Old Lock, New Key	Old Lock, New Key by Bone

 Author's webpage: http://business.mho.net/houseofslack/soup.htm

  

 Old Lock, New Key 

 by Bone 

 Notes/Disclaimers: Previously published in the Serge Protector fanzine.
The due South characters remain the property of Alliance Atlantis. Written
for pleasure, not profit. For adult readers only, please. Many thanks to
all the editors of Serge Protector, and to my original beta readers. 

 Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski 

 Rating: NC-17 for language, sexual content 

 Feedback: Is welcomed at jbonetoo@yahoo.com 

 *** 

 There have been times in the wild when I haven't been able to precisely
pinpoint my position. Blizzards, for example, can wreak havoc with a man's
sense of direction. Flat landscapes and cloudy skies can also be
disorienting. Even a deep forest can mask the typical signs we use to
determine location. City streets can create the same confusion - the
storefronts tend to blur after awhile, and lights hide the steadfast
stars. 

 But I have to admit that, until today, I'd never felt truly lost. 

 When my mother died, I had my father, and my grandparents. When my father
died, I had the righteous cause of vengeance to hold me, and then I found
Ray. I moved from one safe circle to another, and I never had to wonder
where, or who, I was. 

 The closest I'd come prior to now was waking up in a hospital room,
unable to move. Shot in the back. Even then, I can say from the safe perch
of hindsight, it was the loss of my good judgment I regretted more than
anything. 

 But even then, I wasn't alone. 

 Even then, I had Ray. 

 Now Ray's gone. Gone deep undercover with the Mob, so the correct answer
to my repeated query of whether he was all right should have been a
resounding "No!" The logical part of me realizes that he told me all he
could, that he tried to cushion the blow, but my heart doesn't understand.


 He didn't want me to spend my vacation alone up there. He wanted to come,
and I told him no. I couldn't do it - be with him every day, but not be
with him every night. We made our choices, and now we have to live with
them. 

 Loving me was hard for him. It went against the grain of his life, his
history, his hopes. It meant hiding something fundamental from his family,
his colleagues. We stole hours together, clandestine and furtive, behind
the closed blinds in my apartment, or the anonymous door of a suburban
motel. 

 I didn't intend to love him. But I don't regret it. 

 I think he did. 

 And so we (he) chose friendship over love. Over romantic love, anyway.
Our platonic love burns as brightly as ever. At least it seems to. I could
still hear the love in his voice, across so many miles; hear it so clearly
that I felt compelled to remind myself that his call came as a friend, not
as...anything more. 

 Now I wish he had come with me. I wish I'd savored the days, even if I
couldn't have the nights. I wasted our last opportunity to be together. 

 I only punished myself. 

 Now I feel punished by everything else. My home, such as it was, burned
to the ground. The few possessions I had are a pile of cinder and ash. The
remnants of my father's life, photos of my mother, my childhood drawings,
and diplomas are all gone, like Ray. 

 "Buck up," my father told me, and I'm doing my best. It's hard. Harder
than I expected. The postcard helped at first - wherever Ray is, he's
obviously all right. But the more I think about it, the more it hurts. The
covertness of his message, the one-sided communication, felt all too
familiar. He can reach me, but I can't reach him, and seeing that basic
tenet of our relationship made manifest so concretely was hard. 

 But I understand that it doesn't really matter how I feel about it. 

 It never did. 

 I have to respect his decision, and do whatever I can on this end to
uphold his identity. 

 That includes accepting this man in his place. The man who now answers to
Ray's name. The man sitting across from me in an all-night diner, eating
things Ray Vecchio would probably have turned his nose up at: alphabet
soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. 

 This man, right here, who stepped in front of a bullet for me on the
strength of a few hours' acquaintance. 

 Yes, I think he deserves whatever benefit of the doubt I can give him. 

 I think he's earned that much. 

 *** 

 Somebody did a number on that guy, and I'm betting his name starts with
R-A-Y. 

 Day like we've had would be enough to knock the starch out of anybody,
even somebody as heavy-starched as Fraser, there, but he looks like his
insides are more tired than his outsides. 

 I meant that little speech in the fireball - not that he paid the least
bit of attention to it, but I guess he was distracted. It's already been a
pleasure meeting him. I mean, look at him. What's not to like about that?
Okay, so he's weird. I'm not exactly Joe Schmoe myself. He grows on you.
I've only been around him for one day and he's already growing on me. So
it's been a long, incredibly full day - that's not the point. The point
is, I like him. 

 The guy gets a ton of stuff thrown at him all at once, and what's he do?
Keeps his hat on, puts his shoulders back and solves the damn crime. And
finds time to check me out to boot. At first it was kind of annoying; it's
not like I didn't know what he was doing - subtle he ain't - and I still
think he's weird as owl doo-doo, but now that I think about it, I like it
that he did all that stuff trying to prove I wasn't his old buddy Ray.
Shows me he's thorough, and fair. He never pitched a fit, never got real
snarky on me (well, yeah, he snarked some, but you know, we were both a
little provoked there for awhile), never said anything to make me think it
was me in particular he had a problem with. 

 I like that. I get enough of that shit from other people. From one other
person. 

 And at the end of the day, the end of our really long, incredibly full
day, he called me by name, asked me if I wanted to get something to eat
with him, and so that's what we're doing. Doing our best not to fall
asleep in the soup, trying to find something to talk about. 

 He said the postcard wasn't something I needed to worry about, that
everything was fine. Doesn't take a genius to figure out he's blowing
smoke up my ass. His apartment burned down, with all his stuff in it, and
his partner's gone. Gone, gone, gone. And that was all before we had the
nutjob Welcome Wagon to deal with. I think you'd have to agree that,
whatever all this is, it's not fine. Makes me wonder just how many 'fines'
I'm going to have to fight my way through to figure out what he's really
got to say for himself. Partnership's hard work enough without having to
read his mind. 

 He looks more like just any other guy when he's out of his Christmas tree
outfit. Better-looking than most, yeah, but it's not like he can help
that. I'm not even sure he knows it; he sure doesn't call attention to it.
Or maybe he does the whole polite thing to get people to back off. It's
tough to fight polite. 

 Think I'm gonna try, though. 

 We're about the only people in the place this late. It's nice and quiet.
The food's good, the waitress isn't bugging us. So we're going to sit here
for awhile, have a sandwich, suck down a milk shake, and I'm going to see
if I can't figure him out a little. I don't really believe in mincing
words, and he looks like a guy who could maybe use someone to talk to. 

 It's not like I've got anything better to do. 

 I figure the Vecchio's house thing is a pretty safe bet, so I get the
ball rolling with, "Frannie say where they were all staying tonight?" 

 He puts his soup spoon down and looks at me like I just told him his
wolf's got worms. "I never gave it a thought." 

 Damn. Didn't mean to poke his conscience. "I'm sure they're fine, Fraser.
They've...I mean, *we've* got relatives out the wazoo around here. I can
hardly move without tripping over one Vecchio or another." 

 His face clears up when I say that. Whew. One landmine avoided. Okay, now
what? We slurp a few more spoonfuls of soup. Well, I slurp. He eats all
dainty-like. Doesn't spill a drop. Even pushes the spoon away from him to
get each spoonful. Nice manners for a guy who probably just spent a few
weeks field-stripping his dinners. 

 "You got a place to stay?" I ask him. He obviously found a place to wash
off and change clothes - the consulate, probably - but I'm not sure
whether people can actually *sleep* there. Not sure I'd want to, even if
you could. Kind of stuffy, you know? Not the kind of place you could
wander around in your boxer shorts scratching yourself. 

 He nods, looking down at his alphabet soup like the noodles are spelling
out 'liaison' or something. 

 "You gonna stay at the consulate?" I ask, and he nods again. 

 "You got keys?" I ask, and that makes him look up at me. His mouth drops
open a little and he shakes his head. 

 "Something else I never gave a thought to," he says, "but I'm sure you're
right - a new building would require new locks, and new locks mean new
keys." 

 "Yeah, that's pretty much how it goes," I say. "Somebody be there to let
you in this late?" 

 I get another quick shake of his head. "It's unlikely." 

 I crack my knuckles. "Okay, looks like we've got two choices: I can amaze
you with my lock-picking techniques..." 

 He raises an eyebrow at me. "Or..." 

 "Or you can stay with me," I tell him. "It's no big deal. You get the
couch." 

 He's looking at me like I'm a stranger. Oh, wait, I guess I am. 

 "What? You never bunked in with Vecchio?" I say, and I meant to tease
him, but that's not how he takes it. 

 While I'm sitting there, watching him, he just...I don't know...deflates.
It's like somebody let the air out of him. One minute he's fine, talking
about keys and stuff, and now he's *way* too quiet, and I don't have to be
a detective to know I just hit some seriously raw nerve. 

 Awww, hell. He looks like I just popped him in the mouth. Then he blinks
fast a couple of times, coughs once, and turns his attention back to his
soup, like nothing's wrong. Right. Oh yeah, we're cool. He's 'fine'.
That's why his hand's shaking. 

 What'd I say? 

 *** 

 I have to pull myself together. I've made it this far today, through
moments much more trying than a stranger's kindness, without falling
apart. I won't start now. 

 I won't. 

 I am. 

 I can feel myself starting to fray at the seams. My throat feels tight
and my hands are trembling. That's not how I want this to go. It's not
what I meant to have happen. 

 He...Ray...disarmed me. First with his casual offer of hospitality, which
I appreciate more than words can say. I wasn't looking forward to spending
the night alone in the consulate, but I couldn't imagine any other option.
Then his question - a natural assumption, that partners would occasionally
have a need to...oh, how did he phrase it? Bunk in together. 

 We did, Ray and I. We bunked in. We tangled together under woolen
blankets. We slept naked under ceiling fans in grimy motel rooms. We spent
more time awake than asleep, though. Greedy for every minute away from the
world, starved for touch, lost in each other. 

 Lost. There's that word again. That feeling. 

 I'm lost, and what hurts most is knowing that even if Ray were sitting
across from me - if the real Ray Vecchio were here - I'd be no closer to
him than I am now. I would continue to starve for his touch. 

 Ray and I have certainly bunked in together. 

 But we never will again. 

 "You all right?" he asks. 

 I force myself to focus on him, on the differences I see. On the shock of
blond hair. On his eyes - blue-gray, not forest-green. On that nose, the
one that's seven critical millimeters smaller than the one I became
accustomed to feeling tucked in the crook of my neck. 

 He's not Ray. He's not. But he's kind. And a good detective. And he's
looking at me as if he'd like to say the right thing, if only he knew what
that was. I try to smile at him. From the look he gives me, I didn't
succeed, so next I try my voice. 

 "Yes, I'm quite-" 

 No. I didn't get it all out. The words died in my mouth, killed for the
lies they are. 

 I shake my head. "No, I don't seem to be," I say, and am horrified to
hear myself sniff. I'm moving before I realize it, trying to get out of
the booth, trying to get away before I embarrass myself utterly, but he
blocks me with a hand on my arm. 

 "Fraser, wait, hang on," he sputters. "It's not...It's okay." 

 I subside a little, take a deep breath. Then another. The strain of
holding it all in makes me weary. 

 "Hey, we had a hard day," he says, pushing aside his soup bowl so he can
lean closer to me across the table. "It's not every day you climb all over
a car and get blown up and take a ducking in the lake they call Michigan,
right?" 

 "Right," I manage to answer. I'm grateful to him for not mentioning the
other things. The important things. 

 "Eat your sandwich," he says. "Food makes everything look better." 

 He surprises me into complying, and we sit in more companionable silence,
comforted by grilled cheese. 

 "You know how I know that?" he asks around a mouthful of sandwich. 

 I shake my head. 

 "Experience," he says, wiping his mouth. "Had a thing go sour a while
back, and I was just like you: if somebody looked at me wrong I dribbled
all over them. Finally figured out if I ate something once in a while it
didn't happen as often. Not sure why that is." 

 "Low blood sugar," I tell him, realizing he's quite right. We went
through tremendous physical and emotional exertion today, without ever
stopping to eat. No wonder my equilibrium is off. 

 "That what it is? Huh," he says. 

 I like how matter-of-fact he is in the face of my...display. How
rational. It's a nice change. I make myself chew a few more bites, even
though it tastes like window putty, or at least how I imagine window putty
must taste. I suppose I could ask Ray. I doubt he'd be surprised by
anything I say at this point. 

 "What kind of thing went sour?" I ask before I can stop myself. It's none
of my business, but I still want to know. 

 "A love thing, what else?" he says with a quirk of his mouth. 

 Indeed. What else reduces grown men to sniffling idiots? 

 "I know this isn't like that," he says. "I mean, it's not the same kind
of thing..." 

 His voice trails off. 

 I freeze. I stare at him. He stares at me. I watch as comprehension
dawns. I can literally watch him review our conversation and, being the
good detective that he is, draw conclusions. I break eye contact first,
avert my eyes down to the table top and start counting crumbs. Anything to
distract myself, although it becomes patently clear that there's no
distracting him. 

 "Is it?" he asks quietly. 

 I don't say anything, but I feel heat climb into my cheeks. 

 "You and Vecchio?" It's almost a whisper, but it makes my ears hurt to
hear it. 

 "No." 

 I say it as firmly as I can. It's no less than the truth. All right, it's
a little less than the truth, but I know Ray wouldn't want me to talk
about this with anyone, let alone the man filling his shoes. Ray couldn't
even talk about it with me. 

 "No?" he echoes back to me. 

 I can't help myself - I raise my eyes to his. I don't see censure. Or
disgust. Or even dismay. I see curiosity, and surprise, and...what looks
like sympathy, but perhaps I'm merely projecting what I want to see. 

 "Look, if you don't want to talk about it, you don't want to talk about
it, but..." 

 "It hardly matters now," I say. 

 "But it did once?" he asks, and I'm struck by how calm he is in the face
of this yet-to-be-uttered revelation. Here I see very clearly the
difference between him and Ray Vecchio. This would not be a calm
conversation with Ray Vecchio. It's that very calmness that opens up
something inside me, unlocks the gate. 

 With a silent apology to Ray and an almost staggering feeling of relief,
I tell him, "Yes. It mattered once." 

 He nods, then turns his attention back to his sandwich. Surely it can't
be that easy. I manage to finish my sandwich as well, and sop up the
remaining soup with the crusts before he speaks again. 

 "What happened?" he asks. Again, I'm surprised at the lack of
condemnation in his voice. Ray maintained such a deeply held conviction
that we must *not* speak of our relationship - that to do so would
threaten our security, our careers, and possibly our lives - that I think
part of me expected a lightning strike, or its human equivalent. 

 I'm as appalled at my lack of restraint as I am by my show of emotion.
With a few ill-chosen words, I could jeopardize Ray's future. Given this
Ray's reaction, that wouldn't seem to be the case, but that says more
about him, and his open-mindedness, than about me and my ability to
withstand the temptation to talk about it. 

 But I've held it all in for so long. 

 I brace my hands on the edge of the table, take a breath, open my
mouth... 

 ...and start talking. 

 *** 

 "It was hard...for Ray," he tells me, and I'm already wondering why he's
making excuses for the guy. 

 "He's a traditional man," he says. 

 Not that traditional. Not if he was bedding down with the Mountie. 

 Nothing I read in the file even hints there was something going on
between those two. Nothing. Fraser looked clean as a whistle, and if it
looked like Vecchio cut a corner here and there, I still wouldn't have
guessed they were two-backing it. Vecchio must've put the fear of God into
Fraser. Not sure it stuck though, because Fraser folded quick once he got
asked the right question. Must be that integrity thing he's got going. Ask
him a question and he'll answer it. 

 "Knocked him for a loop, did you?" I ask, and that earns me another one
of those surprised looks I'm starting to like. 

 That's right, Mountie man. I'm not him. I'm not even like him. The more I
hear about him, the happier that makes me. Keep talking. There's not a
thing you can say that'll shock me. Not one goddamn thing. 

 "So he said," he says. Looks bemused, like Vecchio did him some great
favor noticing him. Yeah, right. Fraser's the one did the favor - I've
heard about the schnoz on Vecchio. 

 "He too Catholic? Too Italian? Too everything?" I ask, and that almost
gets me a smile. 

 "A combination of all those things, yes," he says, shredding his napkin
into perfect strips. "Eventually, the dichotomy in his life became too
much for him, and we...ended it." 

 We? Pull the other one, Fraser. This guy's a lovesick cow if I've ever
seen one, so I'm not buying that 'we ended it' crap. Vecchio dumped him. 

 "You ended the partnership?" I ask, even though I know the answer. I'm
here, aren't I? 

 Immediately he shakes his head. "Oh, no. No, we remained partners. And
friends. We just stopped..." 

 "The other stuff," I finish for him, and he looks at me, shocked. "Sounds
like a real prince." 

 "You may not be able to appreciate the pressure he felt," he protests.
"You wouldn't understand -" 

 "I understand," I tell him. 

 "For a Chicago police detective to -" 

 "I said I understand." 

 There's a weird loud silence while he digests that. I get to watch the
light bulb go on. It's fun, in a life-shattering kind of way. 

 "Oh," he finally says, real quiet. 

 I nod. 

 I'm not sure why I'm owning up to it this quick. It's not like he'd
already have had a chance to hear the rumors - hush-hush, don't say 'em
too loud - about Queerwalski. Hell, the guy doesn't even know my name yet.
Doesn't know about that little trap some asshole Viceboy set - never
dreamed he'd catch one of his own, I bet. Doesn't know all the ways I
fucked it up with my wife, who I still love, no matter what I say. No
matter what I...do. 

 I get a chance to start over, and what do I do? 

 First chance I get, I get all...what's the word? Commiseratory. Over a
jilted Mountie and his straight, former, oh-yeah-and-by-the-way-*gone*
boyfriend. 

 Great. Way to go. Just what I needed. 

 Here's a stick, Fraser. Beat me with it. 

 *** 

 He knows. 

 More than that, he understands. He said so in words, and I see it in his
face, in his clear eyes. He's remarkably expressive - a rare trait in a
policeman. Or perhaps I'm simply recognizing something of myself in him.
Something I don't see very often. 

 He's...like me. In that deep, silent, secret place, he's very much like
me. Only he's allowed himself to bring it to the surface, to a certain
extent. I realize that as open as I feel we've been, neither of us has
said anything yet that could be construed as explicit. It's as if we have
to speak in half-sentences, in allusions. To do anything else seems
dangerous. 

 Especially here, in a diner where I (if not he) am known. The waitresses
here know to bring me hot tea, not coffee. They know Dief will behave
himself. It's not the place to talk about something like this, no matter
how much I want to. It's probably not the time, either, given our level of
exhaustion. 

 It's been a very long day. 

 The smartest thing to do would be to curb my wayward tongue, thank him
for his company and go...oh. That's right. Locks, keys, new buildings. It
all seems too much on top of everything else. My mind shies away from the
thought of spending the night at his apartment. I feel as if he knows too
much already. Sees too much. Perhaps I'll sleep in the park, under what
passes for stars here. Yes, that's as good an idea as any. I'm sure things
will look better in the morning. They usually do. 

 "Are you finished?" I ask him, pointing to his empty bowl and plate. 

 He draws back, quirks an eyebrow at me. 

 "You got some place to be?" he asks. 

 "No, I just..." 

 After months of locking down my feelings, even my thoughts, it's hard to
open up. 

 "You just what?" he asks. 

 He looks a little affronted, and I wonder if perhaps I haven't given him
enough credit for discussing these...difficult topics. Maybe he just makes
it *look* easy, but has some of the same trepidation I do about getting it
out in the open. 

 My respect for him is climbing by the minute. 

 The best part of loving Ray was always the time we spent together,
regardless of what we were doing. The worst part was always having to be
careful of what I said, how I acted. How I touched him if other people
were around. He worked hard to keep a respectable distance between us. 

 *This* Ray seems to be trying just as hard to close that gap. The same
effort, towards a different goal. 

 Ray...*this* Ray...wants me to talk to him. I'll try. I really will. But
I don't think I can say anything more here. It's just too strange here in
the light to talk about things that have been kept in the dark all this
time. 

 "Would you like to go for a walk?" I ask him. 

 He looks at me like I've got one oar out of the water - another look I'm
becoming accustomed to from him - but he just nods, flags down the
waitress for the check, and waves away my 'funny money,' as he calls it,
when I offer to pay my half. 

 Then we're out in the bracing air, the city mostly silent at our feet for
the moment. Outside, in the cold and dark, which better matches how I feel
inside than the comfort of the warm diner. Away from curious ears, just
the two of us, two sets of footsteps echoing on the sidewalk. My feet turn
automatically for the park, and he falls into step beside me, close enough
to brush against the sleeve of my jacket. I realize we've spent almost the
entire day within reach of each other. I can still feel him, solid against
me, his wiry embrace; still see that first smile on his face. I can still
feel his long fingers, light on my shoulder, and the heavy weight of his
body, propelled into me by Miss Garbo's perfectly aimed shot. 

 He touches easily - another rare and wonderful trait. 

 When we get to the park, we wander toward the small pond in the center,
and he drops down onto a bench at its shore. I sit beside him and look out
over the water. The night is quiet around us. It's very late - it must be
after midnight now, and we have the park to ourselves. I come here often,
but rarely accompanied by anyone else. I'm soothed by the consistencies of
nature - moonlight on water looks the same regardless of place. Dead
leaves crunch underfoot no matter where they lie. It's a comfort to me. 

 We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I'm surprised at how comfortable
I already feel with him. Of course, our partnership had a literal baptism
of fire. I'm sure our trying circumstances helped lead to a sense
of...bonding, to use Ray's word. More than anything, though, it's knowing
that we share this one unexpected thing that makes being with him now so
easy. 

 It makes me feel less...lost. 

 I turn to look at him, taking in the clean lines of his profile, the way
his narrow shoulders hunch against the cold. Given a choice of ways to
spend an evening, I feel certain he wouldn't have picked sitting on a park
bench in the middle of the night with a lonely Mountie. 

 Yet here he is. Stepping up for me again. 

 He seems to feel the weight of my gaze, because he turns his head just
far enough to meet my eyes. 

 "We out in the freakin' cold for any particular reason?" he asks. 

 I can already tell there may be times when his speak-first-think-later
approach to conversation will irk me, but tonight, it's what I need.
Straight talk. As it were. 

 "I seem to feel most comfortable out of doors," I tell him with a slight
shrug. 

 He shrugs back. "Probably doesn't even feel cold to you, does it?" he
says. 

 "No, not particularly. Of course, I have developed an extra layer of
subcutaneous fat from all the years of-" 

 "Whoa there, Fraser. There's some stuff I do not need to know. Got that?"
he says, pulling his hands from his coat pockets and holding them, palms
up, between us. 

 It's interesting that the idea of my having a romantic relationship with
my partner didn't throw him off, but a mention of subcutaneous fat upsets
him. What an odd person. What an *intriguing* person. 

 We came out here because I wanted to talk. Finally. Openly. But I can't
think of what to say. 

 "What would you like to know?" I ask. That seems a safe and reasonable
question. It could cover everything from my elementary school years to the
periodic table of elements. 

 He scratches his chin absently, then asks, "Anybody else know?" 

 I know what he means. 

 "Not that I'm aware of," I tell him. "We were extremely careful." 

 He nods. 

 "And you?" I ask. 

 He snorts under his breath. "No, they pulled their *best* cop for the
undercover assignment way across town." 

 Oh, dear. Poor Ray. 

 His name comes into my mind more easily every minute. The name even
sounds different to me when I hear it in my head. I hear his flat
inflection, the emphasized long 'a'. Instead of only seeing in him who
he's not, I'm starting to see him for who he is. 

 He shifts on the bench. "It's not like it's common knowledge or anything,
but yeah, I did something stupid. My lieu knows. He *jumped* at the chance
to get me out of his hair for awhile." 

 I'm intensely curious to know what stupid thing he did, so I can avoid
making the same mistake, but if he wanted me to know, he would have told
me, so I don't press him for more details. Perhaps as time goes by, he'll
begin to feel more comfortable with me. 

 "You're performing a critical function," I tell him. "Whatever brought
you here, your presence may mean the difference between life and death for
Ray. Don't sell your contribution short." 

 "You always like this?" he asks, ducking his chin into the collar of his
coat. 

 "Like what?" I ask. 

 "This. All turn-the-tables. Thought we were supposed to be talking about
you," he says. 

 I like this Ray. I like his forthrightness, his candor. I find myself
wanting to tell him everything, but I'm afraid. Afraid that, in the end,
it will turn out to be one of those things he doesn't need to know. Afraid
he'll pull back, when all I want him to do is keep reaching out. It would
be better to stop now, before I go any further. Before I get any deeper.
Better for him to go home; better for me to stay here. 

 It isn't that I don't want his company. 

 I want it too much. 

 *** 

 He gets me out here and now he wants me to go home? And leave him here? 

 "You can't be serious." 

 "It wouldn't be the first time I've spent a night out of doors, Ray," he
tells me. 

 "You don't even have a sleeping bag," I point out. 

 "I can get it from the..." 

 "The consulate you can't get into cuz you don't have the right key?" I'm
not sure why I'm pushing him on this. The man's got a right to freeze his
nuts off if he wants, but I just hate the thought of leaving him here by
himself. He looks like he might brood if he gets half a chance, and given
all the stuff he's got to brood about, he could be here for days. 

 "You don't want to stay at my place? What, you think I got cooties?" 

 He looks puzzled. "I'm not familiar with that -" 

 "Never mind, Fraser. Why don't you want to come home with me?" 

 We've talked around a lot of shit tonight. Let's go back to that
direct-question thing, see where it gets me. 

 Silence is what it gets me. For like two minutes. Long enough that I'm
starting to wonder if he does think I have cooties. Maybe Vecchio really
did do a number on him. Maybe he got taught guys like us are queerer than
queer. Like the queer part just scratches the surface of weird. 

 "I'm not...myself," he finally says, so low I have to lean toward him to
hear it. "I don't want to..." 

 It almost sounds like he doesn't want to come home with me because he
doesn't trust himself. He might call it something else, but that's what it
boils down to, I think. Coming from a guy like that, it's a total rush.
It's not like I've got men (or women) beating down my door. 

 "What? What do you think you'll do?" I hear the challenge in my voice. I
wonder if he does. 

 He looks up at me and I can see right down inside him, like he opened a
door and invited me in. It's all right there in his eyes. All his pain,
all his worry, all his fear, and under all that, I can see he needs
something. Needs it bad. 

 Beats me how Vecchio could walk away from him. I've only known him a day
and I'm already sticking to him like glue. 

 "It wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened to me," I tell him,
and his eyes widen. 

 Hey, it's not like it'd be some noble gesture on my part. It's not like
he's got to apologize for it or anything. Hell, I could use some cuddling
myself, and today was a pretty good day for me. 

 "I've gotta be Ray Vecchio to the rest of the world, right? No reason I
can't be him for you, too." 

 "I don't understand." 

 I can see that. He looks like I'm talking to him in some weird dialect or
something. 

 "Same name, different game. Only I'm not so...uptight, I guess." Might as
well just put the cards right out there on the table. "I mean, if I've
gotta take Frannie as part of the deal, I might as well get something good
out of it, you know?" 

 "You think I'm something good?" he asks. He sounds surprised. 

 I think I'd like to have a little talk with Vecchio. You got a guy like
this crawling around in your britches and you make him feel bad about it?
What is up with that? 

 "Look, I don't know what kind of routine he pulled on you, and I don't
want to know, okay? But there's nothing wrong with you, if that's what you
think. It's nothing to be ashamed of or anything. Some people are just
wired different, that's all," I tell him. 

 I shouldn't have to be giving that speech to a guy over thirty. He must
have had some kind of seriously sheltered upbringing. Or else he just had
all the rotten stuff drilled into him. I'm not trying to sugarcoat it -
being like this isn't easy for a cop. Any cop. But it's not like he can
help it. I sure can't. And I know for damn sure that no cop would choose
to be this way if he didn't have to be. It's too fucking hard. 

 "Something good might come from it," he says under his breath. 

 "Huh?" 

 "That's something...someone told me today. Not to take it too hard, that
something good might come from it," he says, and I can see just how much
he wants to believe that. 

 "Talking about Vecchio?" I ask. 

 "No, he was speaking specifically of my apartment burning, but I think
the concept can be translated. Loss is loss, whether physical
or...personal." 

 I bob my head at him. I'm not a hundred percent sure I get what he's
talking about, but it seems to be helping, so we'll go with it. Loss.
Yeah, that's what he's had a boatload of today. All different kinds. Lot
of people would have just curled up in a ball and howled, but Fraser's
more a take-charge kind of guy, looks like. Not one to really take things
lying down, if you know what I mean. 

 "So come home with me," I say, and I hug him around the shoulders for a
minute. "Who's it going to hurt?" 

 He leans on me briefly, then sits up straight again, and I take my arm
back. 

 "If Ray were-" 

 "He's not here. He's not coming back. Not any time soon, anyway. And if
he did, you wouldn't...he wouldn't...would he?" 

 "No." 

 "So, who's it hurt?" 

 He doesn't have an answer for me. I can tell him who: nobody. Won't hurt.
Might help. Can't do much better than that. Maybe he just needs to hear
that I'm not looking for some big commitment thing. Sounds like he got
burned good on the last one. 

 "It doesn't have to mean anything. It can just be what it is," I say. 

 I don't know why I'm trying so hard to convince him, except that I think
he needs somebody, and, well, here I am. The shoes fit, I've got I.D. -
might as well use 'em. 

 We'll call it a perk. 

 *** 

 It can just be what it is. 

 That's a novel concept for me. I'm more accustomed to dissecting,
analyzing, searching for reasons, for meaning. I don't know whether it's
the strain of the day catching up to me, or my own physical exhaustion,
but I find myself agreeing, swayed by his hug, persuaded by his meager
argument. 

 I'm going home with Ray. Beyond that, I have no expectations. He seemed
to be talking about more than a place to sleep, but I won't hold him to
that. I wouldn't ask him for that. Even if my tired brain and body look at
him - at his energy, at his openness - and seem to think it sounds like a
fine idea. 

 I suppose I should feel guilty contemplating doing...that...without Ray.
But I felt guilty doing that with Ray, too, and the logical voice inside
me insists I needn't feel guilty about both. Pick one, it says, and since
I can't change the past, I will try not to feel guilty about...this. 

 I'm very aware of him as we walk, more than I have been before. Aware
that his stride matches my own, that his body has a grace to it that makes
it hard to look away. I shouldn't let him think he's just a substitute, a
less uptight version of Ray Vecchio. I should tell him he has his own
appeal, his own attraction. But perhaps that's how he justifies this...I
don't even know what to call it. 

 I feel my heart start to beat heavy in my chest. Doing this, even just
walking into his building, makes me feel reckless, unfettered. I feel the
ties of the day's pain unravel, feel hunger seep into their place, and
there's something wondrous in letting it happen. In not automatically
clenching desire into a fist. There's something freeing about simply
allowing myself to feel. 

 It feels like I'm teetering on the edge of a cliff. The idea of turning
to someone - not out of love, but out of need - is alien, disconcerting.
It's a different world now. Everything's changed, starting with the man
I'm following up a dim flight of stairs. When we get to his apartment, he
doesn't turn on any lights, doesn't offer me something to drink, doesn't
invite me to sit down. He just pushes me toward the bedroom. Once inside
he closes the door, pushes me back against it, and then stands there in
front of me, a tall, lean shape in the dark. 

 I reach out, put my hands on his waist, and I feel him take a sharp
breath. It tells me that I affect him as much as he affects me, and that
makes it all seem more...possible. 

 "It doesn't have to mean anything," he says again in a whisper. "Just
do...whatever you want." 

 My hands clench on his waist, pull him one step closer. Now I can feel
the heat of him, the weight of him. Close. Very close now. I'm very close
to opening my arms and diving into the chasm. My stomach turns over, and I
think it's fear until I realize my hands are trembling, that I'm starting
to sweat. It's not fear. It's excitement. 

 "I won't hold it against you," he says, his voice low and rough,
and...warm. "We can even pretend it didn't happen if you want. Just...do
it." 

 I feel chills race across my skin, feel my groin heat, just at being
here, in the dark with him. After the day I've had, it's startling to feel
arousal this strong pumping through me. I've spent so many weeks
suppressing my baser needs, knowing they weren't welcome, knowing they
didn't help me. 

 The same way I couldn't seem to keep myself from telling Ray my deepest
secret, I can't seem to hide this from him either. He has to know. He has
to be able to tell by the way I'm pressing him toward me, by the way I'm
widening my stance, bringing him in. 

 He already has the key: Don't make me ask for it. Don't let me feel bad
about it. Just...let me. 

 I pull him to me, pull his legs between mine. For a sharp second, I feel
the differences again, the differences between Rays. The tautness of the
skin under my hands, the surprise of soft hair against my face, the smell
of soap instead of cologne. I'm buffeted for a minute, washed with a sense
of sorrow, of relief, and with a surge of longing, all at once. I didn't
know I could feel so many different things at the same time. My hands
tighten on him, and he hesitates, then presses forward, and I open wide
and let him in. 

 Then his mouth is on my throat, his hands on my chest, and I'm leaning
back, raising my chin to let him closer, and I feel his tongue sweep in an
arc over my skin. I moan low in my throat, and he presses his mouth harder
against me. I let my hands slide around his back, pull him closer to me,
until he's leaning hard on me, pressing me into the door. He's built
smaller than I am, but he's plenty strong, plenty heavy, and I savor the
weight of him on me. 

 I've missed this. 

 "Good," I gasp, arching my neck more, pulling him even closer. 

 "I know, I know," he mouths against me, rubbing me with his whole body. 

 My heart skips in my chest. Nothing's hidden with him. I don't have to
wonder if I'm doing something right, don't have to wonder if he's merely
suffering the touch of my hands on him. I see him more clearly in the dark
than I ever saw Ray, even in the light of day. 

 Under the cover of his jeans, I feel his erection strong against my hip,
feel him start to thrust rhythmically against me, and I answer him with my
own thrusts, lining my own erection beside his, moving my hands to his
hips to seal us together there. I'm dizzy, as much holding myself up as I
am holding him. Even with my eyes open, I can't see much more than the
outline of him, writhing against me. The scent of him fills my nostrils,
and when I lean over and press my lips against the side of his neck, his
taste explodes in my mouth. Clean, simple, open. 

 He drops his head back, offering himself to me. Why such a simple thing
should hold such significance is a mystery, but it moves me. I let my
mouth rest against him, pressing softly into the vein I feel pulsing hard
under my lips. He's open to me in a way I don't think Ray could ever let
himself be. He's not just accepting my touch; he's not an unequal partner.
He's doing more than occupying an empty space - he's filling it to
overflowing. 

 Moving with him, holding him, I feel we are what he already calls us: a
duet. 

 I don't know how we could get any closer, but he manages it, winding
himself around me like a cat. Maybe he knows how off-balance I feel, or
maybe he always does this, I don't know. He seems to know just what I
need, though. I need him, wrapped around me. I need the strength of his
arousal melded to mine. I need to be held tight, just like this. Tight and
hard. Just like that. Yes, just like that. 

 He groans when I shift my hands to his buttocks and lift him against me.
I like that sound so much that I do it again, harder, and now he's bucking
into me, grasping at my back with his hands, moving his legs so they're
outside mine, so he's cradling me, holding me with every inch of his body,
and he slams into me, as hard as I want, as hard as I need. 

 I let it happen. I let him give me what I need, what I've missed. I don't
think I knew just how deep that need went, how tied together my body and
mind and conscience were. Or how integral my heart was to the equation.
There's no sense of confusion here. No possibility that I might be
substituting one Ray for another. No, I know who I'm holding. I know him
now. I know enough to understand that he talks a good game, but he needs
something, too. 

 I'm shaking in his arms, no longer able to kiss, or slow down, or wait.
I'm afraid he'll have bruises tomorrow from the grip of my hands, but he's
not protesting. If anything, he's encouraging me, murmuring against me,
panting hot gusts of breath into my shoulder. 

 I feel him go rigid against me, his fingers clawing at my back, then he
shudders and I feel his penis pump against me, dampening the sealed space
between us. It's almost enough to push me over the edge, and I let my
hands sweep along the back seam of his jeans, slide down between his legs.
It's the surrender I feel, the automatic spread of his thighs, that does
me in. Then I'm the one shuddering, coming hard, and I can't hold up the
weight of my head, can't hold him up anymore. We stagger, but he moves
lightning quick, getting his feet solid underneath him, and takes the
weight I drop on him, props me up. 

 I think he can take the weight of me, of my sorrow, my loneliness. Maybe
I can give something back to him, in ways Ray would never allow. Maybe I
still have a chance to get this right. Under my heavy head, his shoulder
twitches, and I feel his hands, steady on my back, urging me toward the
bed. We drop down on it together, and before I can even catch my breath,
he has me back in his arms, holding on tight, almost rocking me. When I
try to talk, he shushes me. 

 "Not now, Fraser," he says quietly, brushing his hand through my damp
hair. "Just go to sleep." 

 Ordinarily, I'd want to wash up. Change clothes. Tell the person I just
made love to how good he makes me feel. Ordinarily, I would do all that.
But today hasn't been an ordinary day. This isn't an ordinary man. So I
content myself with hugging him back. I think he understands. He
understood the rest of it; he should certainly be able to understand this.


 I feel him relax against me, heavy now. I glance at him in the low light,
looking at the stranger in my arms. He doesn't feel like a stranger. He
feels like a friend. Someone I'd be pleased to have as a partner. 

 It doesn't have to mean anything, he said. 

 It doesn't have to. 

 But I find that it does. 

 My father was right. Something good might come from all this. 

 I think it already has. 

 ***End***