The Burnham Triangle: Where The Game Is Going  

These characters are owned by Alliance and no copyright infringement is
intended.  

The Burnham Triangle series is about a Ray/Fraser/Ray love triangle. It is
slash. Though mostly drama, it does contain sex, and some of that sex is
definitely NC-17. Turn back now if you are not an adult in your local
jurisdiction. 

Angst warning...  

Note: The first twelve chapters in this part were originally archived as
twelve separate files. Due to archival requirements, those parts -- plus
chapters 13-22 -- have been combined into one story. This is part one of a
series. Things are left hanging. The next part will be done as soon as
it's ...done. Thank you for your patience. Acknowledgements and
notes/credits are at the end of this document.	

Feedback to Surfgirl -- flames will light my patchouli incense! © 1998,
1999 Surfgirl 
 
  The Burnham Triangle: Where The Game Is Going 

 
 Chapter 1: Everything's Changed  

Ray Kowalski danced with Stella, on the restaurant boat, just as he had
the night Stella and Alderman Orsini were almost blown to bits by the
champagne bottle bomb. But this time there was no exploding bottle. No
Alderman Orsini. And no Fraser to save the day, because the day didn't
need saving.  

Ray felt light as air, and Stella was light as air. They danced off the
boat onto the surface of the water. The Chicago skyline shimmered in the
dark behind them, and swirled around them as they twirled and waltzed. His
heart was light, his feet sure and swift. The water was a spongy surface
below them, like a wet lawn after a spring rain.  

His shoulder was warm under Stella's arm, her back lithe and warm under
his palm. He looked into her eyes, those beautiful green eyes. But they
looked sad just now. Since she had become his ex-wife -- no, even before
that -- her eyes often had a sad look. That is, when they didn't have an
annoyed look -- directed at him.  

And then suddenly he was slowly sinking, his feet like lead. They slowed
down in the waltz, like a projector jamming right before the film starts
to burn. The water was over his ankles, approaching his knees. He clutched
Stella to him, to save her. She struggled to free herself from his arms,
as he held her tighter. But his fear for her safety was rapidly replaced
by panic for himself -- he couldn't swim, had never learned. He was really
going down now -- the water was at his hips. Whatever was drawing him down
continued inexorably pulling him, as if cartoon anvils were tied to his
ankles. As if he were being sucked down a giant dark drain in Monroe
harbor.  

The water was at his chest now and Stella slipped out of his arms. The
water splashed up his neck. She swam a few feet away and watched him sadly
as he began to flail. The water was up to his chin. He took a great gasp
of air, getting a spluttering mouthful of water as the increasing waves
closed over his head. He looked up through the murky surface of the water.
He saw the dark shadow of Stella silhouetted by the fuzzy blur of boat,
skyscraper and harbor lights.  

He was losing air, he realized, and tiring himself out faster by flailing.
It was hopeless anyway -- since he couldn't swim, he was certainly going
to drown. He sank further and darkness -- the night, the deep water --
closed out all light. His body grew limp as his chest felt like it would
burst. Blue and pink sparkles shifted before his eyes.	

And then suddenly he was roughly grabbed by the shoulders. A mouth was
fiercely pressed to his, and a tongue thrust his lips apart. He fought,
crazed and fearful. But then warm breath entered his mouth, with brackish
Lake Michigan water seeping in at the imperfect seal between their lips.  

He gasped, sputtering, and his struggling turned to a desperate clinging
to the body of his savior. Two hands gently tilted his head and pulled his
mouth closer, tightening the seal. Ray breathed in carefully, making sure
he inhaled only through his mouth. His panic ebbed and he relaxed, opening
his eyes. The water was no longer dark, but inexplicably blue green and
shot through with sunlight. He was looking directly into the watery but
clear blue eyes of his erstwhile partner, Royal Canadian Mounted Police
Constable Benton Fraser.  

Fraser's short hair wafted around his head like a wreath underwater. He
slowly pulled his lips from Ray's while pushing Ray's chin up to shut his
mouth, so no water would get in. Ray was stunned, but had no time to think
-- Fraser surfaced, dragging Ray up with him by the collar.  

It seemed to take forever for Fraser to get to the surface with him. Ray
felt the water streaming strongly past him and yet, again, it was as if it
were happening in slow motion. When they finally broke the surface, Ray
was seeing stars again. He squeezed his eyes shut against the bright
sunlight, gasping and heaving blindly. He'd never loved air so much
before. With strong kicks and strokes, Fraser pulled Ray to shore.  

They stumbled heavily up onto Oak Street Beach -- the Gold Coast -- the
Drake Hotel facing them from across Lake Shore Drive. Ray collapsed onto
the sand, face to the blue sky. Ragged breathing and the chill air made
him shudder. The sand under him was warm, though, from the sun. Out of the
corner of his eye, he saw the flash of red as Fraser removed his serge
jacket and threw it on him for warmth. Fraser's arm extended across Ray's
chest, and Ray grabbed it.  

"What was that?" he demanded of Fraser.  

"What was what?" Fraser responded, still leaning over him, concerned blue
eyes looking down into his. Ray looked up at his face. It was surreally
clear and bright against the blue sky.	

"That thing you were doing with your mouth," Ray continued, coughing.  

"Oh, that. Buddy breathing."  

"Buddy breathing?"  

"Yes, well, you seemed to be in a -- having a bit of a problem, I have
excess lung capacity... it's standard operating procedure."  

"All right, all right," Ray mumbled, his pounding heart calming from the
fear and confusion. "So then, nothing's, like, changed between us?" he
asked Fraser uncertainly. Squinting into those compelling blue eyes, Ray
glanced at Fraser's pursed lips and wrinkled brow. A strange feeling of
deja vu overcame Ray.  

"On the contrary, Ray," Fraser said quietly, his expression clearing.
"Everything's changed." And he leaned down and softly pressed his lips to
Ray's, letting his chest rest on Ray's.  

Pinned as he was, stunned and still disoriented, Ray did nothing. He
accepted the kiss. When Fraser began moving his lips against Ray's, Ray
began to stir. His right hand was confined between their chests, under
Fraser's red serge uniform jacket. He raised his free hand to Fraser's
shoulder, to push him off. But Fraser grabbed that wrist, forcing it back
to the sand gently but firmly. His kiss moved more urgently on Ray's
mouth, demanding response.  

Ray closed his eyes again, thinking I was right, he is unhinged, but found
his lips responding as if they had a will of their own. He tried to
imagine Stella was kissing him, but her image wouldn't come in clearly. He
found himself inexplicably opening his mouth to accept Fraser's tentative
tongue. Then he felt himself stiffening, his wet, itchy jeans suddenly
constricting.  

In shock, Ray's eyes shot open. Fraser opened his eyes at the exact same
time, and their gazes locked. And at that moment, Ray knew that Fraser
knew that Ray had become aroused. Ray felt the next throb of his heart
throughout his entire body. His throat constricted with a lump of fear,
excitement, shame, and longing. Fraser released his pinned wrist slowly,
and paused in his kiss.  

A moment's hesitation... Ray closed his eyes, feeling weightless, feeling
time had stopped. And then his warring desires propelled the previously
pinned wrist up, and he was pulling Fraser down for a hot wet soul kiss.
He felt the Mountie's slick wet hair under his fingers. The soaked thighs
of his jeans warmed under the sun. His jeans became even more constricting
as his arousal swelled, and then his body jerked ---  

Ray Kowalski jerked awake in the blue, pre-dawn darkness. He had kicked
the covers off. The cool air in his bedroom chilled the thin sheen of
sweat on his skinny legs. His T-shirt was wet under his armpits and on his
chest. He sat up, his erection tenting his briefs. He grabbed the blankets
and pulled them up to his chin, sinking back down into the bed.  

What the hell was that? he asked himself. I should never have asked my mom
about the DA Stella's dating. That's why I had that weird dream. It mixed
the scare on the freight ship with the last time he'd seen Stella for more
than passing moments in the precinct... And with some other weird Fraser
shit. He purposely thought of Stella, her lithe arms and sweet, quick
smile. But the image -- the feeling of the dream kiss on the beach with
Fraser -- broke into that thought. Irritated, Ray sat up and punched his
pillows, rearranging them for comfort, and flopped back down onto them.  

He gritted his teeth and thought of Stella. Of kissing Stella. And his
hand crept to pull his briefs down and grab his cock. He was determined to
think only of Stella, and did, successfully. But even as he approached
orgasm, his thoughts of Stella turned from sexual to mournful...
wistful... sad. And then suddenly, again, the "buddy breathing" incident
on the freighter popped into his mind. His hand still moved mechanically
on his cock. The buddy breathing faded into Fraser 's kiss on the dream
beach... Ray groaned from the mingled sadness and excitement and shame,
his hand moving faster. Unable now to stop, his orgasm was inevitable. His
body jerked involuntarily for some moments.  

Afterward, his heart beat and breathing slowing, he alternated worrying
about these thoughts of Fraser and obsessing about the new man in Stella's
life. He shivered in bed. I'm getting a cold. That's what it is, I'm
getting sick, he thought to himself.  

"I'm feverish," he said aloud, though there was no one to hear. "That's
why I got all sweaty," he muttered.  

Again he deliberately thought of Stella. He recalled her with him in
various positions -- gasping under him, straddling him -- even though it
was bittersweet to think of such things. As he began to relax back into
sleep, he clung to those thoughts. But swimming just below the surface of
that thought was Fraser 's buddy breathing. Then the dream kiss on the
beach darted in and out, momentarily blocking out thoughts of Stella, and
then retreating. Ray fell back asleep and twitched fitfully for a couple
more hours, before the light came and his alarm jarred him into another
day.  

* * *  

Chapter 2: Okay Then  

The ringing of Ray K.'s cellular phone woke Constable Fraser from his
fitful sleep. In the darkness and confusion of just waking up, he looked
about him, seeing blank walls and realizing he was sleeping on a bedroll
on the floor. The phone emitted another piercing electronic ring. He
fumbled for it in the rumpled red sleeping bag next to him. Finally he had
the gadget, flipped it open and pressed the button.  

"Ray Vecchio's cellular phone," he said as he put it up to his ear.  

"Benny?" came the familiar voice. Fraser's heart jumped into his throat
and began pounding.  

"Benny? Are you there?" came Ray Vecchio's -- the real Ray Vecchio's --
voice again. Fraser finally found his voice.  

"Ray?" he half whispered. It had been so long since he'd heard Ray
Vecchio's voice.  

"Yeah, Benny, it's me. Listen, I can't talk long. But I had to call,"
Ray's voice vibrated through the phone.  

"Ray, I--" Fraser began, and then abruptly stopped. Light from the
bathroom momentarily blinded him and Ray Kowalski stepped into the room.
The room Turnbull had decided not to rent, Fraser realized. But the last
time they'd been here, they'd had a protected federal witness with them.
What were they doing here now? And why was he lying here in his union
suit?  

"Benny," Vecchio interrupted Fraser again, as Ray K. shut off the bathroom
light. He stepped over Fraser to his red sleeping bag. He wore nothing but
a T-shirt and briefs. Kowalski sat down next to Fraser, pulling the
sleeping bag up to Fraser's bedroll. Ray V. continued, "Benny, I gotta...
I mean... Listen." Vecchio paused.  

"Yes?" Fraser began, but then Ray K. curled up to him, draping an arm and
a leg over his chest and his thighs. Fraser tensed all over, shocked.  

"You know that I'm undercover here, Benny," Vecchio continued more
quietly. Fraser felt Ray K.'s warm breath in his ear; while Ray Vecchio's
voice continued in his other ear. "You know, I might be required to do
some... things while undercover."  

"Things," Fraser repeated numbly. Why on earth was Ray Kowalski wrapped
around him? Not that, strictly speaking, it was unpleasant... it was just
very unusual and highly unlikely. And yet Ray K. was curled up to him.	

"Yeah, you know. Things. And, Benny, I know I left you alone, with no real
explanation. I never got the chance to really say good-bye or why I was
leaving. "  

"Yes, well--" Fraser started again, then nearly jumped out of his skin
when Ray Kowalski began unbuttoning his union suit.  

"What's wrong witchoo?" Ray K. whispered, feeling Fraser freeze. Fraser
looked over at him, feeling the slow creep of warmth up his chest and neck
to his hairline. Thank God for the semi-darkness; Kowalski wouldn't be
able to see him blushing.  

"Ray, I had a feeling you couldn't speak freely about your departure when
we spoke last," Fraser said to Vecchio.  

"Yeah, well, I just wanted to let you know that I... I miss you." Ray
Vecchio paused.  

"And I, you," Fraser responded, then nearly dropped the phone in shock as
he felt Ray Kowalski's hand slip under his union suit to stroke down his
chest, and his belly, to rest on his hip. Using Fraser's hip as a handle,
the detective pulled Fraser's body tightly against his. He gripped the
Mountie's body with the leg he'd draped over it. Fraser felt the warmth of
Kowalski's arousal swelling slowly against him. The friction of Ray's leg
over his groin was beginning to arouse Benton.	

"Benny, I didn't wanna leave, but I hadda go," Vecchio continued. "I left
you in the lurch."  

"No you didn't, Ray," the Mountie replied, then couldn't continue because
the detective slid his straddling leg down, and his warm hand caressed
Fraser's inner thigh, then slid upward slightly to grasp his slowly
lengthening and thickening organ.  

"Yeah, I did, Benny. And I'm sorry. And I don't know when we're going to
see each other again," Ray V. went on. Fraser quickly turned to look at
Kowalski, who was smiling sheepishly as he caressed him. Fraser reached
down with his free hand and grasped Kowalski's wrist. Ray K.'s eyebrows
frowned at him, then screwed together into a question.	

Vecchio continued, "I know you'll get lonely. I mean, I'm lonely. I miss
you. I guess before, I didn't know what I was missing, but now... anyways,
if you were to, uh, you know, I just want you to know it's okay and I
understand. Because I hope you would understand if I.... I mean, I might
have to, so I don't blow my cover," Ray continued awkwardly.  

"Ray. I think I understand what you're saying," Fraser said as calmly as
he could, while he spoke on the phone to his known lover and
simultaneously inhabited an alternate universe where Ray Kowalski was also
his lover -- a lover whose wrist he currently grasped, to make Ray desist
from caressing him. Kowalski, momentarily stymied, rocked his pelvis
against Fraser's hip rhythmically, pressing that stiff but yielding
erection against him in disconcertingly urgent way. "No, Ray," Fraser went
on, "I wouldn't hold it against you. I would understand. There are...
things... things that arise, uh, that arise between men--"  

"Benny, look. You're good looking. I'm the one who seduced you, but I'm
sure you've had your share of offers. So if what you're trying to say is
it's already happened, forget it."  

"But, Ray! I--" Fraser protested, feeling Kowalski's hardness thrusting
gently against him. He still held Ray K.'s wrist, and the detective's hand
still encircled his half-mast organ.  

"Benny," Ray interrupted, "I'm not asking for explanations or excuses. And
I don't wanna know the details. Just... I figured it might happen
eventually, if I was gone too long. And besides, nothing can ever break
what we have between us," Vecchio finished. "Right?" he added, rather
plaintively.  

Fraser looked from Kowalski to the ceiling, and closed his eyes. He
imagined Ray Vecchio next to him. He imagined Ray's hand in his union
suit. He felt himself getting more physically aroused at the same time as
he felt increasingly guilty.  

"Right, Ray," he answered firmly and loudly, "nothing can ever break what
we have between us."  

Kowalski withdrew his hand from Fraser's grasp and union suit, and rolled
onto his back, away from Fraser. He stared at the ceiling. Fraser opened
his eyes, to look at the open bulb in the ceiling fixture above them. The
slim detective's breathing seemed overly loud.	

"Thanks, Benny," the voice on the cell phone murmured. "I needed to hear
that. Listen, I really gotta go. I miss you. And I love you. Whatever
happens, remember that."  

"I will Ray, and --"  

"I know, Benny. I know. Good-bye."  

"Good-bye, Ray," Fraser said to the click on the line. He pressed the End
button and slowly flipped the phone shut.  

"That was Vecchio," Ray Kowalski said next to him, still staring at the
ceiling. It was not a question. It was a statement.  

"Yes." The silence between them lengthened.  

"Look, Fraser," Ray K. began, and rolled onto his side, propping his head
on an elbow. "I got no illusions about this. I wasn't expecting it, you
weren't expecting it, it's just..." he trailed off.  

Fraser turned his head to look at him, but couldn't, and looked away to
the ceiling again.  

"I wasn't expecting that phone call," he said to Ray K. He glanced over at
him again, but avoided Ray's eyes. "It's been months since I heard from
him and I thought it would be many more months before I did."  

"I know that," Ray interrupted, "Fraser, I know that. I know you care
about him more than me." Fraser looked over in protest, and rolled onto
his side to fully look at Kowalski.  

"Don't Fraser. I know it, you know it, I'm not expecting any... kind of
long term..." he trailed off a moment, then said, "I don't know what to
expect. I don't know where this is goin'. But let's... let's enjoy it
while we have it. Right? Okay?"  

"Alright," Fraser said quietly, his head propped, mirroring Ray K.'s
position. "Okay then."	

Ray K. slowly broke into that endearing grin, and Fraser sighed,
disoriented. How did this happen? How did I get here with Ray?	

"Okay, then," Ray K. repeated, and slid close to Fraser, pulling his union
suit open and exposing his chest. Fraser hesitated and held his breath.
But Ray leaned forward and kissed his chest, slowing pushing him onto his
back. He kissed the Mountie down his chest to his navel, his belly...  

Fraser, head still raised, watched in bewilderment and increasing
excitement. Watched as Ray got up on his knees to lean over and undo the
last buttons at Fraser's crotch. How can this be happening? Fraser
wondered again, even as he shivered in excitement. Ray K. looked up at
Fraser and winked, and then in one fluid motion engulfed Fraser with his
mouth.	

Fraser exhaled forcefully through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut
and letting his head thump back on the floor. His hands instinctively went
into Ray K.'s just-woke-up hair. This felt as shocking and pleasurable as
it had the first time Ray Vecchio had done this to him. As his excitation
built, Fraser lifted his head again to watch Ray K. He saw Ray eyeing him,
and felt Ray's neck muscles relax to let Fraser control his movements.
Involuntary tears glistened at the corners of Ray's eyes. Fraser's fingers
involuntarily tightened in Ray's hair. Their eyes met briefly across his
belly, just before Fraser spasmed and jerked, groaning, and threw his head
back and --  

Fraser jerked awake in his room at the consulate, the dream images and
sensations still vivid even as he saw the room, saw the blue darkness of
early morning. His hand crept down to feel himself, but although he was
aroused -- painfully aroused -- nothing else had happened. He rolled onto
his side, unable to put the images out of his mind.  

Ray Kowalski? Why was he dreaming of Ray K. that way? And surely Ray
Vecchio and he would never have such a conversation in real life. They'd
never even actually discussed it. It was just... assumed, at least Fraser
assumed, that they would only be with each other, although obviously with
Ray gone, and undercover, certain things might be required, certain
things, so perhaps the dream Vecchio's understanding and forgiving--  

Stop that, Fraser told himself. You can't think of Ray K. that way; he
isn't like you and you can't tell him. You don't want to tell him. It is
not a wise idea.  

But still Fraser couldn't forget the image of that wiry frame and tousled
spiky head curved over his hips, pleasuring him. He tossed the covers off,
and strode over to the closet. He stood before it for a while, his hand
over his eyes.	

Then he opened the door, and looked in, but all he saw was the back of the
closet. He leaned against the door jamb and sighed and closed his eyes. He
stood there for some time.  

Chapter 2: "The Desperate Bad Vibes" Blues  

They were transferring one of Ray's arrests from the 27th district to the
6th district, Gresham, on the South Side, in a blue and white rather than
Ray Kowalski's unmarked car. For once Fraser was in civvies, wearing a
pair of faded jeans and a red and black plaid flannel shirt over a white
T-shirt. Must like the red/black combo, Kowalski thought. Of course,
everything was neatly tucked in, belted and buttoned. That perfectionist
military flair of Fraser's. The cuffs of his sleeves were neatly rolled up
to the middle of his fore-arms under his leather jacket.  

Ray glanced over at Fraser's handsome profile, his shades hiding the look.
He always felt so untucked, sloppy and unkempt next to Fraser. Even
wearing nice pants and a good jacket. Even when he'd had a shower, spiked
his hair, and was looking presentable. It's not enough he's a walking
encyclopedia, good with kids and old people, and always right, Ray
thought. He's gotta be good looking, too? And so clueless, even, about his
looks. You couldn't even dislike Fraser for being arrogant or vain. Ray
sighed.  

"Is something bothering you, Ray?" Fraser looked over and asked kindly.  

He got a sidelong glance from Ray, through the sunglasses, and a "Nah, not
really."  

Fraser hesitated. "You've been very quiet today," he added.  

"Yeah, well..." Ray couldn't think of a comeback, so he shrugged.  

"Is it... something I've done?" Fraser asked quietly.  

"No, Fraser," Ray burst out impatiently, then reined himself in and took a
deep breath. "Look. I know I said some things before, when we were both
considering our transfers, before we decided not to take them -- I know I
said you get on my nerves -- I mean, some times you do -- y'know, how you
decide stuff for both of us, and that's what we hafta do and all. I just
hadda get those things off my chest, Fraser. But I didn't mean you hadda
completely change how you are with me."  

Fraser sighed and looked ahead, scraping a brow with his thumbnail. "Ray,"
he began, "Well, some of what you said was true, I realized, after I
thought about it for some time. I'm just trying to... temper those
things."  

"Well, it seems..." Ray trailed off.  

"What?"  

"Unnatural," Ray finished slowly. "Besides, I didn't mean for you to be
walking on eggs or somethin'".	

"Well, I'm not walking on eggs," Fraser said, "not really. I'm just trying
to show some deference."  

"Well, you don't hafta defer everything to me. Like, we can still have a
conversation."	

"True," Fraser said. "But you seemed lost in thought. I didn't want to
distract you."	

"I need some distracting, Fraser. What I'm thinking about... I don't wanna
think about it anymore. I gotta think about something else," Ray mumbled.
Fraser glanced over at Ray, but Ray's dark sunglasses masked his eyes.	

Fraser looked down at the Stetson in his lap, fingering the hat band. He
debated whether he should ask Ray what he was thinking about. Ask whether
he was thinking about Stella.  

Just then Ray spoke. "It's Stella. Again. Now I hear from my mom she's
seeing this DA guy." Ray sighed.  

"Well, Ray," Fraser began slowly, carefully, "perhaps you should ask your
mother not to tell you these things. It would no doubt be much better for
you if you didn't know."  

Ray shook his head and looked down. He put his cheek in his hand, elbow
resting against the door jam and window. The suspect in the back stirred
and jangled his handcuffs. But Ray didn't notice. He rested his other hand
on the steering wheel as they waited at a red light.  

"I ask her," he admitted quietly, looking away from Fraser.  

The robbery suspect spoke up from the back seat. "No woman, no cry," he
intoned sadly, shaking his head. Ray glanced in the rear view mirror with
annoyance, about to tell the suspect to zip it. But the man's watery hazel
eyes were so compassionate, and his expression sympathetic -- despite the
several days' beard growth and dirty lines in his face -- that Ray
abruptly shut his mouth, clenching his jaw. A robbery suspect, giving me
sympathy, Ray thought. What a loser. I suck.  

Fraser opened his mouth, then closed it and sighed inwardly. He knew only
too well the terrible pull of thinking about, dwelling on, things that
could not be. Future events that could only be imagined, not planned or
known. He himself spent a great deal of energy putting things and people
out of his mind, when one considered it -- which he preferred not to.  

"Ray," Fraser began, "I know how hard it must be to keep from wondering
what Stella is doing, who she is seeing, and ...other things. But you must
stop asking your mother about Stella's activities, even if they do talk
frequently. That is the only way you will have any peace about it."  

"You got to walk away, man, just walk away," added the suspect. Ray
frowned at him in the rear view mirror, but the suspect just shook his
head sympathetically, and turned to look out the window.  

Ray looked over at Fraser, his eyebrows querying over his sunglasses. "You
talk like you know from experience," he said, surprised. He accelerated
slowly through the congested intersection.  

"Well, I --" Fraser started, and flushed. "I have been acquainted with
loss and loneliness," he finished quietly.  

Ray looked at the traffic, at Fraser, and back at the traffic. The car
moved forward slowly through the mid-day gridlock. "I just... can't
picture you with a past," he said, sounding surprised. "You seem so..." he
trailed off.  

"What?" Fraser finally asked, fearing the worst.  

"Well, no offense, Fraser, but you seem kinda clueless mosta the time,"
Ray said. "I mean, you don't even seem to notice how women fall all over
you all the time. Lotsa guys would love it if that happened to them, and
you don't even notice."  

Fraser swallowed, relieved that Ray wasn't thinking something else
potentially embarrassing and utterly private as far as Fraser was
concerned... such as his preference, his love...  

"I guess I'm still getting over someone," he told Ray finally. "So even if
I do notice, it doesn't mean anything to me."  

Ray shook his head. "Yeah, I know how that goes. But if it was me, I guess
I'd be... drowning my sorrows in the opportunities..."	

"I'm not... that's not me."  

"I know. I just..." Kowalski paused. "Well, maybe if that was happening to
me, I'd spend less time thinking about Stella. I'm sure not having any
luck though. No one wants to go out with me. It's like, I know I'm
damaged, but, what -- am I contaminated, too, or something?"  

"Well, Ray, perhaps women can sense that your mind is on another woman,
and not on them," Fraser pointed out.  

"Maybe," Ray admitted. "But it would sure help take my mind off Stella if
I at least had someone to have coffee or dinner with once in a while. But
there's no one. And now you're saying that I don't have anyone like that
because they can sense I'm thinkin' about Stella. But I can't stop
thinking about Stella because there's no one else, so... it's like a
vicious circle with no way out."  

"It's them desperate bad vibes," the robbery suspect added, leaning
forward to rest his forehead on the grate between front and back seats.  

"What?" Ray snapped. Fraser turned to look at the suspect, while Ray
glanced from the road to the rear-view mirror and back, irritated.  

"Well, ya know how when you're really, really lonely, and you wanna get a
girl, or even you just wanna get laid, but no chicks'll give you any play?
Cuz they can tell you're desperate? It's like they can smell you're
desperate and it gives them a bad vibe, and they stay away. Like animals
stay away from another animal when they can tell it's sick or somethin'.
But if you get through that long enough, after a while -- could be weeks,
could be months -- I even knew a guy it took years. After a while, you get
used to being lonely, and you don't mind it so much, you're not desperate
anymore. Maybe you already gave up and said, to hell with women, to hell
with love. I got my hooch, I got my stash, I don't need no one...  

"Well. That's when they come out of the woodwork, and they're all over you
like flies on shit." He nodded confidently against the grating, revealing
the indentation of the grate pattern in the middle of his forehead.
"That's what it is, man. They can smell you're desperate. Soon as you lose
that, they'll be all over you."  

"That's a remarkably astute observation of the dynamics of male/female
social interaction, sir," Fraser began. But with one look from Ray -- a
look that would kill if it could, even with the sunglasses on -- he
decided not to continue, and shut his mouth, turning away.  

Ray pulled the car over at the Gresham district headquarters, meanly
slamming on the brakes. He watched with satisfaction as the grunting
suspect was bounced backward in the back seat. "Well, philosopher," he
said sarcastically to the prisoner in the back seat, "no more time for
wise words from you. Here's your new home." To Fraser, he said, "I'll be
right back."  

Ray got out of the car, opened the back passenger door, and pulled the
suspect out slowly by the arm. Diefenbaker waited for the suspect to get
out, and then he jumped out, too. He ran around to the sidewalk as Fraser
got out of the car.  

"I'll wait here," Fraser said, opening his door and standing tall to
stretch his legs. He watched Dief sniff the garbage under the blue and
white's tires.	

"Right," Ray replied, his face expressionless, his sunglasses hiding his
eyes. "C'mon, Socrates," he said with a sigh to the extradited suspect,
the sarcasm gone from his voice. He pushed the man ahead of him up the
stairs, slowly. Then he opened the door for him before pushing him inside.
 

Fraser stood outside by the car, watching Dief trot up and down the
sidewalk. The wolf sniffed this and that in the chilly, late morning sun.
Too bad, Fraser reflected, the dog couldn't sniff out or track down a
suitable woman for RayK. Or his own Italian detective for himself...  

"Okay, let's go get some lunch," Ray said, bursting back out of the
district doors and down the steps to the car.  

"All right," Fraser agreed. They got in the car and drove in silence for a
while, each lost in his own thoughts. Ray kept glancing over at Fraser
surreptitiously. Finally, after the third or fourth time, Fraser spoke up.
 

"What is it, Ray?"  

"Huh? What is what?"  

"You keep looking at me."  

"Nothin'. I just..." Ray trailed off.  

"You just... what?"  

"I just can't picture you with a past. I mean, it seems like neither one
of us is getting any sex or anything even resembling sex, but at least I
think about it. You never seem to. 'Least, you never talk about it. Not
that I'm saying you have to," he added hastily, knowing that Fraser was
rather private and formal about such things. "It's just... you with a
past," he continued lamely. "A new concept for me."  

"Well, it's not much of one," Fraser began, prepared to speak of Victoria
only, and only if specific questions were asked.  

"Nah, I didn't mean that. Heck, you're a good-lookin' guy. You've probably
got quite a history, for all I know. Probably more 'n me."  

"There's nothing wrong with you, Ray."	

"Oh, come on, Fraser. Cut the crap. I may have my moments, but I'm just
goofy-lookin'. You're the handsome prince. You're like a chick magnet."  

"Ray," Fraser broke in, "I think of myself as fairly scrawny."	

"Scrawny?!" Ray snorted in a half-bitter laugh, turning those dark shades
Fraser's way. "If you're scrawny, it's no wonder I got no karmic chi love
thing happening. I must look like a scarecrow to women, when you're
around. That would explain why they don't even see me when I'm with you." 


"Now, Ray, that's just not true," Fraser said, beginning to blush again.  

"What isn't?"  

"That women don't notice you when I'm around. Of course they do."  

"No they don't. Not like they notice you. When? Who?"  

"Well, I--"  

"See? You can't even think of any." Ray interrupted, not even giving
Fraser a chance to name any.  

"Ray."	

No response. Kowalski was staring blankly ahead at traffic again. He
scowled, oblivious, ruminating.  

"Ray." Fraser said again. "Ray. Ray. Ray."  

"What?!" Ray finally snapped and looked over at him, annoyed.  

"Look, Ray. You are an attractive man. No, it isn't in the same way I
might be considered... conventionally handsome. But you are attractive.
You are tall. You have quite a nice, though often mischievous, smile. You
have very nice eyes, and when your hair is up you're quite..."	

Fraser trailed off, beginning to blush with embarrassment. He realized he
had been noticing these things for quite some time. Looking with rather
more interest than a partner should look. Noticing things that he didn't
know if a partner was supposed to notice... The wiry tendons at Ray
Kowalski's wrists. The hip-swinging saunter Ray affected when he was
feeling cocksure. The delicate veins at his temples that throbbed faintly
when he was angry or upset. The way he occasionally casually threw an arm
around Fraser's shoulders.  

Like he had that day when Janet the bounty hunter had left, leaving Fraser
confused, and lonelier than before he'd tasted her lips -- for she had
reminded him of what he was missing. Thank God Ray had been there to
distract him, take him out for dinner--  

"Quite what?" Ray interrupted the visions Fraser saw, even as Fraser's
unfocused eyes looked at the real Ray Kowalski and saw the Ray in his
mind's eye, instead. Fraser shook his head to dislodge such thoughts.  

"Quite... fetching," Fraser finished hastily, fearing he'd say too much if
he said any more. Ray looked ahead at the road. The traffic was thinning
as they finally got onto south Lake Shore Drive, heading north for
downtown. For some reason, the dream he'd had of Fraser -- forgotten until
now -- popped into his head. And then the "buddy breathing" incident rose
in his mind's eye. Then his thoughts flitted to the afternoon in the grave
chapel with Fraser.  

"Fraser, last time we talked about this, you said you weren't qualified to
judge," he smiled ruefully. He glanced over at Fraser with a tight smile.
"But I appreciate the thought." Ray felt sweat break out on his forehead
as he looked back at the road. He felt... peculiar. Not quite
uncomfortable, but not comfortable, either. A certain heat below his skin
threatened to erupt but didn't quite. Kind of like the sweats before food
poisoning. Maybe that cold or flue was really taking hold now...  

Oh, but I am qualified to judge, Fraser thought, more qualified than you
could know. "But Ray--"  

"Thanks, Fraser. I appreciate what you're tryin' to do here. But it ain't
workin'. Let's just... never mind. Let's just talk about somethin' else,"
Ray finished. But secretly, he hoped Fraser was telling the truth and he
felt a little better. He sure could use the ego boosting Fraser was trying
to give him.  

The buddy breathing incident popped into his head again. He felt grateful,
thinking how Fraser's actions had saved his life. And he felt grateful now
for Fraser's kind words. Although he also felt a little silly -- for
caring if Fraser really thought he was attractive. For hoping that he did,
for what that could mean... but of course it meant only that Fraser
thought he must be attractive to women. But what did Fraser know of women?
 

He glanced over at Fraser, who was looking down at the Stetson in his lap.
The Mountie shook his head and looked up at Ray just as Ray was looking
over at him. Ray looked at those clear blue eyes, and remembered, this guy
never lies--  

Fraser looked at the spiky blond hair, at Ray's hardened expression,
further sharpened by the dark sunglasses. He thought, he looks best when
he drops the cocksure, cynical facade. When he's being real, when he's
being kind or concerned--  

And then Ray's eyebrows knit in a question over his sunglasses-- And then
the buddy breathing incident on the freighter popped into Fraser's mind.
But he remembered the incident as if he had been an objective onlooker,
watching it happen to two completely different men.  

And then it turned into something else in his mind, into a real kiss, the
water inexplicably flowing away as things do in dream logic. The other
Fraser grasped the soaking RayK by the upper arms, his lips working
against the detective's mouth. RayK's initial struggle and resistance
slowly melted into a passionate response. His hands slid up the sides of
the wet Mountie, and around to his back. His lips parted to receive the
Mountie's tongue... And then Fraser felt the slow rise of heat from his
collar to his face and knew he was blushing--  

And Ray broke into that soft grin. Fraser felt the seconds while it faced
him were timeless, slow, churning in his tightening breast like the blood
now rushing in his ears. He realized his mouth hung slightly open, lips
parted in an unconscious pantomime of what he'd been visualizing... Stop
it, he thought frantically, before you frighten Ray. Before he realizes
what you're thinking...  

And Ray's grin faded into a perplexed look, a curious bewilderment. His
jaw slackened in surprise, with a dawning recognition--  

And then they both looked away from each other, out opposite windows,
Fraser loosening his collar, Ray's grin fading... And as Ray exited Lake
Shore Drive, and they pulled up at the light that had just turned red, Ray
glanced sidelong at Fraser. He found Fraser glancing sidelong at him -- or
trying to, while simultaneously trying to appear like he was looking
straight ahead...  

Nah, that wasn't what I thought it was, Ray swiftly denied. Even as the
phrase and the memory of "buddy breathing" nipped at the tail end of the
denial...  

Ray smiled a sheepish smile, embarrassed, and turned to look at Fraser. He
was thankful that he was at least wearing sunglasses. Fraser turned to
look at him. The perplexed and worried look on his pink face melted away
into a sheepish look when he saw Ray's expression.  

"C'mon, Fraser. Let's get some bad coffee and greasy food."  

"Right you are," Fraser said, clearing his throat loudly.  

They drove on, Fraser nervously fingering his Stetson in his lap. Ray's
long fingers tapping incessantly on the steering wheel. New subject, new
subject! Ray's mind chanted.  

"How 'bout those Bulls? Jordan, huh?" Ray began a nervous patter. "Another
championship for them, I just know it, before Jordan really retires. But
that's all nothin' you haven't heard before. So explain to me how curling
is a sport and not housecleaning, Fraser," he baited the Mountie
good-naturedly.  

"Well, Ray, curling is..." Fraser began. Ray settled back into the seat
more comfortably, feeling safer on the more familiar conversational
ground. But despite his desire to argue that curling was not a real sport,
just to bug Fraser, Ray found himself unintentionally tuning out Fraser's
words. He heard only his voice, a voice that could be saying anything. A
voice that could be right beside him, in his ear. Warm ticklish breath,
causing the hairs on the back of Kowalski's neck to stand up...  

He jerked himself back to the present, to Fraser's droning on about
curling. He looked over at Fraser, as if listening... For a little too
long apparently, as Fraser looked back at him and trailed off until both
were completely silent. Ray looked away again.	

"You were saying?" he prompted Fraser, looking at the road. But he saw the
Fraser in his dream, felt the cool lips on his own. Looked into those
clear blue eyes, and saw that the dream Fraser knew he was responding. And
yet there was no disgust, no anger, no rejection. No turning away in the
Mountie's gaze. Only a hopeful hitching of his breath, without a pause in
the kiss--  

"Ray. Ray. Ray." Kowalski came back to the present, realizing he must have
been driving on autopilot. Fraser had been repeating his name for God knew
how long.  

"What, Fraser," he said dully, sinking lower in his seat, afraid to look
at the Mountie.  

"Oh..." The Mountie trailed off. "Nothing. Shall I leave you to your
thoughts, again?" Fraser asked gently.	

"No. Uh, no. Sorry. I'll pay attention. Now, what were you saying?"  

Fraser looked searchingly at Ray, and Ray felt the gaze on him. But he
wouldn't turn, he wouldn't turn, he wouldn't...  

And the Mountie once again looked straight ahead, cleared his throat, and
began again about curling. Ray cast a silent, sidelong glance at the
handsome profile. Confusion mingled with fear mingled with yearning, and a
lump of chaotic longing and desire rose in his throat. He swallowed hard
and drove on, trying to concentrate on Fraser's words, not just his voice.
Trying to picture Stella where he saw Fraser. But picturing Stella only
saddened him and he thrust the image from his mind.  

The dream image of the Mountie returned unbidden. A tiny spark of good
feeling accompanied the idea of Fraser. Ray tried not to think about it
too hard. It was there, it felt good, that's all he needed to know. He
didn't want to think about it in any more detail than that. He swallowed
again to dispel the lump in his throat. And again. And several more times
before he realized he couldn't get away that easily. Alright, it was hope!
Hope. He cleared his throat gruffly, dispelling the lump, and then he knew
and heard once more what Fraser was saying and felt capable of replying.  

But beneath his conversational babble, he felt the internal whisper.  

(Hope.)  

(No.)  

(Hope  

(No!)  

(Hope.)  

...  

(Hope.)  

Chapter 3: A Lighter Touch  

"So that's it?" Kowalski asked Lieutenant Welsh. "That's all we got to go
on? The perp goes to gay bars? No description?"  

"You're a detective. Detect! Go talk to the victim. He's still in the
hospital but they said he could go home in a day or two. The description
he gave coulda described half-a-dozen guys."  

"Great," Ray Kowalski muttered. "Where's Fraser's soft sell interrogation
technique when you need it?"  

He grabbed his jacket and threw it on, striding past Frannie's desk so
quickly the papers lifted in the breeze.  

---  

At the Canadian Consulate, Turnbull answered the door. Kowalski pushed
past him into the foyer, and then peppered the young constable with
questions.  

"Where's Fraser? I gotta talk to him. He workin' now? I need him to come
somewhere with me. Is the Ice -- I mean, is Inspector Thatcher here? Is
Fraser gonna be able to leave right away, or do I hafta come back later?" 


Turnbull, in his typical easily flustered way, was attempting to answer
the detective by interrupting him. The commotion drew Constable Fraser
from Inspector Thatcher's office.  

"Ray!" Fraser exclaimed. "It's good to see you. What brings you here in
the middle of the day?"  

"Sir, it appears the detective requires some assis-" Turnbull began, but
Ray cut him off.  

"Welsh gave me a new case. I got nothin' to go on, no description, it's a,
uh, kind of touchy case. The victim is still in the hospital. I was
wondering if you could, uh, well, talk to the victim. You're, like, better
at that sort of thing than me. I got the 'kick 'em in the head' thing
down, but I need your, uh..."  

"Lighter touch?" the Mountie finished for him, smiling slightly.  

"Yeah, lighter touch," Kowalski repeated, grinning at the way Fraser read
his mind. The grin faded slightly, as he regarded Fraser seriously for a
moment. No, no, this is not the time to be thinkin' about that, he said to
himself. But he flushed anyway, looking away and shifting his shoulders in
his coat.  

Fraser, too, looked at Ray Kowalski a little longer than necessary. He
sighed inwardly, looking over to Turnbull, wondering if the other Mountie
noticed anything untoward. But Turnbull, oblivious as ever, merely looked
from Fraser to the detective, a worried expression on his face.  

"You're leaving, sir?" he asked Fraser.  

"It's almost the end of the day, Turnbull. If you don't mind."	

"Well," Turnbull began hesitantly.  

"Great," Kowalski interrupted, grabbing Fraser by the arm and dragging him
to the door, "Fraser really appreciates this, Turnbull, and so do I, and
so does Lieutenant Welsh, and we'll be sure and mention your sacrifices so
that you get credit for assisting us," Ray babbled, propelling Fraser
ahead of him as he talked over his shoulder to the hapless Turnbull.  

"Ray. Ray. Ray. RAY." Fraser resisted, digging in his heels.  

Ray bumped straight up against Fraser, thwacking his turning head on
Fraser's. "Ow!" he said, as they bounced off one another. "What, Fraser." 


"My hat," Fraser began. "And coat."  

"Right," Ray replied, rubbing his temple where he'd smacked it into
Fraser's. The Mountie made his way back behind the worried Turnbull,
ancient oak desk, and into the Inspector's office. He returned quickly,
Stetson on, shoving his arms into the navy pea coat.  

"Covering up the ol' Big Red suit, eh?" Ray chided him.  

"Nonsense, Ray. It's cold out, and night is falling. And this is Chicago.
Although, in comparison with the Yukon, this sort of weather is..."  

"Right up there with the lichen from these parts, not as tasty," Kowalski
finished for him. "C'mon."  

"Right you are," the Constable agreed, and they both stepped out, puffs of
breath disintegrating in front of their faces as the Mountie pulled the
door shut behind him.  

---  

"Okay, here's the deal. There's a slicer, a nasty slicer, and he's preyin'
on the young and homosexual. They got a victim who got away, who we gotta
get a good description from. The perp's MO matches the MO of an unknown
who's knocked off a few homeless guys over the past few years.	

"Remember those guys who kept turning up, with their, uh, crotches
slashed, bled to death by the big artery in the thigh? Well, this victim
says that's what this guy tried to do to him. In, uh, in an, uh, intimate
moment..." Ray trailed off, uncertain of how to broach the subject with
the Mountie -- both because of its unsavory and squeamish topic, and
because of his tightly clamped feelings, which threatened to swirl up and
mix into an unpleasant and unsettling miasma in the forefront of his
brain.	

"During oral sex," Fraser spelled it out for him. Ray swiveled his head to
look at the placid Mountie sitting next to him. The Canadian would never
cease to amaze him.  

"Yeah, how'd you know? The murdered guys obviously couldn't tell us that,
and I haven't told you what the victim's story is yet."  

"An educated guess," Fraser merely replied, looking away from those
too-blue eyes pinned on his. Kowalski looked back through the windshield. 


"I knew that," he said offhandedly. But he wondered... how much Fraser
knew of such things. Of such things between men. Well, he thought grimly,
I guess I get to find out. And hope he doesn't find out it's been on my
mind.  

They drove in silence the rest of the way to Rush Presbyterian Hospital.  

---  

The victim, it turned out, hardly looked like a victim at all. He was a
strapping man, well muscled and lying in his hospital bed shirtless.
Tanned and fit, he looked nothing like the sadly dirty and lean -- from
drugs, from poverty -- young homeless men who'd been found with their
inner thighs shredded over the past several years. Kowalski began to doubt
that the perps were one and the same the minute they stepped into the
victim's room.	

Ray threw himself into one of the chairs. An old man lying in the other
bed in the room snored as his television blared. Fraser stepped quietly
between the beds, and drew the curtain between the two patients. Kowalski
sat up and flashed his badge.  

"Detective Kowalski, Chicago PD. This is Constable Fraser, RCMP. He's my
partner. Don't ask. We'll explain later."  

Fraser looked startled. "Ray, I--"  

Ray sent him one of those looks, alternating icy and pleading, and he shut
up. Turning to the patient, he said quietly, "And you are...?"	

Two new ice blue eyes turned to him. "Daniel."	

Kowalski stirred, leaning forward to prompt "Daniel WHO?", but at the
slightest flinch on Fraser's part, decided against it and sat back again.
Fraser kept his face neutral and blank, but he was frankly astonished at
the resemblance between Ray and Daniel. True, from the neck down, Daniel
was quite a bit more physically developed -- so far as Fraser knew,
anyway; he'd never actually seen Ray naked, other than in that dream -- he
slammed that door shut in his mind.  

But in terms of expression, eye and hair color, facial bone structure --
even the impression he got of how this man Daniel carried himself, when he
was walking, seemed very like Ray Kowalski. The hair -- not entirely
spiky, but somewhat flattened, as if from sleep. The icy blue eyes. The
lips, with the lower lip roughly twice as thick as the upper lip. (Fraser
hadn't even realized he'd known that.) High cheekbones. A certain steely
fragility. Or was it fragile steeliness? Except in this case, that
fragility was mitigated by the bulk of the man's well muscled chest and
arms.  

Kowalski listened and watched intently. If he didn't know otherwise -- if
he didn't know he was crazy -- he would have thought Fraser was attracted
to this guy Daniel. The intent way they looked at each other -- the way
Fraser's eyes searched the man's face -- Ray had seen Fraser's "soft
touch" before, but this had never been part of it, that he could recall.  

The Mountie cleared his throat then. "Alright, then, Daniel," he continued
calmly, "as Detective Kowalski has already informed you, I'm Constable
Benton Fraser. We'd like to talk to you about what happened to you, what
the suspect looked like, and any other details you can remember which you
think might be of help in tracking down and catching the man who put you
in here. What do you say?"  

"Is this on the record?" Daniel asked cautiously, looking from the calm
and friendly face of the Mountie to the decidedly more... steely
expression of the detective.  

Fraser looked from Daniel to Kowalski. Not daring himself to speak, Ray
simply shrugged. The constable turned back to the good-looking man.  

"If you don't want it to be on the record, it won't be," Fraser said
quietly.  

"I got my reasons. You don't understand what this could do to me if it
came out. My job -- I --"  

If only you knew how I did understand, thought Fraser, but he interrupted
gently and said only, "I understand and if this must be off the record,
consider it in the strictest confidence which will not be violated."  

The man sighed with relief. "Okay, look. I don't do this that often."  

Uh-huh, Ray thought to himself. Right. But he said nothing.  

"I was just going into the Anvil for a drink. I used to go there a long
time ago with my -- I just used to go there a lot before, and I haven't
been there in a few years, so I thought I'd stop in for a drink and see if
things were still the same."  

Ray wondered what Daniel had been expecting to be the same. Fraser nodded,
encouraging Daniel to continue.  

"Okay, so I go in there, and there's the usual bunch of old fags from the
neighborhood, a few construction workers, a couple guys who looked like
off duty cops, and a couple young guys playing pool. No one looks like
they're cruising, so I get a seat at the bar, not too close to anyone, but
not too far. It's dark in there, that's the way it's always been. So I'm
not paying much attention when this other guy comes in, when I'm just
finishing my first beer. I get up to go to the bathroom. When I come back,
this guy is next to where I was sitting. Having a beer." He paused.  

"Please, go on," Fraser said. Ray sat forward, elbows on knees, his chin
in his hands. Listening. Just listening and picturing it in his mind. "So
I go back to my bar stool, and I wonder if this guy is gonna try to pick
me up. And I'm kinda hoping not, because I have stuff to do. But I'm kinda
hoping, yeah, because I'd like to know ... you know, that I still got it,
that I'm still hot enough to get offers."  

Kowalski almost winced at this. Sheesh, he thought. I thought I was
insecure.  

"So I sit down and ask for another beer. And when the bartender comes over
and asks me if I want the same thing, this guy says, 'This one is on me'
to the bartender. So I take a look at him." He paused again.  

"And?" the Mountie inquired, his eyebrows lifting. "What did this man look
like?"	

"Well, to be honest," Daniel said slowly, looking from Fraser to Ray and
back through lowered lashes, "He looked a lot like you."  

"Eh-excuse me?" Fraser stuttered, truly surprised.  

"Not exactly like you. But he did look a lot like you. He had dark hair,
he had dark blue eyes, he had a strong jaw--"  

Ray looked at Fraser, and saw the slow creep of pink from the collar of
his red suit to his hairline. He smiled inwardly.  

"-- and he had a good build."  

Fraser shifted on the edge of the man's bed, thoroughly red now. "Please,
go on," he managed to say, clearing his throat. A quick glance at Ray
revealed the detective's amusement at his embarrassment.  

"Wait a minute," Ray began. "So this guy looked a lot like Fraser here...
but did he look just like Fraser?"  

"No. He just looked similar."  

"You get the feeling this guy might've been a cop?" Ray asked. Daniel
considered this, but then shook his head.  

"No. He didn't have that cocky kind of attitude." Fraser found this
amusing. Ray did not.  

"Go on," Ray said, glaring just slightly at Fraser's innocent look over at
him.  

"So anyways, I tell him thanks but I figure I'd better nip it in the bud,
and give him a line like 'I'm with someone'."  

Hmmm, Kowalski thought, so guys give guys the same lines girls give guys. 


"But before I can say anything," the handsome Daniel went on, "he says to
me, 'You're the best looking guy in here, you know that?'  

"So then I feel flattered and I say thank you. I get my beer, he pays for
it, we're sitting there bullshitting, and I'm thinking, I should really
get going, but it's nice to have that feeling that someone wants you,
especially since ever since Ricky dumped me, I haven't been able to get
anything but offers for head in the bathroom from the guys who still
haven't found anyone by the time they're closing the bars. So this feels
pretty nice, just to flirt."  

Ray looked down, ashamed for thinking earlier that, right, this guy Daniel
didn't do this that often, he was probably out every night hunting for
dick. The story he was hearing now was not that of a veteran slut. The
story he was hearing now was uncomfortably close to home.  

"So at one point I got up because they had last weekend's copy of the free
Reader newspaper, and I wanted to see if this band was coming to play
soon. I don't know if that's when he put something in my beer or not. But
the few copies left were all incomplete -- the music section was missing
from each one. So I went back to where I was sitting by this guy.  

"So then after a few beers, I'm kinda toasted, because I'm not used to
this. And when I do go out, I usually go with friends, and Joe usually
drives so I can get as wasted as I want and he makes sure I get home okay.
So I have to piss again, and I get up to go to the bathroom.  

"And I realize I'm feeling something more than just drunk. I think he
drugged me with something, but I don't know what. The beer tasted normal.
So I don't know. Anyways, I go to the bathroom, and my knees feel like
kinda rubbery, wobbly, like I can't be sure I can stand up for a long
time. And I have to piss one of those really long beer pisses, so I go up
to the urinal--"  

Ray chuckled in humorous recollection of his drinking days, but when the
two pairs of eyes turned silently to him, he gulped and muttered, "Sorry,"
and waved at Daniel to continue.  

"-- and I hear the door. So I look over my shoulder and it's this guy.
Well, I'm just about to shake it off anyway, and I'm toasted, so when he
steps up behind me and puts his hands on my hips, I'm not bothered. In
fact I start to-- well, anyway, so he's, uh, he's pressed against me, and
he's whispering in my ear that we don't have to go anywhere, we can do it
right here, and I'm saying, No we can't..."  

Fraser looked down, only a slight motion of his head. He remembered a few
heated moments like that in the Riv with Vecchio. He barely flinched,
almost making a physical effort to thrust the memory away. It was enough
for Kowalski, whose eyes were already growing while listening to Daniel's
story, to make note of before returning his eyes to Daniel.  

"And so he says, Sure we can. There's only one stall in this bathroom, but
there is a lock on the door into the bathroom, too. So you can lock the
bathroom from the inside, in addition to locking the stall. So this guy
goes over to the door and locks it, and then he says, 'Now we can do it
right here.' By this time I'm a little worried but I'm kind of, well,
excited too, and he comes up close and looks right in my eyes and says,
'My name is Carl, what's yours?' and I stammer that it's 'Mike'. And his
hand is, um, is in my pants and he's pushing them down and he's, um, he's
got his other arm around my waist and he's moving me backwards against the
locked door."  

Daniel paused and looked from the Mountie to the detective. Both of them
were paying very close attention, with none of the typical uncomfortable
grinning and juvenile grimacing you expected to get from cops. None of the
usual homophobic mutterings.  

"And then?" Ray prompted, voice cracking. He looked away from Daniel then,
at Fraser, and then at the bland flower painting on the wall. Fraser
looked down at the blanket.  

"Then I'm like, well, I don't know, this might not be such a good idea, we
could get in trouble for locking ourselves in here... and Carl says not to
worry, he's done it before. He says all he wants to do is suck me off, I
don't have to do anything but let him. Well, even though I'm kind of
worried, that sounds pretty harmless to me, and I know it's a lot harder
to catch something by getting head, as opposed to giving it, so I'm
figuring, oh, what the hell, my pants are at my knees anyway. So I'm like,
'Well, maybe' and he slams me against the door rough-like, and kneels in
front of me, and yanks my jeans all the way down to my ankles."  

Ray's sharp intake of breath was audible during Daniel's pause, broken
only by the snores of the old man in the bed on the other side of the
curtain. Fraser still looked at the blanket, but he wondered what
expression was on Ray's face -- one of disgust, one of horror?	

Had he looked up then, he'd have seen that Ray himself was blushing as a
result of having looked away from the bland flower painting towards
Daniel, just as Daniel looked at him in wonder at his loud gasp. That gasp
of tension escaped Ray, despite his struggle to thrust away the excitement
he felt while listening to the man's story. He looked up at the ceiling,
closing his eyes. He couldn't look at Daniel. And he couldn't look at
Fraser, because if he did, the pictures he was making in his mind of
Daniel and the Fraser-look-alike threatened to turn into pictures of
himself and the real Fraser, and Fraser could never know that.	

"Anyways," Daniel continued slowly, looking down at his hands in his lap,
"So he's kneeling in front of me, and he's, uh, going down on me, and I'm
realizing this could go on forever because I'm really pretty drunk and I
don't know if I can, um, come. So I start to tell him that I don't think I
can come and he gets to his feet and clamps his hand over my mouth and
tells me not to say anything, that he's not worried.  

"Only now he has this gleam in his eye, a nasty gleam, or maybe that's
just the way I'm remembering it in retrospect, hindsight being 20/20. And
his hand felt like iron, and he's still got all his clothes on. And I'm
half naked and I'm realizing I couldn't get away if I wanted, because I
can't walk, because my pants are around my ankles. So I shut up and lean
back and this Carl guy, he goes back down on me, and he's doing a really
good job, and I'm thinking, well, maybe this won't go on forever--"  

Fraser cleared his throat as surreptitiously as possible, and shifted his
weight. Images of Vecchio came to him unbidden, of glistening sweat, of
lips stretched over his engorged organ, of the hiss of breath in between
the strokes of those lips, that mouth, over and over and over... He could
stand it. He would stand it. He would have no reaction to listening to
this. He was a professional. He pushed away thoughts of the dream of Ray. 


"So then I start telling him, you better, uh, better get ready, I'm going
to, uh, well, some guys don't like to... and some guys do, but you never
know, so I'm warning him if he doesn't want to, he better get his mouth
off my cock pretty soon, and I reach for my cock with one hand and his
head with the other, ready to push him off, and then he knocks my hand out
of the way, and grabs both of them by the wrist, and he's holding them so
tight the bones are, like, grinding together and hurting."  

Daniel unconsciously clenched and unclenched his fists. With a hitch in
his voice he continued, "But that doesn't stop me, I mean, nothing could
stop me then. And he goes all the way down, I mean, all the way. And I can
feel it as I hit the back of his throat, and that's it, I'm shaking at the
knees and... And it feels so good. And then all of a sudden, I feel this
hot wetness pouring down my legs, and I think, what, did he spit it out on
me?"  

Daniel stopped, holding himself, and shuddering. He looked over at Fraser,
almost ashamed. But the Mountie's sympathetic expression eased his
discomfort. He shivered and sighed. Then he steeled himself and took a
breath to continue.  

"So I open my eyes and look down, and he pulls his mouth off me and grins,
and I see something shiny in his hand, and his grin is shiny and dark, and
it's dark in the bathroom, but not that dark, and I realize the wetness
pouring down my legs is my blood, and I start freaking, because it looks
like its coming from my dick, and he steps back and I'm screaming by this
point, and I don't know how he got out, there is a window in there..."
Daniel paused, trying to control the shaking in his voice, the quivering
of his shoulders. He would not look up at the Mountie or detective.  

"Next thing I know the lock is slipping in my hands because they're
slippery with blood, and the guys from the bar are pounding on the other
side of the door, and I finally twist the lock, and these guys bust the
door down, and I'm thrown across the room into the sink and hit my back,
and they look down at me, and someone yells, 'Call 911! Call 911!' and
they drag me outta there, and two guys pick me up and throw me on the bar,
and that's all I remember before I got here and the ER surgeon is telling
me that it wasn't my dick, it was the arteries in both thighs, and I'm
lucky I didn't bleed to death." He exhaled a long sighing breath, ducking
his head.  

Kowalski could barely suppress his shuddering. He knew it was going to end
this way, but it was still mighty upsetting to listen to... especially
because in his mind, it had started to be Fraser on his knees, and him up
against he bathroom door...  

Fraser did shiver, just slightly, and looked up, his face a careful mask
of sympathetic neutrality. "You don't remember anything else about this
man? No distinctive features? No tattoos, or scars?"  

Daniel shook his head sadly. "No. I told you, the only person whose
clothes came off was me. He kept all his clothes on. He didn't even have
his top button unbuttoned."  

Kowalski opened his eyes, looking over at Fraser. Fraser looked at him,
and Ray realized Fraser was a button-up kinda guy, too. Then Fraser gave
him that look of, this may take a while, and began quietly questioning
Daniel again.  

"He didn't have his top button unbuttoned. What kind of a shirt was it?"
he asked the man.  

Daniel squinted and thought a moment. "It wasn't denim but it was blue.
I'd say some kind of blue heavy cotton."  

"Dark blue, or light blue?" Fraser asked.  

"Looked like dark blue."  

Ray wiped his sweaty palms on his knees, and stood to stretch his bones
and relax everything that had gotten more and more tense as he'd listened
to Daniel's story.  

He leaned on the wall by the bland flower painting, looking down on Daniel
and Fraser, every once in a while, throwing a question in himself. But it
was all autopilot. His mind was in that dark bathroom, with the dark head
of the Mountie moving up and down, mouth plastered onto his cock, his
knees shaking with excitement, desire, and fear.  

Chapter 4: You Know the Drill 
   
    

"So that's it then? You got a perp that looks like Big Red, and a victim
that looks like you?" Lieutenant Welsh barked, disbelieving. "That's
great." He sighed from behind his desk.  

Fraser and Kowalski exchanged wary looks. Then Fraser spoke.  

"Lieutenant," Fraser began, pronouncing the title the British way. "We
actually have a more detailed description than before, and we've also
drawn some tentative conclusions about the suspect. May I, ah, continue?" 


"You may, Constable," Welsh conceded, raising his eyebrows.  

"The perpetrator apparently looks somewhat like me, that is, his physical
type is about the same," Fraser began, flipping through the notes on his
notepad. Ray took this as a cue that they would be here for a while, and
threw himself down onto Welsh's vinyl couch. The Mountie stood before
Welsh's desk, recounting the facts of the victim's statement. "He's tall
and dark-haired, he was wearing a brown leather jacket, black jeans, and
may have been wearing a blue and black plaid shirt..."	

Ray closed his eyes, letting Fraser drone on. He couldn't stop visualizing
the scenario Daniel had described... especially the parts where he was up
against the door with the perp giving him head. It bothered him that every
time he closed his eyes, he saw the pictures his mind had made while
listening to Daniel's story. But he had given up fighting it.  

He slouched on the vinyl sofa, watching the movie loop playing over and
over on the backs of his eyelids. Once in a while, the perp became Fraser.
Sometimes he himself became Daniel. He heard Welsh and Fraser's
conversation as if from a distance, and felt himself far away, passive,
not in control of anything. Not even the movie loop and the changing faces
of the "actors".  

In fact, the last few times through, he had become Daniel, and the perp
had become Fraser. But the loop cut off before any slashing -- thank God.
He shifted listlessly, hearing the vinyl creak beneath him. The loop kept
playing... in slower and slower motion each time. Like the movie projector
was about to jam.  

"Are you with us, detective?" Welsh bellowed over him, and Ray jumped, so
startled he almost fell off the couch.	

"Yes, sir," he stammered, sitting up. He looked up at the impassive
Mountie and his glaring superior. "What were you saying?"  

"We were debating whether Daniel was drugged with Rohypnol, or if it was
gamma hydroxy butyrate," Fraser said, smiling slightly at Ray's
discomfiture.  

"Gamma hydro-what the...?" Ray replied, sitting up straight.  

"Liquid Ecstasy, Vecchio," Welsh said, and stepped back behind his desk to
sit down.  

"I guess we'll know when we get the lab results from the hospital?" Ray
said nervously. He looked away from Fraser, flushing.  

"As I was saying, there's some paperwork to be filled out for that, first,
before you can get the results," Welsh said, irritated. "Forms.
Bureaucracy. You know the drill."  

"Uh, right, sir, I'll get those forms filled out..."  

"And the victim will sign them?" Welsh queried Fraser.	

The Mountie nodded. "Next we should check through the unsolved cases whose
modus operandi match that of the perpetrator of this crime. A look at the
autopsy reports should give us more information about the victims. And
possibly how the suspect chooses them."  

"Other than the fact that that is typical detective work our detective
here should be doing anyway," Welsh glared at Kowalski, "what else is this
going to tell us?"  

Fraser hesitated. "Well, sir, it could tell us whether or not he or I or
both of us should go out to the types of establishments the suspect may
frequent."  

"Yeah, we'll get real far in our uniforms and badges, Fraser," Kowalski
interrupted, irritated. How could the Mountie not realize this? "Those
kinda places are already wary of cops, 'cause Vice is always trying to
bust 'em. They're gonna be real helpful to a couple more shields."  

"I didn't mean, go out as law enforcement," Fraser said, after a pause.  

For a moment, no one said anything. But then the full weight of what
Fraser was saying hit Ray like an electric shock. He shot up from the
vinyl sofa.  

"No way. NO WAY, Fraser," Ray began, pacing the narrow floor space,
violently shaking his head. "There is NO WAY we are gonna go out there and
pretend to be homosexuals. Aside from the fact that I don't feel like
bein' bait, we'd never make one night without being fingered as cops.
There's no way."  

But the lieutenant had fixed first the Mountie with a serious look, and
then Ray. "If... the situation warrants it... and if it turns out that
there is a physical type of victim that the perp is preying on... and if
that type happens to look like you, then... yes, I think that could work."
 

"Lieutenant!" Detective Kowalski practically wailed. "Nah, don't do this
to me! I can't do it. No way!"	

"Detective," Welsh said, heaving a sigh and pushing himself up from his
desk, "try to remember we have women on the force doing the exact same
thing, and I don't see them whining and crying about it."  

"Yeah, but they're being preyed on by the opposite sex!" Ray fairly
yelled. "Not the same sex!"  

"The point is, they're being preyed on. So they're in as much danger as
you would be, if not more because they're women." As Kowalski threw up his
hands in frustration, Welsh tempered his stern tone. "Do the foot work
first. Find out about those unsolveds first, I don't care if you have to
exhume bodies or find next of kin. Then we'll worry about the possibility
of you being cute in leather later." The lieutenant nodded at Fraser. He
nodded back respectfully. Welsh exited in search of sludgy coffee and
Francesca.  

Ray threw himself back onto the sofa, not looking at Fraser, but at the
ceiling. "What have I done to deserve this, Fraser. Tell me what I did,"
he moaned. But he closed his eyes, afraid to even look at the Mountie. He
absolutely could not show what he was really afraid of.  

"Ray, we still have a lot of investigating to do before we will know
whether or not this would be a useful avenue to pursue. I don't see why
you're getting so upset," Fraser said casually, looking down at Welsh's
desk, on which he sat.	

"Because, because... oh, nevermind! You wouldn't understand!" He threw an
arm over his eyes, embarrassed. God. What the hell was he gonna do? This
could not happen, simply could not. Ray knew he would be too curious and
interested to hide it, and yet too scared to go through with anything. And
if Fraser was anything like the Fraser from his dream, he would know too
-- without Ray saying a word about it.	

The Mountie looked over at Ray sympathetically. "Ray. Ray. Ray. RAY."  

"What, Fraser," came the muffled reply from under the arm covering Ray's
face.  

"Let's see if Francesca can find records for the unsolved murders. If they
were homeless, there's a good chance they had some kind of record, even if
it was disorderly conduct or vagrancy. If they have records, there should
be mug shots. And mug shots will tell us whether you need to worry, or
not."  

Ray sighed heavily, his chest rising and falling. "Right. Okay." But he
did not move.  

Fraser stood up and stretched his legs, a little bit ashamed that he had
suggested the two of them go out to the bars as patrons rather than cops.
He could not understand what had compelled him to do it, although now, it
seemed a fairly logical plan, depending what the victims of the unsolveds
with matching MOs looked like... but he was curious. He pushed that
thought away. No, he was not curious. He was merely trying to catch a
would-be -- or experienced -- killer. Curiosity had nothing whatsoever to
do with it. (Did it?)  

Ray sat up, running his hands through his hair, so that it stood up even
more. Fraser tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his serge uniform.  

"Okay. Francesca. Let's go check with her," Kowalski said resignedly, and
the two stepped out of Welsh's office back into the noise of the precinct.
 

----  

Three hours later, having tracked down five of seven unsolveds via their
criminal records -- petty theft, grand theft auto, disturbing the peace,
drunk and disorderly, one assault and battery -- it had become apparent to
both of them that, in fact, the one thing all the victims had in common
(other than homelessness) was a certain slight, dishwater blond look to
them, although some had long hair and some had short hair. All were white
males. Most had light eyes.  

Fraser was terribly sorry he'd turned out to be right. It was beginning to
look like they would have to go out to places like the Anvil, as patrons
rather than as police. Running below the surface of his guilt for having
gotten Ray into this predicament, though, was a slight excitement, borne
of curiosity, fear, and... But he crushed that thought as Ray looked
wearily up at him, as they both hunched around Francesca and her computer.
 

"This looks bad, Fraser," Ray began. He hesitated. "I really don't wanna
do this."  

"Do what?" Francesca asked  

"Nothin', Frannie," Ray cut her off, shaking his head imperceptibly at
Fraser.  

Taking the cue, Fraser spoke. "Francesca, I wonder if you could do some
research and get us the death certificates of these victims. We only had a
list of names for unsolved homicides, death by exsanguination, male
victims... but we need more details on how exactly they were killed. Could
you do that?"  

"Sure, Frayzh!" Frannie eagerly smiled up at him. "So is this your latest
case, Ray?" she continued, turning those big brown eyes on Ray.  

"Looks like it," Ray muttered, and stood up, adjusting his shoulder
holster. "We're trying to figure out if these are related to an assault on
a victim the other day. The perp's still at large. If he is the same guy
who did these guys, it might justify more manpower for this
investigation," he added, glaring at Fraser. Yeah, Huey and Dewey should
really be a part of this, Ray thought grimly.  

"Oh. Well, I'll see what I can find. Should I fax it to you?" she turned
again to the Mountie, who was straightening his uniform and putting on his
Stetson. Those liquid brown eyes peered up at him. Fraser sighed inwardly.
"Call Ray before you do anything. We'll probably be together."	

Ray had to smile at that. Yeah, they did spend a lot of time together. In
fact, most of his time off work was spent with Fraser, now that he thought
about it. Better not think about that just now... They walked out of the
precinct, Ray trailing behind, shouldering into his trench coat.  

"I'll drop you at the consulate, unless..." Ray paused before he
continued.  

"Ray." Fraser stopped. They were outside the doors now, in the back by the
blue and whites. "I'm really very sorry I got you involved in this way. I
just thought--"  

"Yeah, yeah. It's okay. Fraser. I guess this is probably the best way to
catch the bastard," Ray wearily replied. But the Mountie looked serious.
He took off his Stetson and fiddled with it, not looking at Ray, but
addressing him.  

"I didn't really realize what a position I'd put you in until after I'd
spoken. It hadn't occurred to me how upsetting it might be for you to,
ah,--"	

"Yeah, yeah, okay, Fraser," Ray interrupted. "Just tell me one thing."	

The Mountie looked up at him, and their eyes met.  

"Tell me you'll make sure nothin', uh, bad happens," Ray asked quietly.
"Tell me you'll be there if anyone tries anything." His brow crinkled with
worry and he unconsciously bit his lower lip, but his eyes went cold and
flinty.  

The Mountie could only swallow and nod silently. Stricken, he hadn't
realized that not only had he put Ray in a very uncomfortable position,
but he had now placed at some risk those perfectly innocent -- well, in a
manner of speaking anyway -- men who might approach Ray without murderous
or harmful intentions. He sighed.  

"I'll do my best, Ray."  

"Thanks, Fraser. Let's get goin'".  

----  

Later, at his apartment, Ray sat in the darkening living room, too tired
to put his feet on the dance step patterns on the floor. His feet were up
on the coffee table, his head cast back on the sofa, staring unseeing at
the ceiling.  

Now that he had a chance to think about it, maybe it wasn't so bad. The
worst thing was, how was he going to hide his curiosity from Fraser? Fear
he didn't need to hide -- and he was afraid. Not of the physical danger,
no. He was afraid that starting down this path might mean he was fated to,
somehow. Fate was a concept that irked him. You made your own destiny.	

But it couldn't be true, anyway. There was Stella. There would always be
Stella, even though she was not in his life anymore, and would never be in
it again, at least not in the same way she was before. So that would make
him, what... bi? No, no, no, he turned that thought off. You're straight.
You've only had sex with women. Just pretending to be gay to solve a case
does not make you gay. Even if you did anything, it wouldn't count because
it would be in pursuit of the slasher. It wasn't like you'd be pursuing
this in your regular life.  

But he knew the only reason he wouldn't have pursued it in his regular
life was because he was too cowardly. And because the only person who'd
turned his head that way was his partner. And his partner was a man's man,
a Mountie... who could never know and would surely be embarrassed and
disgusted if he did. So if Fraser was not an option, at least Ray could
maybe figure out if it was guys in general, or just Fraser. (But what if
Fraser wasn't disgusted? What if Fraser...? But, no... what if he was
wrong, and Fraser had never looked at him the way he thought he had?
Then... he would still be embarrassed and disgusted. Wouldn't he?)  

Ray dozed fitfully.  

---  

The piercing shriek of his cell phone woke him, in his clothes, curled up
on the same sofa the next morning. After fumbling in his jacket and almost
falling off the sofa, he found the phone and flipped it open.  

"Yeah," he said, trying to shake the sleep off, trying to shake off a cozy
warm dream with a warm smell of fresh-cooked bread in it.  

"Ray?" Frannie's voice came through the phone. "I got those death
certificates for you guys."  

"Oh." Ray sat up completely, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, and?"  

"Is Fraser there?" Frannie asked, somewhat more quietly.  

"No, Frannie, the man doesn't spend the nights at my apartment," Ray
snapped. Then he wondered at what he'd said. Why had he said that? "We're
not joined at the hip. It's just non-Mountie Ray here, without a red
uniform," he added sarcastically, to cover his realization that it might
actually be really nice if Fraser did stay over sometimes.  

Problem was, the man didn't drink, at all, and the only way this sort of
thing seemed to happen was when guys got drunk together and it was too
dangerous for one to drive home. But then Fraser didn't even drive.
Whatever! He was really losing it now.	

"Well," Frannie said sullenly, "your deceaseds all got one thing in
common, other than their criminal records. Death by exsanguination."  

"Frannie, we knew that. You're not telling us anything we didn't know.
Now--"	

"Death by exsanguination caused by deep cuts to the femoral arteries,"
Frannie finished.  

Now Ray sat up straight, wide awake. "You're sure about that?"	

"Sure as I am the sun's gonna come up tomorrow."  

"All right. All right, then, thanks Frannie. That's exactly what we needed
to know."  

"So what do I do with these copies of death certificates?" Frannie
pestered him.  

"Uh, just hang onto them for now. Let me get ahold of Fraser and we might
be comin' over to pick 'em up," Ray said, and then hung up. So it was the
same bastard, or so it seemed. The hunt was on. He shivered suddenly,
remembering that he was supposed to be the bait. Then he picked up the
phone to call Fraser.  

Chapter 5: Admittedly Peculiar Behavior 
   
    

"How did you find that out?" Ray asked, irritated.  

The Mountie's voice came through the cell phone. "I simply called up
Daniel and asked him the type of establishments he frequented, when he
went out to drink."  

"Great, Fraser. So we're not just going to gay places, we're going to
straight places?"  

"Not, strictly speaking, 'straight' places, so much as 'mixed' places... a
high percentage of gay clientele, with a significant 'alternative'
straight population," Fraser continued, his tinny voice buzzing in Ray's
ear. "Or so Daniel described it."  

"You do realize that a couple of those places are dance clubs, Fraser,
don't you?"  

There was a long pause on the cell phone.  

"Fraser? You there?" Ray prompted.  

"Yes, Ray. So dancing will be required?"  

"No, probably not... there's always a bunch of people who just leer at the
dancers, from the sidelines," Ray teased.  

"Now, Ray, I would never--"  

"I know, I know. If anyone would leer it would be me. Listen, hang on and
I'll be there shortly."  

"Right you are, Ray," the Mountie replied. "I'll see you when you arrive
here."	

"Right," Ray said, hanging up the cell phone and tucking it into his inner
jacket pocket as he drove. He was feeling better -- somewhat -- about the
whole plan. Still apprehensive about being the bait for the slasher, he
was comforted somewhat by knowing that he would at least be able to "fit
in" marginally with his excellent dancing ability. He wondered what it
would be like to be picked up, as opposed to trying to pick someone else
up... wondered if it were true, what Daniel had said went on in the
bathrooms sometimes... He wondered many things, as he drove, his mind
restlessly flitting from thought to thought, never pausing on one long
enough to truly examine it. He drove on towards the Consulate, trying not
to wonder how Fraser danced -- with another person.  

---  

Constable Benton Fraser sat at the front desk, staring at the paperwork in
front of him, and not seeing it... for the umpteenth time tonight. He
shook his head, looked up, and then stood, stifling the desire to stretch
and yawn. Yet he felt restless. Not normally inclined to examine his own
thoughts very much, it had begun to occur to him in the past couple of
hours that he was rather more emotionally invested in this case than he
would normally have been.  

He pulled his suspenders off his shoulders, shoving his hands deep in his
pockets, and pacing in the hallway before the stairway. Ray, he thought.
But it was a thought disturbingly schizophrenic: there was Ray, and then
there was Ray. He sighed, pausing in his stride.  

Ray Vecchio... the real Ray Vecchio... he had no way to ask his advice. No
way to contact him. No way to beg forgiveness for his admittedly wanton
thoughts. Thoughts he tried desperately to suppress, but which came out at
odd times and appeared to be unconsciously motivating his suggestions
about this investigation.  

And then there was the Cover Ray Vecchio, Stanley Raymond Kowalski.
Admittedly rough-edged, his initial impersonation of Fraser's real Ray was
both disconcertingly affable, unpredictable (at least with the criminal
element), and wholly unlike the real Ray Vecchio. Yet he inspired
unexpectedly tender feelings in Fraser, especially at his easy-going
acceptance of Fraser's bizarre attempts to gather evidence proving that he
was not the real Ray Vecchio. Ray Kowalski appeared to have a tough outer
shell. But that only masked the sensitive man underneath. The man had
endeared himself to Fraser, without even realizing it -- and in ways
Fraser knew he could never reveal.  

He still chastised himself for his occasional nitpicking of Ray Kowalski.
Especially considering the detective was shot while attempting to save
Fraser from Greta Garbo, the copy-cat performance arsonist who had been
trying to eliminate both Fraser and Vecchio (not realizing the real
Vecchio had gone deep undercover with the mob earlier that year). Such a
selfless gesture, and what was Fraser's thanks? To always be correcting
Ray. To be trying, essentially, to make him into something he was not.
This was somehow more fundamentally wrong with Kowalski than with the real
Vecchio. Perhaps because Kowalski seemed cockier on the surface, but was
actually more insecure.  

And then there was the deep well of loss and uncertainty where Ray
Vecchio's undercover assignment was concerned. The goodbye... so Ray
hadn't been able to speak freely, but... so much left unsaid. And so much
left unexplained -- such as why he took the assignment in the first place.
Why would he leave Fraser alone again, out of his element (though somewhat
more acclimated since he'd first come to Chicago)? It wasn't even being
out of his element so much as being left all alone again that most
bothered Benton. He shoved that down, deep inside, trying to contain a
gnawing fear that Ray would never return, would find another...  

No. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, he thought. There are many others
whose situations are much worse. Ray will be fine. He will do well. And he
will come back. But still a tiny element of fear darted just under the
surface of those thoughts. Fear of being abandoned yet again. And swimming
in the darkness Benton Fraser contained inside himself, swimming and
occasionally crossing paths with that fear, darted an excited dawning
awareness. A sensation not unlike an itch -- with Ray Kowalski's name on
it. His dream about the Rays (the real and the cover Vecchios)... He knew
that was only his unconscious wish for Ray's permission (as if that would
be all it took!) to pursue Kowalski. Should those two darting thoughts
meet up -- but, no. No time to think of that now. Steady on.  

He sighed, and began walking again. This time he walked to his room, and
slipped in, going straight to the closet. He opened the door. "Dad," he
whispered, peering into the shadowy back of the closet. He stepped in,
shutting the door behind him. He moved to the back of the closet,
encountering the back wall. But of course. Only at the most inopportune
times would his father appear with advice. He sighed. "Dad!" he whispered
more loudly, exasperated and worried.  

"Fraser, you in there?" came a muffled question from outside. The Mountie
sighed, rolling his eyes in the darkness. No wonder Ray thinks I am, as
Ray says, unhinged. Ray frequently found Fraser in the most ridiculous
situations, with no valid explanation for his admittedly peculiar
behavior.  

"Yes, Ray," Fraser said, a note of forced cheerfulness in his voice, as he
turned and opened the door of the closet. "You entered the usual way, I
hope?"	

Ray Kowalski peered into the closet quizzically, waving a credit card in
explanation of his silent entry into the Consulate. "Fraser, what the hell
are you doin'--"  

"Well, Ray, I--"  

"Never mind, Fraser, I don't think I want to know," Ray replied, pulling
the Mountie out by the arm. Standing outside the closet, the detective's
hand gripping his forearm, Benton Fraser froze slightly. He glanced down
at Ray's hand on his arm.  

Ray glanced down at what Fraser was looking at, and then dropped Fraser's
arm as if it was hot enough to burn. His cheeks pinked slightly; and
Fraser felt the rising warmth in his own cheeks. He dropped his eyes. A
brief flash of his dream Kowalski seized his mind's eye, that tousled head
over his belly -- Stop it! Fraser commanded himself. Just stop.  

"So anyways," Ray continued awkwardly, walking away. "I hope you've
polished your dancing shoes," he said, as he did a modified flamenco arm
move in an attempt to recover his cool. "Cuz we're goin' dancing," he
joked, snapping his fingers above his head.  

Fraser stood impassively behind him and watched as Ray slowly turned
around to look at him.	

"Ray," he began slowly. "I'm truly apologetic about having suggested this
course of action to Lieutenant Welsh. I just wasn't thinking. Perhaps we
could approach him again, with a different plan. I had no intentions of
endangering your life, but that's essentially what I've done," he
confessed miserably.  

And because I was driven by -- driven by -- he didn't finish the thought,
as dream images of a half-clad Ray Kowalski rose in his mind. He almost
grimaced with shame as he pushed them back.  

"Fraser, what the...? Look, I know it's not safe, but is the job I do ever
safe? I mean, it's not like I'm a librarian you're leading into the
underworld or somethin'. I am acquainted with the night life, although it
isn't exactly the same kind of night life we'll be exploring..." he
trailed off. The Mountie just shrugged, embarrassed and looking down at
the floor. Ray strode over to him, threw an arm around his shoulder and
led him out into the hallway.  

"C'mon, Fraser, relax. As long as you're keeping an eye on me, I know I'll
be safe," Ray began. Both men looked up at each other at that moment. At
the same time Ray continued, "After all, you didn't let anything happen to
me on the floating toxic waste dump..."  

As Fraser's worried blue eyes met Ray's soft pale eyes, Fraser felt the
weight of Ray's arm around his shoulder. The comfortable pressure, the
closeness and heat of Ray's body mixed with the coolness emanating off
Ray's wool coat... and Fraser involuntarily stiffened.	

Ray felt Fraser flinch, and dropped his arm as if stung. His eyes
reflected a slight pain, and then he looked away. Oh, dear, oh, dear,
Fraser groaned inwardly. That isn't what I meant to do. Oh, Ray. I can't
express myself. My God, what would you think? He looked down at the carpet
miserably.  

"Of course I will do everything in my power to maintain visual contact
with you in every situation and ensure your safety," the constable said
emphatically, his hands shoved deep in his uniform trouser pockets.  

"Right," Ray mumbled in reply, not looking at Fraser. "Although that might
not always be possible. Or a good idea, if we actually want to catch this
guy," he added doubtfully, looking up worriedly.  

"Really, Ray," Fraser said more intensely, looking at the man's spiky
hair. At his mouth with that thin upper lip, that thicker lower lip. "At
the very least, I shall remain within earshot, so all you would have to do
would be to raise your voice."	

Ray raised his eyes and their gazes locked. Will you? his dubious
expression seemed to say to Fraser. "To the best of my ability," Fraser
added, stepping closer to Ray. He paused, looking down. He felt the heat
between them, and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his
composure.  

"Sure, Fraser, I believe you," Ray said, uneasily stepping back from
Fraser and striding out towards the foyer. "So let's get going. And get
out of that uniform. We'll never get anywhere if they make you for a cop
right away. At least try to look like someone not always involved in
do-gooder stuff," he tried to joke, somewhat lamely.  

He passed into the parlor off the staircase, and Fraser paused at the
front desk, his shoulders sagging. This was certainly not an auspicious
beginning to the assignment. He sighed inwardly, and then followed Ray to
the entrance to the parlor.  

Ray had thrown himself down on a burgundy red sofa. He looked up at the
paintings on the dark wood paneled walls.  

"I'll be ready shortly," Fraser said quietly. Ray turned his head to look
over at the Mountie neutrally, and nodded. Fraser turned and exited, going
back to his room to change clothes.  

---  

In the car, Ray began his worried patter. "We can't appear to be together,
but I don't want you that far behind me. How `bout if I drop you off
first, like in the alley?"  

"Where are we going first?" the Mountie asked, feeling naked without his
serge and lanyard. In his indigo jeans and leather jacket, he felt
self-conscious.  

"The Crow's Nest, I thought," Ray said, glancing at him. "No? It's one of
those 'mixed' places. Figured we could, uh, ease into it that way?" he
added, sheepishly.  

"Oh, of course. I was just wondering, not suggesting anything," Fraser
stammered, reddening.  

"Too bad there was no Bulls game tonight, huh? Or we might see Rodman,"
Ray joked half-heartedly. "I hear that's where he likes to go after the
home games, if they don't have another game the next day. And sometimes
when they do."	

"Oh, really?" Fraser asked politely. But Ray could tell his thoughts were
far from where they were, far from the car.  

"Yeah." They rode the rest of the way in silence.  

---  

Ray pulled up in the alley behind Kingsbury Street. "This is the weirdest
area to put a club," he said, uncertainly. "It's all warehouses. I know
it's a trendy area, ready for development, but... it's so deserted."  

"Except, of course, for the exotic dancing establishment a few doors
down," Fraser pointed out.  

"Like that counts... that's just another sleazy place that can't be
helping the real estate developers."  

"True enough," Fraser replied, shrugging.  

"All right. I'm gonna get out. You slide over and find a parking place.
Assuming you find one within five minutes or five blocks -- unlikely, but
it could happen -- give me a good fifteen minute head start, so I'm
already kind of mingling when you come in," Ray said, turning to look at
Fraser. "But, uh, don't be too late," he added more quietly, with a
worried expression. "Just, uh, maintain your distance, right?"	

Fraser saw Ray's brow wrinkle -- five parallel lines punctuated by
eyebrows. He stifled a sudden and inexplicable urge to smooth Ray's brow,
and nodded, swallowing. "I won't be too late," he said roughly, over the
sudden dryness in his throat.  

"Okay." Ray opened the door, and a cold blast of air penetrated the warmth
of the car, enervating Fraser. Ray slid out, and Fraser slid over. Ray
hung on the open car door, looking around the alley. He seemed reluctant
to leave.  

"Okay, Fraser, here goes," he said finally, letting go of the door, and
running his hands through his hair, to make it stand up further. "I'm
heading out."  

He gave Fraser one last glance, an unreadable mixture of -- what? Fear?
Hostility? Shame? Fraser had only a split second to observe Ray's
expression before the detective was striding away. Down the alley, he was
silhouetted in the bright bluish white street light meant to deter
vandalism and graffiti artists. Ray's shadow turned the corner and was
gone. Another blast of cold wind blew in the door before Fraser slammed
it, put his seat belt on, and put the car in drive.  

He had finally found a parking place -- about three blocks away.
Remarkably, nearly every place that wasn't a loading dock or loading zone
-- which were surprisingly numerous, but then probably not, considering it
was a manufacturing and warehouse district west of the river's north
branch -- was taken up by the many cars parked around the club.  

Fraser walked to the club, the collar of his leather jacket turned up to
ward off the gusting wind. Surprisingly (to him), there was a line of
people -- between fifteen and twenty, he estimated -- standing behind a
velvet cord. Ray was up at the very front of the line. Their eyes met
briefly. Then Fraser dropped his, and stepped to the back of the line. Two
very large bouncers stood in front of the door, with the roped off line to
their right. A laughing couple burst out the double doors of the club, and
the loud, pounding music came out with them. Just as suddenly, it was
muffled as the doors banged shut. One of the bouncers made his way down
the line, behind the couple. With a cell phone pressed to his ear, he
checked out the people waiting in line.  

"Uh-huh. Right. Sure, no prob," he was saying. Then he passed Fraser and
barked, "You!", pointing at Fraser. Fraser was so certain the man was
speaking to someone behind him, that he actually turned around to see who
the bouncer was talking to... only to see the wall of the club. "Yeah,
you," the bouncer repeated as Fraser looked back at him, perplexed. The
man jabbed a finger at Fraser, and beckoned. "C'mon."  

"Sir?" Fraser said politely.  

"Dude, you wanna come in, or what?" the bouncer asked, exasperated.  

"Oh, certainly," Fraser said, blushing. The crowd behind him tittered
slightly.  

"Then come with me." Into the phone he said, "I gotta go," and hung up.  

"Right you are," Fraser said, wondering. The bouncer unhooked the velvet
rope at the section Fraser was in, to let him out. Fraser stepped out, the
bouncer cordoned the line off again, and followed Fraser up to the door.  

"Fifteen bucks," the second bouncer said. "Let's see your ID."	

Fraser dug out his wallet, and realized with a shock that he had only ten
dollars in it. Darn it, he thought. I left my hat at home. He said,
"Ah..."  

"Look buddy, got the ID or what?"  

"Um," Fraser said, digging out his passport, and handing it to the
bouncer, who had by now been joined by the second bouncer. The two
bouncers glanced curiously at Fraser, as Fraser gulped and looked around
behind him, glancing at Ray. Ray was close enough to have heard the entire
exchange.  

"Show us the money, dude," the bouncer said, handing Fraser his passport
back.  

"Well, sir, that's what I was about to--"  

"Hey, dude," came a familiar voice from behind the velvet rope. "Here,
man," said Ray, leaning over the rope with another ten dollar bill. The
bouncers looked at Ray, then at Fraser, then grinned at each other.  

"That's subtle," the bouncer on the right said to Ray, who flushed. Fraser
turned and took the money.  

He hesitated. "Thank you," he finally said, looking up quickly at Ray, who
looked away. Benton turned quickly back to the bouncers. He handed them
the two ten dollar bills.  

"Nah, give it to the girl inside," the bouncer waved away the money. "You
want your Good Samaritan pal to come in wit' you, fellah?" he grinned.	

"Ah--"	

The bouncer stepped around Fraser and unhooked the rope. He gestured to
Ray to get out of line and come to the door. Ray stepped forward, looking
shyly at Fraser with a sidelong glance. "Thanks, man," he said to the
bouncer, handing over a twenty.  

"No, no, give it to the girl inside," the bouncer said, opening the door
for them. They stepped into a blast of sound and heat, darkness split by
flashing color. The door shut behind them.  

"Ray, I thought we were supposed to look like we came separately," Fraser
began as they approached a bored girl on the bar stool by the tall
cocktail table. Another tall, muscled man with long hair stood behind her,
warily watching Fraser and Ray. She took their money and inked her rubber
stamp with an ink pad next to her cash box. They each got five dollars in
change and the backs of their hands stamped in black with what looked like
a cow.	

Chapter 6: How Soon To Follow? 
    

So far Ray had said nothing. But as they made their way down the dim
hallway, Ray raised his voice to compete with the music.  

"Well, Fraser, you needed the money. And, hell, they weren't making you
stand in line. Unlike me. Must be the Canadian good looks and charm, huh?
I wasn't expecting it to be like Studio 54 -- you know, only the beautiful
people get let in." He sounded vaguely upset.  

"Ray, I had no idea--"	

"Oh, I know. I believe you."  

"Then why won't--"  

"Oh, just forget it. Now just pretend you're not with me," Ray said as
they neared the archway into the club. He strode forward faster,
increasing the distance between Fraser and himself.  

Fraser slowed down and let Ray get far ahead of him. The flashing lights
and pounding music were already a bit much, to him. And they weren't even
in the club proper.  

Fraser got to the archway and Ray was gone. To the right, a dimly lit bar.
To the left, a miniature street lamp. A girl stood under it, next to a tub
of ice stuffed with beer bottles. Directly in front, a few yards away, was
the dance floor. Fog poured down from what looked like a catwalk. Fraser
looked up to realize there were male and female dancers on the catwalks,
barely clothed. He nervously looked away, back down to the bar on the
right.	

A bevy of strong-looking young white men in muscle t-shirts regarded him
from the closest corner of the bar. He swallowed nervously, recognizing
that he was getting the once-over from five pairs of eyes. He stepped to
the left, just to be nearer the beer girl. Where was Ray? But he must let
Ray mingle.  

He looked forward to the dance floor. There was an incredible mix of
people. All races. All kinds of hair styles, including no hair, spiked
hair, and big hair. Women who looked like boys. Men who looked like women.
Women who looked very feminine. Men who looked very masculine. In close
embraces with feminine women, or with other very masculine men. The entire
crowd moving in rhythm to the music, like a hive of people. Dancing,
Fraser thought, dancing their communications to each other like bees. He
had never seen such an assortment of people together in one place --
except when that diplomat's daughter had led him on that wild goose chase.
 

And then there was Ray. Already on the dance floor. Dancing by himself,
eyes closed. Fraser's heart contracted. Poor Ray. Fraser realized now,
looking at all the people around him and on the dance floor, that he
hadn't had to wait in line because... he was very attractive. At least
according to the current social standard. And all of these people were
too.  

The beautiful people, he thought. And I was picked as one of them. Right
away. And Ray was not. And why not? He's as beautiful as any of these
people. More beautiful.  He would have waited in that line even longer, if
he hadn't contributed the money for my cover charge. Ray must feel --
well, it must not have felt very good to be looked over -- and passed
over.  

Fraser looked down at the stamp on the back of his left hand, feeling
guilty. He tried not to make use of his looks, tried not to take advantage
of the benefits. But here it had happened without him even trying. He
sighed, looking up for Ray again. But Ray was gone from the dance floor.  

Fraser turned. Fine, time for a beverage. And to find Ray. But as he
strode to the bar -- trying to ignore the men who followed him with their
gazes -- he realized that Ray was at the far corner of the bar, in an even
darker corner of the club, if that were possible. Beer in hand. Fraser
stepped to a safe distance midway between the group of men who were still
eyeing him, and Ray. One man was speaking to the skinhead bartender.
Fraser rested his hand on the bar. The bartender came up to him, and
Fraser noticed the lip and eyebrow pierces for the first time.	

"What'll you have?" the bartender bawled over the music, leaning over the
bar.  

"Ah, Coca-Cola," Fraser yelled back.  

"And what?" the bartender asked.  

"Just Coca-Cola."  

The bartender raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Looking back towards the man
he'd just been speaking with, he grabbed a tall glass, filled it with ice,
and grabbed the spigot. It filled quickly with the soda, being mostly ice.
The bartender slapped a coaster down in front of Fraser, and put the drink
down on top of it rather heavily.  

As Fraser brought out his wallet to pay, the bartender shook his head,
pointing to a man on Fraser's right, of the group of men in
muscle-T-shirts. A dark haired man with trimmed goatee and mustache nodded
at Fraser. Fraser nodded towards the man, and took at sip of the Coca-
Cola. He felt vaguely embarrassed, having a drink bought for him -- and a
non-alcoholic one at that.  

Ray, he discovered, was fortunately not without his own patron. The
bartender had already gone to a man standing near the goateed man, and
then moved along to Ray, saying something as he leaned over the bar.  

Fraser dropped his eyes, then turned to look onto the dance floor, his
elbow still resting on the bar. He tried to affect a nonchalant and bored
air. This was not entirely successful, as he gave off the air of a
sleeping cat whose ears move in the direction of any sound... (and
therefore isn't really sleeping at all).  

A swift look back confirmed that Ray had gotten a beer from someone in the
group of muscle men. The detective raised his beer towards the man in
thanks, before taking a sip. Fraser squelched the urge to follow closely
all the moves of the men at the bar behind him, including his partner. He
picked up his Coca-Cola and sipped at it nervously. When he turned around
to the bar, eyes on the ashtray, he glanced up quickly at Ray. One of the
muscle-T men was standing next to him.	

Their heads were together. They must have to yell to hear each other,
Fraser thought. That's why their heads are so close together. At that
moment, Ray turned his head back towards the bar, and saw Fraser watching
him. The other man said something right in Ray's ear, to which Ray
responded with a wry grin. Something about the intimacy of the interaction
raised Fraser's blood pressure just slightly. Ray slid his eyes away from
Fraser's. The Mountie noticed the detective drumming the fingers of his
right hand nervously on the bar.  

He turned away again. It would do no good to be picked out as law
enforcement before the evening had even begun. The pulsating music and
flashing lights on the dance floor -- not to mention the chemical smell of
the fake fog -- were disorienting to Fraser. By sheer force of will he
kept his eyes on the dance floor. But he barely saw the diverse collection
of people, and paid even less attention to them. He felt uncomfortably as
if he had hair only on the side of his body facing Ray-- and that it was
all standing up.  

When he turned back to the bar again, he kept his eyes down and glanced
sidelong at Ray. He found Ray and his companion downing the last of their
beers and wandering off from the bar, towards the back of the club. They
wandered around the periphery of the dance floor in the back.  

How soon to follow? The protective side of him said, Right away. But the
strategist in him, the Mountie who knew the way one often had to play
waiting games with criminals, said to wait. So he waited. He still had a
couple sips of soda left. The tempo of the music had slowed to a throbbing
slightly faster than the normal human heartbeat, and sounding surprisingly
like it. He turned to the dance floor, only to be taken by surprise as he
saw Ray and the unnamed muscular man dancing.  

They were dancing close to each other, but not together. Fraser
unconsciously sighed in relief. But even as he did, the dark haired man
extended a well-formed forearm and hand to Ray. He took Ray's hand and
drew Ray's arm around his waist. Though Fraser felt his throat tighten
unexpectedly, he forced his eyes to sweep the rest of the dancing crowd. A
wide array of differing couples were doing almost the same thing, in
various stages. Some men were already pressing themselves up against the
backsides of their dance partners. Many of whom were male.  

There must be a club rule that some sort of shirt was required, because no
one on the dance floor was shirtless. But "shirt" appeared to be very
loosely defined. Some of the women's shirts were almost entirely see
through. So were the mesh shirts of some of the men, and the thin, loose
shirts with wide, sleeveless armholes that both men and women were
wearing.  

Couples moved their pelvises and legs in undulating motions together. The
seductive bumping and grinding made Fraser wet his bottom lip without
realizing it. His strictly casual glance back to where Ray had been,
revealed a sight even more jarring -- and exciting. And yet he flushed
with anger when he saw it.  

The dark haired man -- with no goatee, unlike the purchaser of Fraser's
drink -- held Ray to him, pressed against Ray's back. The detective's
hands were on the man's forearms, rather than slightly behind him on the
man's hips or on the tops of his thighs, as other men and women were
holding their partners.  

But the man had his arms around Ray. One hand was slightly higher, on
Ray's sternum. The other was slightly lower -- on Ray's belt buckle. Ray
looked somewhat stiff, at least from the waist up. But he had his eyes
closed and his head leaned back just slightly on the shoulder of his
barely taller partner. The man pressed his lips against Ray's ear. Ray's
head was slightly cocked, as if listening to something the man said --
though how Ray could possibly hear anything being whispered, in the
deafening throb of bass and sinuous electronic music, Fraser had no idea.
Another couple danced in front of Ray and the dark-haired man, and Fraser
craned his head impatiently, waiting for Ray and friend to reappear.  

When the couple had danced out of the way, melding back into the crowd of
writhing dancers, Fraser's chest constricted. Ray had his hands on the
thighs of the man behind him. The man's hands were on Ray's hips. They
moved as one, their hips swaying from side to side. Ray's head leaned
fully back, his Adam's apple thrusting up from his throat. And the man's
lips now obviously moved down the side of Ray's neck and around to his
collar bone. Fraser suddenly found himself standing straight and tall on
his feet, his soda drained. He uncharacteristically crunched an ice cube
into smithereens, unmindful of the cold on his teeth.  

Just then the music began to change tempo again, to a more upbeat dance --
not grind -- rhythm. The sinuousness of the sound remained, changed
slightly, whined and segued into a percussive sound of machinery. Guitars
and electronics dropped in and then pulled out. Fraser watched Ray's dance
partner lead him off the floor. Ray still shuffled his feet in rhythm, and
they disappeared into the crowd on the opposite side of the dance floor.  

"Make the beats go farther," a woman's manipulated voice whisper-spoke to
the beat of the music, "P-p-p-push it..."  

Fraser was moving now, alongside the dance floor, behind the patrons on
high bar stools over looking the dance floor. He hadn't realized the
platforms were gigantic speakers. The fog and lights must have obscured
them. But now he noticed men and women dancing by themselves or with each
other in apparently arbitrary couplings of same sex, opposite sex, three
in a row. It was a most bewildering and startling vision, at which he
tried not to stare. Fraser had thought he was well acquainted with most of
the social interactions between males and females. But apparently Inuit
social custom did not translate to the average young patrons of a mixed
metropolitan dance club.  

Once on the other side of the dance floor, with no sign of Ray, Fraser
began to worry. He looked around, on either side. There appeared to be
bathrooms on either side and a back bar. The bathroom on the right -- from
what he could see -- appeared to be a men's room. As he moved towards it,
he was surprised to see women coming out of it. The fact that they were
really men only registered after they were out of sight.  

But he walked in and there was a long, low mirror, dim lighting and an
assortment of people. Few of them were obviously female, some engaged in
kisses or embraces. They looked up at him briefly with sultry but detached
curiosity, more concerned with the substances they were sniffing, the lips
they were kissing, the hair they were stroking. The room smelled of sweat
and leather -- there were a lot of people wearing black leather, some in
quite interesting outfits. Feeling red-faced, he strode to the bathroom
stalls and looked for Ray's shoes under the doors. But he saw no sign of
them.  

Now he really began to worry. He fairly ran out of the -- apparently --
men's bathroom and squeezed his way through the thick crowd between the
two bathrooms, the dance floor, and the back bar. Upon reaching the other
bathroom, he paused, thinking it must be the men's room. But again, on
striding through the door, it became apparent that the division of rest
room facilities by gender was not something the club goers appeared very
concerned with.  

There were women with some of the men in this bathroom, sitting atop
counters with their boyfriends between their knees and thighs. Some
all-male couples were similarly positioned. Fraser saw that all the light
bulbs save two had been unscrewed, making it exceedingly dim in this rest
room -- which he supposed was the point. He could barely see beneath the
doors of the three stalls. The middle one was open, so he stepped into it.
 

The pounding of the music on the dance floor dimmed as the outer door
slowly eased shut. Fraser could hear whispers in one of the stalls next to
his, but he couldn't be sure which one they came from. He stilled himself,
took a few deep breaths, and then closed his eyes and listened hard.  

They came from the handicapped accessible stall next to his. He stifled an
urge to climb up on the toilet and spy on the people in it. He already
recognized one voice, though he could not understand what was being said.
Soon he realized that he couldn't understand what was being said, because
it was a quiet, incoherent, keening whisper. Coming from Ray. That sound
was suddenly very distressing.	

That was it. He jumped up on the toilet seat, and peered over the thin
metal wall between the stalls. There was Ray Kowalski, backed up against
the door of the handicapped stall. His pants and briefs were loose around
his lean thighs, which trembled. Ray's fingers clenched and unclenched in
the black hair of the man he'd been dancing with. The man's face was
buried in Ray's groin. His hands were hidden by the shadows and silhouette
of his head, which stroked up and down over Ray's pelvis. The motion --
what they were doing -- Fraser didn't need to hear the slick wet sounds of
the man's mouth to know it was moving swiftly back and forth over Ray's,
over Ray's --  

"My head explodes and my body aches... Make the beats go farther..." the
female singer's amplified whisper reached Fraser dimly. "Come on push it,
you can do it... Come on, prove it, nothin' to it... Come on use it, let's
get through it.... Come on, push it, you can do it...."  

Just then, Ray's slitted eyes looked up toward the ceiling -- and suddenly
popped wide open, upon seeing Fraser. His fellating friend must have
sensed him stiffening, for he stopped what he was doing, and looked up at
Ray. As the man slid his hands up Ray's sides from his hips, Fraser saw a
dim flash of metal.  

He didn't bother to stay on the toilet seat. The Mountie jumped down and
burst out of his stall, slamming into the door of the stall next to his.
Both men were thrown against the opposite wall.  

Through a pinkish miasma, Fraser realized that he had the man by the
throat, up against that wall, Ray frantically pulling at him, yelling
something he couldn't understand; the man was yelling -- he himself was
yelling, he realized belatedly, and didn't even know what he was saying.
Ray finally succeeded in getting him off the man, but only long enough for
Fraser to turn the man around, wrench an arm up behind his back and
quickly frisk him with his other hand.	

Ray was yelling at him, and it sounded as if a small crowd had gathered
behind them to watch the goings-ons in the handicapped stall. Fraser
realized, from the hand he had savagely twisted up behind Ray's dance
partner, that the man was wearing silver rings. Sterling silver rings. On
three of the four fingers of the hand Fraser held. The flash of metal he'd
seen when the man slid his hands up from Ray's -- it had been these rings.
 

Ray slammed the door shut to afford them some privacy, and then dragged
Fraser off the man who had, until recently, been performing oral sex on
him. His jeans and briefs were pulled up but undone, the buckle and belt
tail hanging loosely and shaking with the fury of Ray's shaking hands.	

"What the hell are you doing?" he said to Fraser through tightly clenched
teeth, holding Fraser up against the wall by the lapels of his jacket.
Behind him the man leaned over, his hands on his knees, gasping and
coughing. Fraser saw nothing but Ray's ice blue eyes and angry glower, his
lips thin with anger, inches from Fraser's face.  

"I -- I saw a flash of metal, I thought he had"  

"What the fuck!!" interrupted the man behind Ray, now mostly recovered and
furious. He whipped Ray around to face him. "Who's this, your jealous
ex??" he spat, and Fraser saw the glint of a tongue piercing in his mouth.
 

"No, man, he's just a friend," Ray tried to soothe him, hands up in an
appeasing gesture. But the man would have none of it.  

"If you're just looking for drama, buddy, you're looking at the wrong guy,
because one thing I don't want is drama," the man's dark eyes flashed
angrily. "Are you coming, or what?" he added, panting and clenching and
unclenching his fists as he stepped back.  

Ray was backed up against Fraser now, simultaneously protecting Fraser and
holding him where he was.  

"Just gimme a minute," he said, trying a nervous smile on the dark eyes.  

"No fuckin' way. Either you come with me now, or you're with him. Take
your pick."  

Ray held his ground, not moving forward and not moving back, breathing
hard through his mouth. He dropped his eyes.  

"Fine," the man snapped, and shoved them both angrily out of the way to
open the door of the stall. He stomped out, buckling his belt and
straightening his t-shirt as he went. Fraser and Ray, thrown together
against the wall across from the door, extricated themselves from each
other, and Ray stepped across the stall to slam the door shut one more
time -- to the disappointment of the gathered crowd -- and then swung
around to confront Fraser.  

"What in the hell was that, Fraser? I'm trying to"  

"Trying to what, Ray? You could have been killed! Don't you even think
before you"  

"You said you'd stay within earshot, not follow me and spy on everything I
did! How am I supposed to  

"Well, with what he was -- we know the suspect has -- "  

Ray slapped a hand over Fraser's mouth, closing the distance between them
in one stride. "Shut up," he said in a furious whisper, "unless you want
the entire nightclub to find out about our investigation and finger us as
cops!"	

Fraser breathed heavily through his nose, staring into those pale blue
eyes, no more than a couple of inches from his own. He felt Ray loosen his
grip on his mouth, and gingerly reached up to pull Ray's hand off his
mouth.	

Ray let his hand be pulled off, and took a half step back, looking down at
the floor, shaking his head, and running that hand through his hair.  

"Fraser," he began as he looked up at the Mountie, about to carry on in a
more subdued tone. But the look in Fraser's eyes took him completely by
surprise, and he froze.  

The space between them, it seemed to Fraser (who wasn't thinking too
clearly, he realized dimly in some far corner of himself), was filling
with a quiet heat, an aura of closeness and intimacy. He didn't have to
look to feel that Ray's pants were still undone... Didn't have to touch
Ray to know the man was erect, from the adrenaline and increased blood
flow, from the fight-or-flight response --  

The disorienting, throbbing music, dimly heard, and the graffiti strewn
stall walls and door... All these things Fraser sensed in excruciating
detail, though he only heard and saw them for a split second of peripheral
sensation. Ray's half-guilty, half-hopeful expression was frozen on his
face for a fraction of a moment. And then Fraser closed the distance
between their  mouths and pressed his lips ardently against Ray's, before
he thought better of it -- before he thought at all.  

Ray's mouth parted hotly under Fraser's and suddenly they were
passionately entwined -- hands under shirts, in hair, stroking
five-o'clock-shadow. Fraser's hip thrust against Ray's hard cock and his
arms encircled Ray, sliding up the sweat-slick lean-muscled back under his
hands. The tip of Ray's tongue fiercely entered Fraser's mouth, and then
drew back. And Fraser pressed his own tongue into his partner's mouth,
sliding it over the ridges of Ray's palate.  

And then they simultaneously realized what they were doing, and each
froze. Ray's entire body stiffened; Fraser similarly went rigid. Ray
slowly slid his hands down Fraser's chest and belly, withdrew them, and
hitched up his pants. He pushed Fraser away as Fraser himself slid his
hands off his partner. The Mountie's hands reluctantly released Ray's
waist as the Chicago cop stepped back from him.  

They stood, a scant foot apart, panting, neither looking at the other,
both looking at the floor. Ray silently buttoned his jeans, and the
zzzzzzziz of his zipper and clanking of his buckle stirred Fraser out of
his paralysis. He hardly knew what he'd just done. Sense-memory of the
kiss overwhelmed him, and he barely found his voice to speak. When he did,
it was in a ragged whisper.  

"Ray.... I... I'm so sorry. My God, Ray -- "  

"Fraser, shut up," Ray said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. He
took a step towards his partner, but his face was averted. Then his head
inclined towards Fraser's until their foreheads met. With eyes cast down,
he said, "Just shut up. Don't say anything else. I'm not sorry."  

It took Fraser a few heartbeats for that to sink in.  

"You're not?" he asked hesitantly. The only answer was the soft
side-to-side motion of the forehead pressed to his. Ray shook his head in
denial. Fraser dumbly stood stock still, shocked to his very bones.  

"To tell the truth..." Ray began hoarsely, and then stopped.  

Fraser inhaled, ready to babble in his typical fashion... except he found
he had no ready responses. His head was empty.	

"To tell the truth, Fraser," Ray repeated in a whisper, "I've been wishing
this would happen."  

The downcast eyes closed, and Fraser felt the man's entire physical
presence change. A tenseness filled Ray. Tenseness mixed with wildness
came through the press of that so-frequently-wrinkled brow against his
own. His hands hung limply, dumbly at his sides.  

Tentatively the Mountie raised a hand. His eyes were open, looking at the
nearby blur of Ray, not sure if Ray's eyes were closed or just downcast.
Their only point of contact at this moment was the point where their
foreheads met. Fraser closed his eyes, and let his hand go where he knew
it would find Ray's angular jaw, his delicate temple, the bone under his
eyebrow. He traced Ray's cheekbone with his thumb.  

With that one gesture, Ray leaned into Fraser, plunging his face into the
space between Fraser's head and shoulder. His breath was hot against
Fraser's neck. Ray's arms slid tight about his partner, under his jacket,
crushing the Mountie to him. "Fraser, Fraser, Fraser," he whispered, "Oh,
God, Fraser, you have no idea..."  

"Ray..." was all Fraser could get out. The hand that had been on Ray's
cheek stroked the back of the detective's neck without Fraser even
realizing it. The Mountie's other arm encircled Ray's waist, running
softly up and down the cabled muscles of Ray's wiry back, over Ray's
t-shirt, again and again, as soothing to Fraser as it was to Ray. An
inarticulate excitement built in Benton's chest. His heart swelled and
throbbed erratically.  

Ray breathed into Fraser's neck, inhaling the sweaty and masculine scent
of Fraser under his leather bomber jacket, and the scent of the leather
itself... Keeping his eyes tightly shut, he pressed his lips to Fraser's
neck. He felt the sandpapery roughness of the Mountie's five-o'clock
shadow. His lips moved up where the Mountie's neck met his jaw, and kissed
lightly and tentatively down Fraser's jawline to his mouth. There he
hesitated a moment until Fraser pulled Ray tighter to him, forcing their
closed mouths into gentle contact.  

Fraser opened his lips just slightly under Ray's, accepting the hesitant
tip of Ray's tongue, returning the gesture... And felt his 
 tumescent member harden fully against Ray's belly, alongside the heat and
hardness of Ray's own cock. Ray broke the kiss. He leaned his head back to
look up at the ceiling, pleased and relieved to feel Fraser's arousal, yet
feeling shy. Fraser slowly kissed down the detective's neck to the hollow
at Ray's throat. He felt Ray's body surrender softly, molding to his arms,
laying back like an empty dress in his arms. Benton felt his partner's
Adam's apple move under his lips. Felt the lean body he held to him exhale
a sighing breath, like a prayer offered up --  

And then Ray straightened up again, standing tall in Fraser's arms, the
sudden tensing of his muscles causing Fraser to take a step back. Ray
brought his hand up to Fraser's face.  

His fingers softly, almost reverently, stroked Fraser's cheek from the
corner of his eye to his chin. They opened their eyes at the same time,
looking in myopic wonder and shyness at each other. And then Ray closed
his eyes again. And pressed his soft lips to Fraser's, again and again and
again.	

Emboldened by the desire he felt rigid against him, Fraser slid one hand
down his partner's back to his buttock, pulling them tighter against each
other. Ray felt his arousal. Ray's hand again slid around Fraser's back,
and the constable felt his partner's fingers digging into his back as he
molded himself to Fraser's body. His face lay alongside Fraser's neck
again.	

They held each other, not daring to make any other moves. Not daring to
speak. Until their breathing calmed and their mutual excitement subsided.
Until people started knocking on the door.  

"Hey, man! People need to use the can!" came an irritated stranger's
voice.	

"Fuck off," Ray said, his words gentled by the utter lack of anger in his
voice, by being muffled against his partner's neck.  

Fraser didn't want to open his eyes. Didn't want to let go of Ray. He
loosened his clasp, however, loosened it enough for Ray to back up
slightly in his arms.  

"Fraser," Ray began, then stopped.  

The Mountie still had his eyes closed. He dared not open them. He didn't
want this to be another dream. He didn't want to think. He only knew that
every part of his body felt that this was right; and right now only a dim
corner of his soul bowed its head guiltily. The rest of him gained solace
from the man in his arms, from the tender response of the man in his arms.
From the fact that the feeling he had thought one-sided, superficial and
dismissible was reciprocated, intense, and profound.  

He slowly became aware of Ray's repeated whispering of his name near his
ear, of Ray's hand on his stomach. Ray turned in his loose grasp, one arm
around Fraser's hips, trying to bring him back to the present. He opened
his eyes, to see Ray's profile in a blurry close-up.  

"Fraser, Fraser," Ray whispered again, petting the Mountie's stomach in
short, awkward strokes. It awakened a memory Fraser didn't know he had --
of his mother patting his tummy when he was sick in bed one night.
Fraser's breath hitched in his throat and he squeezed tears from the
corners of his eyes even as he barked one short, inappropriate laugh.  

"Fraser, are you okay?" Ray whispered, worried.  

The Mountie took a very deep breath, and replied hoarsely, closing his
eyes. "Yes. No. I don't know."	

"Fraser, c'mon. We gotta get outta here. We'll sort this out, but not
here. Okay?" Ray tilted his head, squinting at his partner.  

"Yes, Ray," Fraser acquiesced like a child, releasing his hold on Ray. His
arms fell limply to his sides.	

"Okay, Fraser. C'mon. Let's go," Ray said a little louder. And Fraser
opened his eyes, to the dull painted metal of the bathroom stall,
scratched through with numerous hearts, epithets, and phone numbers. Ray
grabbed his wrist, pulled him aside, and opened the door. The small crowd
had dispersed, but a few guys glared at them as Ray dragged Fraser through
the dim bathroom past the sinks and counter.  

Back in the club, off the dance floor, Fraser raised his hands to his
ears. The deafening roar of the pounding music was too much for him. Too
much, it was all too much. Ray grabbed one of Fraser's raised hands and
resumed tugging the Mountie through the crowd, thicker now than when they
had first come in.  

With only a short paused at a literal hole in the wall behind the girl
with the tub of beer, Ray reclaimed the long coat he had checked when he'd
come in. Then Ray pulled him along gently. Fraser stumbled down the slight
descent towards the club's entrance.  

Ray pushed the doors open, and pulled Fraser past the bouncers. The two
men took one look at the two of them, and grinned at each other, as if to
say "I told you so."  

But Fraser was beyond caring and Ray paid no attention. He dragged the
constable half a block down the street, away from the club entrance, and
then stopped.  

"Where's the car, Fraser?" he began, turning Fraser to him. The Mountie
looked up at his surroundings, somewhat bewildered.  

"Ah, uh -- "  

"It is somewhere around here, right?"  

"Yes, Ray. Uh, I think it's that way."	

"Okay, then we'll go that way."  

The practicalities of every day life snapped Fraser out of his dreamy,
quiet state. He began striding alongside Ray, and Ray dropped his arm.
Fraser wished the detective had kept holding it -- it felt so nice. But he
carried on, sweeping his eyes up and down the street.  

At the mouth of a tiny side street so narrow that cars couldn't park on
both sides, Fraser pointed down the street. There was the car, near the
end of it, by the dead end.  

They hurried along, not speaking. Fraser found the car keys in his jacket
pocket. The jacket that had been hanging open during their entire walk --
that was not, he realized, keeping him warm so long as he was leaving it
open. He handed the keys to Ray, and then silently waited as Ray unlocked
the driver's door. Ray hopped in, and reached over to unlock Fraser's door
from the inside.  

He walked around the car to the passenger door, watching Ray's delicate
hand withdraw across the car seat. Wrenching the door open, he settled
heavily into the passenger seat, before slamming the door with unnecessary
force.	

Chapter 8: Strictly Speaking 
    

Oh my God. Oh, God, oh, God. Ray spoke aloud in a whisper, but he was
unaware of it. Oh my God. What was I thinking. Jesus. I am such an idiot.
God. I suck. The irony and double meaning of what he'd just said suddenly
hit him, and he chuckled crazily, thinking, No, I don't suck, that's what
he was doing, although -- No, just stop --  

He subsided into silence, sitting in the driver's seat, with his hands
over his face and eyes. He rubbed his face, over and over. As if it were
dripping wet from just coming in from a rainstorm. Finally he stopped. His
hands covered his eyes, though there was nothing to see except the chilly
inside of the unmarked car, the steering wheel, the silent radio, the
engine off.  

Fraser sat stock still, head down, as if he were examining something in
his lap. But all that was there were his hands, slack and palm-up, resting
on his thighs and the edge of his leather jacket. Numb and motionless, he
appeared almost frozen alive -- but for the shallow, rapid breathing that
caused his chest to rise and fall quickly. Sense memory overwhelmed him --
the kiss, the embrace, the heat -- yet so did guilt. Utterly still, he
tried fiercely to conjure up the sensation of Ray Vecchio -- the real Ray
Vecchio -- his caresses, his lips, his hands. But he could not.  

Oh, he could picture moments -- as if he, Fraser, were not inhabiting his
own body. As if Ray and he were in some kind of film. What he supposed
would be considered a pornographic film. Except that it was less
pornographic than romantic. But the sense -- the feeling -- of Ray Vecchio
wouldn't come. And this distressed Fraser almost beyond reason.  

All he felt was Ray Kowalski. All he smelled was Ray Kowalski. It was only
Kowalski's hands on him, under his shirt. His cool hands sliding over his
chest and stomach in tentative exploration. It was only Kowalski's kiss
that he could invoke, hesitant and shy at first, then bolder and seemingly
more experienced even than himself.  

Well, that makes perfect sense, he thought to himself. Ray Kowalski has
been married. Was married. Is no longer married. (Just like Ray Vecchio).
To State's Attorney Stella Kowalski. What, Fraser wondered idly, was
Stella's maiden name? And just how likely was it that a man named Stanley
Raymond Kowalski would meet, court, fall in love with, and marry a woman
named Stella? Why, the odds must be astronomical, he thought. And then he
thought, Out of everything I could possibly be concerned with at this
particular moment, why on Earth is it the odds of Ray Kowalski marrying a
woman named Stella?  

Ray slowly leaned his head forward to rest on the steering wheel, eyes
closed. He gripped the steering wheel as if it were a lifesaver. What the
hell was I thinking? he asked himself? What the hell was Fraser thinking?
I should never have -- with that guy -- But I -- and he -- we weren't
hurting anyone -- at least I didn't know we were --  

Fraser chuckled to himself, but it had an edge of near-hysteria, of
disbelief. He stopped as suddenly as he started, his mind going back to
the images and the sensations. He could see Ray Vecchio, but why could he
only feel Ray Kowalski's wiry arms around him? Kowalski crushing him with
surprising force. Kowalski's embrace that ran the length of their bodies.
That stirred the deepest secret part of Fraser, that almost-frozen part,
frozen not once, not twice, but at least three times, if not more... last
by Ray Vecchio.  

It took several more moments for Constable Benton Fraser to realize fully
that under the frozen surface of his emotions, lay fiery anger and deep
unutterable sadness. A fire and ice combination as deadly to his own heart
as to anything else... To what he might have to offer Ray. To what he had
had to offer Vecchio. To what Vecchio had... left? Abandoned? Spurned?
Denied?  

What had they had? Fraser asked himself for the first time ever. What,
really, had he had with Ray Vecchio? Those words -- he never said them.
Fraser himself had never said them, although he thought them often enough.
But what good was thinking? What if Ray had left because he'd never said,
I love you, I can't live without you? What if he'd lost Ray because his
tongue froze when those words rose to his throat? What if Ray Vecchio had
thought it was no more than a passing fancy, something they would both
awkwardly "grow out" of and later pretend had never happened? Why had he
never told Ray Vecchio the way he'd really felt, how Ray Vecchio affected
his body and soul?  

And why now should he be able to remember thinking these thoughts -- but
not remember feeling them, as he knew he had, in his bones, in his flesh,
cutting to the quick of his very being? Were such feelings so
insubstantial, were they ephemeral until they were put into words? Were
they made substantial, made real, by being put into words? Had he forever
missed the chance to make them real by not speaking them, by not
demonstrating them more than physically?  

Their lovemaking. So ... wordless, incoherent, pre-verbal. The language of
children, of a baby: Give me -- I want -- I need -- Mmmm-hmmm... all the
gasps and cries and moans and sighs... And few words, ever. Perhaps
calling out each other's names at the peak of desire and passion.
Occasional stated requests for specific caresses. But otherwise, blindly
acting out a desire mostly unspoken, undeclared, unsaid.  

Rarely were feelings expressed, even less frequently were they discussed
-- that is to say, never. It had never seemed necessary. Had, in fact,
been imperative that their connection be secret and invisible to those
around them. And though he was disappointed that they could not be openly
affectionate, it made the looks, the "accidental" touches and brushing up
or past each other that much more poignant and exciting. Ray never had to
say anything to Fraser. He had only to look at Fraser, and Fraser knew
what would happen that evening. Knew what the next stolen moment might
bring. Knew what Ray wanted. And Fraser never had to tell Ray, or ask. Ray
just knew. For the same reasons, Fraser had supposed -- that Ray could see
it in his eyes, feel it in his "innocent" touch.  

Did not talking about it, Fraser wondered, make it easier to walk away
from? An intensely mournful sound rose and fell in the car. He only
belatedly realized it had been his own choked voice as a hand reached
across the gap between them and squeezed his shoulder tenderly.  

And now. So. The other Ray, the pretend Ray Vecchio, really Ray Kowalski.
Touching him. Speaking to him, though Fraser heard but could not listen --
or was it listened but did not hear? he wondered. He registered sound but
no sensible words. I must have, he thought with a detached and morbid
humor, I must have really gone and done it now. I can hear him, but I
can't hear him. I have no idea what he is saying to me. What is he saying
to me? Fraser paused in his mental babble and took a deep breath, trying
his utmost to block out all else but Ray Kowalski's voice.  

" -- and I had no idea, I just thought it was me, and I didn't know what
the hell to do, so I didn't do anything. But I couldn't stop thinking
about you, it was almost torture, and every little thing -- every little
thing -- seemed to have a double meaning. And then I would rethink it and
think, No, Ray, you're an idiot, Fraser could not possibly want anything
to do with you. You're lucky the man can deal with you on a partnership
basis, with your attitude, your cocky attitude, your mouth -- You say
things and you don't think, you think things and they come out of your
mouth before you know what you're saying. You do things without thinking,
like an idiot you socked him in the jaw, and Fraser is so not like that --
Fraser thinks, he's kind, he has manners. You're a slob, you have no class
-- But Fraser could give lessons, and you should have picked some stuff up
by now. But anyway, that's not what I mean about this... what was I
talking about? -- I just can't believe -- and I'm so stupid -- you must
think I'm such an ass -- "  

"Ray," Fraser began the familiar refrain, but hoarsely, barely above a
whisper. "Ray. Ray. Ray. RAY." His shoulder ached under the detective's
tight grip.  

The detective looked up suddenly, and turned his head in Fraser's
direction. The interior car lights were not on. A street lamp four or five
cars down barely illuminated the side of Fraser's cheek, like a satellite
picture of the earth before sunrise, the thin crescent of light at the
edge of the planet... "Have you really been listening to me?" Ray said,
surprised.  

Fraser looked down in his lap, and said hesitantly, "Well, strictly
speaking, I didn't hear the whole thing. You must have been talking for
some time before I realized..."  

The detective gave Fraser's shoulder one last strong squeeze, in an
attempt to say more with his hands than he could say with his mouth. Then
he returned both his hands to his lap, and they lay there limply, palms
up, nothing to do.  

Fraser tried to begin again. But he felt so unlike his normal certain,
knowledgeable, confident self. "Ray. I..." he lapsed into silence a
moment, then sighed and tried to continue. "I shouldn't have overreacted
like that. I am truly sorry. I didn't realize that you already considered
yourself on the case and -- "  

"Fraser," Ray interrupted, "Fraser, wait." He paused and could not look at
the Mountie. One hand went nervously through his hair while his mouth
worked silently a moment. Then, "It was more than that," he dragged out of
himself, raggedly. "It was more... and it was less than that," Ray
finished. "I -- I couldn't -- well, you seemed totally out of the
question. I wanted to see if it was you, or if it was just men. God. I'm
such an idiot. How can I be so stupid sometimes?" he half-yelled in anger
at himself, then threw his head in his hands and slammed it onto the
steering wheel. As if banging his head would knock some sense into it.	

"Ray, you're going to hurt yourself if you don't stop that," Fraser
reminded him practically.  

The detective stopped immediately, turning to the Mountie, taking his
hands from his face, and saying softly, "Do you care?"	

"Ray -- I -- you know -- " the Mountie couldn't finish. Wait. Clear
throat. Swallow. Try again. Deep breath. "Ray. What I mean to say is, Yes.
I do care. Not just because it's your head. Not just because if you split
it open, the blood would doubtless spatter all over me and the interior of
the car. Not just because a concussion can cause -- although, strictly
speaking, the chances are good that -- "  

"Fraser!" Kowalski practically yelled. "Spit it out! Say what you're going
to say and get it over with! Stop with the safety talk!"  

"All right." Long pause. Deep breath. "I, too, have been... distracted.
Pre-occupied. With... you. More than usual. Distressingly... more than
usual. And then tonight when you -- when he -- " He broke off, unable to
continue.  

"When he was blowing me," Kowalski crudely interjected. "Let's just call a
spade a spade, Fraser. He was blowing me, I was letting him. I was into
it. I can't explain it. I'm not normally like this..."	

"Ray."	

"Fraser. What."  

"I know you're not normally like this. I mean, perhaps with women -- oh,
dear, that sounds -- I mean, that is to say -- "  

"I think I get what you're trying to say, Fraser."  

" -- In terms of -- oh. You do?"  

"Special circumstances. Things, uh, inspired me. I had the opportunity, if
you think about it like a crime. The opportunity, the motive. The
justification."  

"No, Ray. You mustn't."  

"Must not what."  

The Mountie finally turned to look at his partner, slowly raising his eyes
to meet Ray's. "You mustn't think of it like a crime," he said quietly.
"It is not a crime. Well, that is, certain things are considered illegal,
depending what jurisdiction you are in -- "  

Ray closed his eyes, exasperated. Fraser hurriedly closed off that
tangential thought and continued with his original thought.  

"I just meant that it shouldn't be considered a crime, as in something
harmful, that hurts anyone. But as I was saying, I just worried -- when I
saw the metallic flash from his rings, I thought -- "  

"I know." The detective looked back into those innocent blue eyes. And
then had to close his own eyes and breathe deeply before speaking. "Look,
you were right. I was wrong. It was stupid. I just couldn't say no. I had
to see if it was just you, or... He could've been the guy. How would I
know? I know from nothing. I coulda been, slice, slice, one dead cop, with
his pants around his ankles and a hushed-up death. He was pissed off, but
he'll live. But I might not have, if he had been the slasher guy. And if
he had been, I'd owe you my life." He looked away.  

The Mountie shrugged, embarrassed as always when his prowess as an unarmed
officer of the peace was touted as nearly superhuman.  

"No, really," Ray insisted.  

"Really, Ray, it was not that much of a -- "  

"Look, I know I said just to stay in hearing range. But now that I think
about it, I'm glad you did follow me and spy on me."  

"Why? If I hadn't, we wouldn't be in this... predicament."  

Ray Kowalski looked over at his partner. Biting his lip, he met his
partner's eyes. "I know. If you hadn't, none of this would have happened,"
he finished, looking simultaneously worried and pleased. That shy smile
twitched at the corners of his lips. His wide, dark pupils lent his
expression a bizarre mixture of total innocence, and feral hunger. Then,
flustered by the directness of Fraser's stare, he looked away.	

Fraser flushed and looked down. "It was none of my business, Ray -- "  

"Yes, it was your business!" Ray turned in his seat, physically turned his
body toward the constable's. "I haven't been able to get you out of my
mind. I thought I was going nuts, reading things into stuff you said,
seeing things in the way you acted, then later saying, 'Nah... that wasn't
what you thought'... I've been dreaming about you," he barked an ironic
laugh, "How's that for obsessed? It's bad enough with Stella, but now with
you? I thought I was going out of my mind." He laughed, but bitterly. "And
now..."  

The unfinished sentence hung in the air. For a long moment, Fraser did
nothing. Said nothing. Kowalski did nothing, said nothing.  

And then very hesitantly, the Mountie extended his left hand to grasp
Ray's forearm. "You weren't," he whispered, leaning hesitantly closer.
"You weren't going out of your mind. Any more than I am." He nervously
licked his lower lip, gripping Ray's forearm tightly.  

Ray paused and placed a hand over Fraser's. He felt the warmth under his
palm, the strength of Fraser's grip on him.  

"No," he said, drawing that hand, that arm, towards him, leaning into the
space between them. "No, I'm not going out of my mind," he said.  

He closed his eyes and blindly thrust his mouth in the direction of the
smell of sweat and leather. Halfway across the front seat, his mouth was
met awkwardly by Fraser's. And once again, their mouths locked together.  

This time was simmering, lingering, languid -- not rushed and stolen. In
private, in the car, not in public, they had the chance to truly take
their time. The kiss tasted of cider and beer and sweat and fear. Ray felt
Fraser trembling, and backed off a bit, only to be surprised by the
directness of Fraser's touch... the hand on his cheek... the other hand on
his thigh, moving upward, hesitantly and slowly, but inevitably, toward
his lap.  

What, the Mountie said to himself, what do you think you're doing? If you
continue on this way, there can be only one outcome. Are you prepared for
that? Are you aware of that? What about -- and then he shoved all rational
thought away and let instinct move his body, his limbs.  

Fraser gently moved Ray's hand, slowly, slowly. Grasped it and slid it
down his leather jacket, past the lapel, zipper, pocket... And then Fraser
ever-so-lightly lay Ray's hand in his lap and let Ray feel his rising
excitement. But he didn't move Ray's hand to do anything more.	

A pause, a breath, and their mouths parted for an instant, barely apart.
Each felt the tickle of the other's breath on his upper lip. And then Ray
fell onto Fraser, unrestrained now. He lifted the heavy edge of the
leather jacket, feeling Fraser's erection through his jeans, stroking his
thigh with the other hand...  

And the Mountie surrendered. Uncurled his stiff spine, lay back awkwardly
against the seat and the passenger door. Let the smell and feel of his
partner Kowalski fill his nostrils, his senses, raise gooseflesh on his
body. Let it blot out almost everything else in his head, save the way his
body hummed under his partner's, the way he trembled as Ray's hands shoved
his jacket up awkwardly. Still, a dim alarm far away inside him sang of
inevitable disaster...	

But Fraser had had enough of inevitable disaster. Inevitable? So be it.
Let his life not be spent mostly waiting. Let his flame not flicker and go
out. Hide it under a bushel, no, he remembered a children's church song.
Let it burn bright as possible, even if it burned him irreparably ...as it
doubtless would; as it already had before. Then at least there would have
been some reason for nurturing it over all the empty years, in the face of
loss after loss.  

He had been innocent before. Too many times. Now he was not. This time,
the innocent was the other person. And he, Fraser, would endeavor to treat
that innocent man better than he had been treated. He would make all of it
all right for Ray in the way it never went right for him.  

Chapter 9: The Way It Goes  

Ray had somehow wound up on the bottom, under Fraser. Although
apprehensive of not being in control, initially, Ray soon realized that
Fraser's firm but gentle touch would never cross any lines he wasn't ready
to cross. And he knew, somewhere, that he would not have had the nerve to
move beyond kisses, caresses, hugs. Occasional erotic images flashed
through Ray's mind, fantasies of the things Fraser could do to him...
things Ray secretly wanted but had no nerve to ask for.  

Somehow he knew Fraser would know what he wanted  yet the Mountie would
never force anything, he knew. Benton Fraser would lead him to those forks
in the road, and then wait there until Ray had the courage to step down a
particular path. Somehow he felt safe, felt he could put himself in
Fraser's hands, where he would only go as far and as fast as he wanted to
go. So far they had not moved beyond caresses, which was fine  for now.  

Not that an unmarked police car was exactly a good place to move beyond
those. But at least it had bench seats. Good for cuddling. Among other
things.  

The windows were steamed up. Winter in Chicago. Yet the hands on him were
warm. He lay quietly, feeling like that time the dentist gave him nitrous
-- a happy, buzzing, light-headed feeling, and his body felt high. But
now, it was high on the best drug in the world: pleasure. And yet, so...
so clothed, so high-school, so... innocent. Except his shirt was pushed up
to his neck... 

Fraser's lips kissed a meandering path up and down Ray's neck and chest,
from his chin to his navel. So very slowly and tenderly. Every once in a
while, that lush mouth brushed a nipple and Ray shivered. Losing himself
in the sensations, he dimly realized that it must be getting quite late...
Yet he couldn't bring himself to protest a thing. Especially as those full
lips settled on his again, while Fraser's strong, capable hands stroked
down his hairless chest to his navel, the waistband of his briefs, the
hot, dry warmth of his stiff cock, bound up in his briefs. He moaned
quietly, the sound muffled in the Mountie's mouth.  

Ray clutched the edge of Fraser's jacket, while the other mirrored
Fraser's moves, stroking down Fraser's strong, compactly muscled chest,
his flat belly. Shaking with excitement, they slipped into Fraser's jeans,
fingers pointed down towards Fraser's toes, stroking over the hot, swollen
cotton.  

The Mountie still kissed him, but he was bringing his hand up to Ray's
chest, to Ray's face. He stroked across Ray's brow -- for once, not a
wrinkle of concern marred it.  

"Ray," he whispered.  

"Wha..." came the intoxicated reply.  

"We should probably get going, Ray."  

"Why? We can stay a little while longer, can't we?"  

"I don't think so... it seems like it might be getting light out."  

Ray's eyes popped open, to look straight into the face of his partner.
"Shit, it can't be. How long have we been here?" he queried Fraser, as the
Mountie sat back and sat up, in the driver's seat. Once Fraser was off
him, Ray sat up. His hair was mussed -- spiked here, flattened there --
his clothes were undone, his shirt open, pants open. He distinctly felt
drunk, but he knew he wasn't. He swiped the fogged window next to him.
Sure enough, the beginnings of that blue light that heralded the first
yellow streaks.... Damn. He sighed.  

"So."  

"So," the Mountie agreed. Neither looked at each other.  

"So, uh, where are we going?"  

"You're going to take me back to the Consulate, and then you're going to
drive home." Fraser suggested.	

"Oh," Ray said, taken aback. "You don't wanna... ?"  

"On the contrary, Ray. I would... very much like to. But you don't realize
you've had quite a night. It might not seem that surprising now. But when
you wake up tomorrow, you will have a lot to think about."  

Ray groaned, feeling his erection subside. He still faced away from
Fraser, tracing shapes in the fog on the passenger window. A star, a
diamond. A circle that became a smiley face -- and then a devilish smiley,
with the addition of eyebrows.	

"Come on, Fraser," he whispered. "You can come home with me."  

He felt Fraser grasp his other hand, the hand that was in his lap. Fraser
squeezed it. "Ray, I know it's very tempting," he began. Then, ducking his
head, he admitted, "It's very tempting for me as well. But you absolutely
must consider what we've gotten ourselves into. Lest you forget... we're
on a case. We are partners. I am a Royal Canadian Mounted Police liaison
to the Canadian Consulate. You are a Chicago police detective. This is
not... just having a warm body to sleep with," he finished in a whisper.  

Ray swung his head back angrily. "You think that's what I'm thinkin' it
is?" he said, getting upset, taking his hand back. "Just wait a second.
It's way more than that, and you know it. I told you. This isn't something
that just occurred to me. It's been plaguing me! Thoughts of you plague
me! What am I supposed to do when I've seen all this before and I know how
it's supposed to end? Even if all I know is what happened in a dream about
you?" He scowled at the Mountie.  

But those clear, blue eyes never wavered. "No, Ray, I didn't think that's
what you thought," he said -- though, technically, that was a fib, and he
had wondered... Ray seemed rather impulsive. Very impulsive at times.
"It's just -- I don't want -- " He stopped and started over. "You should
be very sure this is what you want. We should both be very sure, before
things go any further."  

"I'm sure," Ray snapped, looking away again. "Aren't you?" He crossed his
arms over his chest.  

"It isn't a matter of being sure. I know myself. You... you know yourself,
but this part of yourself, you don't know. You don't know -- I don't know
-- how you will react tomorrow. You might regret everything you did -- we
did -- this evening." He saw Ray's arms crossed defensively, prepared to
argue. "Ray," the Mountie soothed him, "I'm not saying that it's wrong of
you to do this. But... All right -- for example, how do you feel about
women?"  

"Huh?" Ray stopped, very confused.  

"Women. The female of the species?"  

"Yeah... what about them? They got breasts. Your point is...?"	

"How do you feel about them?"  

"What do you mean?"  

"Do you still, still look at them? Consider the possibility of getting
involved with one?"  

Ray began to see what he meant. There were, of course, plenty of women he
was not attracted to. But there were also plenty of women he was attracted
to. Where did that fit in? Slowly he realized that the entire fabric of
his life, the woof and warp, had changed with this one evening. Am I bi?
I'm not gay... am I? he wondered. He shook his head.  

"Maybe," he hesitated, "maybe you're right," Ray conceded, sighing. "It's
a lot."  

"As I said... " the constable trailed off.  

"No, you're right. You are right. Of course," Ray said, irritated but
calmer. But he was no longer angry. Just deflated. And suddenly very, very
weary.	

Ray hunted around in his coat pockets for the car keys while Fraser
buttoned and tucked and zipped all of his clothing.  

"Here," Ray said, having found the keys. He tossed them in Fraser's lap.
"You're in the driver's seat.... drive." He sat back and began
straightening his clothes, tucking things in, running his hand through his
hair.  

"I believe," Fraser said, starting the car, "that there is what they call
a vanity mirror on the other side of your visor."  

Ray flipped the visor down. Sure enough, a vanity mirror. As he was trying
to rearrange his "mad scientist" hair, mussed from the make-out session
with Fraser, he thought about the vanity mirror. Something about this
irked him.  

"Hey," he said to Fraser, who was hunting for the controls for the car's
heater/defogger, "do you have a vanity mirror on your visor?"  

"Let me see," Fraser replied, pulling down his visor. "No, Ray, just a
flap in which to tuck things, probably for insurance information or maps.
Why?"  

Ray regarded himself in the vanity mirror. So... the vanity mirror is only
on the passenger side. Like only a woman will sit there and want that.
Somehow, after what had just gone on in the car, this upset Ray. He
snapped the visor up angrily. Fraser had found the control for the
defroster, and the fog inside the windshield was slowly dissipating.  

"Who's in charge of this relationship?" Ray burst out.	

Fraser, who was now trying to find the rear-window defog controls, looked
quizzically over at Ray. "Should there be someone in charge?" he asked.  

"Well, isn't there?"  

"I, well, that is to say... why should there be?"  

"That's usually the way it goes, don't you think?" Ray replied irritably. 


"Actually, no," Fraser said, looking back at the dashboard and finding
what he'd been looking for. "You don't think the entire course of a
relationship is controlled by one person, do you?"  

"No," Ray said, "Just that there's usually some kind of argument about
who's going to decide what goes on, and one person usually takes the lead
most of the time."  

The Mountie regarded him silently for a moment. "Is that -- Do you think
that's the best way for things to evolve?" he asked quietly.  

Ray shrugged. "No. But that's just the way they always seem to go."  

"Let's not predetermine things, Ray," Fraser replied, suddenly sad.
"Things will happen however they are going to happen." He paused, thinking
about what he'd just said. "I realize that's not a very satisfactory
answer. It contains no plans and no assurances about the future. But if
there is one thing I know, it's that one really can't plan the future. One
can have plans, or goals, but the future frequently turns out quite
differently than one expects... and you have to be prepared to deal with
unexpected changes."  

Ray sighed. The Mountie was, of course, right. Then he thought about what
Fraser had said... and how Fraser had said it. He turned to look at
Fraser.  

"What happened to you?" he asked, realizing that Fraser knew all about his
heartbreak over the divorce and loss of Stella, the torture of thinking
about her with another man. The sadness with which Fraser had spoken...
had it always been there in Fraser, and he'd just never noticed? Or did
the man keep it hidden?  

"I'd rather not talk about it, Ray." Fraser said, almost monotone. He put
the car in drive.  

"Okay," Ray said, slightly hurt and somewhat chastened to realize that he
had never really considered what Fraser's romantic past had been like. Oh,
he'd heard about Victoria and the bombs she'd dropped -- but not from
Fraser. And that had happened a while ago. Could his friend still be
broken up about it? This seemed a fresher wound somehow.  

Ray turned back to Fraser. "Someday," he began hesitantly, "someday will
you tell me? I can listen. Like you've always listened to my problems.
Really, I can."  

Fraser gave him a long searching look before replying. "I..." he started,
then stopped. Then started over. "I don't know, Ray. I'm not very good at
that sort of thing. It has nothing to do with you. I've always been this
way."  

The detective nodded slowly, turning to look out the windshield. It was
definitely getting light. The car's engine purred.  

"Okay," he said, turning to look out the window. This isn't about what you
want, he told himself. You have to think about what he wants or doesn't
want, too. He took a deep breath and exhaled in a sigh, thinking, Maybe
this time around, I'll pay better attention than I did with Stella. I
won't let the little niggling things slip through and ignore them. I'll
call 'em like I see 'em. Maybe that's what I should have done before.  

"I'm sorry," Fraser said.  

"It's okay. Everybody's different. It's just... well, I know you've
listened to me and my problems. A lot. A real lot. And I just realized...
you never talk about yours. I just wanted to tell you... I can listen too.
If you want me to."  

"I... do appreciate that, Ray. Truly I do," Fraser began.  

Here comes the 'But...', thought Ray.  

Fraser sat a moment, then just repeated, "I appreciate that."  

He looked into the rear view mirror and put the car in reverse. He backed
up carefully, then put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. Ray
leaned against the window, shutting his eyes. They drove silently in the
direction of downtown and the Consulate.  

Chapter 10: Feeling Slightly Foolish 
   
    

"...and tonight we'll have that Alberta Clipper sweeping down into the
Midwest over Lake Superior and Lake Michigan, bringing arctic cold and
strong winds. We can expect it to bring a cooling trend across the Great
Lakes states and the upper Midwest," the radio crackled.  

Once again, Ray woke up in his clothes on his sofa. This time, however, it
was after 1 p.m. in the afternoon.  

"Expect temperatures in the teens, possibly dipping into the tens, and
sub-zero wind chills by Thursday," the radio weather man continued.
"Strong winds, 25-35 miles per hour, subsiding by late evening tomorrow.
And now, traffic. Stacy?" The radio droned on.	

Ray Kowalski clasped a pillow to him and turned his face to the back of
the sofa. The sound of the radio faded into the background as he snuggled
into the sofa, feeling warm, sleepy, and content. And then he stiffened,
remembering why he felt content.  

He rolled over onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. Images and
memories of the previous night's events came rushing back to him. He let
them wash through his mind until there was only one enduring image:
Fraser. The thought of Fraser made him feel simultaneously warm and
freaky. He felt a stirring in his groin as he remembered things. And yet,
he was dumbfounded at his own actions. Oh my God, he thought. I can't
believe I did all that. He was more upset about the incident in the
bathroom than about anything he'd done with Fraser. God, you're stupid.  

He sat up, trying to put it all out of his mind, and swung his feet to the
floor, tossing the pillow aside. Of course he couldn't put any of it out
of his mind. He had to admit, when recalling Fraser's actions in the
bathroom, actions against the man Ray had been with... it was less about
the danger to me, he thought, than it was about Fraser being jealous. That
thought echoed in his brain. Fraser? Jealous? And yet he couldn't help
having a hunch that he was right on the money with this. And a secret
pleasure that Fraser was so upset by it that he'd gotten physical. Even
though Ray felt guilty that Fraser had been so provoked, he couldn't help
being pleased, too.  

Mmm, Fraser jealous. That was good, he decided. Maybe he really feels
something for me, Ray thought. And only then did he admit to himself that
he was afraid the Mountie, too, had been only looking for a warm body,
physical gratification.  

Of course, gratification is good, Ray thought as he stood and walked to
the bathroom. One nice thing about living without a woman, he thought--
You never have to put the seat down and no one is gonna complain about you
leaving it up all the time. He chuckled to himself as he relieved himself.
But Fraser's probably the kind of guy who puts the seat down
automatically.	

Fraser. His beautiful Mountie. Ray could hardly believe he'd been eye to
eye with his partner -- eye to eye, body to body, mouth to mouth. He
shivered as he recalled the heat between them. In the bathroom at the
club. In the car. He shook off the last drops and tucked himself back into
his briefs.  

But what would Fraser say today? How would he react? Ray worried. He's
probably going to be really sorry everything happened the way it did, he
thought with an inward groan. He leaned over the sink, just thinking for a
moment. Four emotions warred in Ray. Utter bafflement at his own actions.
A steady warm feeling for Fraser. A secret fear of rejection, of being cut
off. And a sinking feeling of fate gripping him.  

That's silly, he thought, stripping his clothes. Fate has no hold on me. I
can affect how things go.  

But, as he walked to the kitchen to make some bad instant coffee, he
couldn't help worrying. How will Fraser treat me today -- tonight, when he
sees me?  

-----  

The Mountie had had perhaps three hours of sleep before he had to get up
and prepare for the day. Inspector Thatcher was preparing for a conference
at the Chicago Hilton, representing Canadian diplomacy at a gathering of
diplomats posted in the United States. Fraser had to be certain she had
everything she needed, and that the laptop batteries were charged. He
winced as he stepped into her office, the bright light momentarily hurting
his eyes.  

And he did get everything done, and he did take notes of everything
Inspector Thatcher had to say about the day-to-day functions at the
Consulate while she was gone. And he did everything more than
satisfactorily. And yet, mentally, he was so far from the Consulate.
Mentally, he was back in the car with Ray Kowalski. And when he wasn't in
the car with Ray, he was in that bathroom stall, peering over the wall and
watching the pleasure Ray was experiencing ripple across his face...
Watching it cause his hands to involuntarily clench and unclench. Make his
thighs shake. And he had to thrust away the thought, more than once, the
irrational thought that he could do a far better job of that than the dark
haired, dark-eyed man who'd picked Ray up.  

"Fraser, are you paying attention?" Inspector Thatcher interrupted his
thoughts.  

"Yes, Sir, you were just saying..." and he rattled off the last few notes
he'd written. She gave him a perplexed look, as if she couldn't understand
how he could appear so vacant and yet prove he had been paying close
attention. Fraser didn't understand it himself, but he seemed able to do
his job and daydream simultaneously. On occasion, mostly in childhood and
adolescence, he had been very good at it. But it had been some time since
he had done it. Or had it been? Was he just pretending he hadn't gone
through that with Ray... Vecchio?  

That thought was shoved away as well, as Thatcher bent down and picked up
the laptop case, and Fraser set down his notepad and pencil to pick up two
of her suitcases. Turnbull got the doors for both of them, they settled
her in a taxi, and Fraser and the driver got the suitcases in the trunk.
Without a backward glance, she was off to the conference.  

For only a moment, Fraser considered taking one of his accrued sick days.
So many had accrued that he was no longer allowed to accumulate any more.
He paused, thinking about the last time he'd called in sick to work when
he wasn't really sick. No, he thought, momentarily superstitious. I had
better work a full day. Hopefully Ray won't be back on the case again
tonight, he thought. But he had a sinking feeling that Ray would be.  

He woke with a start, sitting upright in the chair behind the desk in the
foyer. He had dozed off for the umpteenth time today. God, but he was
tired. Still, he would soldier on.  

The phone rang. Shaking his head slightly to dislodge the groggy feeling,
he picked up the receiver and answered with his title and the fact that it
was a consulate.  

"Hey, Fraser," came a hoarse and awkward but welcome voice. His heart
leapt into his throat, and he flushed a dark pink.  

He cleared his throat with difficulty, swallowed, and attempted to answer
in a normal voice. "Hello, Ray. How are you?"  

"Mmmm. Got lots on my mind."  

"Ah, uh, that's understandable--"  

"Lots of you on my mind. You workin'?"	

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am currently receptionist and officer in
charge, as Inspector Thatcher is..."  

"You get any sleep, Fraser?"  

"Uh--" he paused.  

"You didn't, did you?" Ray said sympathetically.  

"Uh, no," he said, becoming less formal. "Ray, I... well... how are you
feeling, Ray?" He stopped, not wanting to say anything more, not wanting
to influence anything. Oh, Ray, please say it meant something, he thought.
Please let it have been the comfort and blessing to you that it was to me.
 

"Mmmmm," Ray Kowalski said, half-yawning. His voice became lower, gruffer,
and warmer. "I'm feeling real good, Fraser. Real good." That cheeky grin,
that seductive wink was audible in his voice. Fraser colored slightly,
exhaling with relief. "You all right, other than not getting any sleep?"
the detective asked.  

"I, uh, I feel quite... quite... enervated, Ray," Fraser said, thinking,
'enervated'? Say something less ridiculous, next time! "Quite... alive and
glad to be," he finished nervously.  

"Me, too, Frayzh, me too," Ray purred into the phone. Fraser closed his
eyes. If he could have seen his own face, he'd have been surprised to see
a smile tip up the corners of his mouth. "I can't wait to enervate you
more," Ray added, and Fraser's eyes popped open, as he felt a stirring in
his groin. A feverish feeling overcame the entire surface of his skin,
including that which was covered by his serge and uniform pants.  

"Ray," the Mountie began quietly, ducking his head and lowering his voice,
"I'm afraid I can't... speak freely at the present time."  

"That's okay, Fraser. Look, when are you off work?"  

"Oh, Ray, I-- that is, exhaustion has-- I mean, I have dozed off here in
my chair more than a few times this afternoon--"  

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Ray added. "Look, I know you're really tired.
But..." he paused. Please, he thought, unable to finish the thought.
Just-- Please. "...We need to talk. About the case, among other things,"
he added hurriedly.  

"Oh, yes, of course," Fraser said, quite formally. Uncertainly, Ray
wondered if Fraser were trying to distance himself now. "Why, certainly.
Perhaps after six PM? Constable Turnbull will have gone by then," he
added, and then blushed deeply again, realizing how that must have come
across to Ray -- in a way he hadn't meant at all!  

"Oh, he will, huh?" Ray chuckled, to Fraser's chagrin. "Well, we'll have
to see what else we can... talk about, besides the case," the detective
teased him good-naturedly. "I'm sure we can think of something, hey?"  

"Yes, I, uh," the Mountie stammered. He gulped. "Shall I expect you at
six?" he finished, his voice softening.  

"Sure, Frayzh," Ray whispered on the other end. "I'll be there just after
six. See you then," he said.  

"Right you are," Fraser replied, and then hurriedly hung up. Oh, dear, oh,
dear. What to do, what to do? He nearly wrung his hands with combined
nervousness and excitement. He took a deep breath and placed his hands
flat on his desk. I will breathe calmly and deeply until I am entirely
rejuvenated and mentally alert and awake again, he thought. He began yoga
breathing, slow deep inhales, and full, slow exhales. He did this for five
minutes before he was able to sit back in his chair, relaxed and reassured
that everything was under control.  

Except his thoughts, of course, which he had to rein in frequently over
the next hour and a half while he waited out the end of the workday and
Turnbull's departure.  

----  

He was self-consciously smoothing his hair down in a mirror when he heard
the slight click of the front consulate door shutting. He was still in his
uniform, and determined to stay in it. Ray will not be staying, he said to
himself firmly. We will talk about the case. And other things, possibly,
but that will be it. Yet his profound sense of excitement was dampened
only by a need to appear completely Mountie-like, completely professional
and uniformed -- a need to look as good as possible for Ray.  

He heard Ray's light footsteps coming hesitantly down the hall. They
paused between the doorway to Thatcher's office, and the hallway to the
rest of the first floor, through which one eventually came to the room in
which Fraser slept. Ray moved toward the far door, he heard. And then
Fraser stepped out of Inspector Thatcher's office, making rather a loud
noise while opening the door. Handling the doorknob with rather more force
than he'd intended. Fraser stood in the hall, hand still on the doorknob,
now behind Ray.  

The detective slowly turned around, cold air still coming off his long
coat. The Mountie looked... heartbreakingly good. Nah, that's not the
right word, Ray thought. He looks... beautiful, Ray thought. Just handsome
and beautiful and sweet. Ray smiled shyly, his heart beating faster,
hesitantly walking towards Fraser, slowly.  

The Mountie released the doorknob, ducking his head and tugging at his
high collar. He blushed fully, dropping his eyes. Ray, my Ray, he thought.
wondering at his use of the possessive. The shiny quivering of Ray's
spiked hair sparked a memory. A delicious and naughty memory. He couldn't
look up at Ray, feeling excited and embarrassed. When he'd regained his
composure, he looked up and Ray was standing within three feet of him,
searching his face.  

"Ray," he began, and then realized he had no idea what to say. Nothing.
His mind was blank. He looked into those pale light eyes, which blinked
coquettishly, or so he thought. Ray looked away nervously, and then looked
back, meeting his eyes again. The detective took a half-step towards his
Mountie partner.  

"I couldn't wait to see you, Fraser," he whispered. "All day long I
thought about you." He stopped his advance, uncertain. It seemed as though
Fraser had swayed away just slightly, backed up just slightly, backed away
from his advance. He unconsciously bit his lip as his eyebrows pushed
upward and wrinkled his brow.  

Oh, God, Fraser thought, watching that tiny vein -- no, it must be an
artery, he corrected himself -- throb in Ray's temple, under the
close-cropped hair. The air between them almost crackled with tension.
Belatedly the Mountie realized he had not responded to Ray's admission of
feeling. He shifted his weight forward, without taking a step, and
inclined his head somewhat formally. "Ray," he began, his throat dry, "It
is good to see you, too." Oh, dear, that sounds so cold, he thought to
himself, worried now that the detective would think he was backing off.
Why am I so cold, why do I speak so formally?  

"Is it?" Ray said, stepping up close to Fraser, a worried look on his face
now.  

"Yes, Ray," Fraser said earnestly. He unconsciously reached out to touch
the sleeve of Ray's coat. The detective registered the touch, with a
momentary tilt of his head, but his eyes never left the Mountie's.  

"Ray... I..." Fraser began, then paused and swallowed. He couldn't look at
Ray, and yet he couldn't look away. "You... you wear your heart on your
sleeve, I believe is the expression, Ray," the Mountie started again,
quieter. "One has only to look at you, and how you're feeling is almost
immediately apparent." He looked down. "I... I am not like that. I...
don't find it easy to discuss certain things. In fact, I find it extremely
difficult," he admitted, looking back up at Ray.  

But Ray's dubious expression had softened into a sweet and concerned look.
"Look, Fraser, I'm not asking you to change," he said, grasping the hand
that clutched at his sleeve. "I just... I just need to know. If it means
anything to you. If I mean anything to you. Because... because you mean a
lot to me."  

They stood, barely breathing, looking into each other's eyes. One hand
grasped another, the only physical link between them. And then the Mountie
inclined his head just so, and Ray sidled up to him and threw his arms
around him.  

"Okay, okay, okay," Ray breathed into Fraser's ear. Fraser's stiff arms
moved, flexed, slipped cautiously around the detective, and slowly
gathered him into a full-body hug.  

Suddenly Fraser felt like weeping. My God, my God. Get yourself under
control! he told himself. But still Ray's whisper tickled in his ear,
"Okay. Okay. It's okay." Like a mantra. Perhaps it was a mantra. Then his
lips pressed gently to the side of Fraser's face, half on his jaw, half on
his earlobe. And Fraser inhaled deeply of Ray's wool coat, the coolness
that emanated from it, the rough, itchy feel of the coat collar, turned up
against the cold, and the slight stubble on the side of Ray's face.  

We're perfectly matched, Ray thought. Almost exactly the same height, he
thought. That's good, isn't it? A good sign?  

Fraser began to loosen his grasp, and Ray pulled away gently, realizing
the Mountie was getting anxious. Apart again, having only embraced, held
hands, and exchanged a chaste peck on the cheek, both men breathed a sigh
of relief and relaxed. Fraser led the way into the parlor room with the
paintings and burgundy couch.  

Ray following happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. There's plenty
of time, he thought. Plenty of time for everything. Fraser looked at him,
over his shoulder, and he blushed, cracking a grin at the Mountie. A
sheepish smile was his reply, and a slight shaking of the Mountie's head.
Always so sensible, Fraser, Ray thought. You need to have some fun.  

He flopped down onto the sofa, looking up at Fraser standing next to it.
He looked seductively, but playfully, up at Fraser. "Aren't you going to
join me?" he murmured. The Mountie looked momentarily taken aback. "I'm
just kidding Fraser! Jeeze. Calm down, all right?"  

Fraser nodded, feeling slightly foolish, and sat down in an overstuffed
chair near the sofa.  

"All right, Ray. What is the next step in this investigation?" he asked
seriously.  

Ray, glad to have something concrete to focus on, began to talk.  

Chapter 11: Where It Takes Us 
   
    

"Here's the thing, Fraser. I know we're going to have to catch this guy,
but there's something that worries me," Ray began. Halfway through, he
realized what he was saying would touch on both the case and the new
ground he and Fraser had begun walking together the previous night. He
paused, looking up at Fraser. The Mountie nodded seriously, encouraging
him to go on.  

"Okay, the thing is, maybe we should get some more information on the
crime scenes and the forensics for the unsolveds that seem to fit this
guy's MO," Ray began. "Because maybe this guy only started in bars
recently. Maybe bars aren't his favorite place to prey on guys."  

"It's quite possible, given that the other victims were homeless, that he
was... seeking their services, or they were plying their, ahem, trade,"
the Mountie conceded.  

"Right. So I'm thinking, that sort of thing, we're talking about guys on
the street, getting together in parks or public bathrooms, maybe at the
beach..." Ray went on. "And the other thing is..." he hesitated.  

Fraser, who had been looking down at his folded hands, looked back up at
Ray. "The other thing is...?" he prompted Ray.	

"Okay, uh, the other thing is... If this guy's MO is to slash after giving
head to these guys, then that would mean that I would, uh, have to..." he
trailed off, embarrassed, and looked away. "I'd be dropping my pants with
-- or seriously teasing -- a lotta guys. And some of 'em are bruisers," he
said, flashing his eyes at Fraser and then looking away self-consciously.
He nervously ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up even more
-- if that were possible, Fraser thought.  

"Ah. Well. It appears that... yes, if that is his MO, then you would
be..." Fraser said, after a moment. He looked down at his hands again, the
knuckles whitening as they grasped each other tightly. "That presents a
problem?" he asked, looking back up at Ray briefly, and then back down.  

"Well, yeah, it presents a problem... doesn't it?!" Ray asked him,
somewhat exasperated. Fraser thought about it, thought about the previous
night. It certainly had seemed Ray had been... enjoying it, he thought.
Perplexed, he looked up at Ray, shrugging his shoulders.  

"Look, Fraser, do I gotta spell it out for you?" The Mountie merely looked
at him steadily, a curious yet innocent expression on his face. Oh,
Christ! Ray thought. He is thick sometimes.  

"Fraser," he began roughly, and then stopped, thinking, maybe I better go
easy on him with this. "Fraser," he said more gently, looking down at the
Mountie's well shaped hands, briefly remembering they felt on him...
"Don't you remember what you did to the guy? If that's something that
we're gonna have to go through with every suspect, then..." he trailed
off, unsure what else to say.  

"Oh," The Mountie said, his expression becoming an utter blank, neutral
gaze. He sat back in the chair, resting his arms on the armrests. "I see,"
he said tensely.  

"Look, Fraser, I wouldn't let it get that far," Ray went on haltingly.
"But I... I'm not sure how else we're gonna get this guy. We gotta find
out more about how those homeless guys died. Maybe bars aren't the only
places. Maybe he didn't give them all head, although I'm not sure how we
can figure that out with no bodies, and nothing to exhume in most cases."
Unable to take the tension anymore, Ray jumped up and began pacing back
and forth between the sofa and the maple coffee table.	

Fraser sat, frozen. He preferred not to think of the mad irrationality
with which he sometimes reacted to emotional situations. It only happened
rarely... but when it did happen, it was usually completely thoughtless
and dangerous. To himself, if to no one else, but often to others as well.
He sighed inwardly. Get ahold of yourself, he thought. If this is the only
way this case will be resolved, then it's the only way... and it must be
borne.	

"Well?" Ray interrupted his thoughts, standing in front of him. Ray looked
down at him with an expression that demanded an answer.  

Fraser ducked his head, embarrassed. Without looking back up at his
partner, he fidgeted with the seams of the upholstery on his chair.  

"Well, if that is the only way we can entrap the suspect..." he trailed
off, unable to continue.  

Ray suddenly knelt in front of him, putting a hand on the Mountie's knee. 


"Fraser, don't you see?" he said, almost whispering. "I don't want to
get... into those situations. I haven't even -- with you -- we haven't --
Look. I don't want to upset you, that's part of it. But... I don't want to
do it, really. I just was... being stupid. I didn't know there was any
chance... And I thought, maybe it's just guys in general, not just
Fraser..." he paused, looking up into the Mountie's averted face. "But now
I know that's not true," he went on, emphasizing his point with a squeeze
to Fraser's knee. The Mountie flicked his eyes toward Ray's, and saw the
openness of Ray's face.  

Now it was the detective's turn to look down.  

"Fraser, I know what you must think of me... I mean, even after Stella,
and when I was still aching over her so bad, there were other women. And
I'm not gonna lie, of course it felt good. It felt good last night with
that guy. But it's not the same as it would be with... it doesn't mean
anything with strangers I'll never see again. It isn't... special. In a
way, it's even colder that way. I don't need any more coldness, y'know?"
he finished, and looked back up into Fraser's face.  

Fraser's heart went out to Ray, though he couldn't make himself move. As
if from a great distance, he heard rather than felt the words being
dragged out of him:  

"Ray... I can control myself," he began, but then Ray abruptly bounced up,
angrily turning away.  

"Goddamnit, Fraser! I don't want you to have to control yourself! I'm
yours, nobody else's!" he said angrily, and spun back around to confront
the Mountie.  

"Or is it that you don't want that? Are you just trying to give yourself
an 'out' for this? Because if your heart's not in it, then just forget
it!" Though he looked ready to explode, there was almost an edge of tears
in Ray's trembling voice.  

"Then fine! Head from strangers in bathrooms and public places will be
just fine!" Ray added, spitefully. But his voice cracked with emotion.
Fraser could tell it was a hollow threat.  

"No, no, Ray," the words burst from Fraser before he could think. "It
isn't that I don't want you! I just thought... and perhaps you might,
well, might--"	

"Might... what?"  

"Well, given your history, I thought..."  

"Oh, great!" Ray turned away again, his emotions too volatile, too close
to the surface. If he faced the Mountie, he'd either throw himself at
Fraser, strangle Fraser, or shoot himself. "God, Fraser, I know I'm a
slut," he went on furiously. "I act first, think later. It's not my strong
point. But it's only-- it's only--" he choked off his words, too afraid to
continue, too afraid he'd further alienate his partner and the man he had
thought might be his lover. "Oh, God," he said miserably, stomping over to
the sofa again, and throwing himself down. The wool coat tangled under him
but he didn't care. Fraser already knew what a klutz he could be.  

"Look, Fraser," Ray began again, eyes closed, arm defensively thrown over
his face. "Me, I'm a loser. I don't do that great on my own. I need to be
with someone. Even if they'll be gone in the morning, or I'll be gone in
the morning. It's better than... better than... The bed's too big, too
empty, when I'm alone. Maybe it's because I was with Stella for so long, I
just can't get used to it. It isn't that I'm desperate--" he paused, and
then his muffled voice continued, "Okay, maybe I am desperate. I just... I
can't help it sometimes. But I never, I never-- When I was with Stella, I
absolutely never had anything to do with anyone else. If I got someone in
my corner, they're all that matters. When I'm with someone, I'm with them.
Them and no one else. I'm faithful."  

Ray sighed deeply, thinking, Right. Fraser has seen you on the make with
how many chicks? Like he's gonna believe this. That's all he's seen of
you, except what probably looked like you trying to get Stella in bed
again one more time... He doesn't even know what it's like, alone, empty
bed after over ten years of never sleeping alone. To feel safe, warm, even
for five minutes with someone I'll never see again... Better than never
feeling safe or warm again at all. Isn't it? But he-- No, he's perfectly
fine all by himself. He wouldn't understand that. Keep your mouth shut.  

The Mountie was lost in his own thoughts. Thoughts of the pain he knew
inevitably followed opening one's heart to another. Why do I do this? he
wondered, then quickly amended it. Why do people do this to themselves,
when they would undoubtedly be safer and better off alone? Is it so
necessary? No man is an island. And yet, mightn't a man be better off if
he... No, no, this isn't... his thoughts wouldn't even form her name. And
only Herculean effort kept Ray Vecchio out of his thoughts. Focus on Ray
Kowalski. He has his faults, as all humans do. But you know him. He is
your friend. Even if he did... but then he did ask you to hit him back.
And he got shot stepping in front of a bullet meant for you after the Riv
went into the lake. He admits when he's wrong and accepts the consequences
without dodging -- for the most part, anyway. His is a big heart, true and
staunchly loyal once a person is in it. He was like that before -- before
--  

Ray heard a noise, close at hand, a sound of fabric on fabric, and pulled
his arm up off his face. And there was Fraser, kneeling by the sofa, eye
level with Ray. Ray looked into that handsome face, still amazed that
someone so physically attractive could possibly be such a good person. Not
just on the surface, but all the way through, the farthest thing from
arrogant or snobby. All the way through, a good guy. Amazing. And after
all this time in Chicago, involved in police matters, dealing again and
again with the stink of bad people... None of it had ever rubbed off on
the Mountie. And never would, he knew.	

Fraser put his hand on Ray's shoulder and said quietly, his eyes never
leaving Ray's, "I believe you, Ray. I do understand what you mean when you
say the bed's too big and empty," he continued. But when curiosity swept
across Ray's face, he hurriedly went on, "You and I... you and I just deal
with that... differently. And that's to be expected, because we're
different people. Just because I am not that way... doesn't mean I don't
understand." He sighed, and Ray felt the slight breeze of Fraser's
exhalation on his cheek.  

"Believe me, I do understand," he continued slowly. "And I do believe you.
I believe that... infidelity is not a part of your committed
relationships." He felt the detective relax slightly under his hand. "But,
we don't even know where this is going--" I don't know where this is
going, Fraser thought, I don't know what I'm doing, God help me. "You
might-- you might change your mind, Ray. And that's even more of a
possibility given that this, ah, aspect of a relationship-- the fact that
we, that is, a same-sex relationship-- which you've never experienced
before--" he suddenly sat back on his haunches, as the detective sat up
quickly.  

"Fraser, look. Yeah, this is new, a lot of it-- okay, maybe all of it. But
I know how I feel," he said intensely, his eyes getting icy, "I know how I
feel. And I know how I have been feeling, and what's been on my mind. And
how much I tried to run away from it, and not get my hopes up, okay?" Ray
paused, his voice becoming sharp. "I go with my gut. And my gut says this
is right, this -- with you -- it's right. That's all I need to know."  

"Now," he said harshly, his voice toughening as his body stiffened, as if
preparing for a blow, "Now, maybe you aren't sure how you feel. And maybe
this isn't right for you, and this is something you realized between last
night and now. And that's fine. That's all you gotta say, and I'm back to
playing rude cop, polite cop with you, like nothing ever happened," Ray
finished, with an exaggerated shrug.  

The Mountie's expression softened. "No, no, Ray. You mustn't think that.
It... does feel right. With you." He looked down. "More right than I ever
would have hoped or expected," he whispered. More right than anything,
ever, except for-- no, don't think about that now. He's undercover, he had
his reasons, it's over and done with.  

Ray couldn't stand it any more. The meekness in his Canadian partner, the
round-shouldered way he knelt by the sofa. Ray sat up and grabbed Fraser
by the shoulders. "Then let's go with it, Fraser," Ray said, drawing them
together, looking at Fraser's sad expression. "Let's just go with it, go
where it takes us, and we'll deal with whatever happens, Fraser. I -- you
mean a lot to me. More than anyone has since Stella," he said, avoiding
Fraser's eyes guiltily at mention of his ex-wife again -- then looking
back at him directly as they both stood. But still he grasped the
Mountie's shoulders.  

"I know I bring her up too much. And I know it's over and I just gotta
accept that," Ray went on quickly. "If I could just flip a switch and turn
off all thoughts of her forever, I would. And I do accept that that's
over. It just hurts sometimes, because there's so much history. But I have
a history with you, too. And... it's a good thing. I guess it hasn't been
that long. And we've had our ups and downs. And I know I've been a jerk.  

"But even way before last night, I knew that you were a good guy. I knew
that when the chips are down, you would come through for me. And ever
since you saved us both on that freighter, I said to myself that no matter
what, I would always come through for you. I might con and scam and bluff
through everything else. But not with you, not where you're concerned. And
that would still be true even if last night never happened. It's just
that... it did. So there's history... and then there's last night, too.
And when I put them together in my head... it says, 'I'm with Fraser now.'
That's what I get," he finished.  

The Mountie gently wriggled out of Ray's grasp, straightening his uniform.
He took a deep breath, looking at his partner Ray, his
rough-around-the-edges Ray. That roughness, that edge, that
vulnerability... And that transparency, that inability of Ray to mask his
feelings-- these touched him. He knew the detective meant every word he
was saying. His heart contracted at the pain in Ray's face. How did the
good feeling, the heat and passion of the night before, turn into this
painful exchange? He abruptly sat down on the sofa.  

The detective jumped, and then sat down, somewhat apprehensive, but
looking hopeful.  

"Ray," Benton Fraser started, "You are so... volatile. In a good way," he
quickly added, as he saw Ray's shoulders stiffen. "You can't hide your
feelings. One would always know where one stood with you. I just need you
to realize -- you need to accept -- that I'm not that way. I'm ... not so
easily emotional. I go by my word." The detective nodded slowly, knowing
Fraser spoke the truth. "If I, if I give you my word that you do mean a
lot to me, that I do consider that if we... go down this path, only we two
go... Please believe my words the way I can just look at you and know that
you're telling the truth. I don't know if I can ever change, ever be...
more like you. So you must take me at my word. And my word is... I'm
yours. If you will have me," he ended in a whisper.  

"Okay, then," Ray replied, whispering back. "Then why are we getting all
upset?"  

"I don't know," Fraser whispered back, looking miserably down at his
once-again tightly clasped hands.  

"Fraser... don't," Ray said, reaching over to put a hand on the Mountie's
tightly gripped hands. The Canadian looked over at him apprehensively. And
in that moment of vulnerability, that moment where Fraser looked so
uncertain and worried, Ray softened like a teenage girl. "Oh, Fraser," he
said, and leaned into the Mountie's space, placing a soft, close-mouthed
kiss on Fraser's lips.	

Fraser responded by suddenly putting his hands on Ray's waist and drawing
him across the couch. "Ray, Ray," he said -- then silenced himself and Ray
by kissing the detective back.	

Ray squeezed Fraser's wrists, sliding his hands up the Mountie's forearms
to his shoulders. The Mountie's arms encircled him. Seated alongside each
other, their thighs warmed where they touched, and the warmth excited Ray.
The tip of his tongue encountered Fraser's, and the Mountie gently sucked
it into his mouth. Oh, that's it, Ray thought, and slid his hands back
down his partner's arms to his lap, his thighs. That is it. Here we go!  

And Fraser, for his part, suddenly found himself being fondled,
delightfully, pleasurably caressed. He ran his hands up the inside of
Ray's coat to the shoulders. Then began sliding it off Ray.  

Ray shrugged out of the coat, and Fraser dragged it out from under the
detective. And then Ray lay back on the burgundy sofa, pulling Fraser down
partially on top of him. He ripped the Velcro of Fraser's high collar
apart, and slowly undid the buttons of the uniform. That sexy uniform, he
thought. Then the entire tunic was open and Fraser was shedding it with a
growing haste.	

He settled on Ray, half on Ray, half on the sofa, and they looked at each
other shyly again, with nervous and tentative smiles. Then their lips met
again, and their hands explored each other's bodies again -- undoing
buttons, stroking each other's hardness, undoing top buttons of pants,
slipping under waistbands, untucking shirts. All the while they slowly and
hotly moved their mouths against each other's, taking turns exploring with
lips and tongue.  

Within a scant fifteen minutes, both men were naked to the waist. Side by
side on the sofa, they were cramped together in a most delightful way.
Legs entwined, pelvises grinding together, they stroked each other's
smooth skin. He was surprised and happily curious to discover how smooth,
smooth like a classical sculpture, Fraser's hard body was.  

For the Mountie's part, something about the sweetness with which Ray gave
himself -- offered himself to Fraser -- inflamed him more than he had
thought possible. His reaction shocked him. He had already stripped Ray of
his shirt. Couldn't stop pressing his lips to the wiry man's chest and
stomach... couldn't stop running a hand up and down one lean haunch, the
back of one lean thigh and compact buttock.  

The detective arched against him. Fraser slid his hand around to the front
of Ray's leg, to the inseam of his pants. He slid it ever so slowly up the
inside of Ray's thigh, tugging a sighing moan out of Kowalski. He gently
stroked Ray between the legs, caressing him from his balls all the way up
the hard, hot shaft he felt beneath the fabric. His mouth fastened onto
one nipple, not thinking. Just feeling. Just barely hearing Ray's little
gasps, feeling the slight dig of fingers into his back. He slid his hand
back around to cup Ray's buttock again. With a hitch in his breath, Fraser
kissed farther down the detective's chest, down to his stomach, his navel,
the top button of his jeans, unbuttoned now...	

Ray unconsciously ground his cock against Fraser, in rhythmic thrusts. He
didn't realize he was tightening and relaxing the grasp of his thighs on
the Mountie, as if riding a horse. Somewhere in his mind, he knew they
were asking to be caught: doing this on the sofa in the public parlor of
the Canadian consulate! But it seemed so unimportant. All that mattered
was in his arms. He bent his head down, stroking the Mountie's head and
short hair. Feeling the tickle of Fraser's breath on his stomach, losing
his grip on Fraser's leg, he felt the Mountie undo his pants, unzip his
fly, and gently tug his pants down around Ray's knees.	

"Oh, yeah," Ray exhaled, pressing his hot briefs against the Mountie.  

Fraser felt the wet spot against his stomach. Ray was exceedingly hard and
obviously highly excited. Fraser idly wondered, in one corner of his mind,
if he himself were that aroused. He hardly had time to think that thought,
when he felt Ray reaching down to undo his uniform pants, jangling his
suspenders, unzipping his fly.	

They opened their eyes at the same time, and looked at each other for a
moment. The early winter dusk had settled around them. Then both sat up in
the half-darkness, with a single thought, quickly stripping themselves of
their pants -- But where Ray could merely kick his shoes off, more effort
and skill was required for Fraser to remove his boots.	

Once in nothing but their briefs -- and in Ray's case, socks -- they lay
back down next to each other, shy once again, holding each other quietly.
Finally, Ray couldn't stand it anymore, and began that delicious and
unsettling thrusting against Fraser again. And the Mountie began kissing
the detective's face, eyes, jawline, down his neck...  

Ray's hands stroked all over Fraser's compact but well-muscled body,
feeling the broad shoulders, the flat stomach trembling next to his own,
the beautiful hip bone, the strong thighs. I'm so thin, he thought, so
thin compared to him. Fraser felt so... substantial. Truthfully, he felt
so... safe in the Mountie's arms. Protected. He hadn't expected to feel
that... and to like it so much, for it to feel so... right, so homey. He
sighed happily.  

Fraser slowly cupped Ray's buttock with one hand. All thought was wiped
from his mind. All there was, was Ray. Ray's tough body, relaxing and
softening, wrapped around him, hot and musky. He smelled the detective's
sweat. He drew his hand up Rays' back, then slid it back down, under the
edge of Ray's briefs, just slowly, gently, his palm on Ray's naked
buttock. The detective moaned in his arms, and, emboldened, Fraser slid
the briefs down. They caught on Ray's erection, going only so far. Fraser
stopped there, then, letting his hand stay on Ray's buttock.  

Finally Ray reached between them and unhooked his waistband from the head
of his cock. The briefs, and Fraser's hand, came down fully. The Mountie
couldn't help trembling as he realized he had his partner almost
completely naked and next to him. His own erection throbbed slowly, and he
felt the tickle of Ray's pubic hair against his hip-- an excruciatingly
exciting sensation. Their mouths met again, wet and warm, and Fraser
imagined that mouth on his-- no, save that for later, he thought...  

And then Ray's hand went behind his own buttock, grabbing Fraser's hand,
gently. He brought it back around his thigh, to his genitals, pressing
Fraser's hand onto his cock and thrusting into the Mountie's hand. Then he
slid his hands around Fraser's waist, slipped them into the back of the
Mountie's briefs, and slowly exposed Fraser's perfect, round buttocks.
They were solid and fleshy in his grasp.  

Two moans escaped their two throats simultaneously, one rising in pitch,
one falling. The detective unhooked the Mountie's briefs from his
erection. And after they'd both slid their briefs down and kicked them
off, they lay slightly apart. Just stroking their hands up and down each
others' bodies, they feasted their eyes on each other, their caresses
getting bolder.  

Fraser feared going too far, going too fast for Ray. But Ray soon had his
hand wrapped tightly around Fraser's smooth, hot cock. For a moment, the
picture of Fraser kneeling between his thighs, entered Ray's mind. He
dragged his mind back to the moment, to the incredible heat and
velvety-soft skin of the Mountie's erection. He'd never thought about it,
holding his own cock while pissing, or even beating off... But the fact
that it was always covered up, never exposed, must explain the beautiful
soft and silky skin on a cock.	

He slowly moved his hand up and down in a dreamy wonder, slicking it up on
the pre-ejaculate that had leaked out. Was this how Fraser masturbated? he
wondered. He was half playing doctor, and half pleasuring Fraser.  

Fraser had stopped doing anything but holding onto Ray, letting his
partner determine what was touched, and when, and for how long. And it was
good to let the pleasure come to him. He tried to put out of his mind all
that he longed to do to -- and for -- Ray, and just concentrate on what
was happening just now. Just now Ray was learning what caressing another
man felt like. And just now... just now, Ray had stopped moving...?  

Fraser opened his eyes, and looked straight into Ray's eyes. The
detective's head rested on Fraser's bunched bicep. Ray had a funny look on
his face. A bittersweet expression of sadness below the nose and happiness
around the eyes.  

"Is something wrong, Ray?" Fraser whispered across the scant inches
between them. Two pairs of dilated eyes regarded each other.  

"Just now, Fraser," Ray whispered back, "just now you looked..." he
trailed off uncertainly, but smiled sadly and raised the hand that he'd
just been stroking Fraser's cock with, and brushed the backs of his
fingers, his knuckles, softly down Fraser's cheek.  

"Just now I looked...?" Fraser prompted him.  

Ray paused. "Just now you looked ... you looked like you were all mine.
You were completely here. With me."  

Fraser felt those fingers stroke his cheekbone, his jaw, touch his lips.
And, you, Ray, he thought, you are already all mine, too. I can tell. He
supposed that this feeling -- not a feeling of ownership, no -- this
feeling of... power, of having control over another man's pleasure or
pain, was something that others might... exploit. But all it inspired in
the Mountie was a great feeling of tenderness towards Ray.  

"That's because, Ray," he said softly, "I am all yours now." He pushed
away guilty thoughts of Ray Vecchio, along with the angry and sad feelings
of being left without any explanation. He pulled himself fully back into
the moment, the present. And in the present, a beautiful, lean and lanky
Chicago cop was lightly stroking his chest, lingering on his nipples,
feeling his bicep. He closed his eyes again.  

Ray, unbeknownst to Fraser, was pushing away thoughts of Stella, painful
thoughts. Why do good times always have to remind me of bad ones? he
wondered. But he knew that what had prompted the thoughts of Stella was
looking into that relaxed and dreamy expression on Fraser's face, while
Fraser had his eyes closed. As if all there was in the world was the two
of them. And he was touching Fraser, actually touching him, there where
he'd wondered what Fraser felt like. And he'd seen in the Mountie's face
how completely he put himself in Ray's hands. And Ray realized he'd never
seen that look on Stella's face. Not even in the height of passion.  

And somehow even though that hurt, it was all right. Because that was
behind him, and all that he saw in front of him, and ahead of him, was
this lovely man in his arms. This utterly good human being, who wanted to
be good to him. God. Please don't let me screw it up this time, Ray
thought. Please let things work out right, this time.  

Though their passion had momentarily subsided, the two lay in each others'
arms the rest of the night, dozing fitfully. Periodically, they woke, to
touch and stroke and caress each other again, and then dozed again. At
some point, pre-dawn, Ray felt Fraser gather him up and hold him tightly,
as if the Mountie couldn't hold him close enough. He pressed his sleepy
lips to the Mountie's shoulder, and slid his arms around Fraser. For what
seemed like the first time, he felt warm, protected and truly needed.  

And Fraser felt Ray's complete, trusting surrender, and felt no glory in
the power he had over Ray, no satisfaction at having conquered a heart. He
felt only a deep gratitude to the universe that this strange and quirky
man, this troubled but good soul, had come into his life. The way Ray was
wholly his was a gift, something to be treasured. He kissed the
detective's lips and cheeks and eyes and forehead over and over, until he
had let the knowledge sink into his bones. This man was truly, one hundred
percent, all his, holding nothing back.  

Chapter 12: Dream About Us 
   
    

"Ray. Ray. Ray. RAY," the Mountie spoke louder.  

"Uh-huh," Ray replied, burrowing his head deeper into the sofa and
Fraser's chest. He settled back in comfortably, half-asleep again.  

"RAY."	

"Whaaat?" the detective grumbled. "God, Fraser, I'm all talked out, 'kay?
I'm yours, you're mine. Can we go to sleep now?"  

"Ray, we've been sleeping."  

Exasperated sigh. "How long?"  

"Long enough that it's 5:30 a.m., and I need to get ready for work. And
you need to get ready to leave. Turnbull arrives at 7 a.m., Ray," Fraser
finished, looking down on the naked man in his arms.  

"Ohhhhh. That changes everything," Ray mumbled into the couch. But he
didn't move.  

"Ray, Inspector Thatcher is coming here at 7:30 a.m. to pick up something
she forgot for the conference."  

"What?" Ray barked, sitting up suddenly, knocking Fraser off the sofa onto
the carpet. "She's coming back? I gotta get outta here! What if she sees?
She'll say something to Welsh..." he trailed off, looking down at the
Mountie who merely looked up at him, smiling. "What are you grinning
about?" he asked Fraser, irritated.  

"She's not really coming, Ray. I just wanted to get you up," the Mountie
replied, with some satisfaction.  

"Fraser! Dammit, since when did you start lying?"  

"It wasn't a lie... so much as a fib," Fraser said defensively.  

"Okay, I know, I know," Ray said. "I'm just surprised you got it in you,"
he said, glaring down at Fraser. "I guess it hadda happen sooner or later,
if you were in Chicago long enough."  

"I guess so," Fraser replied, getting to his feet.  

At that moment, as Fraser leaned on the armrest of the couch, Ray looked
up at Fraser. In the dim light filtering in from the streetlights and the
dawn, he saw the boyishness of the Mountie's still innocent face. Saw the
body, smooth and pale as a carved figure -- and as beautiful. God, he's so
beautiful, Ray thought. What on earth is he doing with me?  

Fraser, who was absently scratching the sole of his foot and stifling a
yawn -- another night of only a few hours of sleep! -- looked down to see
Ray eyeing him dubiously.  

"What is it, Ray?" he asked, concerned, and sat down next to the
detective. He reached down to the floor to grab his briefs and slip them
on.  

"Nothin', Fraser. Nothin'." Ray reached down and grabbed his own briefs
off the floor and silently stood to put them on. He turned away, suddenly
shy, thinking, Hm, Fraser's only really seen me in the dark.  

"Are you sure, Ray?" came Fraser's voice from behind him. Ray shook his
head vigorously, not trusting himself to say anything. He adjusted
himself, and then absently scratched the back of his neck.  

"All right, then," the Mountie said. He bent down and gathered up his
uniform breeches, Ray's pants and shirt, his own shirt and serge tunic.
Then he separated the clothes into piles of 'Ray' and 'Benton' on either
side of him on the sofa. Ray turned around, carefully examining Fraser's
face. Fraser looked up at him.	

"Ray?"	

"There was someone else, wasn't there?" Ray asked quietly. "Another...
man. That's why you're, uh, you're kind of taking the lead... right?"  

The Mountie looked down at the pants he held. This was not what he wanted
to talk about. In fact, he didn't even want to think about it. He inhaled
deeply, and exhaled with a sigh.  

"Yes, Ray," he said shortly. "There was."  

"And... ?"  

"Nothing. He had to leave, so he left."  

"'Had to leave'? What the hell is that?"  

The Mountie just shrugged and stood to put his pants on.  

"C'mon, Fraser. He didn't just leave. Something happened, right? That's
why you're so..."  

Zzzizz, went the Mountie's zipper, and he buttoned the top button of his
trousers, and glanced at Ray. The doubtful expression on Ray's face
prompted Fraser to sit heavily back down on the couch, and look up at Ray.
 

"What is it that you need to know about this, Ray?" Fraser asked him
coldly. He supposed that Ray had a right to know, in a way. Yet he also
supposed that it was his own personal, private business. And he didn't
want to reveal how raw the wounds still were.  

"Nothin' you don't wanna tell me," Ray said more quietly. "Y'know, I'm not
trying to interrogate you. It's just... the way you look, I get the
feeling he really hurt you. And if he did, I'd like to find the bastard
and..."  

"Ray, Ray," Fraser interrupted quickly, "No, it's nothing like that. It
just... didn't work out. We, ah, couldn't work it out between the two of
us and our jobs. He was, ah, he was also in law enforcement."  

"Uh-huh," Ray said noncommittally.  

"He... he was transferred somewhere else. That's all. It couldn't be
avoided." Fraser looked down, hoping Ray would buy the fibs he was giving
him.  

"Okay... so he didn't, like, screw you over, then?"  

"No, no," Fraser said nervously. "Nothing like that."  

Ray paused, reaching for his pants. As he stepped into them another thing
dawned on him. He looked over at Fraser, who was putting on his shirt.	

"No one knew, did they?" Ray asked.  

"Excuse me?" Fraser asked, confused. He had immediately put the subject
out of his mind, with relief, as soon as Ray had dropped it.  

"No one knew... about him... the other guy, did they?" Ray said.  

Fraser colored slightly and felt the heat rise to his face. "No, Ray. No
one knew. At least, to my knowledge, no one knew." He looked away.  

Ray sat down gingerly next to him -- not too close. "So you... you had to
keep all that... stuff to yourself, huh? Couldn't let it show, couldn't
talk about it, because no one even knew that you guys..." he trailed off
as the Mountie pressed a hand to his brow, hiding his eyes.  

"Ray," Fraser breathed. "Yes, yes, all right, I had to keep it to myself,
and no one knew. Please, if you would -- I'd rather not talk about it.
Please." He covered his face with his hands. Not now, not now. Not on the
heels of such a lovely...  

"It's okay, Frayzh, it's okay," Ray soothed, throwing his arm around
Fraser's shoulders. He briefly squeezed the Mountie to him with those wiry
muscles. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly.  

But a nagging seed of jealousy germinated in him. Who was it? he wondered.
He better not be coming back. Because Fraser's mine now. But under that
fierce thought, Ray knew that he would never feel completely secure in
anyone's love. No matter how often or how intensely they declared their
feelings -- even if they were a Mountie whose lies were so bad he was
totally transparent. Ray tried not to be so easily threatened, so easily
jealous. But it was a constant battle that he never fully won.	

"Thank you, Ray," the Mountie said, as Ray released him and began to put
his shirt on. "It's in the past, now." He pulled up his suspenders, then
stood up to slip into the serge jacket.  

Ray said nothing. Then, "Fraser... we gotta figure out some other way to
get this guy out in the open, to flush him out. Before I have a bunch of
guys pissed off cuz I led them on," Ray said. "I've been trying to figure
out a way. I mean, I know we gotta find out more about the crimes and the
crime scenes. But..."  

"Yes, well, Ray, perhaps you could get close enough to them, or engineer
some sort of social, or, ah, physical intimacy that doesn't involve..."
the Mountie stammered, embarrassed -- he would rather do such things than
discuss them.  

"Well," Ray said slowly, buttoning his shirt. "Hey, wait, I got an idea,"
he said, looking up at Fraser and thinking about his own momentary
jealousy. "Hey, how about this," he said, getting slightly excited. "Maybe
this could work -- I'll have guys who look just like him hit on me. Maybe
he'll be around, checking me out because he likes guys like me. And seeing
another man get me might drive him out, into action."  

Fraser regarded him seriously. "Ray, our police sketch isn't very
specific. The suspect, other than having a passing resemblance to me, is
fairly generic looking. How are we going to go about finding men who look
like the suspect and who will 'hit on you' in such a way as to make the
slasher insanely jealous?"  

"That's it, Fraser," Ray said slowly, closing his eyes and then popping
them open to look at the Mountie. "You are the man who will be hitting on
me," he grinned.  

"What?"  

"Look, it makes sense. I need someone who I can trust, who can hit on me,
in public, in a way that drives the perp crazy. You already fit the bill.
And there's... well..."  

"There's...?" Fraser prompted him.  

"Well, you're the perfect person," Ray said sheepishly.  

"Me?"  

"Yeah, why not?" Ray asked, now fully dressed, struggling into his
shoulder holster.  

"Well, I-- I mean, that is to say..." Fraser stuttered.  

"It could be fun, Fraser," Ray chuckled at the flustered Mountie.  

"I-- Uh--"  

"Well, let's just consider it. See what you think, or if you think it's
just another wacko Ray plan."  

Fraser sighed, with relief -- momentary relief, anyway. Having it as an
option -- well, that was one thing. Having it be their only option... was
quite another.	

"Or, uh," Ray started, then stopped.  

"Or what, Ray?" Fraser asked him, smoothing his hair down.  

"Or... you could hit on all the other guys who look like me, who look like
the type of guys the perp is after," Ray said, after a pause.  

Fraser did a double-take at his favorite spiky-haired detective. "Ray,
excuse me, but weren't you just..." But then he decided not to accuse Ray
of being jealous of the unknown other man.  

"Wasn't I just what, Fraser?"  

"Never mind. I suppose it's a possibility. Although one I can't say I look
forward to," the Mountie sighed, sinking back down onto the couch, fully
clothed now.  

"I can't say I look forward to it, either," mumbled Ray, "but I can see it
being more effective than you just hitting on me. In terms of catching the
guy." His casual shrug belied the tension in his voice. He sat down on the
couch a little ways from Fraser.  

For a while they both said nothing.  

Then, "Okay, Frayzh, pitter, patter, let's get at 'er. It's a new day."
Ray bounced up from the couch. He reached out a hand to pull Fraser up.  

"Ray, tell me the truth, now," Fraser asked seriously.	

"Tell you the truth about what?" Ray asked, already feeling guilty. He
wondered what he'd lied about before. Fraser grabbed his hand and he
hauled the Mountie to his feet. But Fraser didn't let go of his hand.  

"When you leave here," Fraser began again, still holding Ray's hand in
his, and looking Ray Kowalski in the eye, "what are you going to do?"  

"Oh, I don't know, go down to the precinct, see what else Frannie can dig
up on--"  

The Mountie smiled, shaking his head.  

"What?" Ray said, irritated.  

"You're not going down to the precinct, Ray," Benton Fraser smiled
indulgently at the lean cop.  

"Oh, yeah?" Ray said, getting cocky. "If I'm not, then where am I going?" 


"Ray, you and I both know where you're going," Fraser whispered, and drew
the cop to him in the semi-darkness. Ray came grudgingly, cranky at the
implication that he was lying. "You're going to go home and go straight to
bed, aren't you," Fraser said softly, pulling Ray into a strong bear hug.
"You're going to sleep the day away, while I work, aren't you!" he
finished, his words muffled as he nuzzled Ray's neck.  

Ray Kowalski felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up in excitement
from the Mountie's attentions. "Well," he started, and then had to laugh.
"Well, yeah, I guess that's what I probably will do," he said, sheepishly.
"I promise to dream about the case and figure something out by tonight,"
he said into Fraser's neck.  

"Mmmm," the Mountie said, hands on either side of his head now, looking
Ray right in the eye. "I'd rather you dreamed about something else, Ray." 


"Oh, yeah? What's that?"  

The Mountie kissed Ray's mouth gently, but firmly. Ray's lips parted under
his, as if the detective couldn't help himself-- he had to kiss him back.
Fraser felt Ray's legs begin to tremble. "Ray," he whispered, drawing
back. "Dream about us."  

The skin under Fraser's hands, the cheeks under his palms, grew hot as Ray
blushed and ducked his head. But his eyes were bright and smiling. He left
the consulate with that expression, looking cool and casual, with a spring
in his step. Fraser moved the drapes aside just an inch or two, to watch
him go.  

Chapter 13: Almost, But Not Quite  

He'd joined Stella in dance lessons as a kid. What a nerd he'd been. A kid
could afford to be soft and sentimental. He'd become a cop: a hard-nosed
cop, whose nose wasn't so hard. The pressure had been unbearable: trying
to come off as tough when everything was crumbling. He'd been getting
referrals to the precinct psychiatrist right and left. Excessive force.
Personality conflicts. It might as well have said, "Does not play well
with others" on his last official performance review.  

He'd overheard the gossip. Two cops at the urinals had been talking while
he'd been in a stall. They'd said he was going to crack, and soon --
completely unaware that the subject of their conversation had locked
himself into a stall in the bathroom where they stood pissing. Unaware
that he was squatting on a toilet seat so no one would know he was there
from a cursory glance under the stall doors. The irony was that he'd gone
in there to get away from everyone and everything. To just have a few
moments of peace and quiet, away from the noise and chaos and the demands
made of him in the precinct.  

Dooley had bet he'd crack within a month. Lipinski had said Kowalski was
too tough for that. That it would take at least three months before he was
formally ordered to take a vacation -- without his badge and gun. They'd
bet ten bucks on it.  

Then Ray had heard them zip their flies as they finished up and walked
out. By the time he got down, shaking, from his perch on the toilet, he
was more nerve-wracked than when he'd come in. He didn't blame the guys.
He'd made similar heartless wagers on the misfortunes of others' lives.
But he would never do it again, now that he knew what it was like to be on
the other side.  

It had been a great relief when the real Ray Vecchio had vacated his life
for a top spot in gangster paradise. Undercover sucked, but not the way
Ray Kowalski was doing it. He was in a new precinct, with all new people,
and they knew him from nothing -- he hoped. Probably Welsh had heard the
gossip, but he was a fair man. He judged his cops on how they did their
jobs. Not on what he heard at Dugan's while having a beer. And Ray found
that with his new partner, he could afford to be soft and sentimental
occasionally. Oddball that the Mountie was, he didn't give you the usual
razzing you expected from other cops. And much as Ray liked razzing
Fraser, he appreciated the Canadian's kindness and courtesy.  

Ray wondered at his situation. He wasn't himself, and yet he was. He could
still be himself; he just had to answer to the name Ray Vecchio. He had a
new desk. And he hadn't brought all his personal stuff from his old desk.
When he'd left the old precinct, he'd brought all his stuff home in a box
and put it at the bottom of his closet... where it still sat, untouched
since then. He hadn't brought any friends, because he hadn't had any left
to bring. In his role as the fake Ray Vecchio, he had a built-in friend:
The Mountie. He had few of the stresses of undercover, and all of the
benefits. He had a new life.  

Sort of. Some new things were making this new life very confusing to him.
And some old things kept dragging him back to the Ray Kowalski he had
wanted to shed. He felt a frequent uncertainty about both. Was he still
the person he had been before he'd assumed Ray Vecchio's identity? Hadn't
he crossed some lines since he'd gone undercover, done some things that
the man he used to be would never have considered? Some very recent
things? Had taking Ray Vecchio's place changed him into someone --
something -- he was not?  

And yet somehow these lines he'd crossed, these things he'd done, were not
entirely foreign. It was as if they'd always been in him, been part of
him. A part of himself he had never known, and had never had to face.  

The cop in him was the same instinctual cop he had always been. But
outside The Job, he still wanted to be the Old Ray he had been, sometimes.
That was why, he'd realized lately, he had run so eagerly into the vacancy
left by another detective. He wanted to be his old self. But that time was
past, that life was over, those days gone forever -- wanting to have them
back was sometimes excruciating. So, more than he wanted to get back his
old life, he wanted to not want his old life. And then Vecchio's position
had opened up. And it was a blessing.  

But some things kept dragging him back, dragging him back. Damn seeing
Stella earlier this morning. She'd had another nice suit on. As he'd
leaned on the wall, on the hand he had extended over her shoulder, talking
to her, she'd gotten a more and more impatient look on her face. Finally,
perplexed, he'd asked her what was the matter.	

"You don't have to stand there like that, Ray," she'd begun harshly, then
softened as she continued, "with that proprietary air. We're divorced,
remember?" she added gently. It was then that he realized he was looming
over her, standing between Stella and the hall, Stella and any passersby
in the hallway, Stella and the world.  

"Oh, sorry," he'd said, too surprised at being caught in an unthinking
moment of possessiveness to say anything more. Stella had given him a
half-sad, half-exasperated look, and then she was briskly moving down the
hall.  

Was that what his problem was? He couldn't let go? But this time around,
it didn't bother him so much. This time around, he'd felt more at ease,
less pained at seeing Stella. Less pained at seeing her moving away down
the hall, heels clicking.  

Probably because he finally had someone else now. Someone who responded to
him in ways Stella never had. Not because she had been unresponsive, but
because she was... not physically capable of the same responses.  

Ray tipped back in his chair and shut his eyes. He smiled thinly at the
thought of Stella's outrage if she found out who Ray's new someone was.  

She'd never guess it was the Mountie.  

He wondered if she'd take it well, or if she'd be pissed. Knowing her,
she'd find it a personal offense... for about fifteen minutes. Then she'd
shrug, consider the effect it had -- or didn't have -- on her life, and
wish them well. And go on with her life without a backward glance. That
was Stella.  

Ray almost wished she'd be burning with jealousy. Almost, but not quite.
She hadn't left him for another man. She'd just left.  

Somehow, as horrible as it had been at the time, that thought was a slight
comfort now. He hadn't been replaced by someone else. She hadn't gotten
involved with anyone right away. Although he had been jealous and just
slightly obsessive when she'd been going out with Orsini, he knew she was
just going on with her life. She hadn't given him any reasons to be
burning with jealousy. He just couldn't help it sometimes.  

Ray rocked in his tipped-back chair, and thought of how different things
were now. Now that he had someone in his corner. And for some strange
reason it really felt like Fraser was in his corner. That constant hum of
insecurity that was always just below the surface with Stella... that was
gone. Maybe it was because where Ray had felt fiery about Stella, and
Stella felt comfortable with Ray... now Ray fairly burned for Fraser, and
it seemed like Fraser felt the same way...  

It was Fraser's passionate response to Ray's unthinking experimentation
with another man that had gotten them in this situation in the first
place. If that had never happened -- or if Fraser hadn't seen it -- all of
this might never have happened. As stupid as it had been -- and Ray had
known it was stupid, even as he did it -- he was glad that he had. Not
because the encounter itself was memorable. That meant nothing to him.
What had resulted from it, though -- that meant everything.  

In the usual hum of activity within the precinct, Ray thought he heard a
familiar cadence. He cocked his head, eyes still shut, concentrating on
that sound as it seemed to come closer.  

"Ray, my friend," Constable Fraser suddenly said, a little too loudly and
a little too brightly. The surprise almost sent Ray over backward on his
tipped chair. He flailed a bit before his center of gravity tipped him
towards his desk. The front legs of the chair slammed back down onto the
floor with a very loud thump.  

"Fraser," Ray gulped, looking around the precinct at others' reactions.
But no one paid any attention as Constable Fraser seated himself in the
chair in front of Ray's desk. Except Frannie, of course, who always had a
reason to be tossing her head in Fraser's direction. Poor Frannie, Ray
thought suddenly -- she really would be outraged if she knew. Though he
felt a momentary pang of sympathy for her, he also couldn't help smiling,
thinking what kind of reaction she'd have.  

"Is something amusing in the offing?" Fraser said, rather formally, and
again too loudly.  

"No, Frase," Ray said, looking over at the Mountie, "just a private joke."
When a shadow passed across the too cheery look on Fraser's face, Ray
reached across the piles of paperwork to squeeze his friend's forearm.
"Tell ya later, can't tell ya now," he chuckled.  

Fraser simply froze in his position, glancing down at Ray's hand without
moving a muscle. Ray belatedly realized what he'd done, and snatched his
hand back. They both surreptitiously looked around the precinct. But in
the usual buzz of suspects and cops and public defenders and district
attorneys, no one noticed anything unusual about Kowalski and his odd
Canadian pal. Both breathed slight sighs of relief and visibly relaxed.  

"Ray, I've come to tell you that I think you were right about what you
said last night," Fraser began.  

Last night? Ray thought back. He'd said so many things last night. He
blushed furiously. What did I say last night? Which part of what I said?  

Benton Fraser looked across his partner's messy desk and watched a blush
slowly creep up Ray's face from his collar. Perplexed, he raised his
eyebrows. But then he realized that Ray had said a number of things the
night before -- most of them totally unrelated to the case. It was those
that made the detective blush. And then, while recalling them, Fraser too
began turning pink. He had been speaking of their conversation about the
case and the suspect. He hadn't thought how it might sound to Ray.  

By the time Ray's embarrassment had faded, Fraser's had just begun. He
blushed a much deeper shade of pink than Ray. He valiantly tried to
continue.  

"Ray, ah, that is... what I was referring to was... the current case. What
you had said about the case. About ways of catching the suspect..."  

"Right, right," Ray Kowalski chimed in, too quickly and too jovially.
"'Course that's what you were talkin' about."  

The two regarded each other silently a moment. It was too much and they
broke into goofy smiles, looking away from each other.	

"This is really silly, Frase," Ray said quietly, chuckling.  

"It is indeed," the Mountie agreed, a slight edge of humor in his voice.  

Ray tossed his head slightly to either side, trying to crack his neck.
Fraser glanced at him, and their eyes met. While they sheepishly grinned
at each other, Ray took out a deck of cards and began aimlessly shuffling
them. Just to have something to do.  

"So, what I said about the case last night..." he began again, shuffling
and re-shuffling the cards. He could look at the cards and not at Fraser,
and then maybe he could think while he talked to the Mountie. Instead of
picturing himself in the man's arms, instead of recalling the texture of
the man's skin, the firmness of the Mountie's alabaster flesh.	

"Yes," Fraser said, clearing his throat. He brought out his notepad and
Kowalski rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Proper preparation prevents poor
performance, he remembered. The Mountie might as well have been a boy
scout. He was always prepared.	

With their conscious minds occupied by subjects other than each other, the
two were finally able to converse normally.  

"You said that attempting to draw out our suspect by 'leading on' various
males who fit the description in local drinking establishments might prove
hazardous to your health. This is indeed a concern. Upon further
reflection, I thought that perhaps we might force the suspect's hand a bit
if we both played a part in the entrapment."  

"Don't say entrapment, Fraser, that's a word cops don't want to hear,"
Kowalski said sternly. "We're not entrapping the guy. As far as we're
concerned, we're just putting me in the same position that countless
victims of his have been in. It's not like a vice sting operation. I'm not
soliciting."  

"Right you are," Benton Fraser agreed, relieved that they could retreat
into the standard law enforcement lexicon, away from the more casual...
and thus distracting... style of conversation. "Being receptive to a
suspect's intimations or suggestions isn't the same as solicitation." He
paused a moment. "What I was thinking, was, perhaps a greater degree of
participation on my part might force his hand," he finished, looking up
from his notes at the detective.  

Kowalski paused in his shuffling of the cards to look warily at Fraser.
"What kind of participation?" he asked seriously.  

"Well, since the suspect appears to target men who fit a physical
description remarkably similar to yours, I thought that perhaps I could do
the same."  

"Ya mean, if he's hitting on me, you're going to hit on me? I thought we
already decided that."	

"Did we? I thought you had asked me to consider it. I could also, as you
said, 'hit on' other patrons of these bars who fit the same physical
description. Thus, in effect, competing with him for the favors of said
men."  

"I thought we had decided that, too?" Ray thought aloud.  

"Oh," Fraser said. He paused. "Well, I thought we'd agreed that these were
options, but I didn't realize we had decided to go through with them. I
thought about them today while I was at work."	

"Oh. Well, sorry 'bout that Frase, I thought we were clear on that. I
forgot it was under consideration. Did you want to go ahead like this?"  

"It seems the most logical way to possibly get him to escalate his
behavior."  

"What if you hitting on guys like me makes 'im shrink back into the
woodwork, 'cause he's normally kind of timid or shy?"  

"I don't think so, Ray. From what Daniel described, the suspect was hardly
timid or shy. I think if we increased the pressure -- that is, if he were
forced to move a little faster, or be a little more forceful or
aggressive, he might rush into things and, by rushing, botch his attempts
in a way that would be conducive to catching him," the Constable finished.
 

"It could work..." Ray mulled this over.  

"I'm fairly certain it will increase the number of stressors activating
this behavior in the suspect, and precipitate an attack faster than simply
having you pose as bait and me along for backup," Fraser pointed out.  

"It's possible... but if you're increasing the number of stressors, or
just the amount of pressure on the guy... isn't it possible his reaction
would be even more extreme?" Ray worried aloud. His brow creased with
concern as he looked over at the Mountie.  

"Well, yes, unfortunately, that's quite possible," Fraser sighed, glancing
back down at his notepad. He flipped it shut, then looked back up at Ray.
"I can only assure you that I would be there to back you up," he added
more quietly.  

Ray smiled and blushed simultaneously. What a guy, he thought. "Thanks,
Fraser. I do appreciate that." He inhaled to begin another sentence, but
Fraser jumped in before he could.  

"For example, say we are in a bar. We see a man who fits the suspect's
description. He hits on you. I, observing all the men in the bar who fit
the profile of the typical victim, see him hit on you. I then hit on you.
The suspect gets upset, for whatever reason. His behavior escalates.
Possibly in a public way, in a way that is easier to catch without
endangering your life."  

"Oh."  

"And I would do the same with other men, so long as they were hit on by
someone fitting the suspect's description."  

"Oh."  

Neither said anything for a moment. Ray opened his desk drawer, took out a
rubber band, and stretched it around the deck of cards a few times. He put
them in the drawer and closed it. He sat back in the chair, his hands on
his thighs.  

"You sure you can handle that, Frase?" he asked, looking up at the Mountie
intently.  

It was the Mountie's turn to gulp. "Yes, I think so," he said nervously.  

Ray affected a nonchalant shrug. "Okay, then. That's our strategy, huh?"
But he wondered how well he'd take seeing Fraser hitting on other guys.  

"Right you are," Fraser agreed, his voice quavering only a little.  

"You're gonna have to do one thing," Ray pointed out, much though he
didn't want to.  

"What's that, Ray?"  

"You're going to have to be convincing about it. Don't you think people
will be able to tell your heart's not really in it?"  

"Oh." The Mountie examined the Stetson in his lap, playing with the brim.
"I hadn't considered that," he confessed, looking up cautiously at Ray
Kowalski.  

"Well, maybe it's time to take some lessons in lying from a Chicago
detective," Ray smiled, trying to ease both his and Fraser's minds. "We
may never make a great liar out of you, but if we can make you a really
great fibber, I'll have done my job."  

"You know, Ray, you yourself aren't the most successful liar, either," the
Mountie pointed out, with just a touch of amusement.  

"I know. It's a shame. A disgrace," he joked, standing up and adjusting
his shoulder holster. His shoulders, he realized, ached with tension,
tension only now beginning to drain out of them.  

The Mountie stood also, his hat under his arm. Ray looked down to see Dief
lying around the corner of his desk. The wolf lifted his head from his
paws, cocking it as if he had perfect hearing.	

"C'mon, Dief," Ray said, speaking to the wolf but gazing directly into the
eyes of his partner. His friend. His... his, well, lover. Okay, maybe we
haven't really done that much. But... it's blowing my mind. Everything
about Fraser did, lately. He was surprised that when he stood and his
partner/friend/lover stood, oddly, though they were the same height, Ray
felt taller. It must be more of the new me, the new life, he thought,
smiling.  

Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer Constable Benton Fraser gazed
directly back into the eyes of his erstwhile Chicago partner, thinking, I
shouldn't be doing this, but I am. I should probably feel bad about it,
but I don't. What is happening to me? The slight smile on his partner's
face made him both anxious and certain that the path they'd started down
was now inevitable. And despite his dislike of thoughts of fate and
inevitability... despite his terrible experiences with events that seemed
fated and inevitable -- his heart swelled with a gladness that seemed so
familiar. Even though it seemed eons since it had felt that way, even
though he knew that, chronologically, that was not the case.  

Chapter 14: Up For That  

As they climbed into Ray's assigned car, Fraser realized he was still in
his uniform.  

"Ray," he said. Dief climbed into the back. "Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray," the
Mountie repeated patiently.  

"Huh? Sorry, Frase. Got my mind on other things."  

Constable Fraser carefully didn't ask what those things might be.  

"We'll have to stop by the Consulate, so I can change out of my uniform." 


"Oh, yeah. No problem."  

There was a moment of silence. Ray jiggled his shoulder in discomfort.	

"Is something wrong with your arm, Ray?"  

"Nah, I just got this knot in my back, right between my shoulder blades.
Can't shake it. Guess it goes away pretty much when I'm standing, but
sitting... Ouch."  

"Well, Ray, I might be able to help."  

"I bet you could," Ray offered slyly, giving Fraser a sidelong glance.	

The Mountie blushed.  

"It is so good to see you blush, Fraser," Ray Kowalski sighed, looking
over at Fraser. He hitched his sunglasses up on his nose.  

Fraser thought it a most endearing unconscious habit, but he thought he
should probably keep that to himself. Ray seemed somewhat sensitive about
coming off as, as Ray would say it, a nerd. Yet it was a gesture that
touched Fraser with its seeming vulnerability, knowing as he did that it
was from Ray's near life-long need of corrective lenses. He remembered Ray
taking them off in the crypt while he waited for Marcus Ellery to show up
at his mother's funeral...  

Ray had continued to speak, but Fraser realized he'd been completely lost
in his own thoughts and hadn't heard a word.  

"I'm sorry, Ray, I wasn't quite paying attention," the Constable began.  

"Aha, so you've got your mind on other things, too, huh?"  

"Well, not in the way of-- well... yes."  

"S'all right. I was just saying that it's... nice that you blush. With all
you've seen so far in Chicago, I can't believe you still can. But then I
can't believe you're always givin' these punks a fair shake and assuming
they're innocent 'til proven guilty."  

"But they are, Ray, according to your Constitution," Fraser pointed out
earnestly.  

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but no cops really believe that."	

"Perhaps that's one of the problems that has plagued law enforcement in
the US of late," the Mountie offered.  

"Oh, I don't think it's just US cops. I've watched that show, you know,
that show that's on late on Thursday nights. 'Mounties!' it's called, but
those guys are just like American cops. The only ones in serge are the
ones that open and close the show! And they're always doing some kind of
stupid crime bustin', like underage drinking. Please! Send 'em down here
where we've got some real crime to take care of!"  

"Well, Ray, you'd be surprised that there really is crime of a serious
nature in... Why are you looking at me that way, Ray?"	

The detective just shook his head and smiled. "Just cuz you take
everything so seriously, Frase. I was just razzin' ya."  

"Ah."  

"Here we are," Ray said more quietly. "Should I wait in the car?" he added
with some trepidation. He wasn't sure he could stand in the consulate or
anywhere near the parlor, without exploding from embarrassment... and the
excitement of remembering what had happened between them the last time
they'd been there.  

"Of course, not, why would you..." The Mountie trailed off. "Oh." He
hesitated. "I believe Turnbull's still on duty, Ray. And of course
nothing's going to happen."  

"'Course!"  

"Okay, then."  

Ray parked illegally, and good-natured as always, Fraser mildly pointed it
out as they strolled up the consulate steps. The detective smiled
dismissively, saying it was necessary in case he got called in suddenly
and urgently. They entered the building.  

"Turnbull, my man."  

"Detective. And how are you this fine day?"  

Ray shook his head at Turnbull's typical friendly, outgoing, and cheery
greeting.  

"Nothing a hot tub wouldn't fix," Ray replied, seating himself carefully
on the carpeted stairs. Fraser strode on past Turnbull to his room at the
back of the consulate.	

"In what sense do you mean?" Turnbull asked quizzically.  

"Nothin'," Ray shrugged off his coat, grimacing as the knot between his
shoulders momentarily tightened. "Aaaaahhhh..."  

"Ah, I see," Turnbull began, but the detective interrupted him.  

"What is it with you Mounties, that you always gotta be going 'Ah' and
'Oh' ?" he asked irritably. "Did you all have doctors with tongue
depressors for fathers, or is it just a Canadian thing?"  

"Actually, Detective, I believe it's simply a matter of vernacular..." the
young constable began.	

"Forget I asked," Ray began, and attempted to lay down, rather awkwardly,
on the stairs. "I just need to stretch my back out." He felt the edges of
the carpeted stairs like soft jabs in his back. It sounded horrible, but
he wondered if this was what the Rack had felt like. It must have really
sucked to be stretched on a Rack... but at this point, it was starting to
sound pretty good to him. At least, the stretching part. And as long as he
could say when to stop -- and they'd stop.  

"If you don't mind, I think I could actually help you with that."  

"With what."  

"With your back, Ray," Turnbull said, standing up from his seat behind the
front desk.  

"That's okay, Turnbull, just stay where you are," Ray began, but the
Mountie was already grasping his wrist and hauling him to his feet.
"Turnbull..." Ray continued, about to get really pissed, when the Mountie
turned him completely around, to face away from him.  

"What the hell're you doin', Turnbull?" Ray said, too achy to fight much. 


"Cross your arms across your chest, like a mummy," the young Mountie
commanded.  

"Turnbull... c'mon. I really don't think..."  

"Believe me, Ray, if you'll cooperate, I'll have that back of yours fixed
in a jiffy," Renfield Turnbull said brightly, encouragingly.  

"Oh, jeeze," Ray began, half-heartedly crossing his arms over his chest
like a mummy.  

"Are your hands on each opposite shoulder?"  

"Yeah, Turnbull, they are--"  

"Now, don't move. Just relax and breathe. Think of the color yellow."  

Ray took a breath, and then before he could exhale it, the young Mountie
was up against him, from behind, his arms wrapped around Ray. Holding
Ray's arms firmly to Ray's chest, crushing the detective against him,
Turnbull picked Ray Kowalski up, and then made as if he were going to drop
him -- but didn't. The ensuing jerk of Ray's entire body from the
shoulders downward released a series of quiet cracks from his spine, like
the cracking of knuckles...  

"Hey, what the hell, Turnbull!" Ray began, but just as Turnbull was
setting him back on his feet, Fraser strode back into the foyer, in jeans
and a dark sweater. He held his brown leather jacket, and looked at the
two men... young Constable Turnbull with his arms still wrapped around
Ray, Detective Kowalski, his Ray...  

But a quick once-over and he realized there was nothing going on here but
Turnbull's usual misguided efforts, and some obvious annoyance on Ray's
part.  

"I was just, ah--" Turnbull began, releasing Ray and backing away from
him, slightly embarrassed. He hoped Constable Fraser didn't think anything
untoward was happening.  

"Cracking Detective Kowalski's back, yes," Benton Fraser replied, "I can
see that, Turnbull. Well, Ray, did it work?"  

The detective, still shrugging exaggeratedly -- jeeze, he thought, don't
let Fraser get the wrong idea from this! -- rolled his shoulders and
paused. "Yeah, uh... actually, it seems like it did," he admitted
sheepishly.  

"Wonderful," Fraser said, completely deadpan, not looking at Ray at all,
but directly at Turnbull, who dropped his eyes.  

Ray got a slightly uncomfortable feeling. The tension in the air
thickened, as Ray picked up his coat from the stairs and shouldered into
it. "Uh, thanks, Turnbull," he muttered.  

"Not a problem, Detective. Happy to be of service," Turnbull replied, with
just a tremor in his voice. He looked up briefly, but Constable Fraser
still stared at him. He dropped his eyes again, clapping Ray on the
shoulder and stepping back behind his desk. He could still feel Fraser's
eyes on him.  

"Lock up when you leave, Turnbull," Fraser said tonelessly, and then the
two were gone, a slight gust of air the only thing left of them after
Fraser shut the wooden door firmly behind them.  

Turnbull breathed a long sigh of relief. He wasn't sure what Constable
Fraser had objected to, but he was sure he'd objected to something... and
he sure didn't want to encounter that unwavering, piercing stare from him
again, for a long time.  

* * *  

They walked to the car in silence. A typical Chicago winter, late
afternoon/early evening... already getting dark. Ray opened the door for
Fraser, in an uncharacteristically polite and almost chivalrous move.
Fraser's eyebrows arched up at Ray in question . A mock-scowl and
good-natured shove into the car were Ray's reply. Chivalrous, indeed. The
detective would never want Fraser to think he could be so... "Canadian".
Fraser suppressed a smile.  

"What're you smirking about?" Ray's voice poked at him as they both
settled into the car.  

"Oh, nothing."	

"Nothing, yeah, right. It's never nothing with you, but this time I'll let
it slide, Fraser," Kowalski said, cranking the engine. The sunglasses came
off after the engine kicked in, and he gunned the engine while tucking
them into an inside pocket. Turning, he realized his every move had just
been catalogued by the Mountie beside him.  

"What're you lookin' at?" The words were confrontational, but the tone was
affectionate.  

"Stanley Raymond Kowalski," the Mountie answered, somehow managing to be
somber and cheery simultaneously.  

"Right. Well, let's grab somethin' to eat, what say?"  

"That sounds good, Ray."  

"Okay. How about... well, you like a smorgasbord, right?"  

"I'm not sure... is it Swedish?"  

"Well, there are Swedish ones, but I was more thinkin'..."  

"Polish."  

"You got it."  

"Well, Ray, I'm on for that."  

"Up, Fraser."  

"Up."  

"Up for that."	

"Up for that, yes. I am up for that," the Mountie repeated.  

Ray shook his head and smiled. As bad as Frannie at botching terms... But
the heat emanating from that side of the car was like no heat he'd felt
from -- or for -- Frannie. He looked over at Fraser.  

The Mountie looked at him expectantly. "The smorgasbord?"  

"The Red Apple, on Milwaukee."	

"Right you are."  

"You're gonna love it, Fraser. And they got an all-you-can-eat dinner
special -- so you can stuff yourself on sausage, pierogies, potato
pancakes, beet soup with kluski...."  

"Ah. It sounds delicious."  

"Well, I'm sure it's not like those brown lichen tarts, and Polish food is
really bad for your cholesterol.... But really good."  

"I'm sure it is. Shall we?"  

"No prob," the detective smiled, gunning the engine for effect, and then
dropping the car into gear as he did so, so that the standard issue, blue
unmarked car leapt from the curb into the street with a grinding squeal.  

"Ray, I do believe that's not good for the transmission," the Mountie
began.	

"Transmission, shmansmission. Since when are you an automotive expert?"  

"Well, Ray..."	

Fraser looked good out of uniform, Ray reflected, listening to the warm
voice, and glancing over at Fraser every once in a while. He had long ago
tuned out the specific words, and could only concentrate on weaving
through the rush hour traffic in the darkening city -- and on those
perfect lips. That Superman jaw- line. The perfect hair -- looked like one
continuous piece of plastic. Maybe he could use what Fraser used on his
hair, to make sure his hair stayed up. But then, wouldn't it be somethin'
to mess up that perfect hair... Maybe fog the windows up a little before
hitting the streets tonight.  

"Ray, you just went through another red light."  

"It just turned red. It was yellow when I started."  

"No, that was the last one."  

"Oh."  

"Perhaps you'd better concentrate on driving."	

Ray chuckled. "As if."	

And, on cue, the Mountie blushed again.  

"Fraser. When this case is over... I mean, not that I don't want to now,
but everything's gettin' bunched up together and I'm tryin' to keep my
head straight on this job, and we can't mix things up too much while we're
on it, dammit--"  

"I think I understand, Ray."  

"Oh." Pause. "You do?"	

"Yes." Benton Fraser moved over just slightly. He would have gripped Ray's
forearm for a moment, but Ray was driving with one hand, that hand being
the right hand... So he briefly squeezed Ray's somewhat bony knee, and
then backed off to his side of the front seat.	

The detective braked a little too hard, jerking both of them. His pants
were suddenly too tight.  

"Sorry," he muttered, and tugged at the crotch of his pants, trying to
make room. "Think you're cute, huh, gettin' me all excited?" he growled at
Fraser, with a sidelong glance of amusement and lechery. Damn, but he
couldn't believe the zany way Fraser made him feel. Or how hot he got, and
how fast. Because he was on your mind anyway... you wanted him. And he
fell in your lap, not just body, but... maybe body and soul. And you
better be grateful because Life rarely, if ever, allows this to happen.  

"I didn't mean it that way, Ray, really--" The Mountie began, slightly
embarrassed.  

"Oh, I know, Fraser. I'm just givin' you a hard time."	

"Ah."  

"Cuz I can't give you the other kinda hard time, right now..."	

Blush. Again. Right on cue.  

This was good. This was right. Ray felt his chest expand, suffused with a
happy warmth from inside. Flirting. He hadn't flirted in years. At least,
not successfully. If he ever had. Mental muscles -- oh, all right, fine --
emotional muscles were being flexed by this thing with Fraser. Some for
the first time ever, some for the first time in too long -- far too long. 


This was no fling. No cute bust he could lean on for a date and possibly
an over-nighter. No more of them. You couldn't get this feeling from them.
You could only get it from being with someone who meant something to you.
Someone who thought you meant a lot too.  

He knew he was smiling like a complete goofball. He couldn't help it.  

Burnham Triangle, Chapter 15: Rushing Headlong Into Something  

He didn't often flash that full, spectacular smile, the Mountie reflected.
He watched his partner, his... lover (only stumbling slightly over that in
his mind). "Lover" seemed... premature, since they had yet to do many
things Fraser was well-acquainted with. Things that Ray was
tantalizingly-- and eagerly -- new at.	

A momentary image hazed over Ray Kowalski's profile, a silhouette with a
much larger nose. Fraser looked away, out the window, shaking his head to
dislodge the image and knock his thoughts off that useless path. He
ruthlessly clamped down on that closed chapter, unwilling to face the
anger and pain of Vecchio's sudden departure. So be it.  

Here, with a bright and shiny smile that he knew he himself had inspired,
was a volatile, earthy, and transparent (not to mention giving, tough, and
very sexy) man. And this man wanted to be with him, needed to be with him.
And he saw how his own desire for Ray Kowalski swept the frequently dark
and somber look from Ray's eyes. How that look seemed rarer and rarer
lately.  

Giving came much more naturally to Benton Fraser than taking. If he were
honest with himself, a great deal of his own self-worth came from helping
and pleasing others. But it wasn't just that with Ray Kowalski. No, the
touching gratefulness and awkwardly flattering admiration Fraser felt Ray
direct towards him at times -- times well before all this -- truly
affected Fraser. He ducked his head, admitting to himself that he'd come
to depend on that.  

If Vecchio had been like an older brother, then Kowalski had come to be
like a younger brother. Fraser had hardly realized how possessive he'd
become of his friend -- how much he needed Kowalski to lean on him. Until
he'd seen Ray leaning, so to speak, on another man, a stranger, in a
public bathroom of all places, for needs he thought Fraser could not meet,
would never meet, would despise if he knew of them.  

And Fraser had overreacted upon seeing that. He still felt terribly
ashamed -- and wasn't sure whether it was more because he'd utterly lost
control, because he'd almost blown their cover, or because in the process
of losing control, he'd revealed to Ray -- and to himself -- an intensity
of feeling he'd planned to never foster for anyone again.  

And then, after the extreme reaction -- based on, admit it, jealousy --
Fraser had further astonished himself by impulsively kissing Ray. He
hadn't meant to -- he wasn't even thinking about it, he was still upset
about the other man and the risk Ray had taken. And then suddenly his
mouth was on Ray's, as if by its own volition, and he cringed internally,
thinking Ray would never forgive him, wondering why he couldn't stop
himself. He, Constable Benton Fraser, unfailingly polite, and certainly
never one to be impulsive or otherwise not in control of himself -- here
he was, revealing himself to be 1) out of control with a jealous reaction,
no matter how he might want to couch it in terms of protectiveness, and 2)
suddenly incapable of controlling his desire as well.  

But in those naked moments when he was unmasked -- by himself! he thought,
half-bitterly -- when he and Ray Kowalski had been eye to eye... He had
wanted to run away. He had curled up inside, preparing for the blow he
knew he deserved. He had wanted to die for being foolish and stupid enough
to let go his tight hold and exposing his real feelings in all their raw
and primitive force. "Unbecoming" was perhaps the mildest term he had for
his inappropriate behavior.  

Thank heaven Ray had reacted the way he had. Fraser didn't think it
possible he could ever accept that he was as capable of such displays as
any other human being. But Ray's passionate response went a long way to
easing his painful humiliation -- and swept him far ahead, into a
territory he associated with bad consequences.	

Shockingly, not only were there no bad consequences, it seemed to have a
good outcome. Fraser distrusted this as a matter of course, but in the
warmth that unexpectedly came out of it, he cautiously admitted that this
might possibly be what they called a silver lining. Something that
happened to other people, but not to him. At least, not until now.  

Fraser recalled the tight-chested feeling he'd gotten in the consulate,
seeing Ray in Turnbull's grasp. Though it no doubt was perfectly innocent,
the first sight of it had provoked in him a great tension and swift
anger... which was, of course, unwarranted. And which had required
freezing every muscle until he knew what exactly was going on. And of
course it was absurd to think that Turnbull had any knowledge of recent
events between Ray and he, much less any designs on Ray. Even more absurd
to think Ray could find anything remotely interesting about Turnbull.
Other than occasionally arguing about curling, just to get Turnbull's
blood up.  

Ray had said and Fraser believed it to be true that when he was with
someone, he was with someone. Faithful. Not in so many words, but in
between the lines of things Ray had said in the past, he knew Ray had
never been with anyone but Stella throughout his marriage to her. For that
reason alone, knowing that Ray now considered himself to be with him,
Fraser, the Mountie knew he should trust that Ray was his. That no one
could take him. That he wouldn't be so easily tempted, that he wouldn't
leave.	

Of course, the simple fact that Ray was by far the more smitten of the two
of them ought to guarantee that if there was any leaving, it would be the
choice of Fraser; which of course he would never choose to do.	

Ray had opened his life to him. Though he would never have taken advantage
of it, Fraser thought perhaps the detective was a little lovesick. Yes,
this was entirely different than what few experiences Fraser had to
compare it with. For once, he wasn't the one hopelessly smitten.  

Whether cunningly manipulated by --Her-- seductive wiles, or buffeted by
the ups and downs of Vecchio's regard for him and for himself and what
their coupling meant in the context of his life and upbringing... Fraser
had never quite felt this... secure. Which made his over-reaction to
Turnbull even more wrong.  

Oh, She had kept him on pins and needles, as the saying went, feeding him
pleasure with one hand, and pain with the other. But mostly it was the
pleasure, and the hesitant belief he'd had -- briefly -- that perhaps he
deserved such unearthly pleasure.  

He'd never before been given so much pleasure. Well, of course, she had
been the first-- well, the only -- but it was more than that. He had
expected to work for love. And to work for her pleasure. To hold off his
own, as he knew he was supposed to. And, truth be told, self-deprivation
was the way he'd lived much of his life. He'd never guessed a woman would
find pleasure in pleasuring him.  

She had, as they said, played him like a fiddle. With her hands. Her
mouth. Her hands on his hands on himself. Her fingers... Nothing he'd ever
read or heard, not even the infrequent romances or pulp fiction (and, oh,
all right, stories of the fall of Rome) which passed through his
grandparents' library, had prepared him for the physical experience.  

In an utterly decadent, artful way, Victoria tore at his surface reserve
and exposed -- to him, as well as to herself -- his hidden but ravenous
sensual appetite. His suppressed, but bestial, sexual nature. His naked
greed for pleasure and lust and conquest and submission. His need to do
anything and everything in pursuit of a self-obliterating nirvana he'd
never known before.  

He'd had a brief taste of it before, with her, just before turning her in.
He could only surmise it was the charged atmosphere of their reunion, the
mixed emotions on both their parts, that had swept them up into
twenty-four-plus hours of animalistic -- and heavenly -- pleasure.  

Such pleasure he'd never known. He had never been much for the separation
of the mind and the soul from the body. Such artificial divisions might
have been drawn by early Christians and Benton could shut them off from
each other when necessary -- deprivation and denial were second nature by
that point in his life -- but he could not completely separate them, could
not sever them one from another. When she took his body, she took
everything else.  

He'd thought it must be love. What else could it be, when this wild
creature ravished him and then let him -- no, encouraged him -- to ravish
her in return... Whispered commands and supplications to him, to explore,
investigate, to mine, to plunder every inch of skin and every orifice,
with a scientist's curiosity, an initiate's delight, and the debauchery of
a Casanova.  

And then she did the same to him, relentlessly and expertly... until he
was near mad and barely capable of incoherently begging for the inevitable
and excruciatingly necessary end to the tortuous pleasure. For her to
finally slice the strings from which she dangled him, on the ecstatic edge
she'd made him dance, and let him plunge into the mind- numbing stupor of
his own endorphins. Surely it must be love that would inspire a woman to
such extremes. Surely it must have meant that he was worthy, worthy and
deserving, of such soul-stirring ecstasy.  

He could see how kingdoms and governments were won and lost that way.  

He still felt an overwhelming sense of failure when he thought of what he
knew to be his fairly prodigious intelligence... and how easily it had
been subverted by the chasm in his heart and soul that she filled. That
he'd wanted her to fill. How utterly she'd enslaved him -- and with his
initial, misguided blessing. He'd failed utterly in that relationship, in
every way. The first time, the second time... failed her, then failed
himself, failed to do his duty, failed Ray. The only thing that kept him
from failing to do his duty the last time was a bullet that stopped him
nearly dead in his tracks... like the fool he was.  

Just as well. He didn't deserve to be shot, he supposed, and of course it
had been an accident -- but then, he did deserve it. For being so stupid.
For nearly destroying himself in pursuit of something that wasn't real,
that could never work, and that he followed only because no one else had
ever made him feel that way and he didn't think anyone else could. For
nearly deserting his best and only friend, nearly leaving him framed to
take the fall of all her misdeeds since she'd returned. As much as he
chided Ray for shooting him, and as much as he would never admit it --
that bullet, which narrowly missed ending his life, had actually saved his
life.  

Was it any wonder then, that he'd then latched onto Vecchio? Maybe it had
begun as a kind of embarrassing and thankful -- and entirely unspoken --
hero worship of the man who, aside from befriending him when he had not a
friend in the entire city, was literally his savior. He hadn't quite
realized the depth of Ray's confused jealousy of her -- or what it
meant... Nor had he realized the risks Ray would recklessly take to
protect and care for him until then. He had supposed it a brotherly
feeling of responsibility, motivated by what he knew was the detective's
concern over his "babe in the woods" vulnerability.  

And keeping a tight clamp on his feelings -- keeping them a good,
analytical distance from being felt -- was second nature to Fraser. He was
as surprised as Vecchio the first time they'd literally fallen together
while attempting to pursue a suspect... and mutually read the sudden,
chagrined lust and excitement in each other's eyes as they'd tried to
disentangle themselves. Scant hours later they wrinkled each other's
clothes in a furtive, hot exploration in Ray's Riviera, rushing headlong
into something -- for Fraser, only the second headlong rush in his life --
that they might both have realized was best not rushed into, had they been
thinking rationally at the time.  

The feelings were there, yes, but they need not have been acted upon.
Though, perhaps it had been unavoidable. For the second time in his life,
Benton Fraser was helpless to resist the sexual advances of a lover. But
at least these were founded on profound feelings of affection and respect,
a bond that went far beyond a casual partnership or mere physical
infatuation. Perhaps the silver lining of Victoria was that her actions
had cemented Ray and he together in a way she could never have foreseen.  

More afraid of making any moves than ever before -- because of her --
Benton Fraser watched as if from outside himself as his partner made
touchingly awkward overtures to him... and watched himself try to resist,
fail utterly, and respond with an arousal and hope he tried to hide -- and
tried to deny when he thought about it. He could see, now, why they called
it "falling" in love. He wasn't sure why it seemed to be a farther fall
for him than for other people.	

And, for a time, it had been as wonderful as he had hoped, as far from
disastrous as he could ask. It might be catch-as-catch-can at times. But
he became more comfortable making overtures himself, initiating things, so
to speak. He remembered his thrill of delight the first time he had
reached out to Ray for a quick caress -- in the Riviera, of course -- and
found Ray's response was an instant and insistent arousal.  

Their bond had deepened to a level where, even in the precinct, Ray had
only to look at him in a certain way... or let his eyes wander down
Benton's body... and he knew what Ray was thinking. What he wanted. He
knew Ray could see it in his eyes, when he looked down at Ray's hands
grasping something, and imagined that hand on him... and Ray always made
sure Benny knew that he knew.  

But the logistics had been difficult at times. He felt especially guilty
when he met Ray's eyes over a hot, steaming pasta dinner prepared lovingly
by his very kind, but very Catholic, mother... and saw those beautiful
green eyes darkened with doubt and pain. For days afterward, Ray would be
moody and less than enthusiastic. Fraser learned not to approach Ray after
those occasions... to wait for Ray to approach him. Oddly, sometimes Ray
couldn't wait to leave his mother's, find a motel on the other side of the
city, as far from his home as possible... and ravish Benton. Other times
he was stiff and cool for days. Mostly he was louder and gruffer than
usual, more irritable, and less tolerant of Fraser's quirks.  

But Fraser was so glad to feel alive again, and to feel safe in the warmth
of love... and Vecchio was very affectionate, as well as surprisingly
tender. And, perhaps not so surprisingly, rather hot-blooded and sensually
skilled. Fraser had not expected things with Ray to be anything like they
were with Her, and they were not...  

Except that sometimes he felt that strange internal sensation, a
tearing-off of a piece of himself, as he had with Victoria, when Ray kept
him at the edge for a while... Kept leading him away from it and then back
to it, with his hands, mouth, and beautiful dark cock, over and over until
Benton could no longer refrain from throwing himself over the edge.  

The difference was, he took Ray with him when he went; and that odd chunk
of himself that Ray seemed to take from him while driving him mad, came
back to him when they laid in each other's arms, sweating and panting
afterward. It wasn't the same soul-shattering kind of ecstasy he'd felt
with Victoria. But it was very close to it. And Fraser guessed that this
less-shattering but equally stirring sexual feeling must be a much
healthier one. The fact that it never resulted in impossible demands,
painful decisions, and difficult choices confirmed this.  

But things had gotten... gray. It was the best description he could think
of. He wished he weren't thinking of it at all, but now his mind had
chased all these convoluted thoughts down to the ends of their trails...
and this was the conclusion he was coming to. Things became gray with Ray
Vecchio, very gray. As if the color were drained out of his fiery lust. As
if his heat had become lukewarm.  

Oh, the physical manifestations of arousal and pleasure were all still
there. And Ray-- well, Ray could never be called cold, by any stretch of
the imagination. But he became ever more distant. He wouldn't look Fraser
in the eye sometimes. In repose, his expression was frequently sad. At
first Benton had attributed it to something he must have said or done to
hurt Ray. But Ray's repeated denials led him to the reluctant conclusion
that this sadness was coming from within Ray.  

And he knew what was causing it. It wasn't just looking back over things
and wondering what if things with Angie had turned out differently,
instead of ending in divorce. It wasn't just wondering whether he might
ever be a father. Or whether he wanted to be.  

Well, of course he wasn't going to be a father... with another man.  

Fraser, helpless to do anything but observe, hid his own hurt from Ray.
There was nothing to be done. The situation was what it was.... Two men.
One Italian and in most respects still very Catholic. Ray dismissed his
mother's laments about his lack of a wife and her ensuing lack of
grandchildren in the same tolerant, eye-rolling way he always had. But
Fraser suspected it was wearing him down, as constant dripping wears away
a stone. He privately worried that Ray would eventually explode under the
pressure. That, as Ray would have said, the shit would hit the fan.  

What he had not expected was the way it would hit the fan.  

Benton had thought to give both Ray and himself some time apart. He
fervently believed that Ray Vecchio would realize, while he was gone, that
they belonged together. That they were meant to be. That there was no
obstacle they couldn't overcome. And that he missed Benny -- as Benton
missed Ray, as Ray occupied his thoughts on a daily basis. That he needed
Benny, as Benny needed him. But instead, what he got was a cryptic phone
call. No warning. No reason. Not even a real, face-to-face, goodbye. And
later, a heat-sensitive picture postcard of them together.  

Fraser tried to hang on. But after that postcard... nothing. For months.
No communication. The dream about Ray Vecchio -- with Ray Kowalski -- was
nothing, Fraser admitted, but his unconscious wish to believe that Ray
actually had realized all of those things. And would forgive any
indiscretions. Was even giving permission for them (highly unlikely). And
would come back. Surely the undercover Mob assignment Ray had taken would
end soon. Soon.  

But reality told a different story. Or rather, he amended, reality told no
story at all. The trail, as it sometimes does, went cold. And even if it
hadn't, he couldn't pursue it anyway -- at least, not without endangering
Ray's life. As the days went by, then weeks, then months, Fraser tried not
to think about it.  

But it was rather like having a pure white draft horse in one's home...
and trying to ignore it (and what it left behind). Impossible to think
about. Impossible not to think about. Excruciating to speculate about...
Difficult not to. Impossible not to think: what could I have done? What
could I have said? To make him stay? To make him never leave in the first
place? Why did he leave? And leave me alone, again?  

This despair gave way, eventually, to numb acceptance... and attempts to
paint the horse the same color as the rest of the house. He tried
valiantly to consider the relationship frozen, as if they would pick up
exactly where they had left off when Ray came back. As if he'd gone to the
store, gotten waylaid for some time, and would come back as if nothing had
happened. And they could just start where they had stopped.  

But in truth the only thing that had frozen was inside Fraser. Ray
Kowalski's bumbling awkwardness and shy sweetness with Fraser had begun to
melt this frozen core. And he was very much afraid that this slow process
of melting -- which was beginning to accelerate -- would not only leak out
his hidden needs, and reveal his self-sufficiency to be superficial (would
delude him yet again into thinking he had found someone with whom he
belonged) -- but would also liquefy his frozen rage at Ray Vecchio's
abandonment.  

After all the leave-takings -- intentional or not -- in his life,
beginning with his mother's death, Fraser had come to believe he had a
dependable, stoic response to yet another. But that was just a lie. In
psychological terms, he was in denial. He had come to see himself the way
he wanted to see himself... stoic, surviving, self-sufficient.
Grandmother's good little boy. Well, with one evening's experimentation,
Ray Kowalski had blown a hole wide open in Fraser's internal armor.  

"Get over it", as these Americans said. He left. Get over it.  

He couldn't get over it. He could accept it, possibly -- but only with a
fury borne of utter powerlessness to do anything about it. Only with what
he feared was the rage of a dog, constantly teased with the bone just out
of his reach... well, surely when he finally got the bone, he would shred
it. But he couldn't do that to Ray. Vecchio didn't deserve that, he knew
on a conscious level. Things changed, people changed, life went on.  

But on a deeper level, on a level where truth was subjective, where there
was no objective reality, and where authenticity was a gut feeling -- he
knew Ray deserved to be shredded, with the certainty that an animal knows
the "kill or be killed" law of the wild.  

But Fraser could not let that happen.  

And slowly, the loneliness that ate away at his icy denial, the warmth
that came from his new partner -- ironically, impersonating his lover,
without any knowledge of the deeper aspects of their relationship -- and
the friction Ray K. exuded, began to affect Fraser. Not without bumps in
the road, of course. Not without Ray's flying off the handle. And not
without a humble apology, a "tit for tat" willingness to taste his own
medicine.  

And not without Ray Kowalski's careful attentiveness to Fraser, almost
possessive protectiveness of him, and dogged determination to always be
there for Fraser -- which he was, from the time Fraser unwillingly punched
him in the jaw at the lakefront, at Kowalski's own request, so he
experienced what Fraser had experienced when he'd flown off the handle and
hit Fraser.  

Not that he hadn't been there for Fraser before then. But there was a
new... intensity to it after the incidents on the freighter. Fraser had
dismissed it all as his own overactive imagination. Refused to see the
signs -- why let himself in for still more misery? (Why face the fact that
he was far more cynical and bitter than he would like to admit -- and than
he would like to show the world?) Excused Ray's confused and longing looks
as indigestion. A bad date. Brooding about Stella.  

But it hadn't been any of those. Fraser almost shuddered to think his
white hot rage had nearly hurt a completely innocent bystander to his
temporary meltdown, to the temporary insanity that overtook him when he
saw Ray Kowalski in that bathroom stall... with a stranger doing what he,
Fraser, should be doing.  

And that rage in itself was a result of Fraser's refusal to admit he
wasn't stoic, wasn't as frozen as he would like. It was, as they said, a
"wake up call". Not just that Ray Kowalski might be the last gift Life
tumbled across his path. Not just that he had been denying for weeks the
things his dreams told him he'd like to do with his spiky-haired friend.
But that he had better face himself. And how he really felt about so many
things.  

It was like a huge burden he was afraid to put down because he was afraid
he wouldn't be able to pick it up again. But a burden he also felt he'd
collapse under, if he didn't put it down... felt he couldn't continue to
carry much longer... before something broke.  

Somehow, he had a gut feeling, a whispered intuition, Ray Kowalski was the
key. Not "the answer", but... a catalyst. For Fraser to finally face the
task of tearing down the crumbling, decrepit armor he'd built up around
him in the decades leading up to this point in his life, broken and
patched here and there as he outgrew it (and then stubbornly refused to
stop using it).  

With some planning, and with some courage and hope (bolstered, he secretly
admitted, by the blond detective), perhaps he could rebuild a better suit
of armor. A flexible suit, that could be removed when appropriate. That
didn't immobilize him. That wasn't frozen and rusted.  

And so, with trepidation, he held the reins of this new gift, with Ray
Kowalski along for the ride. It was different than with Her, and different
than with Ray Vecchio. Not better, not worse... Just different. And it was
now.  

Enough of looking back. That Bible story about Lot's wife -- what had she
gotten for all her sorrow at leaving her home, for looking back at what
she was losing? Turned to a pillar of salt. Yes. The kernel of wisdom,
Benton Fraser knew, as with many parables, was not in the literal word for
word meaning, but in the conceptual underpinning. It wasn't good for the
human psyche, this looking back. Look back when you shouldn't, and you
only hurt yourself.  

It was more important to know where the game was going, than where it had
been. And in this case, the game was him.  

Chapter 16: Pretty New At This	

"So, which establishment will we visit tonight?"  

"Nutbush."  

Constable Fraser raised his eyebrows, but before he could say a thing, Ray
said, "Don't even start."  

"Well, it's certainly a... colorful name," Fraser said mildly.	

"Colorful. Right," Ray said uncomfortably. He just couldn't reconcile the
images and ideas he'd been fed all his life about homosexuals, with his
feelings for Fraser. It was too much. I'm a cop, I'm just bein' a cop on
this job. I'm not really like them.  

"Will that be our only stop tonight?" Fraser inquired.	

"Nah, I thought if nothing turns up at Nutbush, if it's real quiet and
nobody bites, maybe the Mineshaft."  

"Ah," Fraser said.  

"'Ah'. I s'pose you mean, 'ah, another colorful name'," Ray said
irritably.  

"No, Ray, actually I was just making... a listening sound."  

"A listening sound? Listening doesn't make any noise."	

"No, but human communication proceeds between two or more people with a
variety of subtle cues, and 'listening noises' are some of those cues."  

"Listening noises."  

"Yes. For example, let's say you said what you said, again. And I was
listening, only I didn't make any sound. What would you think?"  

"You didn't hear me?"  

"Yes, or that I wasn't paying attention, perhaps. When I say something
like 'Ah', or 'Hmmmm', or similar one or two syllable neutral comments, it
cues you, then, that I have heard what you said, and I am prepared to hear
more."	

"Ah."  

"Now you're getting it."  

"No, I'm just trying to see if those 'Ah's annoy you as much as they annoy
me sometimes."	

"Now, Ray, I don't see how a simple 'Ah' can possibly be annoying."  

"When you've got a Mountie who's never wrong saying it with a know-it-all
tone, it gets annoying."  

"Ah-- understood."  

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

Ray pulled up a block from the bar, in an alley, and flipped off the car
lights.  

"Y'okay?" he asked Fraser nervously.  

"Yes, Ray," the Mountie replied, with just a slight stammer.  

"You don't have to do anything, Fraser, y'know. I can just be the bait."  

"No, Ray, then we're just waiting for the suspect to act out. We need to
be more proactive."  

"Okay," Ray said doubtfully. He scratched beneath the collar of his
button-down shirt.  

"Okay, here I go. Park wherever you want. Just gimme time to get in and
get a beer and case the joint."  

"Right you are," Fraser said.  

Ray opened the driver's side door and slid out, adjusting his clothes.
Fraser slid over, then watched, bemused.  

"What're you lookin' at?"  

"Oh, nothing," Fraser said mildly. Ray's nervous preparations touched him,
the way he worried about his looks despite a potentially dangerous
situation.  

"Don't turn on the lights 'til I get around the corner -- and wait a
couple minutes after that, okay?" Ray whispered.  

The Mountie nodded earnestly in reply.	

Ray adjusted himself one last time, then buttoned his long brown coat,
turned on his heel, and walked off down the alley. When he turned the
corner and was out of sight, Fraser dutifully began counting mentally:
one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand...  

Ray swung the door of the bar open just wide enough to slip in. Though
dim, the bar was warm and cozy. Every head in the bar turned, from the
three or four guys at the bar, to the two guys playing darts, to the
couple of men sitting across from one another in a booth. After a cursory
check, the men quickly turned their attention from Ray, back to their own
pursuits.  

Ray made a mental note of the handsome, dark-haired Clark Kent look-alike
(but without the glasses) at the bar, a couple stools down from the
others. It was a square bar that took up most of the storefront, but
because it extended far back into the building, there was room for a pool
table and electronic dart board behind the bar. No one was playing pool.  

The detective shrugged out of his coat and slid onto a bar stool not far
from the entrance, making sure the dark-haired Christopher Reeve
look-alike was diagonally across from him. He smiled faintly to himself,
thinking how like pool balls he and the other men at the bar were... I'm
the cue ball, he thought, and they're the cluster of balls I gotta break
up... Where the hell is Fraser? he thought irritably, though it had only
been a scant ten minutes before when he told Fraser not to arrive too
soon. He sighed as the bartender, with a well-groomed salt-and-pepper
beard and shining bald pate, approached.  

"What'll you have?"  

"What's on tap?"  

The bartender shrugged, and gestured at the taps. "Bud, Miller Genuine
Draft, Leinenkugel, and Goose Island."	

"Uh... oh, hell, gimme a Miller."  

The bartender turned away for a moment, filling a pint glass with Miller,
and then flipped a coaster in front of Ray and set the pint in front of
the detective.	

"Thanks."  

"Two fifty."  

"Here."  

Ray handed the man a five and waited for his change to come back. The
bartender slapped the dollars and quarters on the bar in front of Ray, and
Ray lay a dollar on the inside edge of the bar. Not good to have a
disgruntled bartender, he thought.  

"Thanks," the bartender muttered. The ceiling fans moved slowly, hardly
breaking up the smoke that wafted beneath the dropped light fixtures. Ray
grimaced -- where the hell is that damn Canadian? -- and spoke quietly as
the bartender moved away.  

"'Scuse me."  

The bartender looked over his shoulder, and the other men at the bar
looked over at Ray, curious.  

"Could I, ah, just trouble you for a toothpick?" Ray smiled, feeling his
smile too big, too wide, too insincere.  

"Oh, ex-smoker, eh?" The bartender shrugged. "Sure." He reached in among
the fruit spears and dusty drink umbrellas and grabbed a wooden toothpick.
"Here you go," he said, setting a drink napkin in front of Ray and laying
the toothpick on it.  

"Uh, thanks a lot, man," Ray said. But the bartender was already across
the small interior space, taking a refill order from Superman.	

Ray stuck the toothpick in between his cheek and molars, and tried not to
think about Fraser. God, I can't wait until this is all over, he though.
Until we have some time...  

Just then, he felt the blast of cold air as the door opened from the
outside. I won't look back, I won't look back, he thought -- I know it's
Fraser. But then he realized it might look very odd if he didn't turn and
look over his shoulder to see who'd come in. After all, any other bar
patron would, wouldn't they? He hesitated a split second more, then looked
over his right shoulder.  

Sure enough, it was Fraser, looking his usual ridiculously well-groomed,
neat, tucked and buttoned self, Ray thought, in his bomber jacket.
Fraser's cheeks were slightly red. Ray wondered if it was from the cold
weather or simple embarrassment.  

Ray realized he might be staring too long, as Fraser's gaze slowly
traveled around the bar, coming last to Ray's face. Fraser's lingering
gaze on Ray made the detective realize he ought to turn around, before
things looked suspicious to the other bar patrons. Fraser dropped his gaze
and stepped forward, as Ray turned away. The Mountie opened his jacket and
walked past Ray, deeper into the bar.  

As one would expect, everyone in the bar had also looked at Fraser. Ray
noticed Clark Kent checking Fraser out rather thoroughly. Fraser sat down
at a bar stool right on the corner of the square bar, equidistant between
the other bar patrons and Ray.	

Now what did he do that for? Ray thought irritably. But a glance back at
Clark Kent revealed that Superman was none too pleased with that either.  

The bartender approached Fraser as he gracefully removed his jacket and
sat back down after folding it onto the bar stool next to him. Ray didn't
hear what Fraser ordered, the Canadian murmured it so quietly to the
barkeep. But the bartender soon returned with a Coke. In a tall glass.
With much less ice than would be in a mixed drink. And a tall, thin, red
straw.	

Fraser sucked meditatively on the straw. Kowalski pretended to ignore him.
He withdrew the toothpick from his mouth and observed the bar in front of
him, the fraying edges of the cardboard coaster in front of him, and the
thin line of bubbles circling the surface of the beer in his pint glass.
He picked up the beer and took a sip. Then he slid his eyes purposefully
past Fraser to the two men playing darts.  

He'd been lax in his observations earlier. One of the men playing darts
had somewhat long, tawny hair. He wore a t-shirt. The other wore a nice
rugby shirt, striped maroon and gray... but he was lean. And blond. Ray
couldn't see if his eyes were blue or not... but they were definitely
light.	

Well, Ray thought, there's my double. What luck. His hair could be up
more, though. Needs a trim to stand up right. And that hairspray Stella
used to use that works good on my hair. Then it wouldn't lay limp and flat
like that.  

Fraser twitched to his left and Ray slid his eyes over to him. But Fraser
wasn't looking at him. Fraser was looking to his left, down the rest of
the bar, at the conversation between Superman and his drinking buddy.  

His drinking buddy was a slim man with horn-rimmed glasses. Hey, those
look just like mine, Kowalski thought. But the conversation soon ended,
and all eyes turned to the TV mounted on the wall behind the bar. It was
ESPN, showing extreme skiing and snowboarding bloopers. Ray thought of the
madness of people strapping thin sticks on their feet and trying to coast
down snowy mountains without crashing into trees. Like that Sonny Bono
guy. Snowmobiles... now there was a different story. A gunning engine on
some skis, with treads like a tank... now that was the way to travel
quickly across snow.  

The bartender now approached Fraser. They spoke quietly, and Fraser
blushed. Ray tried to look nonchalant as he chewed the toothpick and
watched the Mountie turn pink. Soon enough, he saw the reason why. A new
drink appeared next to the drink Fraser had barely touched.  

But surprisingly, the bartender was now standing in front of him.  

"What'll you have? Another? He's buying," the bartender said, gesturing
at... well, of course, Ray thought. Superman. But who bought the drink for
Fraser?  

"Sure, the same," he replied to the bartender, and carefully looked up at
the TV while noting the approach -- in his peripheral vision -- of the
dart players, who came to the opposite side of the bar. He could look
directly across at them, and diagonally to his left at Superman and his
pals. Fraser was directly to his left, so he was in a perfect position for
observation.  

But this was so nerve-wracking. Ray watched but didn't really see a skier
tumble down the side of a mountain, mini-avalanches in his wake, flailing
limbs and skis, one of which broke off. He realized that Superman was
giving him rather an intense look. He could feel it. Instead of looking at
Clark Kent -- oh, hard to get, that's how I'll play it -- he looked down
from the TV to the two guys directly across from him. They were
conversing, but the long-haired fellah kept looking over at Fraser. He
seemed nervous. He seemed pretty young, too.  

Ray turned his head and looked directly at Superman. The man merely raised
his eyebrows.  

Here goes. Here goes nothin'...  

Kowalski got up, leaving his coat behind -- after all, Fraser would watch
it -- and taking his two beers with him. A small cocktail table stood near
the line on the floor for the dartboard. He walked to it, deliberately
ignoring Fraser as he walked past -- even though he felt Fraser's eyes on
the back of his head as he walked away, walked into the back of the bar.  

Ray set his two pint glasses on the little table. He dug in his pocket for
change, coming up with two quarters. He put them up on the electronic
dartboard, in the little coin-shelf made just for that purpose. Then he
looked over his shoulder, with what he hoped was a good "come hither" that
wasn't too obvious or phony... and saw Superman looking right at him.  

Good. I guess... I guess this is good. He seems interested, anyway.
Momentarily guilty, Ray flicked his eyes at Fraser, but the Mountie
appeared to be engrossed in the ski bloopers on TV. Ray's eyes cut back to
Clark, and he realized with a start that the man was walking towards him. 


Oh shit. Oh shit. Damn. Now what?  

"Looking for a dart partner?" Clark Kent said casually, making no effort
to hide his up-and-down appraisal of Ray's... charms.  

"Uh, yeah," Ray said nervously.  

"My name's Chuck," the man said, extending his hand.  

"Ray," the detective responded. Oh shit, why'd I tell him my real name? Oh
well, maybe it won't matter. The man's grip was strong and it lasted just
a bit too long. Ray tried to grasp his hand in a firm "masculine"
handshake, but his hand was almost crushed in Chuck's. He belatedly
realized the man was a couple inches taller than he was.  

"So... cricket, or 301?" Chuck asked, releasing Ray's hand and gesturing
at the dart board.  

"Oh... let's try 301 for a warm up. I haven't played in a while," Ray
lied. He hadn't ever really played seriously at all.  

He side-stepped Chuck and reached for the quarters, but that strong, warm
hand descended over his, and the other grasped his elbow.  

"Let me get it," Chuck said, smiling toothily. Ray felt an uneasy prickle
of nervousness on the back of his neck. The teeth disappeared quickly but
something about "Chuck's smile set Ray's teeth on edge.  

"Sure," he said quietly, swallowing. Shit, shit. What if I've gotten
myself into more than I can... and I don't have my gun... I have the ankle
holster... but that's a girly gun anyway...  

"What did you say you do for a living?" Chuck smoothly tossed over his
shoulder as he put the quarters in.  

"I didn't," the detective responded smugly.  

"Smartass," the other man said, turning to look at Ray. He crossed his
arms over his chest and leaned back against the dart board. Ray noticed
the bulging pectoral muscles under the man's tight cotton sweater. Navy
blue. Dark like Fraser's pea coat.  

"Yeah? So?" Ray tossed back. This was more like it. Sparring. But you
don't want to alienate him. "I don't wanna talk about my job, okay?" he
added, losing the snotty tone.	

"Law enforcement, huh?" Chuck said, shaking his head.  

Ray had to physically stop himself from letting his jaw hit his chest.
Damn, this guy was good. "Is it that obvious?" the blond detective mumbled
uncomfortably.	

"Yes. No. It's just... the way you carry yourself. I can tell."  

"Oh."  

"It's not a problem," Chuck added, then stepped forward. The lights
blinked behind him: one player, two player. He turned and grabbed the red
plastic darts off the board and stabbed his finger at the two-player
button.  

Ray looked at the yellow set of darts on the cocktail table. Okay, I'm
yellow, he thought, but the cowardly connotations of the color annoyed
him.  

They played mostly in silence. Occasionally Chuck would grunt in surprise
when Ray hit a triple-seventeen or triple-nineteen. He was no good at the
bulls-eyes however -- which Chuck was. Those and the triple twenties.
Periodically each would call out to the other, "Good one" or "Nice shot". 


Chuck brushed up against Ray too closely and too frequently, Ray thought,
for this to be merely a casual game of darts. The detective kept trying to
look over to Fraser, but his only opportunity to do so was when he was
walking away from the dart board. And more often than not, Chuck was
waiting for him there, standing at the throw line, just barely blocking
Ray from positioning himself to shoot. So he was distracted from what was
going on in the rest of the bar.  

Despite his wariness, he felt the obvious vibes Superman was putting out,
and felt himself responding slightly, against his will. Hair on his arms
stood up... but maybe that was an instinctual response to a threat. But
that wouldn't explain the slightly turgid response in his cock. Nothing
firm, of course. Despite the superficial, almost reflexive responses of
his own body, it was all Ray could do not to push the man away when he got
too close. Which he did a lot.	

By this time he'd had plenty of time to really examine Chuck. He was
superficially like Fraser... but really nothing like him at all.  

Where Fraser was gentle and graceful, Chuck came across as tightly wound
and somewhat of a bull in a china shop. He was also swarthier than Fraser.
But his hair was cut short and pretty much the same way as Fraser's --
that Plastic Hair look -- and his eyes were dark. Dark brown or blue, Ray
guessed maybe black-brown. In a dim bar, Ray supposed Fraser's eyes might
seem just as dark as Chuck's. Might.  

And Chuck seemed more muscled and solid than Fraser. Very much more. Like
someone who lifted weights regularly. Something about him seemed like...
sheer coiled muscle. Like a python, waiting to strike and strangle its
prey. Or a cobra.  

With every brush up against him, Ray felt Chuck's interest, and fought
down the urge to jump back.  

At any rate, they were soon finished with the game. It had not been very
competitive, but that was fine with Ray: he won. Perhaps Chuck had let
him?  

"Come have a drink," Chuck said, tossing his darts down on the cocktail
table. Ray's were still stuck in the dartboard.  

"Uh..."  

"Oh, playing hard to get, huh?" Chuck briefly showed those strange teeth
again, but it wasn't quite like a smile.  

That really irked Ray. "I'm not playing hard to get. I am hard to get," he
said, and stomped off to the bathroom. He didn't look over his shoulder,
although he was afraid the man would tackle him. He tried to walk tall and
stride forcefully, but he felt thin and wispy.	

He let the door bang shut behind him, and moved to the urinal. He had just
gotten his pants undone and pulled himself out when Chuck quietly opened
the door. They regarded each other in the bathroom mirror. Ray heard
himself pissing.  

Chuck came in silently, and shut the door behind him. He leaned back
against it. Ray inhaled apprehensively, but as inaudibly as possible.  

"Sorry. I thought you wanted the same thing," Chuck said gruffly.  

"It's not that I don't," Ray said. Play it safe, play it smooth, he told
himself. You want to encourage him and draw him out, remember? Don't
antagonize him. He sighed. "It's just... it's been a long day. I need time
to unwind."  

"You're pretty new at this, aren't you?" Chuck shrewdly assessed him.  

Ray could only gulp, clap his mouth shut, and then turn away from those
eyes, those dark eyes, squinted just the tiniest bit... For some reason
they made Ray think of Ted Bundy, the charming serial killer... He
breathed deeply a couple times to try to relax.  

"It's okay. Everyone has to start somewhere," Chuck said with a certain
smugness to his voice.	

Ray had to fight not to turn around and smack the man. He shook off and
stuffed himself back into his pants furiously. He slowly zipped up, trying
to stall. When he turned around, Superman was only a couple feet away.	

"So. Are you up for this, or not?" The man asked.  

Ray looked up, down at the floor, away... anywhere but the man's face. "I
just... need some time," he mumbled. He attempted a smile, which felt more
like a lopsided spasm.	

Chuck nodded thoughtfully. "You just need a few more drinks," he said,
winking lasciviously.  

For some reason that made Ray want to shudder, but he stifled that, and
let the swarthy Clark Kent open the door for him.  

He felt quite light on his feet as he walked across the floor towards the
bar, knowing the man was right behind him. Just when he was turning to go
around the corner and get his coat, Chuck tapped him on the shoulder. He
turned hesitantly.  

"Why don't you sit over here, by me?" the dark Superman said. He gestured
to where he'd been sitting. His intense gaze pinned Ray to the spot.  

Ray nodded dumbly.  

But when Ray got to the bar stool where his coat sat, there was another
pint of Miller. He raised the glass to the bartender. "Thanks," he said,
and guzzled down a third of it, trying to quell the quiver in his knees.  

"Oh, don't thank me. Thank Shirley Temple over there," the bartender
gestured at Fraser.  

The Mountie blushed.  

"Oh." Ray didn't know what to say. Clark Kent was eyeing him from across
the bar. He turned briefly to Fraser. How can I let him know I think this
is the guy? Ray thought.  

"Thanks, man," he said, outwardly casual, but looking right in Fraser's
eyes. I'll do what he does a lot, Ray thought. The eyebrow thing.  

He rubbed his eyebrow with his right thumb, and simultaneously flicked his
eyes at Superman, while he looked Fraser in the face.  

"You're... welcome," Fraser said, with a mildly confused look on his face.
Then he glanced in the direction Ray had glanced. His expression cleared
in the milliseconds it had taken him to look at Chuck and look back at
Ray. The tiniest inclination of his head, and Ray realized Fraser
understood.  

That's buddies. That's how it's meant to be, Ray thought. Again, he was
amazed and gratified at the bond between them. I don't even have to
speak... he knows what I mean.	

With a much lighter heart, he gathered up his coat and took his beer and
walked over to where Chuck was. Fraser knows the score now. He'll back me
up.  

"Where'd you get that?" was the dark man's terse comment when Ray sat down
on a bar stool next to him. He meant the beer.	

"This? Oh... that guy over there," Ray innocently gestured at Fraser.  

"Him, huh? He looks like law enforcement too. I noticed he hasn't even
been drinking."  

He never drinks, Ray almost said, but then caught himself, literally
biting his tongue. He shrugged to cover his wince at the pain now
throbbing in his tongue.  

"Whatever. When you finish that, let me know," Chuck said. He threw an arm
casually over Ray's shoulders, but it felt like iron to Ray.  

There was no mistaking Mr. Dark Superman's intentions now.  

Chapter 17: Would-be, Soon-to-be, Hopefully  

But Ray smiled a bright, false smile at "Chuck" and tried to keep his
limbs from tensing with suspicion. Fortunately, he felt quite wide awake
and alert, despite the beer. The situation provoked a slight
fight-or-flight response in Ray. His body responded , his heart rate
jumped, and the adrenaline sharpened his body's senses.  

Ray belatedly noticed the long tawny-haired guy, who walked slowly around
the bar with the lean blond in the rugby shirt. A swift glance to his
right -- over the steely arm around his shoulders -- revealed them on
either side of a somewhat perplexed and obviously embarrassed Mountie. Ray
smiled, suppressing a chuckle. It figures, he thought. Fraser's trying to
hit on people, and they're hitting on him. The two younger men kept
leaning back to have a word with one another behind Fraser's back, and
then leaning forward again to talk to Fraser. Fraser looked helplessly
over at Ray, and though Ray felt for the besieged Mountie, he also
couldn't help being amused. Amused enough to cause his shoulder to jiggle
with suppressed laughter.  

Amused enough for "Chuck" to notice, and pull him roughly closer for a
word in Ray's ear -- a word on Ray's ear. The detective felt the man's
five-o'clock-shadow like sandpaper on his ear. He felt the goose bumps
rise on his arm, a ticklish spasm in his lower back, and his scalp tingled
from the unexpected tickle.  

"What's so funny," Chuck murmured in his ear as Ray squirmed.  

"Nothin'... Shirley Temple over there. He's getting tag-teamed."  

"What about it?" The murmur turned to a growl; the arm around his
shoulders tightened to hold him against the man's chest. Moved from around
his shoulders to around his shoulders and neck.  

"Nothin'. It's just... funny. He looks pretty surprised."  

"Huh," the other man grunted, looking over at Fraser. "Another initiate,"
he said sarcastically.	

"I guess..." Ray trailed off uncertainly. He wanted terribly to squirm and
shake free of "Chuck's grasp, but he knew he had to subvert that natural
instinct and stay put, the better to catch this guy. If this was the guy.
He had to remind himself: innocent until proven guilty. Though this guy
seemed anything but innocent.  

"Well, my friend," said the Superman look-alike, "You're done with your
beer. Finish mine and what say we take a little ride."	

"A ride." Ray accepted the man's beer and sipped it. A winter lager.  

"Yeah, in a car. Got a problem with that?"  

"Whose car?"  

Superman smiled with those white teeth. "Mine, of course."  

"Where we goin'?" Ray asked, trying hard not to sound anxious. He turned
to look at the man, but it was all he could do not to look over at Fraser.
 

"Nowhere. Just... around."  

"Got good heat?" Ray said, stalling.  

"It's got good heat."  

"Well... " he hesitated.  

"You know you want to," said "Chuck", crushing the blond detective against
him. "You just need a little encouragement. But you won't be sorry. Not
right away, anyway," he added. Ray couldn't tell if he meant to be
humorous, sinister, or just debauched.	

"I won't be sorry," Ray repeated dumbly. He glanced over at Fraser.  

The Mountie, as besieged as he was, appeared to be trying to have a
serious conversation with the two younger men. They seemed briefly amused
at his obvious discomfort, but then they, too, seemed to get a little long
in the face. Fraser looked over at Ray, just as Ray was finishing the last
sips of Chuck's winter lager.  

"C'mon, I'll show ya my car," Superman murmured in Ray's ear again,
half-dragging the detective off his bar stool. He steadied Ray on his
feet, hands on his shoulders. They were about the same height, but Ray had
a sudden weak feeling in his knees. Okay, now this was really going to be
the hard part. How to let this proceed without proceeding too far. And his
backup appeared to be seriously engaged in conversation with the young
guys. They looked from each other to Fraser and back, paying careful
attention. Ray tried to catch Fraser's eye. The Mountie looked over, but
not obviously. Then he looked back earnestly at his two young companions. 


Oddly, they too looked over at Ray, eyes widened. That's queer, he
thought, and then thought, great choice of words... Then they abruptly
looked back to Fraser. Expectantly. The three huddled together more
closely, and Ray felt Chuck's heavy grip on his shoulders leave.  

"Well, what're we waiting for?" The dark man said impatiently. He turned
and swung on his coat, and handed Ray his coat. "Get dressed. We're
leaving." He said it with an authority and imperiousness that rankled Ray,
but he said nothing. Bastard is probably used to giving orders and having
them obeyed, Ray thought. He shrugged into his long coat, trying to take
his time.  

His eyes felt droopy. He started to feel slightly woozy. Hmmm, those beers
musta hit me harder than I thought, he considered. While trying to get his
gloves on, he felt a liquid smooth feeling of relaxation seep through his
body. And he swayed slightly.  

Wait a minute... wait, wasn't there something about Rohypnol... did we
ever get a tox screen on Daniel? Shit, this really is the guy! Ray
thought. He spiked his beer or my beer or somethin'. I can hardly keep my
eyes open now.	

He turned drunkenly and uncertainly to look at Chuck. The swarthy Superman
chuckled at the accusing look he got from the dark blond detective. "Oh,
so you've noticed," he said quietly, taking one of Ray's elbows.  

Ray tried to wrest it out of Chuck's grasp, and almost fell with the
effort to free himself and stay standing simultaneously. But Chuck wasn't
letting go.  

"I figured you just needed a little... help to lower your inhibitions.
Don't you worry. We'll have a fine time... and you won't remember a
thing." The man actually laughed.  

Ray hoped his momentary flailing had gotten Fraser's attention. "You
bastard," he gritted out at Chuck. A sliver of a white, evil smile was the
man's only reply. Then he turned Ray around and pushed him in ahead of him
towards the door by Ray's elbow. Ray turned and looked helplessly at
Fraser and his two young friends. Don't give the game away! he thought.
But I gotta let them know something's going on!  

He realized his vision was blurring and stared over his shoulder at Fraser
and the two young men as Chuck propelled him out of the bar. Even the
blast of cold air on his face didn't rouse Ray. The last thing he saw in
the bar was three heads, one tawny, one dark, and one blond like himself,
three heads turning to follow his progress past them. The door banged shut
and he was alone outside with Chuck.  

"Come on," Chuck said pleasantly, but there was no mistaking the steel
underlying his superficial niceness. He now held Kowalski by the forearm,
and pulled him along down the street. "My car is just around the corner,"
he added.  

"Right," Ray said thickly, feeling as if his limbs and body were swimming
through milk instead of the bitter cold gusts of winter breezes. "What're
we doing then?"  

"You'll see," Chuck said, pulling Ray along over the unevenly shoveled
snow, grime, salt rocks, and concrete. He smiled to himself, a terrifying
thing, Kowalski thought. If he hadn't been feeling like he couldn't keep
his eyes open and could barely put one foot in front of the other, he'd
have tried to get away. But his limbs felt like lead and he realized he
was probably only moving in a more or less straight line because he was
being led.  

They turned the corner and just as they went 'round it, Ray thought he
heard a dim banging sound far behind them. I probably just imagined that,
he thought. The light snow, filthy as it was in spots, sparkled under the
streetlights.  

His eyes kept falling shut, but he got a good look at the car. The black
four-door Ford Crown Victoria Chuck pulled him to had frost on the back
window. Had Ray been able to shudder, he would have -- the guy must have
an authority thing, because that was definitely a cop-wannabe car.  

Chuck propped Ray against the side of the car while he unlocked it. Ray
began sliding down, his knees like taffy, but Chuck grabbed him and opened
the door. He shoved Kowalski into the car, none too graciously, face
first. The detective could not coordinate his arms to break his fall. He
sprawled helplessly across the front seat, face down. Shit! he thought
foggily. Fraser!  

"While that is a very inviting position," Chuck said, "I really need for
you to sit up in the passenger seat." Ray heard the sound of fabric on
fabric. He couldn't even open his eyes anymore, but he felt himself pulled
back out of the car like a rag doll.  

"Just try to keep your feet under you long enough to walk around the car,"
Chuck said cheerily. But under that cheery tone was a hard and merciless
quality. Had Ray even been able to feel his legs, they would have shaken
involuntarily.	

Fraser, where are you? he thought. Are you following me? He could hardly
feel his limbs moving as Chuck propelled him around the car, unlocked the
passenger door, opened it and shoved Kowalski roughly in. He opened the
detective's coat, unbuttoning the buttons slowly. Kowalski felt his
stomach stroked. But then he heard a door slam dimly and felt the car
vibrate with the aftershocks of that impact.  

"Well, this won't do... much too cold," Chuck said, climbing in the
driver's door and slamming it behind him. Ray heard keys, then the sound
of a car trying to start up in winter, coughing and gasping, until it
wheezed and started up. "Much better," Superman said. "Now, for some heat.
Not that you'll need it in a few hours," he added quietly.  

Ray dimly heard the man's comment and wondered idly what it meant. By now
he was barely able to remain conscious. The only thing that he stayed
awake for was to hear the sound of Fraser's authoritative voice calmly and
evenly telling this guy to get out of his car. But it didn't come.  

The heater roared into life and Ray wondered at how quickly he felt warm.
It was only a surface warmth, he thought dimly. Inside, he felt very cold.
Maybe that was the Rohypnol. Or whatever date rape drug this guy had fed
him.  

The radio came on, and he felt someone tugging at him. He realized briefly
that the tugging was his belt and his zipper. Oh boy, someone's going to
help me piss. Great. But then he realized that helping him piss was the
last thing on this guy Chuck's mind. Besides, he could now feel warm air
blowing over his private parts. Can I get hard under the influence of this
drug? he wondered idly. Another part of his brain screamed, Wake up!
You're about to be slashed open and dumped in an alley! But that part of
his brain was soooooo far away.  

"Mmmmmm. Very nice." As from a great distance, Ray felt his genitals being
manipulated. It felt oddly like he was being handled by a nurse. Like he
was a baby. Well, he was helpless as a baby.  

Then, as if his nerve endings were about five miles down a narrow country
road, he felt slow pleasure seep like syrup to coat his brain. With a very
great effort, he was able to briefly open one rolling eye, and see a swift
glance of Chuck's dark head in his lap. Oh, so that's what that is, he
thought vaguely. What a way to go.  

Then there was a dull, faraway pinprick, like when his callused feel had
stepped on something sharp -- only in his groin. He felt a sudden
increased warmth and liquid heat on his privates. He tried but wasn't able
to open his eyes. It felt very far away even as it felt very soothing. And
even as he felt himself slipping away. Sleepy, he thought. Sleep is good. 


Then he felt a sudden jerk, and heard the door beside him fly open. Now,
clearer than he had felt the pleasure or heat, he felt a great chill over
his private parts.  

"Ray! Ray! Open your eyes!" It was Fraser's blessed voice. Ray smiled a
small lopsided smile in his stupor. He came through, he thought. He always
does.  

"What the--"  

"This the guy?"  

"Yes! Do not let him go."  

Someone rummaged around in Ray's coat. He felt like a doll that had been
undressed, and now he was being dressed again.	

"He's bleeding an awful lot! Shouldn't we do something?"  

"I am. I'm calling 911."  

Oh, that musta been my phone he was getting out, Ray told himself
sleepily.  

"You got nothin' on me. He's a cutter, he likes cutting. We were just
having a little fun."  

"No, sir, he most certainly is not, and fun was not what you were planning
on having. However, he is a Chicago police detective, and I am a Mountie,
and you are under arrest."  

"You can't arrest me! You got no jurisdiction here!"  

"No, I don't. But I have eyewitnesses and the people whose jurisdiction
you do fall under will be arriving shortly."  

Then Ray heard the Mountie giving an address and saying there was an
officer down. No, no, he was down on me. I wasn't down on him. I never did
that yet. I was hoping... hoping I could... with you, Frase...	

"Ray, can you hear me? Ray if you can hear me, give me a sign." The
detective tried valiantly to open his eyes, but couldn't. He must have
frowned slightly with the effort, though, because Fraser said, "Oh, thank
God. Good. Now, Ray, I want you to keep listening to the sound of my
voice. I'm putting pressure on points in your pelvis because you're
bleeding and I've got to stop it until the paramedics get here. Keep
listening. If you can hear me, stick out your tongue if you can."  

Ray tried to stick out his tongue, but it felt glued to the roof of his
mouth and the sides of his teeth.  

"Okay, you can move your lips, that will work fine too."  

The detective heard distant sirens and if he had been tense, he would have
relaxed upon hearing them. However, because he was already about as
relaxed as he could be, his mouth worked.  

"Yes, Ray? You're trying to say something?"  

Again, from seemingly far away, the sensation of something brushing Ray's
lips came to him down a winding path and penetrated his brain slowly. He
tried to speak but barely a croaking whisper came out of him. It sounded
as if it came from another person. The only reason he knew it was himself
speaking was because he dimly felt his lips moving in cadence with the
words spoken.  

"Thanks. You saved me."  

"I would never let anything happen to you, Ray."  

"Know that. You're... best partner... and friend... and..."  

"Don't talk, Ray. Save your strength. I'm here. The paramedics are coming.
You will be in good hands shortly."  

But despite the cold distance Fraser's voice seemed to travel, Ray thought
he heard a tremor, a quavering of that voice. Nah. It must just be the
effect of the drug.  

Soon he was briefly aware of many voices, of being moved, of bright light
and shouting. The rag doll feeling grew heavier and heavier and he slipped
away, feeling peaceful... and thinking dreamy, peaceful thoughts of
Fraser's smooth, pale flesh, stretched out beside him. Fraser...  

* * *  

Ray Kowalski's pale eyelids finally stirred. Fraser was on his feet and
next to his bed in an instant, grasping his hand.  

Ray yawned and stretched, not even realizing he was grasping his partner's
hand until he opened his eyes fully.  

"Hey, Fraser, what's-- hey, but-- what the..."	

"You're in the hospital, Ray. You got injured last night when we were
pursuing the slasher. You... may not remember it."  

Ray looked at him, somewhat alarmed. Then he realized he had a number of
bandages under his hospital gown -- at his groin. He flung Fraser's hand
from him and frantically ripped the blanket and sheets away from his body.
He pulled up the hospital gown, not even caring who walked in, or who saw
his nakedness.	

"Oh my God..."	

"It's not as bad as it looks, Ray, you've got stitches--"  

"Not as bad as it looks!? How can you say that? It didn't happen to you!" 


"I feel terrible, Ray. I wish we'd gotten there sooner, but I didn't want
to blow your cover and miss catching him. Believe me, I can hardly forgive
myself."  

Ray blinked at the gauze taped on either side of his genitals, and then
blinked up at Fraser. In the glaring fluorescent light of the hospital,
his pupils were small. But Fraser noted this with a sigh of relief,
knowing it meant the drug was out of Ray's system.  

"You were there?" Ray whispered.  

"Yes," Fraser said miserably. "I had enlisted the aid of two of the other
men at the bar... they came with me but we tailed you from a distance...
when you got in the car it was all I could do not to run over and... well,
we came up to it slowly, to give him time to... do what he was going to
do... but I guess we took too much time."  

He grasped his Stetson, and looked at the floor guiltily.  

"So, like, what did he do?"  

"Well, he, ah... initially he, uh, took you into his mouth, but then he...
he'd had his bottom incisors cosmetically modified into fangs."  

"What?!"  

"Yes, apparently he's obsessed with the idea of being a vampire. Hence the
need for blood. At any rate, after... exciting you, he then bit you where
the femoral artery passes closest to the surface of the skin--"  

"He bit me?"  

"Yes, apparently he did."  

"Is this how he did all the other guys?"  

"I'm not sure. However, Daniel did identify him in a lineup. If we can get
a confession--"  

Ray shook his head, lifting the gauze cautiously. He had two jagged cuts,
each on either side of his genitals, in the crease between thigh and
pelvis. Each was also stitched. The stitching thread stuck up out of each
wound. He sighed.  

"He's never gonna confess, Fraser. That guy was one cold, calculating
bastard. I doubt he'll confess unless they come up with evidence or DNA to
tie him to the homeless murders or Daniel's attack. Even if they do, he's
probably the type who'd deny it to his grave, even with a mountain of
proof around him."  

"You may be right," Fraser replied quietly, glancing up at Ray from his
hat. "I'm very, very sorry, Ray, that I didn't get there in time."  

"Hey, Frayzh, it doesn't look too bad. At least they don't hurt much. Just
sore like an extra bad paper cut. It's just... where it's sore."  

"Yes, I can see how that would make it... more uncomfortable."	

"Hey, all that means is I get to walk around with no pants for a while,"
Ray said, covering himself again, with a slightly lascivious smirk at
Fraser.  

"Yes, well--" Fraser looked back down, coloring. "I don't think you can do
that in public, Ray."  

"Nah... which means, paid time off! All right!" Ray paused, serious for a
moment. "'Sides, Frayzh, I know you wouldn't have let him do anything
seriously bad to me. Thanks for being there. You don't know how much
better I felt knowing you were backin' me up."	

The Mountie looked up at his friend, his partner... his would-be,
soon-to-be, hopefully lover. "Wild horses couldn't have dragged me away,
Ray," he said earnestly.  

"Aw, I know. And I know it's not just cuz... I mean, that woulda been true
before, before we--"  

"Yes," Fraser interrupted emphatically.  

"I know." Ray smiled sweetly, dropping his eyes. "Thanks, Frayzh. I don't
know why you care. But I'm glad you do." The long fringe of blond lashes
on his cheeks fluttered, and the Mountie thought he might almost cry. But
then Ray's eyes popped open again.  

"So, like, how long do I have to be in here?"  

"The attending physician said probably no more than overnight. They just
want to make sure there's no infection. Human bites can be very
infectious."  

"Can they, now," Ray said, looking chastely away from Fraser, but eyeing
him with a sidelong glance.  

"They can indeed. As a matter of fact--"  

"I'm just teasin' ya, Frayzh. I know they're really bad. Worse than dog or
cat bites, they say."  

"Yes."	

They lulled into a short silence, and Ray laid back down on his hospital
bed. Looking at the ceiling. Paid time off, that sounded good. Paid time
off with no pants on sounded even better. He smiled to himself. Paid time
off with no pants on and Fraser, would be best of all. But since nothing
happened to Fraser, no doubt he'd still be on the job. He sighed
wistfully.  

"Can I get you anything, Ray?" Fraser said, leaning forward anxiously.	

"Nah. Not really. Only... Just one thing..."  

"Anything."  

That made Ray smile again. He looked over at Fraser, from under his
lowered lashes. "Does this door lock?" he asked quietly.  

The Mountie stood and put his hat on the chair he'd vacated, then strode
to the door, opened it, checked the door jamb, the inside knob -- a
handle, rather than a rounded knob. There was a lock.  

"Yes, Ray, it appears that it does--"  

"Lock it, Frayzh."  

The Mountie looked over at Ray, who looked up at him from under his
eyelashes. If he doesn't go for this, I am a complete failure as a
seducer, Ray thought. Fortunately, Fraser was just turning the lock in the
closed door when he realized what Ray meant. Again the color seeped upward
from the collar of his Serge. He smiled weakly.  

"C'mon, Fraser... come over here."  

"Ray, I think it perhaps best if you--"  

"I'll lay still. I promise. Just c'mere and sit down by me."  

"I-- I-- all right..."	

He closed the short distance between the door and Kowalski in less than a
second. He stood uncertainly above Ray.  

"Help me get these stupid guard rail things down, Frayzh."  

"Oh. Certainly."  

The Mountie carefully and quietly released the hospital bed rail on his
side, and let it down gently.  

Ray patted the bed beside him, and moved over slightly, wincing as he
scooted his butt.  

Fraser sat, feeling light-headed and as if he were a puppet, with no will
or desire of his own to refuse. Well, of course not, he reflected. Now
that this was all over, he wanted nothing more than to crush Ray Kowalski
in his arms, worried and grateful and relieved that Ray was all right,
feeling guilty for not saving Ray from the situation Ray had had to get
into, in order to catch the slasher. He looked cautiously at the door,
which had a narrow, upright rectangular window.  

"Ray," he said nervously, "the door..."  

"What about it..." Ray was already sliding his hand over Fraser's knee, up
his thigh.  

"It has a window."  

The hand stopped and was snatched away. "Oh."  

They both looked up, Fraser at the door, Ray overhead.	

"Ray--"  

"Hey, Fraser, there's a curtain. It's pushed all the way back since I'm
the only one in this room. But, why doncha... pull the curtain."  

"Oh. Yes, of course," the Mountie said, ducking his head sheepishly and
standing. He walked to the head of the bed and drew the curtain from
behind it, and then slowly walked around the bed, arm raised as the
curtain was drawn along behind him.  

Ray watched admiringly. Fraser cut such a cool figure. Those broad
shoulders, strong arms. That uniform. He didn't know if he envied Fraser
or was attracted to him. Well, he knew he was attracted. But the wonder
that such a handsome man could possibly find him attractive stole over Ray
with a grateful and boyish excitement.	

The curtain drawn, Fraser paused uncertainly at the other side of the head
of the bed. The guard rail was still up on that side.  

Ray wordlessly patted the bed where Fraser had first sat, looking up
directly at the Mountie, with those clear, blue eyes. Fraser noted
something different in them. Hopeful. Bashful. Needful.  

He walked silently around the bed and sat back down next to Ray.  

Ray took his hand.  

"Frayzh," he breathed, shutting his eyes, gripping Fraser's hand strongly.
 

It was almost as if, now that they had the opportunity, they were both too
shy. But a slight tug on that hand made Fraser realize Ray at least wanted
one thing. One small sign of affection.  

The Mountie leaned over and, propping himself on his other hand, on the
other side of Ray's slim hips, he closed his eyes modestly. Then he softly
pressed his lips to his partner's.  

For just a moment -- a moment that seemed infinite -- Ray and Fraser were
still, lip to lip, the mixed softness of their lips and roughness of their
stubble (though Fraser's was by far the least stubbly) the only sensation
between them. Other than their clasped hands.  

And then Ray moved his lips under Fraser's, and the Mountie felt his lips
slowly part under the point of Ray's tongue. But it seemed all Ray wanted
was to know that Fraser would permit it. He withdrew it quickly, after the
briefest touch of the tip of his tongue to Fraser's. Fraser felt vaguely
disappointed and yet simultaneously relieved. It was a bit nerve-wracking,
here in the hospital. He opened his eyes and pulled away slowly. Ray
finally relinquished his hand and Fraser used both hands to re-fasten his
collar as he stood up.	

The detective lay back after first rearranging his pillows.  

"So that guy ID-ed him in a lineup?" he asked, fidgeting with the edge of
the beige cotton blanket.  

"Yes, immediately," Fraser said, clearing his throat. He glanced at
Kowalski, who was looking away, looking down.  

"That was one creepy guy, Frayzh. I kept wanting to push him away. It was
all I could do not to kick him in the head."  

"I can understand. He seemed to get... under your skin."  

"God, he creeped me out."  

"Understandable." The Mountie shook his head. He had enlisted the other
men as much to prevent his own overreaction, as to ensure Ray's safety and
the suspect's apprehension.  

"It is?" Ray looked worried, his forehead broken by parallel lines.  

"It is what?" Fraser looked at him, unsure what he meant.  

"Understandable to you? That he creeped me out big time."  

"Yes..." The Mountie was at a loss to understand Ray's concern.  

"Okay." Ray relaxed, though he eyed Fraser dubiously.  

"Why do you ask?" Fraser glanced at Ray curiously.  

"I just didn't want you to think-- you didn't think-- I wanted it, did
you? I mean, from him? From anyone besides you?"  

"Oh," Fraser said thoughtfully, then felt his face grow hot. He dropped
his eyes, remembering his first reaction to seeing his partner in such a
state, with a different stranger, at the dance club. "No, Ray, I didn't
think that," he said gently.  

But he felt guilty for two reasons. One, because that fleeting thought had
occurred to him about Ray and the suspect, before being summarily
dismissed. Two because it made him recall the first incident between Ray
and a stranger.  

"Ray, don't worry about that. That won't happen again," he added quietly,
looking back up at Ray. Their eyes met and Ray searched his gaze until he
seemed satisfied that Fraser held no lingering resentment.  

Ray shivered. Fraser, to dispel the mood that had suddenly descended on
him, stood up walked around the bed and drew the curtain aside again.  

"Ah, Frayzh." Ray smiled affectionately, watching the Mountie walk to the
door and unlock it. "We coulda, ya know, fooled around a little bit."  

"It's, ah, not that I wouldn't like to, Ray. It just..."  

"Isn't the right time or place."  

"Correct."  

Ray sighed, watching his big partner as Fraser moved back to the chair on
the other side of his bed. The Mountie removed his hat from the seat
before sitting down. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fidgeting
with his hat.  

"Fraser, you don't have to stay here all day and all night," Ray smiled at
him.  

"I know that. I just-- well, I feel I should."	

"It's okay. I know you got stuff to do."  

"Actually..." the big Canadian trailed off, embarrassed.  

"Actually, what?"  

"Actually, I really don't have anything to do," Benton Fraser smiled, to
himself as much as to his partner. "Nothing at all."  

"Meaning, you have no life?"  

"In a manner of speaking."  

Ray shook his head, chuckling. "Join the club, Frayzh. Are we a pair, or
what?"	

They were still smiling at each other with faintly silly grins when the
nurse came in.	

Chapter 18: One Foot In Front Of The Other  

"Okay, okay, Fraser, I can do the damn wheelchair--"  

"Ray, it's not exactly recommended for speeding down the corridors--"  

"Fraser, I haven't been out of bed for twenty minutes, and you're givin'
me a hard time. Lemme get some fun outta this, before I actually have to
stand up and lean on you to walk, all right?"  

"Oh, all right," Fraser fretted, following Ray as he zipped down the hall
merrily. The lead Ray had on him lengthened as the detective pumped the
wheels strongly. At the intersection of the hallway with another, Ray
stopped the wheels so strongly, he was almost thrown out of the chair. He
attempted to roll back, in a "wheelie" on the back two tires, and
succeeded -- for about half a second, before falling forward hard.  

"Ow."  

"That should teach you, Ray," Fraser scolded, catching up with him.  

"Hey, I was cruisin' pretty good there. I can see how these guys play
basketball this way, now."  

"Well, Ray, you're officially discharged, and you get as much time off as
you like, with pay, injured in the line of duty. So let's get you home,
shall we?"  

"That was pretty cool of Welsh, huh?" Ray asked as the Mountie took the
handles and wheeled him around the corner to the elevator.  

"Yes, it was, but then, I can't think of a single incident where one of
his men wound up hospitalized, where he didn't come to visit them."  

"Yeah, but... I'm not really one of his 'men'. I'm only pretending to be."
 

"But you are, Ray. Besides, Lieutenant Welsh, as much as he may bark at
you, seems quite happy with your investigative abilities. Your success is
a reflection on him, and he is no doubt as proud for you as he is happy to
acknowledge that you're one of his men."  

"Ya think so? I dunno. Anyways, I wish I'da been conscious when he was
here."	

They were in the elevator now. Ray fidgeted, adjusting his robe and
hospital gown. They'd given him some very loose-fitting scrub pants to
wear, after he'd complained loudly that his ass would be hanging out of
his hospital gown down on the street.  

"These pants are never gonna stay up, Frayzh."	

"I thought you said you were looking forward to walking around all day
wearing no pants?" Fraser teased him.  

"Yeah, in my own house, fine. Not on the street where everyone can see
me!"  

"But if you only do it in your own house... couldn't you do that anytime,
Ray?"  

"Quit givin' me a hard time, Fraser." Ray leaned his head way back in the
chair, looking up at his partner with squinted, tough-guy eyes. But it
only served to amuse Fraser more, as his view of Ray was upside down.  

"Understood," the Mountie said, as the elevator doors opened.  

An orderly stayed with Ray in the foyer as the Mountie went to find a taxi
outside. He soon returned and waved through the doors. The orderly wheeled
Ray out through the automatic doors to the curb where the taxi waited.
Fraser spoke to the cabby through the open passenger window.  

Soon enough, though, Ray was standing -- in slippers embarrassingly like
ballet slippers. Thank God Huey and Dewey were nowhere nearby to see this.
Fraser and the orderly supported Ray on either side as he stepped to the
cab.  

It wasn't the standing that hurt. Just the walking, pulling one foot
forward, then the next. The wounds were still tender, and in exactly the
wrong place. Rather like getting a bad paper cut in the crease where your
knuckle bends, but these were right over the tendons that joined his
thighs to his pelvis. Ray sighed, leaning more heavily on Fraser,
forgetting his pride for the moment.  

He sat heavily in the taxi, already feeling quite cross and embarrassed
for feeling so dependent on others. It bugged him.  

"Thank you kindly, sir," Fraser said, shaking the orderly's hand. Then he
turned quickly back to Ray, who was using his hands to pick up his own
legs and drag them into the taxi.  

"Ouch. Damn. Ouch. I didn't think it would hurt this much. How many
pain-killers did they give me?"  

"Ray, you don't want to numb all the pain, or you'll start walking and
being more active than you should be, too soon."  

"I don't give a damn, I just wanna pass out when I get home, Frayzh."  

"Oh." The Mountie shut the door carefully, after making sure his partner
had all limbs safely in the taxi. Then he ran around to the other side of
the car and hopped in, accidentally jostling Ray in his hurry to settle in
and shut the door.  

"Fraser, watch it, man," Ray said, getting cranky.  

"Terribly sorry, Ray."	

"Huh. Jeeze, I wish they hadn't cut all my clothes off me. That sucks. I
liked that pair of jeans. They didn't even have to cut 'em off me."  

"Well, Ray, with all the blood, I don't think that was immediately
apparent to them."  

"Whatever. Oh well, maybe I'll get a nice raise for risking my ass this
way, and I can buy as many pairs of jeans as I want after this," Ray
mused.	

"Possibly."  

"Ya never know."  

"True."  

They didn't speak for a moment, as Ray looked out the window. The world
was quite the same, he realized. And yet it all felt somehow different. He
wondered if he were having some strange, delayed reaction to the recent
changes between he and Fraser -- or if it was the experience with Chuck --
or maybe it was just the drugs they had him on.  

He wondered if Fraser regretted any of the things they'd done, then shooed
that thought away. The Mountie would hardly have sat by his bed all day
and night if that were the case. But then, as he thought about it, he
realized that Fraser could easily spend day and night at his hospital bed,
and still regret crossing that line with him.  

But he kissed me. He did kiss me, Ray thought.	

But then he thought, Yeah, but like a cold fish. But then, he's not really
super-warm, at least not when other people are around.	

He fingered his robe absently, wondering about his partner, watching the
traffic go by.	

Fraser looked from the traffic, which barely moved, to the cabbie, to Ray.
Ray seemed to be half-day-dreaming, half-aware. He hoped that this
incident didn't put Ray off physical affection... then felt himself
blushing with guilt at having such selfish thoughts. The man needs time to
heal, to rest, he chided himself. There's plenty of time for... other
things, later.	

"Frayzh," Ray began casually, looking from the traffic down to his lap,
"You comin' up with me? I mean to my apartment."  

"Of course, Ray! I'm going to help you out of this taxi, into your
building, we'll pick up your mail, and then--"	

"But I mean, uh, will you stay a while... ?" Ray said, still fidgeting
with the edge of the robe, not looking at Fraser. As if he weren't
expecting that much.  

"Of course, Ray, I can't have you-- Oh." Fraser suddenly realized what
else the detective might have meant. For the umpteenth time that day, he
blushed, thinking how he had wondered about and wanted the same thing, but
would never have had the nerve to ask. Not now, not with Ray in this
state.	

"Oh? And?" Ray prompted him, looking sideways, and glancing at the cabby. 


"Yes, Ray," Fraser said, looking out the window. He reached over to Ray
surreptitiously, hoping the cabby wouldn't notice, and squeezed Ray's
forearm a tad longer than he meant to, sliding his grip slightly more
sensually than he'd intended. "Of course, Ray, I'll stay a while. We'll
have to make you something to eat, get you settled in bed or on the
couch--"  

"That's okay, Frayzh, you don't have to cook. We can order in."  

"Understood."  

"Yeah, I'm just not up for that lichen and bark pasta tonight," he smiled,
looking over at his partner, who was just releasing his arm.  

"Ray, you'd perhaps be surprised to know that I have never eaten pasta
with lichen or bark."  

"But you probably would."  

"That's neither here nor there."  

"I know, Frayzh... it's out there." He chuckled and lightly grazed
Fraser's upper arm with his fist. But it was much more of a ... caress by
the back of his hand, he realized belatedly, and then quickly drew his
hand back, glancing at the cabby and the rear view mirror.  

"Well, Ray, actually, there are kinds of bark with medicinal purposes.
Slippery elm, for example..."  

And Ray let Fraser lecture him that way, for the rest of the trip.  

*** *** ***  

"Jeeze, I didn't think I'd be this tired and in this much pain!" Ray
yelled, falling backward onto the sofa heavily. "Man!"	

The wolf trotted excitedly from the door to the sofa and back, making
excited noises in his throat.  

"Are you all right, Ray? Did I hurt you?"  

"Nah, Fraser, it just hurts. Hurts to put one foot in front of the other,
dammit. I dunno how I'm gonna even walk around this damn apartment," Ray
sulked, untying the drawstring of his scrub pants.  

"What would you like me to do first, Ray? Would you like to stay here, or
would you rather be in bed?"  

Ray thought of his bed, wondering when he'd last changed his sheets. Nope.
Sofa was better.  

"Sofa's okay. 'Sides, ain't got a TV in the bedroom."  

"All right. Let me get some blankets..." And the Mountie was taking off
his coat, and then his Serge jacket, and those broad shoulders and that
strong back were visible again to Ray. He'd conjured them up in his mind
so many times while the fully-clothed version had sat next to his hospital
bed. He watched Fraser walk down the short hallway and open the closet by
the bathroom. Then he went back to untying the drawstring. The wolf
watched, then lay down by the sofa, keeping an eye on Ray.  

Now, how to get the pants off. No matter how you cut it, it would require
bending over -- at the waist, somehow, without also bending at the hips,
which was gonna hurt, or pull a muscle in his back. Ray eased the waist
open now that the drawstring was untied. Well, it was a start. He glumly
realized he might be laid up for longer than he had originally thought.
Dief looked at him, cocking his deaf head.  

"Did you want a cotton blanket, or one of these acrylic thermal--"  

"I don't care, Frayzh, I just want my pillows and a blanket. And I'm
takin' the back cushions off this damn couch or I won't be able to lie
flat on it."  

"You could put your feet up on the coffee table."  

"I'm supposed to sleep like that?"  

"You chose the couch, Ray. Perhaps the bed would be a better choice."  

"Nah--" he grumbled, pulling back cushions out from behind him, and
tossing them over the messy coffee-table, onto the floor. Aha, he though,
spying the remote control. He leaned over to get it, and pain shot into
the front of both hips. "Ah!"  

"Are you all right?" Fraser was suddenly standing in front of him, looking
alarmed, and holding blankets and sheets.  

"Yeah," Ray sighed, hefting the remote control. "I was just trying to get
this."	

"Ray," Fraser began, depositing the blankets and sheets next to his
partner on the sofa. He knelt down, and grasped one of Kowalski's knees.
"Ray, please, try to take it easy. The less you do now, the more you can
do later. If you want something, let me get it, all right?"  

The earnestness in that innocent, handsome face tugged at Ray. He
swallowed a lump in his throat and replied hoarsely. "Okay, all right..." 


"Thank you." With that, the Mountie was on his feet, and suddenly hauling
Ray up. With one swift move, he bent down, gently dropped Ray carefully
onto his shoulder -- avoiding the depth of the crease between Ray's legs
and pelvis -- and picked the detective up bodily.  

Dief barked excitedly, on his feet.  

"Uh, Fraser, what the hell are you doin'--"  

"I'm merely moving you, Ray. To the recliner chair."  

"Why?" Ray demanded.  

"So I can put the sheets on the couch."  

If he hadn't been hanging face first over Fraser's shoulder, Ray thought,
he'd be reaching up to push Fraser's help away. But, as it was, he was
pretty helpless at this moment, not wanting to struggle or kick. He knew
it would only hurt more. He sighed, exasperated.  

"Fraser, next time, you gotta warn me. Just say, Ray, my friend, I'm gonna
heave you up like a sack of potatoes--"  

"Ray, my friend, I'm gonna heave you up--" and Fraser was now setting him
back down, in the recliner. "--and set you right down in this chair. Like
a sack of potatoes."  

He quickly turned to the couch. Within just a few minutes, he had the
fitted sheet on the seat cushions of the sofa, the top sheet and blanket
on top. He drew them back and approached Ray in the chair.  

"Ready, Ray?"  

"Oh, all right," Ray said, putting his hand up. Fraser drew him up to
stand by his hand, then bent down to assume the weight of Ray's body over
his right shoulder. When he straightened his legs, Ray again was looking
at the floor, from a vantage point some six feet in the air, alongside a
wonderful view of the ass-end of the Mountie's trousers. He whistled.  

"Nice view, Fraser," he wisecracked, smiling. He held himself up slightly
from Fraser's shoulder with his hands, propped against the strong back of
his partner. Too much close contact, right where his hips bent, and ouch.
He watched the backs of Fraser's legs, wondering what the Mountie was
doing. Then he realized Fraser was moving the coffee table out of his way
with his feet.	

"Here you go, Ray," Fraser said as a warning, and bent down, setting Ray
on his feet before the sofa. "Have a seat."  

"Okay," Ray said, grateful, and sat down gingerly. This was all right.
"Help me out here," he added, pointing at his pants.  

"What do you want me to--"  

"Pull. On the legs."  

"Are you sure--"  

"Look, Frayzh, it hurts to bend forward and pull them off my legs myself.
It hurts to tuck my ass up off the couch so I can slide them off my hips.
No matter which way I do it, it's gonna hurt. Now, are you gonna help me,
or do I have to hurt myself?" Ray asked, getting testy.  

Fraser looked down at the resolute stare he got from his partner, and
realized that this had nothing whatsoever to do with any kind of romantic
intentions on Ray's part, and purely to do with comfort. Abashed, he knelt
in front of Ray again. It is possible, he thought to himself, to be too
innocent, to see certain things where they were not... Though technically,
that isn't innocence, it was prudishness...  

"Sorry, Ray," he said quietly. He grasped the scrub pants at the very
loose, baggy knees.  

"I'm gonna hold my ass up off this couch by my hands, Fraser, and you
pull, okay?"  

"Right."  

Ray put his hands on either side of his hips, and picked his hips up.
Fraser swiftly pulled the scrub pants down to his knees. Ray let his butt
crash back down on the sofa with relief. Fraser slowly drew the scrub
pants the rest of the way down Ray's thin legs. He averted his eyes, not
wanting to embarrass Ray. But he couldn't help but glance at Ray's exposed
genitals, an image rising in his mind of the evening in the parlor at the
Consulate...  

Ray watched the color rise in his partner's face as the Mountie
straightened up and wordlessly handed him the scrub pants, turning away.
But the detective had an idea what was on Fraser's mind, and caught his
friend's hand. Fraser turned back to him, fastening his eyes on Ray's pale
face.  

"Fraser..." Ray began, then paused. What am I gonna say? "Wait a minute,"
he asked, then let Fraser's hand go, threw the scrub pants across the room
into the chair, and swung his legs carefully into the envelope of sheet
and blanket that the Mountie had turned down for him. He pulled the covers
over his legs.	

"Okay. Now, as I was saying, Frayzh. Um... I'm, uh, you know, kind of
wounded right now. But, uh, not where it counts, you know? My dick's
working perfectly fine," he said, then realized how crude that sounded.
"That's not what I-- I mean-- oh, hell. Do you get me here, Fraser? What
I'm trying to say? You don't have to... keep your hands all to
yourself..." He said, looking up at Fraser.  

With that wistful look, Fraser felt less embarrassed. Thank goodness I'm
not the only one of us thinking such thoughts.	

He sat carefully at the edge of the sofa, not touching Ray.  

"I understand. I just don't want to-- they're still pretty fresh, Ray--"  

"But they got sutures and they're bandaged. And everything in between is
workin' just fine, Frayzh." Ray ducked his head, embarrassed. He'd begun
to stiffen, just thinking about the things he'd like to do now.  

"Besides," he added awkwardly, "I can, I can touch you, there's nothin'
wrong with you -- that I don't already know about..." he teased gently.  

"No," Fraser said, swallowing, seeing the slight tenting of the blanket
and sheet at Ray's crotch. "No, there's nothing wrong with me..."  

"But you know that's not it, right? That's not all I'm after. I mean--"
Ray sighed, exasperated. He wasn't at all getting things across in the way
he meant to.  

"I think I know what you mean, Ray," Fraser said, laying his hand on Ray's
wrist.	

"Do you?" Ray looked at him, directly, not a shred of modesty in his face,
because none was required.  

"I think you mean... that is isn't just the physical that you're speaking
of."  

"Yeah."  

"See, I knew what you meant."  

"Yeah. Not that I'm opposed to the physical, you know," Ray added,
dropping his eyes shyly. "We haven't really--"	

"No, we haven't, not much..."  

"Yeah."  

They were silent, Fraser looking at Ray, Ray looking down at the
unintentional tent at his crotch.  

Fraser must think I am the biggest pig, he thought. I hope he doesn't
think I let my dick do all the thinking in my life.  

Ray must be in so much pain, Fraser thought. I don't know how he can even
be thinking of all of this, of me, at such a time, but he is.  

He patted Ray's wrist, then stood up.  

"Sit tight, Ray. I'll get your phone book. Let's order whatever you want.
Dief," he called, and the wolf was immediately at the couch. "Keep an eye
on our Ray, here," he said, affectionately, then nodded at Ray. The wolf
promptly settled down at the foot of the couch, and Ray leaned over to the
distant coffee table.  

"Frayzh..." he said as the Mountie began to walk away.	

"Yes, Ray? Oh," Fraser said, realizing what Ray wanted. He retrieved the
remote control from the coffee table, and then pushed the coffee table
back close to the sofa, leaving room for Deifenbaker. He handed the remote
to Ray.  

"Thanks, Fraser," Ray said, looking up gratefully. "You're a real...
friend, you know that?"  

Fraser's heart leapt at that. "Thank you, Ray... That means very much."  

"Well, ya are."  

"Thank you."  

"Now where's that phonebook?" Ray added, pretending to be cranky.  

"I was just getting it."  

Burnham Triangle, Chapter 19: About Freaking Time  

"Oh, man. I shouldn't have eaten so much pizza," Ray said with a quiet
belch.	

The Mountie meticulously wiped the corners of his mouth with the paper
towel he'd had to use as a napkin.  

"Heh. I'm finally better than you at somethin'. Even if it is consuming
junk food." Ray smiled, a genuine smile, Fraser was happy to see. He'd
been afraid Ray would blame him for what had happened.	

"I wouldn't be too proud of that, if I were you. In ten years, your
coronary arteries might be very sorry you were better than me at this,"
Constable Fraser warned, mock-serious.	

"Hmph. You're just trying to kill my fun. Killjoy."  

"Am not."  

They finished eating in companionable silence -- except for the continual
low hum of noise from the television.  

Finally Fraser spoke.  

"Ah, Ray?"  

The blond detective glanced sideways at him, through lowered eyelashes.
"Yes, Fraser," Ray said, his voice a virtual come-hither purr. "What did
you want?"  

"I was wondering--"  

"Wondering-- what?"  

"I was wondering if you could, ah--"  

"Could what?"  

"Could you turn the TV off? At least for a little while?"  

"What?" Ray said, indignant. That was not what he'd been hoping Fraser
would ask.  

"Well, Ray, it's very distracting, and it has a rather excitatory effect
on the senses after a while. Aside from the emission of x-rays from the
tube, it's just generally kind of stressful to me. I'm just not used to so
much-- constant racket."  

"Jeeze, Fraser, I'm not holdin' a gun to your head, makin' you watch it." 


"It's rather inescapable, Ray, at least in an apartment with an open floor
plan."	

"Fine," Ray snapped, leaning over to snatch the remote control off the
coffee table. "Here you go," he added sulkily, powering the TV off with
the remote.  

Silence descended over the room. Fraser took a deep breath and let out a
satisfied sigh.  

"Much better, Ray. I'll do the dishes."  

"Fraser-- what am I supposed to do?"  

"Why don't you read a book?"  

The detective gave an exasperated sigh and threw himself backward onto the
pillows. He loved Fraser, loved him like a partner, like a brother, like a
friend, and-- like a lover. But the Mountie was damned infuriating at
times.	

"I don't have any."  

"You do too. You've got a whole bookcase full of books, Ray."  

"I already read them."	

The Mountie stood, looking around. He spied a magazine rack near the
stereo cabinet, and strode to it. Several copies of Ring World lay in it.
He took two and walked back to Ray.  

"Here you go, Ray."  

"Fraser, I already read those, too."  

"Well, Ray, see if you can't occupy yourself somehow while I do the
dishes."  

"How?" Ray half-wailed, already beginning to feel stir crazy. "I can't do
anything, I can't get up and move around easy--"  

"Here's a novel idea, Ray," came Fraser's voice from the kitchen, along
with the clattering of dishes. "Conversation. How about that?"	

"Fraser -- Frase, how're we supposed to converse when I can't even see
you?"  

"Well, people manage to do it in confessionals."  

"Oh, Christ. Nice picture you've conjured up for me. I don't wanna make
like I'm talkin' to a priest!"	

"I didn't mean it quite that literally, Ray. I just meant-- we can
converse fine without seeing each other."  

Ray heard water running and suddenly realized something. "Fraser!"  

"Yes, Ray?"  

"Fraser, I've got a dishwasher."  

Silence came from the kitchen. Even the water was shut off.  

"Oh."  

"So just fill it up, put the soap in, and turn it on. Actually, I hope the
motor hasn't seized up. I haven't used it in a while. I'm never home."	

"Ah." There was a brief pause, and then Ray heard the clattering of dishes
again. "Oh, dear."  

"What now?"  

"Ray, when was the last time you opened this, ah, dishwasher?"	

"I dunno, couple months maybe. Why?"  

"I think you've developed a new strain of penicillin in here."	

"Oh, crap."  

"Not to worry, Ray, I'll have it cleaned up in a jiffy."  

"Fraser, just wipe it down, throw the dishes in, put in a lot of extra
soap, and turn the damn thing on. It'll wash itself. Plus the water's hot
enough to sterilize everything."  

"Are you sure?"  

"Yes, Fraser," Ray said, exasperated.  

"Well, it's just that many of these apartment buildings don't set their
hot water thermostats high enough -- "	

"Maybe in the kinda dumps you used to live in, but not at this place.
Okay, Fraser?"	

Ray heard the Mountie sigh. "As you wish, Ray," he finally replied.  

Ray settled back into the sofa cushions and pillows with his Ring World
magazines. He skimmed a few of the articles, but couldn't really
concentrate. He listened to Fraser in the kitchen. The Mountie was humming
something. Damn but if the guy didn't occasionally burst into song for no
reason. He supposed it was some Canadian thing. Although Fraser did have a
good voice and could carry a tune quite well -- better than Ray.  

But that wasn't really why he wanted Fraser to hurry up in the kitchen. He
tried to calm himself. Tried to concentrate on Ring World. But the
tantalizing fact that Fraser was so nearby -- and they were alone -- and
the Mountie would be spending the night -- and they were in Ray's
apartment, a private residence, not an official government building (like
the last time) -- all of these facts conspired to agitate Ray in a way
that was, actually, kind of pleasant. He couldn't remember feeling this
way in ages. It was like knowing your parents were going to be gone so you
could make out on the couch all night without worrying about getting
caught. And you wanted to get started as soon as possible.  

Only this was better, because he was an adult and could do anything he
wanted-- and it was his couch.	

He sighed, tossing the magazines onto the coffee table. Dief whined and
looked up at him.  

"Sorry, Dief, I don't wanna get Fraser mad by givin' you junk food. You
know how he feels about that."	

The wolf whined again.	

"I wish he'd get back here too."  

"What were you saying, Ray?" Fraser said, stepping into the room with a
dish rag in his hand. He approached the coffee table, and knelt to wipe
it, removing things piecemeal as he wiped the coffee table. He picked up
the magazines, wiped under them, and put them down. Picked up a dusty,
dirty drink glass, and wiped under it (that he did not put down). He
picked up the old newspapers, wiped under them, and then, seeing the wet
trail from the dishrag, put them on the floor under the coffee table for
the time being.  

Ray watched Fraser's muscular shoulders move beneath his shirt. They
seemed so broad and sturdy. Much broader and sturdier than his own spindly
shoulders.  

"Ray?"	

"Huh?" Ray started, jerked out of his reverie when the Mountie turned
toward him, dirty glass in one hand, dish rag in the other.  

"What were you saying?"  

"Nothin', I was talkin' to Dief. He was makin' me feel guilty for not
giving him any pizza," Ray smiled sheepishly.  

Fraser smiled slightly as he straightened up from his kneeling position.  

"I know you really want to, Ray, but I appreciate you not feeding Dief
junk food. Enough people do that already."  

"I know."  

"Thank you, Ray."  

"You're welcome, Fraser."  

"I'll be just a moment." Fraser turned to go back into the kitchen.  

Ray closed his eyes. For a moment, he had the strong urge to sit up and
grab the remote control-- to turn the television on again, Fraser be
damned. But he waited just a minute and was surprised to find himself
listening to his apartment. To his apartment building.	

He could hear the water running in the apartment over his. He could hear
Dief snuffling on the floor -- only the precursor to his incredible
snoring -- just about to slide into sleep. He heard Fraser loading the
dishwasher. Heard the sounds of hip-hop music pounding in a passing car,
enough to rattle his windows momentarily, even though they were shut.
They'd be deaf by thirty, he thought.  

Eyes still closed, Ray heard a very quiet rushing sound, rhythmic and
soothing. Then he belatedly realized he was hearing his own blood rushing
in his ears. It was like that song -- what was that song? Blood makes
noise was what the singer sang.  

Ray heard the dishwasher snap on, and the sound of water filling it. He
wondered what Fraser was doing, but now the dishwasher made too much noise
for him to hear what his friend-- lover-- whatever-- was doing in the
kitchen.  

Constable Benton Fraser stood at the edge of the living room, slowly
drying his hands on a terry cloth towel. From where he stood, it almost
looked like Ray was sleeping -- except for a certain tell-tale alertness
to his face. That beautiful, elfin face. He looked down at Ray, amazed
once again at what had happened between them. Amazed that the feeling had
been mutual. Feeling lucky and grateful, he stepped closer to the sofa,
but could not make himself disturb the detective. What if he really was
sleeping?  

Just then, Ray opened his eyes, and looked right up into the face of his
partner. Fraser blushed, taking a step back, wringing his hands in the
dish towel, and then turning to quickly go back to the kitchen.  

Ray sighed. If it was gonna be like this-- Jeeze. They were finally alone,
and with no worries -- and Fraser was skittish as a feral dog.	

"Fraser--" Ray called softly.  

He heard the Mountie clear his throat. "Coming, Ray." He reappeared
carrying two mugs with tea bag strings hanging out of them. He set them
down on the table and pulled his kitchen chair up to the coffee table
again.	

"Fraser, what is this," Ray asked, surprised and somewhat exasperated. He
turned to look at the Mountie, but Fraser was busying himself with
steeping his tea.  

"It's chamomile tea for you, Ray, and Earl Grey for me. Chamomile has an
antibiotic effect. I thought it might help you heal faster."  

"Would you just stop, Fraser?" Ray began vehemently. The instant flinch
and chagrined look on Fraser's face made him feel momentarily terrible.
"Sorry, Frase. Didn't mean to yell," Ray added quietly. "What I mean is, I
mean -- you gotta stop with this trying to heal me stuff and all that. I
mean, I need you to do some stuff for me, but I'm gonna be fine, I think.
I really don't want you to think this is your fault. It has nothing to do
with you, really. The guy was a sicko. If it wasn't me he did it to, it
woulda been someone else. Okay?"  

"Yes, Ray," the Mountie said quietly, setting his tea down. He held his
hands in his lap and didn't look at Ray.  

"Fraser--" Ray began again, softly.  

"Yes?" The Canadian looked up at him again.  

"What're you doing all the way over there in the chair?" Ray asked
quietly, looking first at Fraser's hands, and then more boldly into his
face. He felt himself flush, felt his face must look guilty and slutty
with desire, but he didn't care.  

"I -- uh-- that is to say -- "	

"Just get over here. On the couch." Ray swiveled his blanketed feet down
to the floor. He tried to hide his wincing, but the Mountie saw it and
stood over him.  

"Don't, Ray, you might reopen the stitches," he said, hovering over his
blond friend.  

"Stitches! Dammit, I don't care! Sit down here with me!"  

"Ray, I -- "  

"Sit down, Fraser." Ray looked up at him, half-pleading, and half-angry.  

So as not to further upset him, the Mountie sat down next to his partner.
Not immediately next to Ray, but near enough.  

"Finally!" Ray burst out. "It's about freaking time, Fraser!"  

"Ray -- "  

He was silenced before he could get another word out. Silenced when Ray
grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him roughly into an oddly contrasting
slow, searching kiss.  

And, of course, once they began, Fraser wondered why on earth he'd been
avoiding this. Intellectually, he had thought he would keep Ray at bay
until he was at least mostly healed. Now keeping Ray away from him seemed
the silliest thing he could think of.  

Ray released his grip on Fraser's shirt, ducking his head.  

"Sorry, Frase. Couldn't help myself." He shook his head, and sat back.
"I'm a pig, what can I say."  

"No, Ray. Not at all. I just-- I just don't want to do anything that might
put stress on your wounds."  

"Fraser, did it ever occur to you that it might be good for me if we
fooled around? I mean, to help me heal? You know, like how yer brain
chemicals get going when you've got a pet -- not that you're like a pet,
you know, that's not what I meant-- I just mean, you know, it could be
good for me mentally, and that could help me physically heal. Right?" Ray
looked at him hopefully.  

The Mountie had to smile. "Yes, Ray, actually you're right. Many studies
have shown that people with a strong support network, people who
experience intimacy on a regular basis, stay healthier and heal faster
than those who are alone." The thought that he had not lived most of his
life that way surfaced briefly, but he pushed it away.	

"Okay then," Ray said, shrugging. He smiled conspiratorially for a moment.
"So then-- it could be your duty to make out with me on the couch here."  

"Well, I don't know about -- "	

"I was just kidding, Frase. But--" he trailed off.  

Fraser's eyebrows lifted in question. "But what?" he asked.  

"But it would sure be nice," Ray admitted. He felt himself smiling a goofy
smile. I probably look like a total dork, he thought, but I don't care.
Finally I've got Fraser here in my house!  

"That-- that would be nice," the Mountie agreed. He glanced down, saw
Ray's hands fidgeting in his lap. He reached over and gently took one. "I
have an idea," Fraser began, and paused. He looked down at Ray's hand, and
Ray looked at him.  

Fraser began massaging Ray's hand. First, the heel of his hand. Then the
big thumb muscle. He kneaded Ray's palm.  

"Ah, ah, ah--" Ray sighed. "What-- what's your idea, Frase?" he asked, his
voice rough.  

"It's a therapeutic idea," Fraser continued. He finished rubbing Ray's
palm and the top of his hand, and set about rubbing each finger between
his own thumb and index finger, slowly, from the base of the finger all
the way to the tip.  

"What's-- what's therapeutic about it, Frase? Ah--" Ray moaned. "That
feels-- man, that feels way better than I ever thought a hand massage
could possibly feel."  

"That's what's therapeutic about it, Ray."  

"A hand massage?"  

"Massage in general. All over."  

"All over--"  

"A full body massage."	

"Yer kidding, right?"  

"I am not kidding, Ray."  

"You're not kidding. Jesus. Pinch me cuz I think I'm dreaming, Frase."	

"You're not dreaming, Ray. You're just experiencing the release of
endorphins--"  

"There ya go, you always gotta spoil it with the scientific explanation--"
Ray teased. "Oohh. Ah. Yeah. Fraser, I don't know where you learned this,
and I don't even care. I'm not even gonna ask. I only have to ask you one
thing."  

"What might that be?"  

"Can you, like, not stop doing this?"  

"Understood." He finished Ray's left hand, and began on the detective's
right hand. This seemed right and good. He didn't feel as if he were
taking advantage of Ray, and there was definitely a good reason to be
doing it. Yet it allowed him to freely touch Ray all over -- eventually.
He was still only on Ray's hands, but the sounds that Ray was making
were-- having a decidedly arousing effect on him.  

"Fraser, this is unbelievable. Mmmmm."	

"I hope you enjoy it."	

"Enjoy it? I feel like I'm getting... I never thought a hand massage could
feel so good."	

The Mountie blushed, simultaneously embarrassed by Ray's forthrightness,
and pleased at the effect he was having on Ray.  

His big hands were soon squeezing their way down Ray's arms, starting at
the shoulders of Ray's arms.  

"Hey, how come you don't start at the wrists?"	

"In massage therapy, the idea is to get the bodily fluids and lymph moving
so that toxins may be moved into the bloodstream and then filtered out by
the liver. But because of the remote possibility of a clot or something
being dislodged, the direction limbs are massaged is away from, rather
than toward, the heart."  

"Oh. Toxins?"  

"Not as in poison, Ray, but as in the usual cellular waste built up in
one's muscles, that sort of thing."  

"Mmmm." Ray slouched forward and winced as bending at the waist compressed
his wounds. "Ouch."  

"Here, Ray. Lie back and I'll move you if I have to. Then you won't have
to move."  

"Okay. Thanks, Fraser."  

"You're welcome, Ray."	

Kowalski lay back and let his partner massage his arms, from the shoulder
to the wrist. He felt increasingly like a rag doll, but he felt much
warmer than he had felt. The liquid warmth in his arms made him languid.
Yet he felt himself stirring with excitement. He still had no pants on--
but the blanket covered him. That was probably a good thing, but-- darn.  

Oh, well. If that's what this does to me, that's what this does to me.
Knowing Fraser, he'll totally ignore it, Ray thought.  

Fraser began massaging Ray's shoulders and collar bones. He worked his way
down Ray's chest, occasionally getting a twitch and giggle from Ray as he
massaged Ray's pectorals and moved down to the lats.  

"Yer tickling me--"  

"I assure you, it is unintentional, Ray."  

"Doesn't matter-- still tickles."  

"I'll try to be quick about it." Fraser massaged Ray's sternum and the rim
of Ray's rib cage. It did not, however, escape his notice that he would
soon be at Ray's hips-- or that Ray was becoming more and more aroused
every moment.  

"Ray, I'm going to need you to roll over--" he began sheepishly, pushing
Ray's near shoulder away from him and trying to get the detective to lie
on his stomach.  

"Aw, do ya have to? You were headed in the right direction," Ray's muffled
voice came, as he obediently rolled over onto his stomach. The blanket
twisted around with him, encasing him from the waist down, almost like a
mummy.	

"Here, I'll take some of those pillows," Fraser added hastily, removing
some pillows so Ray could lie flat. The blankets were now tangled around
Ray's legs, but that was better than the alternative-- Had Ray been
uncovered and fully naked from the waist down, he doubted he'd have
continued or finished the massage--  

"Mmmph." The detective moaned as his partner started his back massage at
the top, rubbing his shoulders from a different direction than before.	

The Mountie carefully rubbed each muscle set, moving both scapula beneath
the skin.  

"Mmmph. Fraser, what'er you doin'?"  

"Massaging the muscles across your shoulder blades."  

"Oh. Mmmm."  

Benton Fraser moved downwards, paying special attention to each vertebrae
with "the inchworm" massage down along Ray's spine.  

"Yer making the hair on the back of my neck stand up, Frase." Ray wriggled
his hips slightly, tilting his buttocks up slightly to make room for the
aroused organ he was now laying on.  

Fraser continued to strongly work on Ray, progressing down to the sacral
vertebrae -- at Ray's hips and extending below--  

"Ahhh." Ray moaned. Fraser was driving him nuts. There was nothing really
sexual about this, and yet his cock was swollen and he felt a languid
voluptuousness, an instinctual desire to hump something.  

The Mountie tried to stay on Ray's buttocks for as little time as
possible-- it was too tempting to linger and he did not want to take
advantage of Ray. But he was as thorough as he could be in as brief a time
as possible. The big gluteus maximus muscles on Ray weren't so big, but
they must nevertheless have been stiff from sitting-- because Ray let out
a stifled yelp as he massaged them. Fraser lightened up on his touch, not
wanting to provoke a ticklish response, which would negate the relaxing
effects of the massage.  

He continued along the sides of Ray's buttocks, the hollow spots in each
cheek, and then down on the side of Ray's hips. The backs of the
detective's thighs were now in his hands-- and he could be a bit rougher
and firmer. Ray moaned nearly continuously now, but not gutturally. They
were oddly comforting moans. They seemed to be saying that he was doing
everything right, which he hoped he was.  

By now, he was at Ray's calves and these had been in need of massage. Ray
again nearly yelped as Fraser pressed into them, so he again lightened up,
and stroked long firm strokes down the lengths of the calves, relaxing the
muscles. Then, when they seemed relaxed enough, he began using his thumbs
again.	

Ray moaned.  

Fraser wished, not for the first time, that he had earplugs. It was
getting more difficult to ignore the hungry sound to Ray's moans. You're
imagining that, he told himself. You hear what you want to hear.  

At Ray's ankles now -- and thankfully almost done -- Fraser began to
massage Ray's feet.  

"Mmmmm. Oh, man, Fraser. Who'da thought a foot massage could make your
scalp tingle?"	

"Those who discovered reflexology."  

"Mmmmm--"  

The Mountie finished by massaging each individual toe between his thumb
and index finger, and massaging the spaces between the toes. It was a bit
more difficult than it would normally have been, because of Ray's socks.
But Ray moaned throughout, abandoning himself to the pleasure and
relaxation. With one last firm stroke down the arches of Ray's feet,
Fraser finished the massage.  

"I'm total Jell-O, Fraser. God, that felt so good."  

"I'm glad you liked it." The Mountie rose from the couch, wriggling
slightly. His pants felt too tight now, too.  

"Where ya goin'?" Ray asked, but did not roll over. He seemed content to
lie on his stomach on the couch, feeling like Jell-O.  

"Just to heat the water for some more tea. I'm afraid our tea has gotten
cold."	

"There's such a thing as a microwave."	

"Ah. Very well, I'll try that."  

"Fraser--" Ray paused.	

"Yes, Ray?" The Mountie asked.	

The blond detective turned his head so his other cheek lay against the
sofa, and he could look at Fraser.  

"You are coming back to the couch when you're done, right?"  

"I-- uh-- Yes." He blushed.  

"Good," Ray responded, smiling a naughty smile.  

While Fraser reheated their tea and put another pot on, Ray could not help
gently thrusting his erection against the couch beneath him. But it was
short-lived -- too painful in the creases where his legs met his pelvis.
Damn it, he groaned to himself. I want this so bad and it hurts. Maybe if
I had a pillow--  

He reached for one of the pillows Fraser had removed. But before he could
tuck it under his pelvis, he'd have to untangle the blankets. He struggled
for a moment, then gave up. He was too tangled, it hurt to twist his hips,
and he didn't want to lose the lovely feeling of relaxation and calmness. 


Fraser soon returned.  

"Frase, can ya help me out here?"  

"With?"  

"I'm kinda tangled here-- don't worry, I'm not trying to get out of the
blankets-- just to get 'em straight. But it hurts to twist this way--"	

The Mountie set down the mugs of tea on the coffee table again.  

"Certainly, Ray. Now, hold still a moment."  

Ray lay still and waited, while Fraser studied the situation.  

"All we have to do is roll you in the opposite direction of how you
originally rolled, and we'll have things straight again."  

"Won't be the only thing straight--" Ray muttered. But he didn't press it.
"Okay, so, just move me that way and momentum should take care of the
rest, right?"  

"We'll see." Fraser rolled him back the way he'd come. The blanket was
still twisted round Ray's legs, but less so now. Fraser grasped the bottom
edges, pulled them away from Ray, and then straightened them and lay them
back down over Ray's legs and feet.  

"That's better. Thanks, Fraser."  

"You're entirely welcome, Ray. Now. Won't you please have some tea?" he
asked as politely as possible.	

Ray looked up at him from under the long fringe of his blond eyelashes. A
simultaneously sweet and seductive look. "Okay, already, Frase, I'll have
some tea." He pushed himself up with his hands, and the mound between his
legs, though softening, was still prominent. Fraser blushed but said
nothing.  

He handed Ray his mug of chamomile tea. They drank in silence, looking
over their mugs at each other. Soon they were both grinning foolishly.	

"I'm done with my tea, Frase."	

"Would you like some more--"  

"No. I think you know what I want."  

"I, I, uh, yes, I think I do."	

"And what would that be?"  

"Uh, that, that would be--"  

"That would be-- you. Here on the couch. With me. As soon as possible."  

"Right you are--"  

Chapter 20: Well, It's Not Casual  

Fraser slowly got up and walked to the sofa. He sat down next to his
partner.  

Suddenly, it seemed quite amusing that Ray was naked except for his socks
-- and the blanket, of course.	

Ray saw his partner smiling, his eyes cast down at the floor.  

"What's funny?"  

"You're only wearing socks."  

"Hey, that's what my mom used to say when I would go out on dates with
Stella in high school. 'Keep your socks on'. I figured, I could do
anything I wanted -- as long as I kept my socks on, it was kosher. The
first time we had sex, I still had my socks on," he ended wistfully,
thinking how innocent they'd been way back then.  

But now he had that feeling back -- with Fraser. That
I-don't-know-what's-gonna-happen-but-I-can't-wait-for-it-to-happen
feeling.  

Fraser looked up at Ray, and they smiled at each other shyly.  

Ray reached for Fraser. Putting his hand on the back of the Mountie's
neck, he closed his eyes and tugged Benton Fraser to him for a hot, wet,
soul kiss. He kissed Benton slowly, gently tonguing his partner's mouth.
Slowly he felt Fraser's hands move to hold him, slipping around his
back... as his other arm slipped around Fraser's...  

Ray broke the kiss for a moment. "Fraser."  

"Yes, Ray?"  

"Fraser, can you lay me back? I can lay back, but if you lay me back, it
won't pull on the muscles under my--"  

"Certainly, Ray." The Mountie supported Ray's back as he slowly settled
Ray back on the couch.	

"Hey, that was good. I didn't even have to wince."  

"Good." Fraser began to settle on Ray, gingerly, afraid to put all his
weight on the injured detective.  

"You got an awful lot of clothes on, though, compared to me. Doncha think
that's a bit unfair?" Ray teased, kissing him.	

"Oh-- well, uh--"  

"I can fix that." Ray reached up and began undoing the buttons on Fraser's
long-sleeved shirt. For a moment, he almost wished Fraser were wearing the
red Serge uniform -- just because the sound of that Velcro collar being
ripped open seemed like it might be the most erotic thing Ray had ever
heard.	

"I, I guess you can..." Benton Fraser let his shirt be drawn down over his
shoulders, holding himself up from Ray, so as not to put too much weight
on Ray. His shirt tails were slowly and sensually drawn out of his still
buttoned pants. The friction aroused him further.  

"There," Ray said, peeling the shirt off Fraser until Fraser had to shake
his arms out of the sleeves. Ray drew the shirt off him, and threw it on
the floor. Then Fraser's t-shirt came off quickly and easily.  

He resumed sliding his hands up and down Fraser's body, front and back, as
he pressed his lips against the man's shoulder. The feel of his partner's
smooth, warm flesh was so exciting. Yet he felt Fraser tremble slightly.  

"What's wrong, Frase?" Ray pulled back slightly to look at his partner.  

"Nothing, Ray, why?"  

"You're... Well, you're trembling."  

"Well, I'm trying not to put my full weight on you--"  

"Why not?"  

"Well, I don't want your stitches to--"  

"Fraser, I'm dying to thrust against you, but I can't. It's gonna hurt."
Ray paused, looking Fraser steadily in the eye. "But you can thrust
against me."  

"Are you sure that won't--"  

"Do I have to beg? God, Frase..."  

"No. No, you don't have to beg," Fraser said quietly, and slowly let his
entire weight settle on Ray. He closed his eyes and lay his forehead
against Ray's.	

"Mmmm. You feel... really hard," Ray whispered. The solid weight of his
partner, half on him, half on the couch, felt good. But it was nothing
compared to the hot hardness he felt pressed alongside his own. There was
just the slightest twinge of pain, since Fraser's erection was pressed
almost against one of Ray's stitched wounds. But the exciting feeling far
outweighed the slight pain.  

"I am."  

"Good. Me too."  

"Yes, I can... feel that."  

"Press harder, Frase," Ray whispered.  

The Mountie thrust his hips with a slow, measured increase of pressure.
Ray felt his excitement climb another notch, although there was a slight
twinge of pain. Fraser's erection was resting right against one of his
injuries.  

Fraser felt the muscles twitch in Ray's forehead, and pulled back and
opened his eyes. The tail end of a wince lingered on Ray's face.  

"Did that hurt? That hurt, didn't it. I'll stop."  

"It didn't hurt! Well, not much. It felt really good, though! The good
feeling is way bigger than the little twinge..."  

"No, Ray, I've got to stop," Fraser said firmly, then felt guilty as he
saw Ray's face fall slightly, with disappointment.  

"But it feels so good. Damn it. I'm gettin' so excited..." Ray closed his
eyes, exasperated. He was frustrated, excited, disappointed, but feeling
foolish. His hands had slid down Fraser's back to his buttocks. He kept a
steady pressure on Fraser's buttocks, kept Fraser pressed to him -- but
didn't increase the pressure.  

Benton Fraser looked down at his partner's expression, the almost
waif-life look Ray had right now. Ray often had that impish look -- though
not right now. A thought occurred to him.  

"Ray, I have an idea."	

The detective's eyes flew open, and his forehead screwed up in
anticipation.  

"We could, ah," Fraser continued quietly, "we could lie on our sides, with
you in front of me. Then if I press against you, I'm not pressing against
your injuries, but you'll still feel me, and I can... feel you with my
hands," he finished, his voice dropping with mixed embarrassment and
excitement. The picture this conjured in his mind was rather exciting,
truth be told.	

"Well... well, okay," Ray said, but he still looked disappointed.  

Fraser, who had been about to sit up, stopped. "You don't want to?" he
asked gently, but he felt a bit disappointed too, if he was disappointing
Ray.  

"No, no, it's not that I don't want to. I just wanted to be able to look
at you, to see you. That's all." Ray's voice was quiet, but he smiled a
wistful smile. His eyes seemed very light in the bright but indirect
illumination from the window.  

Fraser was touched, and suddenly emotional. To cover it, he swallowed and
quickly bent his head to kiss Ray. He lingered slightly, and soon Ray was
kissing him back with gusto.  

They broke the kiss, then, and Fraser sat up. Ray lay there, looking
passively up at him. To Fraser, it was disconcerting. He was -- oh,
bother, he didn't want to think about that, but here it came -- he was
used to having a more active partner, he was used to being passive
himself. Well, he thought, a man must stretch himself occasionally. Though
this was hardly the kind of stretching he would have expected.	

"Fraser."  

"Yes, Ray?"  

"Take this blanket off me." It was not a request... it was more of a
command. Well, that was fine, too.  

"All right..." Fraser trailed off, blushing. "Ray, could we..." he trailed
off, a bit embarrassed.  

"Could we what?"  

"Could we close the blinds?"  

"Completely?"  

"Well... more than they are now? Much more?"  

"Are you trying to make sure that no one can see us, or that it's dark?"  

Fraser ducked his head. Ray could be maddeningly accurate at times. "Both,
but... mainly I'd like it darker in here."  

"Well, they're not light-blocking blinds, Fraser. If you want it really
dark, we'd have to throw something over the window..."	

"No, no, that's not necessary..."  

Dimly Ray remembered some song from a CD Stella used to listen to. It was
chick music, but there was something haunting about the singer's voice.
One of the songs... all he remembered was "we will play, with chairs,
candles and cloth, making darkness in the day..."  

"No, it's okay," Ray decided, smiling up at Fraser. "We'll make it dark in
the day."  

"Thanks, Ray," Fraser smiled his relief down at his partner.  

"Well, you get the stuff... there's blankets and towels in the closet
where you got the sheets and blanket for me..."  

But the Mountie was already striding down the hall.  

Ray felt the arousal languidly seep out of his body as he watched Fraser
bring a kitchen chair to the window and stand on it to hang a blanket over
the top of the frame of the Venetian blinds. He marveled at the perfection
of Fraser's physique, the way his naked torso V-ed down to slim hips and
those perfect buttocks. Fraser's jeans did him much more justice than
those pants with the yellow stripe down the legs. Ray supposed he'd never
stop wondering what Fraser saw in him -- but apparently, Fraser saw
something. And that was good.  

Darkness fell across the living room as Fraser tucked the blanket around
each side of the blinds.  

"Well, you wanted dark, now you got it," Ray joked. Light from the kitchen
fell indirectly into the living room, but not much.  

Fraser hopped down from the chair, picked it up easily (a solid wood
chair, Ray noted -- not a light, flimsy thing) and strode back into the
kitchen. Ray heard him rummaging around in the kitchen drawers.  

"You lookin' for something?" he called after Fraser.  

"Candles," Fraser replied.  

"Oh. Not in there. In here. The drawer in this end table. It's too small
for anything else, so I keep candles and matches there in case of a power
outage."  

"Oh," Fraser said, striding back into the room. He went straight to the
end table, and opened the drawer. The majority of the candles were
tapers... he preferred the few short, fat votive candles. He took three
out and a book of matches.  

"Have you got any candle holders for these?" he asked, turning back to
Ray.  

"Uh, I don't think so. Just use a plate or something, whatever you
find..." Ray replied lazily. He looked as provocative as he could. Fraser
colored slightly, but smiled a secret smile. Not that Fraser ever looked
wicked or lascivious, but this was as close as he might ever get, and Ray
found himself responding to the hint of wickedness.  

But Fraser strode from the room once again, back to the kitchen.  

Ray sighed. He settled on stroking himself, slowly, loosely, not thrusting
into his own hand... just stroking to maintain some level of arousal. He
felt his pelvis getting warm under the blanket. The slow, steady rhythm
got him serviceably hard again, but there were no fireworks or anything.
Fraser was necessary for that.	

He heard Fraser re-enter the room, but he just closed his eyes and kept
stroking. He heard the Mountie move about the room, placing three small
saucers in various spots around the room. Over the fake fireplace. One on
the end table. One on the coffee table.  

The sound of fabric on fabric pulled Ray out of his increasingly
languorous caresses of himself. He opened his eyes, to find Fraser looking
down on him with a strange expression on his face. He stopped stroking his
cock. Was Fraser mad? Sad?  

"What?" he asked cautiously.  

"Nothing," Fraser said quietly, and sank to his knees next to the couch.
Ray was suddenly engulfed in a tight, rocking hug, his mouth covered and
possessed by the suddenly ardent Mountie. The feverish kiss ended as
Fraser lay Ray back down, and slowly drew the blanket off his partner.
Ray's fully erect penis shone in the candlelight, the skin silky and
slightly reflective, the moisture at the tip glistening.  

"Fraser... B-Benton," Ray stammered. "Take off your pants." He rolled onto
his side away from the Mountie, feeling shy, facing the back of the sofa,
ready for Fraser to lie behind him. He heard Fraser stripping his pants.
But then Fraser's big warm hands were turning him on his back again.  

"Wha...?"  

"I've got another idea, Ray," the Mountie said, still in his boxers. They
tented over his erection. He slid Ray over slightly, and then lay on the
outside edge of the sofa, curling against Ray. He draped his upper thigh
over Ray's legs, thrusting his erection against Ray's bony hip. "See, this
way I don't press against your injuries, but we can still... see each
other." He tried to smile, but he felt rather serious.	

"Good thinking, F--"  

Ray stopped himself. He wanted to call him Benton. Fraser was what he
called Fraser all the time. This was different -- he didn't want to call
Fraser what everyone else called him. Although he supposed that he'd said
"Stella" when annoyed as many times -- maybe more -- as he'd said it in a
moment of passion.  

"Fraser, do you like being called Fraser? Can I-- can I call you Benton?" 


Fraser kissed his forehead, wrapping his arms around the slim detective.
He crushed Ray to him, feeling the insistent hardness of his own erection
in his boxers, and the sharp bones of Ray's hip.  

"You can call me anything you want, Ray," he said breathlessly.  

"Oh, don't say that. I just wanna know if it's okay. Somehow, calling you
'Fraser' just seems... well, everyone calls you that. It's okay, there's
nothing wrong with it. It just seems ...kinda distant. Casual. This is...
this is... well, it's not casual."  

"Yes," Fraser whispered, holding Ray. They looked at each other, Ray
giving Fraser a searching look. "It's... intimate," Fraser finished,
feeling a bit foolish. Intimate. So many syllables to express such a
simple thing: closeness.  

Ray nodded. "Yeah."  

"Benton is fine. Hardly anyone ever calls me Benton. It will be just
fine." Fraser smiled.  

Ray smiled a tentative smile. "Okay, cool." Then he leaned towards Fraser
and they were kissing again. Ray slid his hand over Fraser's hip, feeling
the boxer shorts. He slid his hand farther down, between their bodies, to
squeeze his lover's erection. Fraser let out a long sigh and let his head
fall back. He thrust into Ray's hand.  

"Why doncha take those shorts off, Fraser..."  

"Yes, all right..."  

Fraser swiftly slid off the couch and stripped the shorts. In the dim
candlelight, without his glasses, Ray couldn't get a good look at Fraser's
cock... but he would, he decided, get close enough later...  

The Mountie lay back on the couch, pressed up against his partner. He
wrapped his arms around Ray again, draped his leg over Ray's thighs... and
started rhythmically thrusting against his partner's hip again.  

"Benton..." Ray said shyly.  

"Yes, Ray..."  

"Give me your hand..."	

Fraser let Ray grab his hand. Ray drew it down and gently pressed Fraser's
hand around his erection, his excitement rising. Fraser squeezed Ray's
cock, and Ray moaned. He had wanted this for so long. Finally! Finally it
was happening. He closed his eyes, not realizing Fraser had closed his,
too.  

His partner stroked Ray, slowly and evenly, which was most maddening.
Coupled with the simultaneous thrusting of Fraser's cock into his hip, Ray
was becoming very aroused and tense. He tried not to thrust up into
Fraser's hand, knowing it would hurt, but eventually it became
instinctual. He knew he was wincing with every thrust but all that seemed
to matter was the friction, the feeling of his lover's hand on his cock.  

Fraser was slowly sliding down alongside Ray's body. He didn't want to
think about the last time he'd done this -- he didn't want to. But the
thoughts came unbidden. Of course. He'd only ever done this sort of thing
with one person: Ray Vecchio. It was irritating. He wanted to be fully
with Ray Kowalski! Completely there, in this moment. Not thinking about
someone else.  

But thoughts of the last time he and Ray Vecchio had done this -- in some
blighted motel on the south side, by the race track in Cicero -- kept
flashing through his mind. The awful creaking of the bed. Ray's
perfunctory grunts and moans, his solemn and unexceptional orgasm. The
confusing sense of sadness he'd had as they coupled.  

Benton Fraser opened his eyes, determined that nothing would interrupt his
time with Ray Kowalski. If he kept his eyes open, he would see only what
his eyes saw, not the last time he'd done this. He would see Ray Kowalski.
He was seeing Ray Kowalski, whose eyes were squinted shut and who was
biting his lower lip. Occasionally he moaned or inhaled sharply, and his
chest would puff out.  

Yes. He would watch Ray, while he did things to Ray that Ray had never
experienced. And he would know, eyes wide open, who he was with. He would
not think about other times, another person...	

Fraser had by this time slid down -- and gently pushed Ray farther up to
the other end of the couch -- so that his mouth was almost level with
Ray's navel. He began kissing Ray's hip bone, and he heard Ray gasp. One
glance up at his partner's face, and he smiled.  

Ray had raised his head, and was staring at him with a wild-eyed,
surprised, and somewhat awestruck look.  

"Fraser, what're you doing?"  

"Well," he paused, slightly embarrassed, "what does it look like I'm
doing?"  

"It looks like... like you're gonna go down on me." There was an
undercurrent, an edge to Ray's voice, an edge of... what?  

He paused. "That is all right, isn't it?"  

"It's more than all right!"  

"Oh! Well, all right, then." Fraser slid his legs off the couch, so that
he was kneeling on the floor next to the couch. "I'll hold your hips so
you don't thrust up and hurt yourself," he explained quietly, gesturing.
Then he firmly grasped Ray's hips, pressing them into the sofa cushions.  

"Oh, man..." Hysteria? Could that be the edge to Ray's voice? No, not
hysteria... Fear? No...  

Fraser began with little kisses, around Ray's navel, which jumped
entertainingly. He lightly stuck his tongue in Ray's navel, and was
rewarded with a jerk of excitement. Fraser kissed around his hands on
Ray's hips, around the butterfly bandages over Ray's injuries, down where
Ray's thighs met his pelvis... kissed down the man's lean and iron-hard
thighs.  

He kept his eyes open.	

"Oh.... Benton..." Ray whispered as his partner nuzzled his testicles,
which were drawing up slightly. He felt the warm wet tip of Fraser's
tongue lick up between his balls, forward from the back. He writhed, and
Fraser, true to his word, held his hips down firmly. Ray's thighs parted
slightly, involuntarily.  

But Fraser kissed those tightening testicles, moving his kisses up the
shaft. The kisses turned to nibbles, the nibbles turned to licks. Ray's
cock was so beautiful. Skin so soft -- it sounded cliche-ish, but it was
true -- like a baby's. Almost always covered and protected from the
elements, it made sense that it would feel that way. Fraser glanced up at
his lover's face, but Ray had thrown his head back, and Fraser could only
see Ray's throat working, his Adam's apple bobbing as he moaned and
swallowed.  

The Mountie gathered the saliva in his mouth towards the front and slowly,
softly slid his mouth onto Ray.  

An small cry burst forth from the shuddering body beneath him.	

But the Mountie held on, held Ray down, and slowly slid his mouth
dutifully up and down Ray's organ. He covered his teeth with his lips and
wished that he could let go of Ray's hips so that he might caress his
testicles, but...  

He carried on, Ray whimpering, moaning, and shaking beneath him. Fraser
increased his speed, tightened the circle of his teeth and lips, and
maintained a steady, fast stroke.  

"Fraser... Benton... oh, my God..." Ray bucked beneath him. Fraser firmly
pressed the man's hips down and maintained his rhythm.	

"God... oh God..." The hands in his hair were rough, but Fraser didn't
mind. He tried to drink in each detail -- the very small pot belly that
pooched in and out with Ray's ragged breathing, the way the darkness of
Ray's pubic hair lightened as it spread away from his genitals, into leg
hair and stomach hair, into that small ribbon that ran between the navel
and the cock. Ray must have been a runner or done track sports when he was
young. His thighs were like iron.  

"Let go, let go, I'm gonna, I'm gonna--" Ray begged, and this time Fraser
did let go. He let his hands go to Ray's cock and balls, as his mouth
continued to work, further urging the detective on to his inevitable
climax. Ray's hands tightened in his hair, and Fraser heard the sharpest
intake of breath he'd ever heard from Ray --  

And then the hot liquid was hitting the back of his throat, and he was
swallowing reflexively, swallowing and swallowing --  

A strangled gasp burst forth from Ray's bucking body, turning into a
wrung-out moan. His body shuddered for a few moments, each little tremor
slightly less violent, as Fraser slowly and carefully removed his mouth
from Ray's cock. He assumed it must be hypersensitive; that always
happened to him. He caught his breath.	

He realized the muscles in his neck felt sore and slightly strained.
Before he could stretch, though, he felt hands under his arms -- he was
being hauled bodily onto the couch -- onto Ray. He clumsily half-fell on
Ray, worried that he might hurt his healing cuts.  

But Ray appeared not to notice. He kissed Fraser tenderly, tentative at
first -- then bolder and deeper, almost probing.  

Oh, Benton thought, and felt the heat rise in his face. He's tasting
himself in my mouth.  

The hands on the back of his neck soothed the tension in his neck muscles.
He broke from the kiss, laying his head down alongside Ray's neck. He
could hear -- could feel -- the strong, fast throbs of Ray's heart. The
detective's torso pulsed under him.  

Chapter 21: It Is Only Natural	

He lay on Ray for some uncountable time, feeling the heavy, quick throbs
of Ray's heart slow and soften. The heat of their bodies was making it
sticky with sweat between them, but Benton felt no particular need to
move.  

Finally, Ray stirred slightly under him.  

"God."	

Fraser sighed, happily. His own organ had begun to deflate, and he felt
his excitement draining slowly... and yet he was content. Momentarily he
reflected that, if procreation or the sex drive were the only motivating
factor for human sexuality, he should certainly not be feeling as happy
and content as he was, whilst also feeling his arousal slip away.
Therefore the intellect and the emotions must not be entirely ruled by the
primitive sections of the brain -- though they can certainly be overruled
by them...  

"Fraser," Ray said, and Benton felt the sound resonate through his body --
he was, after all, laying on Ray. "Benton..." Ray trailed off quietly.	

"Yes, Ray," Fraser said, without lifting his head.  

"How 'bout you and I switch places?"  

The Mountie moved swiftly, sitting up at the edge of the sofa.	

"I'm sorry if I was crushing you, Ray," he said.  

"Oh, that's okay. I mean, you weren't," Ray shook his head, continuing.
"That's not why I asked." He attempted to sit up, but his limbs felt even
more like Jell-O now than they had after the massage.  

Fraser grabbed his hands and pulled him up to a sitting position. He
couldn't help but notice the flesh of Ray's thighs spreading out on the
sofa cushions... but not by much. The man was so lean. Thin, really. The
moment that thought hit him, he felt a twinge in his heart for Ray. He
knew it wasn't necessary, and yet he suddenly felt protective of Ray.
Fiercely protective.  

"Thanks, uh, Benton," Ray said, still trying to get used to saying it.
"But anyway, what I was thinkin' was..."  

He half-closed his eyes and leaned suddenly towards Fraser, who
momentarily leaned back, surprised by the sudden move. Ray paused, opening
his eyes, and watched Fraser move slowly back towards him.  

That made him smile. At first Benton had pulled away. But, no, he wanted
it too...  

The kiss began softly and then hardened; his tongue was hesitant at first,
and then rougher.  

His hands moved up the firm flesh of his partner's arms and Fraser's arms
went around him. Ray was delighted to feel the heat emanating from Fraser,
from his lap especially, growing. He let one hand meander through the
short, fine hair at the back of Fraser's head, and leaned the Mountie back
on the sofa as his other hand meandered down his partner's torso...  

With the sharp intake of his partner's breath, Ray knew his firm grasp of
Fraser's cock was having the desired effect. It bloomed in his hand,
lengthening and hardening.  

Fraser pulled his mouth back from Ray's. "Ray, you don't have to--" he
began.	

"I want to, Frase," Ray whispered back. "Let me try..."  

"But--"  

He was silenced by Ray's firm kiss and even firmer strokes. For some
reason, just anticipating Ray's mouth... Fraser shivered.  

Ray's hand moved from the back of his partner's neck to his shoulder, down
to his smooth pectorals and the tense muscles of his abdomen. With both
hands now, he stroked Fraser. The Mountie began to tremble and then Ray's
mouth pushed against his harder. Benton finally got the hint -- their
mouths parted and he lay down on the sofa.  

Ray's shining eyes took him in completely, from head to foot... his hands
never wavered in their soothing, rhythmic strokes.  

Fraser felt suddenly very helpless. But instead of it feeling scary and
powerless, he felt warm and cozy and was becoming extremely excited.  

Ray's hands manipulated his organ deftly. He looked from Ray's face to
what Ray's hands were doing to him, and felt the hot flush of blood in his
face. With one hand, Ray stroked him hard and moderately fast.
Periodically he paused and then his other palm slid around and around on
the slick head of Fraser's cock. The pleasure was excruciating. Then Ray
would stop that, and go back to fast strokes again. Fraser lay his head
back, closed his eyes and moaned.  

Ray slowly stopped moving his palm, and slowly stopped stroking Fraser's
cock. His partner looked up just as he was gingerly sliding his buttocks
off the sofa to the floor, propping himself up on his hands until his
elbows stuck up pointedly. He let his butt hit the floor quietly as he let
go of the sofa, and then used his hands to turn himself and push up onto
his knees to kneel.  

He looked up to see Fraser watching him. The look of amazement and
anticipation on Fraser's face shyly excited him. He leaned over and kissed
Fraser again, though he'd intended to kiss his chest, stomach...  

Fraser kissed him back, but then Ray's mouth was suddenly gone... and then
Ray's lips were on his chest, his hands stroking down Fraser's torso. He
felt Ray lightly suck his nipples while a hand grasped his cock again and
began stroking firmly again. His back arched involuntarily and Ray's mouth
more insistently sucked his nipple before moving down, kissing down his
jerking stomach to his navel. When the wet point of Ray's tongue dipped
into his navel, he hoped there was no lint. But he hardly had a chance to
think that before he felt Ray's breath and lips grazing his pubic hair... 


The detective slowly kissed the very spots on Fraser which had been
slashed on him -- the tender crease between pelvis and thigh. His cheek
brushed the cock he was stroking. The heat and musky smell of Fraser's
erection, his balls, were irresistible.  

I know I don't know what I'm doing... but I know what I like, Ray thought.
He slowed his strokes, shortened them, and then stopped them altogether.
He felt Fraser inhale slightly, but all Ray could think was, I'm going to
do it. I'm actually going to suck his cock.  

He kissed the shaft, at the root, the scratchy, musky hair tickling him.
And then he kissed all up the side of it. The skin was so silky and
smooth... the flesh under it firm and hot. Finally, reaching the head, he
grasped the base of Fraser's cock again.  

A moment's hesitation -- during which he glanced back up at Fraser, who
looked both shocked and pleased -- and then Ray opened his mouth and took
in the head of Fraser's cock.  

Fraser moaned from between clenched teeth.  

Ray tasted Benton's slick, salty pre-ejaculate. There's no going back now.
An odd thought flashed across his mind -- why do women object to this so
much? And then he instantly forgot that and settled into pleasing his
partner.  

He tried to remember the things he liked, how he had liked Stella to do it
to him. He covered his teeth with his lips and maintained a good level of
suction as he slid his mouth up and down. Hmmm. I can only fit so much of
it in. He tried opening up the back of his throat, but it was hard. It
almost made him gag and his eyes teared.  

All the same, Fraser was shaking and whispering incoherently now. I must
be doing something right, Ray thought. He settled for assisting with his
hand in the same rhythm as his mouth, trying to keep an even -- and fast
-- pace. Like he himself liked it.  

Fraser's stomach tensed and loosened, rising with sharply inhaled breath
and falling when his breath burst from him. Ray could see Fraser's balls
tighten, drawing up... Okay, now I know why women might not like this, he
thought. The muscles of his mouth and neck were getting sore and tired. As
if he were at the dentist and had to keep his mouth open as wide as
possible for a very long time.	

"Ray... Please... I'm..." Fraser broke off, unable to continue.  

Ray doubled his pace, hoping this would bring Fraser off.  

"Ray-- ummmm-- Ray--" Fraser put his hand over Ray's, and took control of
the speed and tightness of Ray's strokes. Though he subtly tried to urge
Ray off him, Ray's mouth was still moving over the head of his cock when
Fraser finally spurted, gasping and moaning.  

Ray couldn't swallow it all. Some of it spilled out of his mouth. He had
been in such a position that Fraser came on his tongue, rather than in the
back of his mouth. The bitter salty taste of Fraser's come tingled on his
tongue... and Ray was secretly very pleased with himself. I can't wait to
do this again.	

He collapsed forward, stretching his arm across Fraser's thighs and laying
his head on his bicep. I am eye to eye with Fraser's balls, he thought. If
anyone had told me, six months ago... hell, six weeks ago... I'd never
have believed this would happen. He closed his eyes, lay there, and caught
his breath.  

Fraser felt the soothing pleasure spread across his whole body. His hand
released his cock and quickly found Ray's cheek, his jaw. He stroked it
gently, feeling grateful, surprised... happy.  

It had been almost just like his dream. So much so that a strange feeling
of deja vu had come over Fraser when Ray looked at him across his stomach,
right before taking Fraser's cock in his mouth. That had definitely been
in his dream of Ray... it seemed so long ago now.  

So, if I saw it first in the dream, he thought slowly, feeling Ray's
slightly rough three day beard, then maybe that means it was 'meant to
be'?  

"Whew," Ray whispered. But he did not move from his position, draped over
Fraser's thighs.  

Even though it was just the tiniest bit uncomfortable, because he was
sweaty under Ray and beginning to itch, Fraser didn't move. Somehow this
seemed so right and he didn't want to break the spell.	

Fraser wanted to speak. He wanted to sit up and crush Ray to him and thank
him for being so brave even though he had never performed oral sex on a
man before. He felt guilty, as if somehow he'd manipulated Ray into doing
it. But, he said he wanted to do it... he could have stopped if he wanted
to stop, Fraser reminded himself. He didn't, so it stands to reason... he
liked doing it. No different than me. But that made his face feel hot
again. I liked it with... He didn't finish the thought with the name of
the only other man he'd done this with. I didn't just like "it". Just
because I still like "it" with Ray Kowalski, doesn't mean anything...
except that it felt right with Ray Kowalski.  

"Fraser..." Ray began.	

"Yes, Ray," his partner responded immediately.	

"I don't think I can sleep on this damn couch. Not the two of us. Can you
take me to my room and I'll try to clean it up? And then we can both sleep
on my bed."  

"You could stay on the couch, and I could sleep on the floor, here,"
Fraser offered.  

"Are you nuts? You want to hurt your back? Oh, right... you sleep on the
floor all the time, doncha? Look, Fraser, the point is..." he hesitated.
"The point is sleeping together."  

"Oh," came the serious reply, after a moment.  

"So, just, uh, can you help me walk to my bedroom and I'll change the
sheets?"  

"I can change them," Fraser offered.  

"No, don't, I can't remember the last time I changed my sheets, Benton,"
Ray said, with that special little shy emphasis on Fraser's first name.
"It'll be disgusting."	

"Ray. I have lived among the musk ox. Further, I lived in RCMP barracks
while training. There is little you could be responsible for, in terms of
housekeeping, that would surprise or disgust me."  

"Oh."  

Neither one had moved. It was so comfortable to lie the way they were.
Ray's knees felt a little uncomfortable, since he was still kneeling...
but most of his weight was thrown across Fraser, so the pressure on them
was not very great.  

"You know, you'll have to throw a blanket over the window in there, too,"
Ray pointed out.  

"That's okay. It won't be long, Ray, before it's dark."  

"Yeah. Winter in Chicago. Daylight savings time. It sucks. Gets dark at
like four in the afternoon."  

"Yes."	

A pause. Then Ray said,  

"Although now I got more reasons to like the dark hours of the day." A
little teasing tone was in his voice.  

Fraser smiled to himself, feeling his partner's angular jaw and three day
beard under his fingertips. Then Ray's hand stole up to take his and he
felt Rays lips brush his knuckles in an oddly romantic, sensual way.  

"In Nunavut, Ray, the sun stays down the entire winter." He wondered what
Ray would think of that.  

"That's a long night, Fraser," came Ray's dry reply, after a small
hesitation.  

"Yes," the Mountie replied simply.  

Ray hesitated again.  

"But, you know, during a night that long... You could do... a lot," Ray
added softly.  

His tone was wistful. He pressed his cheek against the back of Fraser's
hand.  

* * *  

Ray woke some time in the middle of the night. He opened his eyes,
momentarily freaked: there was someone in bed with him. Then as his brain
awakened more fully, he remembered who, and why.  

Constable Benton Fraser. His partner. In bed with him. Naked. They were
both naked, he suddenly realized. Absurdly, his cock began to harden
again.	

The cuts at the creases of his thighs were sore -- too much bending and
stretching of them. He had finally agreed to let Fraser change the sheets
so they could sleep together comfortably in the bed, rather than
uncomfortably on the couch. At first Fraser had offered to sleep on the
floor. What a freak... although he did sleep on the floor at the
Consulate.  

But Ray was just glad to feel Fraser's solid, warm bulk near him. They had
been quite randy -- again -- after Fraser had changed the sheets. That
giddy sense of happiness that came with the joy of finding a new lover was
stealing over Ray.  

But it wasn't only that. He couldn't believe his luck. He couldn't believe
Fraser felt the same way. He couldn't believe anyone as handsome and
attractive -- and together -- as Fraser would want to have anything to do
with him. But, amazingly, Fraser did.  

Ray smiled in the dark. His hand reached out and felt the warm, smooth
flesh of Fraser's back. He patted it, then rolled over on his stomach,
sliding closer to Fraser. He threw an arm over Fraser's back.  

Just knowing he was there made all the difference in the world. It made
going right back to sleep much easier...  

* * *  

Fraser woke suddenly, feeling the pressure of something on his back. He
paused briefly, letting his thoughts come slowly to him... Ah. Ray. Yes.
Ray's arm. He turned his head the other way, without getting up or rolling
over and Ray was right next to him, pressed up against him. He had thrown
his arm across Fraser's back. His face looked peaceful in the dimness.	

I won't think about anything else... Fraser thought stubbornly. Ray needs
to get well. And I'm going to help him until he is completely ready to go
back to work. Perhaps Ray was right that it could almost be considered his
duty to "make out" with Ray until Ray's injuries were completely healed...
to speed the healing process, of course.  

He began drifting off to sleep again. It would be a light sleep -- the
only kind he slept unless he was alone in bed or utterly exhausted. The
thought briefly crossed his mind before he fell back to sleep that it just
might speed the healing process for himself...	

And then he knew no more of the world for a while.  

* * *  

Ray woke to sun streaming through his windows, the sound of running water
in his kitchen, and the smells of coffee and frying bacon.  

He half sat up in bed, and then winced as the healing cuts near his hips
twinged painfully. Damn.  

He couldn't remember the last time he'd smelled frying bacon in the
morning when he woke up. He couldn't remember the last time he woke to the
sounds of someone making breakfast.  

This whole thing with Fraser... I feel like a kid again.  

He lay back down completely, to go back to sleep. But before he could roll
over, facing away from the bright light, he heard footsteps coming down
the hall to his room. The door opened slightly and Fraser looked in.  

"Frase," Ray said happily, and stretched like a cat -- until he winced
from the pain of his stitched-up cuts.	

"Ray. I wasn't sure if you were awake." He opened the door fully and stood
holding the door knob. He was once again fully clothed, tucked,
buttoned...  

Darn, thought Ray.  

"How could I sleep with the smell of frying bacon?" Ray smiled. He put his
hands behind his head and shrugged. "It's okay." It's all good.  

"Do you feel like you need another pain pill?"	

"Might not be a bad idea. They're bugging me. Not as bad as yesterday, but
I don't feel like moving much." He shrugged again.  

Fraser looked at his partner, trying to memorize what he was seeing. He
had never realized quite how blond Ray's hair really was. But the way the
sun was coming through the bedroom window and streaming over the bed...
made it suddenly obvious. Ray's eyes were bluer than he'd ever noticed --
probably because his pupils had contracted from the amount of light. And
his hair... it stuck up here and there, was flat in other places... it
looked, actually, rather post-coital and ...rather provocative. Especially
since he wore nothing but a sheet...  

He cleared his throat. "I'll bring you the prescription bottles. I bought
some orange juice." He turned to go.  

"Hey, Fraser," Ray said, and he turned back. The detective smiled broadly
and said, "You know, my ability to handle heavy machinery could be
impaired by those pills. I could be considered, oh, under the influence.
My judgment impaired. You could, uh, take advantage of that..."  

"Ray..." Fraser trailed off, blushing.	

"It was just a suggestion!" Ray protested, mock-ashamed.  

"I'll... get those pills."  

"You do that..."  

* * *  

And so it went for several days. Every morning, Fraser was up with the
sun; Ray slept in -- often with Diefenbaker replacing the Mountie in his
bed. At first, Fraser had been displeased with Diefenbaker. But then he'd
come in one morning to find Ray with an arm thrown across the wolf as they
both lay on their sides, snoring... and it seemed wrong to object to
something that Ray took to so naturally.  

And then, there were the evenings. Ray slept a lot during the days, so he
became more alert starting in the early evening. It was playing havoc with
Fraser's usual schedule -- up with the sun -- but he hardly minded. How
could he mind when every night after the weather on the nine o'clock news,
Ray would get that look in his eye, and they were soon in the bedroom,
stripping each other of their clothing? Aside from the fact that Ray
really was walking around with no pants much of the time... And Fraser
didn't think it was because he was in that much pain anymore.  

No, it was definitely to entice Fraser. And of course it worked. But often
later, when they lay slightly apart in the bed, sweat evaporating off
their bodies, Fraser could not believe how much faster things had
developed with Ray Kowalski.  

He felt terrible for comparing how things had gone with Ray Vecchio with
how things were going with Ray Kowalski... but it was almost unavoidable.
It is only natural, he thought, to extrapolate from one's experiences in
one area of life to a new area which has many similar qualities.  

But he suspected that the biggest difference in how swiftly "the ball got
rolling" -- as Ray Kowalski said -- was that Ray seemed to feel no shame
before they "fooled around" (as he said), and afterward felt no guilt and
no regret. In fact, afterward, after the sweat had cooled on their bodies,
Ray was often responsible for getting "things" started again. He seemed
like he couldn't get enough. Even if he knew that neither of them would be
able to orgasm in any reasonable amount of time, he would play with Fraser
-- or himself -- lazily, without even really pursuing climax, and they
would talk. In fact, Ray talked a lot in bed. Before, during, and
...after.  

And Fraser was surprised to find himself talking back. It was bittersweet,
in a way -- though Ray Kowalski didn't know that, and Fraser had no
intention of telling him. But had Fraser known it was this easy -- he'd
have started it himself with Ray Vecchio. Maybe if he had, he'd have known
what was coming... known Ray was leaving... known why.	

As it was, he touched on issues of Ray Vecchio, without saying who he
spoke of. Kowalski had guessed that someone had hurt him and Fraser didn't
elaborate. He spoke haltingly about Ray Vecchio, in vague terms, but only
occasionally. And never by name. Every once in a while, in the middle of
some specific caress, Kowalski would look at him and ask softly, "Did you
guys do this?"	

At first, Fraser had been surprised and embarrassed. He'd almost instantly
lost all arousal. It was if Kowalski could read his mind -- he had just
been thinking about Ray Vecchio and how they had done the same thing. But
it turned out that Ray himself was also remembering, reminiscing... about
Stella. Fraser supposed it was unchivalrous, but since Ray never really
said anything bad about her or blamed her for anything, his occasional
wistful comments of "Stella never did like doin' that" or "She used to
love when I..." didn't seem as terrible as they might be.  

We're both... working things out, Fraser guessed. With each other. Is that
a bad thing? He didn't know.  

And with every time Ray asked him, "Did you guys do this?", Fraser found
that, rather than cooling his ardor -- it inflamed it. Paradoxical but
true. It was hard to remember that Ray could not see what was in his head.
So he let the memories come to him as they often did, while he was in the
middle of kissing and masturbating Ray Kowalski, or while he was in the
middle of performing oral sex on him, or if he were in the middle of
trying something that was new to Ray Kowalski, but Fraser and Vecchio had
done uncountable times... And the memories would pass through him, and he
would remember how it had been with Ray Vecchio, and then they would move
along and there was Ray Kowalski, having his own unique reaction to it.  

It became apparent to Fraser that he wasn't deciding which man was
"better"... only sorting out what distinguished them from each other...
and how he could like completely different things in both of them. And
having Ray Kowalski, he began to realize, was calming a lot of the anger
he'd been shocked to discover he'd been harboring towards Ray Vecchio.
Having Ray Kowalski in the present reminded him, in a bittersweet way, of
how happy he'd first been when he and Ray Vecchio had found each other.  

Chapter 22: For What Seemed Like Hours 

The long, black car moved lazily through the midday traffic. Gridlock had
not yet set in at the intersections; it was not yet rush hour. The tinted
windows made it impossible to determine who was inside the limousine. It
could have been a businessman on the way to the airport as easily as it
could have been a celebrity in town filming a movie or a rock star in town
for some shows.  

"Take me down to Taylor Street. Little Italy," came the laconic voice
through the window between the chauffeur and the luxurious interior for
the passengers.  

The driver paused. "Are you sure, sir? The dinner you're to attend at
Rosebud isn't until seven o'clock tonight. And it's the other Rosebud, the
one on the Gold Coast. Not the one on Taylor. I thought you'd want to
check in at the Palmer House Hilton first."  

"Taylor Street's is better," the passenger muttered, then spoke up. "Yeah,
I'm sure. Take me there. I just wanna look around. Then we can go back to
the Palmer House."  

"Yes, sir."  

They drove in silence, the driver expertly negotiating the aggressive
taxis and only slightly less aggressive groups of pedestrians. Ray slid a
hand over his closely cropped hair. It was barely a quarter inch all over
his head. Oh, well, might as well face up to the baldness this way, rather
than pretending it's not there. There was a certain amount of relief at
facing reality. Besides, he'd grown a mustache since he'd adopted
Armando's hair cut. This guy's a good driver, he thought. Doesn't argue
but points out the potential problems. Then does what he's told to do.
Like he should.  

He fingered his tie nervously. It would not do to ask for Benny's address
outright. No, once they got to Rosebud, then he'd ask the driver to take
him by 221 West Racine. If only one of the goombahs was with him; he could
send him up the stairs to see if Fraser was home. He already had his story
planned if he could do this later: The Mountie had done some small
insignificant favor for Armando, without knowing who Armando was, back
before Armando had established himself. And like most wise guys, Armando
just wanted to pay the Mountie back, see to it that the man had whatever
he needed -- meanwhile Armando threw around his weight in a typically
eccentric, wise guy way. Only thing was, this required a goon or two.
Armando Langostini would never do something like that himself. Just like
Frankie Zuko wouldn't, he thought grimly. And those goombahs were waiting
to meet him at the Palmer House.  

Surprisingly, they were soon south of the Loop, the driver having made it
to Des Plaines and cruising south. At Roosevelt he turned right, heading
west for the ghetto, the university, and Little Italy.	

There was much more development than Ray remembered. In just a short time,
by real estate standards, entire buildings were gone. The Maxwell Street
Market, he was surprised to discover, had been moved -- a sign said so.
Vacant lots -- huge vacant lots -- were fenced in by chain-link fence.
Small signs said they were the property of the University of Illinois and
that trespassers were trespassing on state property.  

Ray's heart leapt into his throat and began pounding when they reached
Loomis. Rosebud's was quite a few blocks away yet... but Benny's apartment
was not. They drove down Loomis to Taylor Street and then turned left onto
Taylor. His heart slowed to a normal beat again.  

Rosebud, once they got there, was just as it ever had been: busy with cars
in front of it and valets trying to move them. Ray couldn't tell which
place got more business -- Rosebud, or Hawkeye's bar right across the
street. Same as ever, though. They served completely different groups of
people anyway, except for intersecting university stiffs who normally
drank and ate at Hawkeye's but wanted to spend money and taste the good
life at Rosebud's. The pasta puttanesca or fettuccine alfredo; a good
Chianti.  

The driver paused in front of Rosebud, putting the limousine in park. The
engine idled quietly.  

"We're here, boss."  

"Same as I remember it..." Ray said, trailing off. Now, to the real
destination.  

"You want I should park? Going upstairs for a bite?" the driver asked.	

Ray cleared his throat. "Nah. Just wanted to see if things around here
were the same," he said weakly. "Um, take me to 221 West Racine."  

"Sure." The driver put the limo in drive, and accelerated slowly towards
Ashland avenue, where he made a right. To go back to Racine.  

It was a short trip. The driver paused several times, checking the
addresses of buildings. But Ray's heart had begun pounding as soon as they
had turned onto Benny's block. The building -- Benny's apartment building
-- was gone.  

"Looks like there is no 221 West Racine, sir," the chauffeur's confused
voice floated back to Ray.  

He heard it only dimly, his chest tight, his mouth dry. Where's Benny?
Where's his building? What happened to him? he wondered wildly. With an
effort, he swallowed the dry lump in his throat and tried to prepare to
speak normally.  

But before he could, he was assailed by another wave of fear. He couldn't
remember the number. The number of the Consulate. How could he have
forgotten the number? Was he so deep into Armando Langostini that his
previous life -- his real life -- was already forgotten? His stomach
roiled. He wanted a Tums. No one ever said this would be easy, but he
hadn't expected ulcers, either. Why did I ever take this assignment...	

The driver waited. A brief look in the rear view mirror revealed a
startling sight: the wise guy looked scared. As the chauffeur watched, he
gulped and swallowed several times. He closed his eyes and simply
breathed.  

Embarrassed at having seen something he supposed he should not have, the
driver looked away, out at the street, at the working stiffs walking past.
He was the soul of discretion; that's why the wise guys used him again and
again, even though he wasn't a wise guy goon himself. The money was good
-- cash up front, no questions asked -- and he didn't want to screw up the
gravy train.  

Eventually, Ray calmed himself, let the smooth, slick mask of Armando
Langostini drop over his features.  

"Fine," he said tonelessly to the driver. "Find me the nearest pay phone
not on the street."  

The driver knew better than to question why Langostini wouldn't use his
cell phone. He'd driven for enough of these wise guys to know that they
knew the likelihood of having their lines tapped, even cell phones. For
calls they didn't want traced, they'd lose the gentleman bit and hoof it
to a payphone like a regular guy.  

The nearest payphone not on the street was in the greasy diner slightly up
and across the street. The driver stopped in front of it.  

"You want I should double park, or drive around the block?" he asked
Armando Langostini.  

"Double park. I shouldn't be that long."  

Before the driver could get out and do it for him, the elegantly dressed
wise guy had opened the back door of the limo and sprang out. He adjusted
his silk tie, and fished in his pocket for some change. The cold wind blew
his silk Armani suit against his body and his breath frosted in front of
him as he dashed into the restaurant.  

The driver watched through the window. First Langostini spoke with the guy
behind the counter. Passed him some bills. The guy went to the register,
opened it, stuffed the bills in, and took out some change. He dumped them
into the hand of the waiting wise guy.	

Then Langostini went to the pay phone.	

-----------  

He tried to still the shaking of his hands as he deposited several coins.
His fingers shook as he dialed 411.  

"City and state, please," came the impersonal voice of the operator.  

"Chicago. Illinois. The Canadian Consulate." His voice shook, despite
trying to control it. Thank God there was no one near enough to overhear.
He couldn't believe he had forgotten the number. Far away, deep inside
him, tears came to the eyes of Ray Vecchio. But the cold, blank face of
Armando Langostini -- the face he saw reflected in the stainless steel of
the payphone -- revealed nothing.  

She punched something and then was off the line. A recorded voice.  

"The area code and number is: 312-616-1860."  

His fingers still shook as he dialed the number.  

----------  

Turnbull was going through some paperwork methodically at the front desk
when the phone rang. He picked it up.  

"Canadian Consulate, Chicago. Constable Turnbull speaking."  

A trembling voice asked for Constable Fraser. There was something oddly
familiar about that voice, but Turnbull couldn't place it.  

"Certainly, sir. And who may I say is calling?"  

There was a pause on the line. Then the voice came again, trembling less.
"An old friend."  

"Thank you, sir, just a moment."  

He hit call transfer, got the stutter dial tone, and transferred it to
Constable Fraser's extension. The Constable picked up.	

"Constable Fraser."  

"Constable Fraser, Constable Turnbull here. I have a call transfer for
you. The caller didn't give his name, just said he was an old friend.
Shall I put him through?"  

There was a pause. Then, "Yes, Turnbull, put him through," Constable
Fraser said slowly.  

"Certainly, sir," Turnbull answered. He hit call transfer and then he hung
up.  

-----------  

Fraser heard the line switch over and Turnbull hang up. But then, nothing.
 

"This is Constable Fraser," he said carefully. "Hello?"  

There was no response, though he thought he heard someone breathing. Then
that sound became muffled.  

------------  

Armando Langostini held the phone away from his ear. The fear slowly left
his body; he felt as if the wind had been completely knocked out of his
sails. He held the phone against his chest, resting his forehead against
the wall, shaking with the effort to control his desire to sob with
relief.  

He gingerly put the phone to his ear again, after a few long, deep
breaths.  

"Hello? Who's there? Hello?" came that calm, familiar voice.  

Langostini listened briefly, simply relieved to hear that voice. All the
visions that had flashed before his eyes between seeing the empty lot
where 221 West Racine was, and hearing that voice, slowly drained from his
mind. He replaced the phone in the receiver without saying anything. He
did not let go of it for what seemed like hours, yet he knew it was only a
minute or two.	

With his feet dragging somewhat, feeling drained -- but like he could
breathe again -- he slowly left the diner and walked between the parked
cars out to the double-parked limousine. The driver had seen him coming
and had the door open before he reached it. He settled himself heavily in
the back seat, and the driver closed out the cold air with a thump.  

-----------  

The line clicked, and Fraser knew he'd been hung up on. Impulsively, he
dialed the numbers for automatic callback: the star, then 6 and 9.  

"The number you are trying to reach can not be accessed with this
service..."  

He hung up the phone in frustration.  

Who had been on the line?  

He uneasily went back to work, but the thought occurred to him repeatedly
throughout the afternoon. A true old friend would not have hung up; a real
old friend would have responded to his repeated "hellos, Fraser thought.
So if it wasn't a friend...  

He tried very hard not to think about who, out of all his previous
arrests... who it could have been.  

---------------  

Upon reaching Ray's apartment after work, he stepped into the front door.
Ray had already given him keys to his apartment. Almost immediately,
Fraser was pinned against the wall and thoroughly kissed by Ray Kowalski.
This had come to be standard operating procedure with Ray, as long as he
was home when Fraser came by.  

Today however, Fraser was flustered and slightly discomfited.  

"What's up, Frase?" came Ray's inquiry, as he slid his hands up his
partner's arms.  

"Nothing, Ray... just... something peculiar at work today," he replied,
slipping out of Ray's grasp and slowly taking off his pea coat. He hung it
in the hall closet and then went into the living room, Ray trailing behind
him.  

"Peculiar, how?"  

"Oh, nothing much, really," he fibbed. "Just a phone call that got
transferred to me. When I picked it up, no one was on the line."  

That's not really true, he told himself. You know there was someone on the
line... why lie to Ray? But it's not really a lie... just a fib... they
hung up very quickly, so it might as well have been no one on the line... 


"Maybe it was a wrong number," Ray suggested, watching Fraser seat himself
on the sofa.  

"Maybe," the Mountie agreed, nodding, after the slightest hesitation. No,
it was not a wrong number, he thought. Not if they asked for you by name
and title.  

Ray watched him for a moment, then spoke.  

"Did you eat?"	

"No, Ray, not since lunch."  

"Wanna go out, or order in?" Ray asked, toeing the corner of the rug, not
looking at his partner, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned.  

"Ordering in would be just fine, Ray," Fraser said, oblivious. He closed
his eyes and passed a hand over them. Then the air around him seemed to
change, slightly. He opened his eyes, and found himself looking right into
Ray Kowalski's face.  

"Let's get you outta that uniform," Ray said a bit thickly, leaning down,
eyes sparkling with anticipation.  

Fraser looked wordlessly up at him, and watched as Ray's right hand
extended to his throat. They gazed steadily into each other's eyes as Ray
opened Fraser's collar with that ripping sound from the Velcro.  

And then Ray's hot mouth was upon his and the detective's fingers tore at
the buttons on Fraser's serge tunic.  

The Mountie leaned back on the sofa, his mouth being devoured, his clothes
being opened, feeling the fingers at his belt, his fly. He was still not
used to this -- to Ray, any time, all the time, wanting to ravish him. It
rather overwhelmed him; but he rather welcomed it, too, knowing that he
himself would have delighted in doing the same to Ray -- if he were only
more demonstrative and less inhibited than he was.  

It seemed to come so naturally -- so easy -- so freely from Ray. As if,
now that Ray knew it was all right with Fraser, he was determined not to
waste a moment of free, private time that could be put to better use
caressing and pleasing each other... making each other happy and sated.  

Some day, maybe Fraser could be that uninhibited and giving -- not that it
was caused by some kind of stinginess of his affection -- no, not at all.
It just... didn't come so naturally to him, to be so carefree and honest
about what he wanted -- both what he wanted to do, and what he wanted to
have done to him. So, though he envied Ray's carefree pursuit of the
pleasures of life, he was also secretly very pleased by it.... and
surprised and wordlessly grateful that it was centered on him.	

Secretly he hoped to achieve Ray's level of "sneak attack" skills, and to
turn the tables and start surprising and pleasing Ray at spontaneous and
unexpected moments of private time, the way Ray did to him. Some day,
anyway... So Fraser felt it all -- the hands that drew him out and the
mouth that surrounded his cock. And gave in -- happily -- to the
detective's eager advances.  

Despite his swiftly rising pleasure, the uneasy thought -- who had been on
the line? -- darted in and out of his otherwise delightfully preoccupied
thoughts, a mosquito disturbing his full enjoyment of Ray's ardor. But the
thought was finally banished completely, when Ray brought the Mountie to a
point of arousal where he could think of nothing else but that he was
going to come, going to come; and then he was, hard, and into Ray's mouth.
 

Moments later -- his brow, his chest and his lap sweaty -- he stroked
Ray's sweat-damp hair as the detective rested his cheek on Fraser's thigh.
The thrumming of Fraser's heart slowed to a more normal pace; he heard Ray
catching his breath; the forceful exhalations on Fraser's thigh slowed and
softened. His thoughts circled drowsily back from blissful nothingness to
everyday thoughts.  

And the thought was back: who had that been on the line?  

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 end. 
 
 
  End Notes/Credits, Acknowledgements, "Thank-you-kindly"s 

Thank You: 
 
 I must extend big, big thanks to Renny and Blarney Stone who were my beta
readers for The Burnham Triangle. I couldn't have done it without you!
Thanks must also go to Cate North, Caroline A., Maya, Kellie M., Elaine,
Anagi, and many others who I'm forgetting for comments and encouragements
and willingness to discuss characters and motivations. I couldn't have
kept going with this story without your support. And I truly apologize if
I've missed anyone in these acknowledgements. I've lost my mail like four
times since I started this story and thus lost a lot of correspondence
about it. Grateful vibes to all who commented/discussed things!  

Finally, many, many thanks to the fanfic readers on DSX, Serge and those
who browse Hexwood. Your emailed comments to me over the past year or so
when this story was "in progress" helped keep the fires burning. This
story is so long and it took so long to write... and it's not done yet! I
am so grateful to everyone for their comments and support. 
 
 
 Notes/Credits:  

Chapters 6-7 
 The woman's voice in the song playing in the night club and the song
lyrics: "Push It", by Garbage, from the album Version 2.0  

Chapter 7 
 "Laying back like an empty dress in his arms" is paraphrased from the
song "And I Moved" by Pete Townshend from his album Empty Glass. (Good
slash song from before Townshend admitted his bisexuality. "Rough Boys" is
another good slashy song from Empty Glass...)  

Chapter 17 
 When Ray is laying in the slasher's car and feels "warm air blowing over
his private parts" -- and later when he "felt a great chill over his
private parts" -- that was paraphrased from the Tragically Hip song
"Lionized".  

Chapter 19 
 "Blood makes noise" is the lyric and title of a Suzanne Vega song  

Chapter 20 
 reference to Sarah MacLachlan's "Won't Fear Love" in the lyrics "we will
play, with chairs, candles and cloth, making darkness in the day"