Layers, Part Seven

by Bone

November 1999

Disclaimers:  The due South characters belong to Alliance Atlantis. Written
for pleasure, not profit. For adult readers only, please. Many thanks
to Crysothemis, Dawn P, and Aristide for beta-reading and encouragement.
Comments are welcomed at jbonetoo@yahoo.com

Notes: This is the seventh -- and final! -- story in the "Layers" series.
Layers 1 - 6 can all be found at the Due South Fiction Archive: http://www.hexwood.com/dsa/.

Pairing:  Fraser/Kowalski

Rating: NC-17 for language and sexual content. There's also a wee bit
o' angst. 

Spoilers:  The Ladies' Man

Summary:   Ray's all shook up.

***************************************

I'm losing it. 

Kept myself together okay for her, in there. Seemed to me she was the
one needed some comforting, so how come I was the one getting the hug?
Makes me wonder if women are born knowing how to do that; maybe they
can't help themselves. She's so strong, such a good cop's wife. I'd like
to beat the crap out of Jake Botrelle for screwing her over, for being
so greedy. Selfish; that's what he was. He couldn't face the music --
guess he never thought about who might have to do it for him. Or else
he didn't care. 

Son-of-a-bitch.

Son-of-a-*bitch*. 

I squeezed her tight, tried to say it again, say how sorry I was, so,
so sorry, but she just patted me one last time and let me go. I couldn't
look her in the eye. I could hardly do it when I was talking to her in
prison, and I couldn't do it at all right then. Couldn't look at her,
or at Fraser when I came outside, or at my face looking back at me in
the car window. 

I didn't want to see.

Didn't want to see me.

I kept it together for her, but I can't do it anymore. Feels like I'm
coming apart at the seams, like I'm bleeding somewhere. Like I'm naked.
I can feel that awful hot rush coming up in my eyes, filling up my nose,
and I hear the first sniff, the first sound I can't keep in, and then
I'm just losing it. Can't even get the car started, can't get away and
do this like any self-respecting man would, in the can, in the dark,
where nobody'd see me, nobody'd know. 

No, I've got to lose it right there in front of her house, right there
in the car, with Fraser and Dief looking on. 

And Fraser, you know Fraser, he doesn't try to talk me out of it, doesn't
tell me everything's fine. It's not fine. It's *not*. He just puts his
hand on my shoulder, and then, when I start to shake, he moves it to
the back of my neck, rubbing his thumb there, back and forth, back and
forth. 

Maybe if I wasn't so miserable, I'd be embarrassed, doing this, but I
can't seem to stop, can't make myself stop. My throat's sore, feels scraped.
My eyes are raw, and I'm shaking, shaking hard, cold like I'll never
get warm again. The only good thing in my whole world right now is his
hand on my neck. He's strong. He's warm. He's *here*. 

He keeps hearing all this bad shit about me, and he keeps just taking
it, adding it to the pile he carries around with him. Doesn't look at
me like I'm scum, doesn't tell me what a stupid fuck I am. I am. I'm
a stupid fuck. It took me eight years to figure this Botrelle thing out?
Why not four? Why not six? Why'd it take me eight years to figure it
out? Maybe because I didn't have Fraser before. Mr. Stubborn. Mr. Logical.
Nobody better to have around when you're onto something impossible. His
brain just doesn't quit. 

You know what he's really good at? I've got to say this about Fraser.
He doesn't waste a lot of time talking about how things went wrong. He's
much more interested in figuring out how to *fix* whatever it is. Could
have learned a lesson from him with Stella, I think. 

Maybe if I'd spent more time fixing and less time talking about things
going wrong... 

Yeah, that's good, that's right, Kowalski, let's add Stella to the misery
mix, here. Shit, shit, shit. Piles of shit, everywhere. 

Everywhere but his thumb on my neck, rubbing back and forth. Okay, okay.
I've got to pull myself together here. Got to stop the snot, mop up,
get a hold of myself. Something white floats in front of my eyes. Fraser's
handkerchief. Who carries a handkerchief these Kleenex days? Just Fraser.
It's warm from his pocket, smells like him, and I feel like I'm dirtying
up something sacred blowing my nose in it. I wipe my eyes, my cheeks.
Even my collar's wet. I guess I cried me a river there, and he let me.

I'm not even real sure what popped my cork. Bunch of different stuff,
I guess. Her, for making the effort not just once, but twice, to make
me feel better about fucking up her life. Sam, for turning out to be
as bad as Bedford; worse, even, because he played me. Me, for being such
a stupid fuck. *Such* a stupid fuck. God, I went right to him, gave it
all to him, like a present. I liked Sam. Thought he was okay, an okay
guy. Thought he protected me, liked me back then. Thought he was helping
us out now. Nope, that wasn't it. Not at all. He just covered up the
stupid fuck's mistake and made out like a bandit. 

So much for me being Mr. Instinct. So much for knowing who to trust.

I feel Fraser's thumb brushing my neck, steady, like a metronome, counting
out the beats to something he's hearing in his head. I think he's it
for me; the guy I can trust. Just him. Oh, well. If I've gotta pick just
one person to trust, might as well be him. They don't come much better
than that. I finally get up the cojones to look at him. He's still looking
out the windshield like there's something fascinating on the hood. I
look back over my shoulder. Dief's stretched out on the backseat, patient
as can be. I've got good friends here. The best. Thinking that chokes
me right up again, a big teary rush. Fuck. When I lose it, I lose it
good, don't I? 

I just feel so bad for her, for how old she got in those eight years,
for how empty her house is. I feel bad for having someone so good, when
she's got nothing, nobody. 

I'm lucky. 

Blessed.

I don't think it's got anything to do with me, really. He could have
anybody he wants, and for some reason, he wants me. 

Messy, screwed-up, fucked-over me. God knows why.

He wants me. 

I want him. 

Maybe I cried something loose, or maybe it's just everything catching
up with me, but all I want to do is climb in his lap, open him up, push
up his sweater, pull down his jeans, and have him, skin on skin. I want
that thumb feeling he gave me all over. 

I'm reaching for him before I even know it, just flat out going for it,
hand right down into his lap, batting his sweater out of the way so I
can get to him. I don't know where he'd gone off to, but I startle him,
and he jumps, knocking his hat over the seat back with one hand while
he grabs my wrist with the other. 

"Ray. Ray. RAY."  He yelps that last one, cuz I've got him, soft through
his jeans, oh, not so soft, not soft at all now, oh, yeah, there we go,
hard as a rock. I love feeling him get hard, love how it takes *no* time.
Soft one minute, hard the next. I'm trying to pull away from his hold,
trying to find the zipper, but he goes strong on me, forces me back in
my seat. 

Don't, Fraser, don't. Let me, come on, let me. Don't say no, don't say
no. 

I think I'm talking out loud, I don't know. I'm as lost as I was before,
shaking just as hard, hot and uptight and miserable. 

"Yes, but not here," he says. 

Guess I look a little crazy, because he eases up some on my wrist. 

"Yes, but not here," he says again, slower, softer, and this time I hear
him. 

Yes. We can do this. 

But we can't do it here.

Not here in front of her house. Not here in the car. Not with me a basket
case, nose running, eyes swollen all up, shaking like a leaf. 

Yes. He said yes.

Just not here.

***************************************

"How about if I make some tea while you wash your face?" he says as soon
as we walk in the door to my place. 

I don't know if he's trying to stop me from just tripping him and beating
him to the floor, or if he genuinely thinks I need tea, but one thing's
for sure -- the face could use some washing, so I go do what he tells
me. It's easier than arguing, which I don't feel like doing anyway. 

Funny how at home he's gotten. From the bathroom, I can hear him puttering
around out there. One cabinet opens -- he's getting out the tea bags.
A drawer slides -- that's the spoons. I hear the teacups rattle in their
saucers -- no mugs for Fraser. Those are homey sounds, somebody else
in your kitchen. Good sounds. 

I think Canadians are convinced they could cure cancer if they just had
the right tea. The apple didn't fall far from that English tree, did
it? 

I make myself look in the mirror. Ouch. Fluorescent lights are *not*
my friend. I look like something out of one of those disease-of-the-week
Lifetime movies Stella used to make me sit through. Can't tell if I'm
the diseased or the diseased's grieving loved one, but whatever it is,
it's bad. Two eyes about swollen shut, one dripping, red nose, pale everything
else. 

That's a face only Fraser could love. Lucky me.

I scrub myself down, then put a cold washcloth on my eyes, which don't
feel any better than they look, and they look *bad*. 

Tea's ready by the time I can open both eyes wide enough to see the whites
around the blue. And I'm ready to be back in Fraser's company, which
beats tea with a stick when it comes to making me feel better. Can't
think of a way of saying that without it sounding like maple syrup on
a pancake, though, so I just thank him for the tea and go stand in his
personal space in the kitchen. I figure he'll know what I mean. 

He leans back on the counter, crosses his legs at the ankle. Not a very
Fraserish way to stand, but hey, he's out of uniform, he can bend if
he wants. 

"You look better," he says, propping his hands behind him.

"Better than what? Frankenstein?" I mutter, breathing in the steam and
pretending to sip. Don't know how he drinks this stuff. 

"Better than before," he says.

"Yeah, I feel a little better," I tell him, taking a sip for real, just
to be polite. 

He's hovering, like he thinks I might break down on him again, but I
think I got all that out of my system. Like one of those thunderstorms
that comes up real fast over the lake, sweeps in, knocks down some branches,
floods the gutters, then just disappears. 

It's quiet for a minute, then I say, "Sorry for falling apart on you."

He ducks his head, looks down at his boots. 

"You did a courageous thing tonight, Ray," he says. "I was proud of you."

Damn you, Fraser, do *not* make me cry again. 

To cover up the latest tempest in a teacup, I head out into the living
room, plop myself down on the couch, take a look around. My place looks
like somebody else's place. Smells like Murphy's Oil Soap instead of
day-old pizza. The floors are so slippery we could curl on them. No,
don't tell Fraser I said that -- I'd never hear the end of it. 

On a night like tonight, when I feel like somebody reached inside my
skin and beat me up with a baseball bat, I'm glad we took the time to
clean up the mess Bedford's goons left. Depressing as it is to be a stupid
fuck with rotten instincts, it'd be worse if all my shit was still dumped
everywhere. 

At the time, I didn't want to; thought we had better things to do with
our time. But Fraser pushed, and I fell right over for once. He was right,
though. Dead right. That night, when it all went down in the warehouse,
when Beth took her last trip to the dying room, we came back to my place
and crashed, and then spent the whole next day putting my apartment back
together. 

You haven't had a clean apartment until Fraser's cleaned your apartment.

He's a sneaky one, that Fraser. The creeps really only wrecked the living
room, but when I got back from taking the garbage out, he had the refrigerator
pulled out and was sweeping behind it. 

"Didn't know they trashed behind my refrigerator, Fraser," I said, grinning
at him. 

"I just wanted to be thorough," he said, and yeah, he sounded a little
defensive. 

Hey, look, if the man wanted to clean my kitchen, who was I to say no?

"That's good, Fraser, that's good," I told him. "I think they might've
tossed the bathroom, too." 

He knew what I was doing, could probably tell by the grin, but all he
said was, "I'll have a look." 

So that's why I can get from the kitchen to the living room (stagger,
really, my eyes still aren't that good), and not trip over something.
Because when Fraser does a job, he does a job right, and he wanted everything
to be not just like it was, but *better*. 

He's always doing that. Like tonight: it's not good enough just to go
with me to Beth's house. (Why do I think of her like that? Why not Mrs.
Botrelle? It's not like we're friends). Not good enough to sit beside
me and let me slobber all over myself in front of him, get rid of some
of that awful feeling inside. No, he's got to make me tea, tell me he's
proud of me, be here with me when I know he could probably use a few
hours away from his blubbering partner. 

He makes things better than they were.

I'm still thinking about that, which is a whole lot better than most
of the other stuff running around in my head right now, when he comes
to sit beside me on the couch. He's just in his sweater -- left all his
outer layers at the door. He looks like something out of an L.L. Bean
catalog. Full-price, not the sale page. 

We sit there for a little bit, me and the Mountie, in my spanking clean
living room, drinking tree-bark tea. 

Did you notice? My life's changed a lot in the last couple of months.

*************************************** 

All right, there's no more putting it off. I've got one more apology
to make. No way to make it sound good, either. 

"Um, Fraser?" I say. My voice is still scratchy. "I'm sorry about the
other thing, too." 

He turns to look at me, with that little crease between his eyebrows.
"What thing, Ray?" 

"Grabbing at you like that. In the car," I say. "I got no excuse." 

"Ray --" he starts to say.

"Wrong place, wrong time, wrong everything," I tell him. "I'm...sorry."

He doesn't say anything right away. First he looks at me, then looks
over at the TV, which isn't on, so I'm not sure what he's seeing, then
back at me. 

"Ray, there's nothing wrong with celebrating life," he says.

Hang on a minute. How'd he get from me grabbing his crotch to celebrating
life?  Where's that turn signal, buddy? 

"What are you talking about?" I ask him.

"When confronted with the reminder of our mortality, as we both have
been through Mrs. Botrelle's experience, it's perfectly natural to seek
ways of reaffirming the wonders life has given us. To celebrate, as it
were," he says. 

Think he really believes that? Or you think he's just finding an excuse
that sounds good enough I'll buy it? 

He's still talking: "A sexual response isn't at all uncommon in times
of stress. There's a theory that suggests it's one way we guarantee the
continuation of the species. Birth rates often jump the requisite period
of time after hurricanes, for example; the idea being, I suppose, that
if mating occurs in times of great upheaval, the race will most likely
continue. Of course, that doesn't really apply in this particular instance."

I think Fraser's talking himself right into a corner. Kind of fun to
watch, actually, and a shitload better than thinking about eight years'
worth of mistakes. 

"Wait a sec, Fraser," I say. "You're saying me playing your pipes in
the car was really just me thinking about not dying?" 

I can see him sifting through what I said. "That's the essential message,
yes." 

"So what was all that about continuing the species?" I ask him. I can't
resist teasing him. He's so cute when he blushes. 

"Oh. Well, that was a bit of a non sequitur," he admits.

"Non who?" I ask him.

 He smiles this sweet little smile at me.

"Good effort, though," I say, stretching out so I can put my head in
his lap. "Nice try." 

He rubs his fingers across my forehead, down my cheeks to my chin. Feels
nice. Then he presses hard on my cheekbones, and that feels fucking fantastic.
Clears my sinuses right up. He presses here, presses there, and pretty
soon my stuffed-up nose is gone and my eyes don't hurt any more. The
man's got some kind of touch to him. Some kind of magic. 

I'm starting to fade out, drifting on the comfort of his thighs and the
touch of his fingers on my face, but he's not done talking. 

"Don't apologize for following your instincts," he says softly. 

I don't think he's talking about that half-assed crazy-boy seduction
attempt in the car anymore. He's talking about everything else, all the
other shit I'm trying not to think about. 

I feel two leftover tears leaking out. Damn. Thought we were done with
all that. He doesn't say anything, just wipes them away and starts doing
the cheekbone-pressing thing again. I'd like to be ashamed of myself,
but mostly I'm just glad I'm not stretched out here all alone. 

Yeah, yeah, everything's better when he's here.

I can't ever remember feeling quite like this. When my dad cut me off
cuz I went the cop route instead of the college route, I went all attitude,
all cocky what*ever*, got in touch with my inner hellcat. When me and
Stella called it quits, I got jittery -- couldn't sit still, couldn't
sleep, couldn't eat. Lived on one nerve and instant coffee for awhile.

I don't think I've ever done this... dissolving thing. Never just laid
back and let it all hang out like this. Didn't know I had it in me. I'm
just lying here with my head in his lap, letting him do that quiet thing
he does, helping me quiet down, too. I don't even care that he's seeing
pretty much all there is to me. 

But I still feel like he's comforting the wrong person. Beth ought to
be the one getting the TLC, and I'm the one should be getting his ass
whupped for being so stupid. 

But I'll take it anyway. The comfort, not the ass whupping. 

I'm not just stupid.

I'm selfish.

Maybe not selfish like Jake Botrelle, but selfish just the same.

***************************************

I don't know how long we stay like that. Time's just something else passing
by. I can feel his fingers move from my face down my neck, stroking up
underneath my chin, then down under the collar of my shirt. 

Warm fingers, skin a little rough, calluses on the tips. They don't feel
so much like comfort anymore. I can feel my heartbeat speed up, hear
that I'm starting to breathe harder. I've got to shift around on the
couch to make room in my jeans for my dick, which doesn't care whether
I'm a wreck or not -- just wants some of that fingertip action down in
his neighborhood. 

I turn my face into Fraser's lap. I can feel him now, too, hard against
my cheek. Don't know when that happened -- I wasn't paying attention.
Too caught up in my own sorry self, I guess. But when I feel that against
my face, and feel his fingers on my collarbone, it's like licking a battery.
My whole body's getting a wake-up call. 

I think I'm ready to reaffirm the wonder that is Fraser without his clothes
on. 

I open my eyes, look up at him. He's watching me, still looks a little
worried, but when I rub my cheek on him, he lifts his hips up, nudges
harder against me. 

I reach up one hand, cup it behind his head and pull his mouth down,
meet him halfway, wide open and ready. It's like that was a signal he
was waiting for, because he pulls me hard against his chest, holds me
there, and takes over. 

It's like words aren't enough; he's got to *show* me. He's skimming off
my shirt, tossing his sweater off, and now I've got the skin on skin
I wanted in the car, but it's better because we're on the familiar terrain
of the couch, and I'm not as out of my head as I was then. I'm in my
head now, everything's sharpening up. 

He's got one hand holding my head up to his, and the other's getting
my jeans undone, pushing down my shorts. I boing right up into his hand,
and now he's sliding those soft rough fingers up and down, smooth and
steady, and it's just like his thumb on my neck, before; it's just like
that. I feel hot and cold, both at once, feel goosebumps raise up on
my arms when he rubs me. 

I'm trying to do something for him, but whenever I try to pull away,
he just holds on tighter, kisses harder, squeezes me and pretty soon,
I just decide to lie back and take this, too. 

That hand on my dick knows just what it's doing. We're way past the fumbling
around part, where we try to figure out if what works for one of us works
for both of us. He knows just how to touch me, how to get me wiggling
around, begging him for more. He saves that spot under my balls until
I'm panting into his mouth, not even able to kiss him anymore because
I'm all into what he's doing a couple of feet down. 

He lets go of my mouth and eases me down, until I've got my head back
in his lumpy lap, and he's leaning over, sliding down the couch until
his mouth's lined up with my dick. Oh, yeah, oh yeah, do that. Do that.
My hands are on him before I know it, one stroking his cheek, the other
on his head, urging him down. I'm shameless. I've got no shame. 

He looks at me, eyes hot, cheeks hot, and flashes me this little smile.
God, he looks good down there. Then he closes his eyes, licks his lips,
and tugs me into his mouth, where it's hot, and wet, and totally, totally
perfect. 

There's nothing left in me to feel bad about how good this feels. I'm
pretty much stripped down to the essentials, here. Living, breathing,
heart-beating. Exposed skin and bone, peeled right down. Somehow he can
even make this feel like comfort food, like it's something for him, not
just something more for me. 

Comforting. Celebrating. Coming. Not sure there's any difference right
now; it's all tangled up together with the zing of feeling his mouth's
giving me. I can feel it all coming together, feel myself start to shiver
all over, and I try to pull his head up so he won't get a mouthful, but
he won't have it. Won't move. Sucks harder, if anything, and then it's
too late -- I'm coming hard, stroking up over and over into him, and
he's just taking it all. 

He's still swallowing when I pull him off me, flip onto my stomach and
dive down into his lap, yank open the button, tear down the zipper, and
suck him down in a big gulp. He about jumps off the couch, but I hold
him down by the hips, close my eyes and go for the whole enchilada. My
throat's still gunked up and raw from the meltdown, but somehow that
just makes it feel more... well, just *more*. 

I love feeling that extra skin he's got sliding around, love the little
licks I get in of the stuff he's leaking. I feel him put his hands on
my head and I hum around him, telling him that's cool, go ahead, push
me. 

So he lifts up when I go down, and when I don't cough him up right away,
I know I can do it. I can take him all the way, I can handle him, even
when he thrusts harder, even then. And I can swallow, too, when the time
comes, when he grunts above me and clenches his hands in my hair. I can
swallow, too. 

He pats my head when I'm done, and I lay my cheek on him, where he's
still half-hard and wet with spit. I can feel him breathing hard under
me, lifting me up a little with each breath while he pulls himself together.
I put my tongue out and lick him, and he twitches under me. 

I think he was right, maybe, about the whole reminder of mortality thing.
I mean, I pretty much always want to do him, and it's almost always more
than just getting our rocks off, but tonight feels... different. 

Like being with him like this is a big picture thing, cosmic. It's Life,
with a capital "L" and all. 

I feel better than I have in days.

***************************************

Fraser says we've got to clean up the tea stuff before we hit the hay.
He's downright pushy about keeping the place ship-shape now that he's
finally got it how he probably wanted it all along. Makes me wonder if
him swallowing wasn't just a way to keep the couch clean. 

"We" means "he" tonight, so I go lean on the counter next to the sink
and watch him wash and dry. 

He's got something on his mind. Him putting the clean cups in the refrigerator
was my first clue that his mind wasn't on his work. We got that sorted
out, but now we're just standing there in the kitchen looking at each
other. I figure he'll hem and haw, clear his throat a couple of times,
maybe, but once he gets going, he just spits it right out. 

"Ray, I'm not sure how to ask this, but... were you aware of the interest
Sam Franklin had in you?" 

Whoa, a pop fly to left field. That's not at all what I expected. 

"Well, yeah, he was always helping me out, putting in a good word for
me, that kind of thing," I tell him. "I think he's the one who pushed
for that promotion I got." 

He gives his head a little shake. "That's not the kind of interest I
meant." 

Not the kind of interest... what the hell does that...? What other kind
of interest... Oh *shit*. No *way*. 

"You're shitting me," I say, which gets me a shocked look from Fraser.
He's probably imagining all kinds of awful literal things, so I cover
it up quick with, "You mean Sam's... He's...like *that*?" 

He lifts his hands, like he's apologizing. "I believe so," he says. 

"How do you know?" I ask.

"The way he watched you, how close he stood to you, the ease with which
he touched you," he ticks off, real matter-of-fact, like he's reading
his grocery list. 

"Damn. No, I didn't have a clue. Jesus. I mean, it's not like it's a
*bad* thing, God, look at *us*, but I... I'm just surprised." 

Try dumb-founded. Sam Franklin had an... interest... in me? Like *that*?
And Fraser knew it? Man, the hits just keep on coming. 

"So, what, you got radar or something?" I ask him.

"Not at all," he says. "It wasn't something I consciously chose to take
note of, Ray. But you don't let many people get as close to you as you
let Franklin, and I... noticed." 

I can read between those lines; yes, I can.

"Got your fur up, huh?" I ask him, grinning. Nice to know little green
jealousy men come in Mountie-sized versions, too. 

"A bit, yes," he says, and it does me good to hear him say it.

I wander back into the living room and go over to the window, looking
out on the wet street below. I'm thinking it over, trying to put all
the pieces together. 

"You think that maybe had something to do with it?" I say over my shoulder.
"The cover-up, all that? Think he wanted me to...and I just, I don't
know... missed it?" 

I hear him come into the room, hear him shift from one foot to the other.
"I don't know," he says, after a minute. 

Yeah, nobody knows. Never will, either, if I have anything to say about
it. 

"I screwed up just about every way I could, didn't I? I didn't get *any*
of it right." 

He joins me at the window. 

"You got it right, Ray. It just took longer than you might have expected,
and there were...factors involved that you couldn't have known." 

"Should have tried harder," I say, under my breath.

He taps on the window with one finger. "It *did* turn out all right."

I snort at that. "Tell that to Beth Botrelle."

"I believe she knows," he says, and here comes his hand on my shoulder
again --strong, warm, here. 

God, it was a near thing. Five trips she made to that room. Five times
they strapped her down. She lost everything because it took me eight
years to figure out the whole thing stank more than the Chicago River
in August. 

Fraser backed me up on this the whole way. Stood beside me, behind me,
in front of me, wherever I needed him to be, no questions asked. Standing
up for the guy who blew it six ways from Sunday. 

"Why would you want to be with a stupid fuck like me?" I ask him. 

"What kind of a question is that?" he says, and he actually sounds a
little annoyed. I think that's good. Not sure how much more of the TLC
Fraser I could take without just melting right into the floorboards.

"I just think you could do better," I tell him. I'm not looking at him,
but I hear the sigh he makes. 

"Ray. Ray. Look at me," he says. "*Look* at me."

I hear the echo of him saying that in the alley when I lost it with that
guy, had him pinned on the hood, trigger-happy and a little wild. I lift
my chin, turn to face him. 

"Do you know the saying, 'There's a lid for every kettle'?" he asks me.

I nod. I can hear my mom's voice saying that, usually when she passed
by a couple of freaks on the street. 

"Means there's someone for everyone, no matter how weird, right?" I say.

He nods back at me but doesn't say anything more, lets me work it out
on my own. Doesn't take me long. 

He's my lid. Keeps me from boiling over, keeps me warm.

"You saying we're a couple of freaks?" I ask him, nudging closer to him
until he wraps both arms around me. 

"No, Ray, that wasn't --" he stops short when he catches my eye, then
drags me closer. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying," he says, rubbing
his mouth on my forehead. 

That's cool. Whatever. Just so long as we're freaks together.

I've gotten to the point where I can't imagine it any other way.

***************************************

The end.