Can't Stop Falling

Disclaimer: The characters and concept of Due South belong to Alliance Atlantis.
The title is borrowed from a song by Great Big Sea, to whom also belong the lyrics quoted within.

Author's Notes: This story is AU, which should be obvious quite early on.
Many thanks are due to the raft of betas, editors, and other folks who held my hand though the long genesis of this story. Rowan, Carla, Beth, Kalena, Shoshanna, Kellie -- I owe you guys big.

Dear Benny,

I'm leaving this note for the new guy to give to you when you get back from the Great White North. But if you're reading this before you've talked to Welsh, STOP. Go talk to Welsh first. Okay.

This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I've started this letter ten times, and each time I had to start over. You once told me there was nothing more unnerving to men than talking about our feelings. I would have to agree with you on that one, my friend. This is unnerving the shit out of me.

And by the way, when I get back, we're going to have a talk about your timing. You have a very bad habit of wanting to chat when people are shooting at us. It drives me crazy. Just so you know.

I'm doing it again; I'm not getting to the point of this note. I guess because it's very hard for me to talk about this. But you deserve to know something. I'm not taking this assignment to get away from you. What you told me before you left has nothing to do with why I will be gone when you get back. I have to say, you really threw me for a loop with that particular bombshell, but I've had some time to think, and you were right -- it doesn't change anything between us.

I tried to tell you on the phone, but I'm not sure if you understood me. We will always be friends. I will be there when you need me. Sure, I'll complain about it, that's what I do. But you know that I love you, right? I hope you do. Like you were my brother, Benny. And believe me, for an Italian, that's saying a lot. And speaking of which --

Keep an eye on Frannie for me, will you? I guess now I won't have to worry as much about -- well, you know. Not that I ever really was worried, you understand. I know I can trust you. Frannie, on the other hand -- we won't go into that right now.

Stay out of trouble, Benny. Don't give my replacement a hard time. I can't say I'll be in touch, but I will be back.

RV

P.S. -- Make sure the new guy takes it easy on the Riv, will you?

I wasn't looking for a lover, I wasn't looking for a friend. I wasn't working undercover, And I wasn't trying to pretend ...

"Don't be ridiculous. I've explained it sufficiently, I think. I cannot call Ray to pick us up, because Ray is not available as a limousine service for lazy wolves anymore. I suggest that you come to terms with that, or alternatively, I will leave you at the Consulate with Turnbull in the future. Now, do you think perhaps you could help me out here and get out of the truck? For God's sake, Diefenbaker, it's a beautiful morning, and it will do you good to walk. Try to remember that you're not some pampered lap dog."

Sometimes I regret ever bringing the ungrateful beast back to Chicago with me. And then I remember that, if I had not, I would be even more alone than I am now. At least I still have someone with whom to argue. I sigh loudly, but to no effect, of course. He's still perched on the passenger seat, staring haughtily out through the windscreen.

"Very well, then. I'll leave you here. I hope the owner of the garage isn't inclined to call the nearest animal shelter upon finding you, but it would serve you right." More wasted breath. I fish in my pocket for the keys. The garage does not seem to be open for business yet, although it's a bit after eight, but there's a drop box in the door, as promised.

I've taken no more than a step toward it, however, when the door bursts open and a man runs out of it, straight into me. His momentum pushes me back against the side of the truck, and we are tangled together for a moment in a strangely intimate embrace. I feel the whole of his body plastered up against mine, and my arms come around him instinctively. He's panting, as though he's been running, but one look at his too-white face and I put it down to sheer panic instead.

"He's -- there's -- Carlos -- " I can make nothing of what he's saying, but before I can ask any questions, he turns even whiter and sways alarmingly.

Diefenbaker has finally moved, and I manoeuvre the stranger into the passenger seat, thankful that the small pickup is fairly low to the ground. I push his head between his knees in the time-honoured position to prevent fainting. His breathing is much too fast, suggesting to me that he may be hyperventilating, so I get a small paper bag out of my glovebox and unfold it. I put my hand on his shoulder and crouch down next to him. "Breathe into this, it will help." He takes the bag without question and begins to do as I've instructed. In a matter of moments his breathing has slowed to normal, although his complexion is still too pale for my liking. Once I am satisfied he is in no immediate danger of passing out, I put my other hand over his and lower the bag from his face.

I don't wish to provoke another panic attack, if that is what it was, and so I start gently rubbing his shoulder where my hand was resting. This calms him further, and as a bit of colour comes back to his face, I decide he is ready to be questioned. "Can you tell me what happened, sir?"

"Yeah, there's -- my mechanic, Carlos. He's in there. He's, uh, dead, I guess."

His face goes pale again, and he swallows several times.

"Are you going to be all right if I go check on Carlos? I'll leave Diefenbaker here with you."

"Diefenbaker? What, the dog?" He looks at Dief, who has come closer and is watching the proceedings with interest.

"He's half wolf, actually. But extremely civilized, don't worry." I turn to my lupine partner and grab his muzzle, turning his face so he has no choice but to look at me. "Dief, stay. Guard." He whines acknowledgment and leans against the man's leg. He's very sensitive to human frailties, and although he takes advantage of mine, I know that he will comfort this man as best he can until I return.

With one last squeeze of the stranger's shoulder, I leave him to Dief's care and head for the door. Inside the building it is cool and dark, but over the familiar scents of motor oil, rubber, anti-freeze, and such, I detect the unmistakable coppery smell of blood. I follow my nose, as it were, to the back corner of the garage where I can now see the still form of a man I presume to be Carlos, lying in a large and rather dramatic pool of blood. I check for a pulse, careful not to disturb the scene more than is necessary, but as I expected, there is none. The blood appears to be dry, and the body is cool. From that I place the time of death sometime late last night or very early this morning. The killer is not likely to still be present, which is very fortunate for the man outside in my truck.

Although I am itching to investigate further, procedure dictates I call in the proper authorities. I look around for a telephone and spot the lighted window on the opposite side of the large doors. As I make my way over to the office, I regret again the circumstances life (or perhaps fate) has forced upon me. Six months ago, I would have been assured a place in the investigation, an outlet for my skills. Now I can only pass the information along to others and watch from the sidelines.

The telephone is on the desk, and I note gratefully that it has a speaker function. Still being careful not to touch anything, I take a pencil from a cup full of them and dial the number from memory. It rings twice and is answered by a familiar voice.

"Good morning, 27th squad, Detectives division. Civilian Aide Francesca Vecchio speaking, how may I help you?"

Francesca has obviously been taking lessons from Turnbull on how to answer a telephone.

"Good morning, Francesca. May I speak to Lieutenant Welsh, please?"

"Fraser! Are you going to be coming in today? 'Cause you haven't been here in just ages, and I was just saying how we never see you anymore. And I just convinced Harding -"

Harding?

" ... to let me get a cappuccino machine -- well, almost convinced him, but I got it anyway, he'll come around as soon as he tastes my espresso. I was going to try it out later this morning, and I know you don't usually drink a lot of coffee, but I thought you might like a latte as a change from tea ... "

As rude as it might be for me to interrupt her, if I don't, we'll be here discussing beverages all day. "Francesca."

"Oh, sorry, Frase, what did you need again?"

I sigh. "To speak with the Lieutenant, if you would be so kind." I seem less able to tolerate her never-ending attempts upon my 'virtue' of late. She's a sweet girl, and I would not hurt her for the world, but my patience isn't what it used to be. Fortunately for both of us, she connects me with no more delay.

"Constable! Long time no hear. To what do I owe the honour of this call?"

"Unfortunately, sir, I am calling to report what would appear to be a homicide."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised by this?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I myself was quite surprised. And since the crime has occurred at the garage which you recommended to me, I thought you would want to know about it as soon as possible." I hear his indrawn breath.

"Ah, jeez, it's not Kowalski, is it?"

"I -- I don't think so, sir. The victim's first name seems to be Carlos. Would Mr. Kowalski be the owner? Tall, slender, sandy brown hair, blue eyes?"

"Yeah, that's him. God, you had me scared there for a minute. Thought I was gonna have to call his parents and --"

"My apologies, sir, for giving you that false impression."

"Okay, so I'll send a team over. Ah, Huey and Dewey are tied up on another case, so it'll have to be Vecchio and somebody. Just so you know."

"Understood. Thank you kindly." We exchange good-byes and disconnect. My relations with the detective presently known as Ray Vecchio are somewhat strained. First impressions are often hard to overcome, and I unfortunately did nothing to endear myself to him on our initial meeting. His violent allergy to Diefenbaker aside, he vociferously resented being thrown into the middle of a case that involved driving a burning car through the streets of Chicago. He has since been assiduously avoiding contact with me, for which I find myself somewhat grateful.

While I can understand the need for a 'cover' here in Chicago while Ray is in Las Vegas, I do think the powers-that-be might have looked beyond simple physical similarities. The 'real' Ray was often out-spoken and abrasive, but he could also be kind and caring. His replacement seems to me to be neither of the latter two things. I do not like him or trust him, as one should a partner, and so I am very relieved to not be called upon to work with him at present.

With help on the way, I go back outside to see how Mr. Kowalski (if it is indeed he) is faring with Diefenbaker.

They are getting along famously, from the look of things. Dief's lying on the ground in a seldom-seen posture of submission, having his belly rubbed. It would seem introductions are in order.

As I approach, Dief scrambles to his feet and tries to look cool. "It's too late for dignity," I tell him. "You are, as they say, busted." He has the grace to look ashamed, and slinks off to sit on the opposite side of the truck. I turn to Dief's new best pal and extend my hand.

"Mr. Kowalski, I presume? I'm Constable Benton Fraser."

He grins and shakes my outstretched hand. "Nice to meet you, Constable. Call me Ray."

"In that case, I'm Ben. I've phoned the police, they should be arriving shortly. We should remain out here until they come, so as not to contaminate the crime scene any further."

His face falls. "Oh, God, yeah. Poor Carlos. I guess he's really -- uh -- dead?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Did he --" I stop abruptly, realising again that I have no standing to ask questions here. Ray looks at me quizzically for a moment.

I change my question. "Was he a friend?"

"Nah, he just started last week. Seemed pretty reliable."

"Ah. I see."

He shifts his feet and looks around at the empty parking lot, then back at me. "So, 'Constable,' huh? You some kind of cop?"

"Yes, in fact, I'm a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police." My spine tries to straighten as I say this, and I will myself to relax. After all, I'm still on medical leave for another week, and while I may never admit it to another living soul, I am not looking forward to resuming my empty duties at the Consulate.

"A Mountie in Chicago? Long ways from home."

"I first came to Chicago --" I stop myself from trotting out the same tired spiel and try to just answer the question. "Yes, I am a very long way from home. Some days it seems like another planet."

Ray nods and moves to lean against the truck. He seems calmer now, for which I am glad. "What part of Canada are you from?"

"The Northwest Territories."

"Really? Huh." He frowns for a moment and looks up at the sky. "That's ... up near Alaska, right? Snow, ice, polar bears?"

"Yes, and moose, elk and caribou as well."

He nods, seemingly pleased that he's gotten it right. "Is that where you got the wolf?"

"I'm not sure if I would ever say that I've 'got' Diefenbaker. He stays with me because, according to him, I'm far too clumsy to survive on my own. He's rescued me several times and he never lets me forget it."

He gives me the skeptical look I'm used to getting whenever I talk about Dief's opinions, but seems to let it go in favour of more questions. "So how did you happen to be here today to rescue me? For which I never thanked you, by the way, so thanks."

"No thanks are needed, really. I was happy to be of assistance. And I came here to have this truck looked at. At present I am leasing it, and it seemed prudent to have a competent mechanic look at it before I actually bought it. Lieutenant Welsh recommended you very highly."

"Left- who? Oh, Harding Welsh? Hey, I'll have to thank him, too. Don't know what I would've done -- I'm not too good with blood and death and stuff. Kind of ironic, seeing's how my dad's a meatpacker, but there you go."

"Indeed. Do you know the Lieutenant well?" I am curious, since on the face of it, they seem unlikely friends.

"He used to coach basketball at the CYC back when I was a kid. We got to be friends, he used to tell me what it was like being a cop. I even thought -- well, doesn't matter now. We still hang out once in a while, go to a game or something."

We stand for a moment in silence, out of small talk, and I take the opportunity to give Ray a second look. He's quite attractive, especially when he smiles. His hair is somewhat unusual, though -- more blond than brown in places, and half spiky and half flat. He catches me looking and puts his hand to his head.

"Oh, God, I can't believe -- I woke up late this morning." He's running his fingers through his hair as he talks, and soon it's all standing on end. He checks the side mirror of the truck and oddly enough seems happy with this result.

"So what happens now? I mean, when the cops get here."

"They'll begin by securing the scene, so that no evidence will be disturbed. Depending on how many officers there are, one or two may go door to door in the neighbourhood looking for witnesses. And of course, they will want to question you. I'm afraid you'll probably have to close the garage, at least for today."

He looks concerned. "Shit. What else?""

"They'll take photographs and dust for fingerprints, and all your employees will have to have their prints taken for exclusionary purposes." He looks a little blank, and I explain. "To rule out their prints from the ones found. They'll be looking for prints that don't belong. Oh, and as a side note, the blood is rather hard to clean up afterward. I can recommend a cleaning service if you'd like." He's shaking his head and holding up one hand.

"Whoa, okay, that's enough info there. I was thinking you were just on vacation here or something. How does a cop from Canada know local police procedures and cleaning services?"

Damn. "Well, until very recently I worked quite closely with the Chicago PD as a liaison between the department and the Canadian Consulate. The situation has changed, however, and currently I no longer ... liaise."

He looks at me searchingly. "You don't sound real happy about that."

"Naturally, I miss the work, but part of the reason for the change is that I was on medical leave after being shot by a performance arsonist, and I simply couldn't keep up on the street."

"Hmm. Still, it sounds like you're pretty smart. I bet they could've used your help with the thinking part, even if you couldn't do the running-after-the-bad-guys part." He smiles so brightly I can't take offence at this intrusiveness, and I have to grin right back at him.

So I'm standing in my parking lot, looking at a very hot but possibly fucked-in-the-head Mountie. Sounds like a typical Monday to me. Not. I mean, what kind of guy gets shot by a performance arsonist? And what the hell's a 'performance arsonist' anyway? I kind of want to ask, but I'm afraid he'll tell me. Exclusionary fingerprints and Canadian liaisons. Damn.

Two cars pull into the lot, a plain black Crown Vic and a patrol car, and I see Harding Welsh in the passenger seat of the first one. I know he's some kind of boss-man, never thought I'd rate a visit from him. 'Course I never thought I'd have a dead body in my garage, either, so there you go. The driver of the car is a real tall guy; he's got to be about six-foot-four or so. Little ring of dark hair around the sides of his head, big nose, bigger attitude. He gets out of the car fast, and starts in on Ben immediately.

"Hey, Fraser, how come you called the Lieu on this one? You don't think I can handle the case?"

He laughs a little to make it seem like a joke, but I read body language like I read Ring World, and this guy is not joking. He doesn't like Ben, and he's not too thrilled to be riding around with H, either. Ben gets all defensive, which is probably what the guy was looking for.

"No, er -- Ray, not at all. It's simply a matter of --"

H steps right in. "It's a matter of Kowalski's a personal friend of mine, Vecchio, and Fraser knew I'd want to know about this personally. Capisce?"

The guy backs right down; Harding Welsh is nobody to mess with, if you know what I mean. I figure I'll throw my two cents in too, while we're all so buddy-buddy.

"Thanks for coming down, H. You really didn't have to."

"Well, Vecchio here's short a partner since he let the last one get shot," he nods his head toward Ben, "so I figured I'd come down and see how much I can remember about detecting."

Whoa. This Vecchio guy (who I haven't been introduced to yet, but I'll let it slide for now) was evidently Ben's partner in the liaising thing. And Welsh's crack about him letting his partner get shot made him grit his teeth -- I can see the muscles working on the side of his jaw. Something's definitely going on there.

Ben seems to wake up just then. "Forgive me, Ray, I should have introduced you." Hey, psychic much? Scary. "Ray Kowalski, meet -- er -- Ray Vecchio."

I stick out my hand 'cause it's what you do, and Vecchio takes it and shakes for the same reason, I'm sure. He gives me a cool nod and says, "You're the one found the body?"

"Unfortunately. I could've done without the pleasure, believe me."

He looks me up and down and sneers. I really don't like the vibe I'm getting from this guy. Then he turns to Ben. "And what were you doing here, Fraser? Not exactly your neighborhood, is it?" He puts a nasty spin on 'neighborhood' that makes me think he's not just talking about where Ben lives, but I have no idea what it's about. For some reason my instinct is to leap in front of Ben and take the guy's questions myself, which is just a little strange. I mean, in the very short time I've known him, Ben's proven to be a pretty articulate guy. I'd think he could talk to his partner without me running interference. And, evidently, I'd be wrong.

"Well, Ray -- that is, Mr. Kowalski -- was going to look at my truck. Of course it's not my truck, it's the truck I'm thinking of buying. And I wanted his opinion -- well, not precisely his opinion, since I didn't know him, but the Lieutenant recommended -" Vecchio's shaking his head disgustedly.

"Fraser. Fine. Whatever. Am I going to find your fingerprints in the garage?"

Something that looks almost like anger flashes across Ben's face real quick, but all he says is, "No."

"Good. I'm going in. Stay put."

I can only assume the last part is meant for me, since he's got no reason to keep Ben here that I can see. And duh, of course I'm not going to leave; it's my place they're going to be taking apart, but as usual I just have to push. So as he's walking through the door I yell, "Detective Vecchio? Is it okay if I go across the street for a coffee? I promise not to flee the country or anything." Guys like that bring out the worst in me.

He gives me a brush-off type wave that could mean anything from "Yeah, go ahead" to "Bite me" and goes into the garage. The uniformed cops from the second car are following him and another car is pulling into the lot now. H looks over at it and says, "Crime scene guys. Hope Vecchio doesn't piss them off too bad." He walks over to talk to them for a minute, then they all go into the garage too. H pops his head out of the door a second later. "Kowalski -- where's the light switch?"

"Left of the office door." He waves his thanks and goes back in. The lights go on after another second, and he comes back out.

"I told Vecchio I'm taking your statement, Ray, so let's go get that coffee. Fraser, you coming?"

Ben looks real surprised. "Lieutenant, as you know, my medical leave isn't over for another week. I wouldn't want to compromise the -- er -- situation in any way."

What the hell? It's still about Vecchio, I can tell. I'll have to get the story out of Ben sometime ... and why am I thinking like we're going to be spending time together in the future? I don't know the answer to that, but I feel like we bonded somehow this morning. He saw me at my worst (well, just about, there was the one-night drinking binge right after the divorce was final) and he got me through it. I like him, and it's not just the tight jeans and the leather jacket, either. But he's probably trying to get out of this gracefully. Do I want that? No, I do not. And I get a little help from the wolf, of all people.

I've been kind of leaning against the side of the truck, and I jump about a mile when I get a cold nose shoved into my ear, and then a wet tongue follows it. Dief's got his paws on my shoulders and he's leaning half out of the bed of the truck, so if I move away he'll fall. I like the furball, but this is too much.

"Ben, what's he doing? What does this mean?"

"It could mean that he likes you."

"Or? Ah, jeez, that's gross." Wolf spit in the ear ... yuck.

"I really couldn't speculate. Diefenbaker's motives are often quite mysterious to me." His voice is serious, but his eyes aren't.

"Ben, I think your wolf is making intimate with me. You have any opinion on that?"

By now, H is laughing at me, and Ben's almost cracked a grin.

"You know, Ray, he's never before shown any interest in interspecies relationships. It's quite possible that -" He can't keep any kind of a straight face now, and I'm one step from losing it.

"Gah! Ben, I don't care if he wants me to have his babies, just get him off me, please?"

He comes over and grabs Dief's muzzle again. Hauls his face around and talks right at him. "That's quite enough, Diefenbaker. I'm sure if Ray wants someone to lick him, he's capable of telling them so." Dief whines, and Ben blushes. "Don't be ridiculous. Now get down. We're going across the street for coffee. If you can manage to behave, I'll ask the proprietor if you may join us. Just try to act like a police dog, please." The whole time, he's right inside my 'comfort zone,' about six inches away from me, and it should feel awkward, but it doesn't. And I think about what he just said, about me being capable of asking for what I want. And I wonder if I am. And then I wonder if he would ... oh, man. I am in so much trouble.

Leave it to Diefenbaker to embarrass me in public. Honestly, the things that wolf can get into ...

And his comment on how good Ray tasted was entirely inappropriate. Thank God no one else can understand him. It seems impossible to get through to him that human relationships are not always about how others taste or smell. Although I must admit that while I was dissuading Dief from giving Ray a tongue-bath, my close proximity did allow me to appreciate his scent. Ray's, not Dief's.

Good Lord, I must be unhinged. We've only just met.

The owner of the coffee shop knows Ray, and allows Diefenbaker in without a problem. It's good that I don't really have to say he's a police dog; although he has worked with the police quite often, he usually objects to the 'dog' part. I think he might have let it go this time though, because where food is concerned he has no pride, and his sensitive nose must be able to appreciate the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen. Heaven knows I'm hungry again and it's only an hour since I ate breakfast.

I follow Ray and the Lieutenant to a table near the back and we sit. I am between the two of them, and the table is rather small, so it takes a few moments before our feet are sorted out to everyone's satisfaction. I didn't notice Ray ordering anything, but the owner brings over a thermal carafe and three cups, sugar, and cream on a tray along with an assortment of muffins. Ray smiles widely and says, "Thanks, Giorgio. You're a lifesaver."

"No problem, Ray. What's goin' on at your place?"

Ray looks at Lieutenant Welsh, who nods. "Uh, Carlos got killed last night. I found him first thing this morning."

"Ah, jeez, no. That's awful. Robbery?"

"Nah, I don't think so. I don't keep much cash on hand anyway."

"Damn. What's the neighborhood coming to, eh?"

"Yeah, so keep your eyes open, okay?"

"You bet. I'll see you later, Ray."

Giorgio leaves, and Lieutenant Welsh pours himself a cup of coffee before taking out his notebook. Ray pours one too, and adds sugar, stirring it for much longer than necessary. I seldom indulge, but it seems I may need a mental edge this morning, all things considered. As I consider doctoring my cup with cream and sugar, the Lieutenant flips to a blank page in his notebook and uncaps his pen.

"Okay, let's start with the basics. Name, Stanley R. Kowalski."

"Ah, no, H, do you have to put that down?"

I blink, then stare. "Stanley? Your name is Stanley Kowalski?"

"Yeah. I go by Ray, Raymond's my middle name, but my dad was this big Brando fan, so ... Stanley." He sighs. "My mum's the only one who still calls me that. I'd appreciate it if it didn't get around."

Lieutenant Welsh smiles and says, "You're telling somebody who barely survived the name 'Harding' ? I got you covered, don't worry about it. S. Raymond Kowalski it is."

The Lieutenant begins his questioning in earnest, and I half listen as I study Ray. I find myself wanting to know all about him, the details of his life up until now. I already feel I have a good handle on his character. I have found Lieutenant Welsh to be a good judge of the mettle of a person, and if he calls Ray a friend, I imagine that says a lot. And Diefenbaker certainly approves of him -- even more so now that he's being fed bits of muffin surreptitiously.

Ray says he was at his parents' house until quite late, watching a baseball game with his father. As the consumption of alcohol had been involved, he wisely decided to spend the night, and drove back to his garage this morning, arriving there around ten minutes to eight and going in the back door to his office. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary, but says he wouldn't have seen the Rockettes, whoever they are, had they been there. I am curious as to why he appears to be living at his place of work, although I am certainly in no position to be critical.

There is suddenly another presence at our table, and Dief yelps as the chair under which he was sheltering is abruptly pulled out. I open my mouth to protest this cavalier treatment, but before I can, Ray is speaking.

"Hey, Vecchio! I don't know where you're from, but I'm from a little place called America, where we got this thing called 'being kind to animals.' You might want to give it a try sometime."

Oh, dear. I could warn him that the bad side of the detective currently known as Ray Vecchio is not at all where he wants to be, but I fear it is too late. And I must admit to being somewhat amused by his clever turn of phrase. Despite his thick local accent, which I am coming to find charming, he really is quite well-spoken and intelligent. I look forward to future conversations.

Vecchio is giving me this look that says 'Be afraid. Be very afraid,' but I'm not buying it. I've been threatened by the best, you mook; one slightly oversized detective isn't gonna scare me. I sincerely doubt he'd be a match for some of the kids I coach. Who, by the way, are much nicer to animals. So there you go. Street punks 2, Vecchio 0.

"Listen, Kowalski, I don't have time for this. Whose stuff is that in the back room? Looks like a Goodwill store exploded. Was the victim living there?"

Oh, crap. Way to make me look pathetic, Vecchio. "Uh, no, that's my stuff. My building went condo, and I've been living at the garage while I look for a new place I can afford."

He smirks, and says, "Okay, well, we're about done with the scene, so we need the guy's home address and next-of-kin, stuff like that. You got a Rolodex or something?"

He makes it sound like it's impossible I could be that organized. Jerk. "I don't need the Rolodex, I got his info in my DayTimer. Hang on a second." I pull the thing out of my pocket and look up Carlos under the S's. "Here we go. Got a pencil?" I can see that he doesn't, and I smirk inside as he fumbles in his pockets before taking the pen and paper Welsh offers him. Payback's a bitch, ain't it?

"Carlos Santana. 2387 East Racine, number 10-B. Phone's 546-2897. I think he's got a girlfriend, but I don't know her name. Maria something, maybe."

Ben's looking at me kind of strange, with a hint of a smile. "The victim's name is Carlos Santana?"

"Yeah. Some people's parents, huh?" The three of us snicker a little, and Vecchio doesn't get the joke, so it's even funnier. He just frowns and goes on asking me questions in a nasty tone I don't care for at all.

"So, he got a green card? Sure would hate to have to involve the INS in this whole mess."

What is that, a threat? I am so incredibly tired of this guy, and I know it's just the beginning of a very long day, and I'm probably making it much worse with my attitude, but where does he get off? "He didn't need a green card, Detective. I've got a copy of his Social Security card on file in my office, same as I do for everybody I've ever hired. And as soon as Lieutenant Welsh and I are finished, I'll come across and show it to you." Praise Jesus, he takes the hint and gets up to go.

H says, "We'll only be a few more minutes here, Detective. Did you start the door-to-door yet?" Go, H. Put him in his place.

He mumbles something about getting started on it and slinks away.

We've laid waste to the whole plate of muffins between us (including the bits I was slipping to Dief when Ben wasn't looking), and I pour the last three ounces of coffee into my cup and drain it. H is looking at me now, and I have a feeling I know what's coming next. "What?"

"Jeez, Ray, what the hell are you thinking, living in the garage like that? My spare room's not good enough for you?"

Yeah, I figured right. "I didn't know how long I'd be there, H. It's not exactly like I said. I mean, at this point, a place I can afford is going to be about the size of my lower desk drawer."

"Is it really that bad?" He looks concerned, and I figure he's gonna go for his check book in another minute, so I play it down.

"Nah, it's just kind of tight. Trying to put together first, last and security and still leave a big enough cushion for payroll, insurance and loan payments doesn't quite work out. But it's not so bad, you know? I'm getting used to it."

"You sure?"

No, I'm lying through my teeth, but I can't impose on the guy, so ... "Yeah. Soon as I finish paying off my lawyer I'll have a little more cash to work with. Thank God Stella didn't want alimony, huh?"

It seems like Ben's about to say something, and I turn to look at him, but he closes his mouth again and blushes. He's a little hard to figure out, but I can work with weird.

He clears his throat and tries again. "You know, Ray, I too have been having difficulty finding a place to live other than my office. Budgetary considerations aside, the number of landlords who are sympathetic to the plight of displaced wolves is so small as to approach zero. And Diefenbaker doesn't help by barking loudly whenever anyone calls him a 'nice doggie'."

Dief makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughing.

H is nodding his head. "Actually, Ray, I was going to suggest this to Fraser, 'cause I know he's looking for a place, but maybe it could work out for the both of you. This lady I know from my old neighbourhood, friend of my mother, you know -- she's got a big old house that's cut up into apartments. I happen to know she's got a couple free right now. The rent's not too high for the area, but I also happen to know what she really needs is help around the place. Fixing windows, mowing the grass, stuff like that. She'd give you a real good discount on the rent if one of you wanted to take on the job."

I look over at Ben to see if I can tell what he thinks of it, and he's staring at H with a really surprised look on his face. Then he smiles and says, "It sounds ideal, sir. I'd certainly like to meet her."

"Yeah," I say. "Set it up, H. Let's do it."

The rest of the morning goes pretty much like I imagined it would. I have to go down to the station for paperwork and stuff, and I also get to spend some quality time having Vecchio take my "exclusionary" fingerprints. It's not nearly as interesting as they make it look on TV, and way more of a pain in the ass. Then I make phone calls, re-schedule appointments, and worry about all the money I'm losing while my shop sits empty except for the cops.

Well, all that and watch Ben. Whenever my eyes start to close from boredom, I look up and see him just standing, back against the wall, shoulders straight. Parade-rest, I think they call it. And it's weird, because he works here, but it's like he's just ... observing. Nobody really talks to him; except for a couple of "Hey, Fraser, how are you?" kind of remarks he might as well not even be here. He looks kind of ... lost.

Vecchio calls me back into the room he's been using for what I devoutly hope is the last time. Ben starts to follow, but Mr. Personality snarls, "Fraser, what are you still doing here? You're not part of this investigation." Then he drags me off, but not before I see the look on Ben's face. I just can't understand how anybody could be so nasty and still draw breath.

"Vecchio, what is your problem? Ben's here because he's waiting for me. We got stuff to do later."

He sneers, which if he knew how it looked on him, he probably wouldn't, and says, "Didn't know you two were so close."

Whatever that means. Dude is seriously weird. "I still need to look at his truck, if you ever let me back into my place."

"Yeah, well, about that."

Oh, shit. He looks way too smug about what he's about to say for me to think I'm going to like it.

"We need to keep you out of there a while longer. There might be more evidence that we missed."

This guy is treading a very thin line with me. "You already tore the place apart. What more could you possibly hope to find? I told you, nobody ever visited Carlos at work. Hell, he was only working for me for three days."

He's flying high now, striding around the room, talking about circumstantial this and partial prints on the lockers, and I can't take another second. I slam my hands down on the table to get his attention. "Listen, Detective Vecchio. I think it must be pretty clear to you by now that I have a bit of a temper. And I'm trying very hard not to lose it, but it seems to me I've told you all I can. If I can't get back into the garage to work today, fine. But I'm trying to run a business, and tomorrow, I want to be able to open at 8 a.m., same as usual. Can we do that?"

He sputters a little, but I don't back down, and he agrees that he can try and have everything sorted out by tomorrow morning.

"Whatever. Are we done here?"

He gestures toward the door, and I slam it behind me as I leave. I look around the big office -- no, H called it the 'bullpen', which makes me think of baseball, but whatever. I don't see Ben right away, but I see a door marked "Lt. H. Welsh," so I walk over. I can hear through the glass that H and Ben are talking, but they stop when I knock, and H waves at me and shoos Ben out.

"Vecchio's let me off the hook for now, Ben. You still want me to check out your truck? I can't use the garage yet, but if I drive it around and check under the hood and stuff, I can get a pretty good idea of what's what. Or I could recommend another guy you could take it to, if you want."

"I'd ... certainly appreciate any opinion you might have," he says.

I check my watch and see it's almost two. Jesus, what a time-killer. Ben sees me looking and checks the clock on the wall.

"It's well past lunchtime, Ray. Would you like to get something to eat with me?"

He says it kind of off-hand, like he thinks I'm going to turn him down, but I look carefully, and he seems to want me to say yes. Strange guy. "I'd love to. You got anywhere in mind?"

Yeah, I was right. He looks surprised, but happy. "Oh. Well, I was thinking -- there's a small deli nearby. Or we could go somewhere else. It's up to you, really."

I shrug. "You know the neighborhood better then I do. I'm pretty easy -- lead on."

I follow along behind him, through the maze of hallways and people. He nods at people as they pass us, but nobody stops him to talk until we're almost out the door. Then this really pretty chick with big eyes, wavy black hair and a killer smile sees him. "Fraser! You didn't tell me you were coming in today. How's the shoulder?"

She grabs his sleeve as she's talking, and I can see him tense up. "Ah, Francesca. My shoulder is improving steadily, thank you. I am indeed still on leave, but certain extenuating circumstances necessitated my presence here today." All of a sudden he's talking like he ate a dictionary, which makes it seem like he's nervous, which I don't get. Pretty women touch me, I tend to like it. He remembers I'm behind him, though, and gets his arm back by using it to pull me forward. Keeps his hand on my shoulder and introduces me.

"Ray Kowalski, I'd like you to meet Francesca Vecchio. Ray, Francesca is the department's Civilian Aide. And, of course, Ray's sister." We do the 'nice-to-meet-you' thing, which on my part at least, is a lot more sincere than when I did it with Vecchio.

"So, Frase," she says, giving him a sideways look from under her eyelashes, "you got time for lunch? We should, you know, catch up."

"Oh. Well. I'm very sorry, Francesca, but Ray and I have ... an appointment. Perhaps another time. If you'll excuse us, we must be going." He smiles and turns toward the door, so I shrug and trail after him again.

Dief's curled up in the back of the truck where we left him, sound asleep. I cross my arms and stand in front of the driver's door so Ben can't get in.

"Okay, Constable Fraser, talk to me. Why'd you lie to the nice lady in there?"

He doesn't pretend not to know what I'm talking about, which I appreciate. "I'd hardly call it lying, Ray. I might have prevaricated."

"Lied."

"Misinformed."

"Lied."

"Dissembled."

"Lied."

"Hedged."

"Lied, lied, lied, Thesaurus-Man. Suck it up."

He looks at me weird, and says, "I'm sorry, Ray, suck what up?"

"It's an expression, Ben. It means -- just stand up and admit it."

He sighs and looks at his feet. There's a tiny little smile at the corner of his mouth, though. "Oh, very well. I lied. Are you happy now?"

"Not until you tell me why. More intrigue?"

"No, it's just ... " He sighs again. "Well, after I was injured, certain females of my acquaintance were, perhaps, overly concerned for my well-being. Which is not to say that I was ungrateful for the concern. But it became ... a bit trying at times."

"Ohhhh, I get it. The Florence Nightingale thing. Yeah, I've seen that down at the gym. Chicks go nuts when a guy gets hurt. All touchy-feely and stuff." I chuckle. "So, what, there you are stuck in a hospital gown, and you can't get away, right? Oh, man. Should I start carrying a stick now?" Again with the puzzled look. I have to get a Canadian-American dictionary, I guess. "A stick. To keep the women away with."

He makes a sound that more than slightly resembles a snort. "Perhaps you should, Ray. Although I'm surprised you don't have one already." Then he blushes.

Huh?

Ray's looking like I've hit him, and I can't for the life of me think why. Perhaps he's offended by my compliment. For some reason, I seem to be generating quite a few misunderstandings lately. It would be a good idea to clear this one up immediately, if I am to maintain this fragile friendship we have started.

"I only meant that, well, someone who looks like you do would already seem to need a stick. To, as you say, 'keep the women away'." His expression quickly changes to one of suspicious disbelief.

"What is that, is that a compliment?" I nod, and he continues. "Yeah, right, Ben. Next to you? I don't think I'll have that problem." But his face is open again, his eyes bright. "Now, where's that deli?"

We walk the few short blocks side by side, Dief trailing along or bounding ahead in turns, and I feel somehow in tune with Ray. Connected, on some odd level that has little to do with the length of our acquaintance.

Over sandwiches in one of the small booths, we talk more. He tells me about himself; that he wanted to be a policeman, but decided to become a mechanic instead to avoid estranging his family. I tell him that it was expected I would follow my father into the RCMP, and that I had never really considered any other career. When I mention traveling with my grandparents, he becomes curious.

"Why'd you have to do that? Where was your mother?"

I feel again the guilt I have no reason to feel. "She died when I was six. My father -- he changed then. He took it very hard. And after a short while, he sent me to live with his parents, because he had to go back on patrol."

"Man, that's rough. I'm sorry for bringing it up."

"Don't worry about it, please. It was a long time ago." I muster a smile, and get one in return.

"Okay." We sit for a moment, suddenly awkward, and I realise I have folded my empty sandwich wrapper into a rather good origami likeness of a maple leaf.

"It was right after the first real snowstorm," I hear myself say. "We flew south to bury her, back where her family lived. The leaves were still on the trees, and they fell on the snow. It was so beautiful. That's all I remember of her funeral. Seeing the leaves falling all around, and trying to be brave, as my father wished."

Dief whines, and rests his head on my knee. Good Lord, how maudlin I've become. I gather myself, ruffle Dief's ears and say, "We should go."

"Yeah, sure." Ray scoops up our debris onto the tray, and I toss the folded wrapper on top of the pile. He gives me a warm look I don't quite understand and takes the tray to the refuse bin. When he returns, I have recovered what little dignity I have left, and I precede him to the door.

Outside, I automatically turn back toward the station, and Ray falls into step beside me again. "So, now what?" he asks.

"I'm not sure. Do you think -- that is, if it's not too much trouble -- "

"Too much trouble? After this morning you could ask me to drive to Sault Ste. Marie and I wouldn't even bat an eye."

"Why would we need to drive to Sault Ste. Marie?"

"We don't. It's a figure of speech."

"It is?"

"Yeah. Like, y'know, swim the widest ocean, climb the highest mountain -- forget it. What were you going to ask me?"

We have arrived back at the parking lot behind the station, and I gesture. "My truck. You were going to take a look at it."

He gives himself a slap on the forehead and says, "Of course! What a dope. Okay, I got an idea. How do you feel about taking a little drive with me?"

I reach into my pocket and hand him the keys. "Anywhere but Sault Ste. Marie."

"Will you get off that? Let's get on the road and see how this baby handles."

Ray's driving style seems somewhat erratic at first -- all hard accelerations and abrupt stops. After the third such halt finds me braced against the dashboard, one arm restraining Dief, I have to say something. "Ray, I really hate to complain, but -"

He flashes a grin. "Wanted to see how the brakes felt, and how she moves. I'll behave now. Sorry, Dief." And we drive off again, in a much more sedate manner. He pushes up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and I notice a silver beaded bracelet on his right wrist. Dief noses at it, and Ray laughs.

"Hey, buddy, don't harass the driver."

"Diefenbaker, sit. My apologies, Ray, he's just rather inquisitive. Perhaps we should put him in the back."

"Nah, he's fine for now. Okay, hang on to him, we're going down Pothole Alley so I can feel how the shocks work." He turns right down a narrow side street, which is indeed liberally peppered with potholes, although no worse than what one finds in downtown Inuvik in the spring.

Three jarring seconds later, we turn left onto another street and continue in our northerly progress.

"That wasn't too bad. You're never going to have a really great ride in one of these, but I guess you're good for now. Maybe you'd want to think about some real heavy-duty shocks if you're going off-roading in it."

" 'Off-roading'?"

"Yeah, like if you go camping or whatever. Up in the mountains. When you go home."

"Ah. I'll make a note of that. Thank you." I don't bother to explain how unlikely it is that I'll be 'going home' again for any length of time any time soon, or that the cost to ship this truck there would be more than the truck is worth.

"Okay. Next stop, suburbia," Ray says then.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My dad's got everything except a lift and a hoist. I can run this up onto ramps in his driveway and check it out almost as good as I could at the shop."

"I'd hate to impose..." I say.

Ray laughs. "Trust me, it's not imposing. Dad'll ask to help and Mom'll try to feed you."

"If you're sure, then -- thank you kindly." I'm blindsided by his generosity, with no idea of what more to say, and we drive a few moments in silence until he turns on the radio. It's not far to go, though, and in short order, we turn into the wide driveway of a small well-kept house.

"Home sweet home," he says. "Let's get at 'er."

We all get out of the truck, and Ray leads the way up to the side door. He looks down at Dief and purses his lips for a moment, then crouches down. "Sorry, furball, but my mother's not too big on strange dogs in her house. You mind waiting out here for a minute?" Dief woofs softly and sits on the grass beside the path. "Thanks. I'll make it up to you later."

The door opens then, and a man I take to be Ray's father steps out. "Raymond! You back again? Where's the GTO? I was just thinking we could change the oil."

Ray looks at me and shrugs. "Hey, Dad, thanks, but I did it last week."

"Oh. Sparkplugs?"

"Dad, come on. I got it covered. Listen, this is Ben Fraser. Ben, this is my dad."

Although I feel I'm being silly, I desperately want to make a good impression on Ray's parents. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kowalski," I say, holding out my hand. He shakes it in a firm grip while eyeing me.

"Fraser, eh? Scottish?"

"Several generations back, yes, sir. I myself am from Canada."

"Ben's a Mountie, Dad. He's stationed -- is stationed the right word? -- anyway, he's living here in Chicago and me and him are looking at apartments tomorrow, trying to find someone that'll put up with the wolf." Ray's words are tumbling out of his mouth, and I wonder if he is nervous about something.

Ray's father only grunts at this news. "Well, come on in and say hello to your mother, at least, before you go rushing off again."

"I was here all last night, Dad," Ray says, as we enter the house behind Mr. Kowalski.

"Barbara! Raymond's here!"

A voice comes from the back of the house. "Don't shout, Damian, I'm in here." We proceed down a hallway into the kitchen, where a motherly-looking woman is drying her hands at the sink.

"Stanley? Why aren't you at work, dear?"

Ray's expression turns sheepish. "I, uh, had to close for the day. We had a ... problem last night."

We are urged to sit at the kitchen table. Ray makes the necessary introductions, and Mrs. Kowalski offers us coffee. I observe Ray's parents as he recounts a slightly edited version of the events of the morning. His mother seems shocked and worried for his safety, his father somewhat less surprised and ... dare I say resigned? Almost as if he expected something of this nature to occur. My theory is proved correct by his next words.

"Now do you believe me when I say the neighbourhood's no good? Anything could happen. It's those gangs. You'd be better off ...."

Ray sighs, tapping his fingers on the table. I sense this is an old argument between the two of them. "It wasn't a gang, Dad. There weren't any tags, and nothing was wrecked. The cops think it might have been somebody who had it in for Carlos personally, but they don't know much.

"And there's nothing wrong with the neighbourhood, either. You sound just like those guys who want to 'revitalise' the waterfront. The people who live in those neighbourhoods are no different from the people who live here, except they don't have as much money as they need. And it ain't gonna help them to tear down their homes." He shakes his head. "You've met Damon and Malik. How can you sit there and say this shit to me?"

Mrs. Kowalski, obviously used to the friction between father and son, defuses the situation by turning to me and asking, "Benton, can I get you something to eat?"

Ray catches my eye, and almost imperceptibly shakes his head. I believe he would enjoy a change of venue, so I say, "No, thank you, ma'am, we've just eaten."

Ray jumps in with, "Yeah, sorry, Mom, I didn't know we were coming here or I'd've saved some room."

"Well, surely you'll stay for dinner. I'll put in a roast. Would you like that, Stanley?"

Ray sighs. "Mom, don't fuss. We just came to take a peek under Ben's truck. Dad, you mind if we use your driveway?"

"No, I'll get the ramps. You need any help?"

Ray smiles, resigned, I suppose, to his father's assistance. "Sure, the more the merrier." We troop out to the driveway, collecting Dief along the way. Ray produces a cookie from somewhere, and before I can object, it has disappeared into thin air -- or wolf, as the case may be.

"Ray ... "

"It was peanut butter, no chocolate, I promise. Homemade, too. Practically health food."

I shake my head, trying to hide how pleased I am at their rapport. Dief looks insufferably smug at his good fortune in finding another human to own, and I resolve to increase his exercise rather than argue with Ray about it. It is more than time that I get back to my own regimen, in any case.

I watch from the grass as Ray and his father, with the ease and familiarity of long acquaintance, manoeuvre the truck onto four small metal ramps, thereby raising the tires off the ground by about six inches. Tools and a work light are brought out, along with a slider. They communicate mostly in mono-syllables and gestures, each secure in the knowledge that the other knows what to do, and I am struck by a pang of envy. My father and I never had this, not once. Our infrequent times together mainly consisted of forays into the wild, which were always lessons for me. After I grew old enough to be out on my own, that was how I was left, for the most part. The closest I ever came to the relationship Ray shares with his father was when I was with Quinn.

Dief butts up against my leg, and when I look down, he jumps up and licks my face. I suppose this is another bad habit of which I should try to break him, but I don't have the heart right now. Frustrating though he is, he's all I have left of home. I crouch down next to him and ruffle his ears, something he pretends to find annoying, although I'm sure he secretly enjoys the attention. Suddenly another hand joins mine on the soft fur. I look up and see Ray.

"Okay, Ben, here's the deal. You do not want this truck."

I can only gape at him, looking, I am sure, exactly like a fish on a riverbank. He's taken off his baggy grey sweatshirt to reveal a tight black singlet. The superb muscular definition in his shoulders and biceps takes me somewhat by surprise, in a very pleasant way. There is a smudge of grease on his left cheek, and another on his upper arm. I am nearly overwhelmed by the desire to drag him to the ground and lick him clean.

"I found where the frame's been straightened. No way I can let you buy this, it's going to go out of alignment every time you turn around."

Good Lord, it's not grease on his arm, it's a tattoo. That's ... quite erotic. I swallow, and try to concentrate on what he's saying over the pounding blood in my ears. Try to remember we're out here on his parents' front lawn, in full view of his father and the neighbours. But oh, if we were alone somewhere ...

"Ben? You okay?"

I marshal my thoughts for a reply. "I'm ... fine, Ray. The frame's been straightened, you say? I did a cursory check, but I didn't notice that."

"Yeah, it's a good job but I spotted it. Lucky for you I have a suspicious nature. Who was it tried to sell you this, anyway?"

I can barely remember my own name at this moment. "I ... have his business card in my desk."

"Good. I want to have a word with this weasel. Okay, we're done here. Let me just put stuff away."

It is odd what a warm feeling I get when I see how fiercely Ray is trying to protect me. When Ray Vecchio used to do the same, it would make me feel inadequate; as though he thought I couldn't take care of myself. I suppose the difference may be that in this case, I asked for the help and advice, but I don't believe that is all of it. I rise to my feet, watching Ray's lithe and graceful form as he coils an extension cord and carries it into the garage, then comes out to back the truck down off the ramps. Finally, he gets his sweatshirt out of the bed and tosses me the keys.

"It's safe to drive, but you should see if you can get your money back on the rest of the lease. How long you still got on it?"

"About two weeks."

He nods, looking thoughtful. "Okay." Then he flashes me a mischievous grin. "Hey, we can use it to move first, though, right? No sense in renting a U-Haul if we don't need one."

And again I can do nothing but grin back at him.

Made it through dinner with the parents, two nights in a row for me. It's kind of rough, I know they're still disappointed about Stella. Ben was great, though; I think he got how my dad is and tried to steer the conversation away from me and my problems. He seems to have recovered from whatever made him loopy out in the yard earlier. Of course, maybe he was just trying not to laugh at the huge grease spot I had on my face.

And the fact that he's been carrying the conversation gives me the chance to do some thinking. From everything he's said and done today, I've got kind of a line on him now. And what I'm seeing most, besides the good looks, is this earnestness, like he's the world's biggest Boy Scout. It's a strange kind of thing to find, these days, when most people are out for what they can get and not too worried about how they get it. It makes me want to shake him and say, "Look around! That's not how the world works anymore."

It also makes me want to be totally up-front and honest with him, about everything. I mean, I can be discreet, but he's either going to find out sooner, or later. I don't think 'never' is an option. So I'm thinking about coming out, for the second time. Well, the first time wasn't planned, so ... I guess I'm actually thinking about it for the first time.

Problem is, I'm absolutely terrified, now that it's come down to it, that he'll bolt before we have the chance to really get to know each other. I have no idea how he'd take the news, being raised how he was and all. So I just keep going back and forth with it in my head.

After we're done eating, Ben insists on helping Mom clear the table and clean up, so I go along with it. Dad just shakes his head and goes in to watch the news. Most nights I'd've joined him without even thinking twice, that's just how things are at Chez Kowalski. With the three of us it takes no time at all, but as soon as the big platter's put away, I'm getting itchy to get out for a while.

Ben calls H to find out what time we're supposed to look at the apartments tomorrow. I can only hear half the conversation, but from the look on Ben's face I can tell something's up.

"What?" I say as soon as he's off the phone.

He scratches his eyebrow with his thumbnail and says, "The lieutenant said there was a slight hitch."

"Which is?" I say. He's making me antsy.

He fakes a smile, like he's trying to break some bad news to me, and says, "There's only one apartment available at this time."

"Oh," I say, but what I'm actually thinking is Oh, shit.

"You should take it, Ray," Ben says, while I'm still floundering. "I'm fine where I am." Dief barks twice and Ben looks down at him. "Please," he says, "I hardly think so. How would you pay the rent? You've gone through your savings."

"No, I can't do that to you," I say, because I can be kind of a selfish bastard at times -- according to Stella, at least -- but I do have some manners. "You take it."

"No, really --" he says, and there he goes with the eyebrow again, and suddenly I realize that's more than a sign he's got an itch.

"What else did H say?" I ask, and Ben looks surprised. I try not to look smug when he goes on.

"Well, it seems that the available apartment has two bedrooms."

"Really," I say, stalling for time, because on the one hand, sharing an apartment at almost-forty is a little weird, but on the other hand, so is living in your office. I think I'd rather be weird and have a working shower.

It has nothing to do with who I'd be sharing the shower with. Nothing at all.

Just as I'm about done processing all that, he opens his mouth and says, "Lieutenant Welsh suggested ... that is ... perhaps we could ... share."

Holy cow, he looks so hopeful it feels like being picked first for stickball and hitting a home run. "Yeah?" I say.

He nods. "If you're amenable?"

I think that means do I want to, in Canadian. I fight the urge to jump for joy and say, "Can you cook?"

"Reasonably well," he says.

"How do you feel about turtles?" I say then, like it's a deal breaker or something.

He looks thoughtful. "Properly prepared, they're quite tasty."

What?

I start to splutter and I'm about to lose it when he giggles. "I'm sorry, Ray," he says. "I saw the tank on your desk this morning."

Jesus. Who'd have thought he had such a twisted sense of humor? "Freak," I say. "Next time, warn a guy."

"Understood," he says. And we stand there in the hallway just smiling at each other until Dief barks again.

We escape from the house by saying we need to walk poor Dief, who thinks it's about time, evidently. There's a park a little ways down the street, and I walk along beside Ben, looking at the sky, which is just getting dark beyond the streetlights. Neither one of us seems to have anything to say, so when we get to the park, we sit side by side on a table and watch Dief trying to catch fireflies. When he does catch one, he spits it out real quick, like they taste nasty.

I'm wondering whether now is a good time to break the news when Ben says, "Ray, is something wrong?"

He's way too good at reading people. My heart rate speeds up some, but I say, "Nah, not really." That almost feels like a lie, though, and I have to go on. "Just -- did you ever have a secret, and you wanted to tell somebody, but you felt like it would change your whole world if anybody found out about it?"

He looks at me and frowns a little, then looks away again. "I think I know what you mean. And yes, I ... have. In my experience, most people do."

"And did you? Tell?"

He sighs. "I thought about it for quite a while. I even tried, once or twice -- dropped hints here and there. Then the point became somewhat moot ... " His voice gets quiet at the end, and I think he's done talking. Then he says, "In the end, I felt I had to say something, although I was still very unsure how it would affect things."

"So what happened?"

He shakes his head. "I'm still not quite sure. Things are -- up in the air, you might say."

"Hmm. D'you think it's lying, if you don't tell?"

"I suppose it depends on the secret, Ray. In my case, it was mostly a matter of not correcting false assumptions. If anyone had asked me directly, I don't think I would have lied."

"Hunh. Okay, thanks. That helps a lot."

"Glad to be of service."

I lean over towards him and bump him with my shoulder. "How much you charge for the office call?"

He smiles. "I usually give one free initial consultation, but in your case ... ."

"Gonna charge me double?"

He bumps me back. "I'll send you a bill."

"How 'bout an even trade for the truck thing?"

"Ray -- no. I couldn't possibly allow you to do that."

"How're you planning to stop me?"

"You gave up your afternoon for me. I can't take advantage of you like that. A few words of advice are hardly a fair trade."

"They are if I say they are. And I wasn't doing much with my afternoon anyway. Not like I had anyplace else to go. Think about it this way -- you saved me from a real boring day hanging around the coffee shop."

"Well, I suppose if you put it like that ... Ray, I just realized -- do you need a place to spend the night? There's room at the Consulate."

"Nah, Mom keeps a room for me."

"Ah. I see. Of course. Forgive my curiosity, but why didn't you stay there when you were in need of a place to live?"

"Because guys my age do not move back in with their parents. My dad made that real clear when I turned eighteen. Besides, it was hard enough on Mom when I left the first time. Didn't want to go through it all over again."

"She was upset?"

"Cried for a week. Then she got over it, started baking and stopping by with cookies, ironing my shirts while she was there ... it was what she needed to do, I guess. Mothers, huh?"

"Indeed. Although ... " He shrugs. "I have little direct experience in the matter."

"Oh, shit, I forgot. I really don't mean to keep bringing that up."

He turns his whole body towards me, and I get the full effect of his smile, even if it is a little sad around the edges. "I don't mind. As I said, it was a long time ago. I barely remember her, just ... impressions, mostly. Her eyes, her smile, how she laughed ... they're all good memories, Ray." He looks right at me, into my eyes, but it's like he's seeing through me, like I'm not even there. Then he shakes his head a little and says, "Well, then, if you've no further need of me, I'll take myself off."

"Sure. See you tomorrow?"

"Certainly. The lieutenant said ten o'clock -- should we meet there, or ... "

"I could pick you up. If you want." I feel like I'm setting up a date, for Christ's sake. "Save gas, do our part to conserve, right?"

He smiles. "That sounds fine. About nine-forty-five, then. Do you know where the Canadian Consulate is?"

"Not a clue."

Dief comes running over. I guess he's done chasing things, so we head back to the house, Ben giving me directions to the Consulate as we walk. We get to the driveway and his truck, and stop walking. All of a sudden I feel awkward, like I don't know where to put my hands. Like a first-date kind of awkwardness, wondering whether you're going to get a kiss.

"Well," he says, and he gives me a funny smile, almost like he feels it too. "Thank your mother again for dinner, if you would. It was very kind of her."

"Sure, no problem." We stand there, looking at each other, not saying anything, until Dief whines and breaks the spell. I crouch down beside him to say goodbye, and decide I can at least give him a hug, so I do. "G'night, furball," I say. Then I stand up and hold out my hand. "Goodnight, Ben. It's been a hell of a weird day, but I'm definitely glad I met you."

He seems surprised, but shakes my hand anyway. "Likewise, Ray," he says. He gets in the truck with Dief and drives off, and I stand there in the driveway watching the tail-lights long after they're out of sight. Then I take myself inside and try to remind myself, over and over until I finally fall asleep, all the reasons why I'm not ever going to fall in love again.

Nine-thirty finds me haunting the foyer, hoping for Ray to be early for our appointment. Turnbull looks at me oddly, as is only fair, for I am not, in general, a man who paces. And yet I am pacing; checking the windows on every turn, Dief dogging my heels.

Earlier this morning, Inspector Thatcher had decided that my medical leave was no reason for me to be exempted from the yearly psychological reviews, and consequently had brought the doctor into my office promptly at eight a.m. I tried to beg off, but the fact that I'd had dreams that left me feeling a bit ... unsettled ... was hardly a reason to forego the exam. The mysterious, evidently illusory chainsaw noises coming from my closet only added to my discomfort, and were almost enough to make me want to skip the tests entirely and beg for committal. I can only hope that I acquitted myself well enough to be allowed to continue here. It would be the sheerest irony if, after all my previous requests, I were to be transferred back home now, after meeting Ray.

At last a car pulls up to the curb, and with a profound sense of relief I recognize Ray in the driver's seat. I open the door and Dief is through it like a shot, leaving me far behind. I call good-bye to Turnbull over my shoulder, and hear his response only vaguely as I take in the sight of Ray getting out of his car. He has dressed to make a good impression, I assume, in well-pressed khakis and a polo shirt in an odd shade of green that suits him well. His hair is evenly spiked this morning, so I am forced to acknowledge that this is how he prefers it. Again, it is odd, but it suits him. I glance down at my very ordinary jeans and flannel shirt, wondering how I appear to him. Too casual? Too 'backwoods'? Boring?

"Hey, Ben," he calls. "Ready to rock 'n' roll?" Diefenbaker hits him then, and he staggers a bit, laughing easily as he fends off the lupine attack. "Hey, Dief. How's my best bud, huh? Sorry, no cookies this morning. Maybe later, we'll see." They tussle for a moment, Dief tolerating far more indignity from Ray than he will from me. Perhaps he, too, is enamoured.

I approach the car, suppressing my utterly ridiculous pangs of jealousy, and I am treated to one of the brightest smiles I've ever seen. "Good morning," I say, realising I have not yet replied to his greeting. "You look very nice today." Too late I think of how that might sound to him, and I cringe mentally. Ray Vecchio would no doubt have had a mildly sarcastic remark to make about my compliment, but this Ray only smiles again, shyly, and looks down at himself.

"Thanks. Figured I'd at least make an effort, you know? Can't do too much with my wardrobe, but ..." he shrugs, "I thought this was okay."

I nod, agreeing. Then I indicate my own apparel. "Should I change?"

He looks surprised. "Hell, no, don't change! I mean ... you look great. Probably look better when you first get up than I do after I've worked on myself for an hour." Then he blushes. "I, um, don't really do that. Just ..."

He seems taken aback by his own comment, and I am somewhat gratified to know I'm not alone in my awkwardness. I set aside his compliment for further consideration at a later time. "Another figure of speech?" I offer.

He seizes the metaphorical rope eagerly. "Yeah. So. Ready to go?"

"Indeed I am."

He looks at me searchingly as we get into the car. "Rough morning?"

"You could say that."

"I thought you were on leave. They're not making you work, are they?"

"Not as such, no. Just ... what do you think of if I say the word 'closet'?"

He turns to me, affronted. "What the hell kind of question's that?"

"It's word association."

"Oh," he says, mollified. "Okay. Um, closet ... door."

"Not chainsaw?"

He grins. "You should maybe think about having some kind of mental evaluation, there, Ben."

"Too late," I say glumly. He starts the car, shaking his head, still grinning.

The address Lieutenant Welsh gave me is a mere seven-minute drive from the Consulate. Dief endures being relegated to the back seat for the ride as long as a window remains open, and he rests his head on Ray's shoulder at stoplights. They have reached an agreement about, as Ray put it, 'the licking thing'.

"Not while I'm driving, and not on the ear. Or the mouth, thank you very much." Which leaves very little, as far as Dief is concerned. I'd like to tell him to be happy he's allowed to do that much, but I am afraid the envy I feel will be apparent in my voice, so I remain silent on the matter.

The house, when we arrive, is in a mostly residential neighbourhood. There is a small grocery store and bakery on the corner, which will be convenient. The rest of the street is mixed types of housing, ranging from a row house with five units to several side-by-side duplexes, to our destination, a huge old Victorian badly in need of painting. My father chooses this moment to put in an appearance.

"I don't think much of the neighbourhood, son," he says from the back seat. "Too noisy. Look at all those children. You'll never have a moment's peace."

After months of solitude it is habit to answer him, and I forget that Ray is there as I snap over my shoulder, "Then perhaps you should remain at the Consulate -- or wherever it is you keep yourself these days."

Ray has pulled up to the curb in front of the house, and he sets the brake before turning to me. "Ben, who in the hell are you talking to?"

Damn. I really must remember not to let Dad bait me like that. "I was speaking to Diefenbaker. He's extremely opinionated lately."

Ray looks skeptical, but says only, "Okay. Come on, Dief. Let's at least see what the yard looks like before you give up all hope."

Dief whines at me as we follow Ray up the front walk. "Behave yourself," I say. "And no barking, I don't care what she calls you." As we approach the porch, the door opens and a woman steps out. She has straight, iron-grey hair reaching past her shoulders, and she's wearing a butcher's apron spotted with a reddish substance I take to be paint or possibly clay. Her left foot and ankle are in a walking cast, and she holds the door wide open as we climb the stairs.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Might you be the two young men Harding Welsh told me to look out for?" She has a beautiful lilt to her voice that makes me think of bagpipes and tartans.

"Good morning, ma'am. I'm Constable Benton Fraser, and this is my part--" I stop, shocked at what I've almost said out of sheer habit. "This is Ray Kowalski."

"I'm Elizabeth Duncan. Come on in and we'll have some tea."

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," Ray says, and turns to wink at me as I stare at him. He seems to enjoy disconcerting me. Ray Vecchio often would tease me about my 'excessive politeness', but not in this manner. I realise that comparisons of this nature are inevitable, given the circumstances, and I do not wish to be disloyal to my friend, but ... and I stop my train of thought there. It makes no difference whether I have two friends or twenty -- people are not interchangeable. Ray Kowalski is not Ray Vecchio, nor would I wish him to be. I need not forgive myself for enjoying his company as much as I do. It is no disloyalty.

Ray has entered the house, and I turn to Diefenbaker and tell him to wait on the porch. He gives me a speaking look, but thumps down at the top of the stairs.

"Oh, heavens, Constable Fraser, your dog can come in. Harding assured me that he's very well behaved."

I try to demur, but the traitor-to-his-kind has already vanished through the door, leaving me to look foolish once again. Deaf, my eye. We're going to have a little chat soon ...

"And now you, Constable. Before the others drink all the tea?"

Good heavens, my manners are execrable. "I beg your pardon, ma'am ... please, after you."

Ray and Diefenbaker have made themselves comfortable on the sofa and under the table, respectively. Mrs. Duncan has laid out a lovely tea: scones, jam, butter, and what looks to be clotted cream. She hangs up her apron and joins us, sitting in a wing chair and propping her cast up on a small footstool. "Constable, if I could prevail upon you to pour ... ?"

"I'd be honoured," I say, removing the cozy from the pot and placing it on the table. "And may I say, ma'am, that it all looks delicious."

"You may," she replies, "if you can do so without calling me 'ma'am'."

"Ma'am?" I say without thinking, and she laughs.

"Liz," she says firmly.

"All right, Liz," I say, trying not to think of how horrified my grandmother would have been. "And I'm Ben, of course."

Ray pipes up then. "Me, I'm thirsty. Pour the tea, Ben, before we die of waiting."

I pour the tea.

Over the excellent Earl Grey (which Ray sniffed suspiciously and then drank with evident enjoyment) and truly wonderful home-baked scones, I can feel myself starting to relax. Liz asks what part of Canada I am from.

"The Northwest Territories. I was raised by my grandparents, and we traveled around a great deal. They had a sort of travelling library -- a book-mobile, I think you'd call it. I suppose if I'm from anywhere, it would be a small town called Inuvik."

Liz examines my face closely. "You miss it a great deal, don't you?"

Simple question, simple answer. "Yes, very much. But I have been posted here, and so I will remain until I am transferred." And how to say I miss it less today than yesterday? It would seem presumptuous.

Ray rescues me with a question of his own. "So, Liz, how'd you break your ankle?"

She smiles. "Oh, it was one of those foolish things I am so prone to. I tried to make it down a double-black-diamond trail at Sugarbush."

I have no idea what that means, but Ray seems to. "Skiing? Cool. I never tried it. Love to watch the guys on TV, though. The Olympics and stuff. All that speed, just -- wow. So you gonna do it again? After the cast comes off, I mean."

"Undoubtedly I will, Ray. Although perhaps not that particular trail."

There's a noise and the kitchen door is slowly pushed open. In walks a very regal Siamese cat, followed by three miniature versions. Mama and babies, I assume, and I put my hand on Dief's head. He's quite well behaved in most regards, but he doesn't take well to being sneered at by strange felines. He may sulk for days afterwards.

This cat doesn't seem prone to sneering, however. She jumps up into Liz's lap, and indulgently watches her kittens as they crowd around Dief. They seem to think he is some sort of mountain that must be conquered. He looks up at me beseechingly.

"No, I don't think it's at all beneath your dignity. The Siamese are a proud breed. You should feel honoured."

Ray laughs and reaches over to pet the cat on Liz's lap. "What's her name, Liz?"

"This is Madame Ling, and the three on the floor are Yum-Yum, Pitti-Sing, and Ko-Ko."

"Cool. Not Peep-Bo?" He slides to the floor, lifts the kitten in question and turns it over. "Oh, I see why. Can't call a boy-cat a girl's name, I guess." Ray places Ko-Ko onto Dief's back, where he balances precariously.

I look at Ray curiously and he shrugs. "Mom likes Gilbert and Sullivan. So?"

"Nothing. I just -- nothing." He smirks at me, and picks up another kitten, carefully setting it beside the first. Dief moans as its tiny claws dig in, and Ray laughs again.

"Don't worry, Dief, I won't tell a soul about this." He leans down closer to Dief, who licks Ray's face in answer, then sighs and lowers his head to the floor in resignation.

Our tea is finished now, and Liz proposes a tour of the apartment. It would seem she has made up her mind about taking us on as tenants rather quickly. Of course, I am no one to talk about snap decisions, as I am here looking to move in with a man I've only known for a day. But I still feel something; a pull, a connection. I can no more walk away from this than I could leave my post.

I think Ben's in love. If you can be in love with a house, I mean. Between me and Liz (who's a very cool old lady, I must say), we've got him loosened up pretty good. And the sight of Dief with three kittens climbing all over him helped too, no doubt. But I think what really tipped the scales was the house.

The way he's looking at the paneling and the whatchamacallums, moldings, makes me think there's something he wants here. Something other than just pieces of wood. Maybe it has to do with how he moved around so much when he was a kid. Never thought about how good I had it, growing up in my old neighborhood. Continuity. Roots. Yeah, that's a big thing.

Turns out Liz is a retired art teacher who's now trying to be an artist. The back half of the ground floor is her studio. The apartment she wants to show us is directly over it; so, she says, if we were to make any noise, it wouldn't disturb her sleep. I can't imagine she means what it sounds like, but she looks at Ben and he just says we'll try to be considerate, of course. As if he'd know how to be anything but.

To get to the apartment, we have to go out the front door and over to some stairs at the side of the porch. When we get upstairs Liz unlocks the door and we walk into a kitchen with big windows on two sides, and nice modern appliances. I'm already thinking I can't wait to move in; I'm so sick of living out of the back room of my garage I could spit.

Past the kitchen it opens up into a big room I guess is the living room. It's got a window seat on one wall, which is pretty cool, and a fireplace, which is even better. Ben's eyes light up when he sees it, and he asks if it works in a kind of weirdly hopeful tone. Liz says it does, and she usually gets a cord of wood delivered every fall; if we'd like to get in on the deal just let her know. Oh, yeah, I think we'll be doing that for sure. He looks at that fireplace like it's a big-screen TV with a free satellite hook-up and a beer cooler attached. Which I guess maybe, where he comes from, it is.

Personally, I'm more impressed with the floor, which is a good smooth hardwood, perfect for my dancing fix when I need one. The other door to the outside's on the back wall. I walk over and see there's a nice little porch area we can put a couple chairs on, maybe a grill. Stairs leading right down to a fenced yard, which Dief will love, I'm sure, no matter what he said earlier. It strikes me then to wonder whether I'm missing out on conversations with my turtle. I mean, Spartacus never answered me back yet, but maybe I'm just not listening right.

Liz is opening the door on the other side of the room, and I guess it's one of the bedrooms. I hate to be rude, so I hurry to catch up with the group and collide with Ben, 'cause he's stopped just inside the doorway. We do a little dance thing before it becomes clear nobody's going to fall. I swear the damn wolf is laughing at us.

"Dief, knock it off or you get no table scraps. Ever. Just 'cause you have the advantage of four feet to balance with, don't look down on us poor pathetic humans. I have two words for you, furball. Opposable thumbs."

Liz laughs a little and says, "This is the bedroom, gentlemen. It has a nice big walk-in closet, and there's a door to the bathroom right here. This side of the house gets the afternoon sun."

I am all over that. "Dibs on this one, Ben. You probably like getting up early every day, but I need to wallow on the weekends. Okay, lead on. Where's Ben's room?"

Liz looks a little confused. Then she turns red and says, "I beg your pardon, I thought -- well, that is I assumed -"

Oh, God, she thought we were a couple. I'd laugh if it wouldn't hurt her feelings -- and probably Ben's, too. I mean, obviously I'd have no objection personally, but I'm sure there's whole chapters of the Canadian penal code devoted to the punishment for corrupting a Mountie.

Ben's doing the lip thing again, and then he rubs his eyebrow with his thumb and says, "I was under the impression that -- Lieutenant Welsh said there were two bedrooms."

"Well, there are, but I told him how small the other one was, and he just laughed and said it wouldn't be a problem, so I thought ... oh dear. I'm so very sorry."

"The Lieutenant was undoubtedly referring to the fact that I have been living on a cot in my office."

They're both still way embarrassed, so I try to lighten the mood a little. "Hey guys, no harm, no foul, right? On with the tour." Ben glances at me, and I smile in what I hope is a reassuring way. Don't know what he's so worried about; I'm not going to back out of this because somebody got the wrong impression about us. Frankly, I'm flattered she'd think I had a chance. I almost say this, but manage not to, which is probably good. That might be a little too much info for the freaked-out Mountie.

Liz starts toward the bathroom, and I make pushing motions with my hands to get Ben moving. After another second, he follows after Dief, who's acting like this is all going to be his someday, as long as he sticks close to Liz.

The bathroom is pretty cool. There's a room with a toilet and a sink, and another door. Through that door is a room with a nice big bathtub/shower combo and another door. Through that door is another room with another toilet and sink, just like the first one. And then finally there's another door that lets you out into a hallway on the other side. The living room's to our right, and straight ahead across the hall is what I figure must be the other bedroom.

Liz opens the door, and I was right. And it is small, enough to make me feel really guilty about dibs-ing the other room before we'd seen them both. "Uh, Liz? Could you excuse us for a second? Just need a conference here."

"Certainly, take your time."

I drag Ben into the tiny room and shut the door. "Okay, here's the thing. I shouldn't have done that, before. I'm sorry. Here's your chance to even it up. I'll flip you for it. Fair?" Again with the looking like I'm speaking Chinese. "The big room, Ben. I'm taking back my dibs. Heads or tails?" I fish in my pocket for a quarter.

"Ray, you don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I do. Stanley Raymond Kowalski does not take advantage of anybody. Heads or tails?"

He shakes his head. "This bedroom is fine. I refuse to flip you for it."

"I -- what? You can't do that."

"I just did."

"You can't refuse a coin-toss. It's -- it's -- it's un-American!"

He smirks at me. "Perhaps so. But Ray, lest you forget, I myself am un-American."

"Oh, you had to go there, didn't you? You had to play the Canadian card. Stubborn Mountie. Fine. Take the damn small bedroom."

He's smiling now, having fun like I am, I guess. I love how we can do this back-and-forth thing. "Fine, I will."

"Just see if I go trying to be nice again."

"Well, don't put yourself out on my account."

We're almost yelling now, and Dief is looking at us like we're crazy, which he's right about, I guess. I start laughing, I can't keep it in any longer, and after a second, Ben joins in.

"Poor Dief, what a trauma, huh? You just hate it when your daddies fight, don't you?" I crouch right down beside the furball, give him a good head-rub, and then I hear what I just said. Oh, shit. Okay, so that was a joke, but maybe not so funny to Ben. I sneak a look at him, and he's just staring -- jaw dropped, everything. Damn, damn, damn; Mom should have glued my mouth shut like she always threatened to.

And then he starts to laugh again. Thank God, we're going to be okay.

We hash out the details of our tenancy rather quickly, all things considered. In exchange for a few minor repairs and some weekly yard work; we are given what I can only assume to be a sizeable discount on the rent. When Liz tells us that utilities are included, the look on Ray's face tells me the figure is unacceptably low.

"Wait, wait, wait. You cannot possibly sit there with a straight face and tell me the rent is $500, utilities included. My Mom finds out, she'll come over here and kick me in the head. No way, Liz."

"Way, Raymond," she says. There is evidently a sub-cultural language here that I don't understand, because Ray seems to find this very amusing. Liz continues.

"Now, I do hope you're not insinuating that I'm some easily duped little old lady. I know exactly how much rent I could be charging. But the house is paid for, and I have enough to live on from my pension and the life insurance my husband left. Frankly, I'd let the place stand empty if I didn't like you two." Dief whuffles, and she smiles. "Excuse me, Diefenbaker, you three. Don't argue with me on this, or I'll be forced to throw in Sunday dinners as well."

Ray laughs at this, as do I. "No, not that," he gasps in mock horror. "We'll do anything ... please, not Sunday dinner!"

"So we're agreed?"

"All right, Liz. You drive a hard bargain, but I guess if we have to ... ." We shake hands all around, and Ray and I agree to begin the repairs at the earliest opportunity. It's hardly the burden Liz seems to think it -- I believe I'll rather enjoy it, in fact.

Since the apartment is ready for immediate occupancy, and Liz is amenable, there seems no reason to delay my moving from the Consulate. My possessions consist mainly of what I brought back with me from the Territories, and Dief has only his new food and water dishes -- it should be simple enough to load them into the truck. We take our leave of Liz, and walk out to Ray's car.

Now that I am somewhat less preoccupied, I notice how beautifully it's been taken care of. I sigh inwardly at the thought of another automobile enthusiast in my life, but at least Ray comes by it more or less naturally, as his chosen profession. And there is very little chance that we will ever have to pursue miscreants together, so this car, at least, should be safe.

Ray notices me looking and beams proudly. "Looks like it just came out of the showroom, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it's quite nice. A Gran Turismo Omologato; 1967, if I'm not mistaken?"

He cocks his head to one side and looks at me narrowly for a minute, and I'm afraid I've said something wrong. Then he says, "Yeah, it's a GTO. Me and my dad worked hard on it -- six coats of paint. It's kind of a ... it's a thing we do. Even when he ... well, me and him could always talk about cars."

I nod. "With my father it was tracking."

"Yeah?" He seems to relax a little with this revelation.

"Yes; that and stories of his days on patrol. We seemed to ... connect best that way. If you can call it connecting -- usually he talked and I listened."

"Yeah. I get that."

There is another silence between us, similar to last night's final exchange outside his house. I can't call it awkward, precisely; perhaps charged is the better word. I wonder if Ray feels it too, and I have to force myself to speak of commonplace reality, lest I blurt out what I'm feeling. "Well, I should let you get back to work. I can easily walk from here."

"No way. I can bring you back."

"Don't you have to get back to the garage?"

"Nah, it's cool. Come on, let's go."

I give in to him and open the door for Dief, who bounds into the back seat as though he's done it a hundred times. Ray and I get in, and on the short drive back to the Consulate he is animated, turning on the radio again and singing softly along with the music. He punctuates this with a running commentary on the features of our new neighbourhood, which include a Laundromat, a pizzeria, and a liquor store.

When we reach the Consulate, he pulls up to the curb and shuts off the engine, obviously preparing to get out. "Ray, you don't have to come in. I can pack what I need easily. I'm sure you have work to do."

"Hey, I want to help. I can carry some stuff, can't I? 'Cause I am for sure gonna need help when it comes time to move me in, so I gotta do the quid pro quo thing, right?"

I shouldn't be surprised at his use of a Latin phrase, but my face betrays me. He grins that infectious grin.

"Yeah, you caught me. I'm not as dumb as I sound most of the time. It's just a -- whatsit -- a posture. Had to be the tough guy on the street, at the gym, in my old neighbourhood ... I was already the skinny freak with glasses. Didn't need to stick out any worse than that. Stella didn't like it, so I used to talk better around her. But now it's just a habit. Don't rat me out, okay?"

"Your secret is safe with me, Ray," I say seriously.

"Thank you kindly, Ben, " he says with a mostly straight face. Then he grins, and we both laugh. I honestly haven't laughed so much since ... I can't remember. It augurs well for the future, I think. I lead the way up the walk to the front door. Constable Turnbull greets us in the foyer.

"Constable Fraser, good day. Did your morning appointment turn out well, sir?"

"Very well, Turnbull, thank you kindly for asking."

"May I offer your guest some refreshment?"

"Oh, my apologies. Ray Kowalski, allow me to introduce Constable Renfield Turnbull. Ray and I will be sharing an apartment, Turnbull, and we've come to pack my kit and collect Diefenbaker's dishes and food."

"That's wonderful news, sir. Mr. Kowalski, welcome to Canada. Allow me to show you to Constable Fraser's office."

"Turnbull?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I think I can take care of showing Ray around."

"Well, sir, I assumed you would want to return Lieutenant Welsh's telephone call."

I silently count to five, then say in an even tone, "I was unaware that Lieutenant Welsh had called me."

"Oh, yes sir, didn't I mention that?"

I sigh. "No, Turnbull, you didn't. But now that you have, please do show Ray to my office. Ray, I'll be with you momentarily." Ray and Turnbull go off down the hall together, and I pick up the telephone on the desk and dial the number for the 27th. After the usual dizzying conversation with Francesca, I am finally connected to the Lieutenant.

"Constable! How'd you make out?"

I'm rather puzzled by his tone, not to mention his question, but I answer truthfully, "Very well, sir. I'll be moving in today, in fact. Ray is waiting until this weekend so that he has time to get his belongings out of storage."

"Good, good," he says, and his tone is still odd.

"May I ask, sir -- was this the reason for your call?"

I hear his sigh clearly. "Not exactly. And I can't tell you how much I'm going to regret this, but ... would you consider looking into this Santana thing a bit? On the Q.T., you know. Vecchio's just spinning his wheels over there. I gave him until noon, unless he actually finds something useful. So if you could head over there after lunch, say, and just have a little look-see, I'd appreciate it."

I am speechless on two counts. Firstly, I cannot remember the Lieutenant ever asking for my help in such a way; secondly, I have just discovered exactly why it was that Ray was in no hurry to get back to work. "Lieutenant, are you saying that Ray's garage is still a crime scene? That he wasn't able to open this morning?"

"Yeah, I thought you'd seen him. He didn't tell you?"

"No. I'm not sure why, either. Well, thank you kindly, Lieutenant. I won't let you down, sir. This will have my full attention."

He mumbles something that sounds like "That's what I'm afraid of," and then says "That's very reassuring, Fraser. Let me fill you in on what we've got so far."

So evidently Mounties only come in Large and Extra-Large. Must be something in the water. Turnbull keeps trying to call me Mr. Kowalski, even after I tell him twice to just call me Ray. I give up and just say "thank you kindly," and he goes away. Not a bad sort, I guess. Didn't think they made 'em starchier than Ben, though. Maybe it's the uniform. I bet Ben looks real nice in his ...

Okay, Kowalski, that's it. Enough of the teen-age-girl crap. It's bad enough you got a jones for the guy. No fantasizing allowed, got it? No drooling, either. If the roommates thing is going to work out at all, get over this or deal with it somehow.

Unless he wants me, too. Yeah, right. I have to laugh at that one. Dief looks at me, but I don't feel like sharing the joke.

I'm looking at the bulletin board, which is painfully neat, of course, when Ben comes in. He's frowning a little, and I hope the phone call was nothing bad.

"Ray, why didn't you tell me you couldn't open the shop this morning?"

Oh. H must've told him. "I didn't want to bother you about it, okay? It's not your fault Vecchio's an asshole."

He frowns. "Ray," he says, and I feel terrible.

"Sorry about that, I kind of forget myself sometimes. What did H want?"

Wow, that is one incredible smile there. Like a kid at Christmas. "He asked me to look into Mr. Santana's murder."

"And you're going to, right?"

"Of course. Unless you object."

"What are you, crazy? Why would I object? I'm assuming you're not incompetent, 'cause H wouldn't put up with that. Anything that gets this over with faster is a good thing."

"Shall we go, then?"

"Yeah, sure. Let's get at 'er."

Ben stops to grab a knapsack out of his closet, then puts it back down. "I can come back later for my things, I suppose," he says. "We shouldn't delay."

As we head through the lobby again, a pretty, dark-haired chick in a suit comes out of an office. "Constable Fraser," she says, "a brief word, if you please."

"Of course, sir. Ray, please excuse me again. I'll only be a moment." He follows her into the office, and she shuts the door in Dief's face. He looks at me, and I shrug. I wander over to the desk where Turnbull's sitting and lean against the wall. For lack of entertainment, I start trying to mentally rehearse for the speech I have to give tomorrow in front of the City Council, but that just makes me even more antsy, so I quit.

"Can I get you anything, Mr. Kowalski?"

I sigh. Here we go again. "Constable Turnbull, what do your friends call you?"

He looks confused, but says, "Most of them call me Ren."

I think about that for a second. Ren and Ben? It's going to get weird. But if I have to ... "Can I call you that too?"

More confusion. "Certainly, sir, if you wish."

"And then maybe you can call me ...?"

"Oh! I understand. Ray. My apologies."

"That's okay. We're cool. You think he's going to be long in there?"

"I couldn't really say. I believe it has something to do with our yearly reviews."

"Yeah? Was that the boss-Mountie?"

"Inspector Thatcher is our superior, yes."

"Hunh." I stand for a minute and watch Dief watch the door. "Hey, why'd you welcome me to Canada earlier? They move it or something?"

He giggles a little. "Not precisely. But the property of the Consulate is considered to be Canadian soil, in the legal sense. It's a little joke, of a sort."

"Oh. Cool. So if I was a draft dodger, I could've come here, instead of going further north?"

"Something like that."

"The things you learn. You have to search me when I leave or anything?"

He giggles again. "Oh, goodness, no. And even if it was procedure, I'm sure Constable Fraser would object to my taking the liberty."

Before I can question that piece of weirdness, Ben comes back out with a relieved look on his face. "Ready to go, Ray?" he says.

"I guess so. Everything turn out okay?"

"Yes, my mental state was found to be ... adequate."

"Adequate? And you're happy with that?"

He turns a little pink. "Ray, can we please just go?"

"Sure, I guess." I turn around, face the desk, and stick out my hand. Ren stands up real straight and shakes it like I'm the President or something. He's kind of a goofy guy, but he grows on you. "It was good meeting you, Ren. You'll have to come over sometime and see the place after we get moved in."

He smiles real wide and says, "I'd like that very much, Ray. I hadn't realized that Constable Fraser was ... involved, but I've been honored to make your acquaintance."

Involved?

All of a sudden, Ben's right behind me, talking in a low voice. "Turnbull, for God's sake. We are not 'involved', as you put it, in any way other than friendship. Kindly don't leap to conclusions of that sort."

Ren's face turns red, and he looks down at the desk, then back up at Ben. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. I meant no offense."

"Yes, well, none taken, I suppose. Come on, Ray, Dief."

I wave goodbye and follow along. It strikes me as kind of odd that two people so far today have thought that about the two of us. Ben still seems a little bothered by it, but I don't know what to say to make it better for him, so I keep my mouth shut about it and get in the car.

We get to my garage in record time, and lo and behold, there's no cop cars around. "Are you sure it's okay for me to be here?" I say.

"Of course; it's your garage, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if I should, you know, contaminate the scene."

He smiles at me. "I shall probably need your help in determining whether anything is out of place or missing. You are the best source of information we have, in spite of what others might think."

'Others' being Vecchio, I suppose. "Okay, Ben, I'm game."

"Shall we get to work, then?"

"We shall," I say, and we get out of the car. He pulls out a small notebook and flips it open.

"Now, Ray, you said that Carlos was here on a Sunday because he agreed to do an oil change on his day off."

I nod. "Yeah, some guy called on Saturday and said he'd pay double if I'd open on Sunday for him. After I made the appointment, my dad called and reminded me about the game, and Carlos said he'd cover, 'cause he needed the extra money. I let him in before I left for my parents' house, told him to lock up when he was done."

"But you don't know who the customer was."

I shrug. "I never talked to him before. Just got a name and number -- guess we could check the receipts."

He shakes his head. "That's been done already. There's no record of anything with yesterday's date, and the telephone number was bogus."

"So you think he never showed?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he did come, but not for a tune-up." He looks down at the ground and says, "Hmmm." Then he drops flat so he's lying in the dirt in front of the doors. He gets his nose about an inch from the ground and he says, "Ray, where do you park your car?"

"Around back, usually."

"Was it there yesterday?"

"Yeah. What'd you find?"

"I'm not sure ... but we may have something. How did Carlos get to work?"

"Mostly walked, I think."

"Good. Since it rained hard Saturday night, and the garage was closed Sunday except for the mystery customer, the tracks I see are almost surely from that car."

"Really?"

"Yes indeed. If I'm not mistaken, these tracks were made by Firestone steel-belted radials with an all-weather tread. And there's a distinctive nick in the right rear tire. It might be enough to identify the car, should we find it."

"Wow, you're good."

He looks up at me and smiles. Then he gets to his feet again and brushes the dirt off. "If we only had a camera, so I could document this ... ."

Finally I get to be of some use. "I can get you a camera, Ben. Wait here." I run inside to my desk and grab the Polaroid I got for a high school graduation present. It's old, but as long as they keep making film for it, I guess it's still good.

When I get back outside, Ben's back on the ground again, looking closely at something near the doors. He looks up at me and I hand him the camera. "Is this okay?"

"It's perfect, Ray." He hands me a measuring tape. "Please extend that to twelve inches, and hold it next to the tread-marks."

This is so cool, helping like this, almost like I'm a cop. I do what he tells me, and he takes a bunch of pictures of the tire marks and the footprints he found near the door. Then he looks around and sighs.

"Ray, I have to go inside the garage now. If you wish to remain out here with Dief, I'll certainly understand."

"No way. I can take it. I think." I hope.

His eyebrow goes up, but all he says is, "Very well, I'm sure you'll be of great help."

I don't think that's sarcasm, not from him, so I lead the way around to the side door and in through my office.

Which I knew from yesterday is a complete and utter mess, after being searched by the overly enthusiastic Vecchio. Ben looks around in what I'd guess is dismay. "Ray, your files -"

"Yeah, I know. Don't sweat it, okay? Maybe I'll sort through some stuff later. Not your problem."

"Still, I'd like to help, if I may."

"Sure, I'm not stupid enough to turn down free labor. After, though? Investigate first."

"Of course. We should start in the garage, I'm afraid."

"Okay. Let's go."

I follow behind him, switching on lights as we go, trying to brighten it up as much as possible. The big pool of blood is still there, dried now, but I can see how it's got the shape of a body in the middle, and I get a shiver right up my back.

"Ray?"

I shake my head and turn away so I can't see it. "I'm good. What's next?"

He frowns at me a little, but just says, "Can you tell me if anything is missing or misplaced?"

I start at the far wall, looking at all the shelves, bins and pegboards one by one. Everything looks okay until I get to the tool-board. There's a big empty space right in the middle. "Hunh."

"What's wrong?"

"There should be a big screwdriver here. Really big, about eighteen inches long. It was there when I closed up Saturday, I know it was."

"A screwdriver?"

"Yup. Kind of a gag gift I got when I opened the place. I keep thinking maybe someday I'll find a use for it, but for now I just keep it on the wall."

"Hmmm."

I look around the rest of the shop, but it's all just like it's supposed to be. "Nothing else, Ben."

He's been crawling around on the floor with Dief, but somehow when he gets up, there's not a speck of dirt on him. I keep the place clean and all, but not that clean. Weird. Like dirt doesn't stick to him or something. Too bad we can't bottle that.

He dusts off his hands and says, "I was also unsuccessful. Perhaps if we questioned a few of your neighbors."

"Didn't the cops do that?"

He raises an eyebrow at me. "In my experience, most people are more likely to be helpful when it is someone they know asking for their help."

"Makes sense, I guess. Just let me lock up again."

I honestly never knew being a cop was this much of a pain in the ass. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker ... twelve down, three to go. Nobody's seen anything out of the ordinary, which stands to reason since it was Sunday, and half these people were home in front of the tube, but we're asking anyway. And here we go again with the same old song.

"Hey, Ray, how you doing today?"

"I'm good, Lenny, thanks. This is Ben Fraser, he's investigating this thing that happened over at my place Sunday."

"I been out of town all weekend -- just got back this morning. What happened? Everything all right?"

Man, I hate saying this. "Carlos got killed. Late Sunday night, they think. So we're going around trying to get some idea if anybody saw anything."

Lenny looks thoughtful. "Carlos? Do I know him?"

"Yeah, maybe -- I sent him over Friday for my usual. He's about my height, bleached-blond hair, skinny ... "

And all of a sudden Ben's got my shoulder in the Grip of Death. "Ray --" he says, and his voice sounds completely weird.

"Ow, Ben, what the fuck?" I say, as I grab at his hand and try to pry it off me. He lets me, but then he grabs my fingers and won't let go of them.

"It's not him, it's you," he says, and maybe I shouldn't understand that, and maybe I don't want to, but -- oh, shit.

What if -- maybe -- someone's trying to kill me?

When we arrive at the station I am relieved to see the battered green Saab parked in its usual place. I lead Ray in through the main doors, then down to the basement. As we near the doors, I can hear Mort singing opera, also as usual. I join in as we enter the morgue.

I have never yet managed to surprise him, and at the sound of another voice, he merely turns with a broad smile and conducts us in the last few notes with his scalpel.

"My dear boy, I am delighted to see you. Are you back to work so soon?"

"Not exactly, but I wanted to ask you some questions about Mr. Santana."

"I will tell you what I can, of course, although it's too early to tell much. I would say he was unconscious when he died, judging from the size of the bump on his head. The bruising is consistent with impact with a cement floor. Cause of death was blood loss from this stab wound right here, which as you can see, tore this artery."

I lean closer, studying the body. "Hmmm. Any idea of time of death?"

"I would say ... sometime late Sunday evening. I will know more later."

"What about the murder weapon?"

"Mmm. Not as easy. Something long and thin, twelve inches or more. Not a blade, the edges of the wound are not clean enough. That's all I can tell you right now."

"Would a large screwdriver be a possibility?"

He raises his eyebrows and nods. "Yes, it would do very nicely, I think, if you could find one that big."

"You've been very helpful, thank you kindly." I turn to Ray and find him ... missing.

"If you are looking for your friend, he is probably out in the hallway. He did not follow you in when he saw the body." Mort shrugs. "Some people just cannot take it."

I feel like kicking myself. Ray told me just yesterday he doesn't react well to such things. How callous he must think me. I hurriedly take my leave of Mort and go out into the corridor, where I see Ray sitting hunched over about ten metres away, arms around Dief.

"My God, Ray, I'm so sorry!" If ever I were inclined to profanity, this would be a perfect opportunity. I call myself ten kinds of a fool as I walk down the short stretch of hallway.

He looks up, face pale but eyes steady. " 'S'okay, Ben. I'm good. What'd you find out?"

As he makes no move to rise, I sink down beside him. "An approximate time of death, for one thing. And it's entirely possible that the murder weapon was your missing screwdriver." He shudders; only slightly, but I notice it. "Are you sure you're all right?"

He smiles wanly. "I'm fine. Just kind of a surprise, that's all. Where to next?" He rises to his feet gracefully, then grabs my hand and pulls me up.

"We should check in with the Lieutenant and tell him what we've found out."

"Lead the way, then. Anywhere but here is fine by me."

We climb the stairs and arrive in the bullpen to see Francesca at her desk. Her eyes widen as she sees us.

"Hey, Frase," she says, as usual mangling the sibilant. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Or--"

"I'll take some coffee if you got some, Ms. Vecchio," Ray says.

She glances at him briefly, then turns her attention back to me. "How 'bout you, Frase?"

"Thank you kindly, Francesca, but I don't believe I require any refreshment at this time. Can you tell me if Lieutenant Welsh is in his office?"

"Well, I haven't heard him bellow in a while, but -"

"Ms. Vecchio!"

"Oops, guess I spoke too soon. I'll tell him you're here, Frase." She raises her voice slightly as she walks unhurriedly towards the office. "Coming, O Mighty One." I hear Ray chuckle.

"What's so funny?"

"It's like I said yesterday, 'Frase'; I might as well be invisible standing next to you."

"Francesca is hardly a test case, Ray. I'm afraid -- " I glance around the room. It is momentarily empty, but I lower my voice anyway. "You must have noticed that she has a bit of a crush on me."

He snorts. "You think? I'm surprised you haven't found her at your door in nothing but a silk teddy and high heels."

I wince, remembering, and speak without thinking. "Well, actually it was leather ... "

Ray's jaw quite literally drops. "You're kidding."

"Unfortunately not." I'm hoping he doesn't go on with this line of questioning, but no such luck. I suspect he'd have made quite a good detective.

"And? Come on, don't stop there."

"It was quite awkward, to say the least."

"So did you ... ?" He makes a complicated hand-gesture, which I believe I can decipher.

"Ray!"

"Cool your jets, I was just asking."

"For goodness sake, she's Ray's sister."

"Yeah, so what's the problem? He didn't want you dating her?"

"I'd really rather not discuss this."

He shrugs. "Okay. Whatever. Hey, you want to point me at the coffee?"

"Through those doors, turn right -- Dief knows the way."

Lieutenant Welsh's voice comes from behind me. "Constable Fraser, my office, if you please."

With the wolf's help I locate the coffee, which is pretty disgusting even with all the sugar and powdered creamer I can load into it. I sit for a minute, not knowing where else to go, and a couple of cops I sort of recognize from yesterday walk in. They must be partners, they seem to be discussing a case. Or possibly a bad date -- it's hard to tell. One of them notices me and looks puzzled, then he sees Dief and I guess it clicks.

"Hey, you're Fraser's friend, right?" I nod and stand up. "We never really got introduced. I'm Jack Huey, this is my partner Tom Dewey."

"Ray Kowalski, nice to meet you." I shake Jack's hand and nod at his partner, who's over at the snack machine. He throws a nod back, not too friendly.

Just then Ben appears in the doorway. "Ah, Ray, there you are. Good afternoon, Detective Huey, Detective ... Dewey, isn't it? I'm sorry to interrupt, but the Lieutenant would like to speak to Ray."

I say goodbye, and we're off to the races. H is on the phone when we get to his office, saying "yessir" a lot, and he rolls his eyes at me. I know how much he hates the bullshit of politics, but evidently it goes with the job. After another minute, he says, "Absolutely, sir. You can count on my men. Yes. Seven a.m. They'll be there." He hangs up and rubs his face with both hands. "Some pol gets himself and his girlfriend shot at and suddenly we're in the bodyguarding business. Like I don't have enough problems."

He shakes his head and looks at me. "Okay, Ray, what do you think about this thing? You think someone's out to get you? Because that call just made me shorthanded in the detective department, but if you can give me a name or two, I can check 'em out myself."

I shrug. "Dunno, H, it kind of made sense when Ben said it, but the more I think about it, the less sense it really does make. I mean, I know I can piss people off just by breathing sometimes, but I can't think of anybody who hates me enough to kill me."

"Yeah, well ... hunh. I can't allocate men I don't even have for a threat I can't specify, so ... okay, stay away from the garage unless somebody's with you, for now anyway. Fraser, you're still on leave, and even when you're not you don't work for me, but-"

Ben's nodding his head so hard I'm afraid it'll fall off. "Of course, Lieutenant. I'd be glad to."

I understand that one, loud and clear. "I don't need a babysitter, H."

I get the Cop Stare from H, and a wounded look from Ben, and I cave. "Fine, whatever makes the two of you happy," I say.

Dief barks.

"Not you, too. Jeez, even the wolf's ganging up on me." H's phone rings again, and I take the chance to get out before he threatens to call my mother.

Back out in the bullpen; the shift's changing or something, and I check the time. Four o'clock? Can't be -- we missed lunch entirely, no wonder I'm starving. "Okay, Ben, unless you have objections, here's the schedule. Drive to the Consulate, load up your truck and my car, drive to the apartment, eat, and unload. Sound like a plan?"

He blinks. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"Good. How 'bout if we call ahead, order a couple pizzas from the place down the street -- what was the name? Papa Luigi's?"

"I believe so."

"Phone book, phone book --" I look around and yell across the room. "Hey, Frannie, you got a phone book?"

She turns around quick, walks over slow. "What did you call me?"

I think back and wince. "Um, 'Frannie'. Sorry, I don't know where that came from."

She's frowning, but not mad. "It's okay, just R- somebody else used to call me that. I haven't heard it in a while." She shrugs. "My phone book's been missing for a week now. I'm considering putting out an RBI on it."

I'm about to ask what the fuck an RBI has to do with it when I see Ben mouthing "APB" at me, so I let it go. "You got any ideas where I can find somebody else's?"

"Yeah, my brother's got one in his middle drawer. Help yourself."

"You sure? I'm not his favorite person."

She rolls her eyes at me. "I'll get it, then." She walks over to Vecchio's desk and hauls open the drawer, pulls out the phone book, and closes the drawer again, or tries to. It sticks out about two inches. "Hey, it's stuck."

"Here, let me try something," I say. "This happened to me last week." I crawl under the desk and feel up into the space behind the drawer. Sure enough, there's something wedged in there. I open the drawer a little, then try to loosen whatever it is. Feels like ... got it. A folded-up envelope, looks like it's been in Lake Michigan or something, the way it's all water-stained. I stand up and unfold it, and there's writing on it, all blurry from the water, but -- "Ben, this has your name on it."

"What?" he says, and takes it from me. He smoothes it out on the desk, and Francesca muscles in between us.

"That's Ray's writing," she says, in a soft voice. Then she looks at me quick. "Some other Ray. Who used to work here." She grabs Ben's arm. "What's it say, Fraser?"

I poke her. "Maybe it's private, huh? Give the guy a minute. Come on, let's go use your phone." I drag her away, leaving Ben looking at the envelope like it's going to bite him.

I call the pizza place and order two larges with everything for pick-up in an hour. I can't remember the address, so delivery's out 'cause I don't want to disturb Ben right now. He looked pretty surprised and freaked-out when he saw the envelope, and even though it had his name on it didn't look to me like it was sealed when he opened it. But it's obvious Ben hadn't opened it, so that leaves the current owner of the desk as my primary suspect. Bastard.

Ben sits down kind of hard, and his arm hits the edge of the desk. He rubs his shoulder, and then I remember that he got shot. Probably where he's rubbing, duh, and how's he going to be able to move in today with only one good arm? I check the book and make another phone call.

"Good afternoon, Canadian Consulate, how may I help you?"

Sounds like him. "Ren?"

"Why, yes, my name is Ren. How did you know that, sir?"

"Don't 'sir' me, it's Ray Kowalski. What're you doing tonight?"

"Oh! Ray! I'm ... I'm free until eight or so."

"Good. I need a favor."

I don't know what stuns me more; the actual contents of Ray's letter, or the implications of where and how it was found. I am, of course, pleased and relieved to read that Ray has accepted what I told him and that it needn't affect our friendship. I am also quite touched by his worry for me. I have indeed felt abandoned, wondering at odd moments if I'd made a horrible mistake and driven away my closest friend with my compulsive need for truth.

But I am appalled and horrified that the letter has been read by another, and by someone I never would have favoured with the confidence. It is obvious to me now that Detective Simonetta's attitude toward me has been affected by his illicit knowledge of my private life. I can only wonder about his reasons for not making the knowledge public immediately, but I am sure he has not. Even if no one else had told me, surely Francesca could not have remained silent, once she had received such information. Perhaps his standards of behaviour are such that, while he will not hesitate to read another's personal correspondence, he does not want his own prying held up for scrutiny.

My first thoughts upon discovering my erstwhile partner's perfidy were of finding him and confronting him with his actions. But what would be the use? If I confronted him, chances are good that he would take that opportunity to hold the release of the information over my head. I am not ashamed of what I am or of whom I have loved (with one distinct exception), but I will not have myself held up for ridicule over it -- and I am sure that would be the result. I understand far more of the world than most people would believe. I understand about prejudice, and fear. Police officers, whether Canadian or American, are not immune to irrational bigotry, as I've learned to my sorrow.

But now, in my truck headed toward my new apartment, followed by Ray and Turnbull in Ray's car, I am beset with second (and third) thoughts about keeping my secret so closely guarded. While I know that the prevalent attitudes toward bi- and homosexuality in society are negative, I also know that there are exceptions. Certainly Turnbull's comments earlier were favourable -- he seemed genuinely pleased to think that I was in a relationship with Ray. And Ray's calm reaction to both that conversation and Liz's assumptions leads me to believe that perhaps he, too, is capable of accepting me as I am, even on our short acquaintance.

I'm surprised at how much a part of my life Ray has become, after only two days. More sensitive to the feelings of others than he'd like to acknowledge, he only reluctantly admitted that he asked Turnbull to "volunteer" to help me move my belongings. They seem to have become fast friends in the short time I was in Inspector Thatcher's office. Ray possesses a gregarious nature that I both admire and envy.

Dief and I arrive at the house first, as Ray has stopped to pick up the pizza. I am under Ray's orders to carry nothing that requires two hands, and I will admit that I am relieved to have this stricture. My injury, while mostly healed, still gives me occasional pain when stressed. I would have tried to manage on my own, but I must say I like having someone care about my welfare again. I make two trips upstairs, first with my duffel, and then a floor lamp; feeling somewhat silly, but unwilling to stand idle. My second return to the truck finds Dief looking expectantly down the street.

The GTO pulls up behind my truck in the driveway, and Dief is at the driver's door before the engine is turned off. He is shameless around pizza; I will have to watch him carefully. Ray gets out of the car and stops to ruffle Dief's ears, then hurries around to the passenger side. He opens the door and reaches in to relieve Turnbull of two large pizza boxes, then steps back. Turnbull gets out, reaching to the floor to retrieve a six-pack of brown bottles which a closer inspection proves to be root beer. We proceed upstairs, Dief endangering all three of us with his inability to decide whether to lead the way or keep an eye on the pizza, with which Ray is bringing up the rear. Once in the apartment, Ray takes charge again.

"Okay, Ren, put those in the fridge for now. Dief, you're going outside if you don't stop bumping into me." He puts the pizzas on the kitchen counter, and looks around. "Hmm. Ben, can we use your footlocker to eat off of?"

"Certainly."

"Good. You guard the pizza from its natural predator, and me and Ren'll haul up the trunk. We can all sit on the window seat, I think, unless somebody's fond of the floor. You got any plates we can use? I forgot to get some."

"I have some, they're in the footlocker, in fact."

"Cool. One convenient location. Come on, Ren, let's go." They clatter off down the stairs again. I hear Ray's voice again, and then Liz's and Turnbull's, and I suddenly wonder how he is being introduced -- as "my friend Ren" or "Ben's co-worker." I realise that I've made no effort to befriend Turnbull in the time I've known him -- his awe of me, my distant nature, and the formal atmosphere of our workplace do not lend themselves to casual friendships. But only now do I find it odd that we are still so formal with one another.

Footsteps and laughter on the stairs herald the arrival of our makeshift table, and I hurry to prop the door further open. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and just barely foil Dief's attempt on the pizza. Chagrined at my inattention, I speak to him more sharply than I ought to and earn a puzzled glance from Ray on his way to the living room. He returns quickly to the kitchen, comes up behind me as I stand staring out the window, and puts his hand on my back.

"Never saw a wolf sulk before. You okay, Ben?"

I hang my head, fighting my automatic response of "I'm fine," which would, of course, be a lie. "Actually, I'm not sure," I say finally. I feel oddly free admitting that, and continue, while I have the advantage of momentum. "My life is somewhat unsettled currently, and I believe I need to find an even keel again."

"Oh," he says. The comforting hand is abruptly removed and he steps away. Oh, dear.

I turn to look at him, and his face is red, as though he's embarrassed. "Ray, I didn't mean-" I take a deep breath. "It's not you who've unsettled me. Well, perhaps it is, but only in a good way. I -"

I stop when he walks closer. His eyes search mine for a moment, then he says, "That letter threw you, huh?"

I nod.

"Anything bad?"

"No, just ... well, where it was found is rather upsetting, to start with."

His mouth quirks at the side. "Yeah, I could tell that for sure. Okay. You'll tell me if you need to, right?"

"I don't want to burden you --"

"Friends, Ben. That's what they do." He puts his hand on my arm and gives it a brief squeeze. "Come on, you have to open the trunk so we can eat."

"Oh -- of course. Turnbull must be wondering what's happened to us."

"Yeah, maybe. You get the root beer, okay?"

He takes the pizza from the counter while I take the root beer from the refrigerator and follow him into the living room. Turnbull is kneeling in the window seat, peering out into the side yard. He turns when we enter.

"Ray, you have an excellent location here. I've spotted several juncos and a warbler, and I think there might be an owl's nest in the oak tree, but of course without my binoculars it's impossible to be sure."

Ray laughs easily. "I'll have to take your word for it, Ren. The only birds I know are the Baltimore Orioles and the St. Louis Cardinals. Oh, and the Pittsburgh Penguins, of course."

Turnbull laughs too, then says diffidently, "I could teach you, if you'd like. Sometime."

"That'd be great. Here, show me which one's the oak tree while Ben gets the plates out." Ray puts the pizza down on the seat and kneels on the worn cushion next to Turnbull. I feel somewhat put out as I stoop to unlock my footlocker and pull out three tin plates. A bit of rummaging also brings to light a pair of dishtowels and a bottle opener. I close the trunk and spread the towels out like a tablecloth, then set the plates on top. Half my attention, however, is still on Ray and Turnbull and their conversation.

"So owls can't really do that with their heads?"

"No, although they do have considerably more range of movement than other species."

"Hunh. I always wondered."

Suppressing a small pang of jealousy (I could have taught him that), I say "Dinner is served, gentlemen." Their heads turn towards me, and then Ray smiles.

"I guess I should've worn a tie. Can you recommend a good wine?"

"We have an excellent brown this evening," I say, uncapping a bottle of root beer and handing him one. I am rewarded by his grin, and I do the same service for Turnbull before taking one for myself. Ray has meanwhile opened the pizza and given us each a slice. He pushes the boxes toward the back of the window seat and sits in the middle, with Turnbull to his left. He pats the cushion to his right.

"Ben, come on, there's room," he says; and there is, but only just barely, as I discover when I sit. The heat from Ray's body is easily perceptible even though my clothing, and I desperately hope I can get through the meal without embarrassing myself. I concentrate on my food and only then notice the toppings on the pizza. After listening to Ray Vecchio discourse on the subject many times, I am an expert at discerning the number and type, and even at the least expensive place in town, the cost of this one pizza alone would have made him wince. When I add it to the as-yet-unopened one I get a total I don't like.

"How much do I owe you for my share of the pizza?" I ask casually as I take my first bite. Ray has his mouth full, but bumps his knee hard into mine. He chews and swallows.

"My treat."

"Ray, no, that's not necessary."

"Whatever. We'll argue about it next time."

"But you can't possibly af-"

"Eat your pizza, Benton." He gives me a hard stare, and I back down and take another bite. He winks at me and says, under his breath but obviously for my benefit, "Embarrass me in front of our first guest, why don't you?" He bumps me again, with his shoulder this time, before turning to his left. "How're you doing, Ren?"

Good Lord, I've forgotten Turnbull again. I sit quietly and listen to their conversation, which ranges from Turnbull's birding club (" ... every Sunday morning, you really should join us, Ray") to his kayaking team (" ... unbelievably exhilarating, the first time they flip you") to the wedding of two of his friends from his photography class (" ... Aaron and Erin, and you'd think that would be confusing, but really it isn't"), and my mind reels. I had never before considered that Turnbull might have an actual life, with friends, and interests besides law enforcement. I had never thought of him at all, really, outside of the context of the Consulate.

Ray suddenly twists around to reach back for more pizza and I am treated to the sight of two inches of skin on his back where his shirt has ridden up. My mouth goes dry and for a moment all I can see is that gap between shirt and trousers. My jeans begin to feel uncomfortably tight as I imagine leaning down and pressing my lips just there, stroking a path with my tongue ... .

I drag my eyes away reluctantly and look up ... to meet Turnbull's gaze. His smile is kind, not mocking, and he says, "While you're there, Ray, I'll have another piece as well."

"Sure. How 'bout you, Ben?"

"Yes, thank you. Excuse me, please." I stand up rapidly and leave the room, taking refuge in the bathroom, where I try to get myself under some sort of control. It seems as though my libido has awakened with a vengeance, and I am now at its mercy when Ray is around. I use a biofeedback technique and some deep breathing to dispel my erection, and then take the opportunity to urinate, since I am there. As I am washing my hands, I hear a hesitant knock on the door, and Turnbull's voice.

"Sir?"

I'd like nothing more than to ignore him, but obviously I can't. I wipe my wet hands on my jeans in the absence of a towel, and open the door. Turnbull looks quite worried.

"A word, sir, if I may?"

I gesture to my bedroom. "Of course. After you." For just an instant I consider running down the hallway and out into the approaching night, but then I follow Turnbull into my room and shut the door.

He turns to face me, and there's a strange intensity to his gaze. "I hope you know, sir, that I would never -- that is, if I'm not presuming -- oh, dear." He grimaces. "This all sounded much better in my head a moment ago. Sir."

I nod. "Go ahead. Please."

"Well, I wanted to tell you that I admire you, what you've done since you've been in Chicago, and that I don't think -- whether you're -- well, if you and Ray are -- " He takes a deep breath. "I don't think it should matter. To anyone. Sir."

"Turnbull, I think under the circumstances it might be better if you called me Ben. Or Benton."

"Of course, sir."

"Do you prefer Renfield? I noticed Ray calls you Ren."

"It doesn't matter, sir. Benton."

"Very well. I thank you for your concern and your support, Renfield. Ren. As you have surmised, I am ... well ..." Damn it all, this is impossible. Best to just say it, I suppose. I take a deep breath and continue. "I am attracted to Ray, but that's as far as it goes. Our friendship is purely platonic, and will likely remain that way. In any case, we've only just met."

He nods. "Yes, of course. I understand perfectly. I just -- I wanted you to know."

This is a moment for a manly physical gesture, or it would be if this were a movie. Lacking the wherewithal to give Turnbull a shoulder-punch or a hug, I incline my head toward the door, and say, "Thank you kindly. We should get back to the living room."

"Of course," he says, and precedes me out.

The atmosphere when we return to our seats has changed, at least to my perception. Perhaps it is because someone else knows my secret, but I find myself relaxing more than I had been able to before, and I join in the conversation when I have something to add, although I am more content now to just listen while the others talk. Too soon, it seems, Ray proclaims himself "stuffed to the gills" and he takes the remaining pizza to the refrigerator. He walks back from the kitchen yawning and scratching his head.

"Okay, we better get moving and unload all your stuff, Ben, before I fall asleep right here. Ren, you ready?"

"Of course, Ray."

"Great. Come on, Ben, let's go."

It takes the three of us next to no time to unload the vehicles, and our last trip upstairs finds Turnbull carrying my uniforms in their garment bag. He walks down the hallway and comes back still laden, looking puzzled. Ray looks up from a box of books.

"What's wrong, Ren? Can't find the closet?"

"No, Ray, in fact I can't." They both look at me as though I've hidden it somehow.

"I don't know," I say. "I'm sure there was one -- the door is on the wall opposite the window."

"There is a door there, sir, but it's not a closet. It's a staircase."

We all troop into my room and sure enough, the open door reveals a set of stairs going up to what I presume to be the attic. There are several hooks on the wall, and I consider the feasibility of using them to hang things from, when Ray speaks up.

"You can use mine, if you want to. I mean, I don't have a lot of clothes that I need to hang up anyway, and that closet is bigger than my first apartment. So, you know," and he shrugs, looking at the floor, "if you want to, we can just share. If you don't mind."

He seems somehow uncomfortable making the offer, but I don't sense it's been made insincerely, and it's a sensible solution, at least for now. "I don't mind at all, Ray, if you won't mind me invading your privacy."

He shrugs again. "We'll figure it out. For now, let's go hang up your stuff, okay?"

Turnbull takes the time to remove the uniforms from the bag and make sure they are all in proper order. My Stetson is placed on the shelf above for the time being. It gives me a small thrill, seeing my things hanging here and imagining them mixed with Ray's at some future time. Ray stretches out a hand, tentatively, and strokes the sleeve of my dress tunic.

"Nice," he says. "You guys got it good. The Chicago PD uniforms make 'em look like cab drivers." I can hear the wistful tone underlying the mild scorn, as though perhaps he wouldn't have minded looking like a cab driver, if only... .

"The pants itch," Turnbull and I say, almost at the same time. I look at him in shock and then we both laugh. I feel a rapport beginning with him, and the fact that we have bonded over such near-heresy makes me laugh all the harder. Ray shakes his head at our lunacy and links an arm through each of ours, propelling us back into the living room.

Night has almost fallen while we worked, and the room is somewhat dim. Ray flips the wall switch; the only light available is the one overhead, since the floor lamp is in my room at present. The harsh glare brings us back to sobriety, and Turnbull checks his watch with a guilty start.

"Oh! I must be going. I'm terribly sorry, but I had promised a friend I would meet him for a movie. I've enjoyed this very much, though. Thank you for the invitation, Ray."

Ray snorts. "That was just a warm-up, Ren. We still got the furniture to do, if you're up for it. Hey, Ben, I never asked -- where's the rest of your stuff stored? I got mine over at the place on Eighth, might be easier to break down and rent a real truck, get it all in one fell swoop."

I wave my hand at the small pile of boxes and my footlocker. "This is all I have, Ray. Most of what I had was destroyed by an arsonist. I've managed to replace a few things, like the books, and luckily my old footlocker was fairly fire-proof so I was able to salvage my father's journals and a few personal mementos, but basically, what you see is all I own."

He shakes his head again, perhaps in pity. "That sucks. Did you get the guy at least?"

"It wasn't a 'guy', Ray, it was a woman. And yes, we got her, or rather Diefenbaker did, but unfortunately not until after she'd 'gotten' me."

"Way to go, Dief. Wait, so -- the performance arsonist? The one that shot you? Has to be, right, no way there'd be two of 'em. Wow." He shakes his head. "Okay, we'll make do with my second-hand crap for now. Might have to buy a couch, though -- mine's pretty small. Ren, you need a ride?"

I have become accustomed to his quick changes of subject, but Turnbull looks startled at being suddenly addressed. "What? Oh, no, thank you kindly, Ray. It's only twelve blocks or so."

"Only? No way, I'm driving you. Come on. Ben, I'll see you tomorrow, right? Come by the garage in the morning. I'll be the one up to my ass in oil changes."

"Ray, Lieutenant Welsh asked me -"

"Yeah, well, I been thinking. Who's gonna find me out in the 'burbs?"

"It still remains a possibility."

He considers for a moment, then says, "Loan me the wolf?"

"What?"

"Dief can be my bodyguard for tonight. How's that sound, furface?"

Dief barks happily, thinking of more cookies, no doubt.

"See, it's all set. I got a watch-wolf, and I can call 9-1-1 with the best of 'em, if I need to."

I am forced to acknowledge that he wants to be alone, for whatever reason, and I give in. Ray, Dief, and Turnbull leave, and I am left alone to begin the process of unpacking.

My meagre kitchen supplies are quickly stowed away, my shaving kit transferred to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and then all that is left are my books. But even taking the time to alphabetize them by genre on the shelves next to the fireplace, occasionally stopping to thumb through an old favourite, I am finished by nine-thirty. I consider my options for how I can spend the rest of the evening, but when I notice I am clutching the keys to the truck I realise there is only one option that I can choose.

Ray's parents' neighbourhood is quiet, as I imagined it would be. I drive past the house a few times, circling the block and parking in random spots, surveying the lay of the land. When I see the lights of their house go out, I make one more circuit, then park across the street and settle in. I've become unused to performing surveillance without a partner with whom to pass the time, but I'm prepared for the night ahead with a thermos of strong coffee and a cassette tape of Conversational Japanese for the Businessman with which to pass the time. It's entirely possible that I'm being foolish and over-protective, but I'd never be able to sleep with the possibility of Ray coming to harm hanging over my head, and so here I sit, eyes fixed on the house.

After about an hour I am quite surprised to see a downstairs light flick on, then off, and the front door open and close. A grey shape walks across the front lawn, and as the distance between us lessens the shape turns into Ray. He crosses the street, opens the passenger door, and climbs in. "Hope you brought coffee," is all he says.

"How did you know I was here?" I ask, feeling rather foolish.

"Your wolf woke me up -- by stepping on my balls, by the way; we're going to have to teach him some manners -- and when I went to the window to see what he was looking at, I saw the truck." He grins. "Then he went back to sleep. You were right about the snoring, but you didn't tell me how bad he hogs the bed."

"Ray, you didn't really let him up on the bed, did you?"

"Not so much let him as couldn't get him off it."

"Oh, Lord, he'll be insufferable."

"Yeah, like he was sufferable before." He bounces a bit in his seat. "So this is a stake-out, huh? Okay, now what do we do?"

"You go back inside. I sit here and watch the house."

"Try again. I'm not budging unless you do."

"Ray, I can't keep watch effectively from indoors."

"Then we sit here, I guess."

I can see in his eyes that he's serious. Once again I give in. "Coffee?" I say, indicating the thermos.

"Maybe later," he says, with only the faintest air of triumph. We sit in silence for several minutes, and I hear him stifle a yawn. "Talk to me, would you?" he says plaintively.

"What about?"

"I don't know, just ... talk. About you, about being a cop, about ... caribou, I don't care."

I smile and begin to tell him what Ray Vecchio refers to as "The Terrible Caribou Story." Rather than seeming bored or impatient for the end, this Ray turns toward me, resting his head against the glass of the window behind him. As I conclude my tale, he smiles a little. "How many times have you told that story?"

"Probably far too many."

"Hmm. Yeah, I got one of them, too. You wanna hear it?"

"Certainly."

"It all started with a guy name of Marcus Ellery ...."

Dawn is finally colouring the sky, and I watch Ray sleeping. He held out far longer than I thought he would, drinking two cups of my coffee and talking of his car, his brother ... and Stella. Always Stella. His ex-wife, Stella, for whom he still has affection, their divorce notwithstanding. His "Gold Coast Girl," in whom all his dreams resided from a very young age. And once again, I was jealous.

Never in my life have I been so conflicted, so confused. I want him, that much is clear. I want him in a very carnal way. I want to feel his hands on my skin, and mine on his. I want to know what his mouth tastes like. I want him in a way I have only wanted one other person in my life. But comparing the two of them shakes me to my core.

Victoria wanted nothing of me but my body. Our relationship -- it was fire without warmth; a searing, burning, consuming fire that left nothing behind but ashes. What I am beginning to feel for Ray, to extend the analogy, is the kind of warm, glowing fire that resolves itself into a good bed of coals, ready to spring to life again with the addition of fuel. Something that could last forever, with judicious banking and careful feeding. Something more closely akin to love.

And therein lies the problem. I don't know how to act around a potential lover. None of my previous relationships have allowed any forethought of this sort, and it's not something that comes naturally to me.

This is insanity. I need to ask someone how to proceed, but my choices are rather limited. Diefenbaker has already made his opinion clear on the subject, but his approach is rather more direct than I can manage. My father's advice is suspect, since his idea of a successful relationship is measured by distance. Lieutenant Welsh is a good man, but I cannot imagine having a discussion of this nature with him. And of course Ray Vecchio is unavailable for any type of communication.

After nearly three years in Chicago, this is my list of friends and confidants, then? And two of them I brought with me. I cast about in my mind for someone else to whom I've become close, and can think of no one. Turnbull seems, if possible, less socially adept than I, and the thought of having any kind of personal conversation with Inspector Thatcher terrifies me beyond reason.

There is only Ray left. This new Ray, Ray Kowalski, the object of my confused affections. But how can I ask his advice in this? And then -- I think -- I see a way.

If I were to ask his advice in a hypothetical sense, it would serve two purposes. I would get the information I need -- since I'm sure that he could tell me in general how to proceed -- and it would also serve as a way of testing the waters, so to speak. To get a hint, perhaps, of his feelings for me. It will be difficult, unused as I am to subterfuge, but I think I can do this. For the time being, I watch him sleep, and consider the nature of irony.

But then you walked across the dance floor Just like the moon across the sky And I knew that I would have to be more; I knew that I would have to try

Bright sunlight hits my eyeballs and wakes me up. Ow ow ow ow ow OW. Fucking pins and needles in my legs, and my neck feels like I was on some medieval torture rack all night. Don't even want to think about what my hair looks like. I manage to focus and see Ben still watching my house. "Did you sleep at all?" I ask. Damn, my voice is shot to hell too.

He looks all shocked at me. "Good heavens, no, Ray. The whole purpose of the stake-out is to maintain vigilance in case of trouble."

"You're going to be wiped today."

He shakes his head. "I can easily function on very short naps. Don't concern yourself, please."

"Hmmph. What time is it?" I squint at the clock on the dash. "Oh, God. Okay, why don't you go home and take one of your short naps and I'll go sack out on whatever part of the bed Dief's left me. Meet you at the garage at eight, okay?"

I get the Frown, but he says, "As long as you don't go in without me."

I make a face. "Not much chance of that. I'm still pretty creeped out by all that blood on the floor. Hey, who do we have to call about that?"

"Ray, I'm so sorry -- in all the excitement I completely forgot."

I yawn; can't help it. "Don't stress, we'll deal with it."

"Well, if I may use your parents' telephone again, I can arrange to have someone meet us there."

I pull out my cell phone and hand it to him. "Knock yourself out."

He stares at me like I handed him a weasel. "You have a cellular telephone with you?"

"In case we had to call 9-1-1."

"I see. That's ... very good thinking."

"Yeah, every once in a while I come up with something. Make your call -- if you think they'll be awake."

"Oh, yes, they begin work at five. How do I -"

I take the phone back and show him the buttons. He dials.

"Good morning. May I speak to Mrs. Lee? It's Benton Fraser calling." Then he sighs and says something that sounds like, "Jo sun, mm-goy wun lay tai teng deen-wa." He cups his hand over the mouthpiece and says to me, "I sometimes suspect that they can speak English perfectly well, and are just amused by my accent." His attention goes back to the phone.

"Lay tai ah? Fu-lay-see ah. Ngo yau yeh yiu ma-faan nay.

"East Greenlawn Avenue saam chut say yee ho.

"Mm-goy sai mm-goy sai."

He hands me back the phone and I fold it back up. "Was that Chinese?"

He nods. "Cantonese, to be perfectly accurate."

"Wow."

"I picked it up as a boy. It's not terribly useful in my day-to-day life, but occasionally I'm called upon to translate."

"Wow." Nice vocabulary, Ray; way to impress a guy who speaks twice as many languages as you do. Or maybe more. Yeah, probably at least French, too. Damn.

I almost crack my head open with my next yawn. "Okay, that's it, I'm going inside. See you later, right?"

He nods. "Of course."

"Go home and sleep, okay?"

He gives me another little frown, but I stare right back and he caves. "All right."

"Good." I get out of the truck and almost close the door before I think of one more thing. "Hey, Ben?" He looks at me with an eyebrow up. "I wanted to say thanks. For staying up all night. I still don't think it was necessary, but ... thanks."

He looks surprised. "I -- you're welcome. It was my pleasure."

I shake my head at him. "You have got to get out more." He laughs. I close the door and he drives away.

Sneaking into the house without Mom hearing me is a skill I haven't needed in a while, but I make it up to my room with no problem. Dief's still right in the middle of the bed, but he moves over when I push him, and I curl up in a ball and I'm out 'til my alarm goes off at 7.

I force myself up and in the shower before my eyes are really open, still kind of tired from not much sleep, but wired in that weird way, too. I really hope Ben's as good at going without sleep as he thinks he is. Can't believe I let him drive home like that, but I wasn't thinking too good at the time.

Wander back into my room; stand staring at my available clothing options for way too long, thinking about Ben saying I looked nice yesterday. Then I realize I'm doing it and grab the first T-shirt I put my hands on, along with jeans from two days ago. That'll be good enough to work in, I can change into my suit before the City Council meeting. Which, shit, I forgot to tell Ben about. Hate to make him sit through the damn thing, but I promised I'd be there. Oh, well, I'll deal with it later. I get dressed and throw everything else into an old duffle bag. I'm moving into the new place today, even if I have to sleep on the floor.

Mom's up and making breakfast when I get downstairs, just like old times. I take Dief out first, promise him a good run later if he makes it quick this morning, 'cause God I need my coffee. He just looks at me, so I up the ante to include a sausage and some eggs. That convinces him, and he's back on the porch in no time flat. Can't believe I'm negotiating with a wolf.

Get through breakfast quick, 'cause I've got lots of shit to deal with at the shop. Dad offers to help, like I knew he would, but I say I got it covered, like he knew I would. It's a thing we do.

Finally I make it to the garage, about five minutes to eight. As I park in my usual spot, Ben drives up and parks next to me. Looks like he showered and changed, anyway; I hope he did what I told him and got some sleep. As I'm getting out of my car, a white minivan pulls into the lot. I let Dief out and he goes running over to the van, jumps all over the guy who gets out. I think I've been replaced.

Ben gets out of his truck and starts over toward the van, so I join him. "Pretty fickle wolf you've got there," I say instead of hello. "Should I be jealous?"

He grins at me and it hits me again how flat-out gorgeous he is. I almost forget how to walk for a second, make like I tripped on a rock so he doesn't see what a dork I am. "Diefenbaker's affections are easily swayed," he says, and I drag my brain back out of my pants -- it's worse than being in junior high, being around him. I have no control whatsoever; I'm walking around half-hard just from one grin.

"Yeah," I manage, and thank God, my voice doesn't crack. "What's this guy got that I don't have?"

"A daily association with Mongolian Beef and Peking Duck, I'm afraid." We've reached the van, and Ben puts one hand on my shoulder, kind of pushes me forward a little. "Ray, this is Mike Lee. Mike, this is Ray Kowalski."

"Nice to meet you," I say, and the guy shakes my hand, then grins at Ben.

"Long time no see," he says.

"It is, rather," says Ben. "I expected one of your sisters."

"Yeah, well, my very wise mother decided to give the job to me, rather than have the three of them tear each other apart over who got the privilege."

Ben turns red and scuffs his toe in the dirt. I honestly never saw anybody do that before today. Mike keeps talking.

"I need to get to work, though, I've got a new produce supplier coming by later, and Dave has no clue about bok choy."

Ben straightens up. "Of course. I can show you where to start. Ray, I assume there's a water source?"

"Yeah, there's a hose set up way in the back. I'm going to skip the whole thing if you don't mind, maybe try to find my desk and re-file a few papers. Thanks, Ben. I appreciate this."

"Not at all. I'll turn on the lights for Mike and then come help you." He gives me a reassuring kind of smile, and he and Mike head for the back of the van while I take care of unlocking the doors.

I get myself settled on the floor in my office and start sorting through papers. Might as well throw out what I don't need while I'm at it, although most of it I have to keep for one reason or another. Start making piles and find out things aren't as messed up as I thought, which is a nice surprise. I'm involved in reading a three-year-old parts list and laughing at the prices when I jump a mile from a cold nose in my ear again.

"Dammit, Dief, what did I say about that?"

Dief whines, and I look around at him. He's not looking at me, though, and I crane my neck way back to see Ben in the doorway.

"No, I think you should adhere to the spirit of the law, and not just the letter, in this instance."

"Ben, whatinthehell -?"

He looks embarrassed. "According to Dief, that shouldn't count, as no actual licking was involved."

"According to me, whose ear just got nosed, he should cut it out."

"Understood. Dief?" He raises an eyebrow, and Dief makes a moany sound and lies down next to me with his head on his paws.

"Apology accepted," I tell him, and give him a little head-scratch.

Ben hunkers down next to the desk. "What can I do to help?"

"Well, if you're serious, you can start alphabetizing that pile of receipts over there and putting them back in the third drawer down." He grins at me and moves to the file cabinet. We work quietly for a bit; every once in a while Ben hums a little tune under his breath. It's nice, friendly, and I'm almost sorry when we finish, way sooner than I would have on my own. As we're putting the last few invoices away, Mike appears in the doorway.

"All done, Ben, I've got to take off. Nice meeting you, Ray."

Ben jumps to his feet. "Ah, yes, let me just -" He reaches into his pocket, and when I see him pull out cash I get it.

"Hold on a minute, what do you think you're doing? My garage, I pay."

"No, Ray, really -"

"Benton Fraser, put the money away. I'm going to write a check, and then I will submit a claim to my insurance company. I'm covered for this kind of thing. Trust me."

"Oh. I ... of course. I just thought ..."

"Don't think so much." I write Mike a check for way less money than I personally would have charged to go anywhere near that much blood with a mop, and he leaves. Dief looks sadly out the door after the van pulls away, and whines at Ben.

"Yes, all right, perhaps next week." Another whine. "I'm sure he did, but he'd soon be out of business if you took him up on every invitation. Next week."

It sounds so much like my brother trying to reason with his kids that I have to laugh. Ben looks at me. "Does that ever work?" I ask him.

He gives Dief a dirty look. "No, but I keep trying."

"Okay. I can see it's going to be interesting. Listen, I've got four oil changes and a tune-up to do before noon, so I better get busy."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Right on cue, the phone rings. Ben smiles. "I'm quite good at answering the telephone, for instance," he says.

Ray stares at me, aghast. "You're a cop, not a secretary."

"I believe the preferred term these days is 'administrative assistant'. And I assure you, I am quite proficient at the duties required." I pick up the receiver. "Good morning, SRK Automotive, Benton Fraser speaking. How may I assist you?"

There is a moment of silence on the line, and then a tentative voice says, "I need some brake work? On my car?"

"Certainly, just one moment, please." I put the call on hold and say, "May I have your appointment calendar, please?" to Ray, who is still looking uncomfortable.

"Top drawer," he says, absently. Then he shakes his head. "I can't ask you to sit here and answer the phone, Ben."

"You didn't ask, I offered," I say, as I open the drawer and pull out the book. "And I'll be glad to help you in other ways, too. I merely thought it would be inconvenient for you to stop what you were doing every time the phone rang. Excuse me while I take this call."

As the caller explains the problems she is having, I quickly scan the past month's entries and determine what appears to be the average amount of time for a 'brake job'. Looking ahead, I find an open block of that size and pencil in the young woman's name and telephone number, and the make and model year of her car. I raise an eyebrow at Ray in question and he nods, reluctantly impressed. When the call is concluded and the receiver replaced, he grins at me.

"Okay, you're hired."

"Should I ask what the wages are?"

"How 'bout I cook you dinner every night for a year?"

"For one day's work? That seems a bit excessive. Six months should suffice."

"Done. You get coffee too?"

"I can, if you'd like."

"Sure, might as well take advantage before you come to your senses. If Giorgio doesn't remember you, tell him it's for me. I run a tab, so don't try to pay. And get whatever you want while you're there."

"Thank you kindly, Ray," I say, and Dief whines.

"And get the wolf something, would you? He's making me nervous."

This statement is patently untrue, as even now Ray is crouched down beside Dief; his hands buried in the ruff of fur around Dief's neck, his face the subject of intense lupine affection. I watch this tableau for another second before turning toward the door. Ray's voice calls me back.

"Ben -- I'm running out of ways to say thank you. So if I forget to say it, one of these times, just -- well, I want you to know that I really appreciate all the stuff you're doing."

I want to tell him it's far less than he's done for me by just being my friend, but something holds me back and all that comes from my mouth is "Understood." He looks up at me, scrutinizing my face.

"Yeah, okay. We can talk later. Time to get to work." He stands with a final caress of Dief's ears, and rolls his shoulders and arches his back. As he stretches his arms upwards and his T-shirt begins to rise up over his waistband, I make my retreat.

As I cross the street to the coffee shop, I take a series of deep breaths. I am a rational human being. I have control over my actions, but not always my reactions. It was a good idea, therefore, for me to have left before glimpsing the skin of Ray's stomach. Considering last night's near debacle, I count myself fortunate indeed that I was again able to leave without occasioning comment. But I find myself wondering if the skin of his stomach is the same warm golden colour as that of his back.

When did I turn into this person? This utter stranger, who becomes aroused by the sight -- no, the thought -- of a mere two inches of skin? And what will I do when Ray and I are sharing living space? How will I react when he is free to roam about clad just in shorts or sweatpants, or worse, only a post-shower towel?

I stumble over the curb at the image, and a passing stranger puts out a hand to steady me. I thank him, and he walks on with a nod. It seems quite a friendly neighbourhood, and I think of Ray's comments to his father yesterday. His warm openness and good humour would make him welcome anywhere, I imagine, but it was obvious during our canvass of the neighbours how very well liked Ray is. I can see why he's chosen to put down roots here.

The coffee shop is somewhat busy, but Giorgio sees me and waves. He holds up one finger, raises an eyebrow, then holds up two fingers. I shake my head and try to indicate that he should continue to serve the others who are waiting in line, but I am unsuccessful. He pours coffee into two Styrofoam cups, puts lids on them, and gathers a handful of creamers and sugar packets, putting everything into a small box with an economical series of movements. Three muffins go into a bag. He then comes out from behind the counter and presents the bag and box with a flourish.

I expect a negative reaction to this blatant favouritism from the crowd ahead of me, and indeed I see some frowns, but Giorgio turns to them and announces, "This is the guy who's helping Ray out." Suddenly I see smiles and nods all around, and several people reach out to shake my hand. Evidently "any friend of Ray's" is the policy in place here. My back is patted, and I am extensively quizzed on the progress of the investigation, about which I must decline to comment. This seems to give the impression that I am 'being modest', and I am then pressed further for details.

I manage to escape finally, after explaining that Ray is waiting for his coffee. I look back as I cross the street and see faces in the window, and hands raised to wave. Since my hands are full, I nod in return, and hurry into the garage. The bustle of the coffee shop reminded me vividly of the Vecchio household with its overwhelming family. While I do miss them individually, I was often somewhat uncomfortable when confronted with them en masse.

As I walk in the door the sight of Ray's posterior, outlined very nicely by his worn and faded jeans, greets me. He is bent over, rummaging in a bin on the floor, and I feel another wave of heat wash over me. I hurry to the workbench to set down the coffee before I spill it. I really must learn to control myself.

"Do you need any help, Ray?" I say, perhaps a bit too heartily, judging from the strange look he gives me.

"No," he says slowly as he straightens, "just the coffee, if you got it." He walks over and takes one cup out of the box, peeling the lid off and quickly adding sugar. He slants a sideways look at me after he takes his first sip. "Is something going on I should know about?"

Absolutely not. I seize on half of the truth. "Your neighbours are quite enthusiastic. They were curious about our progress."

He smiles. "I bet they were. Hey, that reminds me, I've got a meeting this afternoon I have to go to. It's gonna be boring, two hours of blah-blah-blah about sewers, most likely, but I sort of made a promise I'd be there."

"Of course I'll go with you."

"Okay, cool. It's at three. After maybe we can go grocery shopping or something."

"Certainly," I say.

He nods, his attention moving to his work again. He takes another gulp of coffee and sets the cup down, and then bends to rummage in the bin once more. I drag my eyes away from him and tend to my own beverage. I hope I don't become as addicted to the stuff as most people seem to be, but once again I feel the need for a mental boost.

Something's bugging Ben, I can tell. Wish he felt more comfortable around me, but I guess I'll take what I can get. And I know he already talks to me more than he does to Ren, who he's known for years, so maybe that's just the way he is. And I suppose if it's something about me that's bugging him, eventually he'll let me know or I'll figure it out and I'll stop doing whatever it is. So. Back to work, Kowalski.

Oil changes don't take too much of my attention, I swear I could do one blindfolded, but it's just as well because I'm so nervous about this afternoon I can't concentrate anyway. Not real big on public speaking; last time I had to do it was at my wedding reception, and I was pretty wasted then and so was most of my audience. But this is important, so I have to at least try not to make a fool of myself.

I take a break after the Le Baron, wash my hands and investigate the bag Ben brought in when he came back from Giorgio's. Hallelujah, muffins. And there's three of them. I bring them with me into the office, where Ben's finishing up with another customer, from the sounds of it.

"Yes, ma'am, that will be fine. Eight o'clock. I'm sorry? Oh." He looks at me real quick and turns red. "I'm not at all certain, but I'm sure that -- I see. Well. That's very -- you have a very pleasant speaking voice as well. I --" He stops and clears his throat. "I'm afraid, though, that the management is quite strict about fraternization with customers. Yes, it's a shame. Still, we'll see you at eight on Monday? Thank you kindly. Yes, goodbye."

He has this incredibly guilty look on his face and I can't help laughing. "Ben, you picking up women on the job?"

He smiles about half a smile and says, "As you must have guessed already, I was endeavoring not to."

"Hmm. Would it make you feel any better if I said I got a strict no-fraternizing policy?"

He finally looks me in the eyes, so hopeful I'm sorry I laughed at him. "Do you?"

"Yeah, sure. You want it in writing?" I take a piece of paper off the printer and scribble "No Dating The Customers" on it, then tape it to the wall above the desk. "Better?"

"Much. Thank you." He looks so relieved I feel guilty myself, for how I'm thinking that I don't want him dating anybody, not just my customers. This is starting to seem uncomfortably familiar.

"Have a muffin," I blurt out, shoving the bag into his face. Dief pokes his head out from under the desk and looks at the bag. "Yeah, there's one for you, too, Dief, even though I don't actually see you doing anything to earn it." He makes a whiny-moany noise and Ben snorts.

"That's not strictly true. According to Ray, you were quite derelict in your duties last night."

Another moan.

"No, I most certainly did not relieve you of your post."

"Here we go again," I say. "Look, you two need counselling or something, get it on your own time. Dief, half a muffin, and you're lucky to get that, now that I remember having to fight you for a spot on my own bed last night. Should've just let Ben do the guard-dog duty in the first place." And then somehow I shut up, right before I say something stupid about Ben probably not hogging the whole bed, but I get the visuals anyway, and ....

I grab a muffin and dump the bag on the desk. "I have to get back to work," I say, and bolt.

Back in the garage, I eat about two bites before I notice my hands are shaking. The muffin goes into the trash, and I get behind the wheel of the Le Baron, back it out, and park it in the shade. Then I just sit for a minute, trying to get a grip.

It's not love. Can't be. Absolutely cannot be anything even remotely resembling love. It's just a crush, that's all. He's good-looking, and nice, and I like him, and ... I am not going to do this to myself again. I just can't, is all. One spectacular crash-and-burn per lifetime, that's all you get. Any more than that is just ... sad. Really fucking sad, Ray.

So. Back to work. The tune-up is all that's left, so I get in the box-on-wheels ten-year-old Reliant and pull it into the bay. Got to get back into my work-mode, and stop thinking about any form of romance. Stop thinking about how good Ben would look in my bed, how good he'd feel snugged up behind me. How much I'd like to wake up like that for a few hundred years.

Fuck. Work, Kowalski.

Oh no, I can't stop falling My heart betrays me And I know I'll start to feel it all again Won't someone save me

I finally drop the hood on the fully-tuned-up and ready-to-go Reliant and try to pop my spine again. Finally feel something crack; I hope it wasn't anything vital. Ben suddenly appears in the doorway. "Ray," he says, and then his face turns pink and he chokes a little.

"Are you all right?"

Big-eyed look, then he says, "Yes, I'm perfectly fine, thank you. There's a telephone call for you. A Damon Reese. He won't leave a message."

Oh, Christ, I'm going to get shit about having a secretary for sure now. It was bad enough when Julie was here, at least she never took messages. I grab the phone off the wall.

"Damon?"

"Hey, yeah, it's me. You busy?" I can barely hear him, there's a bunch of yelling in the background.

"What's up? What's all that noise?"

"I'm at the police station. The 2-7. They picked me up this morning for disturbing the peace."

Shit. "You went to the rally, didn't you?" Dumb fucking kid ... .

"Yeah. Some asshole got in my face and next thing I know I'm on the ground in cuffs."

"You need bail money?"

"No, they didn't charge me. Just ... Malik's here too. They won't let him go without a responsible adult, and his mom's working."

Dammit. "Give me half an hour. You both okay?"

"So far."

"Hang in, man. I'm on my way."

I put the phone back on the hook and just fume for a second. Son of a bitch, I can't believe this kid. Won't back down 'til you step on his head, and even then ... .

"Bad news, Ray? Is it anything I can help with?"

"Nah, I'm just getting so I need a personalized parking space at the 27th."

"I'm sorry?"

"Couple friends of mine got picked up this morning. I have to go down and spring them. You want to come with?"

He frowns a little bit, but says, "Certainly, if it's convenient. Perhaps Lieutenant Welsh has more information regarding the evidence we found."

I check the time. Almost noon already. "Okay. Let's call these folks and tell them their cars will be available after, let's say one-thirty. We should be back here in plenty of time."

We make the calls, leave messages in two cases, and get on the road. It's weird, but it seems really natural to have Ben in the passenger seat and Dief in the back. Like I've been doing it a lot longer than just two days.

We stop for sandwiches on the way, and I get plain ham and cheese instead of the Reuben I really want, so I can eat while I drive without wearing half my lunch. Ben's quiet, and I figure it's 'cause he's got food in his mouth, but even after he's done and the wrapper's neatly folded, he's still not talking. I finish the last bite of my crust and ball up the wrapper, stick it in the bag and bat Dief's nose out of the way. When Ben doesn't even comment on the wolf begging, I have to say something.

"Hey, what's up? You haven't said three words since we got in the car."

He looks at me sort of guilty-like and says, "It's nothing, really."

Yeah, right. "Why don't I believe you?"

Now he looks a little offended. "I couldn't say, I'm sure."

Fuck, he's at it again. I pull the car into the first parking lot I see and turn off the engine. He looks at me like I've flipped, which I'm not far from doing at this point. "Ray?" he says.

"Ben," I say, mocking him a little, "you need to tell me what's bugging you, and you need to do it now. I don't do good with the silent treatment."

"Ah," he says, and I wait, 'cause I can hear there's more coming. He sighs and says, "It's none of my business, really."

Which means he really wants to poke his nose in. "But ...?" I say, to keep him going.

"It's just -- I'm an officer of the law, Ray, and even though I'm not on duty at present I'm still obliged to maintain the right." I wait again, but I guess he thinks he's made his point. Except whatever it was, it flew right over my head.

"The right what?"

Now he's looking at me like I'm being a smart-ass, but that honestly didn't make sense to me. "The right, Ray. As opposed to the wrong. The law."

"Oh. Duh. Sorry. But what does that have to do with me?"

He makes a face like he just sucked a lemon and says really fast, "It's possible that I'm completely mistaken about this, but ... I'm not comfortable with the fact that you're consorting with criminals."

"Criminals?" I say, and my voice could shatter glass, so I tone it down a bit. "What are you talking about? Damon and Malik?"

He just nods; looks like he's really ripped apart over this. I take a chance and reach over to grab his shoulder.

"Hey," I say, "No consorting going on here, okay? They're just two kids got picked up at a protest rally at the park. The cops won't release Malik 'cause he's only 14, so I'm going down to help out. That's all this is, Ben. I swear." He looks about half-convinced, so I keep going.

"Damon was my Little Brother, and now Malik's his. D's been trying hard to keep Malik out of the gangs, and so far, so good. Kid's never been in trouble before, I'm betting this'll convince him all the way." I give Ben's shoulder one good squeeze and take back my hand. "So are we good, here?"

He gives a huge sigh and nods. "Yes, Ray, we are. Please forgive me."

He's still talking kind of stiff, but I think we're on the other side of it now. "Nah, it's not your fault. I tend to just charge ahead, not used to explaining myself, I guess. Anything else you're not getting, just ask."

He smiles a little. "Well, actually, I was wondering about the rally you mentioned."

I start the car again and pull out into traffic. "There's a big development going up near my neighborhood. They're planning on tearing down all the old apartment buildings and putting up shiny new condos that the people who live there now can't afford to move into. It totally sucks, and people are plenty worried about it. I've been doing what I can to get it stopped, but I don't exactly have a lot of pull at City Hall. The groundbreaking was today and a bunch of people were going to show up and protest. I tried to tell them it was a waste of time, but tempers are running pretty hot. So Damon got into it with some goon, and the cops showed up."

"Ah," he says, but he's looking a lot more happy now, so I guess we're back to good. We pull into the parking lot then, and I find a spot.

"I guess you want to go see what's going on upstairs, right?" I say.

"Yes, I thought I would speak to Lieutenant Welsh and fill him in on the lack of activity during last night's stake-out."

"Okay, I'll meet you back here when you're done?"

"Right you are, " he says, and off we go.

By the time I find Damon and Malik and talk to the desk sergeant, Ben's back downstairs from talking to H. I ask if there was anything new, and he shakes his head and doesn't say anything. His lips look like they've been glued shut, like he's afraid to open his mouth. Shit, I bet he ran into Vecchio again. Time to get out of here.

We get outside and Damon grabs my arm. "That's him," he says, and I look where he's pointing and see a real big bullet-headed guy folding himself into the front of a tan Ciera.

"That's the guy you went up against?" I ask him. "Man, you have got to grow some common sense."

"He started it."

"Yeah, I bet he did. No more, D, you hear me? That's not the way to get attention. I am handling it. Now go home, I got stuff to do this afternoon."

"And so, in conclusion, I would like to ask the board to think one more time about all the people who this decision will affect -- and not just give in to the ones with the most money and influence. Thank you."

I hadn't realised Ray would be speaking at this meeting. I was quite surprised when he stood up and made his way to the podium after being recognised by the chair. I suppose I should have known that something was "up" when he returned from the back room wearing glasses and a grey sports jacket and struggling with a tie. His challenging stare convinced me to say nothing more than "Ready to go?" but as I followed him to the car I couldn't help but marvel at the transformation from grease-monkey to businessman.

Now I watch him return to his seat amidst the raucous applause of his neighbours, who have turned out in force. He stops halfway up the aisle beside a young man who embraces Ray and pounds his back. Ray says something to him, I cannot make out what, before detaching himself and continuing on his way.

When he reaches his seat, he collapses with a muffled groan and briefly rests his head on my shoulder. I freeze with the contact, wishing I knew what it meant. Wishing I could be as free to embrace him as his friend in the crowd. But even if I knew it would be welcome, it is simply not in my nature to offer that type of casual physical affection. And even as I form the thoughts, he straightens in his chair.

"Thank God that's over," he mutters quietly to me, under the next speaker's introduction.

I turn sideways slightly and notice his hands are trembling. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, just hate getting up in front of people."

"You did very well -- I was quite impressed."

His sharp gaze probes mine for a moment, a frown almost beginning. "Really? You think?"

Our immediate neighbours are beginning to notice our conversation, so I confine my reply to an emphatic nod, and he grins. The stress that had been keeping him upright leaves him all at once, evidently, and he relaxes into a sprawl that puts his leg dangerously near mine. I try to turn my attention back to the dais, but I can't help but watch from the corner of my eye as his thumbs beat a tattoo on his upper thighs. Then he straightens again, to lean close and whisper in my ear.

"You think it convinced anybody?"

"It certainly should have," I whisper back, my lips perilously close to his ear.

He shivers, and then squirms slightly in his seat. I draw back, fearful that I've made him uncomfortable somehow with my proximity, although he chose to speak first, and must have known I'd reciprocate. He gives me a nervous smile, and turns his attention back to the podium in time to applaud the young lady who has just finished speaking.

The meeting adjourns with the appropriate formalities, and we rise to leave. Ray still seems edgy, and I try to think of something that will put him more at ease. An anecdote comes to mind.

"You know, Ray, I once spoke at a meeting very much like this, pleading a case for my neighbours much as you did. Of course, my motives were less altruistic, as I was directly involved as a tenant of the building in question, but still and all, the fact remains that --" I break off speaking, as Ray is staring at me now with an expression of shock. Then he says something completely unexpected.

"Turn around."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Turn around."

I do as I am bid, pausing halfway, and when I would complete the turn, a hand on my shoulder stops me.

"Yeah. Okay. Now say ... wait, let me think ... say, 'The harder the conflict, the more ... um ... glorious the triumph. What we ... um ...' "

" 'What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly. It is dearness only that gives everything its value.' " I complete the quotation, understanding slowly dawning. He tugs on my shoulder and I turn back to face him. With his hand still on me, he leans in slightly and closes his eyes, putting two fingers up to his mouth.

"Two years ago, the landlord of your building was trying to evict everybody ... and you stopped him. You ... got up in front of the City Council and you wouldn't sit down." His eyes fly open, and he smiles brilliantly. "Jesus, that was you!"

His face is animated now, and the words are flying out of his mouth. "I was walking past, and here's this guy handing out cash. 'Go in and listen to the Mountie,' he says. So I do, and afterwards, it gets me thinking, what am I doing to help people? Nothing, that's what. Not a damn thing. So the next day I went down to the gym and signed up to coach boxing. Best thing I ever did in my whole life."

He grips my shoulder harder and pulls me forward into a rough hug that is as brief as it is thrilling for me. He then loops one arm over my shoulders and turns us toward the doors. I am forced into step beside him, although it is no hardship. And through it all he continues talking, his words washing over me like a tide until we are outside. Then the flow of his words stops abruptly, mid-sentence, and his forward motion stops as well. "Holy ... fuck," he says softly. "Stella?"

I look where his gaze is directed and see a couple below us on the steps. The male of the pair I recognize as one of the aldermen from the meeting. The woman is unknown to me, but I can guess from Ray's tone that it is his ex-wife. She is blonde and pretty, with tailored clothes and a cool smile. They are standing fairly close together, and as we watch, she places her hand on the alderman's arm and reaches up to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

Ray drops his arm from my shoulders and starts forward, probably to confront them. Without thinking I reach out to stop him, grabbing hold of his suit-coat.

"Lemme go, Ben. That's Stella with that jerk." He yanks his coat from my grasp and I resort to stepping in front of him to block his way.

"Ray," I begin, aware that I am far from an impartial party in this matter, whether Ray knows that or not. "Ray, she's your ex-wife. I know you still care for her, but you can't keep her from seeing ... other men."

"I know that, I know, but that's Orsini down there. He's the guy behind Manor Point -- he's crooked, I can feel it. I've been fighting this development thing forever, but nothing ever works. He's weaseled out of everything we've thrown at him. And I just ... I don't want her mixed up with him."

"Stop and think for a moment," I say, drawing him further away, into the shadow of the building we've just exited. "If you go rushing over there like this, you won't convince her of anything." He pushes against me, trying to see over my shoulder. "Ray," I say, rather sharply. "She's a grown woman. You told me she was intelligent. If there's something crooked about Alderman Orsini, she'll figure it out for herself."

He shakes his head. "No, she's like, um, blind when she's in love. Or whatever she's in with this guy. He could kick a puppy and she'd look right past it."

"Surely not --" I try to say.

"Listen, Ben, I was married to her for a long time. She overlooked a lot of shit with me, in the beginning. Later, not so much, which is when I started to get the clue something was wrong."

"Which is all the more reason for you not to try to tell her anything now," I say.

He looks at me and blinks several times, before nodding reluctantly. "Yeah, okay, I get it."

"Really?" I can't help pressing.

"Yeah, Ben, I said I get it. I won't say anything. I just hope she figures it out soon, before she gets in too deep." He rolls his head around on his neck and sighs deeply. "Come on, you should come meet her. Maybe I can at least make sure Orsini knows I'm on to him."

I collect Dief from where we left him, and we proceed down the steps, Ray leading the way. I can see the moment when Stella becomes aware of his presence. Her eyes go wide, part surprise and part admiration, if I'm any judge.

"Ray? What are you doing here?"

"Hey, Stell. Just doing a little community service for my neighbours. A lot of people are going to lose their homes if this Manor Point project actually goes through. I was just trying to explain one more time to the City Council why it needs to be stopped."

Alderman Orsini looks smug. "I'm afraid we're far past the point of stopping it. The groundbreaking ceremony was this morning. But those people will thank us when we're finished, you'll see."

Ray stares at him, leaning in slightly. "No, they won't. Which is something I thought I'd made clear in there, but it's not really a surprise that you weren't listening." Stella reaches out a hand to Ray. At her touch on his sleeve, he backs away again. "Sorry, I get a little carried away," he says to her.

She nods, and smiles sadly. "Nothing new, Ray." She looks past his shoulder and seems to notice me for the first time.

Ray spins around quickly. "Shit, Ben, I'm sorry. Stella Kowalski, meet Benton Fraser."

Stella reaches out her hand to be shaken, and I take it and say, "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Ray's told me quite a bit about you."

To her credit, she doesn't make any of the usual inane responses to that, saying instead, "And this is my ... friend, Alderman Frank Orsini."

The Alderman steps forward to shake my hand in both of his. "Third district," he says, rather incomprehensibly.

"Nice to meet you," I say, disengaging my hand with some difficulty. Stella puts a proprietary hand on his arm.

"Frank's always running for something," she says fondly. "How long have you known Ray, Mr. Fraser?"

"Not too long," I say, intentionally vague. I'm not sure why I'm prevaricating, but somehow I think it's up to Ray to lead this discussion. I am not disappointed when he steps in, both figuratively and literally, with a hand on my shoulder.

"Not long, but it's been eventful, huh?"

I turn my head, and when I see the expression on his face -- part amusement and part ruefulness -- I have to smile. "Indeed it has."

Stella looks a bit puzzled at this exchange, but again I feel it is up to Ray to enlighten her as to the recent events of his life. Before he can, however, there is a loud voice behind us.

"Where is she? Where's my wife, you bitch?"

I drag my attention away from Ben's smile and turn to see this guy standing behind us, staring at Stella. It looks like a bad situation's starting, and I step in front of her, shoulder to shoulder with Ben. Dief's in front of us, growling, and Ben tells him to stay.

"Can I help you?" I say, trying for polite, even though he just called Stella a bitch, which makes me want to kick him clear to New Mexico.

He tries to see around us and keeps yelling. "Did you hear me, Ms. High-and-Mighty State's Attorney? I want to see Diane! You can't keep her away from me!"

"Go away, Dwayne," says Stella, real calm and cold, from right behind me. "Go away, or I'll call the cops."

He's starting to turn seven shades of purple. "You do that," he says. "And when they get here, maybe I'll talk to them about how you kidnapped my wife and turned her against me."

Okay, total nut-job alert. The best thing to do with these guys is --

"Sir, if you'd just calm down a moment, perhaps we can get to the bottom of this."

-- like I was saying, the worst thing to do with these guys is to tell them to calm down. He takes a swing at Ben, who ducks it pretty neatly, then he comes for me. I wait until he's missed me too (he pretty much sucks as a fighter) and give him a sharp jab in the gut. Not enough to really hurt him, just to make him reconsider. It knocks him back for a second, then he's in my face again. Somehow he manages to land a punch on my left arm right above the elbow, and girly-fighter or not, he must have hit the nerve because it hurts like hell. I decide to stop messing with him and get him in the gut again, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Something in his coat pocket crunches under my fist, and he goes down hard onto the steps.

Before he can catch his breath, Ben has him flipped over onto his stomach with his arms behind him. He holds out his hand to me. "Ray, your tie?"

I loosen the knot and try not to think of other circumstances in which I'd rather be doing this. "You don't carry handcuffs?"

"I seldom need them. The uniform provides a lanyard which is quite useful in these situations, but I didn't think to bring it along." He wiggles his fingers at me. "So if you wouldn't mind?"

I hand it over, and he wraps it around the guy's wrists a few times and ties it, muttering something about a rabbit. He tests the knot, then stands back up. He's breathing a little hard, and there's just a bit of sweat on his face. That's the only sign he's been fighting -- his hair's not even messed up. But just that little bit of unkemptness makes me crazy.

He turns to me and catches me staring. I shake off the moony feelings and say, "Looks like we got a pretty good partnership going. I knock 'em down, you tie 'em up."

He smiles a little. "I'd prefer you not make a habit of this, Ray."

I cock my head and pretend to consider that. "Nah," I say finally, "I'm not really cut out for a life of crime-fighting. I hear the tights are a bitch."

He gapes at me a second or two, then he laughs. "Indeed they are," he says, but before I can question how he knows that, the cops show up. It's Huey and Dewey from yesterday, and I wonder for just a second what cosmic joker assigned them as partners with names like that. Dewey reads the jackass his rights, while Huey comes over to talk to the four of us. My second crime scene of the week; I'm getting pretty good at this.

Once we get it straightened out who started it and all that bullshit, we get the story. Prince Charming is involved in a divorce, big surprise, and his wife has gone to a safe-house because he's been harassing her so bad. Naturally, he blames it on Stella, since she's the only one he can get to. "Psycho," I say, and Ben frowns at me. "What?" I ask. "Ben, he's a nut-job. Obsession's not the same as love. You have to know where that line is."

"I --" he says, and then he stops. Looks at me with another little frown, then he says, "You're right, Ray. I'm sorry."

Stella starts fussing over me then, like she never would when I was really fighting. Orsini is shaking Ben's hand for all he's worth and I think how nice that is until I notice the news-truck that somehow appeared out of nowhere. Fuck, I do not want to be the lead story at six, standing next to this asshole. I shake off Stella and walk over to Ben.

"You're wasting your time, Orsini -- he's not registered to vote." I pull Ben off to the side by his sleeve. "Listen," I say to him, "there's no reason for us to stick around if the cops are done with us, right?"

"Well, actually, Ray, Alderman Orsini's invited us to dinner."

Fuck. "Did you accept?"

I guess maybe he can tell from my tone I want to answer to be no, but he nods. "I'm afraid so. He was very insistent."

"Yeah, I bet he was. Probably have a camera crew there, too."

"I don't understand."

"He's a publicity-hound, Ben. Look at him over there." I point to the sidewalk, where the TV crew's set up. The chick from Channel 7's got a mike stuck in Orsini's face, and he's grinning like a maniac. "My neighbors see me with him and I won't be able to show my face again."

"I'm sure you're mistaken. You seem to be quite a local hero."

"Yeah, whatever. I just don't want to spend time with him, that's all."

"We can hardly decline now. I'm sorry, I should have checked with you."

"Ah, don't worry about it. I can stand one meal, I guess. Just stay out of the way for now, okay?" And then a thought occurs to me. "Unless -- jeez, this is kind of like your job, huh? I mean, maybe this would look good on your record. Shit, Ben, you go do whatever you want, okay? I don't want to mess up your career or anything."

He laughs, and it sounds a little bitter. "I wouldn't worry about that, Ray. Even if it were a concern of mine, my career was 'messed up' long before we met."

"Yeah?" I say. "Sounds like a story."

His eyebrows go up. "It is indeed, but I don't think we have time for it now."

"Tonight, then. We'll have a fire and tell stories."

"Agreed," he says, and then some tall, skinny black dude comes over. He has the fakest smile I've ever seen, and a voice that matches it perfectly.

"I'm Jerry, Alderman Orsini's personal aide. Mr. Orsini is almost ready to leave for dinner, and he was wondering whether you have your own transportation."

"Yeah," I say, "I can drive. Where're we going?"

"The Alderman has reservations at The Oriole."

I wince. Pretentious as all hell, but what did I expect? I'm sure Stella loves it, she always was big on appearances.

Appearances. Shit. I look at Ben, who looks fan-fucking-tastic in leather as far as I'm concerned, but I don't think the maitre-d' will be too impressed. And I need a new tie, the one I was wearing is all wrinkled from being wrapped around Dwayne's wrists. "Tell him we'll meet him there, okay? I have to ... uh ... run an errand first."

Jerry looks superior and walks back over to Orsini. He says something, and Orsini looks over at us and shakes his head a little, makes a "don't go anywhere" kind of motion, then goes back to his schmoozing.

"Oh, wonderful," I say.

"What's wrong?" asks Ben.

"Orsini's figured out what my errand is, that's all. He's probably going to come over and offer me some of his old clothes or something."

"I'm afraid I'm at a bit of a loss, Ray."

"The Oriole's a real fancy sort of place, Ben. Suit and tie. Twenty-dollar appetizers. The kind of place we're not exactly dressed for." I look down at my scuffed-up loafers. "The kind of place I never could afford to take Stella to."

"Ah," he says, and I can hear he gets it, or at least part of it, but I need to explain why seeing Stella with Orsini bugs me so much. Why it makes me nuts that he's going to come over here and look down on me. And I'm having trouble finding the right words.

Ray shrugs and looks up from his perusal of his shoes. "It's just -- I feel like a pathetic loser around her now. Look at her, she's got a rich boyfriend, and I can't even get a date."

I frown. "You're not a loser at all, Ray."

He waves his hand at me. "Yeah, I know, it's just Reunion Syndrome or something." I suppose the puzzlement I feel shows on my face, because he explains further. "You know, when you go to your class reunion, you always want people to think you're doing way better than they are, rich and successful and all, when in fact, you're two pay checks away from living in the gutter."

"So ... I don't understand. If Stella thought you were dating, that would make things better?"

"Maybe. I don't know. It wouldn't be worse, that's for sure. But Mom keeps her updated on me, so it's no good. It'd have to be somebody even my mother doesn't know about, somebody I was keeping secret." He snickers then, and sings, "Once, I had a Secret Loooove ...." Dief sneezes, and I laugh. Ray looks at me speculatively. "Hey, would you consider telling them all about my Mystery Woman? No big details, just ... make something up."

I shift uncomfortably. "Ray, I'm afraid I'm not very good at lying."

He looks at me again and nods. "Yeah, I kind of figured that out. 'S'okay, don't worry about it. Bad idea."

"You know I would, if I could, but I ..."

"You can't, so you won't. Not a problem." He laughs again, and says, "Hey, maybe she'll just jump on the bandwagon and save me the trouble."

"Bandwagon?"

"Never mind, that's an even stupider idea. As if I'd use you like that."

"Ray, I'm completely lost now."

He turns his amused eyes to mine. "Has it escaped your notice that people seem to think we're a couple?"

"Oh. Well. No, not entirely. I ... hadn't wanted to bring it up." I look closely at his expression, and say, tentatively, "I take it you're not upset about it?"

He shrugs again, his shoulders moving fluidly under his jacket. "The way I figure it, I could do a lot worse." He jerks his head to the side. "Here they come. How does my hair look?"

"Fine," I say absently, still trying to process his last statement.

Alderman Orsini and Stella walk over to join us, and I must admit the expression on the Alderman's face is shading towards smug. "What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?" he asks us.

Ray's mouth twists before he says, "You know damn well we're not dressed for the Oriole, Orsini. And plus we can't bring the wolf."

Stella shies away from Dief, who has circled behind her, and says, "Wolf? I thought he was a husky."

I try to reassure her. "In point of fact, ma'am, Diefenbaker is only half-wolf. I raised him from a pup -- he's quite tame." Dief yips disagreement, and I look down and raise an eyebrow. "You certainly are. And getting soft -- if an elk ran across the street right now, you'd just watch it go, wouldn't you?" He tosses his head and slinks over beside Ray, who pets him absently and continues his discussion.

"So it looks like we have to skip the dinner. Sorry, Stell." He turns to me, looking not at all sorry. "Grocery shopping? We need to fill that fridge of ours with something other than leftover pizza."

Stella's brows draw together, and she looks from Ray to me and back. "You're -?"

Ray nods. "H set it up -- found us a great apartment on Magnolia. We just moved Ben in last night."

"Oh. I see. Are you a colleague of Harding's, Mr. Fraser?"

"I am, yes," I say, unsure of how much else to add. Ray rescues me again.

"Ben's the Canadian liaison to the 2-7," he says. "He came to Chicago on the tail of some killers, and H was so impressed with his work he decided to keep him."

"Ray," I say. "That's not entirely accurate. The RCMP posted me here. Lieutenant Welsh has kindly allowed me to work in his squad on occasion."

"Yeah, whatever," Ray says, nudging me discreetly.

Alderman Orsini joins the conversation. "I don't think we need to worry about your state of dress, Detective -- is it Detective?"

"Constable, actually," I say.

"Mmm. I certainly think you two deserve some type of reward for your heroic actions. I can explain things to Henri. I have a certain amount of pull, after all." Alderman Orsini gathers us all up, Dief included, and shepherds us to the curb, where his assistant is waiting with the car. He hands the alderman a cellular telephone, and Stella looks resigned as he walks a few steps away.

Ray goes to get the GTO, leaving me to chat a bit more with his ex-wife, who still seems suspicious of me.

"Why don't I remember you from any of my visits to the 2-7, Constable?"

"I couldn't say, really," I reply. "But I'm only there occasionally, when my help is needed. I work with a Detective Vecchio."

She makes a face. "Him I remember." Her curiosity seems satisfied by that fact, and we fall silent until Ray's return. The Alderman finishes his telephone call, and we depart for the restaurant in our separate cars.

Henri turns out to be the type of maitre d' from which stereotypes are born. Alderman Orsini's 'pull' appears to be manifested in the form of cash, discreetly slipped from hand to pocket, but Henri's sneer is still faintly showing. We are led to a table near the railing, with a view of the city lights, and left to peruse our menus.

A small but not untalented orchestra is playing, and several of the other patrons have started dancing. Ray watches them for a moment, then turns to Stella and smiles winningly.

"How 'bout it, Grace? One trip around the floor for old times sake?"

She brightens, then looks at Alderman Orsini. "Thanks, Ray, but I don't think so."

The Alderman gestures expansively. "Why not dance, Stella? It wouldn't bother me."

She frowns at him. "I didn't think it would."

"Well, it doesn't. Go right ahead."

She raises an eyebrow. "Fine, I will." She rises from the table, grabs Ray's hand, and nearly pulls him from his chair. Alderman Orsini watches them go, then turns to me.

"It must be difficult for the two of you. Going out in public, I mean. I suppose you have an understanding about this sort of thing?"

"What sort of thing?"

"Ray dancing with women, since he can't dance with you."

This is getting rather surreal. He is the third person in three days to think that Ray and I are a couple. "What on earth makes you say that? That Ray would want to dance with me?"

"Come on now, Ben. If the 'roommate' thing hadn't already tipped the scales, I can see how you two act together. The way he looks at you? It's pretty obvious."

His tone is dismissive, patronizing, and it gets my back up. Momentarily putting aside the question of whether and exactly how Ray has been looking at me, I find myself becoming defensive and more than a little angry.

"And if I say that we are just friends?"

He gives me a knowing look, a 'we're men of the world here, after all' look. On a less distinguished face it would be a leer. Then he continues with his sly insinuations.

"I suppose there's a certain raw charm there, but I'm not surprised Stella wanted more than he could give her. She needs to be ... handled just right. With finesse." And then he winks at me. "I bet that's not a problem for the two of you, though, am I right?"

And although I know for certain that I'll regret it, I give in to my baser impulses for once. After all, from Ray's earlier comments, he won't mind if I give Orsini the wrong impression, temporarily, at least. I lean closer, as though about to impart a confidence, and say, "I find him very ... spontaneous." I look away for a moment, not needing to feign my blush. "He quite surprised me last night, in fact."

Alderman Orsini sputters and chokes, and it's hard to hide my smile. Remarkable what one can do with the truth, if one tries. I turn to watch Ray with Stella, and for a moment I can almost imagine it is me he's dancing with. And then he swings around and dips her, and looks right at me. Right into my eyes, as though he knew I was watching, and he grins and winks. Then the moment passes, and he's twirling Stella away again. I can barely draw a breath, but I must regain some composure before the music ends. I close my eyes briefly, but the memory of that wink is so clear I open them again.

The song finally ends, and Ray escorts Stella back to her chair with a courtly bow. He's so charming and gallant that an outsider might think, as I did earlier, that he was flirting with her. But now I look beyond the face of things, and see how his eyes never meet hers for more than an instant. He's not avoiding her gaze, he's just not paying attention to her. It's very puzzling. Then he looks at me again, eyes bluer than I'd remembered them to be, and I wonder, for an instant, whether the alderman might possibly be right.

Ray shifts in his seat, stretching his legs and wincing. "Hoo boy, I'm getting old. Should've known better, I guess." Alderman Orsini smirks, but Stella looks concerned.

"Are you all right, Ray?"

"Yeah, I just slept sitting in Ben's pick-up last night. He was, uh, on a stake-out. I thought it'd be fun, so I surprised him." He laughs. "Woke up with a kink in my neck and both legs asleep."

Alderman Orsini's gaze focuses on me, and narrows. I turn my attention to Ray and say, "I hope you've at least been disabused of the notion that it's fun."

"Nah, just next time we'll use the Goat. More leg-room." And he winks again.

Dinner is shaping up to be a very uncomfortable meal.

Grocery shopping with Ray was an educational experience, to be sure. Our cart was quickly piled with the oddest assortment of foods, literally everything from soup to nuts. As soon as we got home he started unpacking, arranging boxes and cans in the cabinets in a surprisingly sensible manner. I tried to help, but he shooed me off to the living room to make a fire. Fifteen minutes later he appeared in front of me, holding our bedrolls and a bag of marshmallows.

And now, with half the bag gone (mostly into Ray's mouth), we sit and contemplate the flames.

"So is this what you guys do for fun up north?"

It takes me a moment to realise Ray is speaking to me. "What?"

He gestures at the hearth. "Stare at the fire. I mean, I was just wondering what they do instead of watch the tube."

"Well, Ray, there is of course a long tradition of telling stories and singing songs around a fire. And on special occasions, we would get together and play Kick the Cabbage, or perhaps bob for trout."

I'm not sure why it pleases me so that Ray never takes what I say at face value. I can tell from his grin that he 'got' my joke, and his answer is as tongue-in-cheek as mine. "Yeah, I'd think that would be a pretty special-occasion type thing. 'Cause I bet trout are real scarce, what with the ice and all ... so does the winner get to eat it, or does he just take it home and stuff it like a trophy?"

I roll onto my back and grin foolishly at the ceiling. "All right, you caught me. But the Territories are pretty much like anywhere else. There are a lot more wilderness areas than you're used to, but many towns have sports-bars and movie theatres, and most people who want one have a satellite dish. And of course, video rentals are quite popular. We're not completely cut off from civilization. Unless we want to be, that is."

I didn't mean for that last to come out sounding so ... pathetic ... but Ray again surprises me with his insight.

"You miss it a lot, don't you? The wilderness and stuff."

I nod. It's true, I miss it more than anything, most of the time, but now I think I wouldn't trade my friendship with Ray for all the open spaces in the Yukon.

"So, why Chicago? I mean, I get the 'I go where I'm posted' thing like you told Liz, but you couldn't request a transfer?"

"I'm afraid it was in the way of being both an exile and a punishment. I was rather an embarrassment to certain people in authority, and so ... Chicago."

"No way."

"Way."

He laughs, as I intended, and says, "So what horrible thing did you do?"

It still hurts a bit to say it, but I explain. "In the process of tracking down the man responsible for my father's death, I uncovered evidence of corruption within the RCMP."

"And of course you were forced to expose it."

"Of course."

"That really sucks, Ben."

"As you say." One of the logs on the fire pops and shifts, and I get up to poke at it, just to have something else to do for a moment.

Ray yawns hugely. "Okay, that's it, I'm for bed." He raises his voice. "Dief! You gotta go out?"

"He can't hear you, Ray. He's deaf."

Dief comes trotting out from my bedroom then and stands right by the back door, looking at Ray expectantly.

Ray turns toward me, and with sparkling eyes asks, "All evidence aside, if he's deaf, why do you talk to him?"

"He reads lips."

"Right. Let me guess -- he never comes when you call him and ignores you when you tell him 'No'?"

"Among other things, yes."

"I don't think he's deaf. I think he's part cat."

Dief barks, and I laugh. "You have a unique way of looking at things."

"Hey, it keeps me going. I'll go out with him."

I watch them run down the stairs to the yard, then I close the door and turn away. My mind races with thoughts so scattered I can barely grasp one. I had planned to quiz Ray tonight about dating, but I'm not at all sure I can pull it off in a casual manner. I feel as though I'm walking a tightrope as it is, and it would be far too easy, I think, to betray my true feelings.

He's won me over already without any evidence of intent on his part. Mightn't it be better to just go on as we have begun, and let nature have her way with us? But my grandmother's philosophy of 'one never knows what one can do unless one tries' has carried me through much of my life, and I suppose this is no time to re-think it.

While my mind has been occupied, I have somehow carried out my nightly routine and need only change into sweatpants and a T-shirt to be ready for sleep. I cross the hall to my room and do so, and venture back out into the living room. Ray has also changed and is sitting cross-legged on his sleeping bag, talking softly to Diefenbaker, who is gazing adoringly at him.

As I come closer, Ray gives Dief a pat and says, "Okay?" Dief yips, and moves across the room to the floor in front of the window seat. Ray looks up at me and says, "Hey, Ben, ready for bed? Get the light in the kitchen, I'm good."

I turn out the kitchen light and see that he has lit my kerosene lantern. Caught between the glow of the embers in the fireplace and the familiar light from the lantern, Ray is still half in shadows; so beautiful at that moment it takes me by surprise, and I stumble as I cross the room. I sit on my own bedroll, mimicking his posture as well as I can. He is obviously more limber than I, something I should not be dwelling on currently, dressed as I am and so close to him.

"Thank you for taking Dief out," I say to break the silence. I am gifted with another smile.

"Hey, no problem, su lobo es mi lobo, you know? As long as you don't mind."

"No, of course I don't mind. I'm glad ... it's good that you two ..." Good Lord, I can't even get out a simple sentence.

Ray comes to my rescue yet again. "Yeah," he says simply, but I can hear the understanding behind it.

In a desperate effort to change the subject, I say, "You seem to be on very good terms with your ex-wife. She's obviously very fond of you."

He smiles a little sadly. "Yeah, we've known each other a long time. Hard to forget all that history just because you realise you can't stay married."

"Indeed," I say, thinking of my own inability to let bygones ... be. I am desperately curious to know why they divorced, but it's far too personal a question to ask.

"I think it was the boxing," he says, startling me.

"What?" I ask wildly, half-convinced I've spoken my thoughts out loud, but he's not looking at me anymore.

"She wanted me to give up too much. First being a cop, then having kids ... and when she started in about the time I was spending at the gym, I just ... lost it. I just knew if I didn't get out of there, there wouldn't be any more me left. So I moved out."

"I'm ... so sorry, Ray." You deserve better than that, I want to add, but don't.

Then, before I lose what nerve I have left, I say, "Ray, as long as we're speaking of personal matters, I would like to ask for your advice."

He looks surprised. "Sure, ask away. Dunno what good it'll do you, but what the hell."

"Well, I was wondering ... you were talking about dating earlier tonight. And ... I have little to no experience in that area, and just lately it has become an issue. So I thought perhaps you could give me some ... pointers."

He looks at me thoughtfully. "You got someone specific in mind, Ben? Reason I ask is what you call dating and what I might call dating, well, two different kettles of fish. I can't imagine you picking someone up in a bar, for instance."

"Oh, but Ray, I have." He looks at me in disbelief as I continue earnestly. "On my first patrol assignment in the Territories there was a very belligerent trapper who was causing a disturbance in a tavern. He refused to leave, and so I had to carry him bodily out of the establishment."

He's laughing at me now, and he asks, "Then what did you do?"

"I deposited him in a convenient snow bank to sober up, of course. It's standard procedure."

"Of course." He shakes his head. "Hey, do other people buy this 'I don't understand a word of slang' act, or are you doing it special for me?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Ray," I say with a smile.

"Yeah, right. Okay, back to dating. So ... specific person in mind, right?"

It can't hurt to tell him that much, surely. "Yes."

"And you need to know -- what? How to ask her out?"

"It's more in the way of how to tell if this person might be interested in me. And also what a typical date might consist of, if ... this person were to agree to it."

"You're kidding, right? Seriously, have you looked in a mirror lately? Any chick who turns you down should probably be checked for a pulse."

I sigh. "I'm not unaware that many people find my physical appearance pleasing. But surely you can understand that isn't the point. I need someone who can see past that."

He shifts position to lie on his side, head propped on one arm as he regards me in the dim light. "You do realise it's partly your own fault all anybody sees is your looks, right? Sure, they're like, I don't know, blinding, but you're so stiff with people it's all they have to hang on to. You want someone to see more than that, you have to show it to them. Relax, open up, like you do with me."

He's closer to the truth than he knows. "That can't be all there is to it, surely."

"It's a starting place, anyway. Give it a try, you'll be surprised. And as far as what a typical date consists of, there's no such thing. You have to figure out what works for the two of you. Dinner and a movie is usually a pretty safe bet, though. Or ... what do you do for fun?"

"I enjoy reading quite a lot."

"Unless we find you Chicago's version of Marian the Librarian, that's not gonna work. Keep going."

"I ... walk. And run, with Dief. I like music. Sports. Well, some sports. Hockey. Curling, of course." I stop, waiting for the inevitable question, but he just looks mildly curious.

"That's it for sports then? Hockey and curling?"

"And baseball ... you know what curling is?"

"Yeah, saw it on the tube -- looks like housework on ice, right? Bunch of guys with brooms? Kind of a shuffleboard thing?"

"An inelegant description, but fundamentally correct."

He nods absently, mind still working on the original question. "Well, here's what you do. You take your list of likes and put it next to the other person's list, and try to find common ground. Simple, right?"

"It would seem so. But what if there are no points of convergence?"

"No similarities, you mean? Nothing in common? Can't happen. There's always something. I mean, if you like someone enough to consider dating them, it stands to reason there's some kind of connection going on. You just expand on that. You don't want someone who's exactly like you. Differences are good.

"The best advice I can give you, though, is to know what you want right up front. You need to know what you want out of a relationship before you get into it, and if both sides don't agree on the basics of that ... you got trouble."

What I want is to bundle Ray and Dief into the truck and drive north until we hit snow, but that's hardly something I can say at the present time. "I suppose," I say carefully, "I want what anyone wants -- someone to share my life with."

He scratches his head. "Yeah, I kind of figured that. Makes sense, I guess ... for you." His voice trails off, and I realise he's again reminded of Stella.

"Ray?"

He smiles again. "I'm fine. It's just been a hell of a long day. Sleep now, okay? We can talk more tomorrow."

"Of course. I'm sorry, I should have thought ..."

"Nah, I'm a grown-up. I can take responsibility for myself. Which is what I'm doing. Sleepytime, 'fore I say something stupid."

"Understood. Goodnight, Ray." I reach over and turn out the lantern. Now there is only the dim glow of the fire illuminating the room, but I can still see Ray as he climbs into his sleeping bag, his head on the pillow so close beside me that I can see each individual eyelash as his eyes flutter closed, then open again.

" 'Night, Ben," he breathes, and smiles sweetly at me. It takes every bit of self control I possess to stop myself from leaning over and kissing him. I roll to my side, away from the lure of his face, and stare into the shadows until sleep overtakes me.

I wake up when Ben goes outside with Dief. The sun's up, but just barely, and my travel alarm won't buzz for another couple of minutes, I hope. I feel around and find it so I can check. Yeah, twenty minutes to go. Not worth it to go back to sleep, and I've got a lot to think about.

Starting with ... why Ben was playing the pronoun game with me last night. He doesn't always answer questions directly, and I didn't want to ask him who he was considering as potential date-material, but he never once used 'she' or 'her' to describe them. 'This person' -- I've done that too many times myself not to notice it from someone else. So now I'm thinking he might be bi, too. Which opens up some very interesting possibilities.

That's assuming, of course, that he'd even be interested in me. I don't know what his type is, at all, and maybe he goes for the quiet sort. Maybe he wants a guy who can hold his own in a discussion about ... I don't know, Proust or somebody.

But I guess the big question, the really fucking huge question at this point is -- what have I really got to offer, besides some genuine enthusiasm between the sheets? After Stella, I'm not real sure about getting into another serious relationship. But Ben's not the type for a casual fuck. He's an all-or-nothing guy, I can tell. I was too, before I got tromped on ....

Fuck it, I have no clue. I'm not used to thinking before coffee, either, so I get my skinny ass up and go into the kitchen. Ben's been here, there's a note on the counter, right next to the space where the coffee maker would be, if it wasn't still in storage.

"Gone for a run with Dief, back in time to go to work with you. Breakfast out? BF."

Yeah, breakfast out's my usual plan, but it's our first morning here, and I'd much rather eat in. I remember there's a bakery on the corner, so I take a quick shower, get dressed and walk down there.

Everything looks so good it's hard to decide, so I get a coffee first and drink it while I browse. I finally decide on danish, and I make sure there's one extra for the furball. The girl behind the counter flirts with me, and that feels good for a second or two -- nice to know I still have it. But she can't be much over twenty-five, if that, and I just can't deal with that much of a generation gap. It's a rule I have -- never date anyone who doesn't remember Elvis.

Walking back to the house, I see Ben and Dief coming from the other direction. Looks like they're racing, and I speed up a little to be in at the finish line. Dief has the advantage, of course, but I can see Ben's seriously trying, sprinting flat out for the house. He collapses on the lawn about two seconds after Dief, who licks his face and then runs up to me, sniffing the box with the danish in it. Damn wolf's not even winded; I make a mental note never to race him. I stroll over to Ben, who's lying on his back, trying to get his breath. He looks damn good in shorts; he has a few scars, but overall it's a real nice view. I wonder if I could get away with licking him like Dief did. Then I remember I'm supposed to behave myself.

"Hey, Ben, race you up the stairs?"

He stares up at me, panting and grinning. "You're an evil, evil man, Ray Kowalski."

"Thought you Mounties were supposed to stay in shape. What'll they think when I tell them you got beat by a wolf?"

"You can carve that on my tombstone."

"C'mon, let's go. Breakfast time." I reach down to help him up and he grabs my arm. As he pulls himself up, he hisses and winces. "Shit, was that your bad arm?"

"It's all right, I'm fine," he says. "I just need a hot shower, that'll fix me right up."

I study him for a second. "They give you PT? Of course they did. You need any help with the exercises?"

He starts for the stairs. "Please don't worry about it," he says over his shoulder.

Yeah, he's real good at the deflected question. I trot after him, and Dief follows the food. "Ben. Have you been doing your PT?"

"My shoulder is fine." He's at the door already, and he turns before he goes in. "I'm going to take a shower. Could you give Diefenbaker some water, please?" And ... he's gone. I follow him into the apartment and I hear the water in the bathroom start. He's evidently said all he intends to about the subject.

I think I've got my answer, though. The next question is, why isn't he doing the damn PT? And how hard do I want to push this? A couple of the scars on his leg looked like bullet scars, which I recognize from the kids at the gym, some of whom have been either real lucky or real stupid, depending on who you talk to. So obviously he's been through this before. And I know enough about injuries to know if you don't work it right, things don't get all the way better. But he's a big boy now, might not thank me for butting in.

I get Dief some water, and he gulps it down fast. I had a talk with him last night, made sure he was okay with me moving in. I know wolves are territorial from watching the National Geographic specials on TV, and I didn't want him to think I was threatening his pack or anything. Probably stupid to actually hold a conversation with him, but he really does seem like he's listening -- or watching, whichever. I guess he's accepted me. Maybe it was all the food. So I don't feel quite so stupid asking him what he thinks is wrong with Ben.

Of course he's not real helpful on the subject, just whines and licks my hand a couple of times. Then he goes to the window seat, jumps up on it and curls up to sleep. Wish my life was that simple.

The shower cuts off, and after a couple of minutes I hear Ben go into his room. I didn't think to get him any coffee but I want to do something nice, so I get Ben's tin plates and mugs out of the sink-drainer and set the ... counter. No table, no chairs -- I need to get my stuff out of storage. It's not necessarily the best-looking furniture in the world; most of it was scrounged from relatives and second-hand shops, except for the brand new bedroom set I splurged on. Kind of symbolic, I guess. But Ben doesn't have anything, so my stuff is it. Maybe Liz has some stuff in the attic she doesn't want. I'll have to ask her if I see her. I get the orange juice out of the fridge and open the danish.

Ben comes out of his room dressed about like he was yesterday -- jeans, flannel shirt, hiking boots. His hair's wet, and it takes me a second to remember why I don't just jump him right here and now. Oh, yeah, that's right. Being good.

"Hey, I got danish -- cheese and apple. And there's juice. No coffee, I kind of forgot to get you some."

"To be honest, I don't care for it that much. I usually drink tea but juice is fine. Thank you for breakfast."

"No problem. Why didn't you say you needed tea last night?"

"I have some in my footlocker. I'm simply not in need of any stimulants this morning, thank you. The run with Dief seems to have accomplished much the same effect."

Uh oh. "What's wrong?"

He gives me a startled look. "Why do you ask?"

"You're talking like a Vulcan again. C'mon, spill it. Talk to me. What did I do?"

"You've done nothing wrong, Ray. I fail to see why you would think that."

O-kay. He's either pissed-off or nervous. I'm going with pissed-off, 'cause I really was pushing a bit. "I'm sorry if I crossed a line, asking you about your shoulder, Ben. It's just -- I've got some experience from the kids at the gym. Had one who wouldn't listen to me, fucked up his knee completely 'cause he went back before he was ready. But I'm sure you're doing what the doctors told you."

"Well, they do say doctors know best, don't they?" He looks at the box on the counter. "My, those look wonderful."

Hah. He's not pissed-off at all. "Three strikes and you're out, Ben."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're really good at the deflecting thing, but I've studied with a master. You want to tell me why you won't give me a straight answer anytime I mention your shoulder?"

"I told you, my shoulder is doing quite well."

"Yeah. But you didn't tell me you were doing your physical therapy."

"Ah." He picks up a danish, puts it on his plate, and starts systematically destroying it, without actually eating a bite.

"I don't get it. You've obviously done this before, and you're certainly not lazy. So why? I thought you had to go back to work next week."

"If you want to call it that." He's done torturing the pastry. He pours himself some juice and knocks it back, then studies the inside of the cup like it's got tea leaves in it.

"What does that mean?"

He slams the cup down on the counter and I jump. "It means that the duties I will be resuming could just as well be performed by a lobotomized, one-armed chimpanzee, so what does it matter whether I am fit?"

Oooh, that put a crack in the armor. "What about the liaison thing you got going with the cops?"

"Ah, yes. My 'work' at the 27th." His voice's turned sarcastic now. "I'm afraid that Detective Vecchio will not be needing my help on his current caseload. He's decided that I'm quite incompetent, getting myself shot as I did."

"Bullshit. What does Welsh have to say about it?"

He shakes his head. "I can hardly run to Lieutenant Welsh and complain that I'm not being allowed to play with the other boys. My association with the 27th was always quite unofficial, and Detective Vecchio is under no obligation to include me on any case that doesn't directly involve a Canadian national."

"Ben, I know H. He's never taken any crap from anybody. If he didn't think you were contributing, he would have put a stop to your 'association' long ago. Look how he asked for your help yesterday."

"Nevertheless, I will not go where I am clearly not wanted. Please don't try to 'fix' this. I will simply have to find a new ... hobby."

He's just about breaking my heart here. I can hear in his voice how much he wants to go back to working at the 27th, but if it's like he said, he's better off not. Spending time with someone who doesn't like you is a lot worse than being alone. And yeah, I want to 'fix' it, that's how I am. But short of getting him a new partner, I can't see any way to do it.

What I can do, though, is get him back on track with his shoulder. But casually ....

"Hey, listen, you want to come with me to the gym later? I have to see one of the kids I coach today, see when he can fight again. We can do another lunch-time field-trip if you want."

He looks at me suspiciously, but all he says is, "I'd be glad to."

"Great. Okay, let's head out. Somebody scheduled my morning to start pretty soon."

I get a smile for that. We all pile into the Goat and head off for the garage. When we get there a white Trans Am's parked in front of the doors with an eye-popping redhead sitting on the hood. She slides off as we get out and slinks right up to Ben, backs him up against the car door.

"Hi," she says like she's running out of air, and I'll bet the farm her name's something out of Playboy.

"Good morning, ma'am," says Ben, freezing up like a statue.

"I'm Tawny," she breathes on him. Bingo!

"I'm Ray," I say, butting right in, which I'm good at. "This is Ben." Dief barks from the back seat where we forgot him. "That's Dief."

She giggles but doesn't take her eyes off Ben. "Are you going to fix my car?" she asks him.

"No, ma'am, I'm not," he says. His eyes are looking everywhere but at her tits, which is pretty remarkable behavior in my book, because the way she's offering them up a guy would have to be dead not to take a peek. Me not being dead, I look.

Dief barks again, and Ben takes a deep breath. "Excuse me, please," he says, and squirms away from her to open the door for the wolf. Dief bounces out and looks at Tawny suspiciously for a second, then comes over and nuzzles my hand. I give him a good scritch between the ears for that.

"I'm the actual mechanic here -- Tawny, was it? Why'n't you let Ben show you to our waiting area and I'll get to work."

Yeah, that'll impress her. The 'waiting area' consists of a couple of chairs from Stella's dad's old office and a box of her mom's old magazines. There used to be a coffee-maker, but it got busted and I haven't replaced it yet. Running the office myself's a lot cheaper in labor costs, but it's hell keeping up with the details.

Although I try to busy myself at Ray's desk, Ms. Spencer continues to beg my attention. After determining that I have neither interest in nor knowledge of popular movies or music, she tries to talk me into taking her out to dinner. I gladly point to Ray's makeshift sign on the wall, and she pouts slightly and picks up an issue of Woman's Day that promises her Cleaner Closets For Life, and a No-Fail Souffl recipe.

After about fifteen very uncomfortable minutes of soft sighs and loud page-turns, Ray pokes his head in and says, "I found the rattle -- there was a penny in the vent. Seems okay now. You want an oil change while you're here? I gotta charge you for a full hour anyway, and the little Jiffy-Lube sticker says you're about due."

She purses her lips and thinks about it. "Go ahead," she says finally. "I don't know how that penny could have gotten in there, though."

Ray shrugs. "Life's like that sometimes." He turns to go back to work.

"Can I help?" I say, desperate to get away from Ms. Spencer and her palpable disappointment for a few moments.

Ray turns back around and regards me. "You know what you're doing?"

"I know my way around an oil pan," I say, somewhat stiffly. Ray smiles.

"Come on, then -- easier with two." He looks at Dief, asleep under the desk, and says, "Harder with three, though."

I nod. "Understood. But I doubt he'll wake up unless food is entered into the equation."

Ray's smile turns, if possible, even warmer. "Yeah, okay. C'mon."

I follow him across the garage, toward the back corner. He skirts the area near where Carlos was found without breaking stride, and stops near two large metal drums by the long workbench. "I almost forgot. One of these needs to be taken away for recycling," he says. "Remind me later to call, okay?"

"Certainly, " I say, "or I could make the call for you, if you show me where the number is."

He looks at me oddly and opens his mouth, then closes it, as though he was going to say something and changed his mind. Then he shakes his head and says, "You're really making yourself Mr. Indispensable around here, Ben. What'm I gonna do when you're gone?"

The tone says he's joking, but I hear something underneath it that's almost serious. "What you did before, I presume," I say lightly, uncertain of my ground.

He studies me for what seems like years before saying, "I don't think so." Then he shakes himself a bit, and turns to the closer of the two drums. "While I got you here, though, can you give me a hand with this? Might as well move it nearer the door."

"Certainly," I say. "Glad to help." We wrestle the heavy barrel onto a dolly, then push it over to the side of the door. I am gratified to note that my shoulder protests this only a little. When we are done, however, Ray's eyes are on me, studying me.

"You okay?"

"Of course."

He nods, disbelief apparent in his face. "Come on, then, let's get Ms. Tawny on her way. You can show me how well you know your way around an oil pan."

It is twelve-thirty before Ray appears in the office doorway again, wiping his hands on a rag. After Ms. Spencer left, still disappointed, he looked at four more cars, the only ones in the appointment book for today. The rest of the afternoon is blocked out with the single word "GYM" in large red letters.

"You about ready to go?"

"I am indeed. And quite eager to meet your young friends."

He smiles at me and shakes his head. "Just don't expect too much friendliness right off. They can be a little, um, what's the word? Skittish."

"Understood," I say.

"Okay, then -- lunch at Lenny's first?"

"Absolutely."

It's odd how I feel like I've done this a hundred times before -- walking to the deli, sitting and eating, talking and listening -- with Ray. I think about what he said earlier, about how it'll be when I'm not around ... and I push the unwelcome thoughts away. It's not as though I'll never see him, after all.

We eat quickly, Ray struggling to keep his sandwich from dripping anywhere but the wrapper he spread out for that purpose. There is a small spot of dressing on his upper lip, and I stare at it, fascinated, until he catches me. "What?" he says, and licks his lips. A shiver runs down my spine as I think of my own tongue following that path.

"You had something on your lip," I say, trying for an even tone. "It's gone now."

"Okay," he says. "You done?"

I look down at the few crumbs left of my sandwich. "It appears that I am, in fact, done," I say, folding the wrapper and placing it on the tray between us. For the life of me, I can't recall how it tasted -- it might as well have been window putty as roast beef.

Ray crumples his own wrapper and tosses it at the tray. It bounces off toward me and I grab for it. Ray grabs it too, and our hands overlap; his hand warm over mine, the cold metal of his bracelet against my wrist. It's a casual touch, meaningless, and yet I find myself short of breath. My skin tingles everywhere, as though anticipating more. I feel like a rabbit caught in headlights as I look at him and see he is looking at me.

"Oops," he says, sounding as breathless as I feel. He gives a nervous chuckle. "Almost went out-of-bounds with that one."

"Yes," I say inanely.

He nods, still staring at me, and belatedly releases his grip. "Let's go," he says, standing abruptly and almost knocking his chair over as he does. "I told Jamal one-fifteen."

We walk the three blocks to the gym without further conversation. As we enter the front doors I am confronted with the smell and sound of men and leather and canvas and sweat.

"Kowalski!"

We turn, and I see a young black man walking toward us, all attitude and cockiness. From the corner of my eye, I see Ray's demeanour change slightly to match.

"I see you brought your boyfriend today," says the youth, in tones of derision and scorn. I tense for action, should it be needed -- surely Ray won't let that pass without comment. And he doesn't.

"Hey, Malcolm," he says, with a jerk of his chin. "I was gonna bring your boyfriend, but he was too busy with your mama."

Good Lord, we're going to die. I shift my weight to the balls of my feet, ready for battle, and ... impossibly, Malcolm is laughing. When he catches his breath he says, "I'm impressed, Kowalski -- you been practicing?"

"Nah," Ray says, "it's a gift. Malcolm Robinson, Benton Fraser."

My hand is taken in a firm grip. "You a fighter too?" Malcolm asks me.

"Not as such," I reply.

He nods. "Only when you have to, right?"

"Indeed," I say, impressed by his perceptiveness. Close-to, he is older than he first appeared, perhaps late twenties, at a guess.

"Mal's a teacher," Ray says. "Brings all his problem kids down here, lets them work out their aggressions."

"Speaking of which," Malcolm says, "Jamal's in the locker room."

"He ready to work?"

"Don't know. He's hyped up about something, for sure."

We take our leave of Malcolm and I follow Ray into the locker room. He approaches a youth standing at an open locker and touches his shoulder. The boy freezes for a second, then whirls around, fists raised. When he sees Ray, his face changes from panic to disbelief. Then he throws his arms around Ray in a fierce hug.

"Holy shit, Ray," he says after a moment, releasing him and sitting down hard on the bench.

"Hey, language," Ray says. "Your grandmother'll have my ass."

Jamal doesn't seem to hear this. "I thought you were dead for sure, man," he says. "Was just waiting for the cops to show up." He looks up at me then and his gaze narrows. "Oh. Look like they just did."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ray says. "Ben's not a cop -- well, not around here anyway. What's going on?"

"I went by your place on Sunday night. Walked in and saw all that blood --" He shakes his head and digs his fingers into his legs; trying, I presume, to maintain his "cool" in front of us.

Ray sits down next to Jamal. "You were there?" he says. "At the garage?" Jamal nods. Ray presses on, his expression fierce. "Did you see anything else?"

Jamal shivers. "Just mostly ... you. On the floor."

Ray shakes his head. "Wasn't me. Carlos -- my mechanic, you don't know him -- it was him. Listen, J, this is important. You gotta come with me and Ben, talk to the cops."

Jamal seems in shock. "Okay, I guess. But what about the fight?"

"This is bigger than the fight, J. Way bigger."

I run back to the shop for the Goat while Jamal gets changed. Ben seems torn between staying with our witness and babysitting me, so I bring Dief along to keep him happy. It only takes five minutes and we're all in the car, on our way back to the 27th for the third time this week.

When we get there, Ben hustles us into one of the interrogation rooms -- the one without the mirror -- and goes to tell H we're here. He's back in no time carrying a cup of something steamy, which he puts in front of Jamal.

"What's this?"

"Hot sweet tea. My grandmother swore by it as a remedy for just about anything."

"Ain't need no remedy," says Jamal, but he picks up the cup and sips anyway. "Thanks," he says after a minute.

Ben's gone into Mountie-mode now, and he signals me over to the other side of the room with a little head-jerk. I go, he follows. "You realize," he says real quiet, "this young man is the only witness we have. Is he likely to cooperate?"

I've been wondering the same thing myself. "I think so," I say, "but only if nobody pushes him. He doesn't like cops much." Ben nods.

"Perhaps you should stay, then. He trusts you."

I'm about to tell him I hadn't planned on leaving anyway when the door opens and H walks in. "Hey, Ray," he says, "Fraser says you found a guy maybe knows something?"

Jamal stiffens up, gets that 'I ain't afraid of nobody' attitude he puts on. "Chill, J," I say, walking over. "Man's a friend of mine since I was in high school. Don't let the tie fool you."

H looks at me quick, then sticks out his hand. "Harding Welsh. Kowalski calls me H. You can call me Lieutenant."

Jamal looks at H's hand, then at his face. He grins suddenly, and stands up and shakes H's hand. "You ain't so tough," he says.

H almost cracks a smile. "Says you. Siddown."

Me, Jamal and H sit around the table. Ben stands between me and H with his arms crossed behind his back, looking very serious.

"Jamal," he says, "we need to go over this step by step. It's very possible that you saw something important that could help us solve this case. You could be a hero."

Jamal looks skeptical, which doesn't surprise me, but he starts talking. "Ain't much to tell. I went over to see Ray, see if we were still on for today. The door was open, so I walked in. Saw all the blood on the floor and the, uh, body an' I freaked out, I guess. Then I heard a car out front and I ran out the back door."

"Why did you run?"

Jamal looks at Ben like he's crazy. "What planet you from, man? I ain't hanging 'round no dead body waitin' to get arrested."

Ben says, "Mmm," and looks thoughtful. Then he says, "Did you see the car, by any chance? Or hear any voices?"

Jamal says, "No-o-o-o," like maybe he really did, and Ben pounces.

"What did you see?"

"Just -- a light brown Ciera drove by really fast about two seconds after I got out. Guy looked kind of freaked out." He studies the table for a second, then mumbles, "Looked like I felt."

Tan Cieras are probably a dime a dozen, but that's two this week. Ben doesn't miss that fact either. "Can you describe the driver?"

Jamal shrugs. "Light-skinned, bald, thick neck. Didn't see much."

"Excuse me, please," Ben says, and whips out the door. We all stare after him for about thirty seconds, and then he's back, with a handful of pictures. He spreads them out in front of Jamal and says, "Do any of these men look familiar?"

I spot the guy's face just as Jamal's finger comes down on top of it. "This one."

"Lieutenant," Ben says, picking up the photo and reading the back, "Mr. Mendelson was detained yesterday for disturbing the peace at a rally. You might want to bring him back in for questioning as soon as possible."

"Constable," H says, standing up and clapping Ben on the shoulder, "it's good to have you back."

Ben's smile just lights up the room then. "Thank you, sir," he says. "It's very good to be back."

H goes off to look up Mendelson's address and send a squad car to pick him up. I can tell Ben really wants to go too, but it's just not going to happen. To distract him, I suggest we go get Jamal a snack from the break room. This works perfectly, until Detective I'm-better-than-you Vecchio shows up.

"Fraser," he sneers, "Just can't keep away, can you? What is it this time, another litterbug?"

Ben opens his mouth to answer, but Jamal's never been what you'd call shy. "I ain't no litterbug, man," he says. "I'm a hero."

Vecchio is, predictably, not impressed. "Yeah, right, kid; whatever. Like I care. I just came in here for coffee -- you want to move, Kowalski?" I can hear the Or should I make you? underneath it, gets my dander up, as my dad would say. But there's no way I'm getting in a fistfight with a cop, even an asshole like this one, so I move away from the coffee machine and make for the door. Dief's right behind me, and Vecchio edges away from him as we pass.

When I get to the door something makes me look back. Jamal's right behind Dief, but Ben's still standing by the table. "Ben," I say, "you coming?"

He shakes his head like I startled him, then starts across the room like he can't leave fast enough. "Absolutely. Where are we going?"

Good point. "To find H, see if we can get out of here," I say. "I didn't really have much of a plan for today, other than the gym." And getting Ben into the whirlpool, which I don't say.

"Yeah, man," Jamal says, "you gotta check out my moves, give me the okay, right? Zack 'n' me gonna mix it up Saturday night." He shadow-boxes his way down the hall toward the stairs, and Ben and I trail along after him. Going through the door's a tight fit, but I don't want to move away from his side, and I guess he feels the same, 'cause we squeeze through, still in step, all the way down the hall.

Lieutenant Welsh releases us with the proviso that we keep a eye on Jamal until such time as he is needed to identify Mr. Mendelson. Ray's plan of going to the gym seems a safe one, as no one but the four of us knows that Jamal is a witness, yet for some reason I feel on edge, as though something is awry.

Jamal changes into his work-out clothes, and I watch as Ray coaches him through a sparring match. At one point Ray seems unsatisfied with simply giving advice and climbs into the ring to demonstrate what he means. He jabs and spins about, looking as much at home there as he did on the dance floor with Stella.

Perhaps time will lessen the pull I feel toward him. I can only hope so. If it gets much stronger, I'm not sure I can fight it.

He sends Jamal to cool down, turns and sees me watching and says, "Come on, Ben, you want to try it?"

"Absolutely not, " I say.

He grins. "Afraid?" he taunts, but there's no sting to it and as usual I can't help but smile back at him.

"Petrified," I reply. He nods knowingly and climbs out of the ring, jumping down to land in front of me. His hand drops to my good shoulder and he squeezes gently.

"Come with me," he says, and tugs me along with him into the locker room. "Sit," he says, pointing to a bench, and I drop down obediently. Dief sits too, and Ray laughs. "Got you both trained, I guess. Okay, shirt off."

"Why?" I ask, although I know full well he wants to look at my shoulder. I can see that he is aware of my thoughts from the look on his face.

"You might as well give in, I'm not taking no for an answer, Benton. I've got you where I want you."

I stifle my disappointment at his lack of ambition and pull my shirt off.

"Wow," he says. I turn to look at his face, and see it's bright pink. He coughs and then says, "She really did a number on you, didn't she?"

I think of the healed-over exit wound as I saw it in the mirror this morning and grimace. "Yes, although it could have been far worse."

He moves behind me and carefully probes the muscles of my shoulder. "Is this okay?" he says in a low voice, as though he might spook me. "Tell me if it hurts."

"It's fine, really," I say -- uselessly, of course. And frankly, I'm quite enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of his touch on my skin. God, it feels so good ...

Both of his hands are on me now, gently kneading my shoulders and back. I stifle a groan of pleasure and hope to high heaven that no one comes in and sees my face, which I'm sure reflects the bliss I'm feeling.

"Arms out straight," he says, and I comply. He prods at my biceps and bends my arms every which way, asking me to push back against his hand several times. It's all very familiar from my previous physical therapy sessions and I realize he's been holding out on me.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.

"What?" he says, sounding alarmed. His hands still, then pull away.

"That you've had some training," I say, and I hear him breathe out in a big gust of air that I feel on my shoulders a split-second later.

"Oh," he says, and his hands resume their work. "Arms down again. I, um, took a course at the community college and I picked some up just hanging around here. It comes in handy, but I'm not really what you'd call trained."

"Well, then," I say, as his hands move down my back, "you must have a natural aptitude."

"Shyeah, right," he says, then, "What's this one from? Looks bad. Another bullet?"

I stiffen, although I had been expecting the question for some minutes. "Yes," I say, and even I can hear how strained my voice sounds.

"Line of duty?"

"Not ... exactly," I reply. "Foolishness. Stupidity."

"You?" he says, sounding surprised. I nod, reluctant for the moment to explain, and am saved from having to do so by Jamal's entrance. He seems barely winded from his exertions as he bounces around Ray, throwing fake punches in the air again.

"Yeah, you're ready," Ray says to him. "Go shower and change, I'll drive you home."

"Was gonna hang with my boys," protests Jamal, and Ray's look turns mulish.

"I don't think so," he says. "I promised H you'd be safe, which means home."

"Aww, Ray," the boy protests, but Ray points sternly.

"Go. Shower." He leaves, and Ray sits down beside me heavily. "Man, he wears me out sometimes."

"Should we perhaps bring him home with us?" I venture.

"Nah, we still got no furniture, that's not right -- Hey, wait a minute. Brainstorm. Yeah, that'll work. Just --" He breaks off his currently incoherent train of thought and walks over to the telephone on the wall, picks up the receiver, and dials.

"Yo, Manny," he says after a moment. "Ray. Yeah. Listen, that stuff I told you to hold for me? Can you deliver it today? Yeah, everything. Oh, and listen, I need a couch too. Big and comfy. You pick; I trust you. Add it on, okay? Great. Greatness." He reels off the address and hangs up, after thanking the party on the other end profusely.

Turning to me, he claps his hands together. "All set. Tonight we'll have furniture -- just have to get me some volunteers to move the stuff I got stored."

"I'll help, of course," I say automatically.

He grins. "Knew you were going to say that. Bet I can get Jamal and all his boys, though. Give you the night off from heavy labour."

"My arm is fine," I say. I'm so weary of being coddled it comes out far sharper than it should, but Ray doesn't take offence.

"I know it is, as long as you stop when it tells you to. But it's not your stuff; there's no reason you should be lugging it around."

"Quid pro quo," I say stubbornly, and he backs off, laughing.

"Okay, okay, I'll work you 'til you drop if it makes you happy." He claps me on the shoulder and walks away toward the showers, shaking his head. "J-man, have I got a deal for you," I hear, followed by the unmistakable snap of a wet towel and a surprised yell.

I almost forgot how much nine teenagers can eat, especially when you make them work for it. Six large pizzas later, though, we have furniture -- kitchen table and chairs, assorted shelves and stuff and the brand new bedroom set I picked out right before I lost my apartment. Oh, and the couch, which is everything a couch should be -- eight feet long, made out of something dark and heavy (looks almost like denim, but I don't think they make couches out of that), and over-stuffed to within an inch of its life. Puts my crappy old loveseat to shame.

Dief jumps up on it first chance he gets, and Ben chases him right back off.

"Hey," I say. "It's his house too."

Ben looks at me with this expression I can't figure out, then he says "Don't encourage him."

"Whatever," I say. We get everything unpacked and put away, and Jamal and his 'boys' leave for home, after I make sure I call ahead so he can't go out partying. He's more afraid of his grandmother than most people are of Freddy Krueger. Having met her, I can't say as I blame him.

After I shut the kitchen door behind Jamal, Dief prances over to the back door and looks at me, and I guess he's got me trained pretty well already because I run right over to let him out. I stand for a minute on the porch, looking out over the yard, and suddenly I feel like it's the right time for the Big Talk.

"Come outside with me," I say to Ben, who's standing right behind me. He looks at me kind of weird, but he follows me down the stairs. There's a picnic table under a tree, and we sit just like we did two nights ago in the park. I don't say anything for a few minutes, just listen to the neighborhood sounds, until Ben clears his throat.

"Is something wrong?" he says.

"Nah," I say. "I need to tell you something, and I'm trying to figure the best way to do it, is all."

"Ah," he says, and that's it. I like how he doesn't push, just waits and lets me decide. That's what really makes me realize I can maybe get through this.

"Can I tell you a story?" I ask him.

"Of course," he says.

Deep breath, and start. "The night my divorce was final, I went out and took a walking tour of a few of Chicago's drinking establishments. I was looking for trouble, I guess, and I found it. I wound up at three a.m. at a payphone outside a Motel 6, calling H to come pick me up, 'cause I'd had a fight with my 'date', couldn't get back in the room, and didn't have money for a cab."

So far, so good. The next part's the kicker, though. "When H got there, my date had decided there were a few things I still needed to know about myself, and had come outside to tell me. In very great detail, very loudly. So the first thing H had to do was get me in a chokehold so he wouldn't have to arrest me for assault."

Ben takes a big breath, lets it out and shakes his head firmly. "Ray, I simply can't believe you could ever have gotten so drunk as to hit a woman, no matter the provocation."

"I wasn't that drunk, Ben. And ... it wasn't a woman."

"Then ... I don't ..." He stops, and then starts again. "You're ... ?"

I grit my teeth and say it. "Bi. Yeah." I sneak a look sideways, and he's just sitting there. Then all of a sudden he starts to laugh. Fuck, I can't believe he's laughing at me. So much for being honest. I get up to leave and he grabs my arm, makes me stop.

"God, Ray, I'm sorry. I was imagining it was going to be something terrible, you see. It was a bit of an anti-climax, and I was struck by how absurd I'd been, worrying for no reason. I wasn't laughing at you."

"So this is ... not a big deal? It doesn't change anything?"

"Not in the way you mean, no."

"In what way, then?"

"In this way, I hope," he says, and his voice is lower all of a sudden. His hand on my arm slides down to my wrist, and then he twines his fingers between mine and pulls me closer, so I'm standing in front of him, in between his legs, my knees right up against the bench.

"Uh, Ben?"

He licks his lip in that way that's been driving me crazy these past few days. "Yes, Ray?"

"Are you --?"

He nods. "Oh, yes. And terribly attracted to you, I'm afraid. So unless you have any objections --"

I use my free hand on his leg for balance, and lean forward, lifting one knee up onto the bench so I can reach his mouth. Get him in mid-word, latch on to that lower lip and suck. Move up a little, cover his whole mouth with mine, lick his teeth. He tastes like I thought he would, and better.

He makes a little moaning noise, and grabs the back of my neck with his free hand, like he thinks I'm going to try to get away or something. As if. I moan back, and open my mouth wider, inviting him in. So fucking sexy, how he kisses. Can't wait to get him in bed.

OhGodYeah. Bed. I got one of those. New sheets and everything. Right upstairs, in fact. As long as we're both on the same page, here -- don't want to rush him or anything. I sneak my hand up towards his crotch, and he widens his legs. His grip on my other hand tightens when I get where I'm headed, and I can feel his cock trying to push its way out of his zipper. I give it a 'hi, how are ya?' squeeze, and he moans again. Houston, we have lift-off.

He starts making little humping movements, and I shake my other hand free and start working on his pants. When he figures out my plan, he pulls back from kissing me and says, "Upstairs." I shake my head and go back to work on his zipper.

"Ray," he says, in a raspy voice like I never heard before, "the neighbors." He grabs my hands, holds them away from him. Fuck the neighbors, I want to say, but he's got a point. I don't care who knows anymore, but I'm damned if I'll put on a show. I twist my wrists around fast, reverse the grip so I'm holding on to him now, too.

"Come on, then," I say, and drag him off the table so fast he's lucky not to get splinters. Have to let go of him when I almost trip over Dief, who's suddenly right behind me. He looks like he's smirking at us again. He woofs, and Ben laughs. "What?" I ask.

"He said 'I told you so.' "

Now I laugh. "About what?"

Ben pulls me close again, both hands on my hips, and licks the side of my cheek, up high. He trails around to my ear, and I get a huge shiver down my back. "He told me the first day we met how good you tasted, Ray," he purrs, right in my ear, makes my knees weak. "I've been wanting to do this ever since."

"Bed," I say. It's all I can think of, especially after what he just said, and I hope he doesn't think it's too crude, but ... damn.

"Bed," he agrees, and we turn and walk toward the stairs. He grabs my hand and starts towing me along behind him after about two steps.

"So, this 'roommates' thing is turning out pretty well," I say, trying to sound casual and not caring that I don't.

"Indeed," Ben says, and I can hear his smile in his voice, and that's all the conversation until we're all inside. He lets go my hand to lock the door, and I go to the kitchen and fill Dief's water bowl. When I straighten up after setting it on the floor, Ben's standing in the doorway, eyes wide and cheeks pink. I walk over, crowd him up against the wall and kiss him, fast and hard.

"Liked the view, did you?" I ask.

He nods and smiles kind of wickedly. "Very much so, yes."

"Then why are we still in the kitchen?"

"I have no idea." He puts both arms around me and just holds on while we kiss again, slow and sweet this time. And slow and sweet is good, real good, but I was getting used to hot and heavy. Slow and sweet is for another time, maybe. Right now it feels like ... too much. Tonight I'd much rather think with my dick.

So I say, when he lets me, "What do you want? Do you fuck? Can I do you?"

He twitches and ducks his head down to my shoulder. "Yeah," I hear, just barely, before he kisses me right below my ear, then bites the tendon.

Fuck yeah.

"Okay, then, let's go." I pull away and head for the bedroom, and he's right behind me. I can hear him breathing funny, and when we get to my room and I turn on the bedside lamp, I can see he's looking a little wild. And I'm feeling a lot wild, so we should be fine there. I reach into the drawer of the nightstand and rummage around in the stuff I dumped in there earlier, until I find the lube and a condom. Then I start peeling my way out of my clothes.

He gets the idea right away, and he matches me item for item in this weird race we've got going. I pull into the lead when he has to stop to unlace his boots and he gets his fingers tangled in the laces. He growls something that sounds vaguely like Shakespeare and sits down hard on the edge of the bed. I don't gloat, though, I just kneel down and help him, because nobody wins this until we're both done.

And then we're done, his jeans are off and I'm on my knees in front of him, and wow, what a view. The foreskin baffles me for a second, but then I figure out how it moves, and I get my mouth on him.

Oh, man. Salty flavor, gone too soon, and I suck hard for a second, trying to get it back. Tongue the slit and he moans and puts his hands on my head. For a minute I think he's going to start fucking my mouth already, but his hands are gentle, like he's petting me, and I relax and get down to it.

Cocksucking's always been something I was pretty good at, or so I've been told, but Ben's reactions are way over the top. Sounds like he's not going to last long here, so I pull off for a reality check. He makes a disappointed noise, and I smile up at him. "Hey," I say, "you're clean, right?" He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Then he nods real fast.

"Figured," I say. "Next question -- you want me to finish this, or you wanna move on to phase two? I'm good either way."

His eyes close, and his face gets all flushed. And then he moves his head from side to side -- not like he's saying "no," just like he can't make up his mind. I'm beginning to think he hasn't had too many offers like that lately, which is practically a crime, but I'm not going to complain about other people's lack of initiative.

"Tell you what -- I'll make my own choice and if you have any objections, you can let me know, okay?" He nods again, and I lean back down and go back to work. Maybe it's selfish of me, but I want to give him a blowjob he'll remember for a while. And like I thought, it doesn't take too long before he's gasping and panting and grabbing my ears as he shoots down my throat. I pull back some, so I can taste it better, and he whimpers and flops backwards onto the bed. I know I look a little smug as I crawl up beside him, and I try to tone it down a bit.

"Been a while, has it?"

"Yeah," he rasps, "you could say that." Then he smiles and leans over and kisses me. It starts out sweet again, but it heats up fast, and pretty soon I'm humping his hip and thinking I have to fuck or die.

"You ready?" I ask. "Can I still do you?"

"Yeah," he says again and I give him one more quick kiss before I reach over to the nightstand. Up on my knees; condom on first, then I uncap the lube. He's staring at me now, so I wiggle my hips some and my dick does a little dance, which at least makes him smile again.

"Don't worry," I say, "I'll go slow. Been a while for this, too?"

"Actually, I've never --" And then he shuts up, but how many things can he be talking about right now? Holy shit. My brain is trying to process that, but my dick doesn't care one bit. In fact, my dick thinks it would be a very good idea to just get with the program. He said he wanted it -- twice, in fact -- and that's more than enough in the way of consent as far as my dick is concerned.

He grabs a pillow and shoves it under his hips, then pulls his legs back to his chest. "Like this, right?" he says, and goddamn but that's an incredible sight.

"Yeah, that's ... good, Ben," I say. "Great. Okay. I'm just going to, um, yeah. Here we go." I quit talking before I say something really stupid and squeeze out some lube. Lube on finger, finger in ass, and he's pushing back at me, so I guess we're good.

Oh, yeah, we're real good. Almost forgot how ... intimate this is, this moment when it's skin-on-skin, deep inside like this. Hot and tight, but not too tight, and he's moaning my name and God's about evenly, so I add more lube and another finger. Most guys I'd just go for it right now, but this is Ben's first time catching, and I can wait a couple more minutes to make sure he's ready. Might have been easier for him on his stomach, but I'm predicting I won't last long, and I'm being selfish again 'cause I want to watch his face.

"Ray, please, can you -- now?" he says, like he read my mind.

"Are you sure?" I ask, but I can see his dick's starting to perk up a bit, so now I'm really convinced he's enjoying this.

"Okay, just relax. You'll tell me if I need to stop, right?" He nods, and I slick up my cock and move forward. I pull his feet up over my arms, and he gets the idea and lets go of his knees. All of a sudden, there we are, my dick and his ass, ready to get acquainted. I see him swallow, hard, when I start to press in, but I don't even hesitate, just keep going real slow. I stop when I see him wince, but he pushes back at me so I move closer and -- Oh, holy Jesus, I'm in. All the way in, balls against his ass, and I feel his heels push into my back, like he wants more. Okay, I can do that.

Pull out as slow as I went in, then start to move a little faster. And he's loving it, his eyes are rolling up and his hands are clenching the sheets and his dick is getting hard again, and I change the angle and he arches his back and moans.

I can see his lips moving like he's praying or something, and then I realize it's my name again, and oh, yeah, that's just about going to do it for me. I reach for his dick to help him out, but his hand's already there, so we jerk him together. No way I can wait for him, it's been a while for me, too, and I come first, but I keep working on him and he comes before I get soft. I love that feeling, the way the muscles work around my dick, squeezing the last drops out, and I wish we could bareback so I could see if it's better without the rubber.

Oh.

Oh my.

That was ... intense. Wonderfully intense. I never dreamed ....

Ray moves away and I feel his penis slip out of me. He leans over and tosses the condom into the trash, then hands me some tissues, with which I clean my chest and hand. He pulls the pillow out from under me, and I let my legs flop down onto the bed. I've never been this relaxed in my life. I can feel the smile on my face growing broader by the minute.

"Ray," I begin, and I put out my hand and stroke his cheek.

"You doing okay?" he asks.

"Perfect. I'm just ... perfect."

"Good," he says, and he grins. "Didn't, uh, hurt you or anything, did I?"

"Far from it," I say, and then, like a bubble bursting inside of me, words escape my lips. "Ray, I love you."

He looks at me in horror. Then he says, "Sorry, Ben, but I, uh, have a cramp in my leg. Need to walk it out. I'll be back in a while, so, um, I'll be, um, back." And he grabs his clothes and runs out of the room, remembering at the last minute to limp, but I don't believe a word of it.

I'm afraid I've done it now. What was I thinking? He's obviously not looking for any kind of long-term commitment. But I couldn't resist the chance to be with him, to taste him, to feel his skin. To feel him inside me ....

God, Benton, could you be any more of an idiot?

"Don't beat yourself up, son, it happens to the best of us."

"Dad!" I grab for the bedspread to cover myself. "Could you knock?"

"On what?" he asks practically, and passes his hand through the closet door.

"How long have you been in there?"

He smirks. "I think the question is, how long have you?"

"That's not terribly amusing."

He looks surprised. "Really? I though it was rather clever, myself."

"Shouldn't you be saying things like 'no son of mine' and 'conduct unbecoming a member of the RCMP'?"

"Why?"

I thump my head back against the pillows. "Never mind. Did you need something?"

"The Yank's confused, son. He doesn't know what he wants."

"You may be right, but he knows exactly what he doesn't want."

"You look but you don't see."

I close my eyes. "Thank you. How very epigrammatic." When there is no response to this, I open my eyes again. Dad is gone, and Dief wanders in and looks at me curiously. "Yes, I know this isn't my room." Nor will it be in the future, I suspect. I heave myself out of the bed and toss the used Kleenex away. Without straightening the bedcovers, I collect my clothing and go to my own room to ready myself for sleep.

I'm unable to settle, however, and when Ray doesn't return after what I deem a reasonable amount of time for a walk, I feel compelled to go looking for him. When I reach the driveway and see that his car is gone, I quickly start my truck and begin my search in earnest.

He's not at the garage, which is the first place I check, nor is his car at his parents' house or at the police station -- although that last is an enormous stretch, I know. It's possible he's gone to Lieutenant Welsh's house, I suppose, but unfortunately I don't have an address or home telephone number to verify this. So I keep driving aimlessly, trying to imagine where he might have gone. Berating myself for not being able to keep quiet. Hoping he hasn't met with misadventure.

Exhaustion finally brings me home at about 4 a.m., barely able to climb the stairs without falling. The apartment is still quite deserted, but despite my worry, I stumble to the sofa and collapse upon it. I tell myself that I'll just rest my eyes for a moment, but I drift off until the birds wake me.

I rise then, feeling not at all rested, and take Dief out, checking for signs of Ray's car now that it's daylight. There are many tire tracks, but I realise I never looked to see what kind of tires Ray had on his car, so the effort proves moot. I shower, then risk another look in Ray's open door and see the bed still in the same state in which I left it. I consider the very unwelcome possibility that I've truly driven him away, then banish such negative thoughts from my head -- Ray doesn't seem the type to just run away from a difficult situation -- and apply myself to fixing breakfast. He may walk in at any moment.

Or perhaps ... he's somewhere trying to think of a way to let me down easily.

Perhaps he doubled back and he's at his parents' again.

I close my eyes and try to visualize their telephone number from my glimpse of it when I used their phone, but then realise I don't have the means to call them anyway, as our phone won't be connected until tomorrow.

The Consulate -- my office has both a telephone and a Chicago directory. I look down at the pan of half-cooked scrambled eggs, torn between running out the door and behaving like a rational adult for a change. Rationality wins, just barely, but I eat standing at the counter, without tasting anything. Dief looks at me hopefully, but when I put down my plate for him he shakes his head and goes to the door. It seems I'm not the only one who wants to find Ray.

I'm running like I've never run in my life; shit-scared and mad as hell at the same time. As I round the last corner I can see the big front doors of Canada across the street, and a big yellow taxi pulling away with Ben's boss in the back seat. I dodge around the parked cars, check for traffic, and sprint like hell for safety.

The doorknob gives me a little trouble, and I start to panic -- shit, what if they're closed! -- and then I turn it the right way, push the door open, trip over the doormat, and slide the rest of the way on my knees. Fuck, that hurts. Ren looks up from his work and his eyes bug out.

"Ray?" he says.

I barely have the breath to say, "Is Ben here?"

Ren nods. "He's in his office. Is something wrong? Can I help?"

"Maybe. I need ... um ... that thing like we were talking about the other day, with the draft-dodgers."

"Asylum?"

And yeah, that sounds right, so I nod, still trying to breathe normally.

Ren frowns and says, "I'll get Constable Fraser."

He comes around the desk and reaches down to help me up, but my legs feel shaky so I wave him off. "I'm good down here for now," I say.

He looks doubtful, but goes down the hall to Ben's office. I hear the door open and the next thing I know I've got a lapful of wolf. He's licking everything he can reach, and for once I don't mind, 'cause it feels like I just came home. Ben comes running out from the office then.

"Diefenbaker! Down!" he yells, and that cracks me up.

"He is down," I say. "He's fine, Ben." Then I remember how we left things -- how I left -- and I stop smiling. I look up at Ben and I can tell he's worried -- I don't know what Ren told him, but I must admit it was quite an entrance.

"Hey," I say, "Can we use your office for a second? I got a kind of a ... situation."

"Yes, of course," he says, and reaches down to help me up. I grab his hand and he pulls, and when I'm standing he lets go like I'm burning him. And yeah, okay, I ran last night because of what he said, but it still hurts that he can't even stand to touch me now. I really hope I haven't fucked it up for good ....

Ben waves at me like "after you" so I lead the way down the hall to his office. The phone's off the hook in the middle of the desk, and the phone book's open next to it. He rushes over and grabs the receiver.

"I'm so very sorry," he says to whoever, "Yes, just now. Yes, of course." He hands the phone to me.

"Hello?" I say cautiously, because what the hell?

"Stanley," Mom says, "where have you been? Benton's been so worried."

He has? I think, and I look at him while I say, "I was just at the shop, Ma; didn't mean to scare anybody. There was, uh, something I needed to do there." Yeah, freak out, says the tiny voice in my head. "I'm okay, I promise."

"Are you sure?" she says, and I try to make my voice a little steadier.

"Absolutely positively," I say. "I gotta go now, okay? I'll call you later."

"Well," she says.

"Love you, Ma, bye," I say, and put the phone down quick. Then I look at Ben, who's very obviously not looking at me. "You called my mother?"

"Yes," he says, and that's it. His jaw is tight and his hands are clenched, and oh, fuck, Kowalski, this is bad, but there's no time for it now.

"I'm sorry," I offer, and he looks at me fast, then back at the wall, and I know that's not going to do it, so I guess we'll make some time. "I really didn't mean to scare you, I just needed to think about ... stuff," I say. "I drove around 'til three or so, then I went to the garage, and I fell asleep in my chair."

"Ray, you don't owe me --" he says, and I cut him off.

"Yes I do, so shut up. I'm sorry, I was wrong to bolt, but we have other stuff to deal with right now."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "We do?"

Jesus. "No, I came running over here like my hair was on fire because I missed Dief," I say. He looks embarrassed to have forgotten. "Here's the thing. I'm kind of on the lam."

"From whom?"

"The cops!" I almost-yell, because who the hell else can you be on the lam from? "Your friend Vecchio showed up at my door this morning with a cruiser; started pounding on the door and yelling about how he had a warrant to arrest me. I ran out the back before they saw me, but the Goat's still there, so they'll have to know I was there too."

He sits down hard in his chair and looks at me like I hit him with a fry-pan. "Good God, Ray," he whispers.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too."

I can almost hear his brain working now. "You're evading arrest?"

"No, I'm evading getting framed," I say. "There's more."

"Tell me," he says.

"The screwdriver -- the big one we think is the murder weapon," I say, and the words feel really strange in my mouth. "It's in the oil drum."

"The full one?" he says, and he's leaning forward now, looks more interested and less like I fucked up, which is good.

"Yeah. See, I remembered this morning I had to call for pick-up, and it was early but it's just a recording anyway, and when I went to get the serial number off the side of the drum, I saw the top wasn't down tight."

"But -- it was sealed when we moved it," he says.

"Yeah, I know, so I took the top off it to look inside, which is stupid because it's oil but I wasn't thinking straight, and my bracelet somehow caught on the edge and snapped and fell in. And I grabbed the reachers I use to pick up stuff that falls into engines and I poked around at the bottom of the barrel, and I felt something catch, and it didn't feel right but I brought it up anyway, and -- it was the screwdriver." I take a breath finally and try to stop shaking.

Ben's eyes get big. "You didn't take it out, did you?"

"Jesus, no, I'm not stupid. Besides, it fell back in, and before I could try again, the cops showed up."

He nods, then frowns. "That's awfully convenient timing, don't you think?"

"Me?" I say. "I don't know what to think at this point, other than I want out of this."

"Mmm," he says, like he's thinking. Then he picks up the phone and dials. After a second or two, he says, "Good morning, Francesca. May I please be connected to Lieutenant Welsh? Thank you kindly."

He motions me over closer and holds the phone away from his ear a little so I can hear. I lean in to listen and all I can smell is him -- his shampoo, or his soap, or maybe it's just him -- and it's so distracting I forget what we're doing until H comes on the line.

"Constable?"

"Good morning, sir," Ben says. "I was wondering if you could tell me of any new developments in the Santana case."

"We picked up Mendelson but all he would say is 'I was just supposed to scare him.' Then he lawyered up, and now he's Marcel Marceau."

"So there have been no other warrants issued, to the best of your knowledge?" My hand's on the back of his chair, and I can feel the heat coming off him. It's really hard to concentrate on H now.

"What the hell's going on, Fraser?"

"A great deal, sir, but at present I can only speculate. It does appear, however, that Ray is being framed by parties unknown."

"Shit. Unknown, or you're-not-saying?"

"Thank you for your time, sir, we'll be in touch," Ben says instead of answering, and hangs up. He turns his head to look at me.

"Thanks for believing me," I say, and his mouth's right there in front of me, and I know what he tastes like now, and it's so easy to lean forward a little and kiss him. He makes a soft noise like "oh" in his throat and his mouth opens right up like he was just waiting for this. I get about three seconds of bliss before he pushes away from me and stands up.

"Ray, we ... I ... please, don't," he says, and walks to the door without even looking at me. Before I can make words come out of my mouth he's through the door and halfway down the hall. Fuck, I'm sorry, don't go, I want to yell, but when I get to the doorway he's talking to Ren instead of high-tailing it down the street, so I relax a little.

"Thank you for your confidence in me, sir," Ren says as I get closer.

"Yes, certainly, Turnbull," Ben says impatiently, which is weird because I never heard him sound like that before. "Please cross-reference these names," and he's writing something on a piece of paper, "and give me the results as quickly as you can."

"Is everything all right, sir?" Ren says, and Ben sighs.

"I suspect not, Turnbull, so if you'd please begin?"

"Of course, sir," Ren says, and turns on his computer.

Ben straightens up and sees me. His mouth does this weird thing like he's tasting something awful, and he looks away, and that hurts like hell. My legs don't want to work anymore, so I just sit down right there, with my back against the wall. Dief comes over like he did outside the morgue and I grab him and hold on. He whines but pushes closer and licks me once on the cheek. I close my eyes for a second, until I hear Ben's voice next to me.

"Ray?" he says, and I look up at him. God, his eyes look so sad ....

"Sorry," I say. "About ... before."

"Understood," he says. "It's perhaps not the ideal time or place for ... well." He clears his throat. "Turnbull is checking for connections between Alderman Orsini and ... a detective named Simonetta."

"Huh?" is all I can think of to say.

"My main concern is keeping this out of the public eye. But I can think of no other explanation, and I cannot allow this to continue."

"Who the hell is Simonetta?"

He smiles just a little. "Perhaps we'd be more comfortable in the parlor."

I don't think Ray knew just how terrible he looked earlier -- visibly shaken, white as a sheet, hair in even more disarray than usual -- I was quite concerned. It was all I could do to refrain from reaching out for him, for my own comfort if nothing else, but I was convinced such a gesture would be unwelcome. Now that he's ensconced on the sofa, huddled in an old flannel shirt I hadn't realised was still here and drinking some strong tea, he seems better able to process what I have to tell him.

"Ray, when I first came to Chicago, I didn't know a soul. I was on a mission to find the killers of my father. The detective assigned to the case was one Raymond Vecchio. He helped me to solve the case, and against some very improbable odds, we became friends. We remained friends for more than two years. And then one day, while I was on holiday in the Territories, I got a telephone call. It was Ray, telling me he wouldn't be able to pick me up as we had planned. Telling me we were still friends, which I had little reason to doubt.

"And when I returned to Chicago, I found out that what he had not been able to tell me in that phone call was 'good-bye.' Because the man at his desk, while physically very similar, was not Ray Vecchio."

I look at Ray, who is looking very puzzled, but is evidently too well-mannered to interrupt my tale. "The 'real' Ray Vecchio, my friend and partner, is undercover in Las Vegas impersonating a mobster he resembles almost uncannily. The man you've been introduced to is a detective named Gene Simonetta, who was chosen to replace Ray so that no suspicion would arise due to his absence here. All the people who needed to be were made aware of the deception, and I am informed that the local criminals aren't smart enough to notice the difference."

"Whoa," Ray says, and holds up one hand. "Is this for real?"

"Unfortunately."

"So that letter I found ...?"

"Was from Ray Vecchio." I smile fondly. "He wanted to assure me that his absence shouldn't be taken as ... censure." Ray looks curious, and I say, "Disapproval. Of my ... lifestyle."

"Ah," Ray says. "Got it." He peers at me closely. "Took guts to tell him," he says after a moment, almost making it a question.

"Indeed it did," I say, and only then remember why I've told him all this. "So do you see why I'm reluctant to expose Detective Simonetta to scrutiny?"

"Hell, yeah," he says. "I dunno, maybe I should just leave town and let things die down some."

"Absolutely not," I say. "He may be complicit in a capital crime, Ray; I can't let that go."

He nods, slowly. "H'll know what to do," he says at last.

"I agree," I say. "Which is why Turnbull is doing that research."

"Why both of them, though -- you really think they're in it together?"

"It seems likely -- Detective Simonetta's return to your garage at that precise time is much too convenient. That barrel was sealed when we moved it, so we know it's been tampered with. He has the means to gain entry -- your spare set of keys. And if it were at all legitimate, Lieutenant Welsh would have known of the warrant. It's too much of a coincidence for my liking."

He nods slowly. "Okay, you got a good thing going there, but how does Orsini figure into it?"

"Ah. I'm not entirely sure yet, but ..."

He raises his eyebrows. "But what?"

"I have a ... hunch," I say, feeling uncomfortable at having strayed from the facts, but Ray just nods again encouragingly. "If we're looking for someone with a grudge against you personally, the alderman certainly qualifies. Your efforts against his development haven't gone unnoticed, I'm sure."

Ray stares into his mug, then drains the contents in a long series of swallows. "What's next, then?" he says, looking at me as though he's sure I'll have the answers. Unfortunately, I don't.

"I'm hoping that Turnbull's search will bear fruit, and give us something to take to the authorities."

As if on cue, Turnbull appears in the doorway. "Sir," he says, and I can see from his face that he's found something. Ray perks up a bit.

"What've you got, Ren?" he asks.

"I was able to access some financial records with the help of a ... friend," Turnbull says, with a sideways glance at me as if to gauge my response to whatever he's done, but really, I couldn't care less if it helps Ray. "It seems Detective Simonetta's brother is invested heavily in the Manor Point construction project. The money came from a large estate left in trust to the both of them by their maternal grandfather."

"So they both stand to lose a bundle if the development falls through?"

"It would appear so, Ray."

A huge smile breaks over Ray's face. "I must've been closer than I thought to getting it stopped," he says with dark glee. "So Orsini sends a goon to have a 'talk' with me --"

"And Mr. Santana is mistaken for you, and perhaps becomes hostile for some reason --" I put in.

Ray's face falls. "And gets himself killed. Because of me. Shit."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "It's no more than we suspected," I say gently. "And it's certainly not your fault -- you couldn't have known."

He nods stiffly and looks at me, then down at my hand. I make as if to move it, but his own hand comes up to cover it. I feel his fingers warm around mine as he tugs both our hands down to rest on the sofa between us. He looks half-defiantly at Turnbull, who in his turn appears sanguine about the situation.

"You get anything on Orsini?" Ray asks Turnbull, as his fingers twine between mine in an unmistakable gesture that tears at my heart even as it warms it. I'm forced to drag my attention back to the extremely important issues before us, rather than concentrate on the pleasure-pain I derive from his touch.

"It appears that the Alderman himself is 'clean', as you Americans say, but his assistant, one Jerrold Abbot, has made several very large cash withdrawals in the last week."

"Hot damn, he's paying somebody off," Ray says, releasing my hand to clap his own together. "My guess is it's Mendelson." He turns to me. "What're we waiting for? Get on the horn to H, give him the news."

"I'm not sure it's enough," I say, loath to quash his good spirits but forced to remain practical.

"It doesn't have to be enough," he says. "We just needed somewhere to start, one little crack -- and we got two. H can put pressure from within; we can push from outside." He grins again, not happily. "We're gonna take those bastards down, Ben. You and me."

My telephone call to Lieutenant Welsh to apprise him of our findings elicits more information in return: Mendelson's vehicle's tires did in fact match the tracks I found outside Ray's garage, placing him neatly at the scene. I suggest that his bank records be checked for recent deposits, and am informed that Francesca is already 'on it'.

"Oh, and Fraser," the lieutenant says, and from his carefully casual tone I know this is anything but. "If you should happen to see our mutual friend Kowalski anywhere around town," and he pauses meaningfully, "I guess you'd be obligated to bring him in for questioning."

"Ah," I say, and a shiver goes down my spine. "There's a warrant then?"

"Yeah," Lieutenant Welsh says disgustedly. "So if you see him ... anywhere in Chicago --" And now I remember telling him one night about the curious legal status of the property of the Consulate, and I see what he's getting at.

"Understood," I say quickly. "Thank you kindly, Lieutenant." I hang up and look at Ray, perched on the corner of my desk, watching his foot swing back and forth. "Would you say that you're in fear for your life from the authorities?" I ask him.

"I'm in fear for my life from the authorities," he parrots back obligingly. I open my mouth to explain that's not what I'd meant, but realise it will do as well.

"I hereby grant you asylum in the Dominion of Canada," I say. It might not hold up in court, but at the moment I don't care -- Ray's smile tells me he trusts me, and I know absolutely without a doubt that we will triumph.

I'm a little less thrilled with Ben's brilliant plan when it becomes clear that I can't leave the freaking Consulate.

"I'd be obliged to arrest you, Ray," he says.

"You got no, what'sit, jurisdiction," I shoot back. "You're not a cop in Chicago."

"I'd make a citizen's arrest."

"You're not a citizen!" I yell. "And plus it's a bogus charge, which you know."

He sighs. "The charges themselves are bogus, but the warrant will hold up long enough for them to arrest you. I'd just as soon keep you entirely out of their hands. And Detective Simonetta may be dishonest, but it doesn't follow that he's stupid as well. He probably already has the Consulate under surveillance."

Shit. "At least take Ren with you."

He shakes his head. "Turnbull is on duty. I'll be fine -- it's a simple reconnaissance. I'll be back before you know it."

He turns to leave and I put my hand on his arm. When he turns back I say, "Be careful, okay? I don't want to --" lose you is what I was going to say, but I can't get the words out. He seems to get it, though.

"Nor I you," he says, and his eyes are so dark I feel like I'm falling into them, and God, I want him so bad. I pull on his arm just a little, giving him plenty of time to move away, but he moves closer instead and kisses me so hard my toes curl.

"We need to talk about this thing," I say when he lets me go.

"Afterwards," he says. "We'll talk then." He kisses me once more and he's gone.

Well, fuck.

I wander out to the lobby where Ren's sitting at his desk. "Hey," I say, and then I remember holding onto Ben's hand in front of him and I wonder what he thinks about that, after Ben told him nothing was going on. "So," I say then, because I can't seem to think of how to start.

He turns and says, "Would you like to watch some television, Ray?" like nothing's different. Maybe it isn't, I don't know -- maybe he didn't notice or maybe he never believed Ben in the first place and figures we've been fucking all along.

And I guess it doesn't really matter what he thinks, because even I don't know what's really going on. "Television sounds good," I say -- might as well make the best of it. We go back into the parlor and he rolls a big-ass TV out from somewhere and turns it on. Surprisingly (or not), they're showing curling, and I settle down to watch, with Ren standing in the doorway. After a few minutes he comes back in and stands behind the couch, eyes glued to the set. When the inning's over and they cut to commercial he sighs a little.

"I must get back to work," he says. "Please let me know if you need anything."

"Will do," I say, and get surprised by a yawn. Maybe not so surprising; I'm running on about 3 hours of sleep, after all. "I might sack out for a while; don't be surprised if it gets quiet."

He nods. "Of course. Enjoy," he says, and then he leaves.

Curling gets boring after a while, or my brain can't settle down or something, so I resort to poking around the room. There's a bunch of books, most of which turn out to be fake, and the drawers in the sideboard are fake too. In the closet there's just a spare Mountie uniform in a plastic dry-cleaning bag. I get a sudden brainstorm and take it out, but when I look closer it's obvious that it belongs to a woman -- probably Ben's boss -- so there's no way it'll fit me. So much for sneaking out of here in disguise. Besides, 1) I'm sure Ren wouldn't let me leave, and b) there's not much I could really do.

And, okay, also I don't want to disappoint Ben by taking off when he asked me to stay put. So I lay down on the couch and close my eyes for a second, and the next thing I know Ben's shaking my shoulder and saying my name.

"Hey," I say, sitting up and trying to focus. He looks happier than he was when he left, so I guess it went okay. "What'd you find out?"

"I managed to overhear a conversation between Detective Simonetta and Mr. Mendelson in which the detective cautioned our suspect to 'try not to kill anybody this time'."

"That's good, right?" I say, before yawning really loud. I stand up so I don't get a crick in my neck from staring up at him, and he moves back a little, but not like he's running away, thank God. In fact, he's close enough so I can smell him again, and I remember that last kiss he gave me, and I am more than ready for our little "talk" ... but we should probably get me out of the mess I'm in first. "Isn't that like incriminating evidence?"

"Indeed it is. I told Lieutenant Welsh everything, and he contacted Internal Affairs about Detective Simonetta's involvement in this case. Evidently they had been somewhat suspicious before, because he's been suspended pending a full investigation. Mr. Mendelson has confessed to accidentally killing Mr. Santana while under orders from Alderman Orsini, and the warrant for your arrest has been rescinded."

"Jesus, how long was I asleep?" I say, and Ben smiles.

"It's a quarter to three, if that helps."

Damn, I guess I did more than nap a little. Last I knew it was ten. "Anything else I should know about?"

His smile goes ear-to-fucking-ear, and he says, "Ray Vecchio's coming back. The real one."

Oh. "Yeah, huh?" I say, and I can hear how flat my voice sounds, so I try to work up a little more enthusiasm -- I mean, when a guy's best friend's coming home safe, it's a big deal. "That's really great, Ben. Everything worked out okay, then?"

He nods. "Through a fortunate stroke of luck, he was able to fulfill his objectives, so they've decided to 'pull him out', in the words of Lieutenant Welsh. He'll be home in a week or so." Somehow his smile gets even wider.

"That's really great," I say again, but I have a sinking feeling in my gut everything's changed now. All I need to do is look at his face to see how he feels about the real Ray Vecchio. And I'm the new guy, the substitute friend, and I wonder how much I'm going to be seeing Ben from now on. He looks at me real close. "Is something wrong, Ray?" he says. "I thought you'd be happier."

"I am," I say, and I force a smile out. "Really. I just haven't woken up yet, I guess -- seems like I must be dreaming."

He nods, but he's still looking at me suspiciously. "Do you feel up to a trip to the police station? Lieutenant Welsh needs a formal statement made."

"Yeah, I'm good," I say. "Let's go."

We have to take his truck, 'cause the Goat's still at the garage, and it feels kind of weird to be driven by someone else. Ben's a pretty good driver; a lot more cautious than I am, but I guess that goes with being a cop. And frankly I'm not in much of a hurry anyway, so after a couple minutes of getting the feel for it I just watch the scenery go by. Should have put Dief by the window, though, he still has no respect for a person's privates.

We park in the lot and walk in like usual, and when we get into the squad room, the first person we see is Frannie. She comes running over to Ben all smiles, grabs his arm and says, "Isn't it great, Frase? Ma's throwing a big party -- you have to come."

"Of course," he says. "I wouldn't miss it."

"You can come, too," she says to me. "I mean, if you want to."

"Thanks," I say. Not on your life is what I'm actually thinking, but I like Frannie and I don't want to burst her little bubble.

H sees us then and bellows, "Kowalski!" so Ben detaches himself from Frannie and I go give my statement. I expect there to be some trouble about me hiding out in Canada, but H glosses right over it. After we're done and it's typed and signed, H gets a call and says it's time for the line-up. I don't actually have anybody to ID, but we tag along after him down the hall to where Jamal's waiting, all hunched over on the bench. When he sees me he straightens up and smiles.

"Hey, Ray," he says. "You tryin' to crash my party?"

I fake a swipe at his head. "No, J, you're the guest of honor at this one." A door opens down the hall and I see Vecch -- Simonetta being led out in handcuffs. He turns and stares at me, and I stare right back until the cop who's got his arm yanks him away. Then I sit down next to Jamal, hard.

"Ray?" Ben says, and as I turn to tell him I'm okay, just spooked, another door opens and there's Orsini, big as life. I get another stare, this one even more hateful, and I look away quick, start counting the tiles on the floor instead of thinking how I could be dead instead of Carlos. As Orsini gets hustled off, I try not to feel so sick, and I'm doing okay until a hand on my shoulder makes me jump.

"Ray?" I hear again, but this time it's Stella, and as I look up I can see she's barely holding it together. I'm on my feet without even thinking about it -- instinct, I guess -- and when I open my arms she walks right into them.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," she says to me, into my ear. "It was an accident."

"I know," I tell her, but I think it'll take a while before I believe it. And she knows me, all the way down to my bones, so she doesn't say anything else. I hold on tight and I can't even tell who's worse off, me or her, but eventually it seems to help both of us.

When we let go, she's even smiling a little. "You need a ride home?" I ask, but she shakes her head.

"I'm all set," she says. "They cleared me, so I ... I need to work."

Jesus, it hadn't even occurred to me that they'd think she had anything to do with it. She's such a tough chick, though, always has been, and I can see in her face that she really does need to get back to work, to fight back, so I just squeeze her hand. "Take care of yourself, then," I say, and she nods and walks away down the hall. Jamal's already gone, I see when I look at the bench, and I hope we don't have to hang around here any longer either.

When I look at Ben again, he looks sad for a second. Then he says, "I believe we're free to go now, Ray," like an answer to my prayers, which means we can go have that little talk I've been waiting for, but somehow it's not as appealing anymore. I'm not sure what he's thinking, and I'm kind of scared to find out.

I've got nowhere else to be, though, so I follow him out. Just before we walk out the door, Frannie calls me back. When I turn around, she's holding out my bracelet.

"Thanks, Frannie," I say, and I really mean it this time.

"I fixed the broken link," she says, "And Harding says it's not really evidence, so I wanted to make sure you got it back."

I give her a big hug, because she really is a sweet kid, and this is way above and beyond her job description. Plus she just got the news her brother's coming back, and still she takes the time to do this for somebody she doesn't even know. I feel like I need to repay her somehow, so I say the first thing that comes into my head. "Listen, you should come over for dinner tonight. You like chicken?"

"Sure," she says, with a sideways look at Ben. "I'd love to. I'll bring dessert."

"Great," I say. "It's 457 Magnolia. Second floor."

She nods and looks at Ben again. I look too, and he's looking at me, with something in his eyes I can't quite read.

"Okay," I say, because it's gotten very weird and awkward now. "Let's go, Ben; one more quick trip to the grocery store."

He shifts his feet and runs his finger inside his collar. "I'll take you to get your car, Ray. There are some matters that need my attention at the Consulate."

What the hell? The prevailing wind's from the Arctic, that's for sure. I almost ask him what crawled up his ass, and just in time I realize that might not be the best way to put it, so I just say "Okay" and follow him to the parking lot. The drive to the garage is much longer than I remember it being, and my fingers itch to turn on the radio, but it's not my car, so I scratch Dief behind the ears and count the red cars we pass until we're there.

I have to say something before I get out, though, and all I can come up with is, "You'll be home for dinner, right?"

He looks at me like he's surprised. "Certainly. If I'm not intruding."

"Intruding?" What the hell ...

"On your date with Ms. Vecchio."

"Date?" I can't believe this guy. Just -- "It's not a date, Benton, it's a thank-you. And like we've already established, she's only got eyes for you, and I'd rather not be a substitute, thanks just the same."

He blinks at me a couple of times. "I ... see," he says finally. "I'll be home around six, then."

"Good," I say. "I'll have the grill going." I get out of the car and shut the door and he drives away. We didn't really solve anything, I don't think, but maybe there's a little crack in the wall. I hope.

I realize then I didn't tell Frannie what time, so I go into my office to call her. She says she'll be there. With bells on, she says, which I hope she doesn't mean literally. And I get a real bad feeling all of a sudden -- Ben thought I was setting up a date with Frannie, but maybe Frannie thinks it's kind of a date with Ben. Shit. I need a plan.

I dial the number of the Consulate, crossing my fingers, and I get lucky when Ren answers.

"Hey," I say after he finishes his spiel, "You free for dinner tonight?"

"Ye-e-es," he says doubtfully, "but I think I should tell you, I'm not -- that is to say, I don't --" I hear him clear his throat. "I'm straight, Ray," he says finally.

Jesus, this is almost funny -- my life is a bad sitcom. "I know that. I'm counting on that. I'm not asking you out, I want you to run interference for me. I kind of invited Frannie Vecchio over for dinner --"

"Miss Vecchio?" Ren says, interrupting me.

"Oh, good, you know her," I say, although from the tone of his voice I'd say he'd like to know her better, which is a plus for me. "Show up around six, okay?"

"I ... yes, of course. Thank you, Ray," he says, sounding dazed. He hangs up the phone without saying goodbye. He's got it bad.

Ben blows through the kitchen at about a quarter-to-six, looking like he's been cleaning out the basement. When I ask, he says he was cleaning out the basement, and that he needs a shower. I hear the bathroom door shut behind him just as the doorbell rings.

"Wow," Frannie says as I wave her in, "This is nice." She hands me a bakery-box that smells like tiramisu, so I put it in the fridge.

"Better than where I was, for sure," I say. "You want a drink?"

"Sure," she says, wandering into the living room, looking around like it's a museum. "Are all these Fraser's?" she asks, pointing to the books on the shelves.

"Yeah," I say. "White wine okay, or something else?"

"Oooh, wine, please," she says, like it's a special treat. I pour a glass for her and grab myself another beer. When I go into the other room, she's looking down the hallway to Ben's room. She takes a big gulp of the wine and says, "I need to freshen up. You mind if I ..."

"Knock yourself out," I say. "Probably be better if you went in through my side, though, rather than Ben's. He should be out of the shower any second."

"Oh. Yeah," she says, looking disappointed. I point her at my room.

"It's the second door," I say. "I have to start the chicken."

I'm just putting the last piece of chicken on the grill when I hear an unholy shriek. I drop the tongs and run inside to see Frannie standing in the doorway of my bedroom with Ben's hat in her hands.

She looks up at me with tears about to overflow and says, "He could have told me."

Ah, shit. "Told you what?" I say, stalling for time, hoping Ben heard the scream too and comes dashing out to rescue me.

Frannie looks at me in disgust. "Don't play dumb with me, Ray. His clothes are in your closet."

"Oh, yeah, well," I say. "It's only because he doesn't have a closet of his own."

I'm not sure whether she buys that or not, because Ben comes around the corner then with a towel wrapped around his waist and her jaw drops open. I have to admit, I'm a little distracted myself.

"Francesca," Ben says, like he's in full uniform at a tea party.

"Fraser," she squeaks.

"Is everything all right? I thought I heard a scream." He looks all innocent and curious, but I'm betting he was listening for a second before he joined us.

"Oh, that," Frannie says. "That was -- I just --" She looks at the hat in her hands and shoves it at Ben, who takes it and puts it on. He doesn't look quite as ridiculous as you might think, but I still have to try not to grin.

" 'Scuse me," I say. "I have to go check the grill." I beat feet out to the porch and listen through the open door as I wipe off the tongs and start turning the chicken. Maybe I'm a coward for not sticking around, but I don't want him to feel like he's got an audience for what's bound to be a pretty tough conversation.

"Francesca," Ben says again, and I can hear the how-can-I-say-this in his voice.

I guess Frannie can too. "No, Frase, it's okay. I mean, it's not your fault, right? It's nobody's fault, it just ... happens. It's just ... one of those things."

"Yes," he says, sounding like she just gave him a present. "It is. One of those things."

There's a bunch of silence, and then Ben clears his throat and says, "I should, er, go get dressed."

"Yeah, okay," Frannie says. "I'm gonna have some more wine."

"Understood," Ben says.

I give them a few seconds to clear the area, then I go back in. I can hear Frannie sniffling in the kitchen, and I'm not so good with the crying females, but on the other hand I really need a plate for the chicken, so I suck it up and walk around the corner.

Frannie's struggling with the wine, so I take it from her and yank out the cork. "Thanks," she says. "Hope you got another bottle somewhere."

Ah, damn. I put my hand on her shoulder carefully ('cause I really don't know that she's not going to turn around and bite me), and she sighs.

"It's just ... I put so much work into this," she says, flailing her hand around and just missing knocking her wine glass off the counter. "Years of work. And all this time ...."

The doorbell rings again, saving me from having to say anything, so I just give her shoulder a squeeze and walk over to answer the door. It's Ren, thank God, right on time and looking pretty spiffy, too. He looks at Frannie like she's Aphrodite and Venus all rolled into one, and she perks up a little. So I'll maybe do a good deed here -- she could do worse, I'm thinking. I drag him in and get him a root beer, which is what he says he wants, and watch him and Frannie together. Awwww.

All of a sudden I remember the chicken, and I have to grab a plate and make a dash for the porch. I'm just in time, nothing got burned, and I try hard not to drop any like I usually do as I'm taking them off. I put the last piece on top of the pile and close the lid, and when I turn around Ben's standing there. The whole damn plate almost goes flying then, but he grabs it and saves the day.

"I'm sorry," he says as he hands it back to me.

"Nah, that's okay, nothing fell. Next time make a little noise, maybe."

He scratches his eyebrow. "No, I meant -- I didn't correct Francesca's assumption that you and I were ... cohabiting."

I feel my heart rate ratchet up a notch, and I try to stay calm, but a voice in my head is screaming now now nownownow. I take a deep breath and say, "Why bother?"

I get a skull-piercing stare. "Excuse me?"

Dief pops his head out then and woofs at us, and Ben looks at him and says, "Yes, just a moment, please." Dief woofs again. Ben looks annoyed. "I'm aware that we have guests, thank you. Since when have you been the model of courteous behavior?"

I have to laugh; they're like Groucho and Harpo doing a routine. "Dief's right, plus the chicken's getting cold. After dinner, though -- you and me, talking. Right?"

"As you wish," he says, oddly enough sounding kind of unhappy about it. Man, I feel like I need a road map lately.

"You okay?" I ask, not that he'll tell me.

"I'm fine," he says. Big surprise.

"Let's get people fed, then," I say, and I lead the way into the kitchen. Frannie's made a serious dent in the wine, and I hope Ren can drive her home, because no way I'm letting her behind the wheel.

Somehow we all make it through dinner with anybody crying or freaking out, thank God for Ren's conversational skills. After the tiramisu is gone Ben clears the table and starts right in on the dishes, leaving me to play host. I move the party into the living room, and Frannie sinks into the corner of the couch and sighs.

"Tomorrow I'm really going to regret this, aren't I?" she asks with her eyes closed.

"Yeah, probably," I say.

She makes a little humming noise, then says, "Do you think I could get a ride home?"

Ren literally jumps to his feet. "It would be my honor to drive you, Miss Vecchio."

She cracks one eyelid open. "Jeez, call me by my first name already, would'ya?"

He turns an interesting shade of pink. "Thank you, ah ... Francesca." He clears his throat and says, "May I help you to your feet?"

She sticks out her hand and he takes it and ever-so-carefully pulls her up until she's standing ... sort of. Then he somehow wraps her arm around his so he's propping her up, but with class. She giggles.

I help her find her keys and hold my breath until they make it down the stairs alive. Ren looks back once and I give him the thumbs-up for good luck. Any other guy, I'd be worried he'd take advantage. With Ren, I'm hoping he has the sense to at least kiss her cheek.

When I go back into the kitchen it's spotless and deserted. I hear Dief's claws on the back stairs, though, and when I get to the door I see Ben sitting two steps from the bottom. I go out and close the door loud enough so he knows I'm there, and he twitches, but doesn't look. So I walk down and sit a few steps higher, just close enough to see how tense he is. Damn.

"You want to start?" I ask quietly. After my very long night of freaking out and thinking, I finally know how I feel, but now I'm wondering if what he said was just the orgasm talking, and I can't face laying it all out for for him if that's the case.

His head droops for a second, and he says, "You confuse me, Ray Kowalski."

"It's all part of the service," I say, and maybe someday I'll engage my brain before my mouth starts to move, but today evidently ain't it. "Sorry," I add, and he nods.

"The last time I was in love," he says, and man, he's starting right up with the heavy stuff, "it was ... a very painful experience. She was a criminal ... she wanted me to ..." He stops for a second and shakes his head. "I almost ... died."

"Jesus," I whisper. Even if that's not a tenth of the story, it explains a lot.

He looks back over his shoulder at me and nods again. "Indeed. Ray's friendship was the only thing that got me though that. I'm not sure what would have happened if ...." He shuts up again, and I'm not going to push it now, but when the real Vecchio comes back, I think we need to have a chat about this.

"It's okay," I say, which is stupid, because any idiot can tell it isn't, but I'm trying my best.

"You're not a substitute," he says roughly. "Not for Ray or for anyone."

"Thanks," I try to say, but I end up whispering it because my throat's closed up.

The fireflies are out again, and Dief's chasing them like he forgot how bad they taste. For a second I wish humans could forget stuff that quickly, because I really hate how bad Ben's feeling right now. And then I know I have to share some of it with him, maybe make it hurt less, so I slice myself wide open for him, like he did for me. "I was scared," I say. "When Stella -- it hurt a lot, you know? And I thought it was done hurting. Like your shoulder."

He looks at me again then. "My ... shoulder?"

I nod, and it sounds really fucking stupid, but it's all I got so I keep going. "You feel like it's okay now, and it is, for the day-to-day stuff, but there's always the chance that you might over-extend it and injure it again, and then it's fucked up for good. So you still have to remember, and be careful."

"I ... see," he says, and it does sound like he gets it, which is good, because I really do suck at this stuff. Then he says, "I'll move out, of course," and what the fuck?

"No!" I say, and the thought of it scares me almost as much as ... the other thing. The love thing. "No," I say a little quieter, "don't move out. Move in."

He takes a deep breath then, like he hadn't been breathing at all before. "What?"

"Move in. With me. In my room." He just stares at me, so I say, "Please?"

"I don't ..." He stops and takes another breath. "Why?"

Fuck, I don't know how to explain this. "Because ... it feels right. Doesn't it? I mean -- when you said ..."

"You shouldn't feel obligated, Ray," he says, and I want to shake him. Hard.

"I'm not, I don't, I just -- I didn't want to ever fall for anyone again, but sometimes you just don't get to make that choice. Sometimes it gets made for you." He doesn't say anything, doesn't move a muscle, and I realize it's really up to me. Two steps down and I'm right behind him, and I reach over and grab his hand. His fingers twitch and then he grabs back.

"I can't say it yet," I say, staring at our fingers, all twisted together, "but I will. Can you trust me enough for that?"

"I want to," he says.

I look at his face again, and I can see something really beautiful in his eyes. "Yeah, okay," I say, and I lean forward.

It's like the first time we kissed, and it's like we've known each other forever. I never want it to stop. I shift on my step and lean a little closer, and suddenly we're off-balance, and over we go. I land on the ground on top of him with an oof and Dief runs over to see what's up. And Ben's laughing, and I'm laughing, and probably Dief's laughing too, for all I know or care.

And I'm not scared of falling anymore.

End Can't Stop Falling by Starfish

Author and story notes above.

Please post a comment on this story.
Read posted comments.

The Due South Fiction Archive Entry

Can't Stop Falling