Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Aren't mine, don't own 'em, thought they were cute and might like
to have some fun. Besides, talk about subtext. This is JiM's fault, and Bone's. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Author's Notes:

Story Notes:

• Silence ***

Silence

He knows when he sees Ray close the front door of Beth Bottrelle's house quietly that things are not good, that Ray still has no feeling of victory or relief. He watches as Ray walks toward the car not looking at him, carrying himself like a man who has been mortally wounded, but still moving automatically.

He has been leaning against the car while waiting, he has allowed himself to hope that Ray would experience some healing, but that hope died the moment Ray closed the door, oh, so quietly.

Sensing that things are not quite what they should be, Dief gets into the backseat without protest. Ray fumbles with his keys, trying to find the one for the ignition, and cannot seem to manage it. Fraser looks at him, uncertain, and Ray almost, almost looks back at him, but his face twists, and the first sound of grief and pain is shocking.

Frozen, Fraser watches as Ray begins to weep. Not like a child, oh, no, these sounds are wrenched from Ray against his will, as if the pain has grown too great to contain within the frame of flesh and bone. He looks away again to give Ray privacy, more uncertain now; but nothing in his existence has prepared him for this, prepared him to watch Ray fracture into bits before his eyes. Oh, he has a story for nearly everything, from Inuit to ear anecdotes, but he has never learned the language of the heart, never learned how to offer comfort that didn't depend on speech, and Ray's weeping claws at him.

He talks too much, he knows that, he always has; he knows, too, that this is not a time for talk, even if he had any idea of what to say.

Even when Ray was distraught over his ex-wife, he hadn't known what to say, how to move beyond sympathy to something more, something that might offer some relief from pain. A few days ago, Ray's pain had moved him to admit something he had been forced to admit to himself, that the rage for vengeance was human and that he, and Ray, were both human.

When he could not give comfort, he had given what he could: his help, his dogged focus, and devotion to the truth and justice.

He doesn't know what to do now, of all moments, when Ray is in this much pain, but he has to do something. This is insupportable, that he sits here, looking away from the man who is his partner and friend without at least trying.

Touch has never come easily to him, but he shifts, looks back briefly, and the sobs are more painful, more ragged; his arm lifts as if his body knows what to do despite the objections of his conscious mind. He lets it, overrides the terror of doing the wrong thing, and puts his hand on the back of Ray's neck.

Ray doesn't move, he's not even sure Ray notices, which surely is antithetical to his intention. Ray is still caught in the maelstrom inside his head and heart, and Fraser shifts closer, tugs a little.

Ray resists, and oddly, that relieves him, he tugs more firmly and draws Ray closer, puts his arms a little awkwardly around the trembling shoulders.

Ray's hands fist against his chest, against his sweater, and Ray tries to pull back a little, but he tightens his arms. "You saved her, Ray." Softly. "Whatever you think you did, you did save her."

"I put her there!" Raggedly, and Ray rests his forehead on Fraser's shoulder. "Don't you get it, Fraser? I put her there. Too fucking stupid, I trusted Sam, I trusted him. Too stupid to read the fucking note, too green, too scared." The words are sobbed out. "I put her there."

His hands begin to move on Ray's back, between Ray's shoulder blades. "No, Ray. You did not. Two venal, corrupt men put her there."

"And I didn't see it!" Ray tries to catch his breath, but gasps, as if the pain is still too great.

It's easier now, easier to hold Ray. Words aren't enough; he knows that, he knows he talks too much. So he doesn't say anything, just rubs Ray's back while the rest of the storm wears itself out, waits as each sobbing breath grows easier, as the fists against his sweater loosen, as Ray leans more heavily on his shoulder.

Ray isn't fighting him, Ray isn't fighting anything; he suspects that Ray is simply exhausted. Very little sleep for two days, a great deal of running on sheer nervous energy, and then this storm of grief and unearned guilt and regret, and he's not surprised when Ray's breathing slows.

Ray showered before going to get Beth Bottrelle, a substitute for sleep; Fraser can smell shampoo, soap, and the faintest tang of sweat from the violent weeping. He hasn't been this close to Ray since&.since they were in the submersible under the lake, enforced contact and close enough quarters that his leg actually went to sleep. A stray thought crosses his mind, that this scent will forever be Ray in the underpart of his awareness.

"Ray," he murmurs, still rubbing Ray's back. "Let me have your keys."

This time when Ray pulls back, he allows it, feels a wash of unnerving affection and tenderness. "My keys?" Ray sounds almost drunk with exhaustion. "What for?"

He sees the keys, still on Ray's lap, skillfully abstracts them without Ray noticing. "Because you're exhausted, Ray. I'll drive you home."

Ray licks his lips, sniffs. "Oh. Yeah." Rubs his forehead and then one eye. "Yeah, okay."

He fumbles for the handkerchief inside his jacket, offers it to Ray. "We need to switch sides, Ray."

"Sides," Ray repeats and sighs. He looks at Fraser, looks at the driver's side door, and takes the handkerchief absently. "I'll get out."

"I'll go around, you just slide over, Ray." He touches again, daring it, squeezes Ray's shoulder. "All right?"

Ray nods blankly, doesn't begin to move until Fraser has gotten out and closed the passenger door. He's moving stiffly when Fraser opens the driver's door, slides into the seat and lets his head fall back on the seat. He sniffs again and looks at the handkerchief as if he wonders where it came from, then blows his nose. "Oh," he says, sounding surprised. "This is yours."

Fraser nods, slides in behind the wheel. "Yes, Ray."

Ray blinks. "Sorry."

"Don't be silly, Ray, that's what it's for." He smiles, starts the car.

One positive effect of Ray's exhaustion is that he doesn't complain about Fraser's driving. Instead, he slumps in the seat, gazing out at the night with unseeing eyes. Still hurting, although Fraser hopes that some of the pain has been released.

"I'm okay, Fraser," Ray finally says, though his voice slurs from weariness. "I can take you by the consulate."

He opens his mouth to agree politely, and discovers in himself a stubborn resistance to leaving Ray alone this way.

He left Ray alone after the Orsini case; perhaps that was even wise, that was an issue so deeply personal that he could have offered nothing. This is personal in a different way. "No, Ray. I insist," he says quietly.

Ray sighs, but makes no protest.

He parks carefully at the curb when they reach Ray's apartment building, and he gets out of the car without comment, lets Dief out of the back seat.

At the door of the building, Ray rubs his eyes again. "I'm okay, Fraser."

Greatly daring, he puts a hand on Ray's shoulder. "I know you are, Ray, but I'm just going to see if there's anything in your apartment that actually passes as food and make sure you eat some of it before you go to bed."

Ray tilts his head back, looks up at a sky bled clean of stars by city lights. Looks back at Fraser and finally manages a wan, crooked grin. "Okay. Thanks."

They go up to Ray's apartment silently. At the door, Ray fumbles with the keys, trying to find the correct one. Fraser is conscious of affectionate exasperation; not only is Ray not wearing his glasses, he hasn't discarded any of his old keys. Finally, Ray manages to locate the key, struggles with the lock until Fraser simply takes it, unlocks the door, and nudges Ray through.

Ray doesn't protest, simply enters the apartment, and sprawls on the couch, still wearing his jacket. Fraser closes the door and locks it, then leans over and tugs at one of Ray's sleeves until Ray surrenders and pulls his arm out of it. Moving around the couch, Fraser repeats this with the other sleeve and gets an almost real grin; the grin does become real when he hands Ray the television remote.

"Thanks, Fraser."

He takes Ray's jacket, drapes it over a chair with his own, and goes into the kitchen. The refrigerator is unpromising, but he finds a can of split pea soup in the cupboard, and some slices of bread that aren't in the process of turning into penicillin. The can opener, surprisingly, is in the drawer he would have guessed-evidently, despite dust, Ray isn't quite as much of a slob as he claims.

On the other hand, Ray seldom eats at home, so far as he knows, so perhaps disuse rather than tidiness is an explanation. That thought makes him smile, and he shakes his head at himself, sets the soup to heat.

There is, amazingly, actually butter in the refrigerator, some slices of cheese that have, despite their lack of mold, seen better days; a toasted cheese sandwich will do very well with the soup. Finding a frying pan takes a bit of hunting, but the soup is simmering by the time he has one side of the sandwich finished. The television is a low hum of sound in the background.

He takes a moment to get Dief a bowl of water and ruffle his ears; Dief is uneasy and subdued, proof to him that his theory of animal sensitivity to turmoil is substantial, deaf or not. And Dief has liked Ray from the start, although he has sometimes wondered if that's simply because Dief connects Ray with the possibility of pizza.

Dief drinks a little from the bowl and whines faintly before going out into the livingroom.

A few moments later and he carries a plate and an oversized mug of soup into the livingroom; Dief has moved to lie down near the window, his head on his paws.

Ray's eyes shift from the screen to him, and Ray pushes himself up, and shifts his legs to allow Fraser to sit down. "Smells good." Faintly. Ray sips at the soup, reaches for the sandwich. "I didn't remember I had soup."

"That's nearly all you had," he tells Ray mildly. "I'd say that the remaining contents of your refrigerator are nearing an evolutionary leap and may be developing limbs soon."

Ray peers at him for a moment, so tired that it takes a moment for the words to penetrate, and then laughs, that slightly demented and endearing cackle that he first heard at the edge of Lake Michigan. "Fraser, you made a joke!"

"It's no laughing matter, Ray," he says, but he can't help it, his mouth twitches slightly. The laughter lights Ray's face from within, and that's something he hasn't seen in several days. "You might wish to take some precautions before it becomes necessary to call in a Hazardous Materials team."

Ray cackles again, takes a healthier swallow of the soup, and takes a bite of the sandwich.

He leans back against the couch and takes in a breath. Ray isn't the only one who is tired, but he, at least, feels the sense of victory. He wishes he could transfer that sense to Ray by touch.

Ray, for some reason, has settled on one of the shopping networks and a vacuous blonde is enthusiastically displaying a cosmetic product. Fraser watches this for a moment, marveling at the ability of advertising agencies to make much ado about nothing, then takes the remote from the coffee table and clicks the channel button until an ancient black and white movie appears. At least, he thinks, there will be some narrative value, and it has to be more soothing than artificial enthusiasm.

Ray takes another bite of the sandwich, another sip of the soup. He doesn't protest the change in entertainment, and Fraser wonders if he's even paying attention to it. It's entirely possible that Ray's focus has narrowed down to soup and sandwich. It's a better focus than failure and guilt.

Ray's neck looks absurdly slender from this vantage. He remembers the way it felt under his fingertips, and wonders if Ray would object if he touched it again. That ridiculously upright hair was soft against his jaw, strands catching in the day's stubble there.

He doesn't quite risk Ray's neck, but he does put his hand on Ray's back, just a small circle between Ray's shoulder blades, and Ray doesn't protest, doesn't stiffen. Doesn't look at him, quite, but allows that small comfort.

Finally says, "Fraser, about, um-"

"Hush, Ray." He says it firmly, but feels a flash of nerves. He doesn't want Ray to apologize, doesn't want Ray to say anything that smacks of rejection of his comfort; he's not good at it, he knows, but he seems to have done something right, Ray laughed, Ray is eating, and Ray seems comfortable enough with him to just sit in silence.

Ray tilts his head, looks back at him. "Just gonna say thanks, Fraser." A little diffident, a bit embarrassed.

"No need." He continues that small circle. "You're my friend, Ray."

Ray looks back at his soup. "Thanks, Fraser." A little choked.

He doesn't say anything.

He's been fortunate tonight, keeping words locked safely behind his teeth; it's something he files away for future reference when the impulse to talk too much strikes again. He can feel the warmth of Ray's skin through the fabric of his shirt, the bump of vertebrae, the sharp edges of shoulder blades, like wings half-formed beneath the skin. Ray finishes the soup, sets the mug aside with sigh. Half the sandwich is gone, which is a positive sign, and Ray picks the second half up, takes a bite.

He lets his awareness narrow down to the fabric and warmth beneath his fingertips, to the comfortable silence, to the low hum of voices recorded before he was born. Before Ray was born. "I hope Lt. Welsh doesn't expect you in tomorrow morning."

"Told me to take some sick days." Ray puts down the last remaining quarter of the sandwich. "Don't think I can eat any more, Fraser." Almost apologetically, and that's the measure of Ray's present vulnerability, that he's apologetic for failing to finish a toasted cheese sandwich.

Fraser swallows, pats the space he's been rubbing. "Bed, then, Ray."

Ray rubs his eyes. "Don't think I can sleep." Exhausted voice.

"You'll be able to sleep," Fraser tells him softly, "If I have to tell you Inuit stories for the rest of the night."

It takes a moment for that to sink in, too. Ray suddenly gives him a wavery grin. "You're on a roll tonight, Fraser.

He feels his face heat, shrugs casually. "I do have a sense of humour, Ray."

Ray flushes then. "I know, I didn't mean--"

Another pat in reassurance. "It is rather undetectable at times."

Another wavery grin. "Hey, I get it. I'm not sure everybody else does."

That strikes him with undue force. He has to swallow hard again, feels fresh gratitude at being allowed to offer this much comfort. Ray does know him exceptionally well, he has to admit, and that in itself seems a gift. "Bed," he tells Ray. "I'll clear this up, you go on."

Ray shifts, rolls his shoulders. "Um, I really don't want to go to bed, Fraser." Sheepish look. "I'm not sure how good I'll sleep."

He studies Ray's face. "Ah." Understanding. "Well, why don't you stretch out here, then. I'll take the chair."

"You don't have to stay, Fraser."

He holds Ray's gaze. "Yes, Ray, I think I do." Then, as Ray's eyebrows slant downward, "Don't misunderstand me, Ray. I'm well aware you don't need a nursemaid, and I know you're fine. But..." He considers his next words carefully, chooses with equal care. "As your friend, I need to be here."

The line between Ray's eyebrows vanishes and Ray looks away for a moment. "Okay." Rusty voice. "But I'm good, Fraser. I mean, she's alive. I don't know how she's ever gonna get past all this, but she thanked me." Ray's voice cracks, he looks down at his hands, takes in a ragged breath. "She kissed my cheek and hugged me and thanked me, Fraser."

Shifting forward, Fraser takes hold of Ray's wrist, feels the cool metal of Ray's bracelet under his fingertips. It is easier to touch now, to offer physical comfort, and Ray leans toward him fractionally. "Ray, if you hadn't questioned everything, including your own actions, she would have been dead. But you did question everything, and you did manage to uncover the truth. You have to forgive your inexperience of the past, you had no weapons against cunning and deceit, and you trusted your superiors."

Ray takes another breath in, not as ragged, but his eyes are too bright, too shiny. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I guess that's fair."

He presses. "It's more than fair, it's accurate."

This time, Ray looks away from him. "Yeah, I get you." Shaky exhalation. "Fraser, you can't stay up all night in the chair, even your cot is better than that."

"I'll be just fine," he says mildly. "Of course, if you go to bed, I can just lie down on the couch."

Ray makes a faint sound, akin to laughter. "Fraser, that's dumb. You can take the bed, I'll stay out here."

"Don't be silly, Ray." He rubs his thumb on Ray's wrist. "I'll be perfectly comfortable out here." It's interesting, he thinks, Ray has still made no additional protest against him staying. Of course, he's never offered before, never insisted, but it eases his mind considerably. "Bed, Ray."

"You're repeating yourself, Fraser buddy." Ray smiles at him rather tentatively. "Okay, okay. Bed."

He lets go of Ray's wrist, reaches for the dishes. Ray knuckles both eyes and pushes himself to his feet, meanders toward the bedroom door. He takes the dishes to the sink and rinses them; they can be washed in the morning, he decides, and turns to see Ray standing there, leaning against the doorframe, frowning a little. "Ray?"

"Yeah." Ray sighs. Shrugs. "You don't have to sleep on the couch, Fraser. The bed's plenty big enough for both of us."

Unaccountably, his heart thumps hard. "That's really not necessary, Ray."

The frown deepens "Fraser, don't bust my chops, okay?"

He's not entirely sure what Ray means, although he's familiar with the idiom. Finally nods. "As you wish," he says, his tone neutral. And his heart thumps hard again.

He's gone past his comfort boundaries this evening, that's all it is. It hasn't killed him yet, he reminds himself, and dries his hands on a paper towel before following Ray. Dief, of course, follows him, claws clicking.

The bed is unmade, but he can tell without asking which side Ray sleeps on. He smiles at that, amused, resisting the urge to twitch the blankets and duvet into place.

Ray is standing before his bureau staring blankly into an open drawer. "These should fit okay, Fraser. I think we're pretty close to the same height."

"Thank you, Ray." He put a hand on Ray's shoulder. "These?"

Ray nods, rubs his forehead. "Sorry, I keep spacin' out."

"You're tired." He takes the indicated sweatpants, offers Ray the pair beneath. "Do you want these?"

"Yeah. Okay." Not quite so blankly. "I might have an extra toothbrush, Fraser buddy, let me check."

"We had fingers long before toothbrushes, Ray." He guides Ray toward the bed. "That will do perfectly well."

"Fingers," Ray mutters and blinks at him. "Check the drawer on the right, I think there's one still in the package there. Got two for one last time I picked up a new one."

"Thank you, Ray, I will." He takes the sweatpants into the bathroom, opens the drawer beneath the sink and finds, as promised, a toothbrush. He will have to shave at the Consulate in the morning, but that's not a difficulty. He changes into the sweatpants, carefully folding his clothes, brushes his teeth, and emerges to find Ray lying almost somnolently at the foot of his bed wearing only sweatpants. His clothes are scattered on the floor, and Fraser smiles at that, visualizing an explosion of sorts as if undressing required the last reserves of Ray's energy.

"Teeth," Ray says muzzily and pushes himself up. "Didja find the toothbrush?"

"Yes, thank you kindly, Ray."

"Good." Ray stands up, sways a little before heading toward the bathroom. The door doesn't close, and as Fraser picks Ray's clothes up and folds them, he can hear brushing sounds, rinsing sounds, spitting sounds. He puts the clothes on top of the dresser beside his own, puts Ray's boots neatly at the foot of the bed, also next to his own, and for no reason he can think of this simple and entirely mundane tasks seems freighted with emotional weight.

Ray comes back in, eyes heavy-lidded. "I sleep on this side," he tells Fraser and more or less falls into bed, rolls over on his belly and puts his face into a pillow.

Fraser swallows hard. What on earth is wrong with him, he wonders distantly, and turns out the light, makes his way carefully to the other side of the bed and gets under the bedclothes, tugging them over Ray as he lies back. The sheets, no matter the appearance of the unmade bed, are clean; he can smell laundry detergent and possibly fabric softener. There's something poignant about that, it makes him think of Ray standing in the market and choosing from the available products.

Fanciful, he is getting fanciful; for all he knows, Ray's mother has taken over the laundry tasks. For all he knows, Ray did the laundry when he was still married to Stella.

The mattress is comfortable, if a little softer than his own. Ray sighs and shifts, and Fraser closes his eyes, suddenly borne down by his own need for rest.

"Good night, Ray," he murmurs.

Ray makes an affirmative sound, a wordless response that stirs that affection and tenderness in him again; he sighs himself and then lets sleep wash over him, only distantly aware of the bed shifting again as Dief settles at the foot.

Fraser wakes suddenly and lies still, trying to determine why. Dief is visible in the faint light from the street, lying under the window, and there is warmth at his back--actually, there is more than warmth, there is an arm over him that belongs to Ray, and a soft, almost inaudible snore from just behind his shoulder.

There is also a leg braided between his own, a hip pressed up against his buttocks. Perhaps this is why he woke, why he has an erection; he's not sure of anything, but that Ray's warmth and shape is shockingly seductive.

What in the name of God is wrong with him? Oh, this is wrong, he is Ray's friend, and lying here like this is wrong, very wrong, it's as if he's exploiting Ray by having physical reactions, and he knows that's lunacy. It's just, he tells himself desperately, that he is unused to touch. Ray was married for many years; Ray is accustomed, in sleep, to turn toward the other person in bed. Surely there's some of that in his reaction, that must be it, he's reacting to the nearness of another human being, which his body associates with intimacy.

Ray shifts, mutters into the back of his neck, warm breath sending another jolt of pleasure along nerves too long ignored. With Ray this close, it's impossible not to inhale the scent of Ray, hair and skin and sweat, Ray's arm is under his, and Ray's palm is against his chest.

Epiphanies, he has found, are not always comfortable, and this particular epiphany is particularly uncomfortable. When did he move past affection for Ray to desire, he wonders, a little panicked, and has he been using this as an excuse the entire time? Did desire alone break down the boundaries and allow him to pull Ray into his arms in the car?

Worse and worse, then, to have taken advantage of Ray's vulnerability at that moment, even if he had been unconscious of less than sterling motives.

He tries to shift away, but Ray merely nestles closer. His palms are beginning to sweat, and his distress has finally communicated itself to his inconvenient sexual responses; his erection is flagging, thank God, even if his heart rate is still higher than it ought to be.

He takes in a slow deep breath, releases it, takes in another and in one not altogether graceful move rolls to his back, careful not to hit Ray in the face with his arm.

Ray startles awake, coming upright with a gasp.

Oh, dear. He opens his mouth and closes it, trying desperately to decide if feigning sleep is the wisest move, but Ray is shaking, he can feel it. "G-god, Fraser, I'm sorry. Did I--I mean, I hope I didn't do anything to freak you out." Almost stammering. "I just--I'm sorry, jeez, I--" Ragged breath.

He sits up, hearing that, puts a hand on Ray's shoulder. "No, Ray, you didn't do anything wrong." Painfully, he wonders if confessing his own reaction will make things better or worse. Worse, he thinks, and opts to keep silent. He's had good luck with silence tonight; perhaps it will continue.

Another ragged breath. "No, I'm sorry, Fraser, I suck, that's all, I--no wonder you wanted to sleep on the couch."

This makes no sense. He blinks in the dark, trying to decipher it. "I don't understand, Ray. I wanted to sleep on the couch, Ray, to keep you from being uncomfortable."

Oh, dear, the shoulder beneath his hand is shaking, and Ray makes a sound in his throat. "You don't have to make excuses for me, Fraser." Roughly. "Christ, I didn't think--I didn't mean--" And then, horribly, Ray breaks down again.

Adrenaline, he thinks distantly, but translating broken sentences is something he can generally do if he's given the right clues. Excuses for Ray?

Oh. Oh, dear.

But he's already broken down some of the restraints that bind him and he reaches to gather Ray up against him. "Ray, you didn't do anything. If anyone did, it was me."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ray's voice is thick and choked with tears, and Ray is all elbows and resistance. "Jesus, Fraser, I know I'm an asshole, you don't have to pretend--"

Oh, dear. I want to kiss him, he thinks and stops trying to gather Ray up and merely takes hold of the pale smudge that is Ray's face. Oh, God, let him not be wrong. He's been doing remarkably well for the last seventy-two hours in making the right choices, please let this be another. "Ray," he says, and then leans forward.

Ray has rather more stubble than he does, but Ray always does. It's very different from kissing a woman, of course, but lips are lips, and Ray's are warm and dry and utterly still for a moment. He draws back a little, cupping Ray's face loosely, giving Ray the opportunity to escape.

Another ragged breath. "Fraser?" Strained voice, but no more tears. "Fraser, why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to," he says truthfully. "I believe I've wanted to for quite some time, Ray, although I'm not certain how long."

Another breath. "Oh." Less strained. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better, right? You're not just bein' polite."

"Good God, no!" He takes in a breath of his own. "Ray, I'm not in the habit of kissing people simply for courtesy's sake."

"Okay." Faintly. "I get that."

He risks tugging Ray a little closer, leans in again to test another kiss. Not deeply, not passionately, it is the middle of the night, and they have both had three very long days. He tastes salt on Ray's lips, rubs his thumb over one cheekbone and finds it wet with tears again. Draws back, and wipes those tears away.

"What are we going to do?" Ray's voice is no more than a whisper.

He thinks about that for a moment, aware that his heart rate has slowed. "Well, I expect we'll each have to decide that for ourselves." Almost reluctantly. He knows, now, what he wants. It's not wise, nor will it be easy, and it's entirely terrifying.

"What do you want to do?"

Ray can't help pushing a little, that's the way Ray is, and it makes Fraser smile, unseen, in the darkness of the room. "At the moment, I'd very much like to lie back down with you, and have both of us get some rest. Then, in the morning, if your sanity hasn't returned--" He kisses Ray again, more deeply, stroking Ray's lips apart with the tip of his tongue. Ray is in his arms, then, against him, hands gripping his upper arms, mouth opening to him, tongue stroking against his.

They're both breathing a little hard when they separate.

Ray shivers. "Okay. I'm with ya so far." Faintly, but with just a hint of his usual attitude. "Sleep." Now, just a hint of wistfulness.

He kisses a spot between Ray's nose and mouth, laughs into Ray's skin. "Sleep," he says firmly, and then adds, with a touch of mischief. "It will be better that way."

Ray takes in a breath sharply. "Oh, yeah. I am so with you there." Shaky voice, but not distraught.

He tugs Ray down with him, and this time he spoons behind Ray, puts his hand on warm, bare skin. Ray sighs, puts a hand over his "Are you sure I'm not already asleep?"

"I'm relatively certain of it. You had your tongue in my mouth."

Choked sound, it takes him a moment to identify it as laughter. He smiles in the dark.

Laughter.

He really has been extraordinarily lucky tonight. Somehow, he's beginning to feel that his luck might, after all, hold.

finis

End Silence by anonymous co: JimPage363@aol.com

Author and story notes above.