hope that you can, in time, forgive yourself."

          Ray heard the underlying message sink in. He opened his eyes. "Then you're leaving?"

          "Yes."

          Could Ray get him to change his mind? "When?"

          "Today."

          He didn't have much time. "Where?"

          "Back north."

          "How long for? Week? Month?"

          "For good."

          "No! Benny, you can't..."

          "I've made my decision, and I would ask you to respect it."

          Ray's voice wavered. "You can't..."

          "You gave me no choice."

          Ray risked reaching out his hand. "I know." Maybe, just maybe, he could persuade Fraser to stay. He was stunned when his hand was taken and held, tentatively at first, then tighter as their fingers entwined. He looked into eyes that ripped away all the pretences, all the lies, all the deceit and left his soul bare. "I'm so sorry."

          "I know." Fraser disentangled his fingers, watched Ray's green eyes swim with tears, saw Ray shudder as the bond between them dissolved.

          "Don't... please don't... stay, please." Ray tried not to sound like a pathetic child, but it was how he felt. He wanted to plead, beg, cry, stamp his feet and scream. He wanted to bury his face in Fraser's strong shoulder and hold on for ever, never let go, never, never, never...

          "No," Fraser said, emphatically. "I'm sorry Ray, but I don't trust you, not now." He moved to pick up his jacket and then hesitated. "And it's very difficult, maybe even impossible, to love someone you don't trust."

          Ray watched Fraser put on his jacket, pick up his backpack, and walk out of the room, the office, and Ray's life, without once looking back.

Chicago.

Welsh couldn't bring himself to assign Ray a partner. Where necessary, Elaine helped him, although she spent most of her time trying to persuade him to use the computer. She figured it would provide a distraction of sorts, and he eventually agreed. She would stop by every hour or so to offer advice, until he told her to leave him alone, stop whining and get a life. This, she decided, was a good sign. The computer – his computer – became his obsession. Smiling, he would occasionally threaten to shoot anyone who went near it.

The Yukon.

Snow. Stark, unforgiving, brutal. The beauty was breathtaking. It was no surprise there were so many words for it. Fraser felt the clean, pure air slowly wash over him, through him, leaving him numb. He could cope with numb; it felt right. He could feel... un-feel... like this for the rest of his life. He knew precisely where, precisely who, he was.

          He knew precisely what he had to do, and made sure he did everything to the best of his ability. He was kind and considerate. He offered advice to anyone who asked it of him and, when he was unable to help, he found someone who could.

          He knew all their faces, all their names, all their life stories. He woke at precisely the same time every day, and slept for precisely the same number of hours every night. Each and every day was precisely the same. This was his life. Precise. As it should be.

          Precisely three months after arriving, Fraser realised something was not as precise as it had been.

          One afternoon, whilst maintaining the right, Fraser became suddenly, painfully aware of an emptiness. He searched everywhere but remained unconvinced that he could have lost, or even just misplaced, any of his possessions. It was only as he roused himself from sleep the following day that he understood.

          The emptiness was inside him.

          He had assumed that everything he was was enough. Ray had assumed also. If Ray had been wrong, Fraser had asked himself, might there be a chance – however remote – that he was wrong too?

          Fraser packed up all his possession. If there was even the slightest chance, he had to take it. Despite what had happened between them, Fraser knew he had to see Ray again. He had to be sure. Fraser checked his watch. It was time to go.

Chicago.

The hallway was dark; he offered up a prayer that the house would be empty. He rang the bell. A light went on in answer. There was no way back now. His heart lurched. Why was he here? The door opened. What did he say? He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

          Is Ray in?"

          "Ray!" Screamed up the stairs.

          "What?" Shouted back down.

          "Visitor!"

          Silence, then running feet, something clattering to the floor, a heavy thump as several steps were taken in a jump. Breathing hard, he reached the hallway. Ray's heart stopped as he saw who was standing there. "Fraser."

In the dim light of the hallway, Harding Welsh sat next to Ray on the stairs, alarmed at the quiet he saw in the green eyes.

          "How'd it happen?"

          "The plane he was on was brought down during a storm about an hour after takeoff." Welsh handed Ray a document that had been faxed to the Precinct earlier that evening.

          Ray read it slowly, mouthing the words. "Trust him to die somewhere unpronounceable," Ray smiled. He had to smile. "Where was he headed?"

          Welsh tried to return the smile, tried to be supportive, but his heart wasn't in it. He spoke slowly, forcing the words out of his mouth. "According to the Consulate, he was on his way back to Chicago."

          Ray looked at the open front door. To be told that his life might be about to begin again and then, a heartbeat later, that it was finally over...? He could feel his carefully constructed defences fall away. "When does... would he have gotten back?"

          "Ray, what does it matter now?"

          "I need to know." Ray insisted.

          Welsh sighed. "Tomorrow."

          Tomorrow. Ray sat and looked out of the front door for a long time. He didn't speak as he suddenly got up, and pushed it closed. He rested his head on it, hands either side, for as long again.

          Welsh pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket. He turned it over a few times before deciding it was the right thing to do. "Ray, this is for you. It arrived at the Consulate, in with a whole bunch of other stuff they think was mailed the day he caught the flight."

          Ray took it, his hands strangely steady. His name in bold, strong letters. Yes, it was from Fraser. Ray got up and walked slowly into the kitchen, his eyes never leaving the envelope. He returned, having opened it and, with almost religious reverence, pulled out a single sheet of paper. It had been folded in half twice. Ray started to unfold it, but handed it instead to Welsh. "I can't. Please."

          Welsh hesitated.

          Ray was unable to bear even to look at the writing he knew so well. "Please," he repeated.

          Welsh took the letter, and unfolded it. "It's a poem."

          "Read it."

          "Ray..."

          "Read it. Out loud. Now. Please."

          Welsh cleared his throat unnecessarily and began to read. "'Farewell to one now silenced quite, sent out of hearing, out of sight, – my friend of friends, whom I shall miss, he is not banished, though, for this, – nor he, nor sadness, nor delight.'" He stopped as Ray's head slumped forward. "I can't do this."

          Ray snatched the sheet from Welsh's hands. He read for a while in silence, unable at first to properly see the words. After a pause, and several shaky breaths, Ray spoke aloud. "'Although my life is left so dim, the morning crowns the mountain rim; Joy is not gone from summer skies, nor innocence from children's eyes... and all these things are part of him'" – he paused – "there's another verse. There, look." Ray's voice was that of a child, lost, alone, frightened. He turned to Welsh and gripped his arm. "I killed him. I made him go away, and now he's dead. I killed him."

          "Ray" – Welsh ran his hands over his head in tired frustration – "you know that's not true. It was an accident." He took back the letter and read it again. "Look, the date on this is almost three months ago."

          "Gimme that." Ray stared at the date written in the top corner. "Just after he left. I guess he figured on staying there."

          "Ray, he was on his way back."

          The letter crumpled in Ray's fingers as the truth hit home. He pressed the paper to his mouth, his fists clenching tighter. "Fraser's dead... he was coming back... he loved me... and now he's dead." A comforting arm went round his shoulders, and Ray felt nothing more.

The sedative helped Ray sleep, and only in sleep could he numb the savage pain that blazed through him from the hole that had been blasted through his heart. He was granted sick leave and told to come back only when he was ready. Ray smiled, agreed and moved on, as the pain lived, grew inside him. Everyone told him how he was looking better, sounding better. He smiled, agreed and moved on. The pain became part of him.

          He decided to go away for a while. A holiday was just what he needed, he was told. Somewhere warm? Yeah, maybe. Ray threw his bag – the smallest one he had – into the car, kissed everyone, promised to send a postcard, and left.

Ray's 1971 green Buick Riviera was eventually sighted, burnt out, at the foot of a near vertical incline on a minor road east of the Alaska Highway. His body, apparently thrown clear of the car before impact, was found thirty yards away. Locating the accident site had taken longer than expected on the isolated and little-used stretch of road. This delay had combined with the sub-zero temperature to make his death inevitable. Had he been on a major route, said the coroner, he would have been found much sooner; he might have survived.

The postcard arrived a week later. Ray had mailed it on the day he'd died. The writing was not much more than a scrawl, done by a man who was fighting a losing battle to stay awake. Perhaps to stay alive.

          "Someone said there are two tragedies in life. One to lose your heart's desire. The other to gain it. They were wrong. There are three. Losing your heart's desire, thinking you've gained it, then losing it forever."

The funeral was a private one; just immediate family and close friends. Harding Welsh accompanied Mrs Vecchio from the church into the cemetery where Ray's father was buried. Pausing only briefly by her husband's grave – she knew if she stopped, she would not be able to move again – she kept on walking to where her son would be laid to rest. She closed her eyes as she saw the masses of flowers, blooms burning bright against the dark, cold earth.

          She had shed so many tears her eyes were dry; so much pain had been endured she could feel no more; so many words had been spoken she could hear nothing. Now there was just the cold and the silence, and the flowers. So many flowers! Far too many for one grave, but enough for the two. Side by side. Inseparable.