Cold Heart 

 Completed February 5, 1999
 Posted to Due South Archive February 17, 1999
  

DISCLAIMER: Benton Fraser and Ray Vecchio belong to Alliance Television,
Dale Cooper belongs to Lynch/Frost, and all of them appear in this story
without the permission of their rightful owners. No infringement on
anyone's rights is intended, and no profit is being made from this humble
story. 

WARNING: **NC-17 Slash** This means that this story contains graphic
descriptions of m/m sex. If you are underage in your location, or you
don't care to read this sort of thing, please do us all a favor and delete
now. By reading further, you are acknowledging that **you have been
warned.** 

PAIRING: Fraser/Dale Cooper, Fraser/Vecchio. Twin Peaks Crossover. 

NOTES: This story takes place in the very early part of the first season
of Due South, and some years after the conclusion of the events of Twin
Peaks. This is primarily a Due South story, and refers only obliquely to
events in Twin Peaks. 

THANKS to Anagi, Carol, coolgrin, and Joanne, beta-reading goddesses, for
all your help, patience, and support. Thanks! 

SUMMARY: Fraser is acting strangely, and an unexpected visit from a man
from his past only makes Ray more determined to discover what's wrong. 

"Cold Heart"
 by Dorothy Marley
 demarley@yahoo.com
 

---------- 

Winter in Chicago. Sub-zero temperatures, accompanied by a persistent,
freezing wind that whipped a chilling mix of snow, sleet and freezing rain
onto the already soaked streets of the city. The natives hustled quickly
on their way in the dark, wrapped in coats and scarves and hats, telling
one another this was the worst winter in a century. 

Benton Fraser, standing by the open window in his tiny kitchenette, was
having no luck feeling the cold. His soft red flannels offered very little
protection against the bitter wind, but still he couldn't feel it. He put
a hand on the glass, spreading his palm over the fragile, cracked pane,
pressing until he could hear the protesting creak of the stressed
fractures. No cold. 

Beside him, Diefenbaker whined quietly, pressing a damp nose to the back
of Fraser's calf until he could feel the wet spot soaking through his
thermals. One hand dropped, mindlessly clenching the thick fur, a brief
squeeze that quieted the wolf, and sent him trotting back to his bed. When
he'd gone, Fraser raised his hands, lifting them to the buttons that
fastened his underwear, undoing them one by one, pushing the soft flannel
aside, peeling it off his body until he was naked, the long johns crumpled
at his feet. Still not cold. 

He stepped forward, splaying his hands on the glass again, leaning his
weight on the icy panes. A gust of wind blew in from the alley, spattering
a wet drizzle of ice and snow over the windowsill, the stove, the floor,
and Fraser. He shivered as the blast hit him, and closed his eyes, leaning
his forehead on the chipped, peeling wood of the window sash. The snow and
sleet continued to whip in, striking his bare skin, raising goosebumps on
his chest and legs, slicking him with cold, wet water. He felt himself
start to shiver again, and this time it didn't stop. His teeth began to
chatter, and he turned his cheek into the cold glass of the windowpane,
feeling his skin begin to grow numb, opening his eyes to see the blue
tinge on his hands, and arms. Cold. So cold. Finally. 

---------- 

Ray Vecchio was, at seven in the morning, already having a very, very, bad
day. Breakfast at the Vecchio household was never what one could call a
peaceful affair, and this morning tempers had run as hot inside as it was
cold outside, as if the heat of words could provide an antidote to the
unforgiving, frigid gloom. The result had been, to put it mildly, a lively
start to the day, and the start on a massive headache for Ray. 

Two aspirin helped ease the throbbing in his temples, and by the time he
pulled up to Fraser's building, already ten minutes late, the throb had
eased to a dull ache, only to return when he failed to see Fraser's
unmistakable profile anywhere in front of the building. Today of all days.


No sooner, though, had he killed the engine and reached for the door
handle than Fraser was there, striding out of the rickety front door with
his hat tucked under his arm, his dark coat flashing its red lining as the
wind hit him full force. He wavered for a second, then steadied himself
and crossed the sidewalk to the car, greeting Ray with his usual brisk
politeness. 

"Good morning, Ray." 

"About time," Ray grumbled, conveniently overlooking his own tardiness,
and started the engine. Fraser shut his door and scrupulously fastened his
seat belt, then sat up straight in the seat, practically sitting at
attention. 

"I do appreciate you stopping for me," Benny said presently, once Ray had
yanked the Riviera into the sparse traffic and headed downtown. "I could
walk to the Consulate from here, but . . ." 

"In this weather?" Ray interrupted, relieved to finally have something to
disagree with. "I know you come from the backside of nowhere, and I'm sure
this is just a little cold snap to you, but no human being should have to
be out walking in this. Not even you." 

"Thank you, Ray," Benny said after a thoughtful moment, leaving the
question open about what, exactly, he was thanking Ray for. Ray might have
suspected, from anyone else, that the courtesy was sarcasm. If, that is,
Fraser had a sarcastic bone in his body. 

They drove on in silence for a while. Not that Ray wasn't used to keeping
up his end of a conversation, but for once Fraser seemed disinclined to do
his own share. The Mountie wasn't a chatterbox, by any means, but Ray had
gotten used to receiving, at the least, meaningful noises in exchange for
his verbal gambits. Today, though, Benny was quiet, staring out into the
bleak, gray streets. He was, as always, perfectly groomed from the top of
his meticulously combed hair to the tips of his polished boots, but it
struck Ray, suddenly, that he looked tired. And it was a shock. 

In the few scant weeks he'd known the other man, Ray supposed that it was
possible that he hadn't yet had a chance to see him in all his moods, but
he also would have supposed that two people tended to become
well-acquainted pretty damn fast when they'd been under fire together as
many times as he and Benny had been. But even after that last harrowing
ride across the Yukon landscape, after the long, exhausting chase through
the snow with almost certain death on their back, Fraser had never
wavered, never faltered. Ray had begun to think, after that day, that the
Mountie might darn well be indestructible. To see the dark lines drawn
under the bright eyes, the sag at the corners of the firm mouth, was
unsettling. Ray was almost embarrassed, feeling oddly awkward, as though
he'd walked in on him in the shower, as though he'd seen something
private, and personal. Something that was none of his business. 

None of that explained, though, why the next words out of his mouth were,
"You okay, Benny?" 

Fraser's head snapped around, the smooth, brisk motion so characteristic
that Ray was suddenly sure that he was imagining things. But he didn't
answer right away, staring at Ray as though carefully weighing his motives
in asking. "I'm fine, Ray," he said at last. "Why do you ask?" 

Why, indeed? "No reason," he lied. "You just--just look a little peaked,
you know." 

"Oh." Fraser turned to face front again, his gloved hands folded primly
around the rim of his hat. He stared straight ahead for a moment, then
glanced at Ray, then back front again. "I didn't sleep well last night,"
he finally offered, saying the words as though testing each one, judging
if Ray would accept them. It was a patent evasion, Benny's painfully
calculated attempt to make the words seem casual more revealing than an
outright lie. And now Ray was curious. 

"Something on your mind?" he asked, but even as he asked, he wondered if
he might already know. 

Fraser's hesitation was almost palpable. Instead of answering, though, he
turned back to the window. He looked out for a long time, then slowly
tugged off one glove, pressing his hand to the chilly, fogged glass of the
window. "I barely feel it," he said presently, and there was something odd
in his voice, something that Ray had never heard before. He spread his
fingers against the window, watching the flush of warmth slowly drain from
his fingers, turning them pale with cold. And now Ray was beginning to get
scared. "The cold, I mean," Fraser went on, unconsciously interrupting
when Ray was about to speak. "It seems . . . unreal." 

Okay. This was definitely entering the Weird Zone. "What? Not freezing
your ass off nine months out of the year? Being able to go outside without
insulating every square inch of skin?" 

Slowly, Benny turned to him again, letting his hand slide back into his
lap, then calmly working the glove back over the whitened fingers. "Yes,"
he said simply. "That's exactly what I mean." He shook his head, trying to
explain. "I'm so used to it. So used to being . . . insulated, as you
say." He cast his gaze back again, looking up into the snow-laden sky.
"When you feel the cold, it means that you're alive. It's when you stop
feeling it that you die." 

Well, Ray didn't need to feel anything to start worrying now. He began to
have the suspicion that he was lost somewhere far behind this
conversation, that Fraser was trying to tell him something, something that
he was somehow failing to understand. And he was afraid of what the
consequences of that failure might bring. 

"Fraser, are you okay?" he asked again. "I've never seen you like this
before." 

Fraser looked vaguely startled, as if unaware until that moment that he
was behaving in any way oddly. "I'm fine," he said again. "Honestly, Ray.
I'll be fine." 

Ray wasn't convinced, but the finality in Fraser's tone was sufficient to
close the subject. Nonplused, he groped for a new one. "Before I forget,"
he said presently. "You may have to get your own ride home tonight. God
knows when I'm going to get loose." 

"A new case?" Benny inquired, seeming relieved at the new conversational
sally, eager to pursue it and leave his own problems behind. Nevertheless,
the question made Ray scowl. 

"I wish," he said darkly, and gave a martyred sigh. "Nah, one of my old
cases is coming back to bite me on the butt. Some Fed thinks he's got a
pattern crime, so naturally I'm supposed to waste an entire day of *my*
case time holding his hand while he 'reviews' my case." 

"Was the case solved?" 

'Would you like some salt for that wound?' "No," Ray snarled. "But only,"
he added defensively, "because the perp had the bad misfortune to step in
front of a train. I was this close to nailing him, and the next thing I
know they're scraping him off the rails with a spatula." 

"Suicide?" Benny suggested thoughtfully, glancing over at him with his
bright, curious eyes, the tiredness seeming to drop away at the sniff of a
new problem. "If he suspected that you were closing in, he might have been
driven to despair. It's not an uncommon--" 

"Maybe," Ray interrupted, more to stop the flow of explanations than to
endorse the theory. "But this guy had way too big an ego to go erasing
himself. At least I thought so." 

"Murder?" was Fraser's next offering, and Ray was beginning to get
irritated. 

"Yeah, I thought of that, too," he said shortly. "You know, I *did*
investigate this case." 

The other man held up an apologetic glove. "My apologies, Ray. I'm sure
you thoroughly explored all avenues of the crime." 

"Thank you, Fraser. Your confidence warms my heart. Maybe you'd like to
explain that to the Feds when they show up to rake the fine-tooth comb
over my ass today." 

For some reason, that innocent statement seemed to make Fraser pause for
thought. "I gather that your interactions with the Federal Bureau of
Investigation aren't the most cordial." 

Understatement of the year. But Ray was so relieved to be back on familiar
ground, back to the verbal tennis games he'd always enjoyed with Benny,
that he easily subsumed the flicker of annoyance at the Mountie's naivete.
"Well, duh. The Feds hate having to sully their lily-white hands with
local law enforcement, and the feeling is, believe me, entirely mutual." 

"Hm." 

Ray waited. "What, 'hm?' What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothing," Fraser said mildly. 

"No. That was a definite 'You're out of your freaking mind and I'm too
polite to say so because I'm Canadian' 'Hm.'" 

Now Fraser was patient. "That's not true, Ray." He paused. "However, I
will say that my own personal interactions with the Bureau have been
nothing but positive." 

Ray gaped at him. "Get out of town. Since when does the FBI get up to the
butt-end of nowhere in Canada?" 

"Since a federal fugitive chose to flee to the Territories some years ago.
The Bureau and the RCMP agreed to work jointly to apprehend him, and I
worked closely with several of their agents. I found them all to be highly
professional." 

"Yeah, well, that's because they were probably terrified of getting stuck
up there forever if they didn't cooperate. Down here, it's totally a
different story. I wouldn't trust a fibbie if he said the sky was blue." 

"If you say so, Ray." 

The discussion of inter-agency cooperation was, thankfully, cut short by
their arrival at the Consulate. Fraser got out and settled his hat firmly
on his head, then leaned in through the open door. "Thank you kindly,
Ray." 

"Don't mention it. I'll call you later. Now shut the door, it's freezing
out there." 

---------- 

Ray made good time the rest of the way to the station, despite the
increasingly treacherous streets, and slid his car neatly into the parking
garage a mere twenty minutes after he was supposed to have been at work. 

It was difficult to admit it, even to himself, but the morning's
conversation with Benny had rattled him. Fraser was always so, so . . .
imperturbable. It had shaken him to hear him talk that way, to hear the
distant, wondering abstraction in his voice. For the first time, Ray began
to wonder if Fraser was, in fact, truly as pleased to be here as he
claimed. That wasn't saying very much, admittedly, considering that Fraser
had practically been exiled here, forced away from the only real home he
had. But he'd never spoken of it that way, never complained about his
isolation, or about the circumstances that had obliged him to move in the
first place. But now Ray had to ask himself, knowing Fraser as he did now,
if he were miserable, would he even complain? Would he mention it at all,
even to his supposed best friend? And the answer, Ray realized sadly, was
probably 'no.' 

The way his day was going, Ray wasn't in the least surprised when Elaine
informed him that the FBI agent was already waiting for him. "I showed him
your desk and the coffeepot," she said. "Told him you'd be in soon. That
was half an hour ago." 

"You left him with my desk?" Ray was appalled. "You allowed a Fed to sit
at my desk, alone, unsupervised, for half an hour?" 

"What, you've got Jimmy Hoffa stuffed in your bottom drawer?" Elaine
shoved a stack of reports into his hands and pushed him towards the squad
room. "Anyway, he's just sitting there. He hasn't touched a thing. Now go
on." 

Ray obeyed meekly, glad, actually, for the chance to focus on his work
again, to avoid having to think anymore about his conversation with Benny.
He caught himself just in time to keep from smiling as he walked up to the
waiting Fed. 

The other man turned as Ray approached, and rose to his feet, setting the
coffee mug on the corner of Ray's desk, next to a half-eaten jelly
doughnut. He looked, Ray thought wonderingly, like J. Edgar Hoover's
poster boy. 'I'll be damned. Fraser's secret FBI twin. I'll bet every
agent in the Bureau wants to be this guy when they grow up.' He was about
Ray's own height, maybe an inch shorter, with black hair slicked neatly
back from a smooth, only faintly-lined face, his dark brows and
coffee-colored eyes standing out against his pale skin. His suit was
black, and perfectly pressed, a small FBI pin adorning one lapel. His face
was well-scrubbed and clean-shaven, every inch of him neat and impeccably
clean. 

"Detective Vecchio?" the Fed asked politely, and Ray nodded, lifting a
hand to grasp the one the agent extended. "Federal Bureau of Investigation
Special Agent Dale Cooper." 

"Ray Vecchio," Ray responded, deliberately eschewing any other title in
the face of that impressive recitation. Cooper's hand gripped his firmly,
but briefly, then he let him go and sat down. 

"I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Detective," he said
briskly. "I realize that you have your own work, and it's very good of you
to spare me a few hours for this case." 

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Ray didn't mention that it wasn't Dale Cooper, or the
FBI, that had coerced his cooperation, but rather a direct order from his
Lieutenant, one that couldn't be circumvented or ignored. But he didn't
disabuse the other man of that, recognizing the speech as an effort to
bridge the inter-agency gap, and willing for now to at least meet him
halfway. The more they cooperated, the faster he could get his butt out of
here. 

"Normally, I wouldn't impose on your time," Cooper was going on, "but I
happened to be in the area for an evidence techniques seminar, and I
thought it would be best to take the opportunity to meet with you face to
face." 

"You always this thorough?" Ray asked, and got a brief, genuinely pleased
smile from the other man. 

"I try very hard to be, Detective." 

They worked on the case until midafternoon, and slowly Ray's annoyance
began to fade. Whatever Cooper's reasoning, he had to admit that the guy
was sharp. And once he'd looked over the case, he'd accepted Ray's theory
of the crime without much demur, which went a long way to smoothing any
ruffled feathers. But Cooper's earnest face had begun to grow glum as the
hours passed, and Ray realized that whatever he had been looking for, he
hadn't found it here. 

They shared a very late, hasty lunch together in the squad room, eating
sandwiches at Ray's desk, and while Ray was still fighting his way through
a pastrami on rye Cooper had nibbled the last neat bite of his tuna fish
and returned to the files. As he opened the folders, he reached in his
breast pocket and produced a micro-recorder, flicking it on with a
practiced thumb as he turned the pages. "Diane," he said into the
recorder, seemingly oblivious to Ray's presence on the other side of the
desk, "it's 2:43, CST. I'm at the 27th District in Chicago, and I've spent
the last several hours reviewing the Crosetti case with Detective Vecchio.
It's not here, Diane," he said gravely, with regret. "Although there are
undeniable similarities in the case, the crucial signature is lacking. I
am satisfied that the man suspected by Detective Vecchio was indeed guilty
of the crimes committed here, and that the case was closed when he met his
untimely death. Please tell Albert that I will be faxing the forensic and
autopsy reports later today, but I am confident that he will agree with my
conclusions." He snapped the recorder off and returned it to his pocket,
then resumed his inspection of the files. "This really is too bad," he
mused. 

"What, that I solved the case? Sorry to burst your bubble," Ray said,
making sure his voice reflected every bit of the fact that he was not
sorry at all. 

At least Cooper had the grace to look abashed. "Sorry," he said. "I only
meant that this leaves me with that much less evidence to support my own
theory of the crime." He shut the file and leaned back, passing a tired
hand over his eyes. Ray watched silently, recognizing that look. 

"Tough case, huh?" he said, and surprised himself with the sympathy in his
voice. Not, he told himself firmly, sympathy for the Fed who'd tied up
several hours of his life, but sympathy for a fellow cop who'd run into
another dead end. Ray knew all too well how that felt. 

After a moment, Cooper nodded. "It's been . . . difficult," he said
presently. "We were pinning our hopes on our perpetrator having done this
before." He turned, gazing pensively out over the crowded, bustling squad
room. "God help us if he's just getting started." 

Ray kept silent. No cop wanted to be the first on a serial murder. Too
many of them took years to catch. Too many of them were never caught. Ray
had seen what it could do to a cop's life, to his career, to have that one
case, that case that he could never solve, the one that, ten years later,
he'd still get his coat and hat and pound the pavement, just to track down
one more pathetic lead, hoping to get it out of his head. "I hope you get
him," he said presently, the best comfort he could offer. 

"We will," Cooper said with quiet confidence. And Ray believed him. 

---------- 

It was beginning to get dark. Finally. Fraser paused briefly by a window
on his way down the hall of the consulate, granting himself a moment to
look out into the falling dusk. Back home, it would have been dark hours
ago. Darker. Colder. 

Back home. It was a phrase he hadn't allowed himself to think for a long
time. The Yukon, he corrected firmly. The Territories. Just names, just
places. Not home, not anymore, and certainly not a place that he should be
getting homesick for. Not at all. Ironic, that he worked so hard to
overcome something that most of the people he knew didn't even understand.
Even the other Canadians at the Consulate, most of them from Toronto, or
Ottawa, were oddly puzzled to hear him speak so wistfully of ho--of the
Territories' harsh, clean climate. Even they thought Fraser ought to be
grateful to be living here in "civilization," to be able to take advantage
of the modern conveniences of a big city, to enjoy the warm summers, the
relatively milder winters. 'As for all that,' he thought with a sudden,
unexpected savageness, 'they can stuff it.' 

Downstairs, the clock in the lobby chimed the hour, and Fraser felt some
of the tension leave his body. Just one more hour, and he could go home.
Walk home, and the thought was more than a relief. Without conscious
thought, his hand lifted to the cold glass, his fingertips pressing
briefly to the chilly pane. But no sooner had his hand touched the glass
than he jerked it back, shocked at the almost sensual rush he'd gained
from the contact with the freezing air outside. Like last night, at the
window, standing naked in the snow and sleet until he was almost frozen.
Stupid. But at the time, he'd only known that it was somehow something
that he needed, something he desperately wanted. To feel the cold, to feel
it and know that he wasn't, to know that he was alive. Self-destructive,
foolish, but it had helped, somehow. He'd slept the night through for the
first time in weeks. For the first time since he'd come to this noisy,
numbing city. 

As he stood there, staring out at the falling snow, he heard the front
door close. Reluctantly, Fraser detached himself from the window and went
to the head of the stairs, descending to the anteroom. It wasn't,
technically, part of his job, but he'd been raised to be helpful, and in
his experience, anyone attempting to deal with Jasmine was going to need
all the help they could get. 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, however, he very nearly collided
with the lady in question herself, and they spent a long moment
apologizing before she got her breath back and put a hand on his sleeve. 

"I was just coming to look for you," Jasmine said, and pointed to his
office. "There's someone here to see you." 

Fraser felt his brows go up. "To see me?" he repeated. "Who?" 

For a second, Jasmine looked surprised that he'd ask. "I don't know. He
just asked for you, so I put him in your office." 

Fraser gave up. "Thank you kindly, Jasmine," he said, and went on his way.


The door to his office was open, and he strode in without hesitation,
turning automatically to greet the man who was just rising to meet him. He
drew breath to speak, and then the breath left his lungs without a sound,
the oxygen sucked from his body as though a ghost had stolen it right out
of his mouth. And for all he knew, that's exactly what had happened. It
wasn't possible. Not here. Not now. 

"Hello, Ben." 

Slowly, Fraser became aware that he was standing with his mouth still
open, looking, he was sure, like a caricature of surprise. Well, he was
surprised. And with good reason. "Dale?" he said wonderingly, and took a
step forward, letting his eyes roam up and down, seeing for himself that
it was truly him. Tall, slim build, blue-black hair, soft brown eyes, pale
skin, strong jaw . . . Dale Cooper. A man he'd never thought he'd see
again. 

Aware of his shock, Dale looked down, then raised his eyes again, lifting
his chin. "I'm sorry if I surprised you." 

"No," Fraser said, without thinking. "No, don't be sorry," he added
quickly. "I'm very glad to see you," he said truthfully. "It's just a
little . . ." He groped briefly for the right words. " . . . unexpected. I
thought you were in San Francisco." 

That got a faint smile. "Well, the last time I saw you, you were in
Tuktoyaktuk. I think we're both a little far from home." 

His father always used to say that the blows you didn't expect were the
ones with the most power to hurt. "Yes," he said quietly, and saw Cooper's
smile fade. 

"I'm sorry about your father," he said presently, covering up the sudden
pained silence. "I wrote to you, but the letter came back." 

Fraser wasn't sure what to say to that. "Thank you," he said, somehow
unable to prevent the words from coming out stiff, and forced. He
swallowed, trying again. "I appreciate the thought," he said, and that
sounded better. 

Another silence began to stretch between them, painful and awkward. 'It
didn't used to be like this,' Fraser thought, and shunted aside the brief
flood of pain. Used to, the time they had spent together was filled with
silences, some of them lasting hours, or even days. Long, comfortable,
warm silences, the kind that came when there was nothing that needed to be
said. But now, the silence was because there was nothing to say. 

This time, it was Fraser who cracked the uncomfortable stillness, unable
to bear the taut quiet of the room. "You wrote," he reminded, "but how did
you find me here?" 'And why?' 

"I called the RCMP territorial offices," Cooper said, without apology.
"They told me you'd been transferred here." He hesitated. "I was going to
write again, but then this seminar came up, and I decided I should try to
see you in person." He paused, and searched Fraser's face briefly with his
eyes. "I hope I haven't made a mistake." 

"No. Not at all. It's very kind of you to take the time." 

This time, the silence was interminable. More than once, Fraser thought he
should draw breath to break it again. Say something, anything that would
bridge the gulf that had slowly spread between them. They were more
uncomfortable with each other now than they'd been when the conversation
started, each word somehow pushing them farther and farther apart, until
they were left standing here, stiff and hurt and confused, neither of them
entirely sure how they'd come to arrive at this place. Fraser stared
mutely at the man standing not two feet away from him, and realized only
then that they hadn't so much as touched each other this whole time, not
even a handshake. And now it was too late. 

Finally, Dale bent and retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. "I
need to be going," he said. "I have a meeting early tomorrow." 

"Of course. How long will you be in town?" As if either of them could
pretend now that it mattered. 

"Two more days. I'm staying at the Plaza, downtown." 

Fraser only nodded. "Perhaps I'll see you, then." 

"Maybe." Cooper waited, then nodded. "It was good seeing you again, Ben,"
he said formally. 

"You, too, Dale." 

They stood, unmoving, long past the point where it would have been
appropriate for one of them to leave. Fraser was close enough to see
clearly into the other man's eyes, and he knew that what he saw had to be
reflected in his own. Pain, confusion, sorrow . . . and regret. He wished
very much, suddenly, that they could have the last few minutes over again,
that he could come into this room and not do the things that had caused
this terrible, anguished reticence. 'But then again,' he reflected with
more than a touch of bitterness, 'when have we ever been anything else?' A
perfect match, two cool, reserved, restrained men, friendly and amiable
enough to those they met, but at their cores, each of them as cold and
emotionless as ice. It had taken them long enough to realize it. 

"Good-bye," Cooper finally said quietly, and in that one word erased all
the insincere promises that their other parting words had made. And Fraser
was grateful. It was over, and he was glad. 

"Good-bye," he answered, and stepped aside to let the other man pass,
careful that not so much as the edge of his coat brushed him in passing.
Better that way, safer. He watched him leave, watched the door close
behind him, listened until he heard the sound of the front door unsealing
and then closing again. Only then did he cross to his desk and sit in the
chair, staring sightlessly at the wall, gazing silently at nothing. 

---------- 

If Ray had hoped that the day's work would shake off Benny's strange mood,
the hope was dashed the instant that Benny answered the door of his
so-called office. He greeted Ray warmly enough, or at least with nothing
more and nothing less than his usual politeness, but there was something
in the set of his mouth, in the creases of his eyes, that told Ray in no
uncertain terms that, for once, the calm courtesy was nothing more than a
front. And Ray had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do about it. 

'When in doubt,' he told himself, 'eat.' "You hungry?" he asked Fraser,
helping the Mountie into his coat as they walked to the front of the
building. "There's a new place just opened up the street. Francesca says
they've got a clam sauce to die for. My treat," he added quickly, when
Fraser hesitated. 

But the other man shook his head. "Thank you kindly, Ray," he said, "but
I'm really not hungry." 

'I'll bet,' Ray thought, but didn't say out loud. He could almost feel the
tension coming off him, had felt it in the brief brush of his hands across
Fraser's shoulders while helping him put on his coat. Whatever was
bothering him, it had him strung tighter than a lute, including, Ray would
have bet, his stomach. But Ray had yet to find a problem so dire that a
plate of warm pasta wouldn't, if not cure, then at least give a person a
full belly on which to be miserable. So, when courtesy failed, use guilt. 

"Come on," he said, putting his best wheedle into it. "I've been wanting
to go for ages, and tonight Ma's out with the girls doing the church
supper. If you don't go, then I'll have to take you home, and then come
all the way back here, and by then I'll have starved to death." 

He saw the indecision in Fraser's eyes, guilt wavering with misery, and
then Benny closed his eyes and nodded, once. "Very well," he said, with
only passable graciousness. "But only so long as we don't stay late. I
have to pick up Diefenbaker before eight." 

"Not a problem," Ray assured him. "We'll even bring him a doggie bag." 

The restaurant was so close that there was no point in driving, but it was
a bitterly cold walk. Ray kept his head down, mouth and nose wrapped
against the blowing snow, gloved hands buried in his pockets, but Benny
walked as though he were taking a summer stroll, disdaining to even cover
his face, his only concession to the weather to keep one hand firmly on
the brim of his Stetson to prevent it from blowing away. By the time they
reached the door of the little bistro, Ray felt like a popsicle, but Benny
seemed invigorated, a rosy glow to his cheeks that was only partly from
the cold. 

They were so early that they were able to take a table right away, the
host giving them their pick of the restaurant. Ray wasn't surprised when
Fraser asked for a seat by the window. 

"You miss it, don't you?" he heard himself say, and wondered what the hell
he thought he was doing as Benny looked up, startled. 

"Miss what?" he asked, but something in his tone told Ray that he
understood damn well. 

For an answer, Ray gestured out the window, to the blowing wind, and the
driving snow. "Home," he supplemented succinctly, and saw Benny's face go
still, his eyes locked with Ray's. He said nothing, though, and Ray forged
on, knowing he was digging himself deeper with every word, but committed
all the same to uncovering whatever it was that was troubling his friend.
"Look," he said. "I know I've said some stuff about that Godforsa--about
where you come from. And I'll admit it, I don't understand how any human
being could choose to live somewhere where they measure the weather by how
many seconds it takes to get frostbite." He sighed. "But that doesn't mean
you can't miss it, I guess." 

Fraser didn't speak for a long time, busying himself tearing the rolls the
waiter had brought into tiny pieces, scattering the crumbs on his plate
without actually eating any of it. It was a gesture completely unlike him,
nervous and pointless, and it did more than any amount of words could have
done to convince Ray that he was on the right track. "Thank you, Ray," he
said at last. "That means . . . a great deal to me." 

"Hey, what are friends for?" Ray asked, and smiled. He waved a hand. "So,
tell me about it." 

That seemed to startle the other man. "About what?" 

"Home. Inuvik or Tuktoyaktuk, or wherever." 

"Ray, I--" 

"What? Look, I want to hear. Tell me what's so great about this place." 

"Well, nothing, I suppose," Fraser said. "Nothing that would interest you,
I wouldn't think. Anyway, you've been there," he pointed out. 

Ray was tempted to lean over and smack him. "Hello," he said, exasperated.
"I was there for all of what, three days? And we are not talking about
things that would interest me, here. We're talking about *you,* Fraser. I
want to hear what *you* think." 

That seemed, for a long moment, to utterly confuse him. "You want to hear
about my home," Fraser said slowly. 

Ray opened his mouth to say, 'No, not really, but that's not the point,'
then realized that maybe the absolute truth wasn't the best thing. "Yes, I
do," he said firmly, and realized as the words left his mouth that maybe
they weren't so far from the truth after all. He would like to hear about
it, hear about the place that had produced a man as unique as Benton
Fraser. 

So, finally, almost reluctantly, Benny started to talk. At first he did
little more than recite a mind-numbing list of facts, statistics, and
geographical data, but Ray soldiered through, nodding at appropriate
intervals, until finally the guidebook data ran out and Fraser was forced
to turn the talk to himself. He seemed a little at a loss at first, but
just when Ray would have prompted him, he began to tell a story about the
first place he remembered living, about a winter when the snow fell so
deep that he and his parents were buried for nearly two weeks. In the end,
his father had had to dig a snow tunnel to get them out, and Fraser
remembered a winter of playing games in that cold, luminous haven. The
memory seemed so clear to him, so vivid, that Ray realized that it was
probably one of the few memories he had of his mother. And so he sat
completely still, listening, willing Benny to go on, to talk. But when
Fraser had finished the story, he fell silent, and Ray felt his heart
sink. 

"I'm sorry," Fraser said presently. "I've had . . . Let's just say it
hasn't been a good day." He looked down at his untouched food, lifting a
fork to push at the gently steaming pasta, then putting it aside as though
it nauseated him. "If it's all the same, I don't feel much like talking
anymore." 

"Hey, it's not a rule," Ray said, but he was disappointed. "You don't have
to talk," he went on, covering his worry manfully, determined that this
wasn't going be a stiff, silent meal, the two of them sitting here staring
at their pasta until it was time for Fraser to pick up his wolf. "I'm
Italian, I can talk *and* eat." And he proved it. 

---------- 

The warmth had started to creep through Fraser about halfway through the
saga of the Vecchios. It was still with him now, a happy glow that
persisted even through the chilly walk up the street to his apartment.
Diefenbaker trotted docilely beside him, but mostly, Fraser noticed,
because that was the only way to keep his canine nose pushed against the
bag Fraser carried in his right hand. He'd eaten about half his food, in
the end, despite the sick, cold clench in his stomach, and he'd been
surprised to find that the warm, sauce-smothered pasta had actually seemed
to ease the sickening tightness in his belly. No wonder Ray swore by the
stuff as a cure-all. He'd brought the remainder home for Diefenbaker, and
Ray, for once, hadn't even complained about paying good money for a meal
that was going to be half-eaten by someone with four legs and fur. 

And he hadn't complained, either, about carrying on what had basically
amounted to a monologue for most of the meal. Fraser had found the
rapid-fire patter of information surprisingly soothing, the narrative
following a complex tangle of relatives, friends, and neighbors that made
the machinations of the di Medicis seem like a child's game. It was all
very quick, very hot, tempers flaring and cooling, feuds being born,
played out, and buried within the space of hours. So unlike home, where
everything moved so slowly, where patience and persistence were the only
means of survival. The Vecchios, he reflected with a smile, would explode
from frustration within a week. 

The good feeling lasted almost all the way home, until he mounted the
stairs and turned down the hallway towards his apartment. The apartment
was dark, and silent, and Fraser sighed, feeling a little piece of the
warmth bleed away as he stepped into the cold, empty space. Such a
contrast to the warm, soft light of the restaurant, the silence a strained
emptiness after the animated rise and fall of Ray's voice. He knew it had
been a mistake to accept the invitation, as pleasant as it had been. He'd
known even then that he'd have to come back to this lonely, barren place
in the end. 

He fed Diefenbaker the remainder of the pasta, and then helped him clean
the remains of slinging strands of marinara sauce from his fur. That
accomplished, he forced himself through his nightly routine, undressing
for bed, lighting the lantern, and settling in to read the next of his
father's journals. But before long, he set the journal aside, turning
slowly, almost against his will, to look at the cold dark outside. Ray had
warmed him tonight, for a while. But it hadn't lasted. It never lasted. 

The chilly air struck him as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of
the bed. Diefenbaker whined inquiringly from his cozy spot on the rug, and
received an absent stroke of Fraser's hand as he passed him, moving around
to the window overlooking the fire escape. 

This was crazy. He knew it, even as he leaned his arms on the cracked
sill, breathing in the crisp air, feeling the prickle of cold on his skin.
Crazy, and stupid. But before he could talk himself out of it, his hands
were fitting under the sash, throwing the window the rest of the way up
with a protesting squeak of warped wood. He propped his arms on the sill,
leaning his head out to breathe in the lung-burning air, feeling it shiver
through him. The snow fell thickly on his head and back, and he bowed his
head, letting it whip around him, chilling him to the bone. 

Peace spread through him with the cold, the turmoil in his mind clearing
as his body numbed, his thoughts dropping into slow, sluggish torpor. This
was what he needed. To lose the quick, loud pace of the city, to forget
the sharp-edged buildings with their stifling warmth and windows that
wouldn't open. The snow was soft, and cold, and clean, the flakes drifting
down to settle on the frozen earth, and he let his thoughts follow,
sending them down in the frigid dark, where they would sit, quietly and
peacefully, and bother no one. 

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, how long he'd been aware of the
soft knock on his door before Diefenbaker's short bark alerted him to the
door finally opening. Fraser whirled clumsily from the window, realizing
already that it was far too late to step away, to hide what he'd been
doing. Ray would be . . . 

It wasn't Ray. 

After what seemed like a year, Dale stepped the rest of the way into the
apartment, shutting the door carefully behind him. He stood for a second,
his dark eyes reflecting a moment of rare uncertainty, then he spoke
quietly. "Hi." 

It took a moment for Ben to find his voice. "Hi." 

Dale looked around. "So. This is where you live?" 

There were a lot of things Ben could have said to that. "Yes," seemed to
be the best. 

Putting his hands in his pockets, Dale turned to face him. "I'm sorry
about this afternoon," he said quietly, his breath hanging in the air
between them. 

Ben cleared his throat. "So am I." He took a step towards the door, away
from the window, feeling the heat from the room wash over him. For the
first time in weeks, it felt good. And he realized with a shock that it
wasn't because of the warmth. It was Dale. Because of what it meant for
Dale to have come here, tonight, after that disastrous meeting. 

"I should have called," Dale was saying. "At least given you some warning.
I'm sorry." 

"No," Ben said quickly. "No, that's not necessary." He let his voice
soften. "You should know that." 

Dale nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a brief, sad smile. "I
must have forgotten." He turned to face Ben. "This afternoon . . ." he
said slowly. "That was a mistake, Ben. I handled it all wrong." 

"So did I," Ben admitted. "I was just surprised to see you." 

It took a while for Dale to answer. "I came here to see you," he said.
"The seminar was just an excuse, in case . . ." He swallowed. "I'm so
sorry, Ben. I'm sorry I--" 

Fraser met him halfway, sliding his arms gratefully around the strong,
slim back, feeling the familiar weight and shape of Dale's body, even
through the thick coat. He closed his eyes, drinking in the warmth of the
embrace, trying to ignore the sudden ache in his chest. It had been so
long. 

Cooper's breath was hot on Fraser's neck. The heat radiated from his body,
pulsing softly against Fraser's skin, tangible even through the flannels.
Cooper swallowed again, his lips parting, and he lifted his eyes to meet
Fraser's. 

'I'm sorry,' he mouthed soundlessly, the heated puff of air from the
silent words striking Fraser's cheek like a brand. He leaned closer,
mouthing the words again, 'I'm sorry . . .' 

His kiss was scalding, stealing Ben's breath, burning his mouth as though
he'd placed his lips over a hot coal. A pair of scorching hands lifted to
caress his back, trailing a searing path of fire over his shoulders, the
frigid skin throbbing in the wake of the hot passage. It hurt. God, it
hurt. But now the fire was also melting him, turning his stiffened muscles
to liquid, hot and cold flowing together through him until he was no
longer capable of knowing which was which, until he no longer cared. 

---------- 

It was almost midnight. Fraser lay next to Cooper on the narrow mattress,
both of them flat on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. The
narrowness of the bed forced them close together, their bodies touching,
damp skin sealed to damp skin. But the distance between them was as wide
as the frozen sea. 

"I shouldn't have let you leave me." 

Cooper didn't answer for a long time. "I wouldn't have let you make me
stay." 

To that, Fraser had no easy answer. "Maybe--" He stopped, then continued
on anyway. "Maybe I should have gone with you." 

"No." And now Cooper's voice was soft with regret. "No," he said again,
turning his head, his eyes glittering darkly in the light from the street.
"We did the right thing, Ben." 

"Then, or just now?" 

He didn't hesitate long. "Then." 

That killed the conversation for a while. "I'm sorry," Fraser said at
last. "We shouldn't have done this." 

"No, we shouldn't have." 

They pushed themselves away simultaneously, rising up from their
respective sides of the bed in grim unison. Fraser found his jeans and a
shirt and put them on, silently helping Cooper retrieve his clothes, then
sitting and watching as he dressed. "I really am sorry," he said quietly.
"I'm sorry that things between us didn't . . . work out." 

Cooper paused, his half-knotted tie wound around his hand. "So am I," he
said, and returned to the window, using its reflection to adjust the knot.
"I meant what I said," he continued presently. "I have no regrets about
what happened in Tuktoyaktuk. It was . . . we were what we needed to be
then. For each other." He finally turned away from the window, clean and
perfect, armored once more. "That month, with you," he said softly, "was
one of the happiest times I've had in my life. I've had very few, and the
memory is something that I'll always treasure. But--" 

"But we don't belong together," Fraser finished for him. "Not any more." 

"No." Cooper looked away. "I'm sorry." 

"So am I." 

The knock on the door brought Fraser to his feet, Cooper moving to his
side. "Expecting anyone?" he asked, and Fraser shook his head. 

"No," he said honestly, but he knew, already, who it would be this time.
Fraser went to let Ray in. 

The other man started talking as soon as the door cracked open, crossing
the threshold at full steam. "Thank God you're up. Get your coat and come
on, we're gonna be late as it is. The--" Ray stopped, finally processing
the presence of another human being in the apartment, and stared. 

"Oh, Ray, this is--" 

"We've met," Cooper interrupted smoothly, and stepped forward to hold out
his hand. "Good to see you again, Detective." 

Ray shook the offered hand, but Fraser didn't think he really realized
what he was doing. Fraser, too, was feeling a little nonplused, and he was
sure the look he turned to Cooper was full of benign confusion. 

"I met with Detective Vecchio earlier today, to discuss a case," Cooper
told him. "I didn't realize he was a friend of yours." 

"You two know each other," Ray stated. There was an odd flatness in his
voice, and Fraser felt obscurely guilty, although he knew, rationally,
that there was no reason to be. 

"The case I mentioned this morning," he explained. "Agent Cooper was the
primary agent." 

"Ah. I see. Well." Ray looked around, as if uncertain how to proceed.
"Well," he said again. "I guess you two want to catch up. Sorry for--" 

"Actually, I was just leaving." Cooper's coat was hanging over a kitchen
chair, and Fraser handed it to him as he turned to retrieve it. "Thank
you." He shrugged into it and looped his scarf over his neck, feeling in
his pocket for his gloves. "It was good to see you again, Ben." 

"You too, Dale." Fraser held out a hand, praying that Dale would take it,
unable to hide a smile of relief as the warm, slim fingers slid over his.
"Take care," he said, and saw the answering flicker of a smile on the
other man's face. 

"I will," he said softly. "You do the same." The smile broadened. "Don't
go jumping off any more cliffs, all right?" 

"I won't. I learned my lesson." Fraser gave the hand one last, strong
squeeze, and then let him go. "Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." Cooper turned, and nodded to Ray. "Good-bye, Detective." 

"So long. Good luck on your case." 

"Thank you." 

Fraser kept his eyes fixed on Cooper's back as he left, not daring to look
at Ray until the door had closed behind him. For perhaps the first time in
his life, he didn't trust his own face, didn't know for certain if he
really wanted anyone else to see what he was sure was writ large on his
features. But he couldn't avoid Ray forever, and after a long moment he
thought he'd managed to school his features into the proper expression of
mild inquiry. Only then did he turn to face his friend. 

"Well?" Ray said, clearly waiting for something, and Fraser was so rattled
that he couldn't even trace the conversation back far enough to guess what
it might be. 

"Well, what?" he asked cautiously. 

"Are you coming with me or not?" 

Hoping his relief wasn't showing as much as he felt, Fraser headed for his
closet, reaching for his coat before he even thought to ask where they
were going. 

"The jewelry case. We got a stakeout on the security guard's place." Ray
paused. "You don't have to come, you know. It's optional." 

"No, not at all," Fraser said quickly. Anything to get out of this place,
away from the cold dark, away from the memories. "I'd like to come along."


"Good." 

Ray was uncharacteristically silent on the drive to the stakeout, taking
the turns and lights with almost decorous caution. Fraser didn't question
it, though, merely enjoyed the luxury. He was glad, anyway, to have some
time to collect his thoughts, time to think over the whirlwind of emotion
and action that had begun that afternoon when Dale Cooper walked back into
his life. 

"You want to talk about it?" 

Fraser started at the question, Ray's eerie segue from his own thoughts
doing nothing to ease the sudden panic in his throat. Still, he managed to
answer, if not suavely, at least without his voice cracking. "Talk about
what?" 

Ray sighed. "Never mind," he said, but the traces of anger in his voice
showed that he minded very much, and Fraser was suddenly sorry for
deflecting his well-meaning query. But he said nothing. 

They arrived at the street where the stakeout was supposed to take place,
and Ray eased the Riviera into an inconspicuous spot and shut off the
lights and engine before finally speaking. But the words were the last
ones Fraser expected to hear. "I'm sorry about barging in," he said
presently. "I didn't know you weren't alone." 

He knew. Fraser felt his face flame. He should have told him, from the
start. They were friends, weren't they? There was no reason for him to be
ashamed of what happened. No reason at all. "Don't worry about it, Ray,"
he forced himself to say, then felt sick as his lips began to shape the
lie anyway. "We were just . . . catching up on old times. You didn't
interrupt anything." 

"Yeah." Ray sat back, propping his chin in his hand, staring up at the
darkened window of their subject's apartment. "Sure." 

---------- 

Sure, he hadn't interrupted anything. Ray slid his eyes to the right,
taking in the solid, unmoving profile next to him. 'Yeah, right.' 

He wasn't sure which hurt more: the fact that Fraser hadn't told him, or
that the Mountie actually thought that he wouldn't know. Okay, so maybe it
wasn't any of his business, but that didn't mean that Fraser had to *lie*
about it. On the other hand, what was Benny supposed to say? "Hi, Ray,
sorry, could you step outside for a second while I finish saying good-bye
to this guy I've just been screwing?" Only with more words. And more
politely. 

The little snort of laughter was almost inaudible, but Ray saw, out of the
corner of his eye, Fraser react to the sound, turning his blue eyes
briefly away from the building to regard Ray with polite inquiry. When it
became obvious that Ray wasn't going to add anything more, he returned his
attention to the window. Good. The last thing Ray wanted, right now, was
to have a heart to heart with the man he'd thought he knew. 

'Okay, Raymond, what's *really* bothering you? That Benton Fraser, Royal
Canadian Perfect Police, has, apparently, a sex life? That underneath that
perfectly coifed hair, behind that clean-shaven manly jaw, and those firm,
stern lips, is a man who sweats up the sheets just like everybody else? Or
is it because he doesn't, quite, do it *just* like everybody else? Because
he did it with another guy? 

'Or because he just turned your world upside down. 

'Face it, Ray. You're shocked. You, Mr. "I'm a tough Chicago cop who's
seen everything." Almost everything.' 

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him, to maybe even make a joke
about it. 'Hey, Benny, nothing to worry about, I been there myself, nudge
nudge. And that Cooper's a nice-looking man, even if he is ten years older
than you, can't blame you for that. Might have taken a run for him myself,
if I'd known . . .' 

No. 

Perhaps an hour passed in silence. Diefenbaker dozed off in the back seat,
muzzle mashed against the upholstery, paws twitching as he fell into
wolfish dreams. Ray stayed still in the front seat, eyes fixed with
determined dutifulness on the darkened window. Waiting. But Fraser
remained quiet, his face set in pensive silence. Finally, Ray had had
enough. 

"You can tell me, you know." He hadn't meant the words to sound so harsh,
the sharp bark of them ringing loudly in the chilly, still air inside the
car. Fraser jumped, and then turned to face him, his face set in surprise.


"Tell you what?" he asked curiously. 

Ray made an exasperated noise. "Whatever it is that's been eating you, all
right? You've been walking around like your dog just died--no offense,
Dief--, you've been saying all this weird stuff, weird even for you, and
now I come in find out that and you and some strange Fed have just
been--you know," he finished helplessly, hoping to God that Fraser did
know, that he wouldn't have to say it out loud. Because if he did, then a
lot more than Ray's thoughts on Cooper were going to come out, and that
was something neither of them needed. 

In the sudden absolute silence, the sound of Fraser delicately clearing
his throat was like a gunshot. "I see." He paused again. "You know." 

"Hey, I *am* a detective, all right?" Ray knew he sounded defensive, but
he didn't care. "I come into a room still smelling like sex, I see a bed
that looks like it sustained a direct hit in Desert Storm, and I see two
people standing there with guilt written all over their faces. I drew my
own conclusions," he finished wryly. 

The look on Fraser's face would have been funny, if it hadn't also been so
stricken. "And it doesn't--?" 

"Of course it bothers me!" Ray exploded. "I didn't say that." He
swallowed, turning away. "I'm worried about you, Fraser. It's not like
you." 

"I'm sorry, Ray. But I thought that--" 

"I live in the nineties, all right? Two consenting adults, I don't much
care, except when both the consenting adults are standing there, just
after having sex, being so polite to each other that it hurts." And that,
he realized with relief, was the truth. And it felt good. So good that he
felt all right to go on. "Something went wrong, didn't it? It didn't work
out like you thought it would." 

Fraser closed his eyes, looking away. "Can we not--?" He swallowed. "I'd
rather not talk about it, Ray. Please." 

"Sure. Whatever you say, Benny. Fine with me. No skin off my nose. Don't
mind--" 

"Ray, there's nothing to discuss." Benny looked down into his lap. "It was
a foolish impulse." 

"See?" 

"See what, Ray?" 

"You, having an impulse. It's not like you," Ray insisted. 

"Perhaps it's just not what *you* think of as 'like me,'" Fraser
countered, and Ray had to admit that he had a point. Of sorts. 

Another silence settled over the car. Ray tried not to appear as though he
were sulking, and occupied himself by watching Benny from the corner of
his eye. Fraser continued to stare up at the window, but Ray would have
bet a whole lot that his attention was miles, miles away. 

"We met in a hardware store in Moose Jaw. The ax aisle." Benny waited, but
Ray couldn't for the life of him think of anything to say to that. After a
moment, Fraser went on. "It would have been about six years ago, I
suppose. I was leaving my post, preparing to return to the Yukon for
another assignment. Dale was on vacation. His brother had moved to Canada
some years before, and he had hoped to get in touch with him. We struck up
a friendship, and I invited him to come back to the Yukon with me. He
accepted, and we spent a week in the wilderness, camping. We became good
friends, and continued to correspond over the next several years." 

"So that's when you . . ." 

"No." Benny almost bit off the word, then cleared his throat
apologetically. "No." He opened his mouth to speak again, then hesitated
before going on. "A few years after we met, Cooper found himself in
pursuit of a federal fugitive, one Casey Grady, a multiple murderer who
was also responsible for severely wounding Cooper's partner. Dale traced
Grady to the Northwest Territories, and when he realized where Grady was
heading he asked especially that I be assigned to the case. We tracked him
for weeks, through the snow and the storms, and Cooper and I nearly lost
our lives more than once. But we found him." 

He stopped, falling silent until Ray spoke again, gently prompting. "What
happened?" 

Fraser turned his head away, staring out at the falling snow. "He'd gone
to ground in a cave, high up. The approach was almost impossible. He held
us off for almost a day, and a storm was building. I knew we had to bring
him down before dark, or be forced to retreat from the weather." 

"So what did you do?" 

"It was Cooper's idea. He remained below, and I backtracked along the
valley and climbed the ridge. Cooper gave me an hour to get started, then
began an assault from below, exposing himself as a target to distract
Grady while I climbed down to the cave and surprised him. Unfortunately, I
had been delayed by falling into a hidden stream, and by the time I had
subdued the prisoner it was too late to start back. I was also in danger
of succumbing to hypothermia." 

"And let me guess. Cooper kept you warm, right?" Ray knew it sounded
snippy, but he couldn't seem to help it. 

"Well, yes, he--" Fraser broke off, and gave Ray a rare look of mild
exasperation. "I was nearly frozen, Ray. We bundled together to share body
heat. It was nothing we hadn't done before. And that was all. Well,
almost." 

"Uh-huh." 

The exasperation was stronger now. "Nothing happened, Ray. Nothing of any
substance, anyway." Fraser waited, then said impatiently. "He kissed me, I
kissed him back, that was all." He paused again. "Clinically, I suppose it
could be passed off as a response to our situation. Two people, having
just survived great physical hardships, risking their lives to capture a
dangerous felon, coming very close to being killed themselves. It's very
common, very understandable, to respond to such circumstances by seeking
physical intimacy. At least, that's what I told myself at the time." 

"Let me guess. You were lying through your teeth to yourself." 

"I wasn't sure. After all, we'd spent nearly an entire week together, all
those years ago, alone in the forest. We'd camped together, shared our
sleeping bags, bathed in streams together. Days of close physical
proximity, and we'd felt nothing. But this was different. 

"I could feel his body heat next to me, could feel it soaking into me,
keeping me warm. I was so cold, and he was so warm. I wanted that warmth.
I wanted him. But it was cold, and we weren't alone. And I wasn't sure if
his kissing me had meant any more than just a temporary longing for
comfort." In the back, Dief whined softly and nosed his way to the front
seat, jumping up to stick his nose under Benny's hand. Oblivious, Benny
continued. "In any case, we had a job to complete, and we set out the next
morning with our prisoner. It took a week to reach the nearest post, and
during that time Cooper and I never spoke of what had happened. That
night, we stayed at the post, in the duty officer's cabin, while he was on
a call." Benny looked away. "We never questioned what would happen, what
did happen." He took a deep breath, and went on. "Dale left the next
morning, but some weeks after the case was over, he came back to
Tuktoyaktuk, where I was living at the time. We spent a month together
there." Fraser paused. "And when the month was over, he went back to San
Francisco." 

Ray waited. "And that was it? The last time you saw him before now?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" Ray surprised himself with the gentleness in his voice. Maybe it
was the pain in Fraser's voice, maybe the too-controlled impassiveness of
his face. But Ray suddenly wanted to know. Wanted to help. "Did you fight?
Break up badly?" 

"No. Nothing like that. Maybe it would have been better if we had fought.
It might have been easier to understand then." Fraser shifted in the seat,
trying to find the words to explain. "You see, when we met, Cooper had
just been involved in a very difficult case, the murder of a young woman
that turned out to be just the first in a series of terrible, brutal
killings. It would be another year before there was even a second victim,
and before it was over the case nearly cost him his life . . . and his
soul. When he returned to the Territories, he'd been through trials that
would have killed a lesser man." 

"Hell of a time to get posted in the far North," Ray put in dryly. 

"I think Cooper wanted it. He seemed to welcome the physical hardships,
the grueling labor, the hours spent tracking through the snow. It was an
escape for him, something he needed. And it was cold." 

"Exactly my point." 

Fraser took his time replying, almost visibly gathering his thoughts.
"Have you ever experienced hypothermia, Ray?" 

"No, I can't say that I have." 

"It's a peaceful death, in the end. At first, the cold is miserable,
frightening. You fight for air, struggle for every breath, for every
heartbeat. But after a while, after the cold has soaked through your
entire body, after it reaches your heart, it becomes . . . restful.
Soothing. The cold can be painful, but after a while the cold itself can
numb its own pain. It's a fascinating experience. You become warm again,
but it's a warmth without pain. And so long as you stay cold, you stay in
that safe, warm place." 

"Until you die." 

"Until you die," Fraser agreed equably. "But if you don't die, then you
have to come back. You have to be warmed up again, revived. And there's
nothing--nothing so painful as feeling those frozen limbs come back to
life." Fraser rubbed his own hand briefly, as if remembering, then went
on. "Eventually," he said, "there comes a moment when it's actually far
more painful to live, to be warm again--to feel again--than it is to die
in the cold." He paused again, looking away, idly stroking his hand over
the thick fur of Diefenbaker's neck. "Dale and I could never get past that
moment." 

It took Ray a second to get it. "I'm sorry, Benny," he said quietly.
"Really." 

"It's all right, Ray. It was a long time ago." 

'Yeah. Three hours,' Ray thought, and couldn't seem to stop himself from
adding, out loud, "So what was tonight? Farewell fling?" He was sorry as
soon as the words left his mouth, sorry as soon as he saw them strike
Fraser like so many thrown darts, the other man flinching as if Ray had
struck him. He could have bitten his own tongue out. "Benny--" he started,
but the other man cut him off. 

"I was lonely, Ray," he said, and the quiet words cut through Ray's gut
like a sharp knife. Fraser took a deep breath. "I was lonely, and it was
cold, and he . . ." Fraser wouldn't look at him. "He was there." Now
Fraser's eyes were turning to him, clear and bright. "We made a mistake.
And now it's over." He cleared his throat again. "It's getting late, Ray.
I have to be at work early tomorrow. Excuse me." And before Ray could say
anything, could force a single word past the sudden constriction in his
throat, Fraser had opened the door and was gone, Diefenbaker trotting at
his heels. 

---------- 

The next morning, before Ray even got out of bed, Fraser phoned the house
from the Consulate, leaving a message that he wouldn't need a ride to work
that morning. In fact, he wouldn't need a ride tomorrow, or a ride home
either, thank you kindly, Ray. 

Ray scowled darkly at the answering machine, wrapping his robe tighter
around himself as he hit the button to listen to the messages again. When
the tape had finished, he rewound and erased it, not needing to hear it
any more. Fraser was really bad at this. He might as well have shouted
'I'm avoiding you, Ray Vecchio.' It might be easier on them both if he
had. 

Still, with the Mountie Taxi Service free from his schedule, he made it to
work nearly five minutes early, and was treated to a feigned heart attack
from Elaine as she stared from him to the clock. 

"Very funny, Elaine," he snarled, and snatched his messages from her as he
stalked past. "I suppose that means you haven't run that DMV search I
asked for?" 

"You suppose wrong," she said, and nodded to his desk. "It's right there,
right on top of all the other grunt jobs you asked me to do." 

"Thanks," he muttered, and slouched off to his desk, dropping the messages
in the trash on the way. His phone started ringing as soon as he sat down,
and he snatched it off the cradle, barking, "Vecchio!" into the receiver. 

"Good morning, Detective. Dale Cooper here." 

For a second, Ray just stared at the phone, sure he'd heard it wrong.
Probably the last person in the world that Ray wanted to talk to at this
particular moment, and here he was. "Yeah," Ray finally said ungraciously.
"What do you want?" 

"I've been thinking about the Crosetti case. I have an idea about the
similarities. I wondered if you'd have time today to have lunch with me
and discuss it." 

'Sure, love to sit and sip coffee with the guy that broke my best friend's
heart.' "Gee, sorry, Cooper, but I'm kind of tied up here, can't break
away." 

"Oh. Well, perhaps I could come by and drop off my notes. I'd really like
your input." 

Benny, Ray was certain, could have come up with the perfect word to
describe the conflicting sensations he was experiencing. He wished he was
here to do it, because Ray wasn't having any luck. On the one hand, he'd
be just as happy never to see Dale Cooper's perfect face again. But on the
other hand, the cop in him was dying to see him again, to look at him and
try to figure out what the hell Benny saw in him. 

"Look," he heard himself say, "Maybe I could tear away for a quick lunch
after all. Maybe around one." 

"All right. I'll pick you up then." Cooper hung up. 

Once the phone was back in the cradle, Ray found that he was actually
relieved. It wasn't a bad idea, at that. Have lunch, talk about the case,
and if Cooper so much as breathed Benny's name, Ray would be right there
face to face to pop him into next week. All and all, not a bad prospect. 

---------- 

By the time one o' clock rolled around, Ray had had a lot of time to think
about what he was going to say to Cooper. And then a lot of time to think
about why, exactly, he thought that he had any right to say anything to
him. It was, as he'd told himself a thousand times, none of his business.
Benny might be his best friend, but his personal life still belonged to
him. The best thing, Ray told himself firmly, would be to pretend that it
didn't happen. Pretend he didn't know, let Cooper think that *he* thought
that he and Fraser were just old friends. Sure. 

The decision was made just before it was time to meet Cooper for lunch,
and Ray was able to face the prospect of the meal with a new resolve. He
cleared off his desk, keeping an eye on the door, and rose to his feet as
soon as he saw Cooper's tall, slim profile in the squad room doorway. Ray
watched him walk across the room, willing himself to be polite, neutral.
Cooper came up to him, holding out his hand, smiling, and all Ray could
think, suddenly, was, 'This guy made love to Benny.' And the rush of anger
nearly floored him where he stood. 

If Cooper noticed anything odd in Ray's greeting, he didn't show it.
Instead, he reached into his briefcase and produced a folder, which he
handed over at once. "Here's a copy of my notes," he said. "I thought it
would be best for you to have your own." 

Ray couldn't do it. He couldn't sit across a table from this man, and not
beat the hell out of him. He took the folder, and with an effort, laid it
carefully on his desk. "Thanks," he said shortly, and cleared his throat.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I can't make the lunch thing today. Too much to do,
you understand." It sounded terrible, even to him, lame and awkward, every
word full of lies. And Ray didn't care. 

For a long second, Cooper said nothing. Then he dropped his eyes, his
breath going out in a soft sigh. "I see." He straightened again, and aimed
his eyes at Ray's, as if trying to convey something with the gaze alone.
"That's too bad," he said. "Because I really think that you and I need to
talk, Detective." 

"What about?" 

"Ben Fraser." 

It was an effort to speak through his suddenly dry mouth. "What about
him?" Ray croaked, and winced inwardly. 

Cooper cocked his head. "Do you really want to talk about it here? Or
should we go eat?" 

It took two tries to swallow the lump in his throat. "Okay," Ray finally
managed. "Let's go." 

---------- 

They didn't speak until they were settled in the booth at the diner, until
the waitress had taken their orders for coffee and bustled off. Cooper
busied himself unwinding the scarf that had covered his face, folding it
neatly on top of his coat, then turned and placed his hands on the table
between them. "I'll come straight to the point," he said, his voice
pitched low under the conversation around him, but the tone still clear
and firm. "I think that we need to clear the air about what happened last
night." 

Ray had steeled himself, he thought, for just about anything that Cooper
might have to say, but that opening sally stunned him. "What are you
talking about?" was the best he could manage, and Cooper sighed. 

"About my relationship with Ben." Cooper hesitated, then leaned forward.
"I know that this sounds cliched, but I think you deserve to know the
truth. Whatever might have happened in the past, whatever might have
happened last night, I'd just like to assure you that it's over." 

Ray blinked. "Okay," he said slowly, and shook his head. "Look, you don't
have to tell me this. I mean, this is between the two of you, right? It's
not any of my business." 

Cooper regarded him curiously. "I would have thought that it was," he
said. 

"Yeah, well, Benny's my friend and all, but my interest in his personal
life kinda stops at the bedroom door, you know?" Ray lied, 

"Oh. I see." 

Whatever Cooper might have added to that was forestalled by the arrival of
the waitress with their coffee. Cooper picked his up, sipped, and made an
approving face. 

"So," Ray prompted, and got a blank look. "You said, 'I see,'" Ray
reminded. "What was that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothing." Cooper paused. "Except . . ." 

"What?" Ray said presently. "Except what?" 

Cooper opened his mouth to reply, then shut it and looked again into the
depths of his coffee. "I'll be honest. I'm worried about Ben." 

"*You're* worried about him?" The words slipped free before Ray could
censor them, assuming he even wanted to. "You waltz in here and . . .
and--" Ray stalled on the words, then told himself he was being foolish.
He was a grown man, for goodness sakes. This was childish. He swallowed,
and started over. "You come back here, you screw with his head, you jump
in the sack with him, and *now* you're worried about him?" 

"Is that how you see it?" Cooper countered quietly. "Honestly?" 

That made Ray pause. "Yeah," he said, but he heard the uncertainty in his
own voice. "Maybe," he qualified, then plunged on, trying to explain.
"This isn't like him," he said. "Maybe you two were a hot item three years
ago, but you know, and I know, that if it was really over, he's not the
type for one-night reruns. You know he had to be messed up to do what he
did. No offense." 

"And I made it worse." 

Ray didn't answer. Two minutes ago, he'd have agreed without hesitation.
But the guilt in Cooper's voice, the genuine, honest concern on his
perfect, smooth face, made him a little less eager to jump on the
Cooper-guilt bandwagon. "Let's just say I don't think you helped," he said
instead. 

"I knew better," Cooper agreed. He took the last sip of his coffee, and
set the empty cup down. "I thought . . ." He trailed off, then laughed. "I
thought it might help. Help us both," he admitted. 

"Well, I think you thought wrong." 

"It won't be the first time." Cooper looked wistfully into his empty cup.
"Have you ever been there? To the Yukon?" 

"Once. First time I met Benny. I went up to help him find his father's
killer." 

"Then you know." 

Ray frowned. "Know what?" 

"Know what it's like. Know why he's not happy here. Why he'll never be
happy here." 

Ray felt a prickle of resentment. "He's fine," he said, conveniently
ignoring the worries he'd harbored himself on that very subject. "He's
adjusting." 

The look in those dark eyes was enough, but Cooper said it anyway. "You
don't believe that." 

"Well what the hell else am I supposed to believe? In case you haven't
noticed, he's stuck here, all right? There's nowhere else for him to go. 

That seemed to take Cooper aback. "That's very true," he agreed. He
shrugged. "At least he has you." Cooper hesitated again. "Can I ask you
something?" 

Ray shrugged. "Sure. Why not?" 

"You're angry at me, because you think I took advantage of Ben. But I'd
like to know: Are you angry because I slept with him, or because he slept
with me and not with you?" 

For a long time, Ray couldn't answer. "That's a hell of a question," he
said, and heard the tight, barely controlled anger in his voice. "And
here's the answer. Go to hell." And he got up and walked away. 

---------- 

Fraser avoided Ray for two days. Two days, twenty hours, thirty minutes,
not that Ray was counting. And Ray let him. If Benny was avoiding him,
after all, it saved the Ray the trouble of having to avoid Benny. And it
gave Dale Cooper time to get the hell out of Chicago. 

Cooper had called him the day before he left, to "check up on the case."
Yeah. Check up on Ray, more likely, and, indirectly, on Benny. 'Well, too
bad, Agent Cooper, 'cause I ain't seen him, either.' They hadn't mentioned
the conversation at the diner, and after hanging up, Ray began to think
that maybe he knew, at least, one thing that he and Benny had in common. 

Damn Cooper anyway. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway, strolling
into their lives, telling them how to feel? Okay, so maybe he and Benny
had some history, maybe that gave Cooper some insight that Ray didn't have
into Fraser's head. But when he started to try to get inside Ray's head,
that was altogether different. 

Even if he was right. 

It took a solid minute of knocking on Fraser's door before Ray finally
heard the shuffle of feet inside, and the inquiring sniff from the other
side of the door that showed that Dief, at least, was willing to be
curious about visitors. Finally, the flimsy paneled wood swung open, and
Benny was staring blankly at him, as if he didn't quite recognize the face
that was looking back at him. 

It took a moment for Ray to recover from the shock of the sight of his
friend. "Hey, Benny, you look like shit," Ray said before he thought. But
it was the truth. Fraser's face was unnaturally pale, his damp hair
sticking to his forehead, and there were dark, sagging circles under his
eyes. He was wearing his red long johns, but they were only half-buttoned,
the buttons and holes misaligned as though he'd only just donned them in
haste. 

"Ray," he said at last, and Ray started as he realized that the other man
was actually shivering. And that was when he felt, for the first time, the
cold air flowing out of the apartment, colder even than the chilly air in
the unheated hall. 

"Geez, Benny," he said, pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders.
"What's the matter, your heat not working?" 

For a second, Fraser looked at him, then glanced back into the apartment,
as if checking for himself. "No," he said at last. "It's . . . I must have
not turned it on." 

'Yeah, for about two days.' "Uh-huh." Ignoring Benny's feeble protest, he
pushed past him into the apartment, shivering as he stepped into the
freezing air. No wonder, too. The windows were wide open, all of them,
frost dusting the counters and floor with chilly white. Ray turned to face
him. "What the hell's going on here, Benny?" 

"Nothing. I'm fine, Ray," Fraser said crisply, and moved to the kitchen
window. One by one, he closed all the windows, ignoring the bite of the
frozen tiles on his bare feet, hardly seeming to feel the frost-furred
glass against his hands. 

"No, you are not fine, Fraser," Ray snapped. He walked over to the ancient
radiator and, with a deft twist, opened the valve. "Sleeping in sub-zero
weather with the windows wide open is *not* fine. What's going on?" 

"Nothing." The air in the apartment was nothing compared to the chill in
Fraser's voice. "You know perfectly well, Ray, that I'm used to living in
a much colder environment." 

"Don't give me that bullshit," Ray said harshly. "Last time I checked, you
were still the same species as the rest of us homo sapiens, and unless
you've got some secret Inuit immunity, there's only so much cold you can
survive." 

Fraser regarded him for a long, tense moment, some kind of emotion warring
behind his bland expression, something Ray hoped, briefly, would come to
the surface, but which in the end stayed buried. "I'm fine," was all he
said. 

For once, Ray was quicker. He had the Mountie's wrist in an instant, and
they both gasped as Ray's warm hand closed around the cold flesh. 

"Jesus!" Ray nearly dropped it, but the flash of emotion across Benny's
face was enough to make him tighten his grip around the chilled, stiff
joint. "I've seen stiffs in the morgue warmer than you." 

Futilely, Fraser tried to break the hold, but his numb fingers didn't seem
able to obey. "Ray," he said evenly. "Let go. You're hurting me." 

"No, I'm not." Ray pitched his voice low, and quiet, knowing that that was
the only way, right now, to get through. He raised his other hand, folding
Benny's cold fingers between his, watching the other man grimace. "That's
just warmth, Benny. Human warmth, okay? It can't hurt you." 

Fraser's lips twitched. "That's not always the case," he said tightly. His
hand was like ice, the fingers icicles between Ray's palms.  

Ray tightened his hold, wrapping two fingers around Benny's wrist,
surprised when he felt the other man's pulse beating like a jackhammer
under his touch. Fraser was standing perfectly still, his face betraying
nothing, showing no emotion. But his heart was racing. "Tell me why you
slept with him." 

Fraser's mouth opened and shut, twice, the non-sequitur shocking him out
of his defiance. "With Dale Cooper?" he finally asked. "Is that
important?" 

"Yes," Ray said firmly. 

"Why?" 

"I don't know." 

"Well, if you don't know why, Ray, then how do you know it's important?" 

"Because it's eating you up inside, that's why. Because you're not acting
like you." 

"I'm not sure what more I can tell you," Benny said at last. "And I'm
still not sure that any of it still matters." 

"After the other night, I'd say it matters a lot." Ray's hands were
starting to chill, the warmth in them leeching slowly into Benny's body.
And yet they stood here, almost chest to chest, having this conversation
in this freezing place as though it were the most normal thing in the
world. Ray would have liked to sit down, to maybe make Benny some of that
boiled grass he liked so much, but he was afraid to move, afraid to break
the fragile tableau. "You never did explain what happened," Ray reminded. 

"Yes, I did." 

"No, you didn't. You told me what you did, but you never said a word about
why." 

"Yes, I did," Benny repeated stubbornly. "At least, I would have thought
that it was obvious." 

"Sure, yeah. Thrown together by circumstances, spitting in the teeth of
danger, all that crap I can understand. But that doesn't explain why two
months later Cooper hauled his ass back to the frozen tundra to spend his
vacation with you. Unless you're going to tell me you two slept in
separate beds." 

Slowly, Fraser lowered his head, staring down at their joined hands. With
a gentle tug, he freed himself from Ray's grip, but made no other effort
to get away, to put any distance between them. "Why are you doing this,
Ray?" 

"Because I think you need to know. Whatever it is that went on between you
two then, I don't think it's over. You wouldn't have slept with him again
if it was." 

The smile was so brief, so fleeting, that for a moment Ray wondered if
he'd imagined it. "Which begs the question. Why does it matter to you?
Not," he added quickly, "that I'm not gratified by your concern, but I
would have thought that--" he trailed off. 

"Thought what? That *I* don't care what happens with you?" Ray studied
Fraser's face. "Or that I wouldn't care once I found out you were gay." 

"I'm not gay." 

"Oh, sorry. My mistake." 

"It's a common error," Fraser assured him, plowing oblivious over the
sarcasm with such Benny-like sincerity that Ray could have cried. "I
believe that my sexual orientation is more precisely defined as bisexual
rather than homosexual, although the terminology suffers from a lack of--"


"Benny." 

He stopped. "Yes, Ray?" 

"It doesn't matter to me. All right?" 

That seemed to satisfy him. "Fair enough. Thank you, Ray." 

"And you still haven't answered me," Ray persisted. "Why'd you do it? Why
did you sleep with him? Was it that bad? Are you that lonely?" 

For a long time, Benny couldn't seem to find an answer. He looked away,
studying the gray skies outside the window with unnecessary absorption.
"Yes," he said at last. He turned back. "Yes, I was lonely." 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

Benny looked back at him, then down at the bare, scrubbed floor. "Perhaps
because I didn't think there was anything to tell." He shook his head.
"You've been a good friend to me, Ray." 

"But you just said you were lonely. Make up your mind." 

That caused a faint grimace to pass over Benny's features. "There are
different kinds of loneliness, Ray." He waved a hand. "You've provided me
with companionship, friendship, loyalty . . . you allow me to help you
with your cases, you let me participate in your recreations . . . You've
made this place bearable." 

Ray didn't know what to say. On the one hand, it was the first time he'd
ever heard Benny say anything quite like that. Heard him actually say the
words, that he appreciated Ray's friendship. That he needed it. But at the
same time, Fraser was saying that it hadn't been enough. Hadn't been
enough to keep him from needing something else. Something that Ray hadn't
given him. Or maybe just something he didn't think Ray was able to give. 

"But you couldn't have come to me," Ray said. 

"It wasn't a deliberate, reasoned decision, Ray. Until I saw Dale Cooper
again, I didn't even know what it was that I wanted. If I had . . . " He
trailed off, but didn't finish. 

"If you had, what?" Ray prompted. "What would you have done?" 

"I don't know." 

Ray regarded him for a long, still moment. "I can tell you what I would
have done," he said quietly. "If I'd known." 

Benny blinked at him curiously. "What?" 

"This." And Ray stepped forward, and slowly, carefully, folded Benny into
his arms. 

For a second, just a second, Fraser leaned into the embrace, then he
stiffened, his body going rigid, and tried to pull away. "Ray." His voice
was tight, and filled with something that might have been pain. Or
longing. "Don't. You don't want to--" 

Ray tightened his grip, locking his hands around Fraser's arms. "What?" he
said keeping his voice carefully gentle. "What don't I want to do, Benny?"


Benny didn't seem to have an answer. "I don't know," he said at last. 

"You let Cooper do this for you," Ray said quietly. "Why him and not me?" 

"That . . ." Benny's sounded strained, as if he were having to force
himself to speak. "That was different." 

"How?" 

"It was--That is to say, we were . . ." 

"Friends?" Ray supplied when Fraser's words trailed off. "I thought I was
your friend, Benny." 

Fraser sighed against him. "You are my best friend," he said softly, but
sadly. "But . . ." 

"But what?" 

"I don't know," Fraser said helplessly. 

Ray waited. "I think I do know." Fraser's head was close to his now, his
sleek dark hair just a breath away. Ray tilted his head, letting his lips
lightly touch the soft, fine hairs on his neck. Fraser shivered against
him. "I think I know," Ray said again. "You can't get cold enough. Can
you? All these people, all these new friends. It's hard to keep cold with
so many people around. People like me." 

"Ray . . ." Benny's voice was shaking. 

Ray ignored him. "Most people know that. That's why we all live in the
cities, why we live together. We're all just trying to keep warm. Except
you." He kissed his neck again, and Fraser quivered. "Why is that, Benny?
Because it hurts?" He felt Fraser's jaw work, felt him breathing raggedly
against his shoulder. He didn't answer. Ray turned his head and kissed him
on the lips. 

Fraser's mouth was soft, and cold, Ray's lips barely warming the chilly
skin. But Fraser didn't pull away, didn't break the kiss until Ray did it
first. "Did that hurt?" Ray asked. 

"Yes," Benny breathed quietly into his mouth, and kissed him back. 

Fraser's mouth was even better the second time, the chilly lips warming
under Ray's kisses, his tongue tasting faintly of mint. Ray actually felt
his knees weaken, the muscles in his thighs turning to water as that
tongue slipped into his mouth, teasing him. He tightened his grip on
Fraser's waist, afraid that if he let go, his trembling knees wouldn't be
able to hold him up. Fraser's arms came around him, crushing him close,
and for a long, blissful moment there was nothing in the world but the two
of them. 

Ray shivered once as Benny slid his coat from his shoulders, but
apparently the radiator was still doing its job. That, or the blood that
was pounding through Ray's body was enough to keep him from feeling the
cold. Then Fraser's hands slid down his back, caressing him through the
layers of sweater and undershirt, and Ray felt his whole body shiver. 

"Are you cold?" Benny's question was a pulse of heated air against his
lips, the soft brush of his mouth as he spoke sending the temperature up
another few degrees. 

"No," Ray said truthfully. One of Benny's hands slipped under the sweater,
spreading over the small of his back, and he felt his knees quiver again. 

"Are you sure?" Benny stroked his back again, and Ray realized,
incredulously, that he was being teased. "You're trembling." The clever
fingers touched him again, rubbing through the thin undershirt. First his
lower back, then down, right to the base of his spine, a long, liquid
glide of pleasure. Ray gulped a deep breath, and finally found his voice
again. 

"It's not from the cold, and you damn well know it," he said shakily. The
hand on his back made it difficult to think, all his thoughts dropping
away to pool somewhere in the vicinity of his belt buckle. He was dimly
aware that he hadn't actually planned for this to happen, but now that it
was happening, he wouldn't have stopped for anything in the world. As if
he even wanted to try. 

Benny kissed him again, hard, and Ray felt another few ergs of
intelligence slither away. God, he'd never have guessed this, that under
that clean-cut Mountie exterior was a man who could kiss like this. He
could feel the control of this situation slipping rapidly out of his
hands, and he wasn't sure he really cared. He pulled himself closer,
wrapping his fingers in the cloth at Fraser's waist, and nearly gasped out
loud as his thigh stroked briefly against the long, thick hardness tangled
in the loose folds at Fraser's hips. Fraser jerked against him, his hands
stilling briefly, and a soft sound escaped from his mouth, almost a
whimper. He kissed Ray even harder, and now he was the one trembling. 

They broke apart long enough to catch their breath, and anything Ray might
have said, or thought of saying, was lost as he caught sight of Fraser's
face. The other man's expression was unreadable, his pale eyes darkened
with desire, his face flushed with heat. And from the way Benny looked at
him, Ray knew that he must seem the same. Fraser swallowed once, his lips
parting as he lifted a hand to Ray's face, cupping his cheek briefly in
his broad palm. But he said nothing, simply kissed him once, gently, then
took his hand and led him to the bed. 

They got under the covers still mostly clothed, Ray's sweater and shoes
the main casualties of the trip across the room, but by the time they
arranged themselves on the narrow cot Ray had succeeded in opening Benny's
thermals down to his waist, revealing a tantalizing gap of smooth, pale
skin. He trailed a finger down the center of Fraser's chest, delighted to
hear a soft sigh of pure desire from the other man. He let the finger dip
lower, easing between the last buttons, and stroked once over the hard,
silky length that strained below. 

Fraser closed his eyes, sucking in a deep, quavering breath, the hands on
Ray's shoulders convulsing once before he remembered himself and eased his
grip. He slipped his hands lower, reaching for the hem of Ray's
undershirt, and between the two of them they managed to pull it over Ray's
head. Fraser started kissing him the instant his head was free, and it
took all Ray's remaining concentration to get his hands in the collar of
Benny's thermals and start peeling down. It was, he thought dazedly, not
unlike peeling a banana. He ran his hands possessively over Benny's back,
feeling the hard, firm muscle of his shoulders, the gentle ripples of
motion as Benny flexed his arms, pulling Ray against him to kiss him
again.	

Somehow, they managed to remove the remainder of their clothing without
leaving the bed, or letting go of one another for more than a few seconds.
Benny was naked first, having only the single garment to dispose of, and
Ray thrilled, unbelieving, as he finally stroked his palm over the smooth,
hard length of him. 'This is Fraser,' he thought. 'Benny, my Benny, naked
in this bed with me. And god, but he's beautiful.' Then Benny's fingers
wrapped around his own shaft, and the moment of appreciation was abruptly
subsumed in the hot sizzle of his own desire. He closed his eyes,
breathing deep, then opened them to find Benny staring right at him, a
sweet, knowing smile curving his lips. Ray squeezed a little harder, and
had the pleasure of seeing Benny's eyes glaze briefly, the smile slipping
for a moment into a soft, breathless gasp of pure desire. Ray did it
again, and this time leaned forward to steal the gasp from his lips. 

Time slipped by, unnoticed, while they kissed there on the bed, slowly
fitting their bodies together, twining together in a tight clench of arms
and legs. Ray ran his hands over Benny's short hair, trying to tangle his
fingers in it, to pull the other man's mouth closer even as they kissed.
Then Benny's strong, thick fingers found their own grip in Ray's hair,
sealing them together in a hot, hard kiss, and that was enough. For a
while. 

Gradually, though, Benny's kisses began to change, growing slower, and
deeper, each kiss lingering longer and longer until Ray thought he might
just go insane. Benny now seemed determined to slowly explore every inch
of Ray's mouth, his teeth, lips, and tongue working in a delicious tandem
until Ray was gasping for breath, hands curving helplessly over the broad
back. He'd never been kissed like this in his life, never been so
thoroughly opened, investigated, and tasted, as if he were some kind of
strange new delicacy for Benny to enjoy. Every bit of the other man's
formidable attention was now focused on him, intent, it seemed, on drawing
out every scrap of sensation from the kiss. 

And now it wasn't just Ray's mouth anymore. Benny's lips began to stray,
dropping warm, light kisses on his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead, moving
down to caress the line of his jaw, to nip gently at the lobe of his ear.
And now his tongue, too, darting out to touch at the crease of his neck,
at the corners of his eyes, tender, delicate licks, like Ray was being
stroked softly with an electric wire. Benny touched his tongue to the
corner of his mouth, then to the tip of his nose, and then ducked down to
lick his neck, slow patient strokes traveling up to his jaw, then to his
ear. 'He's tasting me,' Ray finally realized, and the thought sent a
shivering thread of fire down his spine, straight to his already hard
cock. He closed his eyes as Benny's tongue gently mapped the secret curves
of his ear, each prod trailing another thrill of delight down his body.
'He's going to taste me, all over, just like he tastes every damn thing he
finds. Oh, god, I'm never going to be able to watch him lick mud again . .
.' 

Benny was kissing his throat now, wet, open-mouthed kisses, breathing
deeply as he buried his nose in the crook of Ray's neck, whiffing gently
up his nape to tickle the back of his neck with his breath. Another lazy
lick at the soft hairs below his hairline, then Benny was rolling him on
his back to lick at his collarbone, his tongue darting to taste the thin
pulse at the hollow of his throat, licking up the sweat that had pooled
there. He shifted down, straddling Ray's thighs to press his face to the
center of Ray's chest, drawing air deeply into his lungs. He spread his
hands over Ray's chest, palms settling warmly over his pectorals, fingers
splaying down his sides as he caressed him, then carefully, delicately,
tasted each nipple, biting gently until Ray heard an embarrassingly vocal
moan escape his own lips. Benny licked him one last time, then moved his
hand, sliding over to take Ray's arm and lift it away from his body,
pulling up until he could lean forward and trail his tongue up the line of
Ray's ribs, not stopping until he was pressed into the soft dark hairs
under his arm, his nose breathing deep of Ray's scent. 

"Oh, God." Ray wasn't even aware that he'd spoken, not until he heard the
echo of his own voice in the quiet room. Benny, ignoring him, took Ray's
free hand and repeated the motion, pinning Ray's wrists on the pillow,
holding him while he explored under the other arm, his expression rapt, as
if he'd forgotten Ray's presence, forgotten everything but learning the
scent and taste of this curious new creature in front of him. His
single-minded absorption in Ray's body was almost frightening, might have
been frightening, except that it was also one of the most incredibly
erotic things Ray had ever experienced. 

When Benny finally released him, having explored his fill, Ray knew what
was coming next. The first delicate lick over the tip of his cock was like
a match touched to a fuse, a long, slow burn of pure need. And the burn
only deepened, spreading hotly through Ray's groin as Benny probed again
into the tiny slit, lingering until he had gathered every drop. Ray's
balls were next, the heated tongue rasping over the cool, taut sacs, then
the nose nuzzling underneath to breath deeply of the scents between his
legs. Another long, slow lick up the crease of his thigh, and then Benny
buried his face in the soft, wiry curls at his groin, breathing
open-mouthed as his hands mapped the curves of Ray's hips. Ray's whole
body was alive, tingling from the touch of Benny's mouth, not a single
part of him now that Benny didn't know. And Ray looked at his friend,
looked at his face, and his body, and down to the powerful erection that
rose from his hips, and knew that this wouldn't be over until he had Benny
inside him. He'd never wanted it before, and now, suddenly, he wanted it
more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. 

But he didn't say it, not yet. Instead, he swallowed, trying to control
his ragged, harsh breathing as he asked, "So, you think you've figured out
who I am by now?" 

That got him a long, slow smile, and a nod. "I think so," Benny said, and
lifted his head, prowling slowly up the length of Ray's body to kiss him
on the lips. "Yes," he said softly, when they parted. "I think I know
you." 

When Benny finally slipped inside him, Ray thought for a moment that he
was going to pass out. He couldn't seem to remember how to breathe, and
only Benny's soft voice in his ear allowed him to suck air into his lungs
before the blackness overwhelmed him. Then Benny shifted against him,
pushing in a little more, and Ray forgot how to breathe all over again.
His hands were digging into Benny's shoulders, that familiar broad back
his only lifeline, his only connection, now, to the world outside his own
body. Dimly, he heard Benny asking if he was all right, and that made him
laugh, the instant before he lunged up, capturing Benny's mouth, gasping
as his own movement shifted Benny's length inside him. Then Benny started
to move on his own, pushing against him, and that was all that Ray needed.


It was better than he could ever have hoped for, hot and hard and
wonderful, the tight join of their bodies more delicious than he would
have imagined in his wildest dreams. His own cock was untouched, jerking
stiffly across his belly with every thrust, but Ray knew that in a couple
of seconds he was going to come anyway, come from nothing more than the
sweet friction of Benny's cock inside him. He wouldn't have thought it
possible, not until the room around him dissolved in a sudden flood of
red, his body arching off the bed as he came, the orgasm flooding through
his body like a river bursting its banks, leaving him drowning and gasping
on the ruin of Benny's sheets, lying limp as he felt, unbelieving, the
incredible sensation of Benny coming inside him a second later. 

He forced his eyes open, knowing that he had to see, that he had to know
what was on Benny's face at that moment. His gasp made Benny's eyes fly
open, the rapture on his face fading so quickly into concern that Ray
could have strangled himself for spoiling that perfect moment of
abstracted joy. 

"Oh, God, Ray, did I hurt you?" Benny panted, and started to pull back,
and would have succeeded if Ray hadn't grabbed him, forcing him to stay
still. 

"No, no. God, no. You didn't hurt me." Ray found his own breath, just
enough to risk another kiss, one which Benny returned enthusiastically,
slowly lowering himself onto Ray's chest. Ray parted from him only
reluctantly, loving the soft, sweet sounds they made as they kissed,
loving, too, the heavy warmth of Benny's body on top of him, a warm,
sweaty, Mountie blanket of his very own. 

But finally, Benny pulled away, sucking in a slow, long breath, his elbows
propped on either side of Ray's chest. His eyes were still closed, and he
lowered his head to Ray's shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of Ray's
neck. Ray waited. And waited. "Well?" he said at last. 

It took a moment for Benny to reply, his lips moving warmly against the
slowly cooling skin of Ray's throat. "Well, what, Ray?" 

"Aren't you going to say it?" 

Apparently, Benny was enjoying the sensation his mouth was creating
against Ray's neck, because he continued to kiss him even as he spoke,
punctuating his words with soft touches of his lips against Ray's skin.
"Say what, Ray?" 

"I don't know. 'My God, what have I done?' or, 'Gee, I just screwed my
best friend.' or 'Oh, dear.'" 

"I wasn't planning on it." Now Benny's tongue was exploring again,
carefully tracing the line of Ray's jaw. "You know, you have the most
amazing scent, Ray . . ." 

"I don't believe this." 

"It's true." Benny buried his face in Ray's neck again. "It's very . . .
enticing." 

"We are not talking about the way I smell," Ray said firmly, although the
sensation of Benny's mouth on his damp skin was making him wonder if that
was such a bad idea after all. 

"Very well." And Ray squeaked as Benny licked his neck again. "We can talk
about the way you taste . . ." 

"Benny!" 

"I'm sorry, Ray," Benny said, not sounding sorry in the least, and without
stopping what he was doing. 

With an effort, Ray pushed Benny away, lifting him up until he could look
straight into those brilliant eyes, now soft and dreamy in the aftermath
of sex. The sight was enough to make him forget, temporarily at least,
what he'd been about to say, but the realization that he was looking into
the face of his newfound lover was enough to return him to the subject at
hand. "Benny," he said quietly but firmly. "Don't you think we need to
talk?" 

Slowly, Benny shook his head, a small smile creeping over his lips. "No,"
he drawled. "I don't." 

"You don't?" Ray reached up, idly pushing a hand over Benny's sweat-damp
bangs, then tracing the soft lines of his mouth with a tender finger. 

"Nope." Benny opened his lips, closing his teeth lightly on the tip of the
finger, sucking gently until Ray tugged it away. Deprived of the finger,
Benny simply turned his head into Ray's shoulder, kissing him sleepily,
his eyes half-closed. "Please," he breathed softly into his skin, and Ray
felt shivers go down his spine. He kissed him again, then lifted his head
and fastened his mouth over Ray's, capturing him in a long, leisurely
kiss. "Later," he said quietly against Ray's lips, and Ray decided to stop
arguing. Benny was right. Later would be soon enough. 

---------- 

"I wanted him to stay." 

Benny's voice came out of the dark, soft and sleepy. His arm was a heavy
weight around Ray's body, his voice a deep rumble in Ray's ear. Ray,
pillowed comfortably against Benny's chest, didn't answer right away. 

"You don't have to tell me this, Benny," Ray said at last, sleepily, not
daring to move from the soft circle of Benny's arms, not sure he ever
wanted to. "I don't have to know." 

"Maybe. Maybe not." After a moment, Fraser went on. "When he came to me .
. . " Fraser swallowed. "I thought he might stay. Forever. I think he did,
too." 

Muzzily, Ray blinked the sleep from his eyes, determined, now, to at least
listen. "What happened?" he prompted gently. 

It took a long time for Fraser to get the words out. "I don't know," he
said helplessly. "God knows I wanted--" He broke off. "We could have
fallen in love." He paused again. "Easily." 

"But you didn't." And Ray was ashamed at the sudden flood of relief. 

"No. It was too--" Fraser broke off again, and turned to stare out into
the darkness, his jaw working briefly. And the pain in his voice was like
a stab in Ray's own heart. "In the end, it was easier to stay . . . cold.
And alone. It was safer." Benny drew in a deep breath. "But I thought
about it, thought about going back with him, to San Francisco." 

"What did he say?" 

The silence stretched so long that Ray wondered if Benny was ever going to
answer. "I never asked him," he finally said, and his hands moved
convulsively to grip Ray's shoulders, unconsciously pulling him closer. "I
never gave him the chance." 

"You were afraid he'd say no?" 

Benny hugged him again. "I was afraid that he would say yes. So, I didn't
say anything. And I let him leave." 

"Did you love him?" It came out suddenly, unsteadily, and Ray hated
himself the instant the question was asked. But he didn't take it back. 

Uncomfortably, Benny cleared his throat. "Well, that's a complex question,
Ray--" 

"No, it isn't," Ray said, feeling his sleepiness turning to exasperation.
"It's a very simple question. Yes or no, did you love him?" 

Benny paused again. "You know, Ray, the Greeks had seven different--" 

Ray closed his eyes. "Benny," he said warningly. "Did you love him or not,
goddammit." 

For a long time, Benny was silent, his big hands still moving slowly over
Ray's body, caressing him. "Ray--" he began, and stopped, bringing up one
hand to rub his eyebrow. "Do you think that I could have made love to him
if I didn't?" he finally asked quietly. 

Ray let out his breath in a long, slow sigh. "Okay," he said. "That's what
I thought." He turned into Benny's body, finding the warm curve of his
shoulder, settling his cheek into the soft, smooth skin. He lay there for
a long time, breathing the clean, musky scent from Fraser's skin, feeling
their bodies settle and shift, like two pieces of a puzzle fitting
perfectly together. And finally, he found his voice again. 

"So what's the difference between Cooper and me? If there is one." He
waited. "I mean, you made love to him." He paused. "You made love to me.
What's the difference?" 

Benny stroked Ray's hair, just a light brush of his fingers over the
smooth strands. "Is that what you wanted to talk about?" 

"Yeah," Ray admitted. "Maybe." 

Slowly, Benny shifted under him, bringing his leg up to curve over Ray's
hip. "I'm not sure what to say." 

"Just try, Benny, okay?" 

"Okay." Benny drew in a deep breath. "When Dale and I met, I'd been alone
a long time, Ray." 

"I know." 

"In a way," he continued, as if Ray hadn't spoken, "it's safer to be
alone. There's no one to depend on you, no one to get close to you . . ." 

"No one who can hurt you," Ray put in, and felt Benny still underneath
him. 

"Yes," he said presently, and his arms tightened around Ray's body. "When
Dale and I became . . . lovers, we were both afraid to let it go any
farther. We tried, but we couldn't. I couldn't," he amended softly. "I
knew he could hurt me," Fraser went on. "If I let him." He drew in a deep
breath. "The pain wasn't worth the risk, for either of us." Fraser shifted
again, and Ray felt his lips touch the top of his head, his forehead, his
temples, and then Benny was speaking softly, his words breathed into Ray's
skin. "The first time I met you," he said quietly. "I knew. You were so
hot--" He kissed him. "--so alive. I knew you could hurt me. I knew you
could burn me alive. And I didn't care." He kissed him again. "You were
worth the risk, Ray." 

Ray didn't know what to say. "I wish I could say I was sorry," he finally
offered. "About Cooper. But that's a damn lie." He lifted up, seeking
Benny's mouth in the dark. When they parted, he touched Benny's face,
stroking softly down his cheek. "If things had worked out with you two,
then I wouldn't be here, right now. So I ain't sorry." 

"I don't expect you to be, Ray." 

For a long moment, Ray tried to search his face, tried to read his
expression in the darkness. "But you're sorry, aren't you? For him." 

"He's a good man," Benny said quietly. "He deserves . . . someone." 

"Yeah." Ray kissed him. "So do you." He kissed him again. "So do I." Ray
traced the shape of Benny's face, trailing over his soft, full lips,
feeling Benny try to kiss his fingers, to catch them. "He'll be all right,
Benny." 

"I know," Benny said against his fingers, and kissed them softly. "Ray--"
he started, then stopped as Ray put a hand over his mouth. 

"No," he said quietly. "Let's go to sleep, all right? Unless it's
something earthshattering, it can wait until morning." 

When Ray released him, Fraser nodded. "All right," he agreed, and Ray felt
Benny's mouth shape into a smile. "It's nothing you didn't already know,
anyway," Fraser said, and Ray settled back into his arms. 

"Yeah," Ray said, and let his eyes close, a smile playing over his face.
"I know, Benny. Good-night." 

---------- 

Fraser woke early, while it was still dark outside, not even a hint of
dawn to be seen. It was a habit he'd not been able to break yet, waking up
just now to get up and stoke the fire, an unnecessary precaution in this
gas-heated building. Unnecessary, too, with Ray's warm, naked body pressed
so close to him under the blankets. They were tangled up together beneath
the covers, a wonderful disarray of arms and legs and bodies, touching
each other everywhere they possibly could. Comfortable. Safe. Warm. Fraser
closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around Ray's body, and slid back into
sleep. 

THE END 

E-mail: demarley@yahoo.com
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