Disclaimer: No money made. I don't own these guys.

Author's Notes: Many, many thanks to AuKestrel for another great beta and for asking a really key question. Title stolen shamelessly from the Pixies.

Story Notes:

His feet are pounding against the hard concrete of the sidewalk. Left, right, left, right. Inhale, three steps, exhale. The driving rhythm takes over, and the itchiness inside his brain begins to subside to more tolerable levels.

This is what he does when the stench and the heat of the ever-present city begin to overwhelm him, where he goes when the prickly, frenzied sensation of too many people, too close, burrows under his skin. He runs when he starts to forget who he is and from where he comes.

Run long enough, and the endorphin rush combines with the almost pleasant burn of lactic acid buildup.

Run hard enough, and the worst mental detritus is swept clean. Sometimes his stomach rebels, the contents threatening to rise up and spill out on the sidewalk in front of him.

Run fast enough, and you can, for a while, outrun even yourself.

Dief lopes beside him easily, pure joy of motion almost masking the concern in his face. He worries his canine friend, he knows, but can't seem to stop, and Dief never refuses to run with him. Only he could have a co-dependent relationship with his wolf, he thinks, and would laugh if he had any breath to spare.

He concentrates on his form, starting each stride with a careful push off the ball of his foot, shoulders down, breathing just right.

"Do you find me attractive?" Ray had said, and...no, he refuses to think about this. He runs to escape memory, not relive it, but the sense memory seduces him, Ray brushing against him, Ray's smell, Ray's warmth. What he wants, and what he can have are two very different things; he learned this fact very early in life.

He runs, harder now, and his breathing is becoming ragged, a stitch starting in his side. He runs through it, noisily puffing out exhalations to relax the cramp.

Rough street smarts in a dancer's body, a bullfighter's manic bravado over pure naked vulnerability, Ray is a fascinating bundle of contradictions. Unruly hair, golden skin, golden man--he stumbles on an upthrust piece of curb and puts the brakes on that train of thought.

He concentrates on the ache of his quadriceps, the twinge in his hamstrings, but one image intrudes: Ray sitting across from him in a diner, thick plastic eyeglasses framing clear, expressive eyes, shoulders hunched pensively, warming his hands around a thick, white porcelain mug of coffee.

He had so longed to reach out. To do what? Just to touch? Or would he snap and follow through with one of his fevered fantasies, that of covering Ray's body with his own on the lunch counter amidst the noon crowd, pushing the coffee mugs and plates of the daily special to the floor with a startling and reckless crash.

He sucks in a deep breath at the image, feeling blood rise in his face, and rashly picks up the pace.

He loses his footing, suddenly and irretrievably, and the fall is almost in slow motion, a vertiginous whirl of building, sky, pavement. He comes to a stop sprawled awkwardly, sweat stinging his eyes. He can feel the hot prickle of sand embedded in his stinging cheek. His attention is caught by the wet white milkiness of the quartzite pebbles embedded in the concrete sidewalk. They are slick with water...he didn't even notice the treacherous footing until it was too late.

"Fraser?" An incredulous voice intrudes, sounding very far away.

Dief's pleased whine of recognition brings his head up and, of course, it is Ray, in rumpled sweats and bandaged hands, the darkened hint of a bruise coloring one cheekbone. He recognizes his surroundings now: they are within a block of Ray's boxing gym, and he must have known this on some level, known where his legs were carrying him. Chicago streets are no match for his navigation skills, even when he's operating on nothing but instinct.

"Fraser, you okay? Your face is bleeding." Ray shifts his gym bag on his shoulder and leans over, offering a hand to Fraser.

He stares at Ray's outstretched hand with widened eyes. He is lost--he knows this in his bones--if he touches Ray now, grasps that hand, Ray's hand, with these fevered thoughts racing through his head.

"C'mon, Fraser," Ray says, leaning down closer to Fraser, so that he can smell Ray's sweat and an astringent odor reminiscent of liniment. "Can you stand? What's wrong?"

Slowly he reaches out, grasps Ray's hand in his own. A light covering of sports wrap covers the knuckles of Ray's hand; it feels faintly sticky against the warm roughness of Ray's callused fingers. He looks up and licks his lips, catching Ray's eyes with his own for long moments, and flexes his fingertips ever so slightly, a gentle brush of a caress.

Ray blinks, a puzzled wrinkle creasing his forehead, and cocks his head thoughtfully. Fraser deliberately drops his eyes down to his lap, where his own sweatpants hide little of the rising heat centered in his groin, worn fabric sweat-plastered tightly to his skin.

He lifts his eyes at Ray's half-stifled gasp. Ray is staring down at him, eyes wide. He looks up to meet Fraser's eyes again, blinking rapidly, mouth falling open. Ray looks stunned, face slack with surprise, and Fraser searches that face for some trace of welcome, some answering heat, but sees nothing but shock. He swallows hard.

The hand suddenly tightens on his, and Ray's face changes before his eyes, becomes blank, remote, a tabula rasa sort of face that Fraser has only ever seen directed at others, never him. "Up and at 'em," Ray says with a false cheer and braces himself to pull Fraser to his feet.

Fraser hesitates. "I..."

An almost imperceptible shake of Ray's head cuts him off. "I'll give you a ride," Ray says.

"I..." Fraser says again, but a hard, painful squeeze of Ray's hand stops him yet again.

Ray's eyes are opaque with warning. "I'll give you a ride, Fraser," Ray repeats with deliberate emphasis on each word, then hauls him to his feet with surprising ease. He obediently falls in beside Ray, moving gingerly as his back and knees protest, and he is forcibly reminded that his youth is far behind him. Ray's car is parked nearby; he unlocks Fraser's door first, stows his gym bag in the trunk, and then walks around to the driver's side.

Fraser opens the back door for Dief and then clambers into the front seat awkwardly. He feels too large for the car, too close to where Ray will be sitting. He pulls at the torn fabric of his sweatpants nervously, pressing cautiously at the scraped skin on his left kneecap.

Ray's bandaged hand is on his then. "Don't pick at it, Fraser; it'll get infected."

The skin beneath Ray's hand feels very warm suddenly. He clears his throat roughly and gently pulls his hand away.

Ray stills, and then turns to look out through the windshield. He gnaws a knuckle absently, pulls at the bandage on his hand with his teeth. Nodding his head, he starts the car decisively.

"Okay, gotcha," he says quietly, without looking over at Fraser.

Fraser stares down at his hands; they are large, with blunt fingers. They look strong, are strong, he knows. Capable hands. He rubs absently at his cheekbone, where the scrape has developed a stinging wetness. The scrape itches and pulls at the skin of his face whenever his mouth moves. He looks over at Ray briefly and drops his hand.

He recalls their first meeting and Ray's frenetic and wide-ranging discourse. At first, he'd merely blinked at Ray, absorbing him as some odd sort of performance art that made as much sense as anything since he'd discovered the ruins of his apartment. Eventually, though, he had started assembling a mental jigsaw puzzle, a yet incomplete and appealingly ambiguous picture of Ray. He had thought he sensed--had harbored certain hopes for--some of the pieces that would complete Ray's picture. His misinterpretation of social cues has gotten him into trouble before.

Ray makes a left turn, down a familiar street, and Fraser stiffens. "We're not going to the consulate?" he asks, tone carefully neutral.

"My place," Ray says shortly, then, after a few seconds, continues in a tone more challenging than questioning, "All right?"

They stop at a light, and Ray's eyes lock themselves on his for long seconds, an inscrutable, shuttered stare that dares him to argue.

"All right, Ray," he replies softly. Ray's eyes soften slightly, and he steps on the gas. The car is silent for the rest of the drive.

They park the car and head into Ray's building.

He nearly treads on Ray's heel, pushing close behind him as they enter the apartment. Ray shoots him a narrow look but says nothing, dumping his gym bag by the hall closet. Dief eyes them both warily and curls up by the turtle tank, apparently preferring the company of the reptilian member of their pack under the current circumstances.

Ray pushes him onto the couch with a brusque "Sit," and then disappears down the hall. He reappears moments later with alcohol and gauze swabs.

Fraser begins to stand, face burning with rising heat. "Ray, I don't need..." He trails off.

Ray looks at him tiredly, and the bruise on his cheekbone is standing out against the paleness of his skin. He pushes Fraser back down with a hard hand on his shoulder.

"Just let me do this, Fraser. Could we not do the arguing thing right now?" Ray's voice is gentle, but there's a note in it, something very close to a quiver, that twists his insides.

He subsides into the cushions with a deliberate nod. Ray preps some gauze with alcohol and leans close, eyeing Fraser's scraped cheekbone, then shifts towards him, one leg up on the couch, and pushes off that knee slightly to get a better angle. The couch cushions shift beneath his weight. "Gonna sting," he warns, and Fraser nods again.

Ray leans closer, and he feels fingers brush his face. He lets out a hiss, between clenched teeth, caught between the warm intimacy of their physical proximity and the cold bite of the antiseptic. Ray's clear gaze darts across his face skittishly, down to his mouth, then back up to focus on the scrape again. He closes his eyes, and that's better and worse at the same time. He's hidden from Ray's too-keen eyes, but the darkness magnifies the slightest brush of Ray's hands on him in a way that he can feel deep inside, deep in his gut, deep in his groin. A slightly ragged exhalation escapes his lips, and the pressure of Ray's hands on his face disappears.

He opens his eyes. Ray's eyes are locked on him, and he is motionless, confused wonderment etched in the lines of his face.

"Ray?" he begins, but Ray cuts him off.

"You...you really want this, don't you? You want me. You want an us." He blinks, flushing, and shakes his head as if still unbelieving.

"Yes, I do, Ray." He considers, but immediately discards, the thought of apologizing. Ray is looking at him, seeing him finally, and has not pulled back.

"I want an 'us,'" Fraser says quietly, and, God, Ray is nodding.

Then Fraser reaches out, his hand hesitating just above Ray's face, waiting, waiting for some sign. Ray swallows audibly, lets out a whispered, "Yeah," and Fraser's blunt fingertip is tracing Ray's cheekbone, skating over the bruise.

"You want this?" he asks Ray. He must be sure.

"I never...I mean I just never thought..." Ray stops, frustration evident on his face, then finally continues, more assured, "Yeah. I want this."

His eyes widen as Fraser slowly flattens one palm against Ray's belly, fingers gently pushing up the edges of his sweatshirt to touch bare, slightly sweaty skin.

Ray gasps and his eyes abruptly close for a few seconds. "That's...good, Fraser."

"It's going to get better," he says, a promise that sounds rough and buttery at the same time. Ray shudders. "God, your--your voice, Fraser."

Fraser looks down at Ray's groin, where the tent in his partner's sweats is proof of Ray's arousal. His hand follows his gaze almost immediately, cupping Ray's heated erection though his sweatpants.

"Jesus!" The roughened cry is ripped from Ray's throat. He grips Ray more firmly through the soft fleece, reveling in how Ray's head snaps back at his touch. Ray's mouth opens, his head lolling back and forth, his breathing ragged. He stills, finally lifts his head on a neck that seems somewhat wobbly, and looks at Fraser with eyes mostly black with pupil.

"I was married, Fraser," Ray says, bewilderment barely edging out the protest in his tone, but doesn't push Fraser's hand away.

"Yes, I know that, Ray," he murmurs, and forces himself to lift his hand. He is numb, but it feels like that initial reaction to a gunshot wound, the numbness that precedes white-hot agony.

"No, don't," Ray protests immediately. "Don't stop, Fraser."

He looks down at Ray, stretched out and begging for his touch, and hesitates. If they stop now, they can possibly laugh this off, go on as before. Is heaven attained, when one's grasp equals one's reach, or is even the presupposition of its existence wishful thinking? If he continues...if he continues, it could be a dream come true--or the nightmare of a ruined friendship. He sucks in a deep breath.

"Fraser, God, please..." Ray's voice is desperation, not to be denied.

He brushes Ray's abdomen with a soothing hand and then pushes his fingers boldly beneath the waistband of Ray's pants, registering the sudden inrush of Ray's harsh gasp, and then nothing is between his hand and that heated flesh. His hands are strong, he knows, but he thinks Ray needs it just like this, and...Ray is moaning, low sounds that make his head ring.

Then Ray's sweatpants are pushed down, and he's looking at Fraser, eyes wide with lust and fear and need. He's mouthing a word over and over; it takes Fraser a few seconds to translate the shape formed by Ray's lips. Please.

Fraser closes his eyes and takes in a shuddery breath, then leans over and takes Ray in his mouth. He hears a cry and it must be Ray because his own mouth is otherwise occupied. One good suck is all it takes; Ray shudders and comes, spasms racking his lean frame, and Fraser's mouth is filled with alkaline saltiness. He swallows it down, and pauses, breathing heavily.

Ray is frozen, rigid beneath his hands. Fraser pulls off Ray's softened penis, breathing in the masculine musk.

"Ray?"

Hard hands are suddenly pushing at him, pushing him away.

"Oh, God, oh, God, what the fuck...what've I done," Ray is muttering, still pushing at him. Ray's eyes are wide, panicked, and he's gasping for air raggedly.

"Ray, it's okay," he tries to soothe, but Ray is having none of it, cursing beneath his breath, pushing off his hands roughly.

The taste of Ray is still on his lips, but his mouth is empty. Ray is...gone, has retreated behind wild, accusing eyes. It's a punch to the gut, and it's strange, he would have expected the pain to be in his heart but supposes that will come later. At least Ray is merely pushing him away, has not tried to punch him in some overaggressive assertion of his heterosexual identity.

Ray suddenly leaps to his feet, awkwardly pulling at his sweats, and darts for the bathroom. The slam of the door seems to resonate through the apartment, and Dief lets out a whine.

"Hell!" The expletive slips out, takes him by surprise, and Fraser stares at the closed bathroom door for long moments, then levers himself off the couch decisively.

"Dief, we're leaving." A pained whine is his answer.

"Well, I'm sorry, I know he's not mad at you. I, however, am going to the consulate. Join me if you like."

Dief takes pity on him and keeps him company on the long, painful walk back to the consulate.

When they get there, his office feels smaller and dingier than ever. He doesn't bother with the lights; it would be too harsh, too real, and he can pretend in the dark, make believe he hasn't just ruined the best friendship he's ever had. He takes a perfunctory shower and stretches out on his cot. He drops his hand down to pet Dief's coat, monotonous strokes that soon have the wolf snoring. It's cold comfort, but it's all that he has.

Fraser wakes in the night with a start. A dark, formless shape is crouched by his cot, and he nearly jumps out of his skin before he sees that it is Ray.

Ray is whispering. "Stella. It's always been Stella, long as I can remember."

His insides freeze, and the intense stab of violent fury takes him by surprise. "I quite understand that. You've made that very clear." The harsh coldness of his voice slices through the soft quiet of the office.

Ray continues, seemingly oblivious to his anger, "Not any more." Ray sighs. "Not any more." He rests his forehead against the frame of the cot, close enough that his hair brushes against Fraser's hand.

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing, Frase. But I know this: you're my best friend and then some, and I liked what we did. I know I freaked out after, but I wasn't expecting...I mean...I really liked it. And it's not Stella anymore, it's you. God, it's been you, all this time, and I didn't even know it. And I don't wanna ruin it, 'cause without you I'm nothing. Nothing and I'm sorry I was such a dick, but I'm...fuck...I'm so scared, Fraser. So fucking scared."

In the dimness, Ray looks shattered, almost in tears. He feels his insides melting, and wants to pause, feels the urge to discuss, but his hindbrain is telling him that what he really needs is to get Ray as close to him as possible. He can't help drawing his partner against his chest, because that's what partners do. He can't help winding his arms around Ray's lean warmth. He can't help that Ray's hands are making soothing patterns against his back. He can feel Ray's gasps easing.

Ray is quiet against him, and he feels, breathes, really, the moment when the caresses change, when they are no longer meant to soothe and become, instead, a question, an invitation. Ray breathes in and lifts his head, and then that mouth is on his. He tastes tears unshed and the bitterness of coffee. Their breaths quicken and the kiss becomes deep and wet, and he is--oh, he's so hungry for it.

Long moments of this, Ray, Ray's mouth, and this is so like one of his fevered fantasies, taking Ray here, in his office, that for a dizzying moment he wonders if he's dreaming. But their bodies are obviously still learning each other, odd moments of awkwardness, the newness of this, and the rough clash of teeth as each tries to control the kiss, all of it tells him how very real this is. His hands are in Ray's hair, and he tries not to pull it too hard, but he needs to tilt Ray's head just so. He sighs against Ray's mouth, and Ray opens his eyes.

Ray finally pulls his mouth from Fraser's. He looks debauched, all tousled hair and skin reddened with beard-burn. Fraser flushes at the sudden desire to lick that face, taste the bruised cheekbone.

"Come back to the apartment?" Ray asks diffidently.

He opens his mouth to explain that only a few hours remain before he must return to the consulate, then closes it, pushing aside prosaic reasonableness for once. Because it's Ray asking. It's strange, and it's still like a punch to the gut, but it's not pain now. It's in his heart, and it's like the warmth of an Arctic summer, almost disorienting after the long cold darkness of winter. It's Ray, nervously petting Fraser's forearms, willing to come to him, seeking him out, offering up everything he's ever dreamed of. Perhaps he really should pinch himself. He reaches out instead, cups the rough stubble of Ray's cheek instead.

"Let me pack a few things." The pleased flush that spreads across Ray's face heats up his palm and more than makes up for any inconvenience found in such a commute.

Then they are in the car, Dief snoring in the back seat, and Ray is humming. Once again he makes a long journey across quiet darkened city streets, but this time it's with a hopeful heart, a faint hint of false dawn in the sky, Ray beside him.

End Broken Face by Purna: a_purna@yahoo.com

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