Disclaimer: Standard Disclaimer. Basically, I don´t have an excuse for what I´m about to do. If the images stick in your head, please consider using bleach to remove them. Please send comments, questions, compliments, and otters to sdelcul@yahoo.com.

Author's Notes: I apologize for the list overload, but please bear with me (feel free to send angry emails and fling inanimate objects) until I catch up. Keep in mind that internet is a two hour bus ride away at the moment and I have to boil my water before it's safe to drink. Gotta love rural Ecuador!

Story Notes:

He thought that if they'd really intended for him not to find out they would have been more discreet. He knew they weren't trying to hurt him, but it did hurt. The thought of Ray and Inspector Thatcher together made him nauseous, but he wasn'sure what upset him more, that Ray was sleeping with Inspector Thatcher, or that Inspector Thatcher was sleeping with him. Perhaps it was that they were sharing with each either what neither had chosen to share with him. Inspector Thatcher had kissed him once on a train, and Ray had flirted with him endlessly. And nothing more.

It had started innocently, he assumed. First, they would have come to some kind of truce, deciding that they could share the same hemisphere without fighting. Then, gradually, they'd begun to trust each other, and since they were both in the same boat they'd become friends. He couldn't be sure of the order of events after that. Perhaps dinner, late night talks that developed into making out with the lights off. He could imagine them kissing, in his mind. He knew how Inspector Thatcher kissed, like a fight. How Ray kissed was a mystery. He felt sick inside.

It was too late for action on his part. They'd made it easy, in one way, by taking the choice out of his hands; perhaps knowing that it might be years before he was ready to decide if left to himself. He'd assumed, stupidly it seemed, that they were giving him space to decide. It was unfair of him to be angry, he knew, but he was angrier at himself. Losing Victoria had been his fault. In response he'd gone too far in the opposite direction and lost again.

It pleased him, in one way, that they were both happy. They looked happy. Inspector Thatcher was sleeping, stretched out on top of Ray, and he had his arms wrapped around her. So different, and yet so similar. They looked good together, and he bit his lip to prevent himself from crawling onto the bed and curling up between them. He shivered and took a step backward into the hallway behind room 207. He closed the door, and stayed for several minutes until he'd regained control. The walk home was a long one, and for that he was grateful.

End Nasty Stain by silvina: sdelcul@yahoo.com

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