This is part II of a novella entitled Near Wild Heaven.

I owe a debt to Mary Renault and her book, The Charioteer, which I felt explained a great deal to me, but I have always wondered exactly how her characters resolved the future and dealt with some practical realities. So this is an attempt to explore some of those thoughts in a Due South universe.

This story does - must - take place in an alternate universe. CotW does not take place, at least not as it did on the show, and Fraser has more sense than to live at the Consulate for very long and this time he has found an apartment with a bathroom inside it. All characters belong to Alliance/Paul Haggis/Paul Gross. If they belonged to me I'd set 'em free to compete in the marketplace.


Sweetness Follows
(Near Wild Heaven, part II)
©May 1999 AuKestrel
        (Thanks to R.E.M. for the title, the song, and Automatic for the People.)

Readying to bury your father and your mother,
what did you think when you lost another?
I used to wonder why did you bother,
distanced from one, blind to the other?

It's these little things, they can pull you under
Live your life filled with joy and wonder
I always knew this altogether thunder
was lost in our little lives
    "Sweetness Follows," Automatic for the People, R.E.M.


        "Benny, no!" I yell in frustration as I see the Mountie turn down the alley where the five heavily armed suspects ran a few moments ago. "Benny, I'm not following you! I'm calling for backup! I'm staying right here!"
        "Thank you kindly, Ray," Fraser's voice floats back. For once I look straight at Kowalski and we share a glance of mutual frustration and resignation, before Kowalski turns and pounds after Fraser's red back. I call for backup before I follow.
        Halfway down the alley I see movement on the fire escape. Fraser's taking to the rooftops, his favourite pastime, and Kowalski's right behind him. So the suspects must have headed up there to begin with. Damn. I watch them a minute, trying to get a handle on which way they're going. Dief barks, once, at me. Hell, it's better than climbing five or six stories to the roof, so I follow him.
        There's a warehouse at the end of the alley but Dief doesn't head there; takes a sharp left instead and we start pounding down another alley. I catch a glimpse of red - honest to God, the Mounties couldn't choose a worse colour to put on a cop if they sat down and thought about it for a week - and realise that at least Fraser and I are heading the same way. And I wonder if Kowalski can jump across rooftops like Fraser. I've met a lotta strange people undercover, people who are pathological in every sense of the word, people who thought nothing about risking everyone's life and their own, but I never met anyone who would leap into the teeth of a situation like Fraser, let alone jump across five and six foot gaps 5 stories up without a pause. I grin a little, knowing that hanging with Fraser has helped me overcome, somewhat, my fear of heights, and look up again, trying to see the Mountie or Kowalski.
        Dief's about twenty feet ahead of me, where the alley feeds into another, and he's slowed down. Kowalski and Fraser are nowhere in sight. I slow down too, cover the next alley. They're not there. Due to some weird acoustics, I can hear Fraser and Kowalski whispering. They must be crouched down on the roof.
        "Where?" Kowalski's saying, managing to hiss a word with no 's' in it.
        I look around, trying to orient myself. I knew it was gonna come to this, and I sigh to myself as I find a fire escape and start up it, quiet as I can. There is nothing but silence as I reach the rooftop, and I can see Fraser and Kowalski immediately as I look over the edge. They've switched to sign language, their own peculiar code, since I have trouble catching on to some of it, but I get the part where Fraser's pointing out who's where.
        Kowalski nods and jerks his head back towards me, his thumb towards an air conditioning unit. Telling Fraser to go, get down. Fraser just shakes his head, and suddenly makes a zigzag dash in the opposite direction, finding minimal cover behind a tangle of pipes, ducking and rolling as the inevitable gunfire sparks across the roof.
        Meanwhile Kowalski, who's looking pretty mad, takes advantage of the diversion to get behind the a/c unit, and I take advantage too, able to get to the shallow cover they were just crouched behind. Looks like the guys are in two places, behind good cover, on the far side of the roof, and it won't be long before they figure out a way down or before they figure out there's five of them and only two armed cops and one extremely stupid and courageous Mountie who won't carry a loaded weapon.
        Fraser draws their attention again with another dash to more cover, and he has to dive into the gravel on the roof this time to avoid the gunfire. Ouch. Kowalski moved up closer, after one frantic glance at Fraser, and I make it to the a/c unit where he just was. Fraser's almost parallel with the roof access now, where two or three of the guys are hiding, and to my horror he begins to edge out on the other side of where he is, trying to get a handle, probably, on who's where, but sticking out his damn neck, and, what's more, his bright red Mountie back.
        Kowalski, who's got glasses on all of the sudden, slams his left fist into the wall in utter frustration as he watches Fraser. He can't yell, can't give his position away, but he wants to strangle the Mountie. I know this because I do too. More shots and Fraser hastily pulls back, glancing over at Kowalski, holding up three fingers and then putting them together. Meanwhile I see one of them looking around from behind another unit, almost straight ahead of Kowalski, and I hardly have time to get my gun up before Kowalski's fired, taken the guy out in the shoulder. Whoa. Nice shot. Fraser gives him a thumbs up. The second guy makes the mistake of coming out from behind cover to pull the first guy in and Kowalski and I both drill him, me in the leg, Kowalski in the arm.
        Meanwhile Fraser has taken it into his head to lose his mind, and he dashes over to the roof access. No gunfire follows; the other three are probably on the far side of the access right now, trying to figure out what to do now that their flank is open.
        Fraser starts to edge around one corner and at the same moment we see a gun come up and point down the wall towards us. Fraser's gonna step right into a bullet in another second and I can't see anything but the gun, and the sun in my eyes, when I hear a shot. I expect to see Fraser fall, and I'm already up and moving, and I think Kowalski and I yell his name at the same time, but Fraser's still standing, and the dazzle of light where the gun was a second ago was gone. Really tricky shot, something they won't teach in the academy because it can get too many cops killed, and I can see where Kowalski is a good partner to have along in a fight.
        Fraser's pulled back already and Kowalski and I take advantage of the diversion to hit the gravel next to him, one of us on either side.
        "Fraser, you move again, I'll pop you," Kowalski whispers, sounding absolutely furious. "Vecchio!" And he jerks his head around the corner.
        I hold up two fingers, then three.
        Kowalski holds up three and shrugs. Fraser holds up two. Even in sign language, he argues.
        Oh, well. It's irrelevant. We have to go after them and backup's never gonna find us up here. I go around the back wall and Kowalski ducks around the front wall. This is the worst part. We both of us need a man at our back, with a loaded gun, and there just aren't enough of us to go around. I'm about halfway towards the other end, running as lightly as I can, when I hear the goddamn Mountie's voice ring out.
        "Excuse me, gentlemen. I'm Constable Benton Fraser, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and you are under arrest. Kindly throw down your weapons and step away from the wall."
        Holy shit. And I can just imagine the look on Kowalski's face. I forget sneaky and barrel around the corner in time to see one guy raising his gun, targeted dead center on the Mountie in the middle of the roof. I waste no time in plugging him in the right shoulder while Kowalski comes around the other side at the same moment and kicks the gun out of the second guy's hand.
        The third guy is sitting up against the wall, holding his hand. He makes no move as I approach. He's not gonna kick up a fuss.
        Apparently the guys behind the a/c unit aren't so happy with the situation because despite the fact that we got these three down, one of them leans around the corner and takes a potshot at us, not aimed anywhere in particular, but Fraser jumps backwards so I'm guessing it was headed that way. In a wordless growl of rage and frustration Kowalski pounds across the roof so fast the guy doesn't have time to process what's coming his way.
        "You are under arrest, dirtbag," Kowalski yells, grabbing the gun out of his hand. Jesus, he's more insane than the Mountie. "Lay down, hands behind your back! Now! Before I kick you in the head! You too!" he yells at the other guy, who's down for the count, really, holding his leg and moaning.
        "You got the right to remain silent, so shut up. Anything you say can and will, I guarantee, be used against you in court. And in prison. You got the right to an attorney. If you don't got an attorney - and I'm pretty sure you do - one will be appointed for you. At taxpayer expense."
        The familiar words roll off my tongue as well, without Kowalski's asides, as I start cuffing the other three. Fraser's walking around collecting firearms carefully, with his handkerchief, depositing them in a pile.
        "Do you understand these rights?" Kowalski's finished handcuffing his two. No answer. Kowalski sighs, raises his gun. "Do you understand these rights, dirtbags?"
        They finally answer him and he glares at them a moment longer before turning, still on an adrenaline high, I can tell, and moving fast to intercept Fraser.
        "What the hell was that? What part of 'if you move again I'll pop you' didn't you get, Fraser?" He is white faced, and shaking, yelling into Fraser's face.
        "But, Ray," Fraser says in a voice I know all too well, "there was no real danger with both of you here. I thought perhaps you would find the distraction useful, as indeed you did."
        "Not as useful as sockin' you right now would be," Kowalski yells, still furious. "You're nuts! You're nuts, you know that?"
        "Very nice shooting, Ray," Fraser says, placating him.
        "Very stupid walking up to a guy with a gun and grabbing it from him," I say, having to get that off my chest before Kowalski gets any cockier.
        Fraser turns and looks at me in surprise. "The clip was empty, Ray."
        I look at Kowalski, who is still furious with Fraser, and not quite following either of us. "You counted the rounds?" Hell, he is as crazy as the Mountie. I can't take stunts like that from Fraser, who I expect to pull that crap, let alone a cop who ought to know better.
        "Of course," Fraser says, puzzled. "And it was very nice shooting, Ray."
        Kowalski groans, turns on his heel and stalks away to the edge of the roof, kickin' the gravel. He's spent way too much time partnering the Mountie, that's clear.
        I walk over too, manage to catch his eye. "It's amazing what he can do to your blood pressure, innit." Almost an apology, not quite, I know. But the both of 'em are takin' years off my life.
        Kowalski snorts, shoots me a glance, and then the anger leaves him almost as rapidly as it entered him. "Yeah," he agrees with a curiously engaging grin.
        I have my own words with Fraser as we follow the uniforms back to the cars. "No more of this, Fraser," I say. "I am spending my vacation in Florida this time, not in the hospital. Not on my way to Canada with one of your charity cases."
        "Understood, Ray."
        "I don't know what the two of you are gonna do without me to look after you," I say. I surprise an odd look on Fraser's face as I look over to see the effects of his words.
        "Aw, we'll be sure to leave a few cases for you for when you get back," Kowalski says, coming up on the other side of Fraser. And I am torn between hatred and relief. Relief that Kowalski is a good cop . . . and hatred for just about everything else, including his cocky attitude. And I don't understand their relationship. How Fraser can take Kowalski yelling in his face so calmly. How Fraser can work with someone so impatient, so full of energy. How I can work with someone so dissimilar to myself.
        
        I ponder many things while standing guard duty, and since Ray Kowalski's return I have found it almost pleasant, to have hours of time to remember and to mull and to think.
        I must confess that I cannot wait for Ray Vecchio's vacation. It will give Ray Kowalski and myself some breathing room. It will take care of the two practical problems, for the nonce. I'm looking so forward to this that I have trouble thinking about other things such as walking, and talking, not to mention my consular duties.
        I wish I could think of a reason to ask for time off, partly to avoid Inspector Thatcher's equally sharp eyes, and then scold myself sternly for putting my personal feelings ahead of my duty. At present our moments of love are stolen and careful; being able to let go will be enough of a relief without having the additional indulgence of time off. And after all, Ray Vecchio is leaving after Elaine's wedding. With fortune smiling on us we will have all day Sunday . . . and all night. And Inspector Thatcher has no reason to suspect that my lover is not a woman.
        Ray Vecchio is growing increasingly snappish. He dislikes Ray Kowalski intensely, although I am aware that he accords him a sort of grudging respect for being a good policeman. In addition, Ray Vecchio's manner of dealing with me directly conflicts with Ray Kowalski's peculiar code of protection which seems to go something along these lines: he is allowed to yell at me and tease me all he wants, but no one else is. Ray Vecchio is fond of taking the wind out of my sails, or attempting to, with his cynical comments and he enjoys teasing me. Ray Kowalski doesn't understand that cynicism. He's too straightforward. There have as yet been no words passed between them on the subject, but I think Ray Vecchio's restraint is because he's worried about upsetting me. He has handled me with kid gloves since his return. Guilt, undoubtedly, and worry, possibly. And Ray Kowalski is trying so hard to keep a rein on his temper since returning to the 27^th that it is almost humourous.
        There are other things that Ray Vecchio is thinking about. Several times since his return he has expressed, in more straightforward ways than usual, his frustration with bureaucracy and even with his job. And I am sure he feels more embittered since Ray Kowalski's return. I have tried to balance my attention equally, but the truth is that Ray Kowalski and I have been working together for over a year and, in addition, our relationship seems to have given us a leg up on our unspoken communication; and although I consciously attempt to include both of them, the facts of the matter are that Ray Kowalski and I are more used to each other, and more in tune with each other, than Ray Vecchio and I are now.
        Thoughts of attunement lead me to think about Ray's rage on the rooftop. And it's a peculiar reaction on my part, but despite the fact that he was enraged with me, I feel that he is truly back. He felt comfortable enough, today, to lose his temper with me. It's an odd thing to feel joy in, I realise, but I do nonetheless.
        I turn my attention to the problem of Carl Oberst's bachelor party. The curious activities of otherwise mature and theoretically responsible (although I realise that that may be stretching a point when the subject under discussion is Chicago police officers) males in an urban civilisation prior to a wedding have never been of much interest to me, and yet I must make an appearance for form's sake. I am not sure if Ray Kowalski will be there. He is somewhat of a loner. Ordinarily I don't believe he would go, but being on his best behaviour, he will probably put in an appearance so that there is no perceived slight. Police officers can be a touchy lot.

        ~~~

        It's pretty much the sort of party I expect, when cops get together to marry off one of their own. And this is two of their own, so it's even worse. Dancing girls and all. I know Fraser'll love that. I plan to stay long enough to be polite, then disappear. I know Fraser'll have to stay through it all. Politeness, the curse of the Mounties. Poor guy. But just imagining his blushes takes my breath away.
        And speak of the devil, I spot Frase making his way towards me with a full mug. "Er . . . someone was kind enough to give this to me, Ray, and as you know I don't . . . "
        "Thanks, Fraser," I say, trying not to notice how great he looks. The dancing girls are gonna be all over him. Ray Vecchio hails him, and he gives me a half-smile before he disappears into the crowd again. I wander around, exchanging hello's and greetings. I find some food. Congratulate Oberst, in a brief moment when he's not surrounded by people.
        Party's getting louder, more raucous. Sure enough, the strippers appear soon. I lean against the wall, on my third beer, watching 'em with a small grin, thinking my own thoughts about Ben. Whom I don't see anywhere. I'm not surprised. He's been in Chicago for over three years and I'm sure he saw this one coming. I see a group of guys with one of the strippers, and they're looking at me. Kinda furtive, but I notice it. I don't react but my cop alarm starts going off. So their stripper starts dancing towards me and alluva sudden I know what's up. Know that this is some good-humoured fun and maybe not so good-humoured, not after Vecchio's crack about the bracelet . . .
        And I wanna be sick. 'Cause I was never into strippers anyhow; and that goes double now. And too many people are watching for me to be able to leave. So I just stand there while she comes over to me and starts doing her number around me. Try to play along. Stick some money in her bra and smile at her. Try to look like I'm enjoying watching her. She heats it up, rubs up against me, kisses me briefly. I hear a couple of people shout, "Whoo hoo!" This is too much. Do they think I'm gonna fuck her, right here? She kisses me again, and her heavy perfume, her makeup, her sweat, goes right to my head and makes it whirl sickeningly. I take an involuntary step back and hear an indrawn breath from the crowd, realise what I'm doing, and pretend I was shifting ground to put down my beer so I can put my arms around her. More whistles and hoots from the crowd, which is growing larger. Thankfully I don't see Fraser or Vecchio. Thank God I don't see Fraser, 'cause I'd probably be sick all over her.
        I start to dance along with her, look into her eyes. She's a person. I gotta think of that. She's not enjoying this any more than I am. I lean down to whisper in her ear. "I'm sorry," I say. "They'll get tired of it in a minute." She looks up at me again, her heavily made up eyes widening in gratitude, and she smiles, a real smile. I lean in to kiss her, and we dance around some more. "They're playing a joke on me," I explain in a further whisper, knowing it'll look like I'm coming on to her. "However much they paid you, I'll give it to you again."
        "You don't have to, " she whispers back. "Thanks for being so nice." And she reaches up and kisses me again, a real kiss this time. And suddenly I know, a little, how Fraser feels, and I smile back at her. The crowd starts to thin out, evidently deciding that nothing more interesting than Kowalski dancing with a stripper is going on here. Now the Mountie dancing with a stripper, that would be something. But they know better than to expect that. We continue to dance a little longer, waltzing around. I ask her name, offer to buy her a beer, and she says sure. So we sit at a table, drinking beers, not saying much, just enough so that people think we're talking. And they leave us alone so I'm thinking I took the wind outta their sails pretty good, just like I used to in high school. I used to be pretty good at turning the teasing back on the teasers, without them realising it, at least by my senior year. And wonder, again, where Fraser is, and hope that he missed this, 'cause I don't want him to be hurt by it.
        "Hey, Lisa," I say to her. "You planning to stay? Or have you made your quota?"
        She looks surprised, then nods. "Yeah," she says, "that last bit was all I needed." She's eyeing me, thinking she knows what's coming. Looks a little surprised (I am a cop) but not too surprised (this is Chicago).
        "'Cause I'm getting ready to leave, and if you wanna use that as an excuse, feel free," I say, knowing that that will not only get her out of here - if she wants to go - but will be the icing on the cake for the 27^th. Poor old Kowalski couldn't wait to get back and get laid, even left with a stripper. Hell, they still think I busted a chick for a date. And then I feel ashamed, for a moment, of using her just like they did.
        "Thanks. Thanks," she says, slowly at first, and then more eagerly. "I just gotta get my coat."
        "Please do," I say with a grin. She flashes a happy smile and runs off. I finish my beer, looking into the glass, and thinkin.' Then I look up, like a string pulling me, and look right across the room at Fraser. And I know he saw. And I know he's sad. And angry. And hurt. And probably hating America. He's in popsicle mode right now, I can tell by his body language. And there's nothing I can do. She comes back with her coat, looking happy and excited. I hear a few teasing comments as we leave, and I don't look at Fraser again.
        I take her home in the GTO. Not surprisingly, it's not the best neighbourhood. In fact, while it's not the zero block of Madison, it's close. She offers me a blowjob. I tell her to get lost before I remember I'm a cop and then I give her a twenty as she gets out of the car. "Thanks," she says again, studying me uncertainly. "Was I too - are you"
        "You're real sweet, " I say. "But I'm a cop."
        "Oh," she says, thinking she understands. "Thanks again, then. Bye, " and she runs towards her door.

        ~~~

        I am well aware of the capacity of man to exercise inhumanity to man, but when I encounter it so blatantly it is sometimes quite difficult for me to comprehend. I have been accused of seeing the best in everyone, of seeing life in black and white, and have frequently been told it is not so simple. Tonight, I believe that. Tonight, seeing these otherwise fairly decent people, police officers all, waste their time, energy, and money to embarrass and denigrate, two sentient beings, I temporarily lose all faith in humanity. I go so far as to take a beer from a passing tray. I try to ignore the pain and humiliation that I know Ray must have had to deal with. I will deal with it later. Right now, I must act as if I noticed nothing, and as if my feelings towards these people have not changed, and will not change. But I confess I have never missed the Territories as much as I do at this second. And I realise I would rather face a pack of hungry wolves than these men. The wolves would show more humanity . . .or perhaps the correct term is lupinity. They understand life with honour, and death with honour. They honour the caribou by culling its herds. And they honour those amongst them who may be sick, or weak, or different. Some they kill, and that death is a mercy. Some they tolerate, for what reason no man knows, but I choose to believe because they see something of value in that wolf, something that the pack would be lessened by in losing.
        "Fraser! What's up? You, with a beer? Who's got a camera?" It's Ray Vecchio, more than slightly drunk.
        "It's a special occasion, Ray," I say, managing a smile. "Very special."
        As if he hears an echo of an unspoken thought from my head, he looks around and says, "Where'd Kowalski go?"
        I shrug, not committing myself. "I really couldn't say, Ray."
        "I know what that means," he says, laughing. "Hey, Dewey, where'd Kowalski go?" And I see that Ray Vecchio, too, is bent on humiliating Kowalski and, although he doesn't know it, me.
        "Oh, man, he left with that stripper," Dewey says as he walks over to join us. "He couldn't keep his hands off her. They talked a while and then left a few minutes ago. Guess she liked the bracelet." He grins at Ray Vecchio and follows the grin with an elbow nudge. Ray looks uncomfortable for a split second, glancing at me, and then grins back at him.
        I feel yet another wave of anger, anticipated this time, as well as frustration and helplessness intermingled with pride at Ray Kowalski's quick wits; I am intensely uncomfortable with this conversation and with Ray Vecchio, who has evidently changed much more than I was aware, and so I look out at the room, pretending not to listen. Ray Vecchio probably senses this, because he changes the subject quickly.
        We talk in generalities for a few more minutes. Suddenly a silence settles across the room, and we look up from our conversation to see another scantily clad female approaching us. And I hear a hum of laughter. At first I think they are bent on embarrassing Ray Vecchio, but I realise quite quickly that it's me they have set their sights on this time. And I look at Ray allowing the panic to show in my eyes. I know he will not guess the true reason for the panic - I know that I have no reputation except that as some sort of female magnet at the 27^th - but that he may, if he is not too far gone, take steps to stop it. Before I must. And he does not disappoint me. His protectiveness takes over rapidly. He hands her a twenty, turns her around, and says in a loud voice, "What? What? I'm not allowed to have a conversation with my best friend, here?" There is general laughter, mostly good-natured. They know how Ray Vecchio is. They undoubtedly had bets on whether he would do something just like that to protect the Mountie from the scary urban world. And it is. Suddenly I am fraught for the second time in less than half an hour with an intense longing for the Territories, for my cabin, for solitude, even for loneliness. "Thank you kindly, Ray," I remember to say.
        "Aw, Benny," he says. "You know how cops are, when they get a few in 'em. They were just yanking our chains." He looks at me apologetically, as if he can feel the wave of coldness I am emanating. Yes, I am well aware of how most people treat other people who may be different. Ray Kowalski and I have more in common, it would appear, under the surface, than one might think. And Ray Vecchio, it would appear, has more in common with chain-yanking cops than I wanted to think.
        They succeeded admirably, I want to say, but I retain enough sense to bite that comment back. And, sickened with myself as well, deposit my untasted beer on an empty table.
        It is 3:30 a.m. before I succeed in getting Ray Vecchio to leave the party. Lieutenant Welsh is kind enough to drive us to Ray's house. He has fallen asleep along the way and rather than attempt to wake him I sling him over my shoulder and carry him to the front door. I am touched to observe that Francesca has been waiting. She hastens to let me in, her finger to her lips. She motions to the stairs, and I carry him up and deposit him, somewhat unceremoniously, I confess, on his bed.
        Francesca follows me back downstairs. "You wanna sack out on the sofa, Fraser?" she asks worriedly. "How are you going to get home?"
        "Thank you, Francesca," I say. "I need a walk."
        "Okay, Frase," she says quietly. "Thanks for looking after my idiot brother. Be careful."
        "You're welcome, Francesca. I will see you later today. Good night and sleep well."
        As I leave, I see Lieutenant Welsh, standing by his car. "I figured you'd try to walk home, Big Red," he says. "Get in."
        "That's not necessary, sir - " I begin.
        "Get in, Constable. That's an order."
        "Understood." I know there is no use in arguing, no way to convince these Americans that solitude and exercise can cure a host of my ills.
        He doesn't say much, until we get to my neighborhood. Then he says, almost as if he can't help himself, "Don't judge us too harshly, Constable. You know how cops are. You know what kind of stresses they have."
        "Understood, sir," I say again.
        "Wish I could be sure of that," he mutters. I am too tired to wonder at his unaccustomed emotion.
        I wearily climb the stairs to my apartment. Oddly, I can see a light on under the door. And realise with a lift of my heart that I know who it is. And suddenly I feel delight, relief, and a host of other emotions not unmixed with pure desire. Ray Kowalski is stretched out on my bed, asleep, with a book open on his chest. Diefenbaker whimpers as I walk in but doesn't get up. I stand over Ray for a few moments, watching him sleep. I can smell her perfume mixed with Ray's unique spicy scent. I unroll my bedroll, ready myself for bed and then take his book gently from him and put it on the chest. As I reach over him to turn out the light, he opens his eyes and looks up at me.

        ~~~~

        I wake up to see Ben looking down at me, a startled expression on his face, and I smile with pure joy at seeing him. I hold my arms up and with a wordless moan he falls on me. He kisses me as if he can never get enough. He's already mostly naked and soon I am too.
        "Missed you, Ben," I mutter. He'll never know how great it feels to have him on top of me, his body pressing me down, covering me, taking care of me, holding me, loving me.
        "Shhh," he says. "Don't talk. Just be." And he kisses me again with such urgency, such passion, I know he is trying to take away my pain, and probably his own, from the events of the night. Know it, for sure, when he pulls my right arm up to his mouth and licks my wrist under the bracelet and then kisses me, hard, again. Distracted for a minute, wonder who told him, what he heard . . . And then I feel his warm hand slide down between us and encircle us both. It feels indescribable . . . our cocks straining together, hot against his big warm hand, both of us moving against each other . . .. As he strokes us harder, I cling to him, thrusting into his hand, and he licks and then sucks my neck, moaning with me in the back of his throat. And there are two points of ecstasy on my body, where his hand and his lips are. And then they merge into one.
        He reaches up soon after that to turn out the light. And before I drift off to sleep again I hear him apologising for waking me up. Jeez. I cut him off with a mutter. "Love you, Ben. Now go to sleep."
        I feel him smile against my neck, and we sleep in each other's arms, mess and all.
        Some time before morning Ben's sense of preservation reared its head. When I wake again, it's light out, and I'm alone in Ben's bed, covered up. He is asleep on his bedroll, dressed again. No doubt Vecchio'll be here soon to observe everything. And then I remember Ben's love bite. And panic. And remember I went home with the stripper, and relax again. I look at the clock and can't make sense of the time at first. Nine o'clock? I have never, but never, known Ben to sleep this late. Ever. And I don't know whether to be worried or feel complimented.
        I get up as quietly as I can. Get dressed, make the bed, Ben's bed, which I never do at my own place, my hands lingering over the Hudson blanket. Feed Dief, also as quiet as I can. I'm bringing him back from his walk when I see Vecchio pull up in his Riv. He's not happy to see me, of course, and looks pretty hung over to boot. Know he wants to ask what I'm doing here. I don't give him a chance.
        "Fraser's still asleep," I say before he can say anything. He looks at his watch, looks at me, and looks at his watch again. "You're kidding," he says, serious, as we climb the stairs.
        "Yeah," I say. "I fed Dief and walked him. What time did you all finish up, anyhow?"
        "I'm not real sure," Vecchio says, a little shamefaced. He's too taken up with that to worry, for the moment, what I'm doing here, and when we go into Ben's apartment and he sees Ben on the bedroll, sacked out, fully dressed, he won't give it another thought.
        "Musta been some party."
        "Yeah, it was. I see you had fun," and he raises one of those sardonic eyebrows at me, which I take to mean he's noticed the hickey.
        "Yeah," I say, smiling softly at the memory, knowing he'll misinterpret that smile.
        Ben's still asleep when we get to his apartment and I see Vecchio relaxing as he takes in the picture. Can't wait for him to just go, get outta here, on his vacation. Hate this. Hate his suspicions, if that's what they are. Hate his jealousy. Hate the fact that I can't even go put some water on for tea for Ben without Vecchio noticing it. Dief runs over and licks Ben all over the face. "Diefenbaker! All right, all right!" Fraser sounds almost angry. Then he sits up, notices the light in the sky - and I know he knows, without even looking at a clock, that he's slept very late - and then sees us. "Good God, how late is it?'' he asks, startled.
        "It's only ten o'clock, Benny. I was gonna get some coffee and doughnuts but I bet Mother Hen here'll say you need something more substantial."
        "Oh. I see. Well, I'll start with tea. Would you like me to put some coffee on for you?" he asks, getting to his feet and heading to the sink.
        "Not for me, thanks," I say. "I'm outta here. Fed Dief and walked him. See ya later." I know he's telling me not to go but I ignore it. Can't deal with Vecchio right now. Just wanna talk to Fraser. "Later, Vecchio."
        "Yeah, later, Kowalski," Vecchio says, sitting down at the table. "Yeah, I'll take some coffee, Benny. Extra strong."
        "Thank you, Ray," Fraser calls after me.

        ~~~

        I sit at the table, with a not-quite-headache in my skull, feeling dull and heavy, no doubt a physical side effect of too much sleep, hating Ray Vecchio for a moment or at least wishing him to the ends of the earth so that I can have ten, even five, minutes alone with Ray. We had no chance to talk last night and although I had intended to remain in control something in his smile went straight to my heart and all thought, all reason, flew out of my head. I can derive comfort only from the fact that I awakened long enough to realise that Ray and I were in a rather compromising position and was able to rearrange the apartment. This is dangerous. I must try harder. And am relieved that I won't have to try, after tonight, for two weeks.
        Abruptly I get up to fix some eggs for us.
        "Something wrong, Benny?" Ray asks. "You mad at me?"
        I often forget how perceptive he can be. And of course there is no way to bring up the real reasons for my displeasure.
        "Why would you think that, Ray? I think I am unaccustomed to sleeping so late," I respond, glad that my back is to him.
        "Yeah, Kowalski seemed pretty worried about you. Guess he thought I got you drunk. And heck, you're not even the one who went home with the stripper." He chuckles. I smile inwardly, remembering last night in my bed, and suddenly feel better.
        The atmosphere has changed and we eat our eggs accompanied by desultory, good-natured small talk.
        "Elaine married," he says, shaking his head. "And Carl. Hell. I thought Carl was a bachelor for life. Whaddaya think, Benny, is love enough?"
        I am startled beyond all reason for a moment; this question is so apropros to the current situation that I cannot think.
        "Yes. No."
        "That's real clear, Benny." But he looks uncomfortable now, and I know that he is thinking of Victoria, of the eternal shadow she cast between us because of my foolish and weak inability to control myself, my conviction that my love and trust were returned, my naïve belief that love was enough. And then I remember Ray, his quick flashing grin, his energy, his unparalleled ability to put almost anything in perspective in a pithy phrase accompanied, usually, by a sudden movement of his hands, and I feel my lips stretch in an involuntary smile.
        "It has to be, at least from an existential perspective, Ray. Otherwise no one would attempt to attain the impossible, and in that attempt discover more about the mystery of love.
        "Benny. Can I translate that? It's better to have loved and lost? Is that what you're telling me? Is this more of your father's advice? Because I don't think it's nearly as helpful as don't follow someone off a cliff."
        I look at him solemnly. "How about this, Ray: every journey begins with a single step."
        He looks back at me and shakes his head and suddenly we are both laughing. It feels good. And though I miss my Ray, Ray Vecchio and I have a pleasant morning after all. Finally he tells me that he needs to pick up his tuxedo. I myself have ironing and polishing to do, I say, and we agree to meet at Ray's house at four o'clock.

        ~~~~

        Go home, grab a shower, change. Then I do a load of laundry. Feel pretty restless and know that what I really need is to see Fraser. Know there were things left unsaid; know he's tearing himself up inside over the dancing girl last night. Try to put music on, to dance, but I can't. Don't need to. Just need to see Fraser.
        I raise my hand to knock at his door and I hear him playing the guitar. He's practising the song for the wedding, I realise, and I stop to listen. He's singing softly, just keeping up with the guitar, sounds pretty content. Maybe I should just leave him . . .
        And hear Dief make one of those wolfish kinda grumbles he makes. So he knows I'm there. I knock, wishing Vecchio would learn to do the same. Hear him call, "Come in, Ray," and try not to think about how he knew it was me. Didn't know I was so predictable. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor with Elaine's guitar, a welcoming smile on his face, surrounded by Mountie boots, shoe polish, brass polish, some kind of oil, and various brushes. His ironing board is set up. And realise that of course he's gonna wear his uniform to the wedding.
        "I was hoping that you would come back," he says simply, which makes me feel not quite so stupid.
        "Yeah, but you're busy, Frase," I say awkwardly. "Forgot you'd have stuff to do."
        "Perhaps it's time you learned the proper care and feeding of a Mountie's uniform," he says with a smile, motioning towards the can of brass polish. I lean down to kiss him. Can't help myself.
        "I'm still working on the proper care and feeding of the Mountie," I say with a wicked grin.
        "I think you have that figured out," he says huskily, and I almost can't look in his eyes, they're so bright with love and happiness and stuff like that.
        "I think I need lots more practise," I say, and sit down beside him. "Okay, show me what this stuff does. I can polish boots, you know, Frase." He looks at my scuffed boots and then at his perfect boots and then back again. "Not that those boots seem to need it."
        That gets him, I knew it would, and he sets the guitar aside to show me exactly how dull and awful his boots look right now and how they will look in a few minutes.
        Eventually he lets me work on his boots, now that I understand that the polish has to be applied in a clockwise, circular fashion and never raising the grain of the leather (the what?), and goes to work on his brass buttons. Which I just realise he has taken off the uniform, and will have to sew back on.
        "You're nuts! What did you do that for?"
        He looks surprised. "Well, you have to polish the entire button, Ray," he points out.
        "Fraser, who's gonna see the underside of a button?" I say. "And now you gotta sew 'em all back on."
        "I like to," he says simply, and I get a whiff of what it means to him to be a Mountie. And duck my head, 'cause I don't understand it. But I like it. I work on his boots and watch him press his red coat. Then he sews the buttons on, quicker than I would have thought possible, and I realise he does it a lot. Then he presses the coat again even though I couldn't see any difference. Then the pants. He finally hangs it next to the other uniform, which looks identical to my inexperienced eye, with a satisfied sigh. "I had hoped to do both this morning but I won't have time," he says, shaking his head.
        I can't help laughing. "If I mixed those up, Frase, you couldn't even tell the difference," I say.
        "Yes, I could, Ray." And he smiles back at me before sitting down with me on the floor to begin polishing his Sam Browne belt with the oil. And he begins to tell me why it's called that, and I think that maybe paradise on earth is possible after all.
        We finish up the boots, him showing me how to get the highest possible gloss. I practise while he picks the guitar up again, fiddling with songs. He starts to play the one he played at the rehearsal - the one Vecchio sang with him - something about riding forever and blue Alberta skies. He's not really singing, just a few words from time to time, and I'm enjoying listening. And it seems so natural, and I'm so happy, that I reach out and kiss him alluva sudden. He stills the strings of the guitar with the flat of his hand and closes his eyes as we kiss again. I feel his response somewhere inside me.
        "Sorry, Fraser," I say, sitting back. "Didn't mean to . . . you gotta get ready. Gotta get a shower."
        "I know," he says, and I can tell he's getting himself back under control.
        "A cold one," I add with a wicked grin. He looks surprised.
        "Of course," he says matter-of-factly.
        We are quiet for a moment. He puts the guitar back in its case. He doesn't look at me as he says, "About last night . . ."
        Oh, no. I forgot about it. And should have known he wouldn't.
        "Have I mentioned how well I thought you handled it?" he says.
        "Huh? Oh, hey, she was a nice kid." But I can't help the glow of pride I feel at his words. One look at his face, and that thought goes flyin'. "I'm sorry, Frase. I hoped you'd missed it. I knew it would upset you."
        "Didn't it upset you?" he asks quietly, and I can tell by his voice that he's hurting again.
        "Jeez, Frase, you know how cops are. I sure as hell do." I try to keep it light.
        "I know," he says after a minute, in a dead voice. "Sometimes I find wolves preferable. I am missing Canada today, Ray."
        What the hell does that mean?
        "Fraser, I should've expected somethin' like that. They'd've done that to anyone. It wasn't personal." It probably was, since Vecchio made that crack about my bracelet, but no point in going there. It's over, it's done with.
        "I'm not entirely sure that makes it better, Ray," he says, still in that remote voice. "That is possibly even worse." And then he adds, in a low, sad voice that strikes terror in my heart, "Perhaps this was indeed a mistake."
        No! No! I grab him by the shoulders, make him look at me. "Ben, don't! Don't say that! How can it be? How can the way I feel . . . the way you feel . . . be a mistake? We're not hurting anybody!" I just got him back. I can't go through this again. I think it would kill me.
        He searches my face for a moment. "But the possibility of someone being hurt - that is to say, you - is a very real one," he says slowly.
        I should have known. Should have known the responsibility would kick in any time now. "First of all, Fraser, I don't think so. Second of all, I already told you, I don't care. You're worth it."
        "Then I have to care for you," he says, getting to his feet. I stand up too.
        "Yeah, but you can't make my choices for me," I say. "And this one's already made." I lean over to kiss him lightly. "So there."
        That finally gets a tiny smile out of him. He kisses me back, also lightly, his hand moving down my arm to slide a finger under my bracelet, before turning and saying, "I'd better get my shower now."
        He comes out in a few minutes, towel around his waist, hair damp and standing up where he towelled it off. I've finished the boots and I hold them up for inspection. "Thank you kindly, Ray," he says as he puts them on his bed. He goes to his closet and begins taking clothes out. Our eyes lock across the room. I know he knows what I'm thinking. God, he's so beautiful he takes my breath away. So I take a deep breath and scoot closer to Dief, pattin' him on the shoulder. I swallow hard and say, without looking at him, "You need a ride, Fraser?"
        He stops in the middle of pulling on his undershirt. "I thought you were coming to the wedding, Ray."
        "Nah, but I can drop you there," I say.
        "Ah."
        I risk a glance at him. Big mistake. He's only got his boxers and undershirt on and he's sitting down to pull on his socks. I gulp, and look away again, try to make a joke. "Don't think I ever wanted Stella as much as I want you. What, do you Mounties get standard issue pheromones plus extra or something?"
        "Not that I'm aware of," he answers me, almost absently, and I know he's thinking about why I don't want to go to the wedding.
        "There's no reason," I say quietly, trying to get that frown off his face. "I'm not upset. And it's not like Elaine and I are buddies. It's not like you and Vecchio. I just wanna be alone." Thinking of you. Away from cops, for a while.
        His face lightens. He understands alone. "I don't blame you, Ray," he says earnestly. He's pulling on his pants now, pulling up his braces. He sits, again, to put his boots on. "I have been thinking . . . I believe I am going to ask for some vacation time on Monday. After Ray Vecchio gets back, of course. I need to go to my cabin, to be alone too. Away from people."
        I try not to hurt. Try to breathe. My chest hurts. He's told me that's what he needs, sometimes.
        "And you've never seen it," he continues. "But I hope . . . I'm not sure . . . do you have any vacation time?"
        And I still can't breathe. I look at him. I don't know what he sees in my eyes. But I can see what's in his. "Yeah," I say. "I got plenty."
        "There's no running water," he warns me. "And even in a month there will still be snow."
        "Will you be there?" I ask, grinning. And love him, love the way he grins back.
        "Always," he says, and it almost sounds like a vow.

        ~~~

        I do not reenter the reception hall with the rest of the party after seeing Elaine and Carl off. I need to be alone. I need to think. I am looking forward to a brisk walk. I must think sensibly, clearly, but my love for Ray is like a drug. I felt this way before, with Victoria, and made a terrible mess. I must ensure that does not happen again. But on the other side of my brain is the vision of Ray in my cabin. My two homes, in one place. And my chest feels tight.
        I look around and see Lieutenant Welsh watching me. "Need a ride?" he asks quietly.
        "No, thank you, sir. I am very much looking forward to my walk home," I say as firmly as I can and still be polite.
        He studies me a moment longer. "You've been looking run down, lately, Constable. Not my business, but I think you might wanna consider asking for some time off."
        "Thank you, sir. In fact, I've already decided to do so. Not until Ray returns, naturally."
        "Naturally," he agrees.
        "And of course it depends on Inspector Thatcher's schedule." And realise I am beginning to babble. I am unaccustomedly nervous. I think he knows. I don't know why I think that. And don't understand how he can, what I've done to give myself away.
        He must see something in my eyes. He takes a step closer to me and says, quite quietly, "Not all cops are alike, Constable. Some of us believe that people deserve to be happy. That's all."
        "I . . . I too believe that, sir," I say, trying to remain collected. "Unless, that is, it's a question of duty . . ."
        "Constable, your personal life is your own. Not my business. Not Thatcher's. You just remember what's important. And tell Kowalski he needs some time off too, whenever the Consulate can spare you."
        I am stunned, and panicked.
        "Fraser," he says, and then stops. He heaves a sigh, then starts again. "You're a man with a lot of sense. If anyone can pull this off, you can. And if you can't it's not the end of the world. Take him to Canada and be happy there."
        "If he would be," I say, and then stop abruptly, horrified at my admission.
        He sighs again. "It's not as if you'll be assigned here for the rest of your life, you know. The Mounties'll forgive you eventually. I'm assuming. I realise you have trouble trusting people. With good reason, I think. And ordinarily I would just keep my nose out of your business. But you're alone, Fraser. I'm trying to tell you what I think, what I hope, your father or mother might have told you. We don't get many chances at happiness. You've got a better chance than you had with that Metcalf nut case. That's all. Understand?"
        "Under-understood, sir," I manage to say, as he turns and walks away.
        I begin to walk home, my head spinning, my heart filled with hope, desperation, and confusion. How did he guess? How can he guess, and not Ray Vecchio? Am I deceiving myself? Us? Anyone? My common sense then reasserts itself. I know that no one has guessed, except, for some reason, the lieutenant.
        I hardly notice the walk. I have calmed down considerably by the time I reach my apartment. And again I see a light under the door. This time Ray is awake. The remains of a pizza are on the table and he's lying on my bed, Diefenbaker stretched beside him, reading again. "Hey, Frase. Y'know, you need a TV, man," he says with a mischievous grin. Next to my knapsack, I see a battered Army surplus backpack and I know that without being asked he has read my mind, that he is settling in for the next two weeks. I am so grateful, and glad, that I can't move. I just look at him, my fingers automatically unbuttoning my uniform. He looks back at me, his eyes shining.
        "We safe?" he asks, in his peculiarly husky voice.
        "Yes, I believe so." I walk over to sit on the bed beside him after hanging my tunic on the back of a kitchen chair. I hesitate. He senses my concern and a shadow crosses his face.
        "I have just had a conversation with Lieutenant Welsh," I say finally.
        "Yeah?" he says, studying my face.
        "I think he knows. That is, I think he guessed. Now he knows." I cannot prevent my head from dropping slightly, not wanting to see Ray's eyes; but before I can say any more, he says casually, "Yeah, it figures."
        I can't speak.
        He looks over at me, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Welsh is a good man, Fraser. I don't think he'll take it out on me."
        "No," I say, "I know he won't. He told me to tell you that you need time off too. After he told me, that is, that I need time off. To go to Canada."
        Ray's eyes widen in surprise. He begins to laugh. "Well, who woulda thought?" he says. "He's a romantic, huh, Ben."
        "Yes, Ray," I say, smiling slowly. "Yes, I think he is."
        We share a long kiss but Ray breaks it off too soon.
        "Hey, Frase. I . . . I kinda got you something."
        He's embarrassed. He avoids my eye as he reaches down to the other side of the bed. As he hands it to me, he mutters, "I didn't think . . . I don't think you have one. I don't know anything about them but one of my friends told me about this one in that pawn shop down near . . . well, anyhow. It's a Martin. He said that was cool."
        He hands me a guitar case.
        "Oh, Ray . . ."
        "If it's not . . ."
        "Ray, it's . . . perfect." And, ridiculously, I feel my throat swelling with emotion. How did he know? Giving Elaine her guitar back was a wrench. "I had one, yes, but it was destroyed when my father's cabin burned." I can't keep my hands off it, tuning it automatically, revelling in the smell and the feel of it, in the look of the dark red wood. "And, yes, a Martin is very, ah, 'cool.'"
        Ray has relaxed, embarrassment at an end. He's grinning now. "What it really was, Fraser, is that you look so damn hot holding a guitar, you know that?"
        "Ulterior motives. I should have known."
        "Oh, yeah. You do. You do, you know."
        "Ray, thank you."
        "Shit, Ben, don't get all serious and . . . and . . . just don't. I . . . been thinking about it, is all, and it all kinda came together. I'm glad it's okay. I mean, that it's an okay guitar."
        "Ray, I can't not be serious. Thank you. I love it. And you."
        "Fraser, I told you . . ."
        I capture his chin in one hand and make him meet my eyes. "Thank you, Ray. It's not just the guitar. It's that you thought of it, of me. This is only the second present I've ever had that wasn't books or clothes."
        He swallows once or twice and says, rather thickly, "So go on, give it a spin."
        "I'd rather kiss you."
        "Nuh uh, Frase. You wanna thank me, give it a spin. I love to watch you play."
        Two kinds of passion war for a moment, but I already know that I will give in to the musical one, for the nonce.

        ~~~~

        Oh, God. He liked it. Finally getting something right. He's been kinda tuning it on autopilot even while he was thanking me. I like watching him do that, the serious look on his face, the half-closed eyes because sight distracts from sound.
        He fingers the strings experimentally, a not-quite-smile on his face. It's more a look of disbelief, of still and deep delight that a smile wouldn't come close to expressing. "Any requests?"
        "You know Stairway to Heaven?"
        He holds my eyes with his own and picks out the first few notes.
        "I should've known."
        He grins, then, and says, "No, I don't. Not really."
        "Good. Because if you did, that would've kinda scared me."
        "Unfortunately my repertoire is mainly what you'd call folk music."
        "I don't get the 'un' part, but whatever, Ben. What about that thing you did at the rehearsal? The blue Alberta skies thing?"
        He grins and blushes. "I admit to a particular fondness for that one."
        "So whaddaya waiting for?"
        He turns to sit sideways on the bed, bringing one knee up, and plays a few more notes, just messing, while he gets comfortable. I pull his pillow up behind me and lean back against the wall. He runs through the chorus first, without singing. I put my hands behind my head and think about his fingers. About the Mounties. About the fact that no one's ever given Ben presents. Damn. Stella and me . . . well, even in the first few years when money was so tight, we saw something, even a couple bucks, we'd surprise each other with it. One time it was just red foil wrapped candy hearts. She almost cried. Come to think of it, no one gave Stella a whole lot of presents either. Things, yeah, cars, jewelry, her parents never blinked an eye. But stuff she liked, wanted, was interested in, no, not much of that . . . and she was pretty good at reading me too. Spent a week's pizza budget once on PJ O'Rourke's latest in hardcover and we ate grilled cheese instead. I wait for the pain to hit, now, after the memory . . . and it doesn't. The memory's good. And that's all. Thanks to Fraser. Intangible, but, yeah, a present too.
        He's starting to lose himself in the music, lose his self-consciousness, as he sings a few words here and there like he did when we were working on his uniform. Singing more sentences now, a little louder, messes up a chord or two but keeps going, that's pretty cute to see him mess up and not get freaked out.
        Cute. Christ. I'm, like, a Mountie groupie. He's in the last verse now, I got the chorus down already.
        "Run like stink?" I say as he flattens his palm over the strings.
        He grins. "I'll have to get you a Canadian dictionary. Ray, it has excellent tone."
        "So do you."
        We look at each other for a long moment, our smiles slowly fading.
        "Any more . . . requests?"
        "Uh . . . think you could fit a . . . kiss in there somewhere?" I lean forward. He does too, and our lips meet somewhere over the guitar. "Yeah," I whisper. "You, a guitar, a bed. It doesn't get much better, you know, Ben?"
        "I know," he whispers back, and then licks my lips with his tongue before plunging it into my mouth, not gentle at all now, hard, hot, demanding, and I feel the guitar push into my ribs as his right hand goes around my back to pull me closer.
        "Jeez, Ben, you're gonna squash your guitar," I say finally, pulling back a little. "Come on, let's hear more."
        "I don't know whether to feel offended or flattered," he says. "You'd rather listen than kiss?"
        "Well, see, Fraser, the thing is I'm learning patience. We got two whole weeks. We can do both."
        "Both . . ." he echoes, and then smiles, and then pivots, leans back against the wall, making me move down the bed a little, one booted leg on the Hudson blanket, as he starts an unfamiliar song.
        "Mind if I, uh, help you lose the boots?"
        "Feel free, Ray."
        I untie the laces at the top and start loosening them all the way down the boot as he starts singing again.

        "Sunset is an angel weeping
        Holding out a bloody sword. . .

        Okay, he's no Pavarotti, but I could listen to him forever. I think he's got the most beautiful voice I've ever heard. And the fucking song . . . Jesus . . . where does he come up with these?

        "I've proven who I am so many times
        The magnetic strip's worn thin
        And each time I was someone else
        And everyone was taken in."

        Try not to read too much into this. It's just a song, Kowalski. But yeah . . . seems like all Ben does is prove himself, to everyone, over and over, and no one really knows him. They all see what they want to see and he doesn't know if what he is inside is enough for everyone else to be satisfied with.
        There's one boot done, and I hang over the side of the bed to start working on the other boot.

        "I never knew what you all wanted
        So I gave you everything."

        This is getting freaky. Yeah, that's Ben. Always giving, never sure if it's enough. It never has been enough . . . wasn't enough for Victoria, wasn't enough for Vecchio, wasn't enough for the Mounties, maybe even wasn't enough for his dad. It's enough for me. Enough for us. It's gotta be.
        He misses a note or two when I tap him on the knee, a signal to raise his foot so I can pull.

        "Sometimes the best map will not guide you,
        You can't see what's round the bend."

        No shit. Bet he never thought we'd be here. I know I never thought we'd be here in the first place. I turned a corner . . . took a bus . . . went two blocks . . . through a door . . . and ended up here. And where are we gonna be next week? Next month? Next year? Scary thoughts. Too scary. Think about those later.

        "Sometimes the road leads through dark places."

        Yeah, Ben, but I'll be with you on that road. You're not alone any more.

        "Sometimes the darkness is your friend."

        I got a hot feeling in the back of my eyes and my throat's tight. I bury my face in the scratchy wool covering his calf.

        "Today these eyes scan bleached out land
        For the coming of the outbound stage
        Pacing the cage
        Pacing the cage."

        He plays a few more notes and then I feel his hand in my hair. "Ray?" he says softly.
        "That's . . . that's good, Ben, what . . . what is that?"
        "A Canadian. Bruce Cockburn. Why are you upset?"
        "For you, Ben. Alone. Just . . . stupid, okay?"
        "I'm not alone now. We're not alone, Ray."
        "Yeah. I know. I said it was stupid, okay?"
        "Ray. Come here."
        "No. No, it's okay. Play some more."
        "I'm not sure I should."
        Finally raise my head, look him straight in the eye. "I loved it. I love hearing you. Play some more, damn it."
        His hand on mine pulls me, firm, gentle, up to him. Long kiss, not passionate, just sweet. I move my mouth down to kiss his neck and rest my head there for a second, his hand still moving in my hair. "Here, Frase, got an idea. Lean up." I push him forward, climb between him and the wall, put the pillow at my back, pull him up against me, Ray body pillow. "There. Let me hold you. Play. Will this work?"
        He twists to look at me, a quivery kind of smile on the corner of his mouth. "Ray . . ."
        "Take it that's a yes." And it's a big old yes for me, because I got both arms around him, I can feel him breathing, smell him, I can even lean forward and lick the back of his neck, rub my nose in his soft soft hair.
        "Ray, that's rather . . . distracting . . ."
        "Sorry, Frase."
        "You don't sound very sorry."
        "Well, I'm not really. I'll be good though."
        "You're always good, Ray."
        "Heh heh." Lean my head back against the wall, loosen my arms, rub my thumbs against his ribcage a little. He makes a murmur kinda sound as he fiddles with the tuning pegs again. It sounded fine to me. That's probably the Fraser guitar equivalent of thumb to eyebrow. We shift our hips a little together, getting comfortable, and I close my eyes as he starts playing again, another unfamiliar tune, another beautiful tune. Like holding him like this, feeling his whole body relax into the music, the involuntary muscle tension when he hits a difficult chord or maybe not difficult, maybe just one he's not sure he quite remembers. Feels good. Feels close to perfect. I put my head back against the wall and smile.