Unfinished

Disclaimer: The Due South characters and situations belong to Alliance and whoever else; the Tru Calling characters belong to FOX et cetera. I'm not entirely certain where TC is set, but the general consensus appears to be Boston, so that's what I went with, even if it's no Boston I've ever seen.

Author's Notes: Thanks muchly to Hel, Mary, Reesa, V, and everyone else who left such lovely feedback and encouragement while I was writing this fucker. You guys rule me.

Story Notes: Once again, it's a not-really-death-story. Once again: Consider the premise of Tru Calling.

SequelTo: Undone

"Dying killed the truth in me
Gone quietly, gone completely
Cold reminder, what you tried to be"
--Moist, "Better Than You"

BEFORE

When Benton Fraser returned to the cabin, Ray Kowalski was packing a duffel bag.

"It's no big thing," he said, as Benton stomped the snow off his boots and shrugged out of his parka, but Ray wouldn't meet his eyes. "Just gotta take care of some business."

"I wasn't aware you had acquaintances in Boston," Benton said, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he remembered, and he wanted to kick himself. Stupid.

Ray's mouth twisted, and Benton realized with dismay that he had taken it as an intentional dig. But all he said was, "It ain't him. It's...." He hesitated. "From before Vecchio. It's just a thing."

"As you said," Benton agreed, and wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved.

Ray stuffed one last T-shirt into the bag and zipped it shut with a savage yank. Then he let his head fall forward and leaned over the bed, bracing his fists against the mattress.

After a moment, during which Ray said nothing and Benton tried to quiet his breathing to negative-decibel levels, Ray spoke. His words sounded reluctant, as though dragged forth from his throat with great force.

"This shouldn't take long," he said. "But if I'm not back soon... call Welsh. Let him know."

Worried, definitely. A kind of muted panic gripped Benton's limbs, freezing him in place.

"I'm coming with you," he managed to say through the sudden stiffness that had paralyzed his lips.

Ray just shook his head and said, "No yer not."

Flat. Final. End of discussion.

Benton did not take well to ultimatums. "If you're in some kind of trouble--"

"I'm not."

He pressed doggedly on. "--then I have a responsibility to your well-being to...."

He trailed off, and saw Ray's lips curve into a faint smile.

"Yer worried about me," he said. "You're allowed to say it, Ben."

"Fine," Benton said, refusing to be sidetracked by that slight, tempting smirk. "I'm worried about you, and I'm coming with you."

Ray shook his head. "Sorry," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "Invitation's for one only. No pluses. 'Sides, I already ATV'd."

"RSVP'd," Benton said automatically, and frowned. "You're going to a party?"

"Figure of speech." Ray paused. "You sure about that?"

"It's a response to an invitation, not an off-road vehicle. Yes, I'm sure."

"See, Ben? Learn something new every day," Ray said, and shouldered the duffel bag.

The panic intensified. "You're leaving now?" His voice cracked on the last word, and he hated the sound of it.

"Duty beckons," Ray said. "With its middle finger, but, uh, beckons nonetheless." He hesitated and stepped closer to Benton, his restless eyes searching Benton's face, pausing on his eyes, his mouth.

Benton wet his lips.

"I'll be back," Ray said, his voice suddenly low and fierce, "I promise," and he let the bag fall to the floor with a thump and grabbed Benton's face, leaning in and kissing him, long and hard and thorough.

Benton felt himself melting into the kiss, and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the moment. He slid his hands over Ray's shoulders and up the back of his neck, tangling them in the thick, dark blond hair-- not bleached anymore, and in dire need of a proper cut, but he liked it this way, liked having something to hold on to.

And then Ray pulled back, slowly but inexorably, disengaging Benton's hands with his own.

"Got a plane to catch," he said, with a sharp, quicksilver grin.

Benton nodded and stepped back from the door, allowing Ray room to pass.

He hated himself for it, but he did it anyway.

TWO MONTHS LATER

Harrison Davies sat bolt upright in bed, coming awake with a gasp.

He started to shake almost immediately, nightmare-sweat cooling on his body, and he spared a moment to wonder why it was so damn cold in his apartment, then had a sudden vision of the heating bill, lying unopened on his desk.

Oh, yeah. That would do it.

Harrison drew his knees up and hunched forward, digging his fingernails into the skin there through the thin sheet. He didn't want to think about the dream, but flashes of it were already worming their way into his consciousness, strobing before his unseeing eyes.

Tru, running down the alley. Jack, stepping out in front of her. Tru coming up short.

Jack, raising the gun.

And himself, too slow to get there, launching himself towards them anyway, hearing the gunshot in mid-leap....

He scrubbed his hands viciously over his eyes, trying to block out the images. He'd seen them already, knew them all by heart. Played them over and over in his mind, not every night now, not a year later, but often enough that he couldn't forget.

Not like he hadn't tried. That was what tequila was for.

Harrison sat back with a sigh, casting tired, bleary eyes around his apartment-- a small studio, with a bed and a kitchen and not much else-- and felt the desolate weight of his surroundings closing in on him like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. No bugs, though. That was something, at least.

That was what two oversized cans of industrial-strength Raid, and one extremely chagrined trip to the emergency room, had been for.

And speaking of tequila.... Harrison slipped out of bed, pulling the sheet with him and wrapping it around his shoulders for warmth, and padded across the room to the kitchen area.

He didn't intend to have any more dreams that night.

"If I could keep from fucking up
Just one more day
I think about it and then
I just throw it away"
--Jane Jensen, "Blank Sugar"

YESTERDAY

Benton looked at the building in front of him, then down at the slip of paper in his hand, and frowned.

Definitely the right address, but instead of the apartment building he'd been expecting, it was a run-down storefront. The sign on the door said HTD INVESTIGATIONS, and a plastic placard gave office hours.

According to the placard, HTD Investigations was open for business.

Benton gave a mental shrug and pushed the door open, stepping inside. He'd been expecting a blast of hot air-- Bostonians, from what he had observed, tended to overheat their buildings during the winter, perhaps out of some sense of overcompensation-- and was pleasantly surprised to find it not much warmer inside than out. The room was dark as well as cold, and he started to wonder if maybe the building had been abandoned.

He felt automatically for the light switch, finding one by the door and flipping it on, and he barely had time to take in the small room, the filing cabinet, the battered metal desk, and the figure slumped over said desk with its face buried in its arms, when a heartfelt groan issued from the figure and one of its arms waved vaguely in the air.

"Lights," came a muffled voice that Benton nevertheless knew all too well. "Lights, lights, lights--"

Benton turned the lights off, and the room plunged back into darkness.

"Oh thank Christ," the voice said, and Benton heard drawers opening and closing, with various objects rattling around in their depths. After a silence, during which Benton started to wonder what, exactly, he had walked into, the voice said abruptly, "Okay, hit 'em."

Benton turned the light back on, more cautiously this time.

Harrison Davies leaned back in the desk chair, his boots propped up on the desk, black plastic sunglasses perched on his nose.

Benton studied him, mentally comparing him to the impish young pickpocket he had met in Chicago several years ago. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses on his face, but Harrison seemed older-- older than he should be, somehow, older than the passage of time could account for. His mouth was tight and lined, and his hair was shorter than Benton remembered, but still looked just as much in need of a good shampoo. There was a shadow like a bruise under one of the black lenses, and an old, healing cut on his lower lip.

"Hey," Harrison began, his brow furrowing, and without thinking, Benton blurted out, "You look like crap."

Oh dear. Ray was starting to rub off on him. Well, it had only been a matter of time.

Harrison frowned, and Benton was certain that he was rolling his eyes behind the glasses. "Nice to see you too, Fraser."

Benton looked around in mild surprise. "You work here?"

"I own here," Harrison said. The ghost of a smile flickered over his lips and vanished. "Well, 'own' might be too strong a word, but it's my name on the lease."

"Ah," Benton said. And then he thought about it-- HTD. Harrison Davies. "Is the T your middle name?"

"No," Harrison said shortly. His face seemed to shut down.

Benton looked around, wondering what he'd said wrong and how to get the conversation back on track. "I must admit," he said finally, "I'm a bit surprised to find you...."

He trailed off, and Harrison cocked an eyebrow. "Gainfully employed?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't--"

"Don't be." Harrison swung his legs off the desk and leaned forward with a self-mocking grin. "It's a surprise to me too. But bein' shady's all I'm good at, and this way at least I get some legit income out of it."

"Still," Benton said, "to open your own detective agency shows admirable initiative."

Another shadow passed over Harrison's face. "Yeah, well, I came into some cash." He paused. "Sorry, Fraser, but I'm havin' a hard time believing you just stopped in for a chat. What's up?"

"Well," Benton began, and wet his lips nervously. "This is actually a rather... fortuitous turn of events. I was hoping...." He trailed off again.

Once again, Harrison's eyebrow rose above the rim of his sunglasses. "Good start. Now try and finish it this time."

Somehow his carefully planned speech had completely fled his mind. Well, then, there was no way forward but to ask flat-out.

"Have you seen Ray recently?"

Harrison seemed to blink behind his glasses. "No. Should I?"

Benton ignored the question. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"'Bout five years ago," Harrison said, "same as last time I saw you." He slid his sunglasses down his nose and narrowed his eyes. "So I repeat: What is up?"

Benton hesitated, curling and uncurling his fingers restlessly and wishing he had his hat to hold, or something, anything to do with his hands. "May I sit?"

"Oh, yeah, 'course," Harrison said immediately, rising. "Go ahead." He hovered at the rear door of the office, and Benton could see a darkened kitchen in the room behind him. "Get you something? A drink?"

"Tea, if you have it," Benton said over his shoulder as he sat.

"Got tee-quila," Harrison said with another mocking smile. "But I'm guessing you're not a tequila man."

"I'm afraid not," Benton admitted.

"Water?"

"That's fine."

Harrison banged around in the kitchen for a few minutes, opening and closing cabinets. Benton pretended not to notice when he took a long swig from a glass bottle, but a knot of unease started to grow in his gut.

He shouldn't have come to Harrison. This was a mistake.

"Right," Harrison said loudly, and slammed a cabinet door shut. He loped back into the office and set a grimy glass in front of Benton. Then he leaned against the corner of his desk, slid his sunglasses down his nose again, and fixed Benton with an unwavering bloodshot stare. "Talk to me."

Benton sipped slowly at the water, stalling for time, and made a face at the metallic taste. He looked around with a frown. "Does this building still have lead pipes?"

"That or the asbestos," Harrison said. His lip curled. "Still think I'm doing good?"

Benton set the glass aside carefully and cleared his throat.

"Ah," he began. "Um. Ray is missing."

Harrison cocked his head to the side. "Didja check behind the sofa?"

Benton ignored the question, pressing on. "He left two months ago, saying he had... business... to take care of here. He intimated that it might be dangerous." He paused. "No one has heard from him since."

"So that's a no on the sofa, then?" Harrison hopped off the desk and started to pace without waiting for an answer. "So why come to me? Why aren't the cops out looking for Vecchio?"

"Well," Benton said, and cracked his neck to the side. "That's rather complicated."

"'Course it is," Harrison muttered, not quite under his breath. "Complicated. I live for complicated. Complicated how?" he added more loudly, looking up.

"Well, for one," Benton said, "Ray's last name is not, in fact, Vecchio."

Harrison froze in mid-pace.

After a second, he asked, "Does he know?"

Benton managed to refrain from sighing. "Yes, he's well aware. It was... an undercover mission," he explained. "That was Ray's specialty. The original Ray Vecchio took another undercover assignment with the Mob, and Ray took his place to ease suspicions."

"But," Harrison said, his hands waving vaguely, "his name is Ray."

"Middle name," Benton said. "His full name is Stanley Ray Kowalski."

"Good," Harrison said. "Well, that's good. Least one of his names was real."

Benton hesitated, looking at him as he paced, but there was a minefield of dangerous emotions there and he did not feel up to tiptoeing through them.

Instead, he steeled himself and continued. "That's irrelevant, however, because Ray and I left Chicago soon after you met--"

"We met," Harrison said.

"--yes, as you say, we met, and he is no longer employed by the Chicago Police Department, or indeed even a U.S. citizen."

Harrison stopped again. "Really?"

"We live in Inuvik," Benton said, and told himself firmly not to blush.

Harrison frowned. "Who the where huh?"

"Inuvik. The Northwest Territories. Canada," he elaborated, when Harrison still looked blank.

"Oh," Harrison said, with great significance. "Oh, yeah, that's legal there, isn't it? So you, you guys...."

He trailed off, fidgeting, and stared down at the carpet, scratching at the back of his head.

"Well," he said after a moment, "this is kinda awkward."

Benton cleared his throat. "Yes, well, anyway, I spoke to Lieutenant Welsh, and he too was unaware of any business Ray might have had here. But some of his undercover records have been sealed. The Lieutenant said he would look into it and call me when he has any information." He paused. "I gave him your number. I hope you don't mind."

"Yeah, no, that's--" Harrison broke off, reaching across Benton to the desk, and Benton caught a faint whiff of alcohol and sour sweat. He edged away as Harrison raised the phone to his ear and listened for a moment.

"'Sfine," he said, replacing the receiver. He gave Benton a wry smile. "Phone bill. Believe it or not, they do not actually pay themselves."

Benton found himself standing, clutching the back of his chair as he rose. "This was a bad idea," he said, smoothing a thumb over his eyebrow. "I shouldn't get you involved--"

"Oh, I get it," Harrison interrupted. He whipped off his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes in a bleary glare. "I'm a fuckin' disaster area who can't even pay his bills on time. No way I'm gonna be useful, right?"

Benton kept his mouth shut, neither confirming nor denying, but he felt the corner of his lips twitch.

Harrison stalked towards him, jabbing a finger in his chest; Benton took a step back at the contact. Harrison was a good six inches shorter than him, but he didn't look like that would slow him down.

"I'm good at what I do, Fraser," he growled. "Not much else, yeah, but this I'm good at. And I'll tell you this much, right now: Even if you do walk outta here, I'll still be involved, 'cause I ain't just walking away from this now. I owe Ve-- Kowalski."

Benton stared down at him with some surprise, as he realized that Harrison was, in fact, deadly serious.

Harrison glowered at him a moment longer; whatever he saw in Benton's face must have mollified him, because he stepped back with a grunt and a satisfied nod. "Why'd you look me up anyway?" he asked, leaning back against the desk. "I mean-- if you weren't hip to my current line of work or nothing."

"I thought...." Benton trailed off.

"You thought he was with me," Harrison finished. He folded his arms across his chest, looking dangerous. "Nice relationship you got."

"I thought," Benton said firmly, "that if he were in trouble, he might have contacted you."

Harrison let his arms drop to his sides. "Oh."

"Also, I can attempt to track Ray, but I am... unacquainted... with the vagaries of this city's more colorful elements."

Harrison cocked his head to the side. "Come again?"

Benton sighed. "I need a guide."

"Oh," Harrison said again, with a quick, sheepish grin. "Right. A guide to the bad guys." He held his hands up, framing an imaginary book. "The Spotter's Guide to Native Lowlifes."

"Yes," Benton agreed cautiously, after a moment of confused silence.

"Well," Harrison said, sliding around the side of the desk with a flourish and flopping back down in the chair, "you came to the right guy."

"Okay," Harrison said, "there's two ways we can do this." He grabbed a pen and an open notebook as he spoke, even though his brain was still stuck on the whole not Vecchio thing, stuttering over the revelation like a scratched CD, trying to make sense of it. Trying to morph his mental image of the guy from Ray Vecchio into Stanley Kowalski and not having much luck.

The whole thing had pretty much blindsided him. Fraser just walking in like that, today of all days-- he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to deal with this.

But Fraser was waiting, so pulled the pen cap off with his teeth and left it there, chewing idly when he wasn't talking around it. "We can try to retrace his movements from the airport, or we can ask around town, find out if anyone's seen 'im. Or we could split up and do both." He paused. "So I guess that'd be three ways."

"Whatever you think best," Fraser said, almost primly.

Harrison sighed and recapped the pen, setting it aside unused; the whole pen-paper thing was mostly for show anyway. "Well, let's start easy. You got a recent picture of him?"

"Of course," Fraser said. He leaned over and unzipped the duffel bag on the floor, rooting around inside.

While he looked, Harrison cast about mentally for possible topics of conversation, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "How's Dief doing? You didn't bring him?"

"He chose to stay with his family," Fraser said, without looking up.

Harrison whistled. "Family?"

"He has fathered three litters since we moved north," Fraser explained.

"Big fella," Harrison said admiringly. "Wolf's done good."

"Here we are," Fraser said, and slid a 4-by-6 photo across the desk.

Harrison picked it up and pursed his lips, studying it. It was a candid shot; Ray's-- Sta-- Kowalski's hair was blowing in his face, his eyes were half-closed, and his mouth was open. His hand was outstretched, as if trying to block the camera from taking the shot. He was wearing several layers of flannel, with a huge, puffy parka on top, and his stubble looked like the beginnings of a real beard. He looked older, but leaner under his clothes, and somehow more relaxed than Harrison had ever seen him-- which, granted, hadn't exactly been under the least stressful of circumstances.

Then he stopped analyzing the picture and just looked, and a dizzy wave of desire swept over him, so abruptly that it was all he could do not to slap the photo face-down on the desk. Instead, he flattened it gently in front of him, ignoring the faint trembling in his fingers and the flush of heat that almost made him forget the cold.

"Looking good," he said, and was pleased when his voice didn't crack.

Fraser didn't acknowledge the statement, just looked at him with a pleasant yet steely expression.

Harrison swallowed.

"We'll try the airport," he said, and stood, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of the chair. "If that's a bust, we'll hit the streets."

Fraser nodded and stood as well.

Harrison turned away, under the pretense of fumbling with his jacket zipper, and closed his eyes for a second. He couldn't do this, couldn't make nice with Ray's lover, husband, whatever-the-fuck, just couldn't deal with any of it. Not today.

The phone rang, and he gratefully seized on the distraction. "Yo," he said, wedging the receiver between his chin and his shoulder and zipping up his jacket the rest of the way.

"Very professional, Harrison," came Meredith's tinny, echoey voice.

Harrison froze. His fingers felt numb.

He should've expected the call. Meredith was a big one for the symbolic gesture. She was always a little less generous when it actually meant something.

"Whaddya want?" he asked finally, when he remembered how to speak.

Meredith's voice was dripped sympathy and concern. "How are you, Harry?"

Harrison pulled the phone away and scowled at it, before returning it to his ear. "Peachy, Merry. Cut to the chase."

"I just wanted to talk," she said, though her voice was regaining some of its customary sharpness. "I'm worried about you."

"Oh! Oh, you're worried," Harrison said, fake-sweetly. "Worried, huh?" He held the phone in front of him again. "Worried in Dublin!" he yelled at it.

He pulled the receiver back just in time to catch the tail end of a long, gusty sigh. "Look, we've been through this, okay? I wanted a change. I'm allowed to do that, you know. It's my life, and you're an adult, and I'm sorry if you feel like I abandoned you or something, but excuse me for wanting to leave when two members of my family have died there!"

Harrison rolled his eyes and made chirping gestures with his hand as she spoke. "You done?"

Another sigh traveled across the Atlantic. "What happened to us, Harry?" Meredith asked, sounding plaintive. "God, it wasn't perfect before, but at least we could talk to each other--"

Harrison gripped the phone, staring blindly down at his desk. "Tru died, that's what happened. Look, I gotta go."

He slammed the phone down, then fell forward a little and braced himself against the desk, trying to calm the urge to punch a hole in the wall-- he couldn't afford the drywalling again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fraser looking at him with undisguised shock and dismay.

"Your sister," Fraser said finally. "Tru."

Harrison didn't look up. "Yeah."

"She's dead?"

A humorless smile twitched at his lips. "Yeah."

"HTD. She's the T."

"You're on a roll, Mountie-man," Harrison told his desk.

"She saved my life," Fraser said. It sounded almost like a question.

"That's the one," Harrison said, and then he slammed his fist down on the desk, hard. "Sucks, don't it?" If he could have chosen between his two sisters....

Which was wrong. It was mean and wrong and evil.

But, as he sucked on his stinging knuckles and led Fraser out of the office without a backward glance, he thought maybe the universe would have agreed.

Harrison's car was a blue classic Ford Mustang. Benton, who had spent several years with Ray Kowalski and thus was not immune to the attraction of classic cars, was impressed despite himself, but he didn't say anything. Harrison's reaction to Ray's photograph was still too fresh in his mind.

Harrison only spoke once the whole way to the airport, when they were stopped in traffic. "You know," he said, staring out the windshield with his elbow propped on the door, "drivin' in this town, I could do without. But driving this car, makes it all worth it."

Benton thought about Ray's GTO, now back with his parents in Arizona, and didn't answer.

Harrison lapsed into silence again. Benton took the opportunity to observe him out of the corner of his eye, studying the juxtaposition of Harrison's oddly delicate profile with the stubborn set of his jaw, and felt a sudden, obscure sense of dj vu.

He had never met the young man's sister; when she had come to Chicago, after Harrison had been shot, Benton had begged off meeting her at the airport with Ray, claiming work to be done, and seething with what he now recognized as resentment and isolation. Fifth-wheel syndrome, Ray called it, once Benton had reminded him that syndrome and symptom were two different words.

He had, incredibly enough, been jealous of Harrison, because Harrison had gotten to Ray first.

But he knew who Tru Davies was, and he knew, in an abstract, intellectual way that he couldn't quite grasp-- but still knew, with bone-deep certainty-- that he owed her his life. The thought that she was gone filled him with an inexplicable sense of loss.

He wondered if Harrison ever saw her ghost, as Benton had with his father, but decided not to ask.

He didn't have much hope for the airport-- anyone who might have seen Ray come in two months ago would surely be gone, or would have forgotten him by now-- but Benton appreciated the necessity of going through the motions. If he couldn't find Ray, he would never forgive himself for not being thorough.

If he couldn't find Ray.

But he would not let that happen. He couldn't.

"Look," Harrison said, leaning closer to the flight attendant, "look, I know it sounds crazy, but could you just take a look? I mean, you never know."

He smiled at her, wishing he'd remembered to shower that morning and hoping she wouldn't notice. But Hello-my-name-is-Jan didn't seem to mind; she tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear and returned the smile.

"All right," she said, and pointed a warning finger at him. "But no promises."

"No problem," Harrison said, and grinned wider. "I'm easy."

He handed her the photo, then shoved his hands in his pocket and rocked back on his heels as she studied it, looking around. Across the hallway in the lounge, Fraser was showing a copy of the photo to another flight attendant, a young black man.

Harrison's eyes traveled past them, watching the bartender as he pulled a pint of Killian's, and he swallowed. He was getting thirsty....

After, he scolded himself. Pay attention.

"Do you know," Jan was saying, "I think I do remember," and Harrison's attention snapped back around to her like a laser sight.

She was smiling at the picture. "Kind of distinctive-looking, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Harrison said, and swallowed again. "He is."

Jan gave him a long, slow head-to-toe look. "Is he your brother or something?"

"Just a friend," Harrison said, and realized with some surprise that she was checking him out. He was usually quicker on the uptake. Had it been that long?

"Anything you can remember," he added, when she didn't seem inclined to continue.

Jan pursed her lips, tapping the photo; her index finger went thwack right on top of Ray's face. "He flew in from Toronto," she said finally. "Nice enough. Had a beer."

"He didn't say where he was going, did he?" Harrison asked, without much hope.

She shook her head. "Sorry, no. He was in a rush, though. Went down the jetway like a bat out of hell."

"Well, thanks anyway," Harrison said, and produced a business card between two fingers; he couldn't get over that, he had business cards now, with his name right on them and everything. "You think of anything else, you call me." He waggled his eyebrows. "Any time."

"Will do," Jan promised with a sly smile, and Harrison smiled back weakly and backed away with a wave.

As soon as she was out of sight, he felt his smile fade, and he slumped back against the wall with a sigh and closed his eyes.

Hello-my-name-is-Jan was smoking hot, and she was a stewardess-- sorry, flight attendant-- and he knew she'd call. Probably the night before she left. And they'd go out, or maybe stay in, and then she'd leave, and a few days or weeks later it'd be the same thing, different girl.

Because Harrison hadn't been in a serious relationship for years, not since Lindsay. He could tell himself he was still pining away for the woman of his dreams, still in London with her husband, Mr. I'm-Irish-and-the-chicks-dig-that, Mr. We've-been-dating-a-week-so-let's-get-married, and honestly, he'd given them six months before Lindsay flew back home in tears, and now it was six years later and Harrison was still getting the occasional "Oh my God I'm so happy" phone call that always drove him out to the nearest bar or poker game as soon as he hung up, where he'd stay till he forgot where he even lived, never mind how his legs worked and were they up to the job of getting him there, and even if the calls usually came around ten in the morning, he figured he deserved it.

He could tell himself that, and usually he did, but he knew it wasn't Lindsay. Or at least, she wasn't responsible for the sudden death of his social life. The blame for that lay with one Ray Vec-- Sta-- whatever the fuck his name was. Ray.

Ray, who Harrison had kissed first, and he would've thought that realizing he was bisexual would've increased the dating pool, not dried it up completely; but there you go, there was the universe laughing at him again. Ray, who'd rocked his world and then just walked away, never mind it was Harrison who did the actual walking, and left him uncomfortably aware of other men in a way he'd never been before. Aware of the way Jack looked at him sometimes, and for the first time he'd put the pieces together and wondered if Jack had convinced him to ditch his dinner date with Lindsay on purpose. Aware that Jack was not, in fact, all that bad-looking, and that was the worst realization of all.

But whatever temptation might have been there, temptation that he'd never, ever acted on, and he was damn proud of that because six years was a long time to go without anything but the occasional one-night stand, that temptation was now long gone.

Gone like Jack was. Dead and gone, like Tru.

Maybe it was a good thing that Fraser was here after all. Took his mind off things.

Soon he'd have to face the anniversary of their mother's death as well. He wasn't sure he'd survive it without Tru. Last year had been bad enough.

Fraser's tentative voice roused him from his thoughts. "Harrison?"

He opened one eye and saw Fraser in front of him, looking concerned.

"I'm good," he said, pushing himself off the wall and running a hand through his hair. "Anything?"

Fraser shook his head. "You?"

"She remembered him," Harrison said. "And wherever he was going, he was gettin' there in a hurry. But that's all she knows."

Fraser sighed and looked around. "That's everyone, then."

"Looks like," Harrison agreed.

"Shall we ask at the taxi stand?"

"Here's the thing," Harrison said. "We got no idea if he took a taxi, or a shuttle, or just hopped the T. We can ask, but it'd be a long shot, 'cause there's no way of knowing which cab drivers were here that day, or even which cabs, and there are, like, a billion different shuttle services, so pretty much we could be here all day and not get squat."

"I see," Fraser said. He didn't look happy.

Harrison sighed. "You wanna check, don't you?"

A muscle in Fraser's jaw twitched. "Can you blame me?"

"No," Harrison admitted. "I can't. So here's the other thing, I'm meeting a guy for lunch. You good to get back to the city on your own?"

"Of course," Fraser said, brightening.

"Cool," Harrison said. "Okay, meet me here in a couple hours." He scribbled the address of the Standard Diner on the back of another business card. "Knock yourself out."

Fraser took the card and slid it in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, and then they just stood there for a second, looking at each other.

"I never," Fraser began, and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, I don't even know how much you charge--"

"Forget it," Harrison said. "It's a favor."

Fraser's jaw set stubbornly, and he started digging in his pockets. "I have money, I assure you."

"Yeah? American?"

"Well, no," he said after a second. "But we are at an airport, I'm sure there's a currency exchange somewhere--"

"Forget it," Harrison said again. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't want your stinkin' Canadian money."

Fraser cocked his head, staring at him.

He sighed. "Joke. Jeez."

"I see," Fraser said.

"So," Harrison said. "Um." He backed away, holding up one hand in an awkward wave. "I gotta-- yeah. Go."

He turned and fled, and felt Fraser watching him all the way across the terminal.

TWO HOURS LATER

Benton got off the train at the wrong stop, and a few minutes in front of the map told him that he was a good twenty blocks away from his destination. He wasn't bothered, however; he had remembered why he hated riding the Chicago subway, and was looking forward to the fresh air.

The walk took him through downtown, past a brick-paved shopping area, and into a square surrounded by administrative buildings. He passed the city hall, the courthouse, and the morgue, and arrived at the Standard Diner feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.

He'd needed the walk. Inquiring at the taxi stand had been fruitless, as Harrison had predicted, and the woman behind the glass at the subway station had been somewhat less than helpful as well. He knew they had just started, but he was already despairing of ever finding Ray.

Benton pushed the door open and stepped inside, scanning for a familiar tousled blond head. For a moment he thought he saw Ray, and he blinked; but it was just Harrison, seated at a back booth with his companion, a short, stocky man with dark hair and a beard.

The other man caught his eye and, as Benton inclined his head, leaned across the table and said something to Harrison. Harrison twisted around in his seat, and Benton thought he saw the young man take a deep breath and brace himself before raising his hand with a smile.

Benton apologized his way through the crowd to the back of the diner, then hesitated at the end of Harrison's table, feeling awkward and once again wishing he had a hat to hold.

"Hey, Fraser," Harrison said, and gestured to his companion. "This is Davis. Davis, Fraser."

"A pleasure," Davis said politely, and slid out of his booth. "I should get back to work."

Benton stepped aside to let him pass.

Harrison slumped down in the booth and waved a dismissive hand in Davis's general direction. "Yeah, yeah. Same time next year?"

Davis hesitated, one hand still on the table. "You don't have to wait that long, you know. If you want to talk...." He trailed off.

Harrison propped an elbow on the table and covered his eyes with his hand. "Davis."

"Yes?"

"Go."

"Going," Davis said. He paused, then nodded at Benton. "Nice meeting you."

He left.

"Siddown," Harrison said, squinting up at Benton from beneath his hand. "Yer givin' me vertigo."

Feeling foolish, Benton sat down across from him and folded his hands on the tabletop. After a moment, he pulled a menu towards him; it had been a long time since breakfast, and all his traveling food was at Harrison's office.

"Told you," Harrison said, watching him.

Benton looked up from his contemplation of a grilled chicken sandwich. "Pardon?"

"Waste of time, talking to the hacks. Told you."

"Well, do you have any ideas?" Benton asked, with a burst of irritation.

"A couple," Harrison said, and gestured to the waitress.

While she took Benton's lunch order, Harrison made a call on his cell phone. He didn't say anything, just punched some buttons and listened. By the time the waitress was gone, he was grinning.

"Your lieutenant called," he explained, and Benton resisted the urge to inform him that Lieutenant Welsh did not, in fact, belong to him.

"Did he say anything?"

"Just to call back," Harrison said, and Benton nodded; if the Lieutenant had classified information, he wouldn't want to leave a recording of it.

"Kinda gruff, isn't he?" Harrison continued. "Like, that crime dog, whatsisname--"

"McGruff?" Benton inquired.

Harrison snapped his fingers. "That's the one."

Benton twisted around, searching in vain for the waitress.

When he turned back, Harrison was leaning forward, shoveling the last of his french fries into his mouth. "Might wanna get your food to go," he said through a mouthful of fried potato. "We'll call from the office." He waggled his cell phone in the air. "Insecure."

"Splendid idea," Benton agreed immediately.

When the waitress brought the check, along with his sandwich in a bag, Harrison patted his jacket pockets, then gave Benton a sheepish look. "Hey, you didn't change any of that Canadian money after all, did you?"

Benton sighed and reached for his wallet.

Lunch with Davis had been... unsettling. It was the first time Harrison had seen him since Tru's funeral; they'd talked on the phone since then, usually when Harrison needed help with a case, but they hadn't spoken face to face.

Unsettling, but also nice, in a weird way. For the first time in a year, Harrison could talk about what Tru had done, what she'd meant to him, and the huge gaping hole she'd left in his life.

So maybe nice was the wrong word. But he felt lighter, somehow. More able to deal with Fraser and the missing Ray.

Fraser wanted to make the phone call, but Harrison wouldn't let him-- it was his case, Fraser had come to him, and he wasn't about to let Fraser cut him out of the loop.

"Really," Fraser said, as Harrison punched in the numbers, "I could just--"

"Not listening," Harrison sang. The phone started to ring.

"Twenty-seventh precinct," an unfamiliar, harried female voice answered.

"Lieutenant Welsh, please," Harrison said, watching Fraser's face as he spoke. Fraser had pronounced it Leftenant, but he figured that was just a Canadian thing.

"Just a moment," the woman said, and he heard a few clicks and then that McGruff voice barked, "Welsh."

Harrison grinned-- the crime dog analogy was looking more and more appropriate. "Hey," he said, still watching Fraser. "This is Harrison Davies. You called about Ray?"

There was a pause, and then Welsh said, "Lemme talk to Constable Fraser."

Harrison bit back a sarcastic retort and hit the speakerphone button, replacing the receiver. "Go for it."

"Constable?" Welsh's voice, filtered through the speaker, was tinny and full of static. Harrison frowned and smacked the phone base, but it didn't seem to help.

Fraser cleared his throat. "Corporal, actually. It's good to hear from you, Lieutenant."

"Likewise," Welsh said, and paused. "Is Davies still listening?"

"You betcha," said the Davies in question. "And anything you tell Fraser, I'm gonna hear anyway."

"This is highly unorthodox, Mr. Davies," Welsh said, after another pause.

Harrison drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. "Yeah, yeah. You wanna find Ray or not?"

Welsh's world-weary sigh turned into a burst of static. "Fine. But if word spreads about this, your ass is mine."

"I assure you, sir," Fraser said, leaning forward with a grim expression, "I won't let that happen."

Harrison caught the steely glint in his eyes and gulped.

"Good man," Welsh said dryly. "Okay. So you were right: A couple years before the Vecchio job, Kowalski spent a few months undercover in Boston."

Fraser nodded, looking neither pleased nor upset. "What was his assignment?"

Welsh cleared his throat, accompanied by another burst of static. He lowered his voice when he spoke. "Kowalski was told to get in good with the O'Toole family, and give the FBI enough dirt to take down Colin O'Toole."

Harrison wasted a split second staring at the phone, wondering if he'd heard right. Then he grabbed the receiver, ignoring Fraser's already-open mouth and his affronted glare, and said, "Say that again. Slow."

"Davies--" Welsh began.

Harrison didn't let him finish. "Colin O'Toole? Colin fucking O'Toole?"

"You know him?" That dry, deadpan tone was back.

"Shit," Harrison said.

"I'll take that as a yes." Welsh paused. "Corporal?"

"Hang on," Harrison said, and hit the speakerphone button again. He felt sick. He needed a drink.

"Corporal," Welsh said, once again tinny and staticky. "You there?"

"Yes sir," Fraser said, still staring at Harrison. "Who is Mr. O'Toole?"

"Sounds like Davies can fill you in," Welsh said, and Harrison felt himself pale. "That's all I got, no details. The Feds weren't exactly forthcoming."

"Is that unusual?"

"Unfortunately," Welsh said, "no. But in this case, I got the impression that the file was still active."

Harrison leaned forward. "Meaning?"

"Meaning his cover was never blown. So I suggest you proceed with extreme caution."

"Colin fucking O'Toole," Harrison muttered. "Damn straight I'll proceed with caution."

"Good to hear," Welsh said. "Anything else?"

Fraser cleared his throat. "No sir. Thank you, sir."

"Oh, any time," Welsh said, and hung up.

Harrison stood slowly, his head still spinning, and Fraser gave him a long, narrow look. "Who is Colin O'Toole, Harrison?"

"He's trouble, that's what," Harrison said over his shoulder as he stepped into the kitchen. "Jesus," he added, grabbing a bottle of Jack from the cabinet and pouring himself a generous shot. "Ray don't do things small, does he?"

"No, he doesn't," Fraser agreed, from closer behind him; Harrison turned and saw the Mountie in the kitchen doorway, watching him with his arms crossed. He frowned at the glass in Harrison's hand. "Is that really necessary?"

"Oh yeah," Harrison said, and drained the glass. He slammed it down on the counter and flashed Fraser a weary smirk, feeling the warmth spread through him, stiffening his resolve.

"Harrison--"

"He's Irish mob," Harrison said, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms over his chest in a mirror of Fraser's pose. "Big time, or he was. Part of the Winter Hill gang back in the '80s, one of Whitey Bulger's enforcers, who tried making a name for himself when Bulger skipped town. Went down for twenty years not too long ago." He felt his lips curl in another smirk. "About seven years ago, in fact."

"So Ray completed his assignment," Fraser said, sounding pleased.

"Fraser," Harrison said, "this is Irish mob. This is serious."

Fraser regarded him mildly, but with a certain hardness behind his blue eyes. "If you don't wish to help me, I'll understand."

"Oh yeah, I bet," Harrison snapped. Anger welled up in him, making him reckless, dangerous. "You're gonna take on the O'Tooles, all by yourself. I'm sure."

"I assure you, I am quite capable--"

"Yeah, and it's got nothing to do with wanting me out of the way, huh?"

Fraser's mouth snapped shut, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. Harrison waited, his body humming with anticipation.

"Whatever you might have had with Ray," Fraser said finally, tightly, "it's over now. The sooner you realize that--"

Harrison laughed, and he didn't recognize his own voice. "No shit, Sherlock, what was your first clue? The five years since we fucked, or all the times you fucked him since then--"

The punch snapped his head to the side. He tasted blood, and spat in the sink.

"Nice," he muttered, and touched his mouth with a wince. The cut on his lip, a souvenir from a cheating husband, had opened up again.

He glanced back; Fraser stood with his head bowed, his fists clenched at his side.

"I apologize," Fraser said stiffly. "I shouldn't-- I shouldn't have done that."

Harrison sighed and turned on the tap, washing spit and blood down the drain. "Shut up. I was askin' for it."

"Just-- don't--" Fraser's voice sounded strangled. "Don't talk about him like--"

"Message received," Harrison said, and spun around. He stalked towards Fraser, and was vaguely gratified when Fraser backed away, through the door and back into the front office. "Irish mob, Fraser. Irish mob."

Fraser set his jaw. "I don't care."

Harrison rolled his eyes.

"Of course you don't," he said, and pushed past Fraser to the wall safe behind his desk.

It took him a while to remember the combination-- he changed it every few months, whenever he remembered-- but eventually it came to him, and he spun the dial and opened the safe.

There wasn't a lot there; just some emergency money, what little information he'd managed to dig up on Jack and his dad, and his gun and his shoulder holster. He strapped on the holster and grabbed the gun, checking the clip. Fully loaded.

He felt Fraser's eyes on him, and turned around and grinned at the Mountie's dubious look.

"Don't worry," he said, "it's legal. Licensed and everything."

Fraser looked uncomfortable. "I do apologize, I just--"

"Nah," Harrison said, slipping it into the holster with a flourish and shrugging on his jacket. "New experience for me too."

"So you're still... involved with this?" Fraser looked like he wasn't sure what to think about that.

"Hell yes," Harrison said. "But I am not going up against the O'Tooles without packin' heat."

"Understood," Fraser said after a moment. He looked like Harrison felt, dizzy and sick.

Harrison slammed the safe shut and spun the dial to the left. Dizzy and sick, yeah, but there was a weird sense of elation there too, an adrenaline rush, like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff and he really, really wanted to jump.

This was big. This was epic.

Tru would've done it without a second thought.

He wouldn't miss this for the world.

Benton sat at one end of the bar and sipped his club soda, keeping a worried eye on Harrison at the other end.

The beer, he'd claimed, was compulsory; he had to make his informant feel comfortable, and he would look suspicious without a drink. Ray had told Benton as much, several times, exasperated with his refusal to order an alcoholic beverage while on duty; It's not like you're throwin' a kegger, he'd insisted, just a couple sips, get the guy relaxed. But then, if Ray's informants never seemed to relax around him, Benton didn't think was because he refrained from imbibing.

But this-- he did a quick mental calculation-- was Harrison's fourth drink of the day that he'd observed, counting the beer Benton had seen him grab on his way out of the airport, and not counting whatever he might have had at lunch, and it was barely three o'clock. And this, Benton felt, was a cause for true concern.

Harrison hadn't said how long it had been since his sister died; Benton supposed it couldn't have been too long ago. Clearly the young man was not dealing with it as well as one might hope.

For the first time, he found himself wondering how he and Ray might help Harrison, once this was over. Once Ray was found.

Not too long ago, it would have been his first thought. When had he stopped putting others' needs above his own?

And then he realized-- when Ray had become one of his needs, the one he would fight the hardest to protect.

Benton felt his mask slipping, and took a long sip to cover as he calmed his nerves. When he set the glass back down, he saw that Harrison was no longer alone.

His companion was tall and dark, with large, watchful eyes; Harrison slid off his bar stool and greeted the man effusively, his grin showing no trace whatever dark thoughts he might have had. He spoke to the dark man in a low voice, and Benton strained his ears, but he couldn't make out the words.

Then the two of them sat down, and Harrison flagged down the bartender and called, "Two more, Lou!"

Five, Benton thought grimly, and took another sip.

Harrison waited until the bartender set the drinks in front of them and left, then took a long, bracing swallow of the fresh beer.

"So," he said, and slammed the glass back down and wiped his mouth, staring straight ahead all the while. "Talk to me."

Beside him, Isaac sipped slowly at his own beer. "Anything in particular?" he asked.

Harrison leaned in but still didn't look at him. "O'Tooles," he said, in a low voice. "Who's in charge now?"

"You gotta ask?" Isaac sounded amused. "You have been goin' straight."

"Toldja," Harrison said smugly.

"That ain't a compliment."

"Ouch," Harrison said.

Isaac sipped again and licked his lips. "Why you wanna know?"

"For my health, Izzy. Why you wanna know my business?"

"'Cause you're makin' it my business."

"Point," Harrison allowed.

"Come on, Harry," Isaac purred. "We both know you suck at keeping secrets."

Harrison swallowed and stared down at the bar, dragging his fingers through the condensation on the scarred wood and trying not to think about what that particular purr did to him. He couldn't even have a drink with an old friend without checking out said old friend's ass. Ray had a lot to answer for.

Stanley fucking Kowalski.

"Favor for a friend," he said finally. "He did some work with them before, might be comin' back into town. I said I'd get him hooked up with the up-and-comers."

"Fair enough," Isaac said, but Harrison knew him and he knew Isaac wasn't satisfied. "Colin's brother Pete took over when he went down. Been running things ever since."

Harrison hesitated, then turned to face Isaac as though the idea had just occurred to him. "Hey, you know someone who could get me in to see him?"

Isaac snorted. "Peter O'Toole? He's a busy man, Harry."

"Yeah," Harrison said, "but, like, a favor. C'mon, man, you know me, we go back, right?"

Isaac sighed and upended his glass, catching the last trails of beer in his glass; he always sipped, never gulped, but he polished off his drinks with surprising speed. He licked a few stray drops from his lips, and Harrison realized he was staring, fascinated, at the tip of Isaac's tongue.

Jesus. This was Isaac. What the hell was wrong with him?

Isaac, who... wasn't all that bad-looking, actually, tall and slender, with smooth dark skin of indeterminate ethnic origin and those dark, calculating eyes....

"--talk to him," Isaac was saying, and Harrison dug his fingernails into his leg and shook his head, forcing himself to start paying attention.

"Sorry, what?"

Isaac gave him an amused, knowing look. "Jim Kerry, I said. He owes me a favor. He does this for you, we'll be even."

"Awesome. Thanks, man," Harrison said, and meant it.

"Harry." Isaac leaned in close, his dark eyes glittering. "Now you owe me a favor."

Harrison blinked rapidly, and felt his face start to overheat.

"Sure," he said quickly, and jumped off the stool, knocking over his empty pint glass in the process. He righted it, and it tipped over in the other direction. He grabbed it and slammed it down on the bar, pressing his hand flat across the top.

"Stay," he ordered it.

"Don't worry," Isaac said, with a wide grin. "I got the tab."

Harrison knew he should protest; he wanted to protest. Unfortunately, he didn't have the money.

"Sure, thanks, bye," he babbled, and fled.

Fraser's hand shot out and grabbed his arm as he passed, halting his hasty retreat to the men's room. "Well?"

"Well what?" Harrison demanded, tugging fruitlessly at his wrist.

Fraser tightened his grip. "Well, what did he say?"

Harrison sighed and held up his free hand in defeat. "He gave me a name, one of O'Toole's guys. Can I please go take a leak now?"

Fraser released his arm immediately; he looked embarrassed. "Of course."

Harrison didn't take a leak. He locked himself in one of the stalls, jerked off, and tried not to think about dark, knowing eyes, or the hard pressure of a hand around his wrist.

Six days out of seven, from noon to closing time, Jim Kerry was bound to be at the track. That was where Harrison had met him, and they'd gotten along well at first.

It was also where Jim had given Harrison a black eye and two cracked ribs for talking him into betting on a dud, or so Jim had claimed, and then they didn't get on so well after that.

But this was about Ray, so he had to put the past behind him and suck it up. Harrison took a deep breath as he and Fraser walked into the betting room and plastered a wide smile on his face, ignoring the twinge of phantom pain in his ribs. "Jimmy!"

Jim looked up from his betting form; his eyes were wary and shrewd. "Harry," he said, after a moment.

"Long time, huh?" Harrison's face was starting to hurt from the grinning.

Jim nodded slowly. "What's up?"

Harrison leaned in and tried not to think about the shiner he still sported in his P.I. license photo, all because of one little misunderstanding; just his luck, it'd happened the night before he went to Kinko's to get the pictures taken. "Isaac sent me," he said, in a low voice. "Can we maybe talk in private?"

Jim just looked at him, and then his gaze slid past Harrison to Fraser, standing a few feet behind him. "Who's your friend?"

"No one important."

"He looks like a cop."

"He's not," Harrison said, which was true at least in that Fraser couldn't actually arrest anyone. He didn't think.

Finally Jim stood. "I'll talk to you. Your friend stays here."

Harrison snorted. "Like hell, Jimmy. You think I don't remember what happened last time?"

"I think you do," Jim said. "Which is why I think your friend stays here."

"Hey," Harrison said, pointing a warning finger at him. "You owe Isaac, remember? The three of us sit down, have a little chat, you're free and clear, and everyone goes home happy. Don't you wanna go home happy?"

Jim gave him another long, measuring look; Harrison smirked. Without taking his eyes off Harrison, Jim raised his voice. "You."

Silence.

"His name's Fraser," Harrison said, with another smirk.

Jim snapped his fingers. "You. Fraser."

Harrison heard Fraser come up behind him and clear his throat. "Benton Fraser, yes. I'm sorry, I was unaware you were addressing me."

Jim turned and stared at Fraser. "This guy for real?"

"Far as I can tell," Harrison said. "We got a deal?"

Jim ignored him. "Fraser," he said again, pronouncing it Frayjer. "You trying to get me alone so you can kick my ass?"

Harrison rolled his eyes.

Fraser blinked. "Ah," he said, and paused. "I can't say the idea has crossed my mind."

"Means no," Harrison said.

Jim's mouth twisted. "Yeah, I got that. Come on," he said abruptly, and turned on his heel.

They followed him into the restroom, where Harrison checked the stalls and Fraser locked the door. Jim leaned against the sink, watching them. After a few seconds, he said, "You guys are makin' me nervous."

Harrison pushed the last stall door open and saw no one. He nodded at Fraser and pulled Ray's photo out of his pocket.

"You know this guy?" he asked.

Jim studied it, eyes narrowing. Then he handed it back to Harrison and pulled a pack of Winstons out of his pocket.

"Sorry, didn't catch that," Harrison said. "Was that a yes or a no?"

Jim lit up and inhaled deeply. When he spoke, his words were accompanied by a plume of pale smoke. "What if I do?"

Yessss, Harrison thought, and glanced at Fraser. The Mountie was standing against the door like a bodyguard; his eyes were wide and hopeful.

"He's a frienda mine," Harrison said, trying to sound casual. "Mine and Fraser's there, from outta town. I hear you're pretty tight with Pete--" wouldn't hurt to butter him up a bit-- "and I thought you might know where he's staying."

Jim inhaled again and blew out a perfect smoke ring. Harrison wrinkled his nose and ducked out of the way.

"Thing is," Jim said, "maybe you're not really pals. Maybe you got a grudge, you're looking to fuck him up. Pete's pretty protective of his friends, and this guy--" He waggled his eyebrows. "He's a friend, right?"

"We have no intention--" Fraser began.

"Fraser," Harrison interrupted, and smiled sweetly at Jim. "Give us a few?"

In response, Jim blew smoke in his face.

Harrison rolled his eyes and grabbed Fraser's arm, pulling him into one of the stalls. In an urgent undertone, Fraser began, "If he's trying to protect Ray--"

"He's not trying to protect squat," Harrison hissed. "He wants money. Gimme a hundred."

Fraser looked taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"He's bargaining," Harrison said. "You wanna haggle, or you want this done? Either way. I'm cool."

Fraser sighed and pulled his money clip out of his pocket. Harrison eyed it; he had not-so-fond memories of that money clip. "I only have sixty dollars American," he said, after a moment.

Harrison poked his head out of the stall. "Hey, Jim. You take Canadian?"

Jim exhaled another plume of smoke. "You get the exchange rate right, yeah."

Harrison frowned. "How the fuck do I know the exchange rate?"

"It's one-point-two-three-four-two," Fraser said behind him.

Harrison and Jim stared at each other.

"I'm not even gonna ask," Harrison said finally, and ducked back inside.

Fraser handed him the sixty bucks, along with forty-eight brightly colored Canadian dollars, and Harrison sniffed them curiously before shoving them in his pocket.

"Okay," he said, dragging Fraser back out of the stall, "let's do some business."

After some debate, Jim agreed on the hundred, and Harrison handed it over. Then, before Jim could pull his hand back, Harrison grabbed his wrist.

"You screw me," Harrison said, meeting his eyes with the blackest glare he could muster, "and I will come calling for payback."

"You wish," Jim said, yanking his wrist out of Harrison's grip.

"I mean it, Kerry."

"Yeah, yeah," Jim said. "I'll see what I can do."

He paused on his way out the door.

"Hey, Harry," he said. "Third race. Flower of Scotland to place."

The door slammed shut behind him.

Harrison turned slowly. Fraser's eyes were like lasers.

"No money," he explained, with an embarrassed shrug.

Fraser pressed his lips together. "Then I suggest we take our leave."

Harrison cast a wistful glance at the odds on his way out the door. Twelve to one; even betting to place, he'd make good money. He opened his mouth, then eyed Fraser's broad back and shut it again.

He didn't think they'd take Canadian money anyway.

They drove back to Harrison's office in silence, and Benton found himself soothed by the smooth purr of the Mustang's engine. Harrison seemed affected as well; his eyelids were drooping, even more than usual, and Benton hoped he wasn't falling asleep at the wheel.

If it were Ray, he would have said something. In fact, if it were anyone else, he would have said something as well; after all, at least 13% of traffic fatalities were caused by tired drivers. But for some reason he was loath to break the silence, and they reached the office without incident after all.

It was Harrison who finally spoke, as he locked the car doors. "Busy day."

"Indeed."

It wasn't until they walked inside, and Harrison asked where Benton was staying, that he realized he had absolutely no idea.

Ray would laugh, he thought. Mr. Preparation, he'd say, Mr. Organized, we got this new thing in America, you might not have heard of 'em, they're called hotels, you give 'em money and you can actually sleep there....

Harrison said, "That expression on your face is tellin' me you didn't put much thought into this."

A reluctant smile tugged at Benton's lips. "However could you tell?"

"Hey, I'm a detective," Harrison said. "I detect." He tossed his jacket across the desk and ambled into the kitchen, flipping on the light, and Benton cocked his head and watched him go.

He was fascinated by the way the young man walked. Every joint swung as though they had been replaced by roller balls, and his movements had a kind of restless, fluid grace that reminded him of the very few times Ray had danced for him. When Harrison spoke, he spoke with his whole body; when he reacted to people, his body carried on a silent conversation without saying a word. His limbs, Benton thought, took the roundabout journey to their destination, yet always seemed to arrive with surprising speed.

He wondered if Harrison knew what his body did, if he deliberately spoke volumes with a single twitch of his lips; or if he was an unwitting exhibitionist, his every emotion writ large across every inch of skin.

He supposed he'd never ask.

"Well, you can stay here," Harrison called from the depths of the refrigerator. "I mean, I don't actually have a couch, but I think I got a lawn chair somewhere."

"All I need are some blankets, thank you."

"Damn." Harrison straightened and slammed the refrigerator door shut. "No more beer."

Benton bit his lip and managed to refrain from comment.

Harrison tilted his head, staring at Benton, and his eyes lit up with an unsettling gleam.

"No," Benton said immediately.

Harrison grinned, flashing a dimple that only served to make his expression more disturbing. "Oh, come on. You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"No," Benton admitted, "but whatever it is, I highly doubt it will end well."

Harrison smirked and emerged from the kitchen, reaching for his jacket and shrugging it on again. "I was just gonna say, you look like a man who could stand to unwind a bit."

"Oh really," Benton said coolly. "And how do you propose I do that?"

"What, I gotta spell everything out for ya?" Harrison punched him lightly in the arm. "Look, we can't do anything else tonight. Either Jim'll call or he won't. And you look like you been waiting a long time to get good and shitfaced."

Benton's first, instinctive reaction was revulsion; he had spent all day watching Harrison sneak the occasional drink, and the last thing he wanted to do was enable the young man's habit. He opened his mouth to say as much, and then closed it again.

Because Harrison had a point, damn him. For two straight months, Benton had been on edge, waiting for Ray to come home and half-expecting the phone call that would tell him how terribly, horribly wrong things had gone. And now he was so close, Ray was in the city somewhere, he was right there, and Benton couldn't find him.

He'd never lost Ray on the tundra, not once. Dangerous terrain all around, vast stretches of nothingness where a man could easily be lost, and somehow he and Ray had always found their way back to each other. His current helplessness stung, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to blot out the pain.

This wasn't healthy, he knew. It wasn't an impulse he ought to indulge.

"You're right," he said, and set his jaw. "I have been waiting a very long time."

He could tell from Harrison's expression that he hadn't expected that.

Well, that made two of them.

THREE HOURS LATER

"Whoa, okay," Harrison said, "step there, I mean, don't step there, 'cause there's a step there--"

"I am perfectly capable," Fraser said, with great dignity, "of walking unaided," and then his foot went one way and the rest of him went the other, and he fell heavily against Harrison and nearly flattened them both to the ground.

Harrison bit back a giggle, because giggling wasn't manly. "Upsy-daisy," he chirped, righting Fraser with a heroic effort. "'Sall right, we're almost there, it's just down the block."

"Vile," Fraser was muttering, "vicious, vile, evil substance, not fit for human consumption...."

Harrison tuned him out, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. He was drunk, he was rip-roaring, shitfaced drunk, and he hadn't meant to be; just a few drinks, just to take the edge off, but then Fraser had started keeping pace with him, and then he'd started keeping pace with Fraser, and somewhere along the line it all spiraled wildly out of control.

Which was why they were stumbling down the street like any two drunk guys at one in the morning, wrapped around each other for balance. Harrison thought about it, and felt a sudden, unexpected rush of affection for Fraser. Good ol' Fraser, with his wolf, and his... boots... and his Mountie-ness... and his getting drunk with Harrison, which in Harrison's book was grounds for a lifelong friendship. He had lots of lifelong friends. He never actually saw any of them, but he thought of them fondly, usually somewhere around his third tequila.

Fraser had been appalled by the tequila. He'd expected as much.

"Harrison," Fraser was saying, "Harrison, Harrison, Harrison," and Harrison blinked and saw that he was just about to walk past his own door.

"Right," he muttered, squinting at the lock. "Right, keys, I got keys somewhere...."

He patted his pockets, and Fraser patted his pockets, and between the two of them they managed to get the keys in the door.

"Voila," Harrison said, stumbling inside and slapping vaguely at the wall. "Home sweet hovel."

The light came on, and Harrison blinked; he'd been feeling for the switch on the wrong side of the door. Fraser stood on the other side, one hand on the light switch, nodding approvingly at the flickering fluorescent lights.

"Much better," he said.

"You're a genius," Harrison said.

"A simple trick of memory," Fraser said, but he looked pleased.

"You're a genius," Harrison repeated, and wove his way unsteadily across the room. "I gotta shake yer hand."

He held out his hand, and Fraser took it and shook with surprising firmness. The contact sent a miniature shock wave through his body, and Harrison gripped Fraser's hand tighter for balance and put his other hand on Fraser's shoulder, also for balance, because he figured he needed as much balance as he could get.

And then Fraser cocked his head and just looked at him, and Harrison felt the fingers around his hand tighten in turn.

Harrison tilted his head quizzically to the side. His pale eyes narrowed. He looked down, where their hands were still joined, and seemed to consider them.

"Huh," he said.

Benton was transfixed.

It had hit him, all at once, like a ton of bricks dropping directly on his head. One second it had just been Harrison, drunk and glowing with it, his face pink and his eyes feverish, and Benton secretly disapproved because he wasn't drunk, he was just a little unsteady, and if the carpet had any ideas to the contrary, well, it had another think coming, no matter how attractive it might have looked to his tired, drained body.

And the next second he had thought, Dear God.

Harrison looked so very much like Ray.

How could he not have seen it before?

He felt Harrison's grip on his hand tighten, and he returned the squeeze automatically, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Ray, he thought, but that wasn't right; but his body, the same one that had been so tired before, was unconvinced. His body saw unruly blond hair, and quick pale eyes, and stubborn, strangely delicate features, lined with time; it felt the wiry strength in the handshake; and it missed Ray terribly.

Benton noted his free hand with curious detachment, wondering why it was reaching for Harrison's face, pushing a stray shock of hair out of his eyes. He felt removed, no longer in control of his movements. His body had reached the end of its tether. It had finally decided to rebel.

Harrison leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. His Adam's apple bobbed.

That was it; that was the last straw. Benton curled his fingers around the back of Harrison's head and pulled him in.

Harrison's lips opened under his, but they didn't move at first; his eyes were closed, and he seemed to be holding his breath. Benton dipped his tongue tentatively between those lips, flicking at the very edge of the wet heat within.

Some distant, never-silent part of his mind was analyzing the taste. Bitter. Salty. Tequila. Beer. Ketchup.

And then it was too much, and Benton was kissing him in earnest, and Harrison's mouth welcomed his, giving back as good as it got. Absurdly, their hands were still joined, and he squeezed his fingers to the same rhythm as his tongue, the steady, thrusting rhythm his unruly, disobedient body so wanted to echo. Harrison's other hand was still on his shoulder, and his fingers were gripping hard enough to leave bruises.

Ray, he thought, I'm sorry, but it wasn't enough to make him pull back, and he hated himself for it.

He was doing that a lot lately.

And then Harrison's cell phone rang.

Harrison didn't hear the phone at first; he was busy being distracted by the tongue in his mouth, the Mountie attached to the tongue, and the intense heat emanating from the Mountie-- heat that made him want to plaster himself against Fraser and just hang on and enjoy the ride. And if the kiss were any indication, it'd be one hell of a roller coaster.

Then his brain caught up with his ears, and it was like his conscience smacking him in the back of his head. He tensed, and felt Fraser freeze against him, their lips still pressed together, motionless.

Harrison opened his eyes reluctantly, and found himself gazing deeply into Fraser's wide blue eyes.

The phone rang again.

They sprang apart as though electrocuted. Somehow Harrison's boots got tangled up with each other, or the carpet, or any of the random crap that might have happened to be scattered on the carpet, and he lost his balance and landed hard on his ass. A second later, the back of his skull hit the floor.

Harrison blinked at the ceiling through automatic tears of pain, and wondered if the bruise on his ass counted as a metaphorical spanking.

"I'm so-- I shouldn't-- you--" Across the room, pressed flat against the wall, Fraser was wide-eyed and babbling. He hadn't gotten out a whole sentence yet, but Harrison figured he already knew the gist of it.

"Save it," he said wearily, squirming as he pulled his jacket out from under him and reached for the pocket without bothering to sit up. The floor was actually kind of comfy, once he stopped wondering when was the last time he'd vacuumed. Did he even own a vacuum?

Did he even know how to work a vacuum?

Fraser had fallen silent. "Thank you," Harrison said, and he looked at the call display and groaned.

He flung one arm over his eyes and flipped open the phone. "Yeah, what?"

"You know, Harry, you're a lot friendlier when you want something," Jim said.

"It's the way of my people," Harrison said. "You got something for me or not?"

Jim didn't answer. Harrison frowned and sat up, suddenly feeling a lot more sober, and not liking it one bit.

"Jimmy," he said. "Talk to me. Where's Ra-- where's my friend?"

He could hear Fraser snap to attention, and he rolled his eyes, feeling a surge of irrational jealousy. The Mountie hadn't been so damn gung-ho two minutes ago.

Well, he had, but not about Ray.

Jim was silent a few more seconds. Then, just before Harrison was forced to try and strangle the phone, he said, "You wanna see your friend, get down to the warehouse on 5th."

For a moment, Harrison forgot how to breathe.

"You know the one," Jim added nastily, and Harrison did know. He knew and stayed the hell away from, because word was that was where the pros went when they didn't want anyone to hear anything.

More often than not, that anything was two bullets in the back of the skull.

"Still there?" Jim sounded amused. "You might wanna hurry, Harry. I don't think he's gonna be there for very long."

Harrison stood, spun, and threw the phone against the wall as hard as he could.

"Harrison."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then another. Then he turned and faced Fraser, and felt his lips twist into a tight, humorless smile.

"We gotta go," he said, and was amazed at the steadiness of his voice. "Like, now."

Fraser nodded grimly. "Understood."

It was the longest drive of Harrison's life.

All the way there, faces kept flashing in front of his eyes. His mother, who Tru couldn't save. Tru, who he couldn't save. Luc, who took the bullet meant for him.

Ray Kowalski was not going to become just another casualty in the life of Harrison Davies.

Luckily, it was late enough that most of the traffic was gone. When he swerved the Mustang onto 5th Street and saw the warehouse ahead, he didn't bother parking; he just pulled over to the curb in flagrant defiance of the yellow paint, threw the car into park, and leapt out onto the street.

He ran for the door, and felt Fraser fall in step beside him, then pull a few steps ahead. He didn't bother to look, keeping his eyes fixed on the door: ten feet away, five--

The door, which was padlocked shut.

Fraser was staring at the lock, his jaw set. He looked up as Harrison stumbled to a stop and doubled over, breathing hard. "Do you have your lockpicks?"

"Screw that," Harrison gasped. He braced one hand on his knee and, with the other, pulled the gun from his holster.

"Ah," Fraser said. "Yes, much better."

Harrison straightened slowly and sucked in a lungful of air. Then he exhaled, raised the gun, and fired.

The lock split apart with a deafening crack.

Fraser kicked open the door and ran inside before Harrison could even re-holster his gun. He rolled his eyes as he did, then winced when his finger got pinched between the metal and the leather.

Sucking on the injured digit, he followed Fraser inside at a more leisurely jog. The blind panic was gone, replaced by a gnawing anxiety. Fraser had gone ahead of him; Fraser would take care of things... if they could be taken care of. But if not....

He turned the corner and froze.

Fraser knelt in the middle of the empty warehouse floor, his head bowed. His back was to Harrison, and he was kneeling over... over....

...a slowly growing puddle of blood.

"No," Harrison heard himself say, "no, no, this is not happening," not again, and his legs started moving again, drawn to the blood despite the sickening dread that had settled in his gut. Ray couldn't be dead. He was shot, he was just injured, he couldn't be dead, except if he weren't Fraser would be doing something, he wouldn't just be sitting there--

His boots stopped at the edge of the puddle, and he forced himself to look down.

Ray's slack face stared up at him with open, glassy eyes.

Harrison didn't remember kneeling, but a second later he was on his knees and warm, sticky blood was soaking through his jeans. He didn't care.

Ray wasn't moving. Ray was always moving.

He was vaguely aware of Fraser standing, with slow, deliberate movements that seemed almost robotic. "We did this," he said, in a low, hoarse, terrible voice.

Harrison felt as though he were under water. It took effort to speak. "What?"

"Our questions," Fraser said with difficulty, "must have aroused suspicion. We--" He broke off with a strangled sound, choking on the words.

Harrison closed his eyes. We did this. The truth of it was like a punch in the stomach.

He'd screwed up. Again.

When he opened his eyes, Ray was still staring at nothing. Harrison stared back. Death had softened the ever-present stress lines around his mouth and eyes, making him look not much older than Harrison. His hair was shorter than it had been in the photo, and bleached again, and now it was matted with blood and pale gray brains.

Harrison reached out, wanting to touch Ray's hair, his mouth, the shadows under his cheekbones. His fingers settled on Ray's eyelids, lowering them carefully over pale dead eyes.

Harry....

"What," he muttered, still staring at Ray.

Harry.

"What!" he snapped, and glared up at Fraser.

Fraser blinked down at him. He seemed to have trouble focusing. "Sorry?"

"You said my name," Harrison said, but even as he spoke he realized Fraser had never called him Harry before.

"I did?" Fraser looked lost.

"Someone had to," Harrison retorted, "and there's--" No one else here, he meant to say, but that wasn't true, was it?

"No way," he said, still staring at Fraser. "No fucking way."

Harry.

Harrison looked down slowly, with equal parts hope and dread.

Ray was still silent, his eyes still closed. Harrison shook his head, disgusted with himself. What had he expected? Tru was the miracle worker, not him.

Ray's eyes flew open. His head snapped to the side.

"Harry," he whispered. "Take 'em down."

And then he was falling backwards, and time peeled away in front of him like layers of skin peeling from his flesh, and the thing that surprised him most, as the images flashed rapid-fire before his eyes, was that it didn't hurt at all.

"How dare this world make me what it wants
When all I dream about is gone?"
--Call Me Alice, "Out of Sight"

TODAY

The first thing Harrison does, when he wakes up this time, is fall out of bed.

He hits the floor with a thud and winces; something hard and unyielding is digging into his ribs. He reaches under himself, into the tangle of sheets still wrapped around his body, and his fingers close over the empty tequila bottle.

The next thing Harrison does is throw up on the floor.

The third thing he does is run into the front office and check the date.

The fourth thing, before he forgets, is to scribble down the winners he saw at the track the day before on the back of an unopened bill.

Then he just stands there, slumped over, his hands bracing himself on the desk, and stares at the list. Something's stinging his eyes, making it impossible to read his own writing, not that it was easy to read to begin with, and he recognizes the slight tightening in his throat with vague horror, because he doesn't, he can't, he won't....

He's crying.

"Fuck," Harrison grinds out through clenched teeth, "fuck, fuck, fuck," and he drives his fist into the top of his desk and then he feels a little better, because his hand hurts like fuck and now he can pretend he's crying from the pain.

He doesn't cry. He never cries. He hasn't cried since....

A year ago. Exactly.

He feels his legs get weak, feels his knees start to give out; and then he's huddled on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his fingers into the carpet. Hot stinging tears make their traitorous way down his face, and they feel like acid on his skin.

Fuck, he thought, dazedly. Fuck this, fuck Ray, fuck Fraser and the way he fucking kissed, and fuck Jim and Izzy and Pete O'Toole, and fuck Jack Harper, and fuck fucking Tru because he can't do this, he is so fucking screwed and he just can't do this. He's no straight-A student, he's no track star, he's no morgue attendant or med school student or hospital intern; he's a dirt-poor P.I. who's teetering on the edge of alcoholism, who never quite kicked that gambling habit, and he can't be a fucking hero.

Because it's a year too goddamn late.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knows, someone's knocking on the front door, and every blow feels like it's rattling inside his skull.

Go away, he tries to yell, but it comes out more like "Glah," and the knocking continues unabated. Harrison flails his hands around without opening his eyes, feeling for something to hold on to. His elbow whacks against the desk chair, and he grabs the back of it and hauls himself slowly to his feet. His eyelids feel glued together, and he has to scrub his eyes furiously before he can open them.

"Go away!" he yells again, more coherently this time.

The knocking stops. And then a familiar voice says, "Harrison?"

The voice is like a bucket of cold water. Fraser.

Harrison stares at the door, wide-eyed, as the events of the past few hours come crashing back down on him. Fraser, Ray, kissing Fraser, think about that later, the warehouse, Ray's voice....

He rewound. He fucking rewound.

"Harrison," Fraser calls again.

The sound jolts him into action. "Yeah, yeah," he yells, "gimme a minute, just," and he spins around frantically and scans the office for incriminating evidence. The whole spinning thing reminds him of something else, and he looks down and yelps a little when he realizes he's still naked. Apparently he forgot to put on pants before he ran into the office and started weeping like a baby.

"If this is a bad time," Fraser begins, and okay, Fraser's voice and being naked is doing weird things to his brain right now.

Harrison shakes his head vigorously, and winces as his head throbs in protest. "No, no," he calls back, "wait, just-- stay there," and he darts into the back room, where he trips over the bedsheets on the floor and hits the floor with another bone-jarring thump.

He groans and rolls over onto his back, closing his eyes. "Can I start again?" he asks the ceiling plaintively.

If anyone's listening, they don't dignify that with an answer.

Biting back another groan, Harrison grabs the kitchen counter and pulls himself upright, then starts digging through the pile of clothes on the floor. He catches a faint whiff of sour vomit and makes a face; great, now he's gonna have to fucking clean that up.

Back here, Fraser's voice is almost inaudible. "Really, I can come back later--"

"Don't fucking move," Harrison yells, grabbing a crumpled pair of jeans. He hops into them on his way back to the office, and stops in front of the door to do up the buttons and make sure everything's tucked away where it should be. Then he takes a deep breath, steels himself, and unlocks the door and yanks it open.

Fraser's eyes widen at the sight of him. "I, ah," he says, and licks his lips. Harrison forces himself not to stare. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"I wish," Harrison says, and drags him inside.

"Was that really necessary?" Fraser asks, as he slams the door shut and locks it again.

Harrison ignores this. "Okay, quick recap," he says, leaning back against the door and folding his arms over his chest, and kind of wishing he'd had time to grab a shirt. He's acutely aware of the lack of heat in the room, and just as aware of Fraser's eyes on him. "Ray's missing, you're worried, you guys are, like, sleeping together, so what the hell was that kiss about?"

Fraser stares at him with narrowed eyes.

"What kiss?" he asks.

Harrison blinks. "What?"

"What kiss?" Fraser repeats, with a dangerous edge to his voice. "And-- how do you know that?"

Harrison frowns and mentally replays his last comment. Then he closes his eyes and covers his face with his hand.

"I can't believe I said that," he mumbles into his palm.

He hears Fraser's duffel bag drop to the floor with a dull thud, and then Fraser's standing very close to him and he really wishes he had a shirt on.

"Harrison," Fraser says quietly. "What's going on?"

Harrison drops his hand to his side and forces himself to meet Fraser's eyes.

"You remember my sister?" he asks. He has to clear his throat before he can continue. "What I said she could do?"

"Of course," Fraser says, staring at him. His eyes are dark and shrewd. "Why?"

"Yeah, well," Harrison says, and lets his head fall back against the door. "This ain't the first time we had this conversation." He pauses. "Though I was wearing more clothes last time. I liked that part better."

"You're saying," Fraser says after a moment, "that today is being... repeated."

Harrison smirks at Fraser and taps a finger against the side of his nose. "Stellar deduction, Corporal."

Fraser looks around. He seems uncomfortable. "So your sister--"

Harrison feels his smile fade. "Isn't here," he says abruptly. "Wasn't her this time, it was me."

"Ah," Fraser says. He pauses. "Is this usual?"

Harrison can't help it; he laughs. It's all just a little too absurd.

"Not hardly," he says, with a grin that's probably not too pleasant to look at. "Yeah, look, obviously, I pretty much just peeled myself off the floor. I gotta--"

He breaks off, mouth open, as the sheer scope of the I gotta hits him like a cinderblock.

He's gotta call Davis. He has to keep Ray from dying. He has to talk to Izzy again, and deal with Jim again, and he has to clean the puke on the floor, and he's gotta do it all with Fraser, who kissed him last night, and what the hell was that, and who doesn't even remember, because it never happened.

And they're going up against the O'Tooles.

"I can't do this, Tru," he hisses under his breath, and feels Fraser's worried eyes on him.

Tru doesn't answer, but he didn't really expect her to.

Harrison takes a deep breath.

"Okay," he says abruptly, and pushes himself off the door. He points at Fraser. "You, sit down and wait."

Fraser makes no move toward the chair. "Wait for what?" he asks.

Harrison smirks.

"I gotta put my face on," he says, and shoves past Fraser into his apartment.

Benton sits stiffly on the metal folding chair, listening to the sound of the shower running and trying to wrap his head around the fact that, in some other reality, he has already been here.

It seems persnickety, he thinks, to quibble about such a small thing when he's already accepted that, in some other other reality, he died once; but there was an epic scale to that, at least, and if he had to accept that someone could turn back time, it made sense that it would be in response to a matter of life and death. But now, it seems, it has happened again, and-- and....

And, why?

Benton's eyes widen, and he stands abruptly. Before he can form a conscious intent, he's through the kitchen and crossing the one-room living area, not unlike the apartment he had in Chicago, before it burned down; and then he's standing outside the bathroom door, turning the knob, and stepping into the billowing clouds of steam.

He can see Harrison's silhouette in the shower stall through the curtain-- head bowed, hands braced against the wall under the showerhead. Benton swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and realizes that this is, in fact, a ridiculously rude and stupid thing to do.

But he has to know.

He clears his throat and says loudly, "Harrison."

"Holy crap!" Harrison yells, spinning around.

The movement causes him to lose his balance on the slick tiles, and he starts to fall; his flailing arms catch at the shower curtain, dragging it down with him, and the shower rod sproings off the wall. Benton watches all this with his mouth open in vague horror, torn between wanting to leap in and help, and wanting to quietly and discreetly slip out of the room.

He settles for a careful, "Are you all right?"

Harrison blinks at him dazedly from the floor of the stall, as the hot spray continues to fall on his head. Benton notes with distant relief that at least the shower curtain is covering... anything that needs to be covered.

"Painful as that was," Harrison says finally, propping himself up on his elbows and squinting through the cascading water, "it's a damn good thing you didn't come in five minutes ago."

Benton feels his face flush. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--"

"No, you shouldn't," Harrison snaps, as he wraps the shower curtain around his waist and stands. "Look, I don't know what passes for, y'know, bathroom etiquette up there in Inukirk--"

"Inuvik," Benton murmurs.

"Yeah, well, my point is, I shouldn't have to lock my own bathroom door when I'm taking a freakin' shower!" Harrison spins the taps furiously, and the water finally cuts off, but not before having flooded the bathroom floor.

He has a perfectly valid point, of course, and Benton sees little benefit in arguing the matter. He simply sets his jaw and asks quietly, "Ray died, didn't he?"

Harrison gives him a sidelong, wary look, and doesn't answer.

Benton sighs and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Was it something we did?"

"You said that yesterday too," Harrison says, after a long pause. "Why're you so keen to take the blame?"

"It's a valid conjecture," Benton says, feeling numb. "Ray left two months ago. If... this... only happened today, the first day I arrived--" He pauses. "Today, or yesterday?"

"I go with yesterday," Harrison says. "Much less people lookin' at you like you're nuts." He clutches the curtain around his waist with his right hand and reaches for the towel rack with his left, and Benton sees a flash of black and white on the inside of his arm-- the tattoo he got with Ray, the ace of spades. It's the first time Benton has seen it, and to his surprise, it looks perfectly natural, as though it belongs there.

Or maybe he shouldn't be surprised. After all, he can't imagine Ray without his tattoo; it's an integral part of his body, as much as his sharklike smile and his unruly hair and the birthmark on the back of his right thigh.

"Dude," Harrison's voice cuts in, and Benton realizes that he's just standing there staring. Harrison is staring back at him, the towel in one hand, still clutching the curtain in the other.

Harrison jerks his head at the door. "You think we can talk about this later, maybe?"

When one has made an utter fool of oneself, Benton thinks, there's really only one way to respond to that.

"Of course," he says mildly, and walks out of the bathroom with his head held high and his back ramrod-straight.

He closes the door behind him, and a moment later, he hears the lock click.

"Jesus," Harrison mutters as he locks the door behind Fraser, shaking his head. He balls up the shower curtain and turns around, pitching it into the shower stall.

Damn it, his ass hurts again from landing on it; he'd thought the rewind would at least get rid of an embarrassing bruise. Harrison tries not to count the injuries he's racked up this morning alone. He figures the number would just depress him.

And that's not even his biggest problem, as he looks down and realizes that, despite having jerked off not five minutes ago, he's hard again.

"You really have a crap sense of timing," Harrison tells his dick. "You know that?"

It remains stubbornly silent and perky, so he sighs, steps back into the shower, kicks the downed curtain rod aside, and turns on the water again.

He really needs to get laid, and soon.

And if his overactive hormones think he needs to get laid with Fraser....

Well, he can't fault their taste, at least.

Not gonna happen, Harry, he thinks, stroking mechanically, not gonna happen with either of them, not gonna happen with both of them-- except, at that last thought, a graphic visual flashes before his closed eyelids, and he feels his toes curl and his back arch, and he can't keep from crying out as he comes.

Harrison stuffs his fist in his mouth, two seconds too late, and bites down hard on his knuckles as he slumps against the wall. Fraser has to have heard that, it seems impossible that he didn't, but maybe he finally caught a clue, because the only sound Harrison hears is the roar of his own blood in his ears.

He wonders if Tru ever had rewind days like this one. No wonder she looked so frazzled all the time.

Harrison turns off the water and steps carefully out of the shower, wary of performing an encore of his earlier gymnastics. He wraps the towel around his waist and pokes his head out the bathroom door, and is relieved to see that his bedroom is empty.

As he gets dressed, he tries not to think about the Mountie in the front office, and especially not about how the Mountie and Ray would look, tangled together on his bed.

He doesn't think the bed would fit three people, anyway.

"Here we are," Harrison says, cutting the engine and drumming his hands lightly on the steering wheel. "At the morgue. Yay."

Benton glances at him. He looks nervous.

"Are you all right?" Benton asks.

"'Course," Harrison says, giving him a strange look. "Why wouldn't I be?" He pauses. "Other than the monster bruise on my ass, I mean. By the way, did I mention that's your fault?"

"Once or twice," Benton allows.

"Good." Harrison unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door. "Long as we got that straight."

He hunches his shoulders as they pass through the doors, and Benton watches him carefully; despite his assurances to the contrary, the young man seems rather discomfited by his surroundings. Of course, that doesn't mean anything in itself. Ray, for one, has always hated the morgue. But he suspects that Harrison's tension has a more specific cause.

Harrison's telephone had rung before they left. He answered with a sing-song, "Hi Meredith, 'bye Meredith,", then hung up without waiting for an answer, and the phone didn't ring again.

"Who was that?" Benton asked, curiosity outweighing decorum. He had already surprised Harrison naked in the shower, after all; he supposed they were beyond niceties now.

"My sister," Harrison said shortly.

Benton frowned. "Not--"

"No, not Tru. My other sister." Harrison paused. "Tru's dead," he said, and declined to elaborate.

Now Benton stares at the stiff set of Harrison's shoulders and, with some effort, refrains from commenting. He suspects that this is the first time he has returned to the morgue since his sister's death.

They descend the stairs to the basement in silence, and Harrison leads him down a long hall to a set of glass-windowed double doors. He hesitates before entering, then visibly steels himself and pushes the door open, striding inside.

"Davis," he says, sounding oddly subdued. "How you doin'?"

Benton follows him into the room, looking around. It's a waiting room of some kind, with various instruments lying around on counters, and a red leather sofa in the middle of the floor. The walls are plastered with diagrams of human anatomy.

Then he glances up as the man Harrison addressed as Davis steps out of an office marked "Staff Only". He's a short, stocky man, with dark hair and a beard, and a white lab coat over his shirt and tie. "Harrison," he says, sounding surprised. "It's not-- I'm not late for lunch, am I?"

"Nah," Harrison says, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. Davis eyes his hand dubiously, and Harrison ignores the look. "Listen, D, we gotta talk."

Davis nods, looking at Benton. "And you are?"

Benton holds out his hand automatically. "Corporal Benton Fraser of the R.C.M.P. I'm, ah," he hesitates, "a friend of Harrison's."

"Okay," Davis says, still staring at him. He wipes his hand on his coat before taking Benton's and shaking it.

Harrison's looking around. "Anyone else here?"

"We're short-staffed at the moment," Davis says glumly.

"Yeah," Harrison says. "Is that a no, then?"

"Yes, Harrison, that's a no," Davis says, with a weary roll of his eyes.

Benton can't stay silent anymore. "I'm sorry, but I still fail to see what we're doing here. If Ray is in some kind of trouble--"

"Yeah, yeah, gettin' there," Harrison says. He takes Davis's elbow and steers him to the sofa; the glum-looking man follows reluctantly. "Siddown, Davis, we gotta talk about Tru."

Davis freezes in mid-sit, staring at him. "Harrison!" he hisses, sliding his eyes meaningfully towards Benton.

"He knows," Harrison says, pushing Davis the rest of the way down. "He's that Fraser. Remember? Five years ago, Chicago?"

"Oh," Davis says, twisting around and looking at Fraser with new interest. "How are you doing? Better?"

"Better than dead, yes," Benton says, and walks around to the other side of the sofa, so that Davis doesn't have to turn to see him.

"Davis," Harrison says, "forget Fraser. We gotta talk."

"So you keep saying," Davis mutters.

"Listen," Harrison says, and perches on the arm of the sofa. He scratches furiously at the back of his head, then leans in a little. "Here's the thing. I, um. I think Tru passed the calling on to me."

Davis stares at him.

"You repeated a day," he says slowly.

"That or it's an acid flashback," Harrison says. He pauses. "Which I only did once, by the way."

"You have the calling."

"Looks like," Harrison agrees.

Davis closes his eyes and scrubs his hand across his face.

"We're doomed," he says mournfully.

Davis always suspected the universe had a cruel sense of humor. Now he knows for sure. Harrison Davies as the appointed guardian of fate?

He would almost laugh, if it didn't make him want to cry.

It's not that he doesn't like Harrison. Well... not really. He's just seen how often Tru wasted valuable time on her repeat days trying to bail her younger brother out of one jam after another. Harrison can't be the savior; he's the charity case.

He doesn't dislike Harrison, anyway. Otherwise he wouldn't have agreed to meet for lunch. Except that he almost didn't, because every time they spoke Davis got the distinct impression that Harrison was deliberately needling him, so when he called a week ago and suggested the anniversary-of-death lunch, his first thought was that it was just more of the same.

"Oh, come on," Harrison wheedled, when Davis muttered something about being behind in his paperwork. "It's, like, a Davies family tradition. We celebrate our feelings of loss and abandonment with burgers and pie."

"Yes, but I'm not a Davies," Davis pointed out. "One letter off, I know, but--"

"Yeah, but you're the closest I got, right? Meredith's off tilling the potato fields or whatever, Dad's who the fuck knows where and fuck him, and everyone else is kind of dead right now." He paused. "Besides, you and me, we're the only ones who knew her. Really knew her, I mean."

"I thought Meredith was a lawyer," Davis said, baffled.

"So not the point," Harrison said.

And so he said yes to the lunch, and found with some surprise that he was looking forward to it.

Now, however, he's finding it hard to remember why, because Harrison is irritating the hell out of him.

"Hey, D," Harrison says, snapping his fingers in front of Davis's nose. Davis scowls. "Lucky Penny, Fingers of Dawn-- you gettin' this?"

Davis sets his pen aside and folds his hands deliberately over his notepad, the top page still fresh and pristine. "Harrison, when I asked you to describe yesterday's events, I didn't actually mean the events at the track."

"Well, yeah," Harrison says, unperturbed. "But I left my list at home, and I gotta get this down before I forget everything."

Davis thinks wistfully of Tru's near-eidetic memory. "If your recall is spotty," he says reprovingly, "maybe we could start with the important things."

"You'd think this was important if you'd seen my last bank statement!"

"Harrison," the Mountie says.

Harrison slumps down in his chair with a sigh. "Yeah, yeah."

Davis eyes the Mountie with interest. Even in jeans and a flannel shirt, he's like Dudley Do-Right come to life, with a Ken doll face under thick, glossy dark hair-- exactly the kind of guy Davis instinctively hates, except there's something oddly self-conscious about Benton Fraser that suggests he's not exactly comfortable with the effect his face has on people. He hasn't said much since he arrived, but Davis suspects it would be a mistake to dismiss him. He's taking in everything with wide, alert eyes, and Davis can almost see the wheels turning in his brain.

"Well?" Fraser prompts Harrison.

And that's another thing, the way Harrison actually listens to the guy, seems almost to defer to him. The only person Harrison ever deferred to was Tru. But at the Mountie's prodding, he sighs and leans forward.

"All right," he says. "Ray did this undercover gig a few years back with the O'Toole family."

He pauses, and Davis blinks at him. "Sorry, who?"

Harrison rolls his eyes. "Seriously, what is wrong with you people? Colin O'Toole! Irish wiseguys!" He pauses again, then remarks to the room in general, "Ever notice how Irish things tend to fuck up my life? I think I'm gonna boycott."

"Okay," Davis says dubiously, and writes O'Toole --> Irish boycott on his notepad. Then he blinks, crosses out boycott, and writes mob instead.

Harrison sighs again. "Okay, a little background for the remedial students in the room." He waves his hands as he speaks, for emphasis. "Irish mob and Mafia in this town, they go way back. Turf wars, Southie versus North End, et cetera. The Italians got the upper hand for a while, had the Irish guys basically working for 'em. Then about thirty years ago, here comes Whitey Bulger and the Winter Hill gang, takin' over things. With me so far?"

"Mostly," Davis admits, scribbling furiously.

Harrison nods; apparently mostly is good enough for him. "Right, well, Bulger had FBI guys on his side, feeding him information. Big honkin' scandal-type thing. Colin O'Toole's one of his right-hand guys, running his own little band of thugs. Then in '95, Bulger's about to be indicted, he skips town, and the whole thing pretty much falls apart. Boss is gone, everyone's running around with their heads cut off, a few factions try making names for themselves, and some of 'em are better at it than others. O'Toole was one of the best."

He pauses.

"Then," he continues, when no ones says anything, "comes Ray. It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Super Undercover Cop. Seven years ago, he comes in, makes nice with O'Toole, he's there for a couple months and then Colin goes down for homicide, and I'm thinking that's not just a coincidence. So Colin's gone, baby brother Pete takes over, job's done, everything's hunky-dory, right? Only now Ray's back, and from what I hear, he's Pete's new best friend."

"Obviously," Davis says, "if O'Toole killed him, something changed."

"We started asking questions," Fraser says flatly. "He learned Ray's true identity."

"Maybe, maybe," Harrison says, waving his hands enthusiastically. "We don't know, right? Could be anything happened."

Davis begins doubtfully, "Really, the most likely scenario, statistically speaking--"

"Statistics, schamistics," Harrison retorts, then frowns. "Schma-- schmadist-- my elbow. We can't rule anything out, right? Ray's gotta do everything different," he finishes triumphantly, and Davis thinks he can hear an echo of Tru in that last sentence.

Fraser nods decisively. "So let's find Ray."

"Oh, sure," Harrison says. "You put a Lo-jack on him?"

"He has a point," Davis says. "You said you spoke to a friend yesterday who had connections to these people."

"I wouldn't say friend," Harrison says, looking a little green.

Davis lays his pen down and sits back in his chair. "Oh, well, okay. Obviously, if we're talking semantics, we shouldn't try to save your friend's life after all."

"Sarcasm is not a good look for you," Harrison tells him severely.

In response, Davis pushes his phone across the desk.

Harrison rolls his eyes and heaves a huge sigh. "Yeah, right," he says, and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket.

Davis observes silently as Harrison dials, noting the nervous twitch in his fingers and the tic under his left eye. When Harrison raises the phone to his ear, he slouches even further down into the chair, until Davis half-expects him to slide right off.

"Izzy!" His voice is too bright, too cheerful. "Yeah, it's-- yeah, it's me. Um, I hate to come right out and ask, but I need a favor."

He listens for a few seconds, giving Davis a sickly grin. Then he says, "I need you to call in a marker with Jim Kerry." He pauses. "Yeah-- yeah, I know I'll owe you, but this is important."

After another silence, he lowers his voice, shooting Davis an uneasy look. "Saturday night?"

Davis frowns at Fraser. Fraser just cocks his head and does this weird kind of facial shrug thing.

"I'll be there," Harrison says, and his voice cracks a little on the last word.

He flips the phone shut and slips it back into his pocket, studiously avoiding Davis's stare.

Davis has to ask. "Did you just pimp yourself out for information?"

"No," Harrison says indignantly, sitting up straighter. He squirms a little in his seat, still refusing to meet Davis's eyes. "I'm just gonna, I'm just helping out a friend, is all."

Fraser's eyes narrow. "Helping out how, exactly?"

"Well, that," Harrison says, "is none of your business, and you guys were the ones talking semantics, so zip it."

Davis frowns again. Harrison's right, of course, but it still doesn't sit well with him.

"So!" Harrison says brightly, slapping the arms of his chair and rocking to his feet. "Who's ready to play the ponies, huh? Don't worry," he adds with a grin, as Davis opens his mouth to protest, "it's work-related." He paused. "Hey, do I get an expense account?"

"From whom?" Davis counters.

Harrison rubs the back of his neck. "You got a point there."

Fraser stands and gives Davis a cordial nod. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"Likewise," Davis says automatically.

"Aw," Harrison says. "What a Hallmark moment. Come on, we don't got all day."

Davis watches them leave. Then he looks at his watch and starts silently counting down the seconds. Ten, nine, eight, seven--

The door opens again, and Harrison's head pokes back in. "Davis--"

"Lucky Penny," Davis says wearily, "and Fingers of Dawn."

"Sweet," Harrison says, and ducks out again.

The sign outside the racetrack's betting parlor proclaims it to simply be "The Track", and Benton has to admire their dedication to truth in advertising, if not necessarily their originality. He thinks about saying as much, but Harrison doesn't seem likely to pay attention; he's storming through the door, moving like a small but deadly jungle cat stalking its prey, and Benton catches the door before it slams shut behind him and follows at a more sedate pace.

Whoever he's after has to wait, however, as Harrison stops at the counter and fills out a betting slip. He hands over two crumpled twenties and takes the slip, and only then does he make a beeline for a tall, lanky man with thinning blond hair, who's watching the current race on one of the television screens.

The blond man sees him coming and takes a wary step back. "Harry--" he begins.

Harrison grabs him by the collar and slams him back against the wall. Benton purses his lips thoughtfully and wonders how far he should let this go.

A woman materializes beside him, well-dressed and severe-looking, with her hair pulled tightly back from her face. "Is there a problem here?" she asks, looking like she would very much like the answer to be no.

Benton obliges. "Certainly not. Just a minor dispute."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't look convinced.

"You listen to me, you piece of shit," Harrison is snarling. "You owe Isaac and I'm callin' it in. You tell me where I can find Peter O'Toole's new right-hand man, and maybe I don't put your head through the freaking window."

Check it out, Ray's voice whispers in Benton's ear. The kid's learned from the best.

Benton turns slowly, dreading what he'll see; but to his relief, the only person standing next to him is the woman with the bun. It was simply a hallucination of memory, not an actual ghost.

He has learned not to take these things for granted.

"I assure you," Benton says, turning back to the altercation, "we have the situation completely in hand."

"Five minutes," the woman says. "Then I'm calling security."

"Fair enough," Benton says, and she walks away.

Unfortunately, the blond man in Harrison's grip seems less than impressed by his threats. He rolls his eyes and grabs one of Harrison's hands, prying the fingers from his collar and bending them backwards at an alarming angle. Harrison's mouth opens in a silent yelp and his knees start to buckle, but he doesn't let go.

This far, then, and no more.

"Excuse me," Benton says pleasantly, and steps forward. He closes his hand over the blond man's, and then it's the three of them holding hands in a bizarre parody of affection-- Harrison still doggedly holding on to his captive, the man in question gripping his hand in turn, and Benton's fingers wrapping around them both.

He keeps his voice mild. "If you could just answer the young man's question?"

"Fraser," Harrison hisses out of the side of his mouth, "I got this."

"I can see that," Benton says dryly. He keeps his eyes on the blond man's face. "Well?"

The man sneers at him. "What's this, Harry, you got a cop doin' your dirty work?"

"Oh, Fraser ain't a cop, Jim," Harrison says, with relish. "You wish he was a cop, so he couldn't squash you like a bug."

Benton opens his mouth to set the record straight, then closes it again. It won't hurt for this Jim to labor briefly under a misapprehension.

"As I see it," he says instead, "this is a simple matter of reciprocity. Harrison will appropriate your debt to your friend Isaac, in exchange for information now." He deliberately releases the clasped hands in front of him and lets his arm fall to his side.

Jim gives him a long, slow look-- sizing him up, Benton think. Then he lets go of Harrison and raises his hands in surrender.

"Excellent choice," Benton says, pleased.

Harrison flashes Jim a sarcastic smile, massaging his fingers. "Thank you, that's nice. So where?"

Jim cocks his head to the side and straightens his jacket with a faint smirk. "Try Bagwell's place. There's a game on."

"Really?" Harrison's eyes light up.

Jim snorts. "Yeah, with a five grand buy-in. Good luck with that."

"Foiled again," Harrison mutters to Benton.

"It's for the best," Benton assures him.

Jim grabs his arm as he turns to leave. "You and me, we're even now, right?"

"Not even close," Harrison snaps, yanking his arm free. "You an' Isaac are even. I'm still pissed."

"You gotta learn to let go of things, Harry. Grudges ain't good for your health."

In response, Harrison just points a warning finger at him as he backs toward the door. He does, however, remember to stop at the counter and collect his winnings on the way.

"Thank you kindly," Benton tells Jim. He nods at the well-dressed woman, then follows Harrison outside to the car.

"I assume he means a card game of some kind," he adds, once he is safely ensconced in the passenger seat, with his seatbelt buckled.

"Yeah," Harrison says mournfully, as he starts the car. "Five grand. Just a little out of my league." He shakes his head. "Damn, if I coulda put more on Fingers of Dawn-- I was just lucky I scrounged as much cash as I did."

Benton hesitates, trying to decide how to frame the question. "Far be it from me to pry," he says finally, "but you appeared to harbor a certain animosity toward that man inside."

"Correction," Harrison says, pulling into traffic. "I wanted to kick his ass. You're allowed to use grown-up words, you know."

"I did use 'grown-up' words," Benton says, miffed.

"And there's your first mistake."

Benton thinks this is just his way of deflecting the question, and doesn't respond. A few minutes later, Harrison sighs.

"Jim's the only one who knew we were looking for Ray," he says. "Yesterday, I mean. If, and that's an if, that's why he was killed--"

He breaks off, and Benton nods slowly. "Then this Jim must have tipped them off."

"Ergo," Harrison says, "animosity."

Benton stares out the window, suddenly wishing that he hadn't been quite so polite to the man.

Bagwell's is a nondescript bar in Southie, owned by Lionel Bagwell himself, and favored watering hole of people in O'Toole's circle. Harrison isn't in that circle, isn't even in orbit of that circle, but he's met Bags once or twice, enough so he thinks he can talk his way inside.

Fraser's having none of it. "It's an unnecessary risk. We'll wait here until Ray emerges."

"And what if whatever got him killed is happening right now?" Harrison retorts. "All we know, he coulda pissed someone off by taking their money, or borrowed too much and lost it."

Fraser gives him a narrow-eyed look.

"Not that I ever did any of those things," Harrison adds.

Fraser nods thoughtfully. "And the black eye and the split lip?"

He grins. "Cheating husband. Was not in the mood for a photo shoot."

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

"Hey," Harrison says, "ask me about the bruise on my ass sometime."

Fraser sighs. "I said I was sorry."

"And now I get to bitch about it. Deal." He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. "I'm going in."

"Harrison--" Fraser grabs at him, fruitlessly.

He gets out, then pokes his head back in the car. "Go inside, check out the men's room. If Ray's there, I'll have him meet you there."

"This is not a good idea," Fraser warns him. His voice is taking on a harder, sarcastic edge that Harrison doesn't think he's ever heard before.

"So stay here and wait," Harrison says, "and I'll go make some quick cash."

"With what money?"

"Money," Harrison scoffs. He winks. "I don't need money. I got connections."

Fraser mutters something under his breath and gets out of the car. He doesn't look happy.

"See?" Harrison says cheerfully. "Teamwork."

"You know," Fraser says crossly, "you really are a lot like Ray."

Harrison's smile fades as he watches Fraser cross the street. The kiss, which he's been doing such a stellar job of repressing, now slams full-force to the forefront of his memory, and he feels an instinctive surge of heat somewhere below his belly.

Get a grip, he orders himself, and jogs across the street after Fraser. Because that just made it blindingly obvious, didn't it? Fraser's not actually attracted to him; he just reminds Fraser of Ray, and that was all it had been. He's flattered by the comparison, of course, not that he'd ever admit it, but it's still kind of depressing.

Which it shouldn't be. It should be a relief.

He shakes his head as he slows to a walk. I'm hopeless.

Fraser's already gone in; he waits around outside for a few minutes, so no one will think they're together and get suspicious. There's a guy smoking across the street, leaning against a chain-link fence and watching him, and Harrison thinks about asking to bum a cigarette, just so he doesn't look conspicuous, but he figures there's only so far he can go in the pursuit of duty. Instead he glances at his watch a few times, making like he's waiting for somebody, and then he shakes his head and mutters disgustedly to himself and goes inside.

Bags is behind the bar as usual, cleaning glasses; Fraser's nowhere in sight. Harrison leans across the bar and grins. "Hey, Bags. Remember me?"

"Buy-in's five grand," Bags says without looking up.

Harrison struggles to hold on to his grin. "Come on, man, you know me. I'm good for it."

Bags sighs and sets the glass aside. "Harrison--"

"Look," he says, pulling his roll of winnings out of his pocket. "Look, I'm on a roll today, right? I can't cover the entry fee, but just get me in there and I'll do the rest."

Bags gives him a slow, assessing look.

Harrison bites his lip, tasting imminent victory-- so close, and still so far. "Listen," he says, thinking fast, "I got a new source at the track, he's feeding me info about the ponies. You spot me, maybe I can pass that information on."

"Really," Bags says. His eyes take on a calculating gleam. "Reliable source?"

Harrison slaps his hand down on his stack of bills. "How do you think I got all this?"

Bags nods slowly, staring at the pile of money.

Harrison grins and tucks the cash back into his jacket. "Come on. Whaddya say?"

Bags looks at him a moment longer, then tosses his dishrag onto the counter.

"Come on," he says, turning and walking out from behind the bar.

Harrison follows with another grin and a distinct bounce to his step.

Bags opens the door of the back room and slips inside, closing it behind him. Harrison waits, tapping his foot impatiently, and resists the urge to press his ear against the door. A couple minutes later, the door opens again and Bags beckons him inside.

He steps into a cloud of cigarette smoke and manages not to cough.

"This is Harrison," Bags says. "He's playin' with house money."

"Yo," Harrison says, waving.

The six men around the poker table stare at him in silence, and he takes the opportunity to squint through the smoke and study them back. There's Lou, there's-- oh crap, that's Paulie, there's a couple guys he doesn't recognize, and that guy, there, with the dark hair and the pale, narrow eyes, that has to be Peter O'Toole. And sitting next to him with a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, watching Harrison with a face like cut granite...

...is Ray.

Harrison smirks at him. "So who's ready to play some poker?"

Ray thinks maybe he just had a little heart attack.

One minute he's just sitting there, with a straight in one hand and a smoke in the other, and he hasn't even thought about being Ray Kowalski for two months now, never mind anyone Ray Kowalski used to know; and the next, Harrison fucking Davies walks through the door.

He doesn't think he reacts, takes a long drag to cover just in case, but his mind's working so fast he can barely see. It can't be a coincidence-- he knows Harrison doesn't travel in these circles, made a point of checking, back when he first arrived, because running into anybody he knew would be a bad thing. No, Harrison tracked him down for some specific reason, and the victorious grin that spreads across his face when his eyes light on Ray both confirms his hypothesis and makes him want to punch the kid in the head.

This could all go so very, very wrong.

The bartender leaves again, and Harrison gives the guy a friendly smack on the shoulder as he passes, and if Ray really were the Neil McKenna he's pretending to be, he'd be marking Lionel Bagwell down on his hit list right about now.

Harrison pulls up a chair and flops down, sprawling wide-legged. Ray thinks if he gets any more pleased with himself they'll have to surgically remove his tongue from his own ass. "Deal me in," he says, rubbing his hands together.

Pete leans back in his own chair, exhales a cloud of smoke, and squints at him. "Do I know you?"

Bad move, Harry, Ray thinks.

Harrison opens his mouth.

"I do," Paulie growls, before he can say anything.

Harrison pales, and Ray resists the urge to roll his eyes. This is a whole new world of trouble, right here. This can't be covered with just an eye-roll. This is a good ten-minute freak-out at least.

When Harrison speaks, his voice is even enough. "Hey, man, that was a long time ago, and I kept my end of the deal. We got no quarrel."

Paulie glowers at him, and Pete leans forward and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. "If we're done playing catch-up, does anybody want to deal?"

Ray stares daggers at Harrison, but for the first few hands, he behaves himself; keeps his mouth shut, rakes in a respectable pile of chips, enough so he's usually up but not enough to piss anybody off. Ray's just starting to relax when it's Harrison's turn to deal.

"Anyone wanna hit the can first?" he asks, glancing around the table as he shuffles.

"No," Billy says flatly.

Ray thinks maybe Harrison's eyes linger a little bit longer on him, and he feels a sudden thrill of anticipation. This is it, then; this is why Harrison's here.

He stubs out his cigarette and pushes his chair back, standing. "I do. Don't bother dealin' me in."

The whole time he's walking for the door, he expects somebody to stop him. Nobody does. Harrison doesn't even look at him as he passes.

The restrooms are in the same hallway that leads to the back room. Ray stops outside the men's room and takes a deep breath, bracing himself. Then he pushes the door open.

He's not sure what he expects to find waiting him, but he damn well doesn't expect it to be Ben.

And yet there he is, leaning against the row of sinks and watching the door, his usual bland mask replaced with a look of naked hope.

Ray feels something lurch free in his chest, and then he's crossing the bathroom in two wide strides, closing the distance between them so fast it makes him dizzy. Ben stares at him, the hope gradually giving way to a broad, relieved grin.

"Ray," he begins, and Ray grabs his head and shuts him up with a kiss.

He doesn't know how long it lasts, would gladly have kept his eyes shut and kept going, but oxygen soon becomes an issue and he pulls back reluctantly, gasping for air. Ben's eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed-looking, and he's never looked better to Ray than he does now.

Ray licks his lips; when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. "You never learn, do you, Ben?"

"Probably not," Ben agrees, just as roughly. "Learn what, exactly?"

Ray lets his hands drop to Ben's shoulders, and buries his face in the crook of Ben's neck. "Vecchio," he says, his voice muffled. "Hotel room. You called him Ray too."

"Ah." He feels Ben rest a cheek against his head, imagines Ben closing his eyes. "I do apologize."

"Damn straight ya do." Ray doesn't raise his head. "Neil McKenna. Nice to meet you."

"And you," Ben says, after a moment.

Ray takes a deep breath, smells sweat and clean air and something painfully, heartbreakingly Ben, then takes another deep breath and steps back. The loss of contact hurts, but it's necessary.

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. Ben watches him with dark, lust-filled eyes.

God. He can't think like this.

But he has to, so he leans back against one of the empty stalls and folds his arms over his chest. There are too many questions running through his head to pick just one, and he settles for the catch-all, "So what's up?"

Ben tells him.

It takes an effort of superhuman restraint, but he manages not to break the mirror.

In fact, he barely gets the chance to begin, "What the fuck," when the yelling starts in the back room.

Ray and Ben exchange a grim look. "Harrison," they say in unison.

Ben starts for the door, but Ray stops him with a hand on his arm. "Hey, whoa, wait! You're not even supposed to be here, remember?"

Ben stops. He's vibrating under Ray's hand, and it's making it hard to concentrate.

"Go," he says finally, with a nod, and Ray's out the door like a shot.

Harrison has no idea what happened. One second he was drawing a card, and the next, Paulie's pinning him back against the table with a hand around his throat.

He lets out an undignified yelp, and Paulie grabs at the front of his jacket, trying to yank it off. He squirms, feeling poker chips dig into his back, and across the table Pete drawls, "What the fuck, Paulie?"

"This prick is cheating," Paulie growls.

"I am not!" Harrison says, affronted. He's innocent for once, and the heady rush of indignation loosens his tongue. "What am I, stupid? You think I'm gonna cheat in this room?"

Paulie's still tugging at his jacket. "He's got an ace, I saw it--"

Harrison rolls his eyes. "It's a tattoo, you moron. Look, I'll show you." He pushes at Paulie's arm, and Paulie steps back reluctantly and lets him up, still glowering.

Harrison shrugs off his jacket and turns out his arm, showing off the exposed skin below his sleeve. "See?" He turns around, showing it around the table, and sees Ray in the doorway, watching and looking amused despite himself. "See? No cards. Just ink."

"Sit the fuck down, Paulie," Ray says, and smacks Paulie on the back of his head as he squeezes past to his seat. He lights another cigarette, and Harrison stares; he didn't think Ray smoked. "One more hand and I'm out," he says around the filter. "I got shit to do."

"Me too," Harrison announces to no one in particular, and sits down with a huff. "I'm not playin' with guys who think I cheat."

Paulie snorts. Pete doesn't even look at him; he's staring at Ray. "Neil?" he asks, in a low voice.

Ray leans over and whispers something in Pete's ear, and Harrison tries not to look like he's watching too closely.

He loses two thousand bucks in the next hand, leaving him only fifty dollars up, and is surprised to realize he really doesn't care.

He found Ray, and he's getting Ray out of there, and that's good enough for him.

Maybe he can do this thing after all.

Harrison leaves first, squeezing past Pete and Ray on his way to the door and apologizing as he jostles Pete's arm. Pete just ignores him, like he's some kind of bug that's not quite annoying enough to swat, and that right there is one of the reasons Ray kind of likes Pete.

Harrison also taps Ray meaningfully on the shoulder as he passes, and Ray twitches and tells himself not to throttle the kid. Yet.

When he leaves, Ben's waiting outside, across the street. Ben doesn't say anything, or even look at Ray; he just turns and starts walking away, and Ray follows him like they rehearsed it. He hangs a couple blocks back, on the opposite side of the street, and the walk takes forever but of course Ben wouldn't be breathing hard, and after a few years of living on the tundra Ray's really not either.

Maybe half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes later, after the streets have changed, gotten richer and then poorer again, Ben stops in front of a door and knocks. Ray doesn't wait to watch him go in, just walks on past and back around the block, and when he's satisfied he's alone, he saunters up to the same door and raps sharply against it.

It's a detective agency, which he did not expect. HTD INVESTIGATIONS, the sign claims, and Ray's got more than an inkling of who those initials belong to, as well as some strong ideas about what he's going to do to their owner when he sees him.

And just like that, the door opens, and Harrison Davies is grinning at him, like some sort of genie or demon or something that's summoned by a thought.

Well, Harrison always did kind of remind him of a bad fairy.

Before Harrison can even open his mouth, Ray grabs the front of his shirt and balls it up in his fists, marching the kid backwards into the room. Harrison grips Ray's wrists and makes placating noises, but Ray ignores him and keeps going till his back is against the wall.

"Hi, Harry," he says, and smiles.

Judging from Harrison's expression, it's not a very nice smile.

"Ray," Harrison squeaks. He digs his fingers in tighter. "You're alive! Look at you!"

"I'm alive?" Ray repeats, incredulous. "You're the one who just walked into a five-K poker game with five major players in organized crime, you just seriously compromised my cover, and oh yeah-- playing with house money, you dumb fuck?" He shakes Harrison a little, manages at the last second to hold himself back so it's more like a vigorous nudge; he's so pissed he can hardly see straight, and he recognizes this blind rage, knows how easy it can get out of control. "I'm alive? You're alive, and wouldn't Darwin be fucking proud!"

Harrison stares up at him, wide-eyed. Ray bares his teeth. He realizes he's breathing hard, and suddenly he can't help remembering what happened the last time he and Harrison stood this close.

The kid's eyelids start to droop, languid and seductive, and his nostrils flare. Clearly he's feeling the hormones too.

Damn. Those are some serious bedroom eyes.

He catches himself staring at the old cut on Harrison's lip, wondering what it would taste like, and he jumps like he's been scalded and lets go, taking a quick step back.

Harrison rubs slowly at his throat, still watching Ray with that heavy-lidded gaze. It has to be unintentional; no way would he be that blatant on purpose.

Ray thinks.

"Ray!" Ben's voice jerks him back to reality, or what passes for reality in Ray's universe, and he takes a deep breath. "You made it!"

"Yeah, Ben," he says, still staring at Harrison. It can't be on purpose. "I made it."

Harrison averts his eyes, suddenly fascinated by the carpet. His hand slides around to the back of his neck.

"I got... stuff," he says. "You guys catch up. I'll, uh, be back later."

He beats a hasty retreat and locks the door behind him.

Slowly Ray raises his head, looking at Ben, and oh. His eyes-- dark and hungry, staring at him, and one kiss in the men's room at Bagwell's was not nearly enough.

Ben clears his throat. "How, ah, how long can you stay away?"

"Couple hours," Ray says, staring back so hard he's practically vibrating with it.

"We should talk," Ben says, after a silence.

"Yeah," Ray says. "That can wait."

Harrison downs the shot in one gulp and slams the glass down with a depressing sense of dj vu.

Last time he was here, Fraser was with him. Fraser got silly, and then Fraser got drunk, or maybe it was the other way around; but he wasn't drinking alone at three in the afternoon, he was having a night out with a friend, and afterwards they stumbled home and Fraser kissed him, and he's starting to realize that he's doomed to jerk off to that particular memory for a long time to come, while Fraser will never even know it happened.

It's a creepy idea. It makes him feel like some kind of weird inter-dimensional sex offender.

It's also incredibly depressing.

"Same again," he says when the bartender walks by, shoving the shot glass across the bar.

"Long day?" the bartender asks, pouring.

Harrison snorts. "You got no idea, my friend."

"You're not gonna tell me about it, are you?" The bartender sounds worried, like maybe he missed that day in bartending school.

Harrison snorts again. Sure; he's going to walk into his neighborhood bar and be all, My ex-one-night-stand's boyfriend kissed me, and now I can't stop thinking about it, and as far as he's concerned it never happened, and oh yeah, I still wanna jump the first guy's bones, and did I mention they're both men? And oh, hey, look, I am too!

"Hell no," he says, and slams the second shot.

The tequila burns going down. He's starting to feel better already.

"We did not just do that," Ray says.

Benton doesn't move. "I'm afraid we did."

Ray groans and gives him a light shove; Benton reluctantly obeys and rolls off of him, onto the carpet. Ray slings an arm over his eyes and groans again.

"What are the odds," he asks, "that Harry's gonna walk through that door right now?"

Benton eyes the door. "Higher than I'd care to contemplate."

"So we should get up."

"We should," Benton agrees.

Silence.

"Damn, that was good," Ray says.

"Likewise, Ray," Benton says.

"Seriously, dude," the bartender says. "Slow down, okay? Take a breather. Do some laps."

"Keep pouring," Harrison growls, and buries his head in his arms.

They clean up in the bathroom, bumping into each other in the small space as they move back and forth and exchanging small, silly smiles at the contact. Benton feels giddy with it, flushed like a schoolboy on his first date. He can't take his eyes off Ray.

Ray, who's alive and warm and deliciously here. His hair is shorter now, shorter than it ever was in Chicago and severely spiked, and the nascent beard is gone, replaced by more familiar stubble; his mouth tastes dry and ashy, as though he's been smoking; he looks tired, and older, and more distant than he has in a long time.

But he's here, and he's alive, and even if he dies tonight, Benton got to touch him one last time.

But he's not going to die tonight. Benton won't let that happen. He'll drag Ray back over the border by force if he has to.

"So, give me details," Ray says finally, breaking the comfortable silence; Benton sighs, recognizing the return to business, but he answers readily enough.

"According to Harrison, we found you in an abandoned warehouse around two a.m., apparently a popular spot for executions. You...." He swallows. "You hadn't been dead long."

Ray's quiet for a minute, splashing water on his face and wiping it off, then staring at his reflection in the mirror with a hard, unreadable expression.

"How's he doing?" he asks eventually.

Benton blinks and switches mental gears. "Harrison?"

"Yeah." Ray doesn't look away from the mirror. "How is he?"

"Not very well," Benton admits. "His sister is, ah, dead."

Ray's head jerks around, and he stares at Benton. "Tru's dead?"

Benton nods. "He thinks she passed her gift on to him."

"Shit," Ray mutters, and his whole body seems to sag. He stares at the floor, then glances up again. "She was a good kid. He say what happened?"

"He wasn't forthcoming with the details, no." Benton pauses. "But I believe he has been deeply affected by it. I have observed certain patterns of self-destructive behavior, and...." He lowers his voice. "I believe he's been drinking."

Ray looks unconvinced. "So a guy has a drink now and then. Hell, he's entitled."

"Perhaps," Benton allows. "Still, I am... concerned."

Ray sighs. "Yeah. Me too."

"She was just supposed to be there, right?" Harrison waves his arms expansively. "She's my big sister, she's supposed to look out for me-- she always looked out for me, you know? Dragging my ass out of one mess after another...."

He trails off. The bartender stares at him, expressionless.

"You're not listening at all, are you?" Harrison asks.

"Not really," the bartender says. "But keep talking. I'm multi-tasking."

"Yeah?" Harrison squints. "You don't look too tasked."

"I'm writing my thesis," the bartender explains. "In theory, anyway. I think better when I'm ignoring people. Entoptic imagery in Palaeolithic cave art is a lot more interesting when the other option is listening to people bitch."

Harrison scratches his head. "Sounds... very academic."

"The problem is, it's all been done," the bartender says dolefully. "There's just nothing new to say. You know what happened last week? I found someone else's thesis online on my exact same topic. On the Internet."

"Ouch," Harrison says with a wince.

"So anyway," the bartender says. "Keep going. I haven't got this much work done in ages."

"Work," Harrison echoes.

"Theoretical work."

"My favorite kind." Harrison glances at his watch and sighs. "Nah, I gotta go."

"Of course you do," the bartender says, looking mournful again.

Harrison stands and slaps one of his hard-won twenties on the bar. "You here every Thursday?"

"Just can't stay away," the bartender says.

Harrison winks at him. "Catch you later, then."

After all, someone ought to benefit from his existence. Someone who wasn't dead.

The second Harrison steps through the door, Ray knows Ben was right. They have a problem.

Harrison's visibly tipsy, swaying a little in the doorway as he squints into the office at them-- Ray, leaning back in the desk chair, with his hands behind his head and his boots on the desk, and Ben sitting ramrod-straight in the folding chair. He scowls. "Get your feet off my shit."

Ray swings his legs off the desk and pushes the chair back and forth a few times. "You're doin' good, kid. Got your own rolly chair and everything."

"Thanks for the validation," Harrison mutters. He shrugs off his jacket and lets it fall to the floor.

Ray frowns at Ben and shrugs, and Ben presses his lips together.

"Listen," Ray says awkwardly, and stands. "I'm sorry about Tru."

He doesn't say anything else, because there's nothing else to say. If Harrison wants to talk about it, he will.

Harrison's eyes narrow. "Thanks."

So he doesn't want to talk about it. Ray sighs and glances at his watch, wondering how much they need to know, and more importantly how much he has time to explain.

"Ben filled me in, so we'll skip the play-by-play," he says. "What you guys need to know is, far as I'm concerned, Pete's a friend. Someone's put a hit on him, he thinks maybe the Italians, maybe someone in his own gang, he wants me to find out who." He gives Harrison a hard look. "I didn't think I was getting that close, but maybe I know something I didn't think I knew. Any of this ringing a bell?"

Harrison seems to be having trouble focusing. "What-- no, no. Look, I don't know shit. We just found you like that."

Ben's frowning at him, like he's a puzzle with a piece missing and Ben can't figure out where it goes, if for the sake of metaphor Ben was really bad at puzzles. But the truth is he's scarily good at them, and when he asks, "Why would Mr. O'Toole come to you?" Ray's stomach gives a lurch.

He does not have time to go into this.

"He's got reasons," is all he says. "Look, story is, I'm a friend of the family from out of town. My cover was never blown, so me bein' back here shouldn't turn any heads. But obviously--"

"Someone's head got turned," Harrison finishes. He ambles into the kitchen and opens the fridge, bending over to peer inside; Ray leans back against the desk and watches him narrowly, and maybe enjoys the view a little too. "Have you considered ditching the stiletto heels? Maybe a more sedate, professional look."

"Oh yeah, I was asking for it," Ray says dryly, and kicks Ben in the shin. Harrison's grabbing a beer.

Ben twists around in his seat and sighs. "Perhaps I should handle this," he says in a low voice.

"Be my freakin' guest," Ray says. "I'd rather be with the mob. Let me know how it goes."

Ben turns back to look at Ray, his eyes dark with some unreadable emotion. "You could have told me," he says, still softly.

Ray shakes his head, feels his lips twist in a rueful grin. "Sorry, Ben. Sealed file."

"What reason do you have to trust this man?" Ben's starting to sound desperate. "If he knows who you are, this could be a trap--"

"That's not it," Ray says. "Trust me."

"I trust you," Ben says, standing; that hard, sarcastic edge is creeping into his voice, the one Ray fucking hates. "It's the ruthless professional criminal about whom I have my doubts."

Ray straightens, so they're standing nose-to-nose, and he's reminded of countless times spent in the two-seven's bullpen in just this position, except now he's feeling less compelled to punch Ben and more to just throw him down on the desk and kiss him senseless. But the irritation's still there, and it makes it easier to resist. "Trust my fucking judgment then, my, my instinct, okay? It ain't Pete."

Ben hesitates, reaches out and grabs Ray's shoulder, curling callused fingers tightly around the back of his neck. Ray closes his eyes.

"You don't have to do this," Ben says softly. "We can leave now. We'd be home by lunch tomorrow."

Ray shudders. Home. He almost doesn't dare think about it.

"I owe Pete my life," is all he says. "And I pay my debts."

Ben sighs. "I know."

"Hey," Harrison says from the kitchen. "There's a motel down the block, you know, you guys wanna, just--" He shrugs, pursing his lips in a faux-innocent look.

Ray glares at him over Ben's shoulder. He just smirks, leans against the doorway, and takes a long swig of beer.

"You should go," Ben murmurs.

"Yeah," Ray says, and then he shakes his head and steps abruptly around Ben. "Yeah," he says again. "I'll just--" He jerks his thumb at the door. "Go."

"Also," Harrison says, as Ray's halfway out the door, "next time you guys screw on my floor, put a tarp down or something."

Ray's head whips around, and he stares. Across the room, Ben makes a strangled sound.

Harrison just looks back at him, eyes very wide and very blue.

"Noted," Ray spits out, and slams the door behind him.

Harrison smirks and raises the beer in salute as the door slams. Then he takes another long swallow and saunters to his desk.

Fraser's seated in the folding chair again, staring down at the desk and not quite meeting Harrison's eyes. His face is slightly pink.

"Educated guess," Harrison says, and flops down in the chair. He rests his boots in the same spot Ray's had been. "Come on, ease up. I'm just yankin' your chain."

Fraser clears his throat and somehow manages to sit up straighter, which Harrison didn't think was possible. He raises his chin and finally meets Harrison's eyes.

"We need to talk," he says.

Harrison goes ice-cold, and sips at his beer to cover. We need to talk. Four scariest words in the English language, hands down. Had Fraser caught him making eyes at Ray? Or even more terrifying-- he mentioned the kiss that morning, still rattled and half-asleep. Does Fraser remember? Lord help him, is he going to ask for details?

And then Fraser half-rises and leans across the desk, plucking the bottle from his hand.

Harrison blinks at him. "Dude, if you want, there's a six-pack in the fridge--"

"Harrison," Fraser interrupts, "I think you have a problem."

Harrison blinks again.

"Gee," he says. "What was your first clue?"

Fraser coughs. "No. I mean, ah, a specific problem." He sets the bottle down meaningfully on the desk.

Oh, Harrison thinks, with a sinking feeling. This, now.

Well, he knew it was coming sooner or later.

"Listen," he says, "before you trot out the whole speech, thing, whatever, I'll save you the trouble. I know."

Fraser stares at him. "You... know?"

"I'm an addict," Harrison explains, waving a hand expansively. "It's what I do, it's my personality, whatever-- I was a gambling addict, and Tru actually made me go to meetings and shit." He smiles a little at the memory. "Got sick of pulling my ass outta the fire all the time, I guess."

"And then what?" Fraser's voice is soft, and a lot nicer than he's ever heard it-- except maybe last night, the night that didn't exist.

Harrison's smile fades. "And then I stopped going. And how is this your business exactly?"

Fraser's eyes darken and his jaw sets. Well, the nice thing was fun while it lasted.

"Ray's life is in our hands," he says in a low voice. "If you are inebriated, your reflexes slowed, your judgment impaired-- if something happens to him--"

"Won't happen," Harrison says.

"You can't--"

Harrison stares daggers at him. "Won't. Happen."

Fraser glares back at him. His mouth open.

The phone rings.

Harrison grabs at it; he's never been so happy to hear the damn thing in his life. "Yeah?"

"Where the hell have you been?" a vaguely familiar voice growls. "Do you ever check your messages, Mr. Davies? Are you even aware of how an answering service works?"

And then he remembers.

"McGruff," he sighs, closing his eyes.

There's a pause. Then Welsh says, "Let me speak to Constable Fraser."

"Corporal," Harrison corrects, and hits the speakerphone button.

The sound quality of the speaker isn't any better the second time around. "Const-- Fraser, if the urgency of the situation has passed, I would've appreciated a heads-up--"

"No sir," Fraser says quickly. "I mean, yes sir. Sorry, sir. It's... been a rather hectic day."

There's a burst of static that Harrison supposes is a sigh. "So you were right," he begins. "A couple years before the Vecchio job, Kowalski spent a few months--"

"Undercover here with the O'Tooles, and he took down Colin O'Toole, and his cover wasn't blown," Harrison finishes. "Yeah, we got that."

"Are you quite done?" Welsh asks, after a pause.

"Quite," Harrison says.

"This is highly unorthodox, Mr. Davies."

Harrison mouths the last few words along with him, and grins at Fraser's startled look. "Yeah, yeah. I'm in the loop. Deal."

Fraser gives him a warning glare. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes," Harrison murmurs.

"No," Welsh says, and Harrison sits up and blinks. "While you two were busy ignoring my messages, I got in touch with the agent in charge of the operation. He was reticent at first, but I managed to persuade him to share."

"How did you do that, sir?" Fraser asks politely.

"Booze," Welsh says, "and lots of it. He didn't say much, but he did let slip two particularly interesting tidbits of information."

Harrison reaches for his still-blank notepad.

"Now this never went into the file," Welsh says, "so it's all very hush-hush. Heads will roll if word gets out, if you catch my meaning."

"Right," Harrison says. "I'll try not to spill to the next FBI agent I run into. What is it?"

"Fraser," Welsh says, "smack him for me, would you?"

"Certainly, sir," Fraser says, poker-faced.

Harrison holds his hands up with a yelp. "Okay, okay! This is me shutting up."

"An inspired idea," Welsh says. "So this Fed, who shall remain nameless, told me that it was a closely guarded secret among the task force that Peter O'Toole knew Kowalski was a plant."

Harrison scribbles about half of this down before his brain catches up to his ears, and his pen skids off the page. "Whoa, wait, what?"

Fraser looks shaken. "Are you certain, Lieutenant?"

"Not only that," Welsh says. "About a year later, one of the agents was caught feeding info to someone in O'Toole's organization, one...." He pauses. "Maurice Flaherty. Word is our ex-agent's doing some work in the area for Flaherty right now."

Fraser makes a soft, pained sound. Harrison glances at him and then does a double-take; he's white as a proverbial fucking sheet.

Harrison coughs a little. "Right. So this Fed, he knows who Ray is, and now he's working for Flaherty. And O'Toole knows too. Fan-fucking-tastic. Anything else?"

"Ex-Fed," Welsh says, "and that's all I have. Listen...."

He pauses. Harrison rolls his eyes and listens.

"Anything else I can do," Welsh says finally, "just call. Any time."

"Thanks," Harrison says, surprised.

"And when you see Kowalski, kick his ass for me."

"Gladly," Harrison says, and cuts the connection.

For a few seconds, he and Fraser just stare at each other. Then Fraser shoots abruptly to his feet.

"We have to find Ray," he says, striding towards the door. "Now."

His left hand's on the doorknob before Harrison catches up with him.

"Whoa, hey, wait!" He grabs Fraser's wrist, trying to pry his fingers off the knob, and then Fraser's hand closes over his throat and he freezes.

"We have to find Ray," Fraser repeats. His eyes are like steel. "We have to warn him."

Harrison swallows, feeling his throat bob against Fraser's palm. "We do," he croaks. "We will! But we need a plan or something, we can't just go running out the door! We have to be smart about this!"

"I have a plan," Fraser growls. "I'm going to find Ray."

"That's not a plan!" Harrison tugs fruitlessly at the fingers around his throat. "That's an admirable goal. Not the same thing. And unless you want to get yourself, and Ray, and might I mention me, killed, we have to stop and think about this!"

Fraser glares at him, but he doesn't say anything. After a moment, his grip loosens.

"Jesus, thank you," Harrison says, rubbing at his neck. "Now I will tell you this again, and I will keep telling you this until it sinks into that insanely thick skull of yours: This. Is the Irish. Mob. They know where the bodies are, because they put them there! We can't take 'em, Fraser. We have to be smarter than them."

He pauses.

"Besides," he adds, "do you even know where you're going? How are you gonna find O'Toole?"

Fraser takes a deep breath. "I had hoped," he said slowly, "to extract the information from some of our... new acquaintances."

"Oh, great," Harrison says, throwing up his hands. "See, that right there? That is not a plan. That is suicide by wiseguy. Learn the difference, pal."

Fraser sighs. "We should have set up some way of contacting Ray."

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda," Harrison says. He holds his hands out like a magician and backs across the room, grinning. "I got a better idea."

"You do." Fraser sounds insultingly dubious.

"Relax," Harrison says. "Trust me." He pulls open the two top drawers, rifling through them at random, and finally finds the small handheld device, buried under some old crumpled bills, a sheet of postcard stamps, and-- he wrinkles his nose-- an old peanut butter sandwich.

He tosses the sandwich in the trash and sucks stale peanut butter off his fingers, then raises the handheld with glee. "So, just for shits and giggles mind you, on my way out of the poker game I just so happened to bump into Pete O'Toole. And wouldn't you know it, I just happened to drop a little tracking device in his pocket."

Fraser's eyes are wide. "Pickpocket," he breathes. "Of course."

"I can take 'em out or put 'em in," Harrison agrees. He waggles the handheld triumphantly. "And this bad boy's gonna tell us where Petey goes on his off hours."

"Impressive," Fraser allows.

Harrison's grin widens. "So am I good, or am I good?"

Benton keeps a wary eye on Harrison as he drives, looking for signs of inebriation. Harrison seems alert and perfectly sober now, with no visible traces of his earlier indulgence, but Benton is not reassured.

He considered offering to drive, but if Harrison is anything like Ray-- which, more and more, appears to be the case-- he will not appreciate the suggestion. Besides, Benton has seen how Bostonians drive, and he has no desire to brave the maelstrom himself. He can guide a dogsled with unerring accuracy, but the vagaries of the common combustion engine remain largely beyond his grasp.

He didn't even bother suggesting they walk, or take the subway. Not when Ray's life is in danger. Time is of the essence.

Benton realizes he's attempting to justify his appalling lack of attention to automobile safety, and he sets his jaw and stops trying. Ray is in trouble, and Benton has to get to him as soon as possible. No justification needed.

He hopes.

Still, he has the distinct sensation of narrowly averted death when the Mustang slows to a stop outside a large, impressive brownstone apartment building.

"This it?" Harrison asks.

Benton studies the handheld display in his lap. "I believe so."

"Pete, you swank bastard," Harrison mutters, and throws the car into park.

"There's a security guard at the front desk," Benton reports, peering out the window.

"Probably armed," Harrison agrees. He grabs the handheld from Benton's lap and fiddles with it; a burst of static emits from a small speaker, gradually resolving into a voice.

"Short-range audio transmission," Harrison explains, looking pleased.

"The sound quality is appalling," Benton says, trying not to squirm in his seat at the lingering sensation of Harrison's grasping fingers on his thighs. Really, he shouldn't even have noticed such a brief, businesslike contact. His body had been distracted by Ray's presence.

Harrison shakes the handheld, then smacks it lightly against the steering wheel. "Hey, be glad it works at all. Let's just say I didn't get this puppy at Radio Shack."

Benton's lips tighten, and he concentrates on the sound.

Peter O'Toole's voice is muffled and cracking, and every few seconds the sound fades out, but it's recognizable. He's saying something; Benton hears him say Neil, and he sits up straighter.

"--McKenna?" Another burst of static, and then O'Toole adds, "--gone a while."

"Ray's not back," Benton says, surprise and alarm twisting his stomach. "Is it possible he simply hasn't arrived yet?"

"Not likely." Harrison looks pessimistic. "He left a good half hour before we did, and we hit rush hour traffic. Even using public transportation, he shoulda beaten us back."

Benton leans over and increases the volume on the speaker.

"...Morrie... asking around," a new voice is saying.

"...fuck does Flaherty want with McKenna?"

"...wouldn't say... upset about something."

Morrie. Flaherty. It's like a punch in the gut.

Harrison's eyes are wide. "Isn't he--"

"Maurice Flaherty," Benton says grimly. "The man Lieutenant Welsh said was receiving information from a former FBI agent." He pauses. "And now he's looking for Ray."

"So maybe," Harrison says slowly, "it wasn't O'Toole who popped Ray. Maybe Flaherty's Fed clued him in too."

Benton shakes his head. "It just doesn't make logical sense. If O'Toole knew Ray was a police officer, why would he be worried about him? Why would he call him in the first place?"

"Unless," Harrison begins, and then his eyes flick to the rearview mirror and he pales. "Ah, shit."

Benton twists around in the passenger seat, and sees a large, well-built man on the sidewalk behind them, watching the car with one hand on his hip. Benton suspects he's reaching for a gun, and has no desire to stay and confirm his hypothesis.

Harrison's hand is creeping under his jacket, towards his shoulder holster. Benton grabs his wrist, arresting the movement. "Don't."

"I recognize that guy," Harrison says through gritted teeth. "He was waiting outside the poker game."

"Harrison," Benton says patiently. "Gangsters. Organized criminals. Irish mob. Remember?"

Harrison closes his eyes briefly. "Step off my trope, Fraser."

"Harrison--"

"Yeah, yeah." He slams the car into gear and hits the gas, and they peel off down the street, leaving a trail of rubber behind them.

Benton keeps his eyes on the rearview mirror. The well-built man watches them go with narrowed eyes, making no move to follow.

"Now what?" Benton asks finally, when O'Toole's apartment building is out of sight.

Harrison is hunched over the steering wheel, glaring at the asphalt in front of him. When he speaks, his voice is tight. "Now we find Flaherty."

"I don't suppose you planted a tracking device on him as well."

"No," Harrison says after a moment. "Seeing as I've never met the guy."

"So how--"

"So shut up and let me think." The corner of Harrison's mouth twitches; he looks resigned. "I know someone who'd know."

Harrison has to circle the block around Wally's three times before he finds a parking space, and it isn't helping his nerves any.

He's not ready to face Isaac again, not ready for the confusing mix of irritation and hormones that made it so hard to think the first time around. Maybe it's just Ray being in town, and maybe it's something to do with Fraser too, but Harrison's been intensely sexually aware all day, and it's starting to annoy the hell out of him. No point in being turned on all the time when he can't do a damn thing about it.

And now that he's thinking about it, he can look back and realize that what he may or may not want from Isaac, Isaac's been offering all along-- never blatant, but obvious to anyone without his head up his own ass, which unfortunately cuts Harrison out of the running, or so he's starting to think. And whatever miraculous force managed to perform the removal surgery long enough for him to look around and blink, he kind of wants to kick it in the nads.

Ignorance wasn't bliss, but it was sure as hell less disconcerting than this.

Fraser clears his throat, and Harrison realizes he's just sitting there staring at the bar across the street. He sighs but makes no move to get out yet.

"Unless what?" Fraser asks abruptly.

Harrison turns to stare at him. "Unless what what?"

"Back at the apartment building," Fraser explains. "Before you saw that man, you were going to say something. I wondered why O'Toole would call Ray for help, and you said--"

"Unless," Harrison finishes, remembering. "Right. Unless he called Ray because he's a cop."

Fraser's eyes narrow. "So you think it was a trap."

"No, hold on, I'm gettin' there." Harrison waves a hand for emphasis. "Ray said O'Toole's got a hit out on him, right, and Ray's supposed to find out who. Pete got Ray up here to do police work."

"You're saying Mr. O'Toole knows Ray was a police officer, and he doesn't have a problem with it?" Fraser sounds dubious.

Harrison shrugs, embarrassed; he's well aware of the absurdity. "Hey, I'm just saying. It fits."

"Well," Fraser says after a moment, dismissing the idea. "That's not important right now."

Harrison glowers at him, then reluctantly unbuckles his seatbelt.

Fraser leans across the seat towards him before he closes the door. "Don't have another drink."

"Yes, Dad," Harrison says, and slams the door as hard as he can.

Isaac's waiting at a different stool than yesterday, and it throws Harrison for a few seconds, before he remembers that yesterday he got here first. Isaac is at the end of the bar this time, in a little alcove near the hallway to the bathrooms, and Harrison slows and feels his face heat.

He's about to turn and run when Isaac looks up and sees him, and a broad grin spreads across his tanned face. He leans back against the bar in a languid sprawl. "Harry!"

Harrison forces an answering smile onto his face. This is just getting ridiculous.

He takes a deep breath and plows through the crowd, and when he reaches the empty stool Isaac has a beer waiting for him. Screw you, Fraser, Harrison thinks, and takes a long drink.

"Twice in one day," Isaac says, watching him. "How'd I get so lucky?"

Harrison gives a nervous laugh. "Hey, I'm a busy guy. Everyone wants a piece."

"Who wouldn't?" Isaac drawls, and Harrison closes his eyes and winces. He really didn't mean to say that.

He swallows another mouthful of beer, then sighs and turns to Isaac. "Look, I don't have time for the song an' dance, so I'll just lay it out for you. I need to find Maurice Flaherty, and I mean right freakin' now, I need to know where he is without him knowing I'm looking. So can you help me or not?"

Isaac gives him a long, slow look, and Harrison stares back, holding his breath.

Isaac sips thoughtfully at his beer, then sets it down on the bar. "I'd love to," he says at last. "But I couldn't ask anyone without word getting back."

Harrison exhales and sags against the bar. Disappointment is making him light-headed, and he realizes how desperately he's been counting on Isaac to know something. "Thanks anyway," he mutters, and moves to slide off the stool.

Isaac's hand on his arm stops him, hot and heavy, and a sudden thrill goes through him at the contact. "Wait. Maybe I can help. Why do you want to know?"

Harrison stares into Isaac's eyes, trying to read his intentions, and then only barely manages to wrench his gaze away. "He's got a friend of mine," he says, and hesitates, wondering how much it's safe to say. "I think... my friend might be in trouble. Later tonight."

Tonight, when the streets are empty and no one will hear a gunshot.

Isaac nods slowly. "There are a couple places," he says, "where this man-- and by the way, don't say his name again-- might have your friend stashed. I can point you in the right direction."

If disappointment made Harrison light-headed, the sudden surge of hope is making him downright dizzy. "That," he says with genuine sincerity, "would be awesome."

And then Isaac leans his elbow on the bar and props his chin up in his hand, giving Harrison a long, thoughtful look. "It'll cost, though. And I don't think one date'll cover it."

Harrison swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry.

Isaac's eyes are dark and liquid, and maybe the alcohol's finally going to his head, because he can hardly see straight. But he manages to find his beer, manages to drain the glass in five long, jerky swallows, and somewhere between the first swallow and the last, he realizes that he's going to do it.

Screw this anyway, screw Fraser and screw Ray and screw the sexual fucking tension; it's not fair, they had sex on his office floor while he was out getting drunk, and anyway he can't remember why he thought this was such a bad idea to start with.

He slams the glass down, grabs Isaac's arm, and pulls him off the stool.

Isaac follows readily, his full lips open in a wide, blinding white grin.

They make it into the bathroom, into one of the stalls, and then Isaac slams him back against the wall, and Harrison takes a deep, shuddering breath. Just before their mouths meet, Isaac closes his eyes and tilts his head forward instead, resting his forehead against Harrison's.

His voice is a hot brush of air against Harrison's lips. "You don't have to do this."

"I know," Harrison says, and swallows again.

"What I said back there, I was just fucking with you. I don't--"

"Izzy," Harrison manages to say, "if you tell me I don't have to, then I won't. So-- please--" He wraps his fingers around the collar of Izzy's long coat, feeling the black wool rough under his skin. "Please don't tell me."

Isaac stares at him for a moment, and then he breaks into another blinding smile and Harrison goes weak-kneed with relief.

Isaac leans forward again and this time their lips connect, and Harrison slides his hands off Isaac's shoulder and behind his head, and God, it's so good, he didn't even remember-- the last time he kissed another man was-- well, it was last night, but that didn't even happen. And then before that it was Ray, and Harrison's starting to think five years is a long, long time to go without this, without the hair on Isaac's upper lips tickling his nose, the scrape of stubble across his face, the hard demand of lips that don't taste like lipstick, just beer and cigarettes and toothpaste, and he figures it's a good thing his mouth is too occupied to say anything, or he'd be seriously embarrassing himself right about now.

And then Isaac pulls back, so that their lips are barely brushing, and Harrison moans a little.

Embarrassing, he reminds himself, and tries to catch his breath.

"So." Isaac's voice is husky and amused. "How will sir be rendering his payment?"

Harrison licks his lips, feels his tongue brush against Isaac, and shudders.

"Your info," he says softly. "Your price."

Isaac's lips twitch against his, and then a heavy hand settles on his shoulder, pushing down, down, down.

Harrison feels a moment of instinctive panic-- he's never done this, not once-- but he goes willingly, sinking to his knees on the tiled floor, and he barely has time to wonder when's the last time they mopped in here-- answer: sometime around World War II-- before he's face-to-groin with Isaac and getting an eyeful of the bulge in his tight jeans.

It looks distressingly big, but he figures anything would when he's about to stick it down his throat.

Isaac's hands settle on his head, tangling with his hair, and for just a second he thinks about Fraser, waiting in the car, and feels oddly vindicated. Then he takes a deep breath and undoes the buttons of Isaac's jeans.

Isaac is wearing black boxer briefs, and his dick is straining at the cotton. Harrison eases them down over his hips, carefully over the bulge, and the dick springs out, flushed purple, and Harrison thinks dazedly, Grape lollipop. He leans forward and takes a tentative taste.

Definitely not grape.

Isaac lets out a choked moan, and he's pleased at the sound, licks again to see if he can get a repeat performance. In response, Isaac grabs the back of his head and thrusts against him; his dick bumps off Harrison's face, leaving a sticky trail on his lips, and Harrison gets the idea, opening his mouth and slowly drawing the head inside.

Isaac moans again, and Harrison starts to suck, flushed and dizzy with power. It's not as weird as he thought, salty and slick against his tongue but nothing, like, freakish, and then Isaac thrusts again, and the dick slides into his throat and he tries not to gag, and balls brush against his chin, and okay, that's a little freakish.

He pulls back, coughing, and wipes saliva from his face. His face is burning.

"Hey." Isaac's hands stroke his hair, surprisingly gentle. "It's okay. First time?"

"Course not," Harrison says immediately, looking up.

Isaac's lips curve in a small smile. "Whatever you say. Just tell me if you need a break. A little lie-down, maybe a nap--"

"Funny," Harrison says, and wraps his mouth as far as he can around Isaac's dick.

Isaac jerks against him, hands pulling tight in his hair, and he winces but doesn't slow down. It's surprisingly easy to settle into a rhythm, but less easy when Isaac slumps forward and braces his hands against the wall over Harrison's head, forcing him to bend backwards to avoid being choked. He winces as his neck creaks, and shuffles slowly back on his knees until his back hits the wall and he can sit up straight again, and then it hits him.

He's on his knees in the men's room of a seedy bar, sucking cock.

He almost comes in his pants.

Isaac starts thrusting again, his movements jerky and irregular, and Harrison grabs onto his hips and holds on for dear life. Fingers dig into his scalp, holding his head in place, and then Isaac's thrusting all the way down his throat, and he doesn't think he can do this, but he doesn't want to stop again. So he closes his eyes and concentrates on relaxing his throat, and tightens his grip hard enough to leave bruises.

Isaac doesn't warn him when he's close. One second he's fucking Harrison's mouth, and the next he's coming with a hoarse yell, gobs of semen sliding down Harrison's throat like mucus. He does gag at that, pulling back, but there's nowhere for his head to go; and then Isaac's dick slips out of his mouth, and the last spurt of jizz hits him right in the face.

Harrison blinks and wipes a hand over his cheek. It comes away sticky.

Isaac stares down at him. His lips twitch.

"Don't," Harrison warns.

Isaac snorts. "Dude, if you could see your face--"

"You dick," Harrison says, without heat.

"Obviously," Isaac says with a grin. He clasps Harrison's hand and hauls him to his feet, and Harrison winces as his knees crack; he's only twenty-seven, for Christ's sake, he shouldn't be creaking yet. Then Isaac stares at him, and his smile fades, dissolving into an intense, heated look.

Harrison looks up at him, squirms a little, and wonders, not for the first time, why he ended up being so damn short.

"What?" He raises a hand to his face. "Crap. It's still there, isn't it?"

"Don't," Isaac says hoarsely, and he freezes. "Don't-- don't move," and then Isaac leans forward and-- oh, shit-- licks the come off Harrison's face.

He groans. He can't help it.

"Now this," Isaac says, "I'm just doing 'cause I like you."

He sinks to his knees, and Harrison lets his head fall back against the wall with a thunk and thinks about the mouth waiting for him, about Isaac's tongue on his skin, about anything but Fraser, still waiting in the car.

When Harrison emerges from the bar twenty minutes later, he looks... different. He looks....

Well, there's no getting around it. As Ray would say: He looks well-fucked.

His eyes are bright and heavy-lidded, his lips are even redder than usual, and his hair is in spectacular disarray. His skin glistens, as though he has just splashed water on his face. There's a bounce in his step that has no business being there, not when Ray is in danger, and Benton is surprised to feel a hot curl of anger snake through his gut.

"You took your time," he comments, when Harrison opens the door.

"I'm thorough," Harrison says, sliding into his seat.

"Well?"

"Well, Mr. Pushy Pants, my friend knows a guy who owns some vacant apartments. Said guy also happens to be a friend of Maurice Flaherty, who just so happens to use these apartments for some of his, shall we say, more illicit activities." He brandishes a slip of paper and grins. "I got a list."

Benton keeps his voice even. "And what did you do in return for this information?"

"Asked nicely," Harrison says, and narrows his eyes. "Why, Fraser, you got somethin' to say about it?"

Benton stares pointedly at his swollen lips. Harrison flushes, but raises his chin defiantly and doesn't break eye contact.

"Harrison," Benton begins, and stops, wetting his own lips. What can he say? What does he have the right to say?

He settles for, "Be careful."

It is, apparently, the wrong thing.

"Be careful?" Harrison repeats, incredulous. "Man, you really are my dad. And you got the whole disapproving schtick down, let me tell you."

"Harrison--"

"No, you know what? Just forget it," Harrison says. "I'm a big boy, I can handle my own business, and it's none of yours. You guys have made it very clear that you don't need me around, so--"

He breaks off, and Benton stares at him, perplexed. "Of course we need you. I wouldn't have a chance of finding Ray without you."

Harrison's mouth opens, then closes again. "Right," he says weakly. "I mean-- I meant, yeah, um." He flattens the list of addresses against the steering wheel with rather more force than necessary. "Right. First apartment."

He doesn't look at Benton as he starts the car and pulls into traffic, even though Benton is still staring at him and making no effort to hide it. He knows he just missed something big, and he can't quite figure out what it is.

Harrison twitches irritably under his gaze. Finally, at a red light, he explodes, "What?"

"Nothing," Benton says immediately, looking away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harrison's sudden look of dread. "Oh crap. I have something on my face, don't I?" He rubs furiously at his cheek with his right hand.

"No, there's--" Benton clears his throat. "There's nothing on your face, no."

Harrison turns and glares at him, until Benton feels compelled to say, "Green light."

This statement is punctuated by a chorus of angry honks behind them.

Harrison rolls down his window and sticks his head out. "Shut up!" he yells.

Then he guns the engine and takes off with a screech, and it takes Benton two blocks to find enough voice for a sharp reprimand.

The first two places are a bust, and by the time they pull up in front of the third building, Harrison's starting to think unpleasant thoughts about Isaac St. Germain and the grime on the knees of his jeans.

It's in a run-down part of town, surrounded by condemned and abandoned buildings on either side. Harrison gets out of the car reluctantly; he's none too keen on leaving it unattended on the street.

"Last one on the list," he says, staring at the front door. "Last chance." He checks his gun for about the millionth time today; his nerves are on edge, every instinct clamoring danger, and suddenly he knows this is the right place, it has to be.

Which is why running inside blindly would be a bad idea, and it takes a few seconds for his brain to relay that message to his legs, which are tensed and ready to sprint.

Fraser nods, looking maddeningly calm. "Shall we?"

"You askin' me to dance?" Harrison doesn't wait for an answer, just shoves his hands in his pockets and strides across the street.

The vestibule door's locked, and what used to be the intercom is a mass of exposed wires. Harrison slips his picks out of his jacket and has the door open in ten seconds flat.

"No need for applause," he says, tucking the picks away again. "I take cash and credit. Give receipts, even."

Fraser ignores him, stepping inside and cocking his head with an intense look of concentration.

Harrison shifts his weight impatiently. "Anything?" he asks, when he can't wait anymore.

Fraser frowns. "I believe somebody is playing an accordion."

"Holy crap," Harrison says, "they're torturing him." He runs for the stairs.

"Actually, whoever it is is quite good," Fraser says behind him. "A lively and engaging polka--"

"Don't talk to me," Harrison snaps over his shoulder as he climbs.

Luckily, or lucky for Ray anyway, the noise isn't coming from the apartment Isaac indicated; it comes from behind a door on the second floor, maybe the only other apartment in the building still being used. Harrison pauses in front of the door, looks at the number Isaac wrote down-- 15, and this is apartment 9-- then shakes his head and moves to the next flight of stairs.

Fraser passes him on the way up, and is waiting on the third floor landing when he gets there. Harrison glances at the door to apartment 15 and nods at it. Fraser nods back and places his thumb against the side of his nose, and the movement is so incongruous that Harrison just stops and blinks at him for a second before moving past him to the door.

Harrison presses his back against the wall by the door, drawing his gun, and nods at Fraser again. Fraser presses his ear against the door and listens; then he steps back, raises one leg, and kicks the door in with one textbook-perfect blow.

Harrison whips around and aims into the apartment.

It's empty.

He frowns but doesn't lower the gun. Disappointment is like a knife in his side. He was sure, he was so sure....

The place looks like it's being torn apart. There are tarps on the walls, covering missing sections of drywall, and a thin layer of sawdust and debris on the floor. An empty dishwasher box stands in the middle of the front room, with no dishwasher in sight. Harrison edges inside to look around, gun still raised, but he can already tell there's no one there.

Still, he checks out every room, looking for clues or something, maybe a handy map with a big red X on it, and he's peering into the cabinet under the bathroom sink for reasons he can't quite articulate when he hears Fraser's hoarse voice, calling his name.

He leans out of the bathroom, hanging off the doorjamb like it's a monkey bar. "Yeah, what? You got something?"

Fraser's in the room across the hall, standing in front of a window with his head bowed and his back to Harrison. He turns at Harrison's voice and holds out his hand.

At first Harrison can't see what he's holding, and then he thinks it's a strand of tinsel and he can't imagine why Fraser wants to show it to him. And then he blinks, and he realizes exactly what it is.

Ray's bracelet.

He's surprised that he recognizes it; he doesn't think it ever even registered with him before, or if it did he forgot about that particular detail. But now that he's looking at it, he remembers, and he has a sudden vivid mental image: silver beads glinting in the sunlight, wrapped around Ray's right wrist, sliding back and forth across his skin....

Harrison swallows.

"He was here," he says-- lamely, unnecessarily.

Fraser nods and steps aside, and Harrison can see he was standing in front of a radiator. "There are scuff marks on the metal here. I believe Ray was handcuffed to it."

"Or else it's an old building with a scuffed radiator. What are you, the Bad News Bear? Try not to envision the worst possible scenario for once." Harrison rocks backwards onto his feet and slams the gun back in his holster with a sigh. "So they were here, and now they're not. And now we're officially outta options. On the plus side, least we know we're on the right track."

Fraser doesn't look like he's in the mood for a plus side; he looks kinda hopeless, and he's gripping the bracelet in a white-knuckled fist. When he speaks, his voice is low. "Perhaps-- perhaps we should go to the police."

"Are you nuts?" Harrison demands, kicking the cabinet door shut. "Say what, this guy's gonna die tonight, and I know because I'm a time-traveler from the future?"

"If we simply say that Flaherty has Ray--"

"Forget it," Harrison says, coming out of the bathroom and poking his head into the bedroom, where Fraser's still standing. "Something like this, we need a pro."

"Exactly, which is why I think the police--"

"Not the police," Harrison says. He flips open his cell phone and scrolls through the list of numbers until he finds the one he's looking for, then hits the call button and puts the phone to his ear. Fraser opens his mouth, and Harrison holds up a warning finger. "Wait for it."

Davis answers in the middle of the fourth ring. "City morgue."

"Davis," Harrison says, watching Fraser. "Emergency, and save the I-told-you-sos for later."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Davis says blandly. "Meet me here."

He hangs up.

Davis wouldn't have said I told you so anyway, mainly because he didn't, really. Besides, he knows Harrison's new at the job, and from what they tell him, he's doing surprisingly well for his first day. He is a tad distressed that most of Harrison's successes have been due to the rather dubious company he keeps, but then he supposes everyone must play to their strengths.

Unfortunately, Harrison seems to expect him to have some brilliant solution to the whole thing, and Davis is coming up blank.

"I don't know, I just don't know that world," he says, shaking his head. "If you can't think of anything, Harrison--"

"Believe me," Harrison says, "I've thought." His voice is muffled; his face is buried in his arms, folded on the desk.

"Then I just don't know what help I can provide."

"A fresh perspective, if nothing else," Fraser says. He's standing in the corner of the office, watching Davis with narrowed eyes, like he too expects some kind of miracle idea, and Davis is bitter at the injustice of it. Why is everyone depending on him for the answer all of a sudden? Tru was always the one there at the last minute, some desperate, last-ditch idea that somehow she managed to pull off. She did all the work, Davis was just the man behind the curtain--

Wait. Last minute....

"Perspective," he says slowly. "We're thinking about this backwards. We don't know where Mr. Kowalski is, but we know where he will be."

Harrison raises his head and tsks out the side of his mouth, and it sounds like he's snapping imaginary gum. "Yeah, six feet under. Unless you're suggesting we dig him up and revive him--"

"There can be only one," Davis mutters, and frowns. "No, that doesn't work."

"Dude," Harrison says. "Focus."

"No, he's right," Fraser says suddenly, and Davis blinks at him.

"I am?"

Fraser starts to pace. "If we can be at the warehouse, waiting for them--"

"Yeah, and do what?" Harrison retorts. "Only two of us, Fraser." He pauses, then shoots Davis a not-quite-contrite look. "I mean, unless you're planning to join us--"

"No," Davis says quickly. "Thank you."

Fraser sets his jaw, looking stubborn. "And Mr. Flaherty is one man."

"One man who ain't gonna go anywhere without his thugs for backup, Fraser. You gotta know how these guys think. He's gonna be ready for anything, he's got muscle, all these guys do, we can't just take him by surprise--"

"No," Davis interrupts, "but," and then he stops. He's getting an idea, but he has to sanity-check it first, make sure it's fit for outside consumption.

"Davis," Harrison says. "Sometime this week'd be nice."

"You're very annoying," Davis tells him, "and I have a crazy idea, and I feel I should warn you up front that it is, in fact, crazy."

Harrison stares at him. "I'm annoying?"

"Please, go ahead," Fraser says, with a quelling hand on Harrison's shoulder. Harrison twists around and looks up at him with annoyance.

"We can't take Flaherty," Davis says, leaning across his desk for emphasis. "But what about O'Toole? He would have more than enough men at his disposal, wouldn't he?"

"But why would--" Harrison begins, and then his eyes narrow, taking on a calculating gleam. "Oh, hell. Of course."

"Mr. O'Toole asked Ray to find out who put a contract on his life," Fraser says. He sounds breathless. "And Flaherty wants to kill Ray--"

"--because he knows," Harrison finishes, "and he's the one who put out the hit!"

"It's merely conjecture, of course," Fraser says. "We can't count on that fact."

Harrison shakes his head, closing his eyes as though remembering something. "No, but, I was watching 'em at the poker game, and Ray and O'Toole, they're tight. O'Toole wasn't faking it. Even if Flaherty's not the guy, O'Toole still wouldn't be too happy about him takin' out his buddy."

"Unless Mr. O'Toole put Mr. Flaherty up to it."

Davis is beginning to wish he had a flowchart.

"I don't think so," Harrison says. "I got a hunch."

Fraser gives him a narrow-eyed look. "You have hunches?"

"Hunches and a cool car," Harrison says. "That's pretty much it, yeah."

"Wow," Davis says, and when they both turn and stare at him, he realizes he said it out loud. He coughs. "It's just, I really, I didn't expect the suggestion to go over that well."

Harrison frowns. "Why not?"

"Because," Davis says, "one of you is going to have to convince Peter O'Toole to go along with this plan."

"Oh," Harrison says.

"Ah," says Fraser.

They turn and look at each other.

"Davis," Harrison says, turning back around and slumping down in his chair, "your idea sucks."

"Yeah," Davis says, without much sympathy. "But it's the only one you've got, isn't it?"

Harrison's sigh is all the answer he needs.

"Look," Harrison says, "this ain't up for discussion. He's seen me, he hasn't seen you, we oughta keep it that way."

Benton tries again. "I'm just saying, you've endangered yourself quite enough already. I wouldn't feel comfortable--"

"This is not about your comfort level, Fraser, this is about not getting dead."

They're sitting in the Mustang, parked two blocks down from Peter O'Toole's apartment building. Harrison isn't looking at him; he's staring through the windshield, his knuckles white around the steering wheel.

"Harrison," Benton says, "I am not unacquainted with the criminal element. In Chicago--"

"Yeah, Fraser, maybe all the gangsters in Chi-town know you by name, but that don't mean O'Toole won't shoot you on sight. You saw how quick Jim made you, you look like a cop--"

"Harrison," Benton says loudly, drowning him out. Harrison says something, but Benton keeps talking over him; sometimes it's the only way to get Ray to listen to him, and he's getting quite good at it. "If you go in there, I'm going with you. That's all there is to it."

"Fraser--"

"I came to you for help," Benton says. "I got you involved in this. You've done quite enough already without taking unnecessary risks. Going in there alone, without backup--"

"You don't even have a gun, what the hell kind of backup--"

"Harrison," Benton says, and amazingly, Harrison shuts up.

"Fine," he says after a moment, looking angry and a little frightened. "Backup. But if you get yourself killed, I am gonna kick your ghostly ass all the way back to yesterday, you get me?"

"Perfectly, Harrison," and this conversation, this situation, all of it is so surreally familiar, it's all he can do not to say Perfectly, Ray instead.

Harrison wouldn't say so, but he's glad for Fraser's presence at his back when he walks into the lobby. It's weird-- the guy doesn't even carry a gun, but somehow having him there just makes Harrison feel oddly safer.

The security guard's up like a shot when he sees them, coming out from behind his desk with a pleasant yet steely expression. He gives Harrison an insultingly long head-to-toe look, then asks, "Can I help you?"

Harrison ignores the implied dig and raises his hands in what he hopes is a friendly gesture. His heart is hammering in his chest. "We're here to see Peter O'Toole."

"Mr. O'Toole isn't expecting any visitors." Politely but firmly.

Harrison wets his lips and says, "Uh, yeah, surprise visit. If you just tell him we got information for him--"

"Tell him," Fraser interrupts, and Harrison wants to smack him, "that we have reason to believe Mr. McKenna is in danger."

"McKenna," the guard repeats.

Harrison glares at Fraser, then plasters a sweet smile on his face and turns back to the guard. "That's right. You tell 'im that."

The guard looks dubious, but he goes back to the intercom and starts speaking in a low voice.

"Fraser," Harrison hisses out of the side of his mouth, "let me do the talking. Okay?"

"My apologies, Harrison."

Harrison gives Fraser a suspicious look. He doesn't sound sorry.

"Yes sir," the guard says, then turns back to face them. "He's sending down an escort. You're to wait here."

"Waiting," Harrison chirps. He leans towards Fraser and adds under his breath, "Escort? What am I, a debutante?"

Fraser studies him. "I doubt anyone could make that mistake, no. You're hardly properly dressed."

"Thanks for that, Fraser."

They wait, and Harrison fidgets and looks around for someplace to sit, and if they're gonna make people wait downstairs to be claimed like luggage, they really ought to have a waiting room of some kind, never mind a single solitary chair. But there's nothing, so he continues to fidget.

Then the elevator dings, Fraser's spine stiffens, and Harrison tries to remember how to breathe.

The man in the elevator is huge. Six five at least, he dwarfs even Fraser, and when he comes closer Harrison realizes his head is at nipple-level, which is just plain disturbing. The giant's head is shaven, his eyes are dark and narrowed, and he looks very capable of snapping a man in two with his pinky fingers.

"I'm armed," Harrison says immediately, raising his hands again as the giant starts to frisk him. "Left side, shoulder holster."

The giant finds the gun without a word and slips it into his own belt, then finishes patting down Harrison.

"I'm afraid I'm not licensed to carry a firearm," Fraser says, as the giant moves on to him.

The giant gives him a blank look. "And?"

"Just let him see for himself, Fraser," Harrison says warningly.

Fraser sighs but does so, and finally the giant is satisfied, and he shepherds the two of them into the elevator. Harrison twitches as the giant stands behind him, and he feels compelled to make conversation.

"So," he says, staring straight ahead at the floor buttons. "How's tricks?"

"Decent," the giant rumbles.

"Good," Harrison says, "good," and then his brain catches up to his mouth and he shuts up.

It's not the penthouse apartment, but it's big enough. Everything's leather and steel and glass and very, very shiny, and Harrison would be gaping in awe if his attention weren't riveted by the figure draped over the black leather sofa, pointing a shiny black gun at him.

He gulps.

"You," Peter O'Toole says, and narrows his eyes. "You were at the poker game. You're the one with the tattoo."

"Yeah," Harrison says, scratching nervously at the back of his head. "Sorry. I was looking for R-- uh, McKenna."

Fraser clears his throat, and Harrison would elbow him except he doesn't want to make any sudden movements. "Sir," he says, "we have reason to believe Mr. McKenna is in danger from one of your own men."

O'Toole doesn't lower the gun. "How'd you find me?"

"Um," Harrison says, and coughs. "Look in your coat pocket."

O'Toole stares at him for a long, nerve-wracking moment, then nods at one of the thugs behind him-- there are three of them aside from the giant, standing around the room like particularly ugly statues. The thug disappears somewhere into the depths of the apartment, then emerges a minute later, holding O'Toole's coat. He reaches in the pocket and produces Harrison's tracking device.

O'Toole inspects it with interest. "Audio?"

"Short-range," Harrison says.

He nods and hands the device back to the thug, who drops it to the floor and crushes it under his boot. Harrison tries not to imagine the guy doing the same thing to his head.

"Now," O'Toole says, leaning back against the leather, "you have exactly five minutes to convince me not to kill you both."

"Oh, this is going good," Harrison mutters to Fraser.

Fraser ignores him, clearing his throat again. "Sir, forgive me for being blunt, but-- you are aware of Mr. McKenna's true identity?"

O'Toole's eyes narrow again. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"But," Fraser says with a frown, "you--"

"Fraser," Harrison hisses. "Zip it."

O'Toole gives him a long, measuring look, and then says abruptly, "Get out."

Harrison jerks, startled, but he's talking to the thugs. The three behind the sofa head immediately for the door; the giant lingers, shooting O'Toole a questioning look. O'Toole just shakes his head, and finally the giant goes.

O'Toole rises, tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants. "Come on."

Harrison and Fraser exchange looks, and Harrison just shrugs. Then they follow O'Toole through a long hallway to a laundry room, and even that's palatial, with an industrial-size washer and dryer. Harrison wonders how one man could produce enough laundry to justify the setup, and can't help thinking that maybe he just gets a lot of blood on his clothes.

O'Toole closes the door and locks it, and Harrison's heart jumps into his throat.

"Bug-killers," O'Toole explains, gesturing around the room. "No one's gonna check the laundry room, right?"

Fraser nods. "A fairly ingenious setup, I must say."

"Right," O'Toole says after a moment. He leans back against the dryer and folds his arms over his chest. "So. I'm guessing you guys are cops?"

Harrison glances at Fraser again, and sees his own surprise mirrored on the Mountie's face.

"Yeah," O'Toole says, in response to the unasked question. "I know, and I'm the only one who does. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Excuse me for asking," Fraser begins, "but how-- why--"

He breaks off, and it's maybe the first time Harrison's ever seen Fraser at a loss for words.

"You first," O'Toole says, resting a heavy hand on his gun. Harrison swallows again. "Cops or not?"

"Not," Harrison says quickly. "Not me, anyway. I'm a P.I.-- I have a license--" He reaches slowly for his wallet.

"Forget it," O'Toole says, and he drops his hand back to his side. "Don't need to see it. You?" he asks Fraser.

"Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser says. "Of course, I have no jurisdiction here."

O'Toole frowns. "What's a Mountie doing here?"

"Well," Fraser begins, "I first came to Boston on the trail of--"

"Fraser," Harrison says.

"Never mind," O'Toole says. "How do you know McKenna?"

Fraser hesitates. "I, ah, we worked together. In Chicago. I was stationed at the Canadian Consulate, and I liaised with the Chicago Police Department through Ra-- Mr. McKenna."

Harrison shrugs. "I'm just a friend."

"You," Fraser says, and hesitates again. "You don't know his real name?"

O'Toole shakes his head. "Hell no. Never asked."

Fraser licks his lips, and Harrison's momentarily distracted by the flick of his pink tongue. "Mr. O'Toole, please--"

"Call me Pete," O'Toole says.

"All right," Fraser agrees, though Harrison is shaken by the very idea of being on a first-name basis with Peter O'Toole. "Ah, Pete, you-- if I may ask...."

He trails off without actually asking, but O'Toole gets it. His lips curve in a chilling smile.

"I knew who he was," he says. "How's not important. Fact was, we had... mutually beneficial... goals."

"You made a deal, you mean," Harrison says.

O'Toole gives him a cool look. "You, I don't like so much. Why don't you let your friend here do the talking?"

"Yessir," Harrison mutters.

Fraser cocks a pointed eyebrow at him, then asks, "But you did make a deal?"

"Yeah," O'Toole says. He doesn't elaborate.

Harrison bites his tongue.

"You kept R-- Neil's secret, in exchange for...what?" Fraser sounds lost.

"Power," Harrison blurts out, losing the battle to hold his tongue.

"You don't get to talk yet," O'Toole tells him, and Harrison resists the urge to roll his eyes.

But at least Fraser's getting it now. "I... see," he says slowly. "With your brother gone, you now have control of your organization, yes?" He looks unhappy. Harrison supposes it's not a motivation Supermountie can really comprehend.

Hell, he doesn't much get it either. He'd gladly give up all his newfound power just to have Tru back. Even knowing how much money he could make off this, he'd do it in a second. And Meredith... well, he doesn't really like her most of the time, but he still wouldn't have wanted her coke addiction to land her in jail, even if he could've somehow gotten something out of it.

He guesses that's probably why he was only ever a small-time crook. There's still things he's not willing to give up.

"You don't approve," O'Toole says into the silence.

Real observant, there, Harrison thinks.

"I don't understand," Fraser says after a moment, and Harrison figured it was only a matter of time before Fraser's Canadian politeness ended up saving his ass.

O'Toole looks amused. "Would you understand better if I said he's a sadistic asshole? Or that he's fifteen years older than me, and we were never very close?"

"I would," Harrison says. "But I'm not supposed to talk, right?" He smiles.

O'Toole ignores him, which is a relief, all things considered. He's watching Fraser. "Well?"

"I believe your brother was a criminal," Fraser says, raising his chin, "and he deserved to go to jail. However, were I in your position, I don't believe I would do the same."

Harrison closes his eyes. And things were going so well....

"Wrong," O'Toole says, pointing a finger at him. "If you were in my position, you'd know why I did. You don't get to my position without being that person."

"Are you willing to be equally as cavalier with Neil McKenna's life?" Fraser asks quietly.

"Right now," O'Toole says, his voice just as soft, "I need McKenna. So no, I'm not willing."

There's a silence. Harrison cautiously opens one eye.

"So!" O'Toole says, with a faint smirk. "Now that's out of the way, and we're all such good friends here, you guys wanna tell me what the hell you want from me?"

The first thing Ray notices, when he wakes up, is that he really wants a smoke.

It's not the first time today he's been roused from rude unconsciousness, nor is it even the most painful, but it's the first time he's woken up craving a nicotine fix. And he's in trouble, he knows he's in serious trouble here, but all he can think at first is Shit, is now he's officially hooked again, is now he's gonna have to quit... again. Because it was so much fun the first two times.

He's not sure the Inuvik general store even stocks nicotine patches.

Ray opens his eyes cautiously, mindful of what happened last time-- Flaherty keeps injecting shit in his arm to knock him out, and every time he wakes up his eyes are more light-sensitive and his headache's worse, it's like the never-ending hangover from Hell-- but all he sees is darkness.

The second thing he notices is that he's in the trunk of a car.

Well, this is new.

Flaherty cold-cocked him not a block from Harrison's place, and Ray should've seen it coming, but he'd been lazy and stupid from sex and Ben and sex with Ben. By the time he clocked his tail, it was already too late. He woke up in an empty room somewhere, cuffed to a radiator, and even if he wasn't gagged, he didn't think anyone would be around to hear him yell. Everyone knows how Flaherty does business, and more to the point, they know where.

That still didn't stop him from mumbling threats and obscenities at Flaherty through the gag. And then Flaherty backhanded him, and called him "Kowalski", and Ray knew he was a dead man.

He doesn't know how Flaherty sussed him, and right now he doesn't much care. He's focused on the fact that in a few hours, unless Ben and Harry manage to pull something off at the last minute, he's going to die.

He's also struck by the idea that for Harrison, it's already happened. He's trying very hard to repress that thought.

At least now he knows who did it, and why.

It's not much consolation.

Flaherty didn't say much to him after that, just kept pumping crap into his veins. After the third time, Ray started to seriously worry, and had to remind himself that he died from a bullet to the brain, not an OD.

And now he's in the trunk, and the spare tire is digging into his back, and if he thought he had a headache before, now it's the Dirty Dozen Brass Band in there. The pain and the residual drugs are making it hard to concentrate, but he forces himself to focus on details. The car's not moving-- they're parked somewhere. Which means either they just arrived at their destination, or Flaherty's stopped somewhere for a Slurpee run, or-- and this one's his personal favorite-- he's in the car because Flaherty's running out of places to hide him. He prefers that one because it means someone's getting close to Flaherty, someone's breathing down his neck, and Ray'd place even odds it's a guy who looks good in a big hat.

Ben can track a moose over a fucking glacier. Flaherty doesn't stand a chance.

Although, he tries not to think, Ben hasn't been in a city for a long time....

Earlier that afternoon, he and Ben were lying naked on the floor. Now he's got a split lip from where Flaherty smacked him, his shoulders ache from having his hands cuffed behind him, his fingers are numb from lack of circulation, and he thinks he's starting to bleed where the metal's cutting in.

So much for the afterglow.

Ray knows Flaherty's waiting for the streets to empty, and he knows what Flaherty will do when that happens.

He just doesn't know how much time's passed, or how much time he has left.

Benton is appalled that Ray considers Peter O'Toole a friend. They seem fundamentally incompatible; Ray is fiercely loyal, and Mr. O'Toole appears to be anything but. I owe Pete my life, Ray said, and Benton wonders if he was referring to O'Toole's silence. He wishes he had known then, had taken Ray by the shoulders and shaken him, said You don't owe him anything, he did it for himself.

But it wouldn't have mattered to Ray, and that's what makes him different from this man.

He was expecting to have some difficulty convincing O'Toole that Maurice Flaherty had turned against him, but O'Toole accepted the idea with relative equanimity, making it even harder for Benton to comprehend his world. Friends and family betraying each other, all for more power-- no wonder criminal enterprise seems doomed to implode, if this is how they conduct their business.

"If Morrie knows what we know," O'Toole explained, "which I don't have to tell you, we don't talk about once we leave this room, it'd be good enough ammo for him to try and take over. Either I can't spot a cop, or I'm working with 'em."

It was this, more than any sense of duty or obligation, that prompted Benton to say, "We believe Mr. Flaherty may also have been the one to take out the contract on your life."

"Wouldn't be surprised," was all O'Toole said.

They agreed to meet at the warehouse an hour before Ray's intended time of death, and O'Toole gave Harrison back his gun, and when they finally make it out of there Benton feels like every inch of his skin is trying to crawl off his body.

"Why do I feel," he asks Harrison when they arrive at the car, "as though we've just made a deal with the lesser of two evils?"

Harrison snorts and shakes his head, unlocking the door. "'Cause you're a Pollyanna, Fraser, you think the good guys win and the bad guys lose."

"I thought I was a Bad News Bear," Benton feels compelled to say.

"Whatever. You're a frustrated Pollyanna who's turned into a Bad News Bear because the world doesn't work the way you'd like. The fact is, compared to how things could've gone, that just went fucking fantastic." But he, too, looks worried as he slides into the driver's seat, and more than a little frightened.

He leans over and unlocks the passenger side door, and Benton gets in and buckles his seat belt. Staring straight ahead, he asks, "So what now?"

Harrison sighs. "We get something to eat, kick back, and fret our little asses off for the next--" he checks the time-- "three and a half hours. Then at midnight we move out."

"Splendid idea," Benton says, as Harrison starts the car and pulls away from the curb. "Where shall we eat?" He doesn't think Harrison intends to cook, and he's not surprised when his suspicions are confirmed.

"We'll swing by the morgue, see if Davis wants to stop at the diner," Harrison says. "Only fair to fill him in, anyway."

Benton's quiet for a moment, and then when Harrison doesn't volunteer any more information, he decides to ask. "What exactly is your relationship with Mr. Davis?"

"Just Davis," Harrison says. "I think it's his middle name." He pauses. "Um, he was Tru's boss, she worked there when she first... found out. That she could do, y'know. This." He gestures vaguely, indicating, Benton supposes, his ability to relive the day.

Benton frowns. "And she just told him?"

"Nah, he figured it out. He was...." Harrison trails off and sighs, then begins again. "Our mom, she, uh, she did the same thing. And she saved his life once, and so that's how he knew."

"I see," Benton says.

"And, you know, he helped Tru. With whatever." Harrison sighs again. "And lord knows I could use all the help I can get."

A sudden thought occurs to him. "You mean this will happen again sometime?"

"Count on it," Harrison says, sounding dismal. "Which, I always thought it would be kinda neat, you know? But this whole thing, I just, I don't know. I don't think I can do it. I mean, look at this-- we got Ray freakin' kidnapped."

"We don't know that's our fault," Benton argues, and Harrison gives him an odd look.

"Whatever. Point is, we lost him, and now the killer's got him."

"He's not dead yet, Harrison," Benton says severely. "And I intend to keep it that way."

"And I'm what, chopped liver? Of course we intend to keep it that way. It just doesn't always work like that."

"Your sister," Benton says slowly. "She lost people?"

Harrison doesn't answer for a minute.

"I did," he says finally, staring fixedly out the windshield. "Well, yeah, she did too. But the first time, it was my fault."

"I highly doubt that, Harrison."

"Yeah?" he snaps, turning around to glare at Benton. "Doubt away. I talked Melissa out of killing herself, and then I left her and she did it anyway. So don't--"

"Harrison--"

"--tell me I'm, like, a fucking superhero, because I'm not. Tru was the hero. I'm just a fuck-up."

"Harrison," Benton says, "watch the road, please."

Harrison makes an annoyed face, but he does turn back to face the road ahead.

Benton hesitates and wets his lips, wondering what he can possibly say to that, what's the truth and what Harrison needs to hear. "It seems to me," he says finally, "that whatever force chose you for this, if there is in fact a force behind it and not just random happenstance, which seems unlikely, that force did so for a reason. If all you are is, as you say, a fuck-up, then you wouldn't have been chosen in the first place."

And that is true, inasmuch as it's what he genuinely believes, and he hopes it fulfills the other criteria as well. He's not used to seeing Harrison like this, angry and frustrated and self-defeating, and he's surprised to find that it hurts him. He realizes that he has come to rely on the young man's resilience, and it's almost frightening to see that resilience stripped away, however briefly.

What the hell was that kiss about, Harrison asked that morning when he first walked in, and Benton hasn't dared ask him to elaborate, but he's starting to see how it could happen. He never thought he would betray Ray like that, but if he did, it makes sense that it would be with a man who reminds him so much of Ray that it makes him ache.

Harrison looks unconvinced by Benton's reassurances, but he doesn't say so. "Yeah," is all he says, "maybe."

And then, "Ask me again in four hours, then we'll see."

Ray didn't mean to fall asleep again, but there's fuck-all else to do, and the next time he opens his eyes, they're gummy and scratched. The gag's soggy in his mouth and his wrists are screaming bloody murder, but he holds his breath and lies very still, and then he hears it again, the sound that woke him up.

Footsteps, coming closer. Then metal on metal, the key in the lock. Flaherty's voice.

Ray squirms into position the best he can, holds his knees against his chest and waits, and as soon as he sees streetlight glow and a dull red slice of night sky, he kicks out as hard as he can.

One boot hits flesh and the other hits metal, and there's a piece of luck right there, he thinks, he hit Flaherty's gun and now the fucker's disarmed, and if he can do it again, maybe aim for the face this time--

--except, nice try but no cigar, because Flaherty's disarmed and he's clutching his wrist and howling, but suddenly there are four more guns in Ray's face and he freezes, legs already pulled up for another kick.

Of course Flaherty wouldn't be alone. He should have expected as much.

"You shit," Flaherty snarls, and he grabs Ray's collar with his left hand and hauls him one-handed out of the trunk. Ray's very briefly impressed before a fist slams into his solar plexus and he doubles over, wheezing for air through the wet cotton rag in his mouth.

Flaherty grabs his hair and brings a knee up to his face, impacting hard with his cheekbone. He turns his yell into a grunt, and anyway it's muffled by the gag.

When Flaherty lets go of his hair, he collapses onto the pavement.

The goons haul him back to his feet, and somehow Ray manages to stay upright, even though he's still having trouble getting air and he kind of wants to throw up in his mouth. Flaherty's retrieved his gun, and he's checking it carefully before he slides it back into his holster.

"That all you got?" Ray asks, trying to sound cocky, except it comes out as "Taayagah?"

But Flaherty gets the message. His lips curl in an unpleasant smile.

"You're an object lesson, Kowalski," he says. "I got all it's gonna take."

Ray narrows his eyes, and feels cold dread settle in his stomach.

The goons half-push, half-pull him down an alley to the back of a warehouse, to a small metal door next to a shuttered loading dock. He closes his eyes and sways a little as Flaherty opens the padlock, and then snaps them open again when the goons shove him forward and he stumbles through the door.

It's dark inside, the only illumination from the red-and-white strobing of the neon billboard out the window. Ray blinks rapidly, trying to get his bearings, and then promptly loses them again when the goons drag him to the middle of the empty floor and force him down onto his knees.

Flaherty kneels down in front of him, just out of head-butt range, and smiles. "Detective Kowalski. It's Detective, right?"

"No," Ray mumbles. Not anymore, it isn't.

"You know," Flaherty says, "I feel like I'm meeting you for the first time. Neil McKenna, he never really existed. But Stanley Kowalski--"

"Ray," Ray says, as clearly as he can through the gag.

"I have to say," Flaherty continues, ignoring him, "I never liked Neil." He smiles again. "Always thought he was a son of a bitch."

"Yeah, that hurts, coming from you," Ray retorts. Again he's unintelligible, and again Flaherty catches his meaning. His smile widens, and he leans the barrel of his gun against Ray's forehead.

Ray swallows.

"I hate talking to myself," Flaherty remarks. "So why don't we get a little dialogue going, hmm?"

He slides the barrel down Ray's face to his mouth, between wet fabric and skin, and Ray can't help following its progress out of the corner of his eye. Then Flaherty yanks the gag out with the gun barrel, and suddenly Ray's mouth is free and he's sucking in great lungfuls of air, oh it feels good, and then while he's still got a mouthful of saliva he spits in Flaherty's face.

The punch snaps his head to the side, and his already-aching cheekbone flares into little tap-dancing sparks of pain. Ray shakes his head, forces himself to grin, even though grinning hurts like a motherfucker.

"You love the sounda your own voice, don't you, Morrie?" he asks.

Flaherty stands slowly. He's not smiling anymore.

"Any last words, Detective?" he asks, raising the gun and thumbing off the safety with a loud click.

Ray feels his grin fade. He raises his chin and stares into the darkness over Flaherty's shoulder, and a cold, queer certainty settles over him. This is it. He's about to die.

And Ben won't just leave it alone, Ben will track down Flaherty and try to bring him to justice, and Ben's going to get his stupid ass killed too...

...and. Ben.

Is staring at him.

Ray blinks, thinking he's seeing things, he's snapped and he's hallucinating or else he's dead already-- but no, up there in the dark, on the second floor catwalk and looking down at him, like some kind of Roman emperor about to give the thumbs up or the thumbs down, Ray can never remember which one means the guy got to live--

--it's Ben, and he's the best thing Ray's seen in his whole sorry life.

Ben slides his thumb along the side of his nose and nods at Flaherty. Keep him talking.

Ray winks and obliges.

"So how'd you make me, anyway?" he asks.

"Does it matter?" Flaherty responds.

"Professional pride," Ray says. "I thought I was doin' good. What happened?"

Flaherty smirks at him. "Connections, Kowalski. Got a friend who worked with you, once upon a time."

"It was Krohn, wasn't it?" Ray asks. "That prick." Good old Agent Krohn, who'd turned around and started selling info to the same people he and the Feds had busted their asses to take down. No one wanted to tell Ray any details, but he got the name, managed to browbeat that much out of them at least.

He'd never liked Krohn, anyway. The guy drank designer martinis. That should've been his first clue.

Flaherty's smirk gets nastier. "Funny, he still had some professional ethics. Never told me who the plant was... until he heard you were a fag now. Then he had no qualms about spilling the beans."

Ray goes blank, just for a second. He can't take it in right away. Does not compute.

Flaherty clucks with mock-sympathy. "You let down the brotherhood, Kowalski. You're fair game now."

And then suddenly he's trembling with white-hot rage, so incandescent with it he can hardly see. Krohn, fucking Krohn, selling him out to Maurice fucking Flaherty because of Ben, or no, not even Ben, nothing so concrete as that-- Krohn thinks he's not a cop anymore, he's not worth protecting because of where he sticks his dick--

--and the worst part is, he can't even remember Krohn's first fucking name.

Krohn made some kind of deal, back when they first found him out, wasn't even prosecuted or anything. Not this time. Ray's gonna track him down, and he's gonna make sure the fucker burns.

Track him down. He's going to get out of here, and he's going to track down Krohn, and to do that he has to focus. Here, now. Forget about Krohn, save that for later. He needs Ben, and Ben needs him, and if he doesn't play this right they're both dead.

"So it wasn't anything I did," he says, and is awed at his own calm. Keep him busy, keep him talking. "He just told you, just like that."

Flaherty shakes the gun at him like a wagging finger. "Now, Detective, let's not get ahead of ourselves. You've been poking around in my private business. I asked around, and our mutual friend answered."

"What's wrong, Morrie, you got something to hide?" Ray narrows his eyes, or his right eye, anyway; the left one's already swelling shut. "Maybe something about that contract on Pete's life, you know, something you wanna share with the rest of us? Sharing's caring, Morrie, or didn't you ever go to preschool?"

"Sure," Flaherty says. "Best years a my life, finger-painting like that."

"You took out the hit on Pete, didn't you?" Ray presses. "Jesus, you're planning a bloody fucking coup. What, you miss the old days so much, you decided to reenact 'em?"

Flaherty's smirk fades abruptly, leaving him narrow-eyed and steely. "Peter O'Toole is a joke," he growls. "You know, he actually thought the Italians put the hit on him? The Italians wouldn't touch him. He's a non-fucking-entity. I grew up with Colin, I know how this organization's supposed to be run-- Colin never would've done business with a fucking cop."

"Oh, no," Ray says sarcastically. "Just a crooked Fed. Big diff."

Flaherty glowers down at him. "Why'd you come back, Kowalski?"

"Favor for a friend," he says.

"Your mistake. Pete don't have friends."

"What's he need friends for, when he's got you?"

Flaherty's smile is cold and humorless.

"Good bye, Detective," he says, and cocks the trigger.

Ray closes his eyes. He wonders if he'll feel anything, if he'll even notice.

He flinches when he hears the first gunshot.

And then there's a second, and a third and a fourth and a fifth, and it's slowly starting to dawn on him that if he were dead, he wouldn't be hearing all those shots.

When Ray opens his eyes again, Flaherty and his goons are lying dead on the floor and Peter O'Toole is striding out of the shadows, surrounded by armed men.

The relief is so great, it's almost suffocating. "Jesus, Pete," he gasps. "You took your sweet fucking time."

"Sorry about that," Pete says, with an odd look in his eyes that Ray can't quite place, that's making him a little uneasy. "I didn't want to interrupt your conversation."

"Pure fucking Shakespeare," Ray says, shifting uncomfortably on his knees; he's not even sure he can stand, not without sitting down first, maybe doing some stretches. "So hey--"

--how about getting these cuffs off, he means to say, but that's as far as he gets before Pete stops about five feet away, pulls his gun, and aims right between Ray's eyes.

Ray stares at him, thunderstruck. The words die in his throat.

"Detective Kowalski, is it?" Pete asks, and pulls the hammer back with a loud click. "Thank you for your services rendered. Consider this your termination."

"Where's Fraser?" Harrison asks under his breath, as he watches the scene unfolding below, Flaherty threatening Ray. It makes him itch, makes him wants to go down there and do something, but O'Toole's got a plan and more importantly he's got guys with guns, so Harrison waits on the catwalk with Fraser and the giant. And he knows why the giant's there, and that's making him itch too, but what he doesn't know is where Fraser's got off to, in the maybe five seconds since Harrison took his eyes off him.

"Dunno," rumbles the giant, whom Harrison's brain keeps insisting on calling Andre even though he said his name was Mike. Andre looks displeased. "Was gonna ask you the same thing."

Harrison frowns. This is not good. No way he just lost a Mountie.

"Can't have gone far," he mutters, then hisses, "Fraser! Where the hell--"

"Forget him," Andre says, from way too close to Harrison's ear.

Alarm bells go off, and he starts to turn, to pull away from the giant. He's stopped by heavy hands on his wrists, twisting them up behind his back.

Harrison thinks about fighting back. Then he thinks about being stepped on like a bug.

He doesn't fight. Not yet, at least.

Instead, he tries to keep his voice even, twisting his head around to catch a glimpse of Andre's face. "I miss something?"

"Just watch," Andre says, and Harrison doesn't have a hell of a lot of options. So he does.

He watches Flaherty cock the trigger, and he wants to close his eyes, but he doesn't. Because O'Toole's gonna do something. Right?

Shit, they wouldn't have come all the way out here if he wasn't gonna do something. Anything.

Ray does close his eyes, and it makes Harrison's insides twist. This is-- no. He can't watch this. He can't just--

Gunshot.

Flaherty's head explodes.

And then four more shots in quick succession, and Flaherty's thugs are down too, but Harrison can't relax, can't just-- there's something wrong, something going on or O'Toole wouldn't have sicced the fucking giant on him, and--

O'Toole's voice carries all the way up to the catwalk. "Detective Kowalski, is it? Thank you for your services rendered. Consider this your termination."

"Oh hell no," Harrison says, and stomps heavily on the giant's foot.

Andre grunts but doesn't loosen his hold. Harrison tries again.

"Stop that," the giant says calmly.

"Then let me go, you freakin' ape!" Harrison's not trying to keep quiet now, figures O'Toole would expect him to object to this turn of events. He sees Ray's eyes flick toward him, then back to O'Toole, and he says something to him that Harrison can't hear.

"Sorry," Andre says, and he really does sound sorry, which just makes Harrison want to hit him even more. "Just doin' my job."

"Your job sucks," Harrison hisses, twisting futilely in his grasp. "What the-- what the hell does he think he's doing, Jesus motherlovin' Christ--"

"Dude's a cop," Andre says, sounding puzzled.

"Oh, fucking news flash! O'Toole knew that!"

"Well, yeah," Andre says. Now he sounds like he's talking to an idiot. "And now the other guys do too."

"That ungrateful fuck," Harrison growls. This can't be happening. He can't do this, not again. He had to watch Tru die. He's not anxious for a repeat.

Repeat. Repeat day. He was supposed to save Ray, not watch O'Toole shoot him.

But he's doing it, Andre the Giant's the immovable fucking force, or irresistible object, except neither of those sound right but it doesn't matter anyway because he can't get free, he can't do anything and where the hell is Fraser, getting a fucking manicure or something?

"Harrison," Fraser says behind him, and Harrison thinks dizzily, Wow. Fast manicure.

"You," the giant snarls, and infinitesimally loosens his grip on Harrison's wrists, enough so maybe he can feel his fingers again someday.

"Duck," Fraser says, matter-of-factly.

It takes Harrison a second to absorb this. Then he yelps and throws himself forward, against the railing of the catwalk.

The giant doesn't duck in time; he's got farther to go. Fraser's two-by-four impacts his skull with a satisfying thwack.

Andre hits the floor, out like a light.

"Harrison," Fraser says again, breathlessly, dropping the two-by-four. "Now, hurry--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He clings to the railing, hauling himself back up, and fumbles for his gun. His wrists are sore and his fingers are tingling all pins-and-needles, and he almost drops the gun to the warehouse floor before he manages to wrap his hands around the grip and prop his wrists up on the railing.

He's panicking, clumsy with haste, positive O'Toole must've heard something-- but no, he's still down there, talking to Ray. Ray answers back, and Harrison can't see his face, but whatever he says makes O'Toole's expression darken, and Harrison thinks, Take that, fucker.

He licks his lips and asks softly, "Whaddya think? Warning shot?"

Fraser's watching the action too. He looks grim.

"Make it count," is all he says.

Great. Room for artistic interpretation. He can work with that.

O'Toole raises his gun again, and Harrison braces his wrists, squints, and shoots.

The bullet hits O'Toole in the shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to the floor. Harrison barely has time to admire his handiwork before Fraser pulls him back from the catwalk, pushing him to the floor just as the thugs turn and fire back at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ray throw himself to the side, taking advantage of the thugs' distraction to roll into the shadows. Then he's distracted himself by the feel of Fraser's body pressed full-length against his back, shielding him.

"Nice shot," Fraser breathes into his ear.

Harrison squirms, trying not to enjoy it too much. "Would it be too clichd to say I was aiming for his head?"

"I'll try not to hold it against you," Fraser says, which isn't helping with the enjoyment thing, like, at all, and then he rolls off Harrison and onto his feet, which does help some but is also pretty damn disappointing. He pulls Harrison up as well, and they run for the stairs, spurred on by the sound of gunfire behind them.

Ray's waiting for them when they descend, crouched under the stairs and trying to work his cuffed hands around in front of him, and suddenly Harrison understands why Tru gave him those huge hugs every time she rewound to save his ass. But Ray's not in a hugging mood; when he sees Harrison, the first thing he says is, "Pick me."

"All right," Harrison says, blinking. "I choose you, Pikachu."

Ray rolls his eyes. "Pick the cuffs, Einstein."

The gunshots are getting closer. Harrison squeezes in next to Ray, behind the dubious protection of the metal staircase, and gets to work.

"Ray," Fraser says softly, behind him.

Ray glances over his shoulder, and the heat, the intensity in his eyes is more than Harrison can take right now. He drops the picks and ducks his head to retrieve them. He doesn't want to see that look. It's not for him, it's for Fraser, and he's pretty sure if he gets in the way, Ray's eyes will burn right through him to get to their intended target.

Which is a bizarre mental image, and he clings to that, because it's better than some of the other images he's been having.

Then, "Hey," Ray says, "come on, come on, we don't got time for a picnic here," and Harrison feels the lock click open.

"Got it," he says unnecessarily, as the cuffs fall away. Ray's wrists are rubbed raw and bleeding, and he wants to-- God, he wants to touch them, taste them, and he doesn't even know where that's coming from, some kind of vampire fetish or what?

What with the adrenaline and the running around and the full-body contact, his dick's starting to forget it just got sucked a few hours ago, or maybe it's remembering, hey, that was hours ago and let's get some attention down here already.

Which. Bad timing.

"Greatness," Ray says, rubbing his wrists, and Harrison drags his eyes away from them with some effort. He leans out from behind the staircase and fires blindly a few times, more to distract himself than anything else. He's pretty sure he's not hitting anything.

"Ray," Fraser says again, in a different tone of voice, and Ray nods and fumbles around in his coat pockets. He produces a pair of black plastic-framed glasses and slips them on his nose.

"Gimme that," he says to Harrison, reaching for the gun.

"I got it," Harrison protests, but weakly. He's a decent shot, but nothing to write home about.

Fraser obviously agrees. "Ray has better aim than you do. He--" He pauses, as an idea seems to occur to him. "Ray, are you still licensed?"

"Not the time, Ben," Ray says, and grabs the gun out of Harrison's hand.

It's kind of cramped, the three of them squeezed into the small space behind the stairs, and when Ray leans over him to poke his head out, his hair brushes against Harrison's chin in a way that's more than a little distracting.

Then a bullet slams into the wall next to the staircase, and Ray jerks his head back, smacking the back of his skull into Harrison's chin.

"Shit," Ray mutters.

"Ow," Harrison retorts.

Ray rubs the back of his head and glares at him. "Holster that jaw there, Butch, before someone gets hurt."

"Yeah," Harrison says, "like me," but Ray's sticking his head out again, and this time he fires, five times in quick succession. Harrison tries to do the mental math, counting how many bullets are left, and then it's moot anyway because the hammer falls onto the empty chamber with a desolate click.

"Shit," Ray says again, pulling back. "You got--"

"Here," Harrison says, tossing the extra clip at him.

"Beauty," Ray says. He slams the clip home and fires three more shots. Then he pauses, as though debating something, and fires once more.

"Come on," he says, crawling out from behind the stairs. After a moment, Harrison and Fraser follow.

Harrison expects to see O'Toole and his henchmen dead in a heap, but to his surprise they're just maimed, lying on the floor and clutching their various bullet wounds. Ray keeps the gun trained on them as he marches across the floor, kicking their weapons toward Fraser, who collects them all in a neat pile.

Harrison looks around, but there's really nothing for him to do.

"Maybe I'll go get a snack," he says, to no one in particular.

Fraser cocks an eyebrow at him, but Ray's not paying attention. He's focused on O'Toole, bleeding from the hole in his shoulder and another one in his leg, and looking righteously pissed.

Ray smiles coldly. "How you doin', Pete?"

"If you're gonna kill me," O'Toole snaps, "do it."

"Yeah," Ray says, seeming to think about it. "That would be fun."

"You're a dead man, Kowalski. All of you--"

Ray makes a blah-blah motion with his hand. "Tell me something I don't know," he says, and then he turns and flashes Harrison a brilliant smile.

Harrison's heart stops. Just a little.

"Harry," Ray says, "call the cops, wouldja?"

"It doesn't have to hurt
It doesn't have to sting
It doesn't have to burn
It doesn't have to mean a thing
It doesn't have to break
It doesn't have to fall
It doesn't have to tear you up
If you can take it to the wall"
--Jane Jensen, "Burner"

AFTER

The sky was just starting to lighten when Harrison pulled the front door shut behind him with one hand, holding his leather jacket closed with the other. He wasn't wearing much under it, just pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, which was more than he usually wore to bed. But as he was not currently occupying his bed, and a Mountie and an ex-cop currently were, he'd figured it wouldn't hurt to be semi-decent.

He couldn't sleep. Five minutes on the lawn chair and he'd started to regret offering Ray and Fraser the bed. Fraser had given token protest, but when Harrison pointed out that they were both about fifteen years older than him and they had arthritis and everything to worry about, Ray had narrowed his eyes, then clapped a hand over Fraser's mouth and dragged him to the bed without a word.

So of course there was no way Harrison could sleep after seeing that.

He'd shrugged on the jacket and slipped out the door as quietly as he could, and now he stood huddled in the frigid air, watching his breath crystallize and wishing he'd stopped to put on shoes.

Harrison was no stranger to the wrong end of the sunrise. He'd just usually had a lot more fun beforehand.

Everything was still pretty much a blur in his mind. The cops had come, and had looked about ready to arrest everyone in the room, the three of them included. Ray lost his temper twice, and Fraser barely managed to restrain him from taking a swing; he'd been building up to volcanic eruption number three when Fraser, in the falsely cheerful tones of a desperate man, had suggested they call Welsh.

When Welsh answered, Harrison could hear the yelling from the cell phone speaker all the way across the room. It was an hour earlier in Chicago, he thought, but apparently it was still too late for McGruff.

When they hung up, the Boston flatfoots looked suitably chastened, and in the end only held them for another four hours or so for questioning.

Harrison supposed it could have been worse. They could have ended up in the holding cells with Pete and the gang.

He frowned and pulled the jacket tighter around him; it felt weird, almost too big, nothing obvious but enough that he was noticing the sag. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and they emerged holding a matchbook and a pack of Marlboros.

That explained it. He'd grabbed Ray's coat by mistake, reached for black leather instead of brown.

His feet were almost entirely numb now, so Harrison sat down gingerly on the step and rested only his heels on the pavement, rubbing his feet against each other for warmth. He still had the cigarettes in his hand, and after a moment he gave a mental shrug and shook one out of the pack.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd smoked-- high school, probably-- but the movements felt old and familiar: strike the match, inhale, close his eyes...

...hack a lung out.

Harrison doubled over, coughing, the cigarette dangling limply between his fingers. He heard a snort behind him, and the door swung shut. He hadn't heard it open.

Unlaced motorcycle boots clomped over to stand beside him, and then Ray sat down, leaned over, and plucked the cigarette from Harrison's fingers with one hand. With the other, he slapped Harrison on the back.

"Those things'll kill ya, you know," he said, and took a deep drag.

Harrison scowled at him, eyes watering. He was wearing Fraser's leather bomber jacket, and wasn't that just the perfect metaphor for their whole twisted relationship, Harrison wearing Ray's jacket and Ray wearing Fraser's. "When did you start smoking, anyway?"

Ray leaned back against the step, propping his elbows on the concrete. "Junior high," he said around the filter, and closed his eyes. "Quit for Stella, started again for the McKenna gig. Quit for Vecchio, and then started for McKenna the sequel." He paused, then opened his eyes and glanced at Harrison.

"Actually," he said, and took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it, "I never wanna see one a these again." He stubbed it out on the step and waved vaguely. "Keep the pack."

"Gee, thanks," Harrison said, eyeing his unwanted cancer sticks.

They were quiet for a few minutes.

"So," Harrison said finally.

"So," Ray agreed. "Nice sunrise."

"Yeah, I'm overcome."

Ray didn't answer, and Harrison looked at him. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed. The winter sunlight highlighted his face with pale gold, sparking brightly off his hair. Even the black eye and the cut lip looked faded, washed out by the dawn.

Harrison swallowed. Then he steeled himself, leaned over, and brushed his lips against Ray's.

Ray's eyes snapped open and he stared at Harrison, but he didn't pull away. And after a second, he brushed back.

The kiss was slow and languorous and unhurried, an early-morning kind of kiss, and by the time his mouth was open and tongues were fully engaged, Harrison was hard and straining at his flannel pajama pants.

It occurred to him, briefly, that they were pretty much in public, sitting there half on the sidewalk, and he really didn't need another indecency charge on his record. One was embarrassing enough.

But it was early morning, and no one was on the street yet anyway, and Ray's full-day growth of stubble was scraping his cheeks, and he was there, Ray was alive and he was there--

And then a hand pushed against his chest, gentle but implacable, and Ray pulled back, breathing hard. Their lips separated with a faint pop.

Harrison licked his lips and stared at the sidewalk, trying to ignore the hand currently burning a hole in his shirt. "Sorry. I shouldn't-- yeah. That was-- that was dumb."

"I should," Ray began, and out of the corner of his eye Harrison saw his throat bob. He finally, mercifully, removed his hand and stood. "Go in. I should go in, so I'll just, I'll do that."

"Sure," Harrison said quickly, still not looking at him. "Yeah. Sure. Go."

Ray hesitated a moment more, and then the boots moved out of his field of vision, and he heard the door open and close again.

Harrison buried his face in his hands and groaned loudly. "Stupid," he told his knees.

They, of course, had nothing constructive to offer.

Ray closed the door and slumped back against it, closing his eyes. His breath came harsh and uneven, and he inhaled deeply and then exhaled, in and out until he thought he had himself under control.

Damn. Damn. That was-- yeah.

Harrison was right. That was dumb.

His dick didn't seem to agree.

Ray took one last deep breath and braced himself, then walked jerkily through the darkened office to the apartment beyond.

Ben was stretched out on one half of the bed, curled on his side with his arms flung across the empty space next to him. Ray stood over him for a few minutes, just watching, and felt his lips curve into a small, stupid smile. When they'd first started sleeping together, Ben had slept stiff as a board, like a corpse all laid out in his coffin, hands folded on his chest and everything. It had freaked Ray the hell out.

Finally he told Ben as much, and the next morning he woke up with 180 pounds of Mountie wrapped around him.

Ben stirred in his sleep and muttered, then stilled. Without opening his eyes, he patted the empty mattress with his left hand.

"Ray," he said, and then frowned and sat up. He looked around. "Ray?"

"Yeah," Ray said, and perched on the edge of the mattress. He gave Ben a light push. "Shove over."

Ben shifted without complaint, and Ray settled his ass more fully on the bed. He kicked his heels against the bedframe and scowled at the carpet.

"Ray," Ben said again, watching him. His voice was thick with sleep. "Are you--"

"I just made out with Harry," Ray said abruptly.

He felt Ben's stare burning into the back of his neck, and hunched his shoulders and picked a piece of lint off his knee.

"Ah," Ben said finally. "I think I may have as well."

Ray blinked and swiveled his head around to stare, his discomfort forgotten. "You think? Like you're not sure?"

"Ray--"

"'Cause that's the kinda thing I think you'd notice, your tongue in another guy's mouth--"

"Ray," Ben said, "Ray, Ray, Ray," and Ray snapped, "Jesus, Fraser, you said you wouldn't do that."

Ben's mouth snapped shut. He blinked at Ray with dark, injured-looking eyes.

Ray mentally replayed his last comment and winced. He'd called Ben Fraser.

He hadn't done that in a while.

"You started it," he muttered, staring at his knees again.

"I may have at that," Ben allowed, after a moment. "Ray-- this morning, when I arrived, Harrison said something about a kiss. I didn't press him for details, but I believe something may have... happened... between us on the first day."

"Oh," Ray said. He felt like an idiot.

And then he blinked and said, "Wait. You're hot for him too?"

He winced again as he spoke, wanting to take back the too as soon as he said it, but Ben didn't seem to notice. Or else he'd figured it was implied by the whole making-out thing. "Ray," he said, sounding amused. "Have you seen the two of you, side by side? In a mirror, perhaps?"

"Haven't been doing lots of primping lately, Ben."

There was a not-quite-comfortable silence.

"So," Ray said. "Uh. What do we do about this?"

Ben sighed.

"We go back to sleep," he said, flipping back the covers, "and talk about it when we're both in a condition to think straight."

"That pun better not've been on purpose."

"What--" Ben blinked. "Ah. Completely unintentional, I assure you."

"Sleep," Ray said, after a moment.

"Indubitably," Ben agreed.

Ray thought about it.

"Scoot over," he said finally, toeing off his boots and shrugging out of Ben's jacket. "My feet are fucking freezing."

Tru's grave was next to their mother's, on a sunny patch of green in the cemetery. Harrison approached them slowly, holding two ragged bouquets of daisies, one in each hand.

"Yo," he said, feeling awkward. "Um. Here." He knelt and placed the bouquets, one at each gravestone. "Uh, there you go."

He stood.

"Uh," he said again, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Happy, uh, deathday, I guess. Sorry I didn't come by yesterday." He paused. "Busy. Figured you guys'd understand."

There was, of course, no answer.

"So," Harrison said finally, into the silence. "I did it. You know, I didn't think-- but I did it, and...."

He trailed off, started again. "How did you guys do it? Every week, or whenever, I just-- is it always this hard? I mean, I guess the mob's not always involved, which, way to throw the new guy a curveball, guys."

If they'd had anything to do with it. Which was by no means a given.

They had so little idea of how any of this worked. Davis and Harrison, they were the only ones left, and they were just the survivors with the second-hand stories. Who, really, was running things? How much had his mother known?

How much had his father known?

It was over two years now since they'd found out Richard Davies had been Jack Harper's predecessor, and was working with Jack the whole time. Since then, Harrison had used every resource at his disposal to track down his father, with a truly stunning lack of success.

He'd looked for Jack, too, and hadn't found him either. Until exactly one year and one day ago, when he turned up, shot Tru, and vanished once again.

Harrison knew he'd probably never find them. He also knew he'd never stop looking. Just like he'd never stop drinking, or gambling, or always chasing that perfect poker hand.

The curse of an addictive personality.

"Look, Tru...." He squatted down in front of her tombstone, tracing the engraved letters-- Trudence Davies. Beloved Sister. "Look, I know I'm not-- well, let's just say, I wouldn't be the universe's first choice to save its ass. I'm a fuck-up and an addict and I'll probably never change. But...."

He trailed off again.

"You know," he said, in a low voice, "if you were gonna pass this on to me, you coulda done it a year ago."

The tombstone stood still and silent.

"Yeah." Harrison sighed, rising again. "Don't work that way. I get it."

He hesitated, scratching absently at the back of his head.

"I'm not good at this crap," he muttered. "I don't know what to say. But, uh. Just."

He paused.

"Thanks," he said finally. "You know. If you had anything to do with this. Just... thanks. For thinking I could do it." He felt his lips curve into a faint smile. "And, hey, screw you for that too, because my life just wasn't complicated enough. But mostly thanks.

"And I wish I coulda helped you. Both of you."

A chill wind shook the leafless tree behind him.

"Yeah," Harrison said, and turned away. "That's it."

As he walked back to the car, he thought he saw a familiar figure, short and stocky with tousled dark hair. But when he looked again, Jack Harper was nowhere in sight.

"Seein' things," he muttered, sliding into the driver's seat.

He checked the backseat before he started the car, just to be sure.

Harrison was already gone when Ray and Benton woke up. It was just after noon, and Ray looked like he could happily sleep a few more hours, but Benton pointed out that it was no way to repay their host's hospitality, lolling around in bed all day. Ray had, in turn, pointed out that Harrison was unlikely to care.

So Benton offered to make pancakes, and that got Ray up in a hurry.

He cooked while Ray showered, losing himself in the pleasant mindlessness of the task, letting his thoughts wander amongst various subjects of no consequence. He was deliberately avoiding the big issues; they were there, and he'd have to think about them eventually, but for now he intended to enjoy the reprieve.

When Ray emerged, dressed in his own grimy jeans and one of Harrison's T-shirts stretched tight across his chest, towel-drying his hair, Benton handed him a plate of pancakes without a word.

They sat down at what looked like a card table and ate in companionable quiet. Benton eyed Ray's slowly-drying hair, soft and mussed like a duckling's down, and resisted the urge to reach across the table and pet it.

He waited until Ray shoveled the last syrup-drenched forkful into his mouth, then stood and cleared the plates away, depositing them in the sink before he broke the silence. "We should talk."

Ray grunted into his coffee. Benton took that as an assent.

"My father," he began, sitting down at the card table again, "once told me that man is an inherently polygamous creature. The mating habits of apes, in order to ensure the survival of the species, entail--"

"Ben," Ray interrupted, looking a little green. "Remember those things we don't talk about at breakfast?"

"Certainly, Ray," Benton said. "Corpses, rotting caribou skins, Diefenbaker's digestive problems, your ex-wife's relationship with Ray Vecchio--"

"Yeah, thanks for the recap, Ben." Ray pushed his coffee away, looking resigned. "Let's add monkey mating habits and your father's sex life, and go from there."

Benton stared at him, feeling a little lost. Without analogy, he had no idea how to start this conversation.

Ray sighed. "Look. I stepped out. You did too, but it didn't count. We think. I don't--" He paused, and Benton saw him swallow. "I don't wanna lose you, that's the last thing I want, but, uh, I think it's your call right now."

"God no," Benton said immediately. "I don't, why would I want--"

"I'm just saying, you got the right to be pissed--"

"Ray, what part of we both erred don't you understand?"

"Air--" Ray began, and squinted. "Oh. Got it. Don't stop on my account."

Benton sighed. "Who did or didn't do what is not at issue here. Clearly we both find Harrison attractive, and clearly he's attracted to you as well."

"And you," Ray pointed out.

Benton frowned. "Do you think so?"

"Please. I saw him checking out your ass. Boy's got taste, I'll give him that."

"Of course," Benton mused, "there is one obvious solution," and then he stopped and quailed at the gleam in Ray's eye.

"Ben," Ray said, his wide, mischievous grin giving lie to his faux-scandalized tone. "Have you been reading the Playgirl letter columns again?"

"No!" Benton felt his face heat. "I don't-- I mean, I never--"

"'Dear Playgirl, I never thought this would happen to me--'"

"Ray!" Benton protested.

"'This weekend I had a Mountie sandwich--'"

Lord, his cheeks were burning, but he couldn't resist pointing out the obvious. "You're not a Mountie."

"I could be," Ray said, with another unsettling gleam.

"Ray--"

"Come on, the hat? The hat's got style. I could pull off the hat."

Benton had a sudden flash of Ray during the Volpe case, dressed in red serge and tied to a chair, and found himself painfully hard.

"Yes," he managed to say, through dry lips. "You could."

Ray gave him a shrewd look. Then he smiled, and his eyes became heated and heavy-lidded.

"Y'know," he said softly, "that's actually not such a bad idea."

Benton stared at him; his mind was, for once, a complete blank. "You want to enlist?"

"Yeah, not so much," Ray said, with a quick crack of his neck. His smile became a smirk. "The other thing, I mean. The Harry thing. Think about it."

Benton continued to stare. Ray's right eye was twitching, the unbruised one. Underneath his bluster, he was nervous.

And then he thought about it-- Ray, and Harrison, who looked so much like Ray, two tousled blond heads locked at the lips, two slender, wiry bodies tangled together, and himself tangled with them-- needy, grasping....

Suddenly the room felt far too small.

"Yeah," Ray said softly, watching him. His eyes were smoldering. "Just think about it."

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. He had no words.

And then, from the front office, came the sound of a key in the lock.

Ray's head snapped around, craning over his shoulder to look for the source of the sound. Then he glanced back at Benton, and his lips curved into a smile at once rueful and devilish.

"So," he said brightly. "You wanna ask him, or should I?"

Benton swallowed.

Harrison smelled breakfast as soon as he walked in the door, and blindly followed his nose into the kitchen, where to his immense surprise and delight he found a stack of pancakes waiting. He picked one up with his fingers and took a huge bite, and that was when he turned and saw Ray and Fraser sitting at the card table, staring at him.

"What?" he asked, through a mouthful of pancake.

Ray's eyes narrowed, and he gave Harrison a long, slow head-to-toe look. "Y'look good," he said. "What's the occasion?"

Harrison swallowed with a mighty effort and glanced down at himself. He was wearing his only suit-- wrinkled and ragged, now, but a definite stab at respectability.

"Nothing," he said after a moment. "Business. Boring." He didn't want to talk about Tru or his mother now. He figured he'd already done enough wallowing for about a month.

He grabbed another pancake and folded it up like a burrito. Two pairs of eyes followed it to his mouth.

"Okay, what?" he demanded again. "I got something in my teeth or what?"

They exchanged an unreadable look, except maybe it wasn't so unreadable to them, because Ray nodded and stood.

"Finish eating," Ray said, in a low voice.

Harrison just stared at him for a moment. Then he leaned over the trash can, opened the lid, and spit out a mouthful of half-chewed pancake.

When he straightened, Ray looked kind of stunned. "That," he said after a moment, "was disgusting."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm usually such a beauty queen. What's the deal?"

Ray glanced back at Fraser again. Then he gave Harrison a slow, knowing smirk.

Harrison took an automatic step back, and felt the edge of the kitchen counter pressing into his back. For just an instant, he had a sudden, bizarre flash of dj vu.

And then Ray was crowding him against the counter, hands rising to cup the back of his head, and Harrison had just enough time to shoot Fraser a quick, panicked look before he was being kissed, quite thoroughly kissed and he kept his eyes open, because he wouldn't believe this if he didn't see it, and also because Fraser was giving them this intensely hot look and Harrison couldn't tear his eyes away.

He tried grabbing for Ray's shoulders, missed and ended up clutching his T-shirt instead, and-- he glanced down-- holy crap, Ray was wearing his shirt, the faded gray one with Kiss me, I'm shitfaced emblazoned across the front in green, and Fraser was still watching, and damned if he didn't almost come right there.

Instead, he clung doggedly to the front of Ray's shirt, his shirt, and kissed back until his brain caught up with his mouth, and then he managed somehow to wrench his lips away from Ray's and gasp, "Wait, what?"

Ray took a deep breath. "Do you--" he began, and his voice was so quiet, so tentative, so un-Ray-like that Harrison could only gape-- "d'you want this?"

Harrison hesitated, glancing at Fraser again.

"Both of us," Fraser clarified, and sat back in his chair in a languid sprawl.

Which was just. Okay. He'd never seen Fraser sitting like that, even when he was drunk off his ass. Then he'd just kind of... drooped a little. No sprawling, no languid, and holy God the Mountie was pure sex on a stick.

He supposed it was true what they said-- it never rained but it poured. He hadn't had gay sex in over five years, and now he'd sucked off Isaac St. Germain in the men's room at Wally's one day, and was being offered a threesome the next.

"It's not an essay question, Harry," Ray said. "Simple answer, check one, yes or no."

"You're serious," Harrison said weakly.

"As a heart attack," Ray agreed, and Harrison couldn't help it; he reached up and touched the bruised skin around Ray's left eye, and Ray closed his eyes and didn't pull away.

"We match," Harrison said, referring to his own faded shiner.

"Pair a fucking bookends," Ray murmured.

Fraser cleared his throat and stood. "Is that a yes?"

Harrison turned and stared at him. Ray started doing very distracting things to his neck.

"You're serious too," he said, because this was-- it was weird. Stuff like this didn't just happen.

"I am," Fraser said softly.

Hot damn, Harrison thought, and closed his eyes.

And then he opened them again, as a disturbing thought occurred to him, and he squeaked, "Hey, no, wait," as Ray's mouth started to move down over his collarbone. He twisted his hands in Ray's hair and pulled, and Ray glared up at him.

"Now what?"

"This isn't, like, pity sex, is it?" Harrison asked, a little desperately. "I mean, it's not, like, 'good job' sex, or 'here, have a biscuit' sex, or--"

"It's gonna be nonexistent sex in a minute, you don't shut up," Ray growled. The vibrations traveled all the way to Harrison's toes, veering off and making a not-so-quick pit stop at his dick, and his brain immediately shut off.

"Nngh," he said intelligently.

"I assure you," Fraser said, moving closer, "this is something we both want."

Harrison sucked in a surprised breath and opened his mouth to say-- something, anything, something stupid probably, something that'd kill the mood right there and then Ray would stop nipping at his chest through his rumpled dress shirt, and Fraser would go sit back down and he'd be left alone with the pancakes-- so all in all, it was a damn good thing Fraser kissed him right about then.

And. Oh yeah. He remembered that kiss.

Harrison kissed back as hard as he could, and his hands rose, one tangling in each head of hair, and the last coherent thought he had for a while was that he hoped he'd locked the front door.

Ray, who was a fairly neurotic person at heart and really only made a token effort to hide it, at first couldn't help remembering all the things he'd heard about threesomes-- that they never ended well, that it was a damn good way to get ignored by two people at once, and more often than not somebody ended up with an elbow in the face, and one black eye was quite enough, thank you very much.

But Harrison's hand was gripping his hair, and Harrison was squirming under his mouth and making small, needy sounds, and Ben was warm and solid and there beside him, and then Ray thought that getting the only two men he'd ever slept with in bed with him, together, was maybe the best idea he'd ever heard.

And the fact that Ben had suggested it, even jokingly, was kind of blowing his mind.

He felt it when Ben broke the kiss, felt Harrison shudder, and it was like one of those infinite loop things Ben had told him about, with feedback cycling from Ben into Harry and then back to him, and he inhaled sharply against Harry's skin, and felt Ben gasp and lean in closer in response, and it just kept going, and--

"Bed," Harry said, sounding strangled. "Bed, bed, bed--"

Somehow they made it across the room, shedding clothes all the way, and Harrison hit the bed first and fell backwards across it, his dress shirt unbuttoned and stark against his flushed skin. Ben collapsed next, and pulled Ray down with him, and it was like the best wrestling ever, the three of them just squirming against each other for a few minutes, jockeying for position, and then Harrison fell off the bed.

Ray froze. He and Ben glanced at each other, and then they turned as one and peered over the edge of the mattress.

Harrison waved up at them. He looked resigned. "I knew it wasn't big enough."

"If I may," Ben began, "if we move the mattress to the floor, we can minimize the risk of any more such incidents."

"See," Ray told Harrison, "that's why I keep him around. He's a friggin' genius."

"Nonsense, Ray," Ben said. "I'm merely problem-solving oriented."

The nature of threesomes, Benton knew, was to break down into a pair and an extra. It was a law of nature, a logical precept; any complex combination will, over time, eventually be reduced to its component parts.

He knew, and he would have told Ray as much, if his mental functions hadn't been (however briefly) overshadowed by his hormones.

However, if that happened, it occurred to him that he wouldn't mind that much, as long as he could enjoy the view.

Perhaps he should have been more concerned. Harrison was younger, after all, and admittedly a better match for Ray in temperament, assuming they wouldn't kill each other because of it. But Benton had spent seven years with Ray, five of those years in a close relationship together, and that relationship had been tried by innumerable hardships, including disapproving parents and co-workers, Ray's protracted withdrawal from instant coffee and M&Ms during their quest for the Hand of Franklin, and a fundamental breakdown of communication during a case involving an illegal salvage operation and a ghost ship. While Benton had learned the hard way to avoid developing an excessive sense of security when it came to interpersonal relationships, he knew that in the end, Ray would be there if he wanted him, and vice versa.

So when he found himself gradually withdrawing to the edge of the mattress, on the periphery of the action, so to speak, he welcomed the reprieve and took the opportunity to shamelessly ogle the two remaining participants.

Ray was fully nude, the remainder of his clothes scattered on the floor around the mattress. Harrison was in a similar state of undress, though he still wore his rumpled dress shirt, unbuttoned down the front; Ray had refused to let him remove it. "Y'look good like that," he'd said, when Harrison tried to shrug it off. "Debunked-- debased-- Ben, what's the word?"

"Debauched," Benton suggested, eyeing Harrison's swollen lips and his flushed cheeks, the teeth-reddened skin down the front of his chest.

"Yeah, and I feel like an idiot," Harrison said. But he looked pleased, and he kept the shirt on.

And now Ray had him pinned to the mattress, one hand holding his right wrist above his head, the other reaching down to where their bodies joined at the hips, deftly manipulating Harrison's erection and, on occasion, his own. Harrison twisted beneath him, breathing hard, craning his neck upwards to capture Ray's mouth with his own; but Ray only brushed his lips briefly before pulling back again, and Harrison made a desperate, hungry sound low in his throat. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the grimy curtains, painting their sweaty bodies with a pale orange glow and highlighting their damp, tousled blond hair with streaks of dark gold.

The sound of harsh pants filled the room. Benton realized belatedly that some of the gasps were his.

He leaned back on his elbows, watching the tangled bodies with an avid, heavy-lidded gaze, and reached down between his own legs.

Harrison strained upwards again, but this time his mouth strove for Ray's ear, and he whispered something that caused his cheeks to burn and made Ray jerk and shudder above him. And then Ray took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder at Benton, which was a small shock because he'd suspected they'd forgotten he was there, and he was surprised to realize that it was a relief; perhaps he had been less sanguine about the idea than he had thought.

Benton forced himself to concentrate on the movement of Ray's lips, to listen to his words.

"I got a better idea," Ray said.

Harrison glanced at him, too, and Benton didn't miss his sudden pallor, or the infinitesimal widening of his eyes.

Benton took a deep breath. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarser than he'd expected. "What idea, Ray?"

Ray gave him Grin #2-- the dangerous shark's grin, the one that struck fear into the hearts of perpetrators and mindless lust into one Benton Fraser.

"Do him," he said simply, and rolled off of Harrison, leaving him sprawled and exposed. "It's my turn to watch."

Harrison's eyes darted back and forth between them, like those of a spectator at a tennis match. He seemed to be having trouble forming words.

"You don't have to," Benton heard himself say, though he was fairly certain that the very idea of Ray watching him take Harrison had shut down the majority of his higher brain functions. He licked his lips, and was aware of two pairs of blue eyes fixating on his mouth. "If you don't want-- that--"

"He does," Ray said, with another wolfish grin. "Don't you, Harry?"

Harrison squirmed under their regard. "What am I, twelve? Are you gonna screw me or cook me broccoli?"

"Was that an invitation?" Benton countered.

Tellingly, Harrison's erection, long and slender and deep red, twitched between his legs. Benton stared at it, at the stark white shirttails against his flushed skin, and realized that it was in fact Ray who was the genius, at least when it came to matters of aesthetics. Ray may not have known much about art, but he knew what he liked.

Harrison swallowed, and his throat bobbed enticingly above his open collar. "What if it was?"

"Then I would feel duty-bound to inform you that I excel in preparing a variety of greens, and a small amount of olive oil and lemon juice--"

"Jesus," Ray said. He gripped the base of his erection and shot Benton a glittering, feverish glare. "Yes or no, Ben, I'm dyin' here."

"I was talking about broccoli," Benton pointed out.

"Yeah, I figured that."

"You mean you enjoyed--"

"Don't go there," Ray said, with another glare. "Do not." His face was red, though his lips twitched with what looked like reluctant amusement.

"So should I get the lube, or just go get a snack?" Harrison sounded irritated.

"Sounds like an offer to me," Ray said.

"Then by all means," Benton said, "let's forego the snack."

"Right," Harrison said, suddenly looking a lot less annoyed and a lot more uncertain. "Sure. Um." He rolled over onto his stomach, and with a quick, unreadable glance over his shoulder, stretched an arm over his head and pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser by the bed.

When he sat up and handed Benton a condom and a small tube of lubricant, Benton tried again. "Honestly, this isn't necessary," he began. "If you're not comfortable--"

Harrison grabbed the sides of his face and silenced him with a rough, sloppy kiss.

When he pulled back, he was glaring and Benton was gasping for breath. "Shove it," Harrison said distinctly, "and stick it up my ass. Got it?"

Benton gulped.

"Absolutely," he said.

There was no reason to be nervous, and Harrison told himself as much. After all, he'd asked Ray to screw him. It had been five years since he'd had anything up there bigger than a finger, but even all that time hadn't dimmed the memory of one of the best orgasms of his life. If it was Fraser instead of Ray-- well, he was already naked with the guy, he had to trust Fraser at least a little.

It was just, there was still something about Fraser that intimidated him. He had the same kind of look Tru used to get sometimes, of something dark and quiet and dangerous going on somewhere behind his outward mask. Granted, Fraser's mask was politeness while Tru's had been a kind of exaggerated bitchiness, but otherwise the comparison held up, and goddamn did he not need to be thinking about Tru right now.

Fraser scared the shit out of him sometimes, and he couldn't even say why.

But he'd committed, he was doing this, because his mouth was always two steps ahead of his brain and his mouth loved a challenge. So Harrison waited on his hands and knees, with his eyes closed and his head bowed, taking deep, steadying breaths, and at the first slick touch on his ass he somehow managed not to jump off the mattress.

Fraser stopped, so clearly he'd made some reaction. "Are you all right?"

"Hurry up," Harrison growled.

There was a brief pause, and then the probing resumed and he forced himself to relax. The mattress dipped beneath him, and then Ray's long fingers grasped his chin, raising his head none too gently into a kiss.

The kiss itself was soft and leisurely, Ray's tongue flicking only briefly against his own before retreating again, and when he pulled back there were two fingers in Harrison's ass and he was pushing back against Fraser's hand, panting for more.

A third finger slipped in, accompanied by a slow, tight burn and a breathtaking sensation of fullness, and Ray made a faint, strangled sound. "God, that's hot," he said, in a low voice that seemed to stroke every inch of Harrison's skin. "Ben, Harry, Jesus."

"He can't," Harrison gasped, "he can't help you now," and then with one last stretch the fingers were gone, leaving him empty and gaping, and the now turned into a long, heartfelt groan.

"Smartass," Ray whispered against the side of his throat, and then he bit down and started to suck.

Harrison was only vaguely aware of the sound of crinkling foil behind him, of Fraser shifting on the mattress; every nerve in his body was focused on the sharp point of pain-pleasure in his neck, the blood beneath his skin sizzling between Ray's teeth. He knew it would leave a mark, and the thought made his dick surge. He wondered dimly if he owned any turtlenecks, then realized he was self-employed and he wasn't trying to impress anyone anymore, and then he just closed his eyes again and enjoyed the sensations.

The blunt pressure against his ass shocked him back to awareness, but it was a familiar, almost welcoming pressure, like shifting the Mustang into fifth gear on a long empty stretch of highway; just an instant of resistance before the gearshift slipped home, and then power, vibrating through his body like the best sex in the world. Except this was sex, and it hurt more than he'd expected the second time would, but it had been five years after all.

Fraser slid in slowly, inch by excruciating fucking inch, and for a moment there was just the pain-- Fraser was thicker than he remembered Ray being, or maybe his memory had just been clouded by orgasm; but thinking of that reminded him of how unbelievably good it could be, and he pushed back and forced out through gritted teeth, "While I'm young, Fraser."

"Ray," Fraser hissed, and then he dug his fingers into Harrison's hips and slammed home.

For a second he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even think. If he thought he'd been full before, now he was bursting at the fucking seams, and he wasn't sure his body could take it.

His mouth had opened in an instinctive O, and Ray seemed to take it as an invitation. The kiss was harder this time, a rough, thrusting counterpoint to the dizzying pressure in his ass, and he felt himself melt into it, overwhelmed by Ray's furious need.

Then Fraser pulled out partway, and thrust in again at a slightly different angle, and. There. That was the spot.

Harrison shuddered and dug his fingers into the mattress; he wanted to grab onto Ray, feel slick skin and tensed muscles under his hands, but he needed them beneath him for balance. But it wasn't enough, it wasn't fair, and when Ray pulled back again, he heard himself whimper, and winced inwardly at the raw hunger of the sound.

Ray glanced over his head at Fraser, and made some gesture Harrison had no hope of interpreting, even if he'd had enough blood left in his brain for critical thinking. But Fraser seemed to get it, if Ray's quick, pleased grin was any indication. It wasn't like his earlier grins, the sharp and kind of unnerving ones; this smile was brilliant and oddly sweet, free of the wry edge that made him look so cynical and world-weary, and in Harrison's opinion it didn't last nearly long enough.

Then he was too distracted to have any opinions at all, because Fraser's arms were wrapping around his chest and pulling him backwards, and the whole world just kind of tilted around him. Fraser's dick shifted inside him, rubbing against that magic spot again and wrenching a hoarse yell from his throat, and he'd thought Fraser was balls-deep before but now Harrison was sitting on his fucking lap, speared open like a pig on a spit, and there was nowhere to go but down.

He had just enough air left in his lungs to breathe, "Holy shit."

Ray crouched down in front of him. His eyes were dark. "How you doin'?" he asked quietly.

Harrison stared at him, uncomprehending. "I. Huh?"

Ray's lips quirked. "Good?"

"Ray," Fraser said again, while Harrison was still moving his lips soundlessly, trying to find words. He sounded choked, and Harrison shuddered and gave up on the whole speaking thing. His dick ached in the cool air, and he grasped it, intending to provide some much-needed friction.

"Nuh-uh," Ray said, pushing his hand away. "That's mine."

Somehow Harrison found his voice. "Actually," he managed to say, "I'm pretty sure it's-- ngah-- mine."

"Try the not-talking thing again," Ray advised, closing his fingers around Harrison's hard-on. "That worked for you."

He leaned over Harrison's shoulder, and Fraser shifted beneath Harrison and tilted forward to meet him, and the movement sent bright lights arcing behind Harrison's eyelids.

Fraser started moving his hips.

He fucked Harrison as he kissed Ray, deep, thorough strokes that vaporized Harrison's brain cells with each impact. Ray pumped his dick in time with each thrust, and before long Harrison felt his balls draw up, tasted the faint metallic prick in the back of his throat that told him he was close.

Harrison fisted his hands in Ray's short hair, feeling like if he didn't hold onto something he'd just fly apart, a thousand little Harrison pieces and each one being fucked and stroked within an inch of his life. He clutched at the blond spikes like they were a lifeline and stared blindly at the wall, thinking: Holy crap, this is my life.

Then orgasm hit, and he wasn't thinking about much of anything.

As soon as Ben carefully pulled out, Harrison collapsed against Ray, his eyelids already sliding closed. "That was good," he mumbled into Ray's collarbone. "'Sgood. I'm gonna lie down now."

Ray caught him and lowered him face-down to the mattress, trying not to laugh. "You do that, Harry."

"That's the plan," Harrison said. His head was turned to the side, and he was watching Ray with heavy-lidded eyes.

Looking at him, Ray felt a sudden rush of absurd affection. He was proud of the kid. Harrison had clawed his way up in the world, despite having just lost his sister, and then when life threw him another curveball he'd managed to pull that off too.

And yet, lying there rumpled and half-asleep, he still looked ridiculously young.

He glanced over his shoulder. Ben was in the bathroom, probably looking for a trash can. Then he leaned over Harrison, resting a hand on his shoulder, and lowered his lips to Harrison's ear.

"Thanks," he murmured.

When he pulled back, Harrison blinked up at him sleepily. "What for?"

"I'm not dead," Ray said. "I kind of like it. So thanks."

"Oh, right," Harrison said, and yawned. "Well, it was a personal favor. 'Cause I like you."

Ray reached for Harrison's left arm and turned it around, palm-up. His sleeve had been pushed back to his elbow, and Ray traced a light finger over the tattoo etched there.

"Likewise," he said softly.

Harrison's glanced away, downward, and then he frowned. "You're still," he began, and stopped.

Ray looked down too. He was still hard, though he'd flagged a bit. "Don't worry about it," he told Harrison. "I got it covered."

Ben emerged from the bathroom, and Ray rose to his feet and crossed the room. Ben's eyes darkened as he saw him, and he stopped in his tracks, waiting.

Ray pushed Ben back against the wall and leaned forward, bracing himself against his forearm. Ben's mouth was swollen and flushed, and Ray ran a thumb lightly over his lower lip before kissing him again.

Behind him, Harrison gave an appreciative grunt.

Ray closed his eyes and forgot about everything that wasn't Ben, here, now, under his hands and his lips, wasn't sweaty, come-streaked skin hot against his hard-on; and before he knew it he was humping Ben's hip and grabbing at his hair, breathless and dizzy with the urgency of it.

Ben hummed against his mouth, a low, wordless vibration of pleasure, and his hands came up behind Ray's head and gripped the sides of his skull. He twisted, and Ray was in no condition to offer resistance. A second later, he was the one with his back against the wall, and with one last, lingering kiss, Ben slid slowly down his body to his knees.

"Oh yeah," Ray gasped, "yeah that's good. Oh shit--"

He looked down just as Ben swallowed, taking him all the way down his throat, and then Ben glanced up at him, his eyes dark and hungry and burning.

"Jesus Christmas," Ray said, and tightened his fingers in Ben's hair.

He had to look away, had to or he'd lose it right there-- so he glanced up, meeting Harrison's eyes instead, and shit, that wasn't much better. Harrison was still lying on the mattress, curled up on his side now, and his eyes glittered appreciatively as he watched. A small, satisfied smile curved his lips, and he ran an absent hand through the come drying on his stomach.

"Gah," Ray said. He couldn't stop the sudden jerk of his hips, but Ben took it in stride, pulling back briefly and then drawing him back in.

It seemed safest to close his eyes, so Ray did, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thump. Ben gripped his hips with strong, sure hands, hard enough to bruise, and started sucking in earnest.

"Love you," Ray whispered into the darkness, just before he came.

Harrison was drifting on the edge of sleep, close enough to reach out and touch, when Ray's drowsy voice jerked him back to consciousness.

"What's HTD?"

It took him a minute to put the question in context. Then he sighed and rolled over, reluctantly opening his eyes.

Ray lay on his side, watching Harrison with pale, hooded eyes. Behind him, Fraser slept soundlessly, his head pillowed against Ray's shoulder.

"You're the cop," Harrison said. "Figure it out."

"Not anymore," Ray said, but his eyes came into focus as he thought about it. "The H and D I got. But--"

He stopped.

"Yeah," Harrison said, into the silence. He closed his eyes again. "It was a year ago yesterday."

"Holy crap," Ray said, after a pause. "Shitty day for it."

Harrison shrugged, or tried to anyway; the whole lying-down thing made it kind of half-assed. "That's how it was for her too. Anniversary of our mother's death, suddenly Tru's got superpowers."

"Well thank fuck for symmetry, then."

"She left me everything she had," Harrison said after a moment. He didn't open his eyes; it was easier to talk that way. And he realized, to his surprise, that he did want to talk about it. "I'd just finished my third year working at Fatman's. Detective agency," he added, for clarification. "Three years of regular investigative work in Massachusetts, and then you can get a P.I. license. I'd been talking about opening my own place, more bullshit than anything really, like where was I gonna get the money for that, and then--" He broke off and pressed his lips together, not sure what else would come out if he kept going.

Ray got it. "Then, a year ago."

"Yesterday," Harrison agreed. "What she left, and everything I had, it was just enough." He hesitated. "Not like I was gonna do anything else with it, except maybe lose it all at the track."

"Harrison and Tru Davies."

He felt his lips twist in a smile, was surprised to realize it was mostly genuine. "Think of her like the silent partner."

It hurt less now, to think about it. It was weird, but this whole thing, Tru's gift-- his gift, now. Like she wasn't really dead, if he had that part of her.

He wondered if she'd felt the same way about Mom. If he would too.

He sighed and opened his eyes, glancing at his alarm clock. "Jesus, it ain't even dark yet and we're half-asleep. This is pathetic."

"Understandable," Ray said, "given the extremely athletic sex."

Harrison shifted slightly, feeling the soreness and residual burn, and couldn't stop the silly, sated grin that spread over his face. "Yeah, that was fun."

"Go to sleep," came Fraser's muffled voice from somewhere around Ray's armpit, and Harrison jerked guiltily; he hadn't realized they'd woken him up. Then Fraser added, "You have your date tomorrow, don't you?" and suddenly Harrison felt a lot less guilty.

Ray's expression sharpened, and he gave Harrison a shrewd look. "Date?"

Harrison reached over him and smacked the first part of Fraser that he found, which turned out to be his bicep. "Thanks a lot, you fuck."

"Isaac, isn't it?" Fraser continued, unperturbed. "What is the event, anyway?"

"Party," Harrison mumbled, burying his face in the mattress. "No big."

"You got a date." Ray sounded gleeful.

Harrison covered his head with his hands. "Shut up, I'm sleepy."

"He offered the pleasure of his company, in exchange for a favor," Fraser told Ray. "Though I suspect the gesture wasn't an entirely selfless one. Was it, Harrison?"

Harrison peeked through his fingers. Fraser was watching him, his chin resting on Ray's bicep, just above his tattoo. Ray glanced back and forth between them, looking far too amused.

"You guys suck," Harrison said. "I'm not talking to you anymore."

"Our little boy's all grown up," Ray said, with an evil smirk.

He scowled at them. "You could be a little more sympathetic. I did bargain my virtue in exchange for your life."

Ray snorted. "Virtue?"

"That would be more convincing," Fraser agreed, "if you didn't look so-- Ray, what's the phrase?"

"Fucked out," Ray supplied.

"There is a perfectly good lawn chair over there," Harrison said. "In case you were wondering."

Ray considered this.

"Nah," he said with another smirk. "I like it here."

"You suck," Harrison said again, and dragged the comforter off the carpet and over his head.

There was a moment of silence.

"That's very true," Fraser said. "We do."

"Damn skippy," Ray said.

"I'm ignoring you now," Harrison said.

He expected to feel different afterwards. Different how, he wasn't sure, but he'd just had incredibly hot sex with two incredibly hot men, and that was supposed to mean something. Or so he thought. He wasn't sure what a guy was supposed to do in this situation. Write a letter to Penthouse, maybe.

But when Harrison woke up, to find the apartment dark and quiet and Fraser wrapped around him like a kid clutching a teddy bear, all he really felt was sated and kind of sore. Also, his arm was asleep.

He extricated himself carefully from Fraser's grasp and then sat up, looking around in the dark. Ray's absence didn't worry him; he heard the familiar sound of cards being shuffled, and sure enough, there was Ray at the card table, his jeans unbuttoned and hanging loosely on his hips.

Harrison yawned and stretched, shaking some life back into his arm, and-- yep, there were the pins and needles. He gritted his teeth and stood, careful not to disturb Fraser.

Ray looked up as he approached. "Hey," he said quietly.

He yawned again, wrapping an abandoned blanket around his waist, and sat down. "What's up?"

Ray glanced at the cards in his hand as though he had forgotten they were there. "Dunno. Solitaire, I guess."

"Hand 'em over," Harrison said, and shuffled and cut the deck expertly when Ray complied.

Ray's eyes slid past him to the mattress, and Fraser's still-sleeping form. His lips twitched. "Wish I'd had a camera, the two of you all wrapped up like that."

"Small favors," Harrison muttered. He dealt Ray two cards.

"He never used to cuddle," Ray continued. He slumped back in his chair, and something in his eyes looked dark and distant, like he wasn't really there. "Used to sleep like a fucking corpse. I think he's forgotten how."

Harrison took two cards for himself. Seven and a three. Shit. He kept his gaze fixed on the cards and cleared his throat. "Uh, so you, you're okay with this?"

"Huh?" Ray's eyes lost their unfocused look. Now he just looked puzzled.

"Us," Harrison said, feeling awkward. "I mean, that. I mean, you guys and... me." He coughed again. "No, ah, territorial issues or anything?"

"Harry," Ray said, sounding amused. "It was my idea."

He felt himself flush, and was chagrined; after everything he'd done in the past couple days, he would have thought he'd forgotten how. "Oh," he said finally, uncertain how to react.

"Well," Ray said. "Ben's too. Sort of." He leaned forward and picked up his cards, then nodded. "I'm good."

"Shit," Harrison said. He drew another card, a five. "Shit."

"C'mon, Harry, where's your game face?"

"Same place as my pants," Harrison said, without looking up. His next card was a ten, and he threw the hand down on the table with a grunt. "You win."

"I do," Ray said, with an odd, quiet intensity that made Harrison look up.

And then he got it.

"Listen," he began, and paused, uncertain how to begin. "Listen, the whole dying thing... it happened to me too. Hell, it happened to Fraser. I just, if you wanna talk--"

"Not really," Ray said, not quite under his breath.

Harrison snorted. "Or maybe we could just start a club. Make up a secret handshake and everything."

There was another silence, and then Ray said abruptly, "So this frienda yours."

He frowned as he started to shuffle again. "Who?"

"The guy," Ray said, waving a hand vaguely. "Your friend, whatsisname, Isaac."

Harrison froze. Then, very deliberately, he cut the deck and shuffled once more.

"Look," Ray said, leaning forward, "no teasing, no jokes. What's the deal?"

He could have played dumb. He didn't.

He sighed. "I needed a favor, is all. There's this party or something tomorrow night--" he glanced at the clock-- "well, tonight now, he just wants some company. That's it."

He didn't mention the blowjob in the men's room at Wally's. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that yet.

"It's not, like, a straight-up trade," he added. "I mean. It's not like that."

And it wasn't, really. Isaac took what he could get, but he wouldn't hold Harrison to anything.

He didn't think.

Ray, unfortunately, wasn't done. "If you don't wanna do it--"

"That's the thing," Harrison said, and swallowed. His mouth felt dry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a drink. "I, uh. I kinda do."

Ray sat back, his eyes narrowing.

"I think," Harrison added.

Ray didn't say anything.

He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward, burying his face in the crooks of his elbows, still gripping the deck of cards in one hand. "I don't know," he mumbled into the tabletop. "I'm a fucking-- I'm a mess. I dunno."

There was a pause, and then he felt a light touch on the back of his head and nearly jumped out of his skin. But it was just Ray, smoothing his hair, and after a moment he relaxed again, closing his eyes.

He turned his head to the side, freeing his mouth, careful not to dislodge Ray's hand; it was oddly pleasant, being petted like this. "Thing is," he said, without opening his eyes, "since the first time... when we... I haven't. Since then. With a guy, I mean. Till today."

Yesterday, a voice in his head reminded him. He ignored it.

"Well," Ray said after a moment, "I couldn't tell. I'da thought you were a pro."

"Thank you so much."

"Any time," Ray said. He sounded like he was smirking.

"I just...." He sighed, without opening his eyes. "I don't think I can do it, you know? Deal with the baggage and all."

"Sounds like there's a lotta things you thought you couldn't do," Ray said quietly. "You've been wrong so far."

He didn't answer.

"Look," Ray said, "you wanna date this guy? Move in, shack up, make it legal?"

"Hell no," Harrison said, with a small shudder. Sure, he liked Isaac, but Isaac St. Germain was not exactly relationship material. He tried to ignore that same little voice when it reminded him that maybe he wasn't either. At least he was legit now, sort of. Isaac was a career criminal-- maybe not big time, but definitely connected, and definitely not the kind of guy you brought home to Mom.

Except his mother was dead, and his father... was irrelevant.

Ray's hand withdrew, and he tried not to make a disappointed sound. "So just go with it. Try it out, see where it goes. It don't gotta be a big thing, Harry."

"Jesus," Harrison said, into the ensuing silence. "I never used to, like, think about shit like this. What happened to me?"

It was Ray's turn to snort. "You grew up, kid. Happens to the best of us."

"Yeah, but why'd it have to happen to me?"

"Happens to the worst of us too."

Harrison looked up with narrowed eyes. Ray was grinning.

He sat up with a sigh and dealt Ray two more cards. "Come on, funny man, let's make this interesting."

Ray's grin became a smirk. "Well, I'd suggest strip blackjack, but...."

"Not that far to go," Harrison finished. "That's okay, I'll just take your money."

"Big talk."

Harrison wiggled his eyebrows and grinned back.

"Oh, hey," Ray said, as Harrison eyed the two tens in his hand as dispassionately as he could. "I called Welsh, filled him in."

Harrison glanced up. "Yeah?"

"He says they're gonna take down that bastard Krohn with extreme fucking prejudice. He also said you did, and I quote, 'not bad for a crook.'" He frowned at the cards in his hand. "Hit me."

"You tell him I'm not a crook anymore?" Harrison asked.

"Yeah, hey, now do it with the fingers."

Harrison blinked. "Was that a come-on?"

"You know, the fingers? V for victory? Fuck me," Ray added, looking dismayed, when Harrison gave him a blank stare. "You don't know Nixon?"

Harrison grinned again and slouched back in his chair, trying not to wince at the movement. "What, like, personally?"

Ray gave him a narrow look. Harrison attempted to look innocent. He suspected it was a lost cause.

"Shut up and hit me, you little twerp," Ray said.

Harrison took about fifty bucks from Ray, which was depressing. He didn't tell Ben. He didn't think he'd approve.

He left the office at some obscenely early hour, buoyed along by two Styrofoam cups of instant coffee-- one in each hand-- and by the time he left the main BPD precinct at One Schroeder Plaza, much, much later, he was starting to wish he hadn't been so quick to quit smoking again.

Ben was cooking something when he walked in. Harrison was nowhere in sight. "That took a while," Ben commented, glancing up from the stove.

Ray tossed his jacket on the back of a chair and slumped down in it with a sigh. "The head Fed from my old task force flew in this morning. Spent the whole damn day debriefing."

"Debriefing, huh?" came Harrison's voice from behind him. "Sounds like we missed a good time."

Ray glanced over his shoulder as Harrison emerged from the bathroom, wearing ratty jeans and a striped button-down shirt. He grinned. "You're wearing that?"

"Very funny," Harrison said, "and also, shut up." He brushed past Ben in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, grabbing a beer.

Ray saw Ben hesitate, glancing at him. Harrison pointed at Ben without looking up and said, "Also, don't even start." Then he popped the cap and drained the bottle in five huge gulps.

"Ben," Ray said, "get the camera. I wanna record this, this momentous event."

"I hate you both," Harrison said, banging the empty bottle on the counter and storming out. The front door slammed behind him.

"He's tense," Ray said after a moment.

"Yes." Ben sounded unhappy. After a few seconds, he laid the wooden spoon carefully on a folded paper towel, then came to stand behind Ray and started kneading his shoulders.

Ray closed his eyes and let his head fall back, making appreciative noises.

"I telephoned the airline," Ben murmured. "If your business here is concluded, we can return home tomorrow morning."

Home. It was like a punch in the gut, but kind of in a good way.

"Yeah," Ray said, and immediately felt about fifty pounds lighter. "Yeah, let's blow this pop stand."

Ben's hands tightened briefly on his shoulders, and then with a light pat, he returned to the stove.

Ray just sat and watched, and it still sort of amazed him, the way he could spend so much time sitting and just looking at Ben. After Stella, he'd felt like he couldn't sit still for anything. He had to keep moving, keep talking, just keep going, and now suddenly, every once in a while, it felt good to just stop. Somewhere along the line, it had ceased to hurt.

They passed a few minutes in silence, Ray watching Ben's hands as they moved busily above the skillet, and then Ben dropped the spoon again and stilled his hands, bracing them against the counter as he lowered his head.

In a low voice, he said, "We should be able to do more for him."

Ray frowned. "Ben--"

"He saved your life. He saved my life. We should--"

He broke off, and Ray just stared at him, because he couldn't think of anything to say. Ben was right, and he knew it, and he didn't know what to do about it.

"He wouldn't listen," Ray said finally. "You know that."

Ben's hands curled into fists. "He did once. His sister, she convinced him, he went to meetings--"

"Ben," Ray said quietly, "he wouldn't listen to us."

For a moment, Ben didn't seem to have heard. Then he took a deep breath, nodded sharply, and once again reached for the spoon.

"Don't you look spiffy," Isaac said, as Harrison approached.

"I dress to impress," he agreed, tugging at his leather jacket.

He was nervous, and he thought it must have shown, but if so Isaac didn't comment. And looking at Isaac didn't help, because he was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and black jeans underneath his long wool coat, and they were just tight enough to give Harrison a damn good idea of the body underneath.

Isaac leaned against the wall of the apartment building and hit one of the intercom buttons, and in the ensuing silence, Harrison had to ask. "This isn't, like, a kinky sex party or anything, is it?"

"You hoping I'll say yes or no?" Isaac's grin was not reassuring in the least.

"I'm hoping," Harrison said dryly, "you'll give me enough warning so I'll have time to run for the hills."

"Relax," Isaac said, his grin widening. "This ain't gonna be anywhere near that interesting. Just a bunch of really boring people with really boring friends."

The door buzzer sounded.

Harrison opened the door and gestured inside. "In that case, after you."

"Such a gentleman," Isaac said mockingly. His hip brushed against Harrison's as he passed.

Harrison swallowed, licked his lips, and followed.

The party was, as advertised, boring as hell, but at least there were a couple joints making the rounds. Harrison had expected-- well, he didn't know what exactly, but he'd kind of figured it would involve whips and chains in some way.

It was kind of a disappointment, and mostly a relief. Sure, Harrison was always up for a new experience, at least where sex was involved, but as Isaac handed him the butt-end of a joint and he pinched it between his fingers and tried to inhale without burning his lips, it occurred to him that this was... well, nicer. They were high and giggly, and everyone in the room was a moron, and they whispered snide comments back and forth and snickered behind their hands and no one even noticed.

And then, as Harrison held in the pungent smoke and inhaled an oxygen chaser to force it deeper into his lungs, Isaac leaned over and brushed Harrison's ear with his lips as he whispered, "No one's using the can. I checked."

Harrison coughed, the harsh smoke stinging his sinuses, and didn't stop coughing for about two minutes.

Isaac pounded him on the back and handed him a glass of water. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Dude," said one of the other guys, a sleepy-looking pseudo-hippie with white-boy dreads. "Careful, that's some serious shit."

Harrison drank deeply, and gestured with his other hand, the one holding the roach. "Somebody take this," he said hoarsely, once his lungs had stopped rebelling. "Please, get it away."

The hippie eagerly complied.

"Sorry," Isaac said, sounding smug. "Boy doesn't know his limits."

"You don't know your limits," Harrison said under his breath, and heard himself giggle.

"Never did," Isaac agreed placidly. He rose, pulling Harrison to his feet as well, and Harrison stood swaying for a moment, his head spinning. He grabbed Isaac's shoulder to steady himself. "We're goin' for a smoke."

"That's so bad for you," a blue-haired girl said sternly. Pot smoke trickled from her nostrils.

Harrison started to giggle again.

"Be cool, bitch," Isaac muttered. He was still grinning, and his shoulders were starting to shake.

"Right," Harrison said between giggles. "We're gonna. Gonna go smoke. Right." He half-pushed, half-pulled Isaac into the hallway.

The bathroom was at the end of the hallway, just before the balcony, where a few people were already clustered together with cigarettes. Harrison admired Isaac's ingenuity even as they stumbled into the bathroom and Isaac slammed it shut, fumbling with the lock.

Harrison sat down heavily on the toilet. Then he stood, lowered the seat, and sat down again.

"So," Isaac said, leaning back against the door. If his grin got any wider it would swallow his face.

"So," Harrison repeated, and swallowed again.

Isaac pushed himself off the door and stalked towards him, looking predatory. Harrison leaned back and felt his legs spread open, felt his eyelids lower as he watched through his eyelashes. The lingering soreness in his ass felt surprisingly good. He was half-hard, pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans, and realized with some shock that he hadn't been laid three days in a row for about six or seven years now, not since Lindsay dumped his ass.

He could get used to this.

Isaac straddled his legs and slowly lowered himself onto Harrison's lap, rubbing deliberately against him. Harrison hissed between his teeth. He reached up and grabbed the back of Isaac's head, feeling the thick black hair between his fingers, and then they were kissing hungrily, sloppily, and he could definitely get used to this.

Isaac moaned into his mouth, and Harrison closed his eyes and writhed beneath him. He could feel Isaac's hard-on, pressing into his lower abdomen, and his own dick jerked in response.

He was high, so fucking high, drugs and sex and touch, everything swirling around him until he felt like drowning in it, like he could just let go and fall in and it would be so fucking good. From the living room came the faint strains of music, a staccato beat of guitar and a fierce woman's voice singing shameless, just call me shameless, and yes, yes he was, and he was loving it.

This is my skeleton, this is the skin it's in, and Harrison pulled back with a groan, shoving and making incoherent sounds. Isaac got it, Isaac shifted backwards enough to reach his zipper and finally he was free, free and straining, and then Isaac was too and it was like electricity, it was like jumper cables, it was right and everything just fell into place.

Just please don't name this, the woman sang, please don't explain this, and he couldn't have even if he wanted to, because it was Isaac, Izzy, Izzy who he'd already been on his knees for, Izzy who he didn't even think about until Fraser came into town, and suddenly he was remembering, he was seeing, and that was all it took. Say I couldn't slow it down, let alone stop it, and he couldn't-- it just happened, like a force of nature, like he'd opened the floodgates and now the whole fucking river was crashing through him, dragging him down, sweeping him away; and he'd forgotten everything else too, like sex was good, and pot was good, but sex and pot together were awesome.

He bit down on Isaac's shoulder when he came, through the soft clingy fabric to the hard flesh beneath, and felt Isaac's answering shudder and a sticky warmth spreading against his stomach.

"Jesus," Harrison breathed against Isaac's neck, when he could talk again. "Jesus, Izzy, that was. Jesus."

"Harry," Isaac was whispering into his hair, hot gusts of air that made his scalp shiver. "Harry, you-- you, you're so--"

"Hey!" The sudden, sharp voice was accompanied by a loud pounding on the door. "Dude! I gotta piss!"

Harrison froze. Then he snickered.

Isaac started to shake against him. "Oh God," he choked out between gasps, "I was gonna-- I was trying to be polite--"

Harrison lost it, and a moment later Isaac did too.

They slid off the toilet to the floor, clutching each other and laughing helplessly, their dicks still hanging out of their jeans, and even the indignant yells from the other side of the door only made them laugh harder.

Shameless, Harrison thought, and felt a wide, silly grin spread over his face, before he dragged Isaac down for another kiss.

He could live with that.

In the street outside, a dark figure stood huddled under a broken streetlight, watching the light in the third-floor window. His cell phone rang, and he waited a few rings before answering.

This was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

"Yeah," he said finally, and listened for a few seconds. "Yeah, I followed him. Looks like he's at a friend's."

He paused.

"You're sure about this?" he asked again, even though he knew what the answer would be. He was right.

He sighed. "Yeah, I'll get right on that. You keep looking. Call me as soon as you find something."

He listened a few seconds more. A faint smile curved his lips.

"Screw you too, Richard," he said, and snapped the phone shut.

Jack Harper shoved his hands in his pockets and started off down the street.

"Round three," he muttered, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling of dread in his stomach.

After a moment, he began to whistle.

End Unfinished by Maya Tawi

Author and story notes above.

Please post a comment on this story.

The Due South Fiction Archive Entry

Unfinished