Disclaimer: This is by no means an original story. The characters starring in this fic belong to a bunch of people who have my eternal gratitude. The basic premise of the story comes from Shay Sheridan.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to Shay for inspiration, permission to post and approval. And for "john".

Story Notes: This fic is inspired by and a sequel to Shay Sheridan's Doppelganger. I'd like to suggest that you read her story first if you haven't yet. (You should do so anyway, because if you haven't read Doppelganger, you are missing out on a truly wonderful fic.) Shay's story can be found here on DSA and on www.chezshay.com.
Warning: sap alert. I repeat: sap alert.

The man you watch standing in the middle of the hotel room is wearing civvies. That's part of the code: dress casually unless told otherwise.

The man is nervous; he's rubbing his eyebrow, anticipating your request.

Oh, he's very nervous. He's licking his lower lip as well. The lip you licked two weeks ago.

You ignore what the memory does to the fit of your jeans, and you say, deliberately slowly, "I have a special request tonight. I'm willing to pay you double and upfront."

You watch the man blush and crack his neck. But he doesn't protest.

Good. You make a show of taking your wallet and realizing (regretfully, mind regretfully) that you don't have enough money on you.

"Not even to pay you the usual," you say. And you add quickly, "I do have it at home. No problem. You mind if I took you there?"

The look in the man's smoky-blue eyes changes a little at this unintended pun. (Double entendre, he would probably call it under different circumstances.) He hesitates. For a second, you fear that he will bail out, but then you don't. He's hard already. He needs this. He's probably just making a point of staying in character.

Okay, you can do that too. For a little while longer. In a rough voice you say, "Or is it against the rules? Doesn't your pimp allow house calls?"

You watch the man do a nice imitation of an indifferent shrug. "I think I could bend the rules for once. Especially if you'd pay me double."

You do a double take. What? You? Bend the rules? For money? You almost blurt. But you say, "Good. Come along then."

The man compliments you on the GTO. You eye him suspiciously, but there's not a hint of a smile on his face. Apparently, he is very much into cars at the moment. You know that at any other time, he is of the opinion that the world would be a better place without them. Okay, except for cabs and coaches maybe.

On the stairs to your apartment you let him walk in front of you. (You like to look at him. You always do.)

The moment you step inside behind him, you are without a plan. You planned to take him home with you tonight, and you succeeded. For the rest, you trusted it would all come to you naturally. So now you take a breath. And there it is. Tea.

"Would you like some tea?" you ask. "I have leaf tea. I don't care much for tea myself, but a friend of mine does, and he prefers leaves. Shall I make you some?"

The man hesitates and eyes nervously at the wall that separates him from the bedroom. Which he has seen before - just seen - but which he isn't supposed to be able to locate right now.

You suppress a smile. "Well?"

The man may be desperate, but he's also polite. "Tea would be lovely," he says. "Thank you k-" He turns red. "Thank you."

You bite your lip. He can't help it. You guess he was born this way. You know that politeness is learnt behavior, but you imagine that this man learnt it very early. You picture the man's mother in labor, pressing her legs together instead of spreading them, and telling the baby in her womb he can only come out if he asks nicely. Which he does. He even says "thank you kindly" when they cut the umbilical cord.

"I'll only be a minute," you say, keeping a straight face.

In the kitchen you make tea. You spill some leaves because you are a little shaky. It's the nerves.

Fraser is in your living room and he doesn't know. Okay, he does know he's in your living room, but he doesn't know he's Fraser. He still thinks he's a male prostitute, and that the two of you are going to play Rent Boy and John tonight.

You are not. After what happened two weeks ago, you decided it was time to call it quits. The arrangement, that is.

It wasn't your idea in the first place. Okay, it was. You invented the game. And the rules. You invited the other player. But not because it was what you really wanted. Because it was what you knew you could have (and what not.)

What you could have, was this marvelous duet with Fraser, the partnership, the friendship on the one hand - and mind blowing hot sex if you played your cards right on the other. Two hands that must never touch, according to Fraser. You knew that.

You tried, once. For weeks you had been observing the frequent looks and smiles on Fraser's face, the tone of his voice when he said your name (which he often did), his considerate behavior (getting you coffee on a regular basis, with M&M's added, stirred already, to name but one random example), his nervousness combined with dilated pupils when you were invading his personal space. Then one night, when Fraser was about to leave your apartment after a very rough day and a subsequent evening of chilling and a fair amount of accidental/deliberate knee touching on both parts, you had placed your hand on his chest, rubbing the serge a little. You had looked him in the eye and said huskily, "Fraser. You don't need to leave. My bed is big enough for two."

There had been a silence. Which was significant because, hey, this was Fraser. The man was prone to yapping. (Okay, it wasn't exactly yapping that he did, but he was constantly spraying words anyway.)

He had been looking seriously depressed when he said, "No, Ray. We mustn't ... We can't be ... It's too dangerous." And then he had left.

The next morning, when Fraser pretended that nothing had happened, being all nice and considerate, you had already overcome most of the hurt of being rejected. It hadn't taken you more than three minutes after Fraser had left your apartment to get rid of the thought that you were alone in this, that Fraser didn't feel about you the way you felt about him. You were the guy who had hunches. And they were good. You could trust them that you hadn't read the signs wrong; that Fraser wanted you as much as you wanted him. But he was right; it was dangerous for a Chicago flatfoot (or a liaising Canadian Mountie in Chicago for that matter) to adopt a gay lifestyle. In fact, it was asking to meet an early death, and you needn't be a rocket scientist to figure out why.

When you came home that night, however - alone - it struck you that this was bullshit. Not in general; gay Chicago cops were an endangered species with nobody willing to raise any money for their protection, so all they could do was hide - but this couldn't be what Fraser had meant. He didn't mind endangering his life in wildly bizarre ways and neither did you. It was a kind of morbid hobby you shared, and neither of you ever relied on a third party to save your sorry asses.

So, if it wasn't the danger from the outside that Fraser feared, it had to be the danger from within. (Yeah, detective much, Ray?) And it made sense. Boy, did it make sense. Because giving in to this, giving in to the ... love - would lead to ... feelings, being vulnerable, losing control (god forbid). Very dangerous and all. To Fraser, that is. To you, much less so.

But you were willing to play along. That's why you invented the game. So you could have it all, though not at the same time. So Fraser could have what he so desperately needed without having to fear he would be getting too much.

The first time, you had a note delivered at the consulate. Printed. (You had managed to make the computer print without help, for once). It told Fraser the time and date and the name of the hotel and ordered him to come - alone - and ask for Fred Oldham to arrange some "urgent business". (Hey, no lie there, was there?)

You hadn't seen Fraser all day (you had managed to avoid answering the question if you knew a man named Fred Oldham the one time Fraser had called) and when there was a knock on the hotel room door, you had snapped your "yeah" in the same tone of voice you used for suspects in the interview room at the precinct.

When Fraser had opened the door, you had given him a cold glare and wished him a good evening in a tone that matched with it.

Fraser had gotten that cautious look you knew so well; he was scanning the room for goons having guns pointed at your head.

"Don't worry, we're alone, sir," you had said. You put some contempt in "sir" like you imagined a rent boy would do when he was meeting a john.

Fraser had looked puzzled. And a little curious maybe.

"You don't know why you're here, do you, sir?" you said.

When he shook his head, you had explained, "I'm your present. A friend of yours hired my services. Blond guy. Told me his name was Vecchio, but didn't look one bit Italian. More of a Polack if you ask me." Yeah, the contempt was a nice touch, even when you were referring to yourself. It helped to get into character.

Fraser was just staring, so you had continued, "Your friend said you have a thing for blonds. Do you have a thing for blonds, sir?"

You combed a hand through your hair for good measure, and Fraser did his lip-lick thing.

"I ... yes, I believe I do," he said.

You gave him a leer. "Good. Then I'm all at your disposal for the next hour."

Fraser hadn't moved, just swallowed. Which was good, because you hadn't filled him in on the rules yet.

"Before we start, you have to know that there are some rules, though," you said. "First, no kissing." (Yeah, you had seen Pretty Woman too. More than once. Because Richard Gere looked ... No, he didn't look like Steve McQueen, but he was beautiful anyway. And just like the next bisexual you enjoyed looking at a beautiful guy as much as you liked looking at a pretty woman - okay, pun not intended. You weren't that much into Bambi eyes anyway. Julia was right though, in the movie, you reckoned. Sex could be technical, mechanical, hey, professional even. But kissing could not. Kissing was intimate. Kissing was not what Fraser needed right now.)

"No kissing," Fraser repeated. "Understood."

"Good. Second, no names." You couldn't have Fraser go all "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray!" on you in the heat of the moment. Not while you had this arrangement going where the sex was strictly separated from the rest of your duet.

"I go by Fred," you said, "but that's an alias of course. You go by?"

"Rob," Fraser had replied, after a beat.

"Good. Now, third ..." No Inuit stories, you almost said, but you bit your lip in time. It would have seriously spoiled things if you had mentioned the Inuit stories. "Tonight is paid for by your friend, but if I'm any good, and if you should want to rent my services yourself in the future, it'll be three hundred bucks." This would be about the right price, you reckoned.

"Do you accept Canadian dollars as well?" Fraser had asked, very matter-of-factly.

It had made you blush, for some reason. But you had shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Then it was time to get to business. Fraser was waiting for it.

"Do you want me to strip for you, Rob?"

Line was good, voice needed some work, but Fraser didn't seem to mind. His eyes widened, and you took that as a yes.

Okay. Taking a deep breath, you reached for the hem of your shirt, and when you touched the fabric, it was all right. You were a rent boy. It was not so different from going undercover after all.

You batted your eyelashes at Fraser and gave him a leer before you pulled your shirt over your head. In a slow move. And with a shake of your hips that was pointless, but as you hoped, seductive.

You let the shirt slip to the floor, and reached for your belt, staring at Fraser, who was staring back. Hard. Aroused.

It made your cock stir, but you managed to unbuckle and to open your jeans. Still staring at Fraser, you shimmied out of them and kicked them away. (Good thing you had already lost your boots and socks before Fraser arrived.)

Fraser was sweating. Jesus. It made him look ... hot.

You lost your briefs by stroking yourself underneath them, one hand on your cock, one on your hip, and lowering them until they fell to the floor. You stepped out of them.

Fraser made a strangled noise.

"What?" you smiled.

He rushed over, grabbed your hips, sank to his knees, and took you in. Christ. You bit your lip hard. You couldn't have this be over before it started. That wouldn't be buddies. But jesus, Fraser was good at this. It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. After all, he was a ... whatsit... an oral kind of guy.

His hand left your hip for a second, but then it was back again, and the sucking intensified. You put your hand on the back of his head, and the softness of his hair against your fingers was a bit of a shock. You gasped. It encouraged him to do something really good with his tongue that took you over the edge. You cried out. You spilled. He sucked and swallowed. All of it.

You looked down when he let go of you. He looked dazed. And something else. Something that made you look lower, at his crotch. Jesus fucking christ. His fly was open (so that was why his hand had left your hip) and his cock was out. There was cum clinging to the head. He had climaxed as well. From blowing you. Fuck.

You took a step backwards and he got up, muttering something about the need to clean himself and disappearing into the bathroom.

You lay down on the bed, forcing yourself to relax, so you could pretend it was no big deal - all routine you know - when Fraser got back.

When he did, you managed to say indifferently, "Well, that was fun. Would you care to meet again, some time?"

"Yes," Fraser said hoarsely. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

"I could blow you for a change," you continued bluntly. "And maybe we could play little, um, games. You know, bring toys, and dress up clothes and stuff." This was an idea. "I think I could get my hands on a pair of handcuffs, as I have ... connections. And since you are Canadian, maybe you would know somebody who owns one of those red suits, you know, police uniforms." You made a point of eyeing Fraser with relish, and sighing dreamily, "I love police uniforms. I bet you would look great in one of those Canadian ones."

Fraser got as red as the serge he wasn't wearing. "The RCMP uniform isn't meant-"

You gave him a glare. It was a little too much of a Kowalski glare, but it worked. He said, "Yes, if you insist, I believe that could be arranged."

"Good." You yawned. "Sorry. I'm a little tired. I know the hour isn't over yet, but it would be great if you would leave now, so I could sleep."

"Of ... of course." He looked disappointed, but there was nothing you could do about that at the moment. "Good night."

"Yeah, see ya."

When he was about to open the door, you called him back. "Listen. Next time it's your call, okay?"

He nodded. "Understood."

***

The water is boiling and you pour it into the thermos (that you bought specifically to keep hot tea in). It's much too much - you have been standing here waiting for it to boil for god knows how long.

There are no sounds from the living room, so maybe Fraser got impatient and left. Or probably not. It would be impolite, you see.

You put the tea ball in the thermos. Now, you have four minutes to think of a way to end the arrangement and take Fraser and your duet to the next level. He has to wait a little while longer. And he will. Of all people, Fraser knows that it takes time to make a good tea.

You want the game to end. You long for another kind of sex. What you have experienced with Fraser so far was hot and horny and mind blowing and all, but it wasn't intimate. You held back. You clenched your jaws and didn't tell him how good it felt. Afraid that if you did, the I love yous wouldn't be kept inside.

You want him to fuck you because he wants to, not because you ask him. You have only once been on the receiving end of a fuck. On your own request. It was incredible. It hurt at the beginning (it was your first time) but then it was greatness. Hot, and melting, and wonderful. And sad, because you felt that Fraser did it for you, and he did it perfect, but it wasn't what he wanted. What Fraser wanted was to be fucked. He needed it. Desperately. He yearned for it. It told you a lot about his desire to give up control. And the fear to let go. He could do it, but only in a cheap hotel room, and within the safety of a fucking game. A fucking game indeed.

But not anymore, you decide as you take the tea ball out of the thermos and grab a mug and a can of coke (no beer, you need to keep a clear head). It's time to face the music. Fraser might be ready if you read the signs right. His asking - begging - you to kiss him, two weeks ago. His confused, nervous, and scared reaction - like he feared he wouldn't be able to control himself - when you allowed yourself a little cock teasing during work hours the day after. And the day after that.

He is sitting on the couch, completely still. It seems he hasn't moved since you went to the kitchen.

"Hey," you say gently, "here's your tea."

"Thank you," he replies, dazed, like you've just woken him.

You go over to the CD player to put on some music, and you choose Petula Clark because it's his favorite. You once told him to feel free to pick out CD's from your collection, and whatdayaknow, he did. Nine out of ten, he chooses Petula.

It is, of course, embarrassing that you own a Petula Clark CD to begin with, but the thing is; when you were fifteen, you once bought the record for Stella to make up after a fight. You knew it was sap, but back then - and to the present day, for that matter - your moods swung all over the place, and sometimes they were downright sappy. She was horrified, of course. "Are you out of your mind? Do you think this will make me forgive you? Are you taking me serious at all?" She had stomped away, and not talked to you for days. Eventually she forgave you, for what you had done and Petula Clark.

You had kept the record. You liked the songs. Especially the one about the subway. Imagining Stella sleeping in the subway when you two were out of sink again and she didn't want to work it out made you feel a little better.

Over the years, the record got scratched. After the divorce, you replaced it with the CD. That Fraser likes so much. The big sap.

You look at him as Petula starts to sing. His eyes widen. He's a smart guy; he knows something is up.

You sit down next to him and take a sip of your coke. Very casually you say, "You know, I'm not much in the mood for sex tonight. I'd rather talk."

For a second, there's sheer panic on his face. Then he puts on the Mountie Mask, his face going completely blank. Oh, jesus.

But you can't stop now. You have to go on. "We can do it some time soon," you say. "And I'll pay you double tonight like I promised. Okay?" (After all, the game isn't officially over yet.)

"Okay," he says, defeated.

"Good," you say slowly. "Now, I want to tell you something: I'm a cop."

You feel Fraser tense. Yeah, the first big step towards the end of the game is taken.

"I am a Chicago cop, but I have a Canadian partner." (Breathe, Fraser, breathe.) "He first came to Chicago on the trail of his father's killers and for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture he has remained attached as liaison to the Canadian Consulate."

Fraser holds on to his mug like he expects it's going to save him form a life threatening situation. Hang in there, buddy, you think.

"I have never met someone like him," you continue. "He's the most beautiful person I have ever seen. Man or woman. He's smart; he's a genius when it comes to solving cases. He has morals that are higher than the Empire State Building. He's kind. And very polite. He speaks this strange language; it's English, but it's not, you know. He always knows best, which I really hate."

You eye the mug in his hand. It's still upright, but you prepare yourself to reach out when you say, "I'm in love with him."

You catch the mug before it leaves his hand completely. No tea is spilled. He doesn't say a word.

With the mug safely on the coffee table, you move on to the next step. "And I think he's in love with me too."

He looks at you. Face pale. Eyes bright. Brave. Scared. And the worst is yet to come.

You choose your words carefully. "He's very brave, you know. I'm not a coward myself - you can't be when you are a cop - but he's something else. And it's not like he's never afraid, he just has this motto "always face your fears". And that's what he does. Except there's one thing he can't face."

You pause. He holds his breath. "Love," you say.

He's as pale as a ghost now, and his voice is just a whisper when he says, "Ray, please, stop."

But you show no mercy. Not now. Desperate times, desperate measures and such.

"To him, love equals pain," you continue. "And with what he's been through, it makes sense. But it's not a fact, you know. I want to show him that it's not. I want to show him that love can be good, and that he has mine anyway. It's not that I want him to trust my honest face; I can't give him guaranties. But I just want him to give me a chance. To let me in, you know."

He's facing away, but when he turns his head there are tears in his eyes. "Oh god, Ray."

It's contagious. Damn. Not macho. But you love him, okay?

And it's good that he's crying. It means he's feeling. It's a good sign.

It doesn't mean that you like to watch the tears drip onto his hands or to hear the sounds of pain he makes. It hurts, in fact. But you have to do it. He needs to do this.

You wait.

After a while, the crying stops and he turns to look at you. You have never seen him like this. His face is red and puffy and wet. It's also strangely relaxed. He lets out a shuddered breath. "Ray, you ..."

"Fraser." You don't touch him. You're afraid that if you do, you won't be able to stop. Instead you try a smile, and through his tears he smiles back, just a little.

"Are you all right, buddy?"

"Yes, I believe I am." He sounds surprised.

It's a relief. The game has ended and you both survived. You feel a grin cracking your face as you see him looking at you. Longing, but hopeful instead of desperate.

There are still some details left to be settled, though.

You flash him an encouraging smile (just to be sure) before you adopt a stern tone. "I want to make a couple of things very clear to you," you say. "I'm going to take you to the bedroom in a minute and kiss you until you get blue in the face. Then I'm going to ask you to fuck me, and when you do, I'm going to tell you how good it feels - repeatedly. I'm also going to tell you how much I love you - repeatedly. And I'm probably going to whisper your name as well."

"Repeatedly, Ray?" Fraser asks, with a lopsided grin. (Don't you just love this guy? Yeah, you do.)

"Yeah," you nod. "And one last thing. You can have breakfast in the morning, but I'm not going to pay you a single dime. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Ray," he says obediently.

You take his hand and pull him to his feet.

"It's a sign of the times," Petula sings, "and I know that I won't have to wait much longer."

You decide to leave the CD player on. As you slowly lead Fraser to the door, you feel thirteen, relishing the handholding thing. And you believe he does too.

" ... when I hold your hand, I know you couldn't be the way you used to be."

Fraser tugs at your hand and stops. "It's a beautiful song, Ray."

"Maybe my love-kissed star at last decided to shine."

"Yeah," you nod.

"Maybe somebody knows how long I've waited to make you mine."

END