This isn't technically a WIP because it is finished, as it stands. However, 4 different beta readers all had significant (and different) issues with the story and frankly I could simply never reconcile all the problems and was too overwhelmed by the amount of rewriting that was needed to cope, so it's been sitting on my hard drive since 2001. There are still a lot of good elements in this story, but as a whole I have never been completely satisfied with it, so it is never going to join my 'officially completed works.' Hopefully you can find something in it to like.

This one has a pretty eclectic soundtrack, even weirder than most of mine do. :-) David Gray: Babylon. Dar Williams: Party Generation. Caroline Lavelle: A Case of You. Eva Cassidy: Songbird. Barenaked Ladies: When I Fall. James Keelaghan: Love, What A Road, Mirabeau Bridge, & I Would I Were. Jann Arden: Mend. Paul Gross & David Keeley: The Other Side of Life. Pierce Pettis: You Move Me. Enigma: Return to Innocence.



Duet
© 2001 Kellie Matthews

It's one of those things you don't like to talk about. One of those 'how do I get myself into this?' moments. Of course, I know how I do it. I'm partners with Benton Fraser, RCMP. That's pretty much all it takes. So, we're after a perp, on foot of course, because when does Fraser ever have the good sense to spot a criminal when we can actually use the car to go after them like any normal cops would, or like the cops on TV would, not that they're normal. Not that we're normal.

Anyway, Fraser's doing his out of windows and off roof-tops thing, and I guess I thought some of the Hero Sparkle rubbed off on me because the next thing I know I'm following him out of windows and over roofs. Unfortunately I'm not a Mountie, and I'm definitely not Fraser. We follow the perp off the edge of a roof onto old fence that's been shoved up against the building like an off-ramp. The perp kind of surfs down it, Fraser looked like he flew down it, but the instant my feet hit wood they go out from under me and I end up sliding ass-first down the boards. Which wouldn't have been a big deal, except. . . well . . . it's kind of like Frannie and her stupid slivered timbers thing back when we were working the ghost ship case. Ow. Next thing I know Fraser is leaning over, hands extended to help me to my feet, looking all concerned.

"Ray? Are you all right?"

I don't have time to whine about it so I ignore the stinging burn in my thighs, and ass, and the palms of my hands and just nod. "Fine, Fraser. Let's get him."

I put my hands in his and he pulls me up, frowning as he lets go and sees the blood smeared on his hands from mine. "Your hands. . . ." he begins.

"It's nothing. Just a scrape." I wipe my hands on my pants. "Come on, he's getting away!"

He nods and takes off. I'm right on his heels, somehow not even limping. About a block later Fraser manages to cut behind a building and come out in front of the guy while I bring up the rear with Dief, who didn't follow us over the roof and still managed to end up in the right place. Smart wolf. No jumping off buildings for him. Smarter than me, apparently. Anyway, we get the guy, cuff him, haul him back to the scene of the crime so the old guy he mugged can ID him, then get him back to the station. Then there's the paperwork. That takes half an hour of sitting and writing, and since my ass hurts and my hands hurt it feels like it takes even longer.

Finally I'm done, and he's off to a cell, and I can head to the bathroom to wash the dirt and dried blood off my hands. Holding them up to the weak fluorescent light, I discover that just like I thought, I've got a dozen nasty splinters embedded in my palms. Fun. The backs of my thighs and my ass are a little sore, but not as bad as my hands so I'm hoping my slacks were enough protection to keep the actual splinters out of my backside even if I got scraped some on the way down. Unfortunately even though I'm pretty flexible there's no way I can twist around enough to see for sure.

I look at my hands again and wonder if I could just slap some duct tape on them and yank all the splinters out in one pull, and just as I'm thinking that, Fraser walks into the bathroom and sees me. I put my hands down fast, but not fast enough. He comes over and holds out his hand, wordlessly. I have a sudden flashback to my second grade teacher asking for my gum, and figuring that Fraser will be just as stubborn as she was, I sigh and hold out my hands. He takes one, pulls me around a little so that he can get the light on my palm, and frowns.

"Some of these are quite deeply lodged. Why don't you let me take you to the urgent care facility?"

"Fraser, they're just splinters. I'm not a three-year-old. I do not need to go to the urgent care for splinters."

"I'm well aware that you're not a three year old, Ray, I simply thought it would be best to have those seen to."

"I'll just go home and dig them out with a needle and some tweezers like my mom always did."

"I'm sure that will work fine for your left hand, however, it may be problematic trying to do your right, since you are not particularly ambidextrous."

I stare at him. "I'm not what?"

"Ambidextrous. You can't use either hand equally well."

"Oh. Nope, I'm not. I was thinking about duct tape."

"Duct tape?" he asks, bemused.

"Yeah. I figured it did such a great job ripping my stubble out by the roots on the Henry Anderson . . ."

"Allen."

"That's what I said. Anyway, since it did such a great job on the stubble, it'd probably work on splinters."

He thinks about that, and frowns some more. "It might. However, if it didn't, then it might exacerbate the problem by plugging the wounds with adhesive from the tape."

"It might what the problem?"

"Exacerbate. Make it worse."

"Oh. Um. Yeah. I guess. I'll just have to chance it."

"I know you don't want to see a doctor, but would you allow me to assist you?" Fraser asks earnestly.

Oh, great. He wants to help. Just what I need, Fraser holding my hand. Like I don't already think about him holding my hand enough as it is. And holding . . . other stuff. I just hope he doesn't figure out what I thought he just said. Who knew there were so many suggestive-sounding words in English? But besides the hand holding thing, there's the Fraser thing. "Is there some special Inuit way of removing splinters?" I ask suspiciously.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"You won't put that stinky stuff on me?"

"No, I think peroxide and antibiotic ointment will do nicely."

I think about it. I know he's right. I can get my left hand just fine but I'll probably rip my right to shreds if I try to do it myself. Finally I sigh. "Okay, fine. You can help." That sounded kind of surly, which isn't how I meant it to sound, and I can see him closing down, so I give him a wink. "Thanks. Couldn't do it without you, you know?"

His eyes warm. "I'm happy to help, Ray. I don't like to think of you in any discomfort."

I lift my eyebrows at him. "That mean next time you think we should jump off a building, you won't make me?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," he hedges, amusement shining in his eyes.

"Figured as much. Okay, where we gonna do this?"

"Well, I'm sure Mort has some tweezers," he says blandly, a definite twinkle there now. The man has a sick sense of humor.

"Fraser," I say, glowering.

"On second thought, I'm sure your apartment would be far more conducive to such an undertaking," he says smoothly.

"Yeah. So let's go back to my place and play doctor."

Like I figured, that goes completely over his head. Damn it. Sucks not having the same cultural references. He probably played doctor with real scalpels. Guy had no childhood, from what I can tell. No wonder he's unhinged. With a sigh I lead him out to the car.

Driving is a bit of a challenge, but we make it to my place okay, get inside. Dief climbs up on the couch, and I turn on Discover Channel for him, and turn around to find Fraser methodically unfastening all the various bits and pieces that hold the uniform on, stripping down to the plain white henley he has on underneath. I'm watching him, wide-eyed, and wondering if maybe he really got that ?playing doctor' reference after all. He hangs the tunic in the closet and turns to me, pushing up his sleeves to mid-forearm, which for Fraser is pretty darned risque.

"I assume you have the necessary supplies?" he asks.

Supplies? He's asking for supplies? Hot damn. Maybe I wasn't imagining the vibe I sometimes get off him, the one that makes me think I'm not the only one who goes home and thinks naughty things about my partner. "Um. . . yeah. Bathroom," I manage, and watch him head determinedly in that direction.

I hear the sliding door on the medicine chest open and close, hear rummaging, and I stand there like an idiot, too stunned to even move. Then he's coming back out, and he's got . . . peroxide, antibiotic ointment, cotton pads, and tweezers. Oh. Well, hell. No joy. I should have known, I really should have. I'm not even sure he has a sex drive. Well, okay, that's a lie. Janet. Lady Shoes. He's got one, it just doesn't include me. He goes over to the table and puts everything down, motions at a chair.

"I think this will work best if you're seated," he says, and then goes into the kitchen for something, I hear the freezer open, hear ice in a glass, and water running.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumble, and trudge over, plopping down in a chair. Ow. Forgot about that part. Ass still hurts some, but there is no way on God's green earth that I am asking Fraser to take a look at that. I may be damaged, but I'm not stupid. Taking my clothes off around Fraser would be an invitation to disaster on a scale not seen since Jordan left the Bulls. He comes back out with a towel over his shoulder like he's going to burp a baby, and a bowl of ice water. Okay, so it wasn't a glass, he could probably have heard the difference, I can't. He puts the bowl down, picks up my left hand, and puts it in the water. I yank it out again, dripping cold water on the table and my lap.

"What's that for?"

"It will help numb the area, and it should also cause the skin to draw up slightly, which will help me extract the splinters."

"Oh. Shoulda known anything you did would involve cold water."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Indeed, Ray."

He nods at the bowl and I stick my hand back in. "I feel like I should call you Madge."

He frowns slightly. "Madge?"

"Yeah, you know, the Palmolive chick. . . . let me guess, no TV when you were a kid, right?"

"I'm afraid not. Well, not much, in any case. My grandparents were rather scathing in their opinion of its merits. I did occasionally get to watch it while visiting friends."

I look at him. "You got to?"

He looks embarrassed. "I meant I was allowed to."

"No you didn't. You said you got to watch it. That mean you liked it?"

"There was one program I recall enjoying. It was rather odd, but I suspect I would have found most television odd."

"Yeah, probably. So what was this show?"

"I think it was called ?Astroboy.' Which was something of a misnomer, as he was a robot, not a boy."

"Hey!" I exclaim, pleased. "We actually have something in common! I remember that one. Yeah, he was a boy who was a robot, or maybe a robot who was a boy, and really smart, and he could fly . . . ." I stop, look at him, and grin. "Hell. That explains a few things. 'Streamline your head.' Right."

He worries at his eyebrow with his thumb. "Well, it seemed germane at the time."

I snort and wiggle my fingers in the ice water. "I think I'm numb here."

He nods and sits down next to me, pulling the chair over real close, then he lays all his equipment and supplies out neatly. "Why don't you put your other hand in the bowl while I work on this one?" he asks, reaching for my left hand and pulling it out of the water as I stick my right one in.

His hand feels really warm. Of course, that's partly because mine was just in a bowl of ice. He blots my hand dry with the towel, which he puts down on the table under our hands. He's got my left hand in his left hand cupping the back of it in his palm. Our hands look kind of funny together. Mine are long and skinny with knobby knuckles and weird double-jointed thumbs. His hands are broad and smooth and almost square, and while his fingers look kind of short compared to mine, they're really not, it's just that they're shaped different.

"You have very long fingers, Ray," he says, like he was reading my mind.

That kind of spooks me for a second, then I relax. Guess it's kind of hard not to notice with him holding onto my hand and all. I laugh a little. "Yeah, weird, hunh? Spider fingers."

"Not at all," he says, sounding almost offended. "Elegant. Artistic."

He makes that sound like a good thing. I don't even feel like punching him out for saying I have artistic hands, which I probably would have if anyone else had said it. Instead I just feel my face getting warm as he bends over our hands, holding the tweezers. Uh oh. This is the bad part. I squinch my eyes closed and hold my breath. Feel his breath on my wrist, which distracts me in a way that's bad and good at the same time.

"As I rarely got to watch television I don't really know the full story behind the series," he says quietly, rubbing a finger across a spot on my hand that doesn't hurt. "What do you remember about Astroboy, besides his ability to fly?"

I think about that. "It's been a long time," I say, still trying to remember. "I think it was in black and white. Either that or our TV was. Geez. Ancient history." There's a faint sting in my hand. I open my eyes and see him depositing a bloody sliver on one of the cotton pads, and quick close them again. "He had big eyes, and . . ." I chuckle, ". . . experimental hair. He could use his eyes like searchlights, and he could shoot laser beams out his finger, and he had rockets in his feet. . . which kind of made me wonder how he kept from melting stuff when he took off."

The whole time I'm talking I keep feeling little tugs and stings, but it's really not too bad. Nowhere near as bad as I think I remember from when I was a kid and my mom would do this. Wonder if I was just a wuss then, or if, sacrilege, Fraser's better at this than my mom was.

"It would seem a reasonable question," Fraser says. "There we are, that's the last one. This may sting a bit."

Something cool and damp is dabbed across my hand, and I feel the unmistakable burn of peroxide, hear it sizzling, smell that funny, sharp-sour smell. Doesn't hurt too much. I open my eyes just as he wipes it off, then he sends a finger is smoothing across my palm in a gentle glide, rubbing antibiotic ointment into the little peroxide-bleached divots where the splinters were. I stare, almost hypnotized by the movement and the feeling. After a little bit it dawns on me that he's been rubbing that stuff on for kind of a long time. And it feels damned good, a lot better, in fact, than it probably should, all things considered. I look up and find him staring at my hand the same way I was. I don't know if I twitched just then or what, but suddenly he lets go, fast, and his face gets kind of pink.

"Well then, shall I do the other now?" he asks evenly.

"Yeah. That'd be good," I say, matching his casual and raising. "You know, you've got a real knack for this. If you ever give up being a Mountie maybe you should go into medicine."

"I thought about it at one time," he says, lifting my hand out of the water to pat it dry.

I stare at him. "You did?" I ask, and I sound as surprised as I feel. I never would have guessed that. And the fact that he's telling me that is just. . . amazing. I've known him long enough to know he doesn't talk about himself, doesn't let people inside. This is special, and I know it.

He looks back, puzzled. "Yes. Is that so astonishing?"

"Well . . . yeah. I guess I just thought you always wanted to be a Mountie. So what made you change your mind?"

"I'm not sure, really, though one rarely does go into the career one envisions at the age of eight."

I can't help it, I laugh. "Only you, Fraser, would be thinking med school at eight."

"What did you want to be when you were eight?"

"Let's see. . . a fireman," I start.

"Ah. Even then you were thinking of a career in public protection." He looks pleased.

I snort. "I wasn't finished. That was just one of them. I also wanted to be a football player, a basketball player or professional boxer, a spy, oh, and a rock star, of course."

His eyebrows are up. "All of them?"

"Yeah. All of them. Preferably all at the same time. Didn't you ever want to be something wild and useless?"

He thinks about that and a sort of distant sadness flickers in his eyes as he shakes his head slowly. "No, I'm afraid not," he says, and turns his attention to my hand. "You may want to close your eyes again."

I do. "So, Astroboy," I say to distract myself. "He was always saving the planet. Saving people, stopping bad guys. Kinda like Superman, but a little boy instead, and he sure as hell was more fun than stuffy old George Reeves in wrinkly tights. He was always good, and kind, and honest, and people always just sort of expected him to solve their problems. I remember this one where the scientist guy gave him am experimental heart so he could feel emotions, but he found out that when he had emotions they were hard to deal with and scary, so he said he didn't want to have it any more. That one always made me kind of sad." Just as I say that, for the first time the tweezers dig into me a little. I jump involuntarily, pulling my hand out of his. "Ow!"

"I'm terribly sorry, Ray. This one splinter seems to be embedded more deeply than the others," he says, reaching for my hand again.

I let him have it with a sigh. "Need a needle? I think there's one somewhere-- gotta sew buttons back on every now and then."

"No, I think I can. . . ." there's a slight pressure, a little smart, and then he's talking again. "Yes, there. That did it. I just had to approach it from a different angle."

"Sounds like life, doesn't it? Sometimes you just have to come at it from a different angle."

He looks up, a little startled, a little thoughtful. "Very true. So, that was the last of them," he says, putting my hand down to pick up a cotton pad and dump peroxide on it. I hold it still while he cleans me up, and this time when he puts on the antibiotic ointment he's still gentle, but quick and impersonal. "There you are. Hopefully that wasn't too bad."

I flex my hands, which feel a lot better, and nod. "Wasn't bad at all. I meant it when I said you were good at it. I'd let you pick splinters out of me any day."

He looks amused. "Hopefully that won't be necessary." He starts to gather up all the stuff, and heads for the bathroom to put it away. I pick up the bowl of ice water and take it into the kitchen to dump it, and stand there for a minute wondering if I have anything edible I can offer him. Haven't shopped this week, I'm low on pretty much everything but eggs and coffee. I could make breakfast for dinner, maybe, or we can order in. He comes back out and I duck down so I can see him through the pass-through, leaning my elbows on the counter.

"Hey, you want to stay for dinner?"

His face lights up, and then dims just as fast. "I would, yes, but I'm afraid I can't. I need to get back to the consulate and get ready to go pick up Inspector Thatcher by eight."

I make big eyes. "You and the Ice Queen got a date?"

"Certainly not. I'm merely driving her to a diplomatic function."

"Oh. I get it. Y'know, you really ought to put your foot down. If she wants a limo, she should hire one, not make you do it. You're a cop, Fraser, not a pool boy."

"My duties have never been very well defined, and I generally don't mind. It saves the consulate a considerable amount of money."

I sigh, knowing I won't win this one. "Yeah, yeah. I know. But no peeling grapes or fan-duty, okay?"

Fraser looks at me blankly. "Pardon me?"

"Never mind. So, rain check right? I owe you dinner."

"You don't owe me anything, Ray," he says kind of stiffly. "As I said, I'm happy to help. You needn't feel you owe me. . . ."

"Look," I say, interrupting him, a little exasperated. "I want to owe you dinner, okay? I like owing you dinner." Jeez, it's harder making a date with Fraser than most chicks.

He relaxes a little. "Well, in that case, I'd like it as well."

"Good. Good, that's settled. You want a ride back?"

"No, actually I think I'd prefer to walk. I'll be cooped up all evening and this will be the only opportunity I have to get some air or to exercise Diefenbaker."

I nod, knowing he's made up his mind, knowing better than to try to change it. "So, got plans for tomorrow night?"

"Not so far."

"Then you do now. You and me, Thursday, dinner."

"I'm very much looking forward to it," he says, pushing down his sleeves as he turns and goes to get his tunic out of my closet, which reminds me.

"How come you had to take that off to work on my hands?"

He looks up from buttoning the tunic. "I wanted to be sure I didn't get peroxide on it, as it could bleach the wool."

Oh. Well, that's reasonable, I guess. He puts on the hat, looks around curiously, frowning a little.

"Looking for something?"

"Diefenbaker."

I glance at my bedroom and point.

"Good lord!" Fraser says, looking upset. "I'm terribly sorry, I don't know what gets into him."

"Well, he can't exactly hang out on your bed, now can he?" I ask, grinning. "It's okay. He's not hurting anything."

"Still, it's just rude not to at least ask."

He strides over, yes, strides, he does that, and squats down next to my bed, says something to Dief that I can't hear. Dief looks offended but he gets off the bed. I'm glad I remembered to make it this morning. Well, okay, I didn't exactly make it, I just pulled the bedspread up over the sheets, still, it kept wolf-hair off my bed and kept Fraser from seeing that my sheets kind of . . . need changing after this morning and some of those naughty thoughts I shouldn't be thinking about my partner. He stands back up and goes to the door where Dief is waiting.

"Thank you again for the dinner invitation, I'm sure it would have been far more enjoyable than driving Inspector Thatcher."

I grin. "Well, I like to think so, I mean, you're gonna miss my sparkling personality and gourmet cooking."

I can see he's trying hard not to grin, those little muscles around his mouth are really working as he nods solemnly. "Indeed."

"So, Thursday, right?"

He nods. "Right you are. And I'll probably see you tomorrow, though not until afternoon. There are several meetings scheduled tomorrow that I'll need to attend."

What he means is need to take notes for, since Thatcher's too cheap to hire a real secretary and Fraser takes shorthand. She's got a cop like him taking dictation. Makes me see red, but he won't hear a word against her. "Okay, I'll see if I can handle a few things on my own. Maybe do some paperwork."

"Are you feeling ill, Ray? Perhaps infection has already set in," he asks, looking at me, mock-worried.

I ball up the kitchen towel and throw it at him. "Outta here, wiseass. Go make yourself more beautiful for the Ice Queen, like she's gonna notice."

He looks at me a little oddly, but nods. "I do need to go. Good night, Ray."

He's out the door then, Diefenbaker ahead of him. I go over and lock it behind him. He never does that. Pick up the towel and take it back into the kitchen, then I lean back against the counter and remember about my ass again. I go into the bedroom and unload all my gear, putting my gun away in the gun-safe, leaving my cuffs and badge on the dresser.

Finally I pull off my shirt, unzip, and squirm out of pants and briefs. I step out, pick them up for inspection, and yeah, just like I figured, they're both full of little slivers that have been poking me every time I sit down or brush up against something. Since I was wearing black briefs I can't tell if I've been scraped raw or not. None of my mirrors are hung low enough to give me a good look, so I settle for feeling myself up, and there are a couple of sore spots but nothing that seems too bad. Should heal up in a day or two.

I pull on a pair of sweats and spend a little while trying to pick splinters out of my trousers with the tweezers before I get fed up with that. Since I don't have to worry about the sticky stuff, I try the duct tape. It works great. Get all the splinters out of my pants, and start a load of wash with them and my sheets, then make scrambled eggs and settle in to watch TV. Find myself turning to the Cartoon Network, then the preview channel, and finally realize I'm looking for Astroboy. Wonder if they have it out on video? I should check the Internet.

Weird to think we watched the same TV shows, me down here, him up there. Kind of stupid, but I guess I didn't think they even had TV. In fact, I never thought about that part of Fraser's life much before, and all the sudden I'm wondering what he was like as a kid, wonder if he was so damned serious then, so . . . intense. Did he have friends? He must've, he said he watched TV at their house. I know he lived with his grandparents, not his folks, but I don't know how long, or where. Wasn't in his file.

I hate that I don't know much of anything about him unless it was in his file, or Vecchio's. He knows all about me, about how I fucked up my first real case and almost got a woman killed because I was too trusting, knows about my lousy relationship with my folks, with my ex, my lousy grades in school, my lack of college education, hell, he even knows I pissed myself in front of a holdup man when I was thirteen. But he's . . . it's like he's behind bulletproof glass. Nothing touches him, but he can't touch either.

Every once in a while he gets close, says something, like about how awful his Christmases were, or he gets riled, like he did on the Henry Allen when I was all instinct and he was all logic, but mostly he's just smooth, cool, and remote. I want more. I want to know him. I want to know why he looked sad when I asked if he'd ever wanted to be something wild and useless. I want to know if he likes slow, sweet sex, or fast and hot. I want to know what he likes for breakfast. And most of all I want to know why he thinks he has to be Astroboy, why he makes himself into a robot, instead of a guy. And those are very dangerous things to want, I think.

* * *


I'm antsy, can't sit still. Part of it is that I've decided I'm going on an all out crusade to make Fraser open up and let me in. He's been my best friend for a while now, I want to return the favor. It's either the smartest or the stupidest decision I've ever made. But part of it is just that, well, sitting still isn't very comfortable. In fact sitting at all isn't really comfortable. It's not exactly that it hurts, it's just not comfortable. I must've scraped myself up worse than I thought.

So I spend a lot of time going and getting coffee, and finding things to do that don't involve sitting, until Fraser wanders in close to three. I come out of the break room to find him standing in front of my desk looking at it with a strange expression, almost a little lost. Dief is leaning against his leg like he's holding him up.

"Hey Benton-buddy," I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Good to see you."

He jumps a little, guess I surprised him, but then he smiles a real smile. "It's good to see you, too. I'm sorry it's so late, I couldn't get away sooner."

I shake my head. "Not a problem, Fraser. I've been keeping myself busy. Thought we might do those interviews about the Lingerie Lair robbery. We need to hit the dry-cleaners, the veterinarian, and the scuba shop. You up for that?"

If I didn't know better, I'd say he kind of sagged for a second before he squared his shoulders and nodded.

"Of course, whatever you wish."

I nod, taking him at face value, but that sag bugs me as we head out to my car. I unlock the door and let Dief into the back, then as we settle in and I start the car I look at him closer. The lines at the corners of his eyes look deeper than usual, and he's got dark circles that would make a raccoon envious. I frown. "You look tired. How late did she keep you out last night?"

He blinks a little, frowns back. "I'm fine, Ray."

Oh no, he's not going to get away with that. "How late?"

He squints a little, pretends like he's trying to remember. "By the time I escorted her back to her condominium and returned to the consulate, I believe it was somewhere in the neighborhood of four-thirty."

"Four thirty? In the a-of-m? And you were up when?"

"My shift begins at seven, as you know."

"Yeah, and as I know you're always up and at it by six." It always makes me feel guilty that he usually works a full shift at the consulate before he comes over to work with me. It's like he's got two full time jobs. "So did you go to sleep at all?"

"I. . . rested."

"Lying down? With your eyes closed and your uniform off?"

He looks a little guilty and I sigh. "Fraser, Mr. Type-A personality, you need some rest."

"We have work to do."

I shake my head, sighing. "You remember a little talk we once had about logic and instinct?"

He looks at me oddly. "Yes, of course."

"Well, my instincts are telling me you need to rest, and my logic is telling me if you try to work when you need to rest you'll mess up. So, since I'm the only person who slept last night, I'll do the interviews by myself."

"And what will I do?"

"You will be dropped off at my apartment where you will get out of the tunic and the boots, at least, and you will lay down and take a nap. A real one, not a thirty-second power nap."

He flushes faintly. "I couldn't possibly!"

"You could possibly. And you will. Bed, couch, chair, floor, doesn't matter, but you're going to do it."

"Ray, I can't leave you to do all the work on your own."

"Sure you can. You just don't want to. Okay, fine, I'll leave the vet for tomorrow, okay? They'll get all excited about Diefenbaker and open up to you better than me anyhow." I don't mention that there's only two hours left on my shift, and when I count drive-time and all I probably couldn't do three interviews anyway.

He frowns some more, I catch him at it out of the corner of my eye, and I poke him when I get to a stop light.

"Hey, you know if you don't watch it your face will freeze like that."

He jumps and stares at me. "Like what?"

"Like this" I say, imitating him. "Or so my mom always told me. Didn't your mom ever tell you that?"

His eyes get all sad again. "No, or at least not that I recall."

I feel kind of bad for bringing up something that obviously hurts, but I need to know, and I think he needs to tell. I hope I'm not just being selfish. "Y'know, you don't talk about your mom much, not like you talk about your dad."

He turns and looks out the window, like he's looking at something really far off in the distance. Maybe he is. "I suppose that's because there's not much to talk about. Frankly I don't remember a great deal about her."

"Oh?" I make it into a bit of a question, and wait a second, hoping he'll volunteer more, because I don't want to have to ask flat out, and guess he figured that out, because after a few moments he speaks again.

"Well, I was only six when my mother passed away. There's not very much to remember in that time. After that I lived with my grandparents."

Oh, man. Oh Jesus. Six? I mean, I knew his mom was gone, but somehow I thought that it had happened later, after he was old enough not to still need a lap to climb into, and a shoulder to fall asleep on. I never made the complete connection, never realized he was so young when it happened. And then another thought hits me. If he went to live with his grandparents, where was his old man? How come he hadn't taken care of Fraser himself? Was he too busy being a fucking Legendary Mountie to take care of his own kid? Seems like it. I remember the startling bitterness behind Fraser's Christmas toast, and understand it now. Christ. Poor kid. Poor Fraser.

I'm pissed at myself all the sudden, because I think maybe I would have known that if I had ever really listened to his stories. That'll teach me. He isn't a touchy-feely person, but I am, and I can usually get away with it, so when I pull into my parking lot I reach over to put my hand on his shoulder again, squeeze a little. "I'm sorry, Fraser." Wish I could call him something else. Fraser sounds so damned distant. "I didn't know that. Didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

He closes his eyes for a moment, opens them, and looks at me, his gaze surprisingly clear. "It's quite all right, Ray. What memories I have are not at all bad ones, so I don't mind being reminded of them."

I look at him carefully. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"You okay then?" Because if he's not, I'll blow off interviewing suspects and stay with him.

"I'm perfectly fine."

His eyes meet mine without hesitation, and I don't see shadows in them, at least no more than the ones I'm used to seeing there. I nod. "Okay then, so you're going to go up and take a nap, right?"

He starts to protest again, and I have an inspiration, remembering the things my mom used to do to get me to do stuff I didn't want to do. I get all sad and sigh. "I'll be very disappointed if you don't. I mean, you're always doing nice things for me, why can't I do one for you?"

Oooh, man, my mom really knows her stuff. That works like a house on fire. He caves without another word, fingertips sketching a nervous arc over his eyebrow. "Well, I can't guarantee that I will sleep, but I'll make an attempt. I am, in fact, quite tired."

"Great. That's greatness, Fraser. You still got my key?" I gave him one a while back, so he could feed Yertle while I was away for a weekend, never bothered to ask for it back.

"Yes, I have it." he pats his cartridge case as if to reassure himself it's there.

"Good. You go on up and make yourself comfortable. I'll be back after a while. Dief can ride along, keep me out of trouble."

He lifts an eyebrow at that. "I'm not altogether certain that's a good idea."

I grin. "Dief and I understand each other. We're buds. So don't worry."

He sighs. "Why is it that that does not reassure me?"

I chuckle. "Go, Fraser."

He nods and gets out. I watch him until he's inside, then I look at Dief. "So, want to go interview suspects with me?" He makes a little sound in his throat and squeezes between the seats to take shotgun, and I grin. "Thought so. Let's get at it."

* * *


The interviews go pretty well, I get some interesting stuff that could help us crack the lingerie store robberies. On the way home I stop by the market and pick up some groceries-- rib-eye steaks, baking potatoes, salad-fixings, plus a few general things, like instant coffee, Pop-Tarts and frozen dinners. I can cook, I'm even pretty good at it, but mostly it's not worth the trouble for just me. Get home and unlock the door quietly, hoping Fraser's asleep though I don't really figure he will be. Before I open the door I nudge Dief with my knee and lift a finger to my lips. I swear he nods.

I turn the knob gently and push open the door. It's quiet inside, and mostly dark, just the light on over the kitchen sink. A quick glance shows me Fraser's on my couch, definitely sacked out. His boots are sitting bolt upright next to the couch, and a quick glance shows me his tunic's in the closet. As I hang up my own coat I get a shock as I realize his pants are hung neatly on the same hanger as his tunic.

His pants? I can't help it, I turn and stare at my couch. Can't see a thing, other than the henley showing up top, because he's got the ugly old avocado-green afghan my mom crocheted for me back in the seventies wrapped around him from mid-chest down. I sigh and go into the kitchen and put away my groceries, quietly. Dief gives me big eyes when I put the steaks away, and I figure hell, he's a wolf, he doesn't need it cooked, so I unwrap his steak and put it on a plate for him, raw. Hope I don't regret that later.

I think about starting dinner but I'm afraid if I do either the sound or the smell will wake Fraser up. I know it would me, and I don't want him to wake up. I like that he's here, and comfortable enough to sleep, with his pants off. I do a bad, bad thing and go into the living room and sit down, gingerly 'cause I'm still hurting some, in the wing chair across from him. I just watch him sleep, like some kind of idiot. Used to do this sometimes with Stella, a long, long time ago. That tells me just how bad off I am, but I do it anyway.

He sleeps hard, but not completely still. He turns a little, rolling more onto his back. His hair's all mussed, and he's got funny patterns on one cheek where it was resting against his sleeve. This close I can see little bits of blue boxer shorts and the pale skin of his thighs and calves through the open weave of the afghan. His head lolls back a little, he should've gotten a pillow off my bed, and he makes a little snorging sound, then another.

I have to stifle laughter as I realize Fraser is snoring. He always said it was Dief when it happened before, with Bruce Spender, and then that time in Mrs. Tucci's back yard. I should've known better. It makes me feel kind of smug and at the same time kind of pleased that he's snoring on my couch. He did what I told him to do. He actually listened to me. That's almost a first. Feels good. Stella always used to poke me when I snored to make me quit, but I don't do that to him, and after a little bit he stops on his own.

Dief comes out of the kitchen, licking his chops. Happy wolf. He stops and looks at me, at Fraser, then goes into the bathroom and I hear him getting a drink out of the john. Good thing I clean it now and then. He comes back out and sits next to me, looking at Fraser. I ruffle his fur and sigh, and stretch, toeing off my boots and shoving them under the coffee table, settling back, but my cuffs are an uncomfortable shape against my ass and my gun's too heavy against my ribs, and the spider pulls across my back.

I sigh again and get up, go put things away, and change into my sweats. Better. Back to the living room, back to the wing chair, settle in again. Wonder how long my ass is going to be sore, because it sucks not being able to sit, or lie down, or even drive, without the occasional twinge. Dief curls up across my feet, and I sit there being a doof, watching my partner sleep, and thinking about how I could get used to that pretty damned easy.

Wake up sometime later with a start-- something wet's pressed against my hand. It takes me a minute to remember what's up, and then I realize it's Dief's nose on my hand, and I've been asleep, and wonder of wonders, Fraser's still asleep. I look at the VCR clock, it's close to eleven. Wow. Dief nudges me again, and I finally figure out he wants to go out. Okay. I can do that. If he's not waking up Fraser, I'm not going to either. I lever myself out of my chair, wincing, and pull on my running shoes and coat so I can take him to the park that's across the street and a couple of blocks down from my building.

Dief runs around like a maniac for a while, goes behind some bushes like he's embarrassed to have anybody see him take a dump, then runs around some more. I let him run until I get chilled and crabby and tell him he can either come back now or stay out all night. Apparently he's not too thrilled with that idea because he falls in behind me and we head back. I didn't lock my apartment door when I left, and we sneak back in. I'm stunned to find that even after all that, Fraser's not awake.

Damn, he must have seriously needed rest. Guess I would too, working two full time jobs and sleeping on a cot that's probably older than he is. At least my couch is comfortable. I know that for a fact. I think about going to bed, but something, okay, not 'something' but just my black, lustful heart, keeps me there, puts my sore ass back down on that chair, and I kick my shoes off under the coffee table with my boots.

I watch Fraser some more. He's on his back now, lips slightly parted. I wonder what he tastes like. He's so close, and he looks warm and messy, human and touchable, and there's no bulletproof, cop-proof, wall around him. He barely even looks like the same guy. This isn't Fraser, it's someone else. Maybe Benton. Maybe just Ben. And I want to touch him so bad it almost hurts.

Dief comes up and looks at me, looks at Fraser, looks at me again and I swear to God he's asking me what the hell I'm waiting for. I shake my head. Talk about unhinged. Now I'm imagining a deaf wolf is giving me permission to jump Fraser. Close my eyes, push away all those evil thoughts, and think instead about him being tired, and a little sad, thinking about his mom, and feel kind of bad that I never asked him anything about himself before without an internal eye-roll about anticipated Eskimo Joe stories.

Making myself feel bad works for about fifteen seconds. Then I'm out of the chair again, on my knees next to the couch, leaning over, and I'm effing smelling him, just breathing in. He smells good. Not like perfume or anything like that, just something that tells me who he is, in some deep, primal, lizard part of my brain. It's like I have no control over myself, and I lean closer, closer, until my nose is in against the warm curve of his shoulder where the open henley bares it. I lick dry lips, then take a quick, furtive taste.

Fraser stirs a little, making a soft sound in his throat, and I jerk back, practically flying back to my chair, flinching as my ass hits it. It takes me ten minutes to get my heart and breath back under control. He hasn't moved again. Danger, Will Robinson. Danger, I think. Get up. Get away. Go into your room and close the door. Escape. But I do none of those things. I just sit and watch him until I fall asleep again.

* * *


Coffee. I definitely smell coffee. Which is pretty weird, really, because if I'm not awake and fixing it then how come I can smell it? I also feel kind of stiff and sore, and my feet are cold and my neck hurts, and I'm . . sitting up? Not lying in bed, or on the couch? I open my eyes. First thing I see is my green afghan folded neatly and draped over the arm of the couch. Next I see Diefenbaker staring at me. Dief . . . oh, Jesus. I didn't dream all of that stuff last night. Way to make a complete and total ass of yourself, Kowalski. Thank God that Fraser didn't wake up to find me licking him. If Dief's still here, that means Fraser's still here. I turn my head, and. . . yep.

Fraser's in the kitchen, staring at a mug in his hand as he absently dunks a tea-bag in and out. He's still looking messy, and hasn't put on his tunic, which gets my hopes up that he's still just wearing his boxers. No. Stoppit. Bad brain. I glance at the VCR and roll my eyes. Trust Fraser to wake up at five-forty-five a.m. Though he did sleep for more than twelve hours. Wow. I bet that hasn't happened in a long, long time.

I roll my head, trying to get the kinks out, and yawn, and look at Fraser again. "Morning, Fraser."

Fraser jerks, startled, nearly drops the mug, hisses something that almost sounds like a swear word as hot water slops over his hand, and finally sets the mug down on the counter, shaking his hand to cool it. He looks completely flustered.

I try not to grin. It's not often I get to fluster Fraser. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you there. You okay?"

"Yes, Ray, I'm sure I'll be fine, no permanent damage. I. . . ah. . . ." He runs the tips of his fingers across his eyebrow, and I can see the blush from clear across the room in almost no light. "I'm terribly sorry to have abused your hospitality. You should have woken me."

I wave off his apology. "No big deal, Frase. You must've needed it. Can't have my partner falling asleep when he's supposed to be leaping tall buildings at a single bound. Fell asleep myself." I drop my hand back and rub my neck. Sleeping sitting up was not bright. "Gaaah. We're not as young as we used to be."

He clears his throat. "No, that's certainly true. But it was inexcusable, really."

"Fraser, I just excused it, okay? I don't mind. Anytime you want to crash here, you're more than welcome to."

I lever myself gingerly out of the chair, trying not to flinch. Owww. Sleeping sitting up was a bad idea in other ways, too. Jeez, it's been two fucking days, my ass should be getting better, not worse. He's watching me, I can feel his eyes on me, so I force myself to straighten up, hands on the small of my back, rubbing. Feel like I'm about eighty and arthritic. I'm torn between going and standing under the shower for half an hour with the water as hot as I can stand, and making something for breakfast.

Since my stomach is bitching mightily about skipping dinner last night, I figure eat first, then shower. Remembering that I bought steaks last night cheers me up a lot. I have eggs, steak, potatoes. Perfect. The heart-disease special. I look at messy-Fraser and jerk my head at the bathroom. "I'm gonna make breakfast, why don't you go shower and change clothes in the phone booth... um... bathroom."

He looks amused by my second Superman reference of the morning-- wish I could think of an Astroboy one-- but then he shakes his head as I wander over, and find to my disappointment that he's got his pants on. Damn.

"That's quite all right, Ray, there's no need for you to put yourself to any trouble on my account. I'll just head back to the consulate."

"Fraser," I say, exasperated. "Last night was our dinner date, and we both slept through it, so now I'm going to make breakfast, okay?"

He looks at me a little funny. "So, would this be a breakfast date?"

I can't help it, I grin. "You got it. See, what did I tell you? You only have breakfast dates if you slept with somebody."

Honest to God, he turns red. Can't believe it. I'm so bad, I know I shouldn't, but I keep going. "Oh, man, Frannie's gonna be so pissed at me. I got to sleep with you before she did."

He makes a noise in his throat, something like a cross between a groan, a laugh and a whimper, and he blinks, wide-eyed. "Ray!" he finally chokes out.

I laugh. "Gotcha. Go on. Out of my way. I have potatoes to grate."

He frowns. "You have what?"

"Hash browns. Gotta grate the potatoes, rinse them in cold water so they aren't sticky."

"That's a lot of . . . ."

"Don't say it, Fraser. You want to help, fine, you can grate potatoes, but do not insult my hospitality, all right?"

He swallows. "All right, Ray." He shifts to one side, and looks around. "Where would I find the grater?"

"Second drawer on your left. Peeler's in the one above it, with the knives, and the potatoes are in that brown paper bag on the counter there. And why do I keep smelling coffee if you're drinking tea?"

He smiles a little at that, and nods to the coffee-maker on the counter that I haven't used in months. "I assumed you'd want some when you woke, so I made a pot."

Sure enough, the pot is full of dark liquid. He must've found the bag of grounds in the freezer. Wow. That's dedication, seeing as how I haven't defrosted in a while. I could make real coffee myself, it's not hard, but somehow I just never seem to get up in time. I get down a mug, fill it, stir in some sugar, inhale, then sip. "Yeah. Oh yeah. Fraser, you know what I said about you being welcome to sleep over anytime? That goes double if you make me real coffee."

He looks amused. "I hadn't realized you were quite such an inexpensive date."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Cheap date, Fraser, cheap, not inexpensive. And you bet I am. I roll over for good coffee."

"I'll remember that," he says drily, with a little twinkle in his eye.

All the sudden I'm remembering licking his neck, smelling him, and my body is reacting in a very predictable manner, and my face is getting as red as his was a little while ago as I quickly turn and open the fridge, pretending to look for the eggs that I'm staring right at. "So, how do you like your eggs?"

"However you want to fix them is fine," he says, and behind me I hear the rustle of paper bag as he gets out the potatoes, then the sound of the drawers opening and closing.

"So if I said I liked them scrambled with peanut butter and grape jelly, that'd be good?" I ask, a little annoyed, partly because I hate that he won't just tell me and partly because I'm embarrassed and annoyed with myself, and praying that my hard-on goes away. I don't think he'd believe it was just a morning stiffie at this point.

He's quiet for a moment, then he clears his throat. "I like my eggs over easy."

I grin into the refrigerator. "I can do that. How do you like your steak?"

"Steak?"

"Yeah. Steak, eggs, hash-browns. Killer breakfast."

"Literally," he says, a little humor in his voice. "And medium rare."

"Thank you." I get out the eggs and the steaks. My cock is finally mostly soft again, and I can turn around, put the food on the counter and rummage for my skillet. Dief is suddenly under my feet, looking up at me hopefully, and I shake my head. "Oh no you don't. You got yours last night, these are ours. I got a can of Science Diet here somewhere for you."

"You do?"

Fraser sounds surprised. Guess I can't blame him. I'm not even sure myself why I have dog food on hand. It's not like I'm going to eat it. "Yeah, got a couple of cans a while back." I've got no excuse and I can't think of one on an empty, un-caffeinated stomach, so I leave it at that.

He stares at me with this funny look, and then smiles, slowly, one I've never seen him use before, it's real, and sweet, and kind of shy. "I. . . thank you, that's very thoughtful of you, Ray."

My face gets hot again, and I shrug. "No big deal." I get out a bowl, find the dog food in the cabinet, and hand both to Fraser. "Here. Can opener's in the same drawer as the grater. I'll be back in a second." I head for the bathroom, stand in front of the toilet and think about peeing until I can finally do that, take a couple of minutes to wash up, at which point it's safe to go back in the kitchen. God, I have got to stop doing this. I can't function like this. I can't go around getting hard whenever he looks at me. I can't.

I look at myself in the mirror, and note that I don't look anything like Janet, or Lady Shoes, and besides the equipment is all wrong. Fraser's about as likely to fall for Frannie as for me. And why the hell do I want him to anyway? Just because he listens to me? Seems to care what I think, and how I feel? Just because he's sex on a stick even if he's got no idea that he is?

Oh hell. Run cold water in the sink, wash my face in it, get my hands good and icy and reach inside my sweats. Whimper quietly, but it works. Okay, we're good to go. Cooking, eating, then shower, get dressed, and go to work. We got all that to do. Nothing else. Nothing. Remember that. He doesn't mean to give off signals, he's just clueless. Remember that.

* * *


Breakfast is great, we both eat like pigs. . . or at least like grown men who didn't get dinner the night before. I shower, shave, and dress, and I'm such a good boy I don't even jerk off in the shower. Give Fraser a razor and a new toothbrush I hadn't broken out of the package yet, and since he didn't sleep in his uniform he looks just as presentable as ever when we leave the apartment and head for the scene of our latest weird case. Since I met up with Fraser I seem to attract these. Sometimes I think Welsh deliberately gives us all the strange ones.

"So, let me bring you up to speed on the lingerie store thefts. Sounds like a stupid gig, I know, but it's not just a few bras and garter belts kyped by a shoplifter or two, it's whole shipments going missing. Expensive stuff, too, we're not talking Frederick's."

"Frederick? Is he related to the case?"

"No, Fraser, Frederick, as in Frederick's of Hollywood? You know, push-up bras and crotchless panties?"

His eyes widen. "That sounds like a singularly useless item of clothing."

I snort. "You would think that." That gets me thinking though, thoughts I probably shouldn't think. . . like what kind of guy would think crotchless panties were useless? Only one kind I can think of. A gay guy. Thoughts I definitely shouldn't be thinking. Shit. Back to business, Kowalski. "Anyway, Randy Fellowes, the guy who owns the store, seems to be on the up and up but I have this feeling, you know? And then there's the vet clinic. I've been in a couple of times, and both times I get funny vibes off the receptionist. She's real nervous, but not exactly in a guilty sort of way. Well, in a guilty sort of way but not the right guilty sort of way, if you know what I mean."

"Oddly, I believe that I do."

I nod, knowing he probably does. He understands what I mean even if I can't manage to say it in a way anyone else could get. "Anyway, I figure you should talk to her this time. You've got that sincere and kind thing going, women love that."

"Most people appreciate kindness and sincerity," he says stiffly.

"True enough, but women really go for it, especially when it comes in a Benton Fraser-shaped package."

He shoots me a pissy look. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"

I roll my eyes. "Oh, come on Fraser. I know you're not as dense as you like to let on, you know you're a damned good-looking guy."

I feel his eyes on me for several seconds, but it's morning rush hour and I can't look back. Finally he says something.

"You find me attractive?"

Deja vu. Haven't we had this conversation before, only the other way around? For a second I think he's teasing me but there's a hint of strain in his voice that makes me look at him despite the traffic, to see something in his eyes I never thought I'd see there. Doubt. Whoa. That shakes up my world a little. No, not a little, a lot. Earthquake. Fraser, insecure about something? About himself? How the hell did that happen? How do I fix it? I nod, vehemently. "Yeah, Fraser. I do. So does everyone else on the planet. I mean, how can you not know that?"

"I. . . suppose I don't . . . think about it a great deal. Not in relation to . . . well, that's neither here nor there. I just didn't realize that . . . I don't . . . think about it."

Well, that was a whole lot of babble. I mean, Fraser's good at not making sense but he usually makes more sense when he does it. So, what the hell did that mean? Unfortunately the little strip mall where the lingerie store is located is just about a block away, so I can't grill him now. I pull in and park, and we hop out. Well, he hops out, I kind of lever myself out. It hurt to get in the car, and it hurts to drive, and it hurts to get out, hurts to fucking walk, this is starting to get really old.

Jesus, much of a wuss, Kowalski? A bruised ass does not require hospitalization. I find a not too uncomfortable position and point at the other storefronts and give him the rundown on the mall occupants.

"Okay, the neighbors. There's Goldman's Dry Cleaning. They're open six to seven daily, and they don't have a night shift. Nobody's noticed anything suspicious. Scuba Jim's on the other side is open eight to eight, same deal there. The Emergency Vet Clinic on the end there is our best bet, because they don't open until six at night and they're there until nine in the morning. That's why I wanted to get you here early, while they're still around."

Fraser nods, looking around, taking in the layout. "An excellent idea. And I believe you're correct, whoever minds the clinic would probably be quite aware of whatever goes on in the rest of the building at night."

"Yeah. So, come on. Let's see if you can get anything out of Ms. Gabriela Martinez, hopefully she's working today."

I let him go in first, hanging back a little to see how she reacts to someone besides me. Maybe it's just me that spooks her. She's there at the desk again. She's small, though sturdily built, with thick, dark, wavy hair and surprisingly pretty, almost delicate features. Looks like she might be some combination of Hispanic and Asian. First thing she notices is Dief, and she smiles. I figure it's probably not often an animal comes in here on its own four feet.

"¿Hola, perrito lindo, que haces aqui?" she says in that soft, funny-pitched voice she uses.

I glance at Fraser, can't see his face, but he stopped dead in his tracks. Yeah. He's seeing what I saw. She looks up and sees Fraser, and her eyes get big, but surprisingly, not in the way women's eyes usually get big when they see him. No, I'm seeing fear there. Just like I saw after I hauled out my ID and told her I needed to ask some questions. My ID. His uniform. She's got a problem with authority figures. I wonder if there's an immigration issue involved or if it's something else.

I can tell Fraser sees the fear too, because he really tones himself down, and fast. Hat comes off, posture gets a little less precise, and he smiles, starts talking in Spanish.

"Con permiso señorita. Me llamo Benton Fraser, del Policía Montado Canadiense Real. No tengo autoridad oficial aquí, pero estoy ayudando con esta investigación. ¿Puedo hacerle algunas preguntas? "

She swallows hard, nods, staring at the floor, clutching a pen in white-knuckled fingers. "Si, si . . . yes, of course."

Her English is excellent, I noticed that before. I step out from behind Fraser, having already gotten what I needed to know, and she sees me, and the weirdest thing happens. She looks pleased to see me, really happy. I swear that was not the reaction I got yesterday afternoon. Fraser notices it too, because he looks at me, then back at her. "I believe you've met Detective Vecchio?" he asks politely.

She looks at me again, and nods. "Yes, twice. But I'm afraid I still can't help you. I don't know anything."

"Of course. I just thought perhaps you might be able to help us learn something about the routine activity patterns hereabout in the late night and early morning hours. Are there any deliveries which generally take place during those hours? Perhaps a cleaning service?"

She frowns a little. "You want to know about the janitors?" Once more her eyes slide my way, almost like she's looking for reassurance. I nod encouragingly.

"You never know what may be helpful in breaking a case," Fraser says.

She keeps looking from him to me. That's weird enough that I start to wonder if I forgot to do half of my hair or something. Finally she starts to talk. "Well, the cleaning service is hired by the mall, we all use the same one. Though they don't clean in back here, we have a special service for that, because of the animals, you see."

"Yes, of course. And do they have a set schedule or do they come and go randomly?"

She seems to be relaxing. Good. I wander around the lobby a little, pick up a flyer about microchipping your pets, and find a place where I can see and hear both of them as they talk. Her eyes wander back my way every little bit. I must really make her nervous.

"The janitors usually come late, around nine, after all the other stores are closed for the night. Close to the same time, every night."

"I see. And what about deliveries?"

"Deliveries all come during the day, even ours."

"What about other late night or early morning activity? Can you remember seeing a particular car or van in the parking lot late at night, one that doesn't belong to one of the clinic's staff?"

"No!" she exclaims, a little too loud all the sudden, her voice is lower and she's dropped the breathy Marilyn-Monroeish thing. "No, never. I haven't seen anything like that."

Fraser's eyes meet mine. Oh yeah. He hears it too. Fear again. And like me, his instincts are telling him that her fear isn't the fear of a bad guy afraid of getting caught. It's different. It's a victim's fear, not a perp's fear. You get to know the difference after a while being a cop. I lean back against the wall, trying to look casual, forgetting about my ass until it touches the wall, and I wince and pull away again.

Fraser frowns at me for a second, but then his attention goes back to Ms. Martinez. He softens himself down another notch, it's hard to describe it any other way. I've seen it before. He does it with kids, and with scared grownups. It's like he kind of gets less ... him. Less official, less formal, less tall, less broad, quieter, calmer. It's uncanny.

"I imagine it might be a little frightening, working here late at night, essentially by yourself out here, since your co-workers are all busy in back with the animals," he says sympathetically.

She nods. "Si, yes, it can be."

"Have you lived in the United States for very long?"

Her eyes get shadowed. "No. Eighteen months."

"And before that you lived in . . . Nicaragua?"

She gasps. "How did you know that?"

"I have an ear for accents. You realize, don't you, that the police here are not like the police there?"

She shoots another look at me, then back at Fraser. "I . . . know."

"But it's difficult to put that knowledge into practice, I understand." He looks at me again. "Ray, may I have one of your cards?"

I start to fish one out, but Ms. Martinez stops him.

"He gave me one already."

"Good, do you have it with you? May I see it?"

She reaches down, picks up a small purse, takes out her wallet and pulls out my card. Fraser takes it and writes on the back, then returns it to her. "There you are, I've added my name and number as well. If you should see any suspicious activity, I hope you'll feel free to report it to one of us and we'll see to it that it's looked into."

She nods unconvincingly, and I move closer. "We will, I promise," I say firmly. "I'll see to it myself. Okay?"

She nods again, a little more firmly, looking thoughtful. "You would like for me to note any unusual traffic? Write it down?"

"Yeah, that'd be good. Definitely." It probably won't help the investigation much, but it will keep her involved, and thinking about helping us. I look at Fraser and then toward the door. "Thanks very much for your cooperation, Ms. Martinez. I hope we'll hear from you."

We start toward the door, but Dief whines all the sudden and we all look down. He's got one paw held up off the ground like it's hurting him. Fraser rolls his eyes.

"Oh for heaven's sake Diefenbaker, faking an injury to get attention is beneath even your dignity."

That gets an honest to God laugh out of Ms. Martinez, and she takes a dog-biscuit out of a bowl on the counter, then looks at Fraser. "May I? Is it all right?"

Dief is looking at the damned thing like he hasn't eaten in a week, when I know damned well he had steak less than twenty-four hours ago, and designer dog food even more recently. Fraser debates, looks at Dief.

"Stop that and I'll let her give it to you."

Dief's paw goes down on the floor like magic, and we all laugh at that. She comes out from behind the counter to lean down and give Dief the biscuit, then pets him for a moment as he crunches noisily.
"He's beautiful," she says, watching him crunch. "What is he? Malamute?"

"No," Fraser says, still sounding disgusted. "He's half Arctic Wolf and half something else I'm not quite sure of, though at the moment I'm strongly inclined to suspect pig."

I crack up at that. Dief looks offended, but Ms. Martinez smiles.

"Thank you, thank you both. I will . . . I will call if I see anything."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser says, putting on his hat and tipping the brim a little.

I'm half tempted to add "Just doing our jobs, ma'am" but I figure neither of them will get it so I don't. We're out the door and a walking toward the lingerie store when Fraser stops suddenly, so I stop too.

"I think Ms. Martinez is somewhat taken with you."

I stare at him. "What?"

"Didn't you notice how often she looked at you? And when you were wandering around the room, her gaze appeared to be directed toward . . . well . . . certain portions of your anatomy other than your face."

I think about that, lift my eyebrows. "Front anatomy or back anatomy?"

He gets a little red. "Well, I'm not entirely certain. Lower anatomy, certainly."

I feel myself grin a little and shake my head. "Hunh. Go figure. And here I thought she was afraid of me. Talk about crossed wires."

"I don't think that particular reaction is anything personal. I believe she has a not-unjustified fear of legal authority, given her . . . status."

"You think she's an illegal?"

"No, not at all. I believe she's probably here in this country legitimately."

"So what status are we talking about here?"

He looks a little uncomfortable, then looks at me very earnestly. "Ray . . . you . . . I don't know if you realized this, but I don't believe that Ms. Martinez is genetically female."

"Oh, that status. Yeah, I realized that. Wasn't sure you noticed though, she's really good."

He couldn't have looked more surprised if I'd hit him over the head with a stick. "You knew? How?"

"Same way you did," I touch my throat with its prominent Adam's apple. "Chicks don't have these. And her voice. And the heavy makeup. . . good for hiding stubble."

He stares at me. "I. . . hadn't realized you knew about such things."

"I hadn't realized you did," I say, smiling a little, inviting him to share.

He clears his throat, looks a little uncomfortable. "Having gone undercover as a woman once, I am somewhat familiar with the process."

It's my turn to look like someone hit me with a stick, I'm sure. I know I'm gaping. "You did?" My brain's going a million miles a second. Fraser, undercover as a woman? I look at him, try to imagine it. Weirdly, really weirdly, I can. Pretty as he is, it wouldn't be a stretch at all. I find myself wondering if he's got good legs. Probably. I already know the ass is first rate. And I should so not think things like that about my partner. "You were probably good at it," I finally manage.

"I believe I was passable, though not so well done as Ms. Martinez. She has the advantage of being naturally slight of stature. I have to tell you, though, I think that pantyhose should be banned by the Geneva Convention, along with high heels and brassieres."

I snicker at that and pat his shoulder. "That's my Fraser, a bra-burner."

He smiles back, and then his expression goes all thoughtful. "It doesn't bother you?"

"What, that you did an undercover gig?"

"No, that Ms. Martinez is attracted to you."

Oh, tread carefully here. Don't give away too much, but don't lie, either. "No, doesn't bother me. Should it?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No, not to my way of thinking. I just . . . ."

Suddenly I'm a little pissed off by his implication. "You just figured I'm an American so I'm narrow minded? That's nice. You know, I may not be you, but I can be sensitive, and I'm pretty open minded. More than you think, obviously."

He looks upset. "Ray, I just meant . . . ."

I hold up a hand. "Let's not go there. I don't think it's a good idea," I snap and set off toward the lingerie store at a clip. He lets me get a few paces before his hand on my sleeve stops me.

"Ray, please."

I look back at him belligerently. "What?"

His eyes are sad and confused, and I start to feel kind of bad.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

I stare at him narrowly. "For what?" I need to know. I really do.

"For underestimating you. You have a generous heart and a good soul. I should know better. I do know better. And I apologize."

Think about that. Blush a little. Nod. "Okay, okay, good. We're clear on that?"

He nods back. "Very clear. I won't make that mistake again."

Our eyes meet, and it seems for a few seconds that neither of us can look away, and there's something there, between us, almost physical, then he blinks and I blink and it's gone. I clear my throat. "So, you think it might be the janitors?"

He looks puzzled for a second, then shakes his head. "No, actually not. It's far too obvious. I was merely trying to sound Ms. Martinez out about any relevant activity. I'm certain she knows something, though."

"Yeah, that's the same feeling I got. She's just scared to talk about it, for some reason."

"Precisely. She probably had a very difficult time of things in her native country, and she doesn't trust officers of the law. The fact that she appears to like you may work in our favor there. She might subconsciously be more willing to trust you because of that."

I can't believe what I think I'm hearing. "You think I should encourage her so she'll spill? That's. . . um. . . that's kind of manipulative there, Fraser."

He's been looking at the front of the lingerie store, but at my words his gaze snaps back to mine. He looks appalled. "What? Good lord, Ray! No, I didn't mean . . . that would be reprehensible. I certainly didn't mean that you should do anything to encourage her infatuation, by any means." He stops and rubs his eyebrow, starts up again. "I mean, that is to say, unless you wished to do so, for personal reasons of your own, in which case I . . . ."

I put him out of his misery. "Okay, okay, I get it. Sorry. Misunderstood for a second there. And you can settle down, I'm not going to be asking her out, okay? She's not really my type."

He's still frowning. "Ray, you don't think I would hold it against you, should you wish to. . . experiment, do you?"

He looks pretty upset and worried. I shake my head. "No, of course not. You're the original Mr. Live-and-let-live. Besides, what makes you think I haven't already experimented? I'll try anything, remember?" I grin, teasing him a little. "Come on, we got work to do."

I head for the lingerie store, leave him standing there staring at me like I just grew another head. And I may look cocky on the outside, but inside I'm wondering if I've lost every bit of good sense I ever had. What the hell made me say that? Am I trying to tip him off? What scares me is that deep down, I know that the answer is probably 'yes.' And that's a bad, bad thing.

* * *


I'm already in the store and waiting for Fellowes to find the list I asked him for yesterday when I hear Fraser come in. I look around, spot him gazing spellbound at a male-torso mannequin sporting a hundred-dollar suede loin-cloth thingy that even Tarzan would be embarrassed to wear. Tarzan never looked like he had a woody under his loin-cloth, either. Wonder if they stuck a sock in there, or if they're making mannequins with dicks these days? A glance around shows me that the girl ones have nipples, so maybe they are making them more lifelike.

"Over here, Fraser," I say, and he looks around fast, a little blush coming up in his face. He's probably not used to seeing underwear up this close and personal. Well, underwear other than white, or . . . pale blue . . . boxers. Down Ray.

Fraser gingerly skirts mannequins of both genders, clutching his hat in his hands, and comes over to stand next to me at the counter, Diefenbaker following. He looks at one of the girl-mannequins that's close to us, and leans closer, studying the nightgown on it. Funny, he does that without batting an eyelash. The nightgown's nice, Stella would've liked it, looks like something out of an old movie, a long sweep of shimmery cream-colored stuff with lace across the breasts. I reach over and turn the tag around, whistle. Jeez. Three-hundred bucks for something you're just going to take off ten minutes after you put it on? No woman would let a guy rub up all over her three-hundred dollar nightie, no way.

"Indeed," Fraser says in response to my whistle. "Silk charmeuse, and alençon lace, if I'm not mistaken."

"The gentleman has a discerning eye," a smooth voice says from behind us, then I hear him gasp. "What the hell? You people brought a dog into my store?"

I glance at Fellowes as Fraser gets that blank look he has when he's offended but doesn't want to show it.

"You needn't worry," he says stiffly. "Diefenbaker has no interest in underclothing."

"Yeah, and anyway, he's here to assist in the investigation," I add, improvising.

Fellowes looks from me to Fraser, frowning, and I remember they haven't met and do the introduction thing.

"This is my partner, Constable Benton Fraser, he's a liaison to the P.D. from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Mr. Fellowes owns the Lingerie Lair here, Fraser."

"How can a dog help?" Fellowes asks.

"You might be surprised," I say cryptically, surprised myself that Fraser hasn't corrected him on the dog thing. Dief looks peeved. "So, you got that list of missing merchandise?" I ask, holding out my hand.

"Yes, here it is." He hands it to me, still looking at Dief like he's afraid he's going to piss on something.

"Do you receive deliveries via the front door?" Fraser asks out of the blue.

Fellowes looks surprised. "What? No, in the back."

"Would you mind if I took a look?"

"Detective Vecchio looked at it yesterday," Fellowes says, looking reluctant.

"Fraser's way better than me at spotting things, though. You should let him look," I put in, starting to get annoyed. Didn't like the guy to begin with, and the way he's treating Dief and Fraser torques me off.

He sighs. "Very well."

I already know the way so I take Fraser back past the counter, through the dressing rooms, and out into the store-room, trying not to limp because I don't want to have to explain why. The back door of the shop opens out onto a little loading dock and parking area, just like all the other back doors in the building do. There are several cars parked back here, too, in the spaces flanking the loading docks.

"Employees park back here," I tell him. "That leaves the front row spaces for the paying customers."

Fraser checks out the vehicles, his gaze lingering on Fellowes' shiny black Beemer convertible, comparing it to the older model economy imports that make up the other employee cars. "Mr. Fellowes appears to make a good living."

"He does, doesn't he?" I ask, knowing he's thinking what I'm thinking.

"I wonder what sort of business insurance he carries?"

"Got a call in to his insurance company already," I say, and get one of his pleased-proud looks at that, and even though I know it's goofy, that makes me feel good. "I checked the door frame, no sign of forced entry that I could see, but you should check it too. The print techs were out yesterday but they said there are so many prints it'll take them weeks to sort them out."

He's already turning, running his fingers up and down the metal door frame, examining the lock cylinder, and the key slots. After a moment he straightens. "I agree that there's been no forced entry, although the lock is fairly laughable. I could probably pick it with a hairpin."

I lift my eyebrows at him. "Picking locks? I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that, Fraser. But yeah, I told him yesterday he needs a better lock, and should probably spring for a security system, if he's going to be selling three-hundred dollar nighties and hundred-dollar banana hammocks."

Fraser frowns at me. "Ah. . . banana hammocks?" he asks.

I grin. "Think about it. Okay, what else we need from him?"

"May I see the list of missing items?"

I fork it over and he stands there reading it for a few moments, flipping back and forth between the pages a couple of times. "Hmmm." He says after a minute.

"Hmmm?" I prompt.

He looks up. "Yes. I wonder if he would be willing to supply us with a list of regular customers?"

"We can ask. It's in his best interests."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he says cryptically.

"Fraser. That sharing thing?" I say, digging him in the ribs with my elbow.

He gives me a significant look and I hear a noise behind me. He looks over my shoulder. "Mr. Fellowes, my partner and I were wondering if we might be able to get a list of your regular customers?"

Oh. That's why he didn't say more. Okay, I'll forgive him this time.

"Why do you need that?" Fellowes asks.

"It's simply routine," Fraser says smoothly. "We generally ask for such lists in order to rule out frequent visitors if they turn up in a fingerprint match or surveillance tape."

"Oh. Okay. Yeah, I can put that together for you. But I don't want anyone harassing my customers. If I hear you people have been bothering them, I'll be contacting your superiors."

I frown at the guy. "Look, this is a police investigation, we don't harass people."

He frowns back. "See that you remember that."

I think briefly about popping him one in his smart mouth, but decide I'd better not as he turns to Fraser.

"I still don't understand what the Canadians have to do with this, though. Do you think there's some sort of international aspect to the thefts?"

Fraser gives Fellowes his ?earnest and sincere' look. "I'm afraid it's far too soon to say, Mr. Fellowes. At this juncture suffice it to say that there may be similar crimes under investigation north of the border."

I have to quick shut my mouth before I give the game away, and somehow I manage to look serious too. "I think that's it for now. You can fax that list to the station when you've got it together. The number's on the card I gave you yesterday."

He nods, and I head for the GTO, using every scrap of willpower I've got to 1) keep from cracking up and b) not yelp as I forget and plop down in the bucket seat like I usually do. I manage to cover my wince by putting my hand over my face for a second before I let it fall and look at him. He's watching me, a little narrow eyed. I shake my head.

"Fraser!"

He does his wide-eyed innocent thing at me, and I lose it, laughing like a maniac until I can hardly breathe. Finally I get enough air to wheeze out: "Fraser! I'm shocked! You just lied to that guy!"

"I most certainly did not!" he protests, affronted.

"No? So there's like some big multinational lingerie smuggling cartel operating out of the Windy City or something?"

"No, of course not."

"Then you lied."

"No, I did not. Every word was the literal truth. It is too soon to make a determination on the case, and there may well be similar crimes under investigation north of the border for all I know. I didn't lie."

"Literal truth," I snort. "Yeah, you just used the truth in such a way as to be . . . kinda misleading."

His eyes twinkle a little. "Ah. . . well, yes."

I shake my head and look sad. "Boy, never thought I'd see the day you'd admit that without some serious interrogation. Okay, so what's with the customer list?"

"I simply noticed that a fairly large percentage of the articles listed as stolen also appeared to have been special ordered. I thought perhaps we might talk to some of the customers who ordered them and see if they had, perhaps, been able to purchase the items . . . elsewhere?"

I see where he's going, and nod. "Yeah, hit up the insurance company to cover the ?thefts,' and then double your profit by selling the merchandise anyway. Nice little scam. So, you think it's Fellowes too?"

"Well, we can't rule out someone else who might have gained access to the store-- an employee, custodial staff, and even an intruder. However, we should not exclude Mr. Fellowes simply because he reported the crime. Criminals do, on occasion, report their own crimes in an attempt to throw off suspicion," he says, stating the obvious like he sometimes does.

"They do, hunh?" I ask, grinning. "Really?"

"From time to time," he allows, one corner of his mouth tilting up.

"Imagine that," I say wonderingly. "Who'd have thought?"

For just a second he smiles, really smiles, that funny lopsided smile of his, but then he's back to bland. "Hard to believe, I realize."

"Oh yeah. Okay. So, lets go back to the 27th and see if the insurance company has sent me the skinny on his policy, and we'll run background checks on the cleaning crew and the employees of the other stores, got all those names yesterday. Just to make sure we're not missing anything obvious."

"An excellent plan. I do have to be at the consulate by one, though."

"Yeah, I remember. Don't worry, I wouldn't give the Ice Queen a reason to get on your case, Fraser. I'll get you there." Wonder of wonders, he doesn't even sigh about me calling Thatcher the Ice Queen. He must be sick or something.

We spend the next couple of hours in the bullpen with me doing most of the legwork on the files as an excuse to avoid sitting down. We discover that the worst thing any of the other mall employees ever got up to was getting their car impounded for having twenty-seven unpaid parking tickets. Fellowes looks clean, no record, no BBB complaints, but he does have three ex-wives and is paying support to two of them. That's got to be a financial strain. Could be looking at motive there. About eleven-thirty I get hungry, despite breakfast, and I look over at Fraser where he's going over the insurance policy like an IRS auditor with a suspicious tax return, and clear my throat.

"Hey. Lunch?"

He looks up, seems a little surprised. "You're hungry?"

I shrug and smile. "Yeah, well, what can I say? I'm pretty much always hungry. Used to drive Stella to dirty words."

He frowns. He almost always does when I mention Stella. It used to bother me, but then I figured out it's because he's my friend and he's feeling protective of me, which is kind of nice so it doesn't bother me any more.

"It's not as if you can help your metabolism," he says disapprovingly. "I'm not particularly hungry myself, but I'd be happy to accompany you if you like."

"Great. Let's go, you can tell me about the insurance policy over food."

He follows me as I pull on my coat, and head out on foot toward the hot-dog cart that usually lives about a block and a half away.

He figures out where I'm heading and stops me with a hand on my arm. "I'd be happy to accompany you anywhere but there," he says firmly. "Friends don't let friends eat at street vendors."

I know better than to fight him on this. We've gone more than a few rounds on it before. There goes my shot at a stand-up lunch. I sigh and nod, think a minute. There's a deli only a little farther away than the hot-dog cart, and with any luck it'll be crowded and we'll have to eat standing up along the counter that never has enough stools. "Okay, okay. Salvaggio's?"

He nods. "That would be fine."

Unfortunately since we took off early, there's plenty of seating. Okay. I can do this. It's not that bad. It's just uncomfortable. It's not like I'm going to die or anything. We go to the counter, he orders a small salad with just a little oil and vinegar on it, and a chunk of roast turkey wrapped to go for Dief. I get a Reuben with spicy mustard instead of that pink stuff they usually put on it, with chips and a pickle on the side. He asks for a glass of water, and I get coffee. One of these days I'll convert him to the Dark Side of the Deli. Yeahright.

He takes Dief's turkey out to where he's waiting for us in a sunny spot, and I get our food and take it to the corner table in the back. It's kind of the Cop Booth, there's almost always someone from the 27th there, today it's our turn. He comes back in and sits down across from me. I look at his food and shake my head.

"You know, you're probably going to go prematurely grey, eating like that. No preservatives."

"Well, at least I won't have died of heart disease," he shoots back. "After this morning's breakfast I felt it wise to have a somewhat healthier lunch."

"This is healthy!" I protest. "It's even got a vegetable."

"You can't count chips or a pickle as vegetables, Ray."

"Well, no, but I was talking about the kraut. It's cabbage."

"I don't think the FDA would agree with your assessment."

"Hey, if catsup is a vegetable for a school lunch, I don't see why I can't count kraut. Besides, it's high in vitamin C, right?"

"Well, that's true."

"Okay, good. So give me points, okay?" I take a bite, and chew, watching him poke absently at his salad like he's got something on his mind. I wait him out. Usually if I do that, he eventually comes out with it. Finally he looks up at me, a faint frown on his face.

"Ray, I hope I didn't offend you earlier."

Well, that's out of left field. "Hunh? When?"

"After we left the veterinary clinic this morning. I was just a little surprised. I mean, I know that we haven't, technically, known one another all that long, however you've always been forthcoming with me, or so I thought, and I . . . you've never seemed to . . . I mean I simply didn't realize that you were . . . well, you were married, and I'm afraid I made certain assumptions which I now understand may have been incorrect."

Following his train of thought when it keeps trying to derail is quite a feat, but I think I managed it. I feel my face getting a little warm, but I've been thinking all day about the fact that he thinks crotchless panties are useless, and he can do close inspection of a girl mannequin without a blush or stammer, but he gets caught looking at the guy one and he's all flustered. I may be making my own incorrect assumption here but damn it, I'm a detective and I've got good instincts.

"Nah, that's okay Fraser. I know you of all people aren't narrow minded. I'm sure you know as well as I do that it's just not something a cop talks about if he's smart."
There. Let him chew on that.

He stares at me for a long moment, looking thoughtful. Finally he nods. "Yes. Yes, I am quite aware of that."

Not sure if he's saying what I think he's saying, and we're not in a place where I can just ask him flat out, but it sure sounds like it. I smile a little and nod. "Thought so."

His eyes narrow a little, speculatively, but just then Huey and Dewey walk in and see us. Huey raises a hand in greeting and Dewey ambles over.

"Hey, you guys mind if we sit with you?"

I'm about to point out that there are plenty of other tables when I notice that they've all filled up since we sat down, and Fraser's already talking.

"No, of course not, you'd be welcome to join us."

"Great, thanks!" Dewey says with a look at me that tells me he knows I'd have said no, then he goes back and joins Huey in line.

I glare at Fraser since my back's to them and they can't see me. "Fraser! What if I didn't want to share?"

He looks surprised. "I'm sorry, Ray, I simply thought it would be considerate."

"You know I can't stand Dewey and he can't stand me, and I don't want to have to sit by him." As I say it I realize I sound like I'm about six years old. Real mature.

"Well, that's easily resolved," he says, a little smile curving his mouth. "Scoot over."

Scoot. Oh, shit. Yeah, like scooting is high on the list of things I really want to do right now. But I don't have much choice. I shove my plate over to the left, look over his shoulder, and say. "Hey, is that Frannie coming out of the ladies' room?"

He looks back over his shoulder and I move, fast as I can, gritting my teeth and wincing. By the time he turns back around I think I have my game face back on.

"Nah, sorry. It was just someone going into the kitchen."

He studies my face for a moment, frowning a little. "I didn't see anyone."

"Yeah, they were quick," I say. "You coming over here?"

He nods and pushes his bowl and glass across the table, then gets up and comes around to my side, sliding in next to me. It's a small booth, and neither of us are real small guys. I can feel the outside of his thigh all along the outside of mine, and it's warm, and firm, and a good distraction from the residual pain of moving over. I look at him, catch him looking at me, and feel my face get hot about the same time I see his face get pink.

I drop my gaze and take a bite of my sandwich, see him dig into his salad and we both concentrate on our food since we'll have company in a minute or two. But it's hard not to think about what I just said and what he just said and what it might all mean in the long run.

* * *

I get home after work and strip down to try to figure out why the hell the pain isn't getting any better. Dragging a kitchen chair into the bathroom I stand on it so I can see my ass in the mirror but that doesn't help much, just tells me I have red spots here and there. Big surprise. So I try using my hands, gingerly skimming them over the sorest spots. On the third pass I feel just the tiniest little catch against my palm in one place, and it finally hits me. Duh. Not a scrape or two. Splinters. I've got a ass full of splinters. Well, maybe not full, but more than one.

Great. Looks like I'm going to have to go to the doctor after all. It's going to be fun telling Welsh why I have to take time off. Fortunately he understands how Fraser is, and how weird shit just seems to happen to Fraser's partners. I guess this is marginally less weird than calling on a cell-phone from a sinking ship, though a lot more embarrassing. I think about going to the urgent care, but it's not like this is really urgent. It can wait for regular office hours, and then I won't have to justify it to the benefits office.

I put on my oldest, loosest pair of athletic shorts, eat a bowl of cereal for dinner, standing up, and then settle in lying on my front on the couch to try and watch TV. Friday night TV sucks. They probably figure everyone is out on Friday nights dating and getting laid so why bother to put any good shows on then? So I end up watching the Hitler Channel and some documentary about World War One. Wait, are they allowed to show that? I always thought they could only show World War Two stuff.

They must've bought the rights to another war or something, because it's definitely the former not the latter and by damn if there aren't guys running around in pants that look just like Fraser's. Bet the RCMP hasn't changed their dress uniforms since back then. I feel a little twinge about making fun of his uniform even when he's not here to get upset about it. Besides, like I can talk? At least his a hat doesn't make him look like he works for Checker Cab.

That gets me thinking about Fraser. We never got to finish our conversation because it turned out that Huey and Dewey were heading two blocks away from the consulate on a burglary investigation so they took him back there. Somehow I managed to put the conversation out of my mind and work the rest of my shift, but now there aren't any distractions. And unfortunately lying on my stomach thinking about Fraser and that conversation is making me uncomfortable in a whole different way from the splinters.

I know how to fix that of course, but somehow I always feel guilty about jerking off to thoughts of Fraser. Yeah, I want to screw him senseless, I've pretty much come to terms with that, but, well, not without his full permission and cooperation. And thinking about him being permissive and cooperative doesn't help the situation, so it's one of those vicious circle things.

I go take some aspirin and think about going to bed, but I'm really not tired. It hits me that tomorrow's Saturday so I either have to wait until Monday to see the doctor, or give in and hit the urgent care and fight with the benefits office about it. The thought of spending the whole weekend in pain is pretty sucky. I'm trying to decide if I should go ahead and go in now, or wait until morning when somebody knocks at my door. I wander over and check the peephole, and get a serious surprise. Not a salesman. Fraser.

My hands are working the lock and deadbolt before I even have time to really process. Boy, am I trained or what? Just as I'm about to swing open the door I stop, my hands still on the doorknob. What if he wants to talk more? Panic almost sets in, then I think yeah, what if? Why not? Maybe its time we got this out in the open. I take a deep breath and open the door. He looks great. Jeans, and he doesn't wear them loose like I do, but snug enough to make you want to . . . look. And that off-white sweater with the worn-out neck that I thought he lost on the Whaling Yankee. Hunh. Wonder how he got it back?

"Hey, Fraser."

"Hello, Ray."

"Was I expecting you?" I ask, a little uncertain. I don't remember asking him over. Sometimes I forget things, though not usually things involving Fraser.

Fraser tilts his head a little and looks at me. "I don't know, were you?"

"Um. . . not really. Where's Dief?"

"Constable Turnbull is keeping him for me."

"Oh. Whatcha doing here?"

He holds up a shopping bag in one hand. "I'm here to play doctor."

"Whaaaat?" I bleat. "You're what?"

He steps inside, making me step back out of his way. Thank God I'm wearing my baggiest shorts is all I got to say. He sets the bag down, takes off his coat, and as he's hanging it up he's talking again.

"I noticed today that you appeared to be in discomfort, and on thinking about it, I realized you've been exhibiting similar symptoms since we apprehended Mr. Shiban the other day. Am I correct in conjecturing that your hands are not the only place you ended up with splinters?"

My jaw drops. "How the hell did you figure that out? I didn't even figure that out until tonight!"

"Simple deduction, Ray."

"Oh." Guess I forgot for a second that I work with Sherlock Holmes. Well, hell. That's twice now I've misunderstood something he said in relation to the stupid splinters. Wonder if I misunderstood other stuff he's been saying and doing, too? It would just figure, wouldn't it? With my track record, I ought to be a lot better at poker than I am.

"I also believe we have a conversation to finish," Fraser says, walking into the kitchen where he sets down the bag, pushes up his sleeves, and starts taking stuff out of the sack.

Conversation. I feel a moment of panic, then I get sidetracked, first by his bare forearms-- I'm discovering I have a forearm fetish here-- and then by the stuff in the bag. A bottle of something bright green and transparent, two bags of frozen peaches, and a half gallon of ice cream. Ice cream? Frozen fruit? And. . . aloe vera gel with lidocaine?

"You brought ice cream?"

He looks up, smiles a little. "Yes."

"You brought ice cream?"

"Yes," he repeats, patiently. "That's to distract you."

"Distract me from what? And what's with the fruit?"

"Frozen fruit makes an excellent cold pack, and peaches are always good on french vanilla ice cream."

"And the aloe stuff?" I ask, really hoping it doesn't go on the ice cream too.

"Well, I wasn't sure just how badly off you were. It's the closest thing I could find to a topical anaesthetic."

"Topic . . . um, I don't think it's that bad. It's just a couple of spots. Wouldn't be so bad except for I can't reach where they are, and you don't really think about how often you use your as . . . bu . . . backside."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I'm familiar with the words, Ray. Now, if you would be so kind as to get your . . . ass . . . over onto the couch, I'll put the cold packs on and we can get started with this. I'd like to get it done quickly, as, I'm sure, would you."

I feel like I'm in a Twilight Zone episode. "You're really going to do this?"

"Most assuredly. Since you're too stubborn to go to the doctor, someone has to. Otherwise you may end up in hospital."

"I was going to go see the doctor," I protest. "Maybe even tomorrow."

"Well, I'm here now, and we may as well get this over with, right?"

Okay. Well, the splinter removal is probably going to be easier than the conversation, and might even hurt less, so I nod. "Um, yeah. I guess."

"Good. Now, couch."

I go over to the couch and start to ease myself down, and he calls out from the kitchen. "You'll need to remove your shorts."

Ooohfuck. Well, he's right. No way can he do this through 'em. That's going to make this a lot harder. In more ways than one. I don't know what direction this conversation he wants to have is going to go, and I don't want to make a fool of myself if it's not the way I'd really like it to. Hopefully the ice packs and the discomfort, not to mention the raging paranoia, will keep me from getting too obvious.

I shoot a look through the pass-through, and he's got his back to me, getting out a bowl. I quick strip off my shorts and lie down on the green afghan. It still smells like him, just a little. I noticed that before. It wasn't helping things then and it doesn't help things now. I think about Welsh, and Huey, and Dewey all lined up pointing and laughing and that pretty much takes care of things. Maybe if I breathe through my mouth it'll help.

I close my eyes, try to relax. Doesn't work too well. A few seconds later I hear him nearby, and I squinch my eyes closed tighter, and can't help a yelp as he layers packages of frozen peaches over my ass.

"I'm sorry, Ray, but in the long run I suspect you'll be grateful."

I sigh into the afghan. "Yeah. I know."

He hesitates for a moment, then puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes briefly. Wow. That's not something he does much, touch me. . . touch anyone.

"I'll be right back."

I nod. Hear him in the bathroom, and try not to dwell on the fact that this probably would've hurt a lot less two days ago. Oh well. He comes back out and puts things down on the coffee table, and I sense the change in the light as he moves one of the lamps over there, too. Try not to think about him getting up close, really up close and personal with my naked ass. He walks away again, hear him in the kitchen, hear some clinking, then he's back, and I hear the funny creak of tight denim stretching as he hunkers down beside the couch.

"Ice cream?" he offers.

I open my eyes finally, and look at him, his expression all serious, with a spoon in one hand and bowl in the other, and I can't help it, I start to laugh. He lifts his eyebrows at me, which just makes me laugh more, but I finally manage to control it after a few seconds, and I shake my head. "Sorry. It's just kind of . . . I'm lying here with peaches on my ass and you're spoon-feeding me ice cream. Think we could get a gig on Jerry Springer?"

He frowns faintly. "Where?"

I shake my head again. "Never mind, it's not worth explaining. Okay, fine, distract me."

He scoops out a spoonful of ice cream, offers it to me. I have to lean forward a little to get it, and it's cold and melting sweetly all over my tongue. It's really good vanilla. Not the ice-milk kind that's kind of crunchy and sweet and tasteless, this is rich, silky and creamy. Damn if he's not right. It is distracting. So's having him feed it to me. He puts another bite in my mouth, and clears his throat.

"About our earlier conversation. . . ."

Nearly choke on my ice cream, swallow it fast. "Yeah?" I say warily.

His eyes slide my way, then away again, fast, and his face is starting to get pink. "I just wondered if perhaps I might have mistaken your meaning."

I turn my head so I can look him straight in the eyes. Hurts my neck a little but I don't care. "No. I don't think you did."

"So, you have . . . experimented?"

"Yeah." Like, every time Stella and I were in one of our off-again phases when I was in college and it was easy to find men. Though I don't want to tell him that, don't want to come across like this might be meaningless. It was then, it's not now. It was a long time ago, and there's some stuff I didn't get around to, but all told I've slept with more men than I have women. Not that either total is all that high.

"Ah. I see," he says slowly.

"Do you?" I ask, still holding his gaze with mine.

His eyes seem to get darker. His gaze drifts down to my mouth, then back up again, and he nods slowly. "Yes. I do."

"We're on the same page then?"

"I believe so."

"Okay. Okay, good. So . . . you?"

"Rather more than experimented," he says firmly. "Though I spent some time trying to convince myself it was merely a fluke, a bout of homesickness taken to extremes, but much later I came to realize it wasn't. It would have been better for a good many people, including myself, had I been able to immediately accept what it taught me about myself rather than fighting it desperately and nearly losing myself in the process."

Wow. That was . . . way more than I'd expected. Way more. For a guy who's never really talked about himself at all, this is spilling like Niagara Falls. As I'm trying to figure out what to say to him, he suddenly shakes his head.

"Good lord, that was certainly melodramatic. I'm sorry, Ray."

I shake my head back. "No. Don't be. And it wasn't, it was just honest, and I'm really glad you can do that with me." I give him a rueful smile. "And I kinda know what you mean about that desperation thing. Spent some time there myself over the last few months."

His eyebrows go up. "The last . . . so, this was recent?"

He looks weird-- almost hurt? What's that about, I wonder, then I get it. Yeah. I get it. And I can help. "Well, yes and no. The experimenting wasn't recent, but the realizing part, yeah. Cause I hadn't had reason to think about it in a long time, but all the sudden I was thinking about it again, a lot, like all the time. And that was a little freaky after not thinking about it for something like fifteen years. Actually, it was a lot freaky. Did some kind of stupid, desperate stuff myself, and all I got to show for it is a poncho and a cold from sleeping out."

His face takes on a funny, wary expression. "Ray, please, are you saying that. . . ."

He stops, skims his fingertips across his eyebrow and gets even pinker than he already was. Never thought I'd find that sexy, but I do. Jesus. You're such a wuss, Kowalski. Just say it out, stop beating around the bush and lay it on the line so he can't possibly find some reason to think you meant something else. Not that it's easy. It's not easy at all. But we've got this trust thing between us. And I'm the one who knows how to say things about emotions, where he just knows how to keep them locked up tight. So I think this time it's up to me, I have to lead the way. I suck in a deep breath, nod. "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying, Benton Fraser. You're the reason."

The hurt look vanishes, and his whole face kind of lights up. Yeah, that's sort of how I feel, too. Or would if I didn't have ice on my ass. Like he's reading my mind, he suddenly clears his throat.

"Yes, well, time to attend to the task at hand, I think."

I nod. "Yeah, that'd be good-- before I get frostbite on top of the splinters."

"I suspect the fruit would thaw long before you got frostbite," he says with a very faint smile.

"That mean you think my ass is hot?"

"Very much so," he replies, and turns to start messing with the stuff on the coffee-table, laying it out like he's getting ready to operate.

I'm left lying there with my mouth hanging open, thinking that it's probably a good thing I'm pretty damned uncomfortable or I'd have jumped him by now, and he's not the kind of person you rush. Though he seems to be a lot more rushable than I thought he was a couple of days ago. I can't believe he thinks my ass is hot. It's like. . . nothing. Just your ordinary every-day ass. Not like his, which if they gave out prizes for asses, would be in the running for first place. And I can't believe I just thought that.

"I'll try to do this as painlessly as possible," he says, giving me a little warning as he picks up the makeshift cold-packs and sets them down on a towel.

I close my eyes, put my head down on my arm, and relax. "I trust you, Fraser."

I hear something that sounds suspiciously like a sniff, but when I open my eyes he's got his back to me, fussing with something on the table again, so I close them again. I know he's good at this, so I relax and kind of zone with it, just breathing, keeping my mind blank so I don't notice that he's got his hands on my bare skin. A couple of times I feel a sharp sting, and can't help but flinch, and he soothes a hand over my shoulder and down my back until I settle again. It's weird, but nice. Finally he sits back, sighs.

"There, I think I got them all."

I open my eyes, look at him. "Yeah?"

He nods. "You were lucky, there actually weren't many, and most of them were concentrated in just three areas. I wish I could be sure, though. Some of them are very small and hard to see, and. . . well, it's not as if you're particularly hirsute but it is a bit difficult to tell. Hmmm." He thinks for a minute, then looks at me. "Would you close your eyes again?"

"Sure. No problem." I close 'em obediently. Get a little chill as he rubs something cold and damp across my skin, feel a little sting, and smell the unmistakable sharp, nose-tightening scent of rubbing alcohol. The chill fades almost instantly, and then something warm and wet and smooth is replacing the cold and damp. It's not exactly a rub, not exactly a wipe, it's different, and at the same time strangely familiar, and . . . Holy . . . . My eyes snap open and I crane around, and yep, I watch him lift his head, tongue flicking across his lips like it just did my ass.

"Fraser! You . . . um. . . you licked me!"

He nods, his color high. "My tongue is particularly sensitive, if there are any remaining splinters, I should be able to feel them," he says, a little defensively.

"Oh." My heart starts to slow down a little. "Oh," I say again, disappointed. "So, did you feel anything?"

"Splinters?" he asks, like maybe I might've meant something else.

"Yeah. Yeah, splinters."

"No. Not . . . in that spot."

"Oh. Well, don't you think you better, uh, check the others?"

His eyes are warm. No, that's not warm, that's hot. That's thermonuclear. Never thought I'd see that directed at anyone, let alone me.

"You don't mind?"

"Mind? Fraser, are you unhinged?"

Something flashes, bright and amazing, in his eyes, and he shakes his head. "No. No, I don't believe I am."

I grin. "Me either. So . . . ."

He holds my eyes with his as he leans down, all the way until he has to turn his head so he can . . . . Long, slow, hot, wet. His eyes are closed, his expression like mine probably was when I was eating the ice cream. Lifts his head, licks again, a broad swipe right next to the first one. Like he's plotting my ass out with his tongue. "Oh God," I gasp.

It felt good before. Now, knowing, watching. . . now it's a hundred times better. A thousand. And not even frozen food is going to keep me from responding to that. I'm hard in seconds, and his tongue is going again, and my neck hurts from craning around but I can't look away, can't stop watching, feeling. . . .

He lifts his head, shakes it like a dog, licks his lips, looks at me, breathing hard. "Ray. . . I . . . we. . . I'm not sure this is altogether wise," he says, his voice sounding strangely hoarse.
I look down. Those snug jeans of his don't hide a thing, and have to be pretty damned uncomfortable at the moment. He's a grower. I look back up at his face. "Fraser, when have we ever, since we've known each other, done the wise thing?"

He thinks, and a smile starts, grows, until he's just grinning at me like an idiot. "Never."

"That's right. Not once. So . . . ."

Man he can move fast when he wants to. And he's got more in common with Diefenbaker than I ever realized. He's definitely an alpha wolf, the way he attacks me. Not like I mind. He's got a hand on my shoulder, pushing me up onto my side and then he's sliding onto the cushion next to me, crowding me against the back of the sofa. His mouth is on mine, hot and wet, but not slow this time, not at all. He's licking into my mouth, tasting me, practically eating me. He makes a satisfied sound, lifts his head for breath, then he's back down. I lick into him this time. He sounds surprised, but opens to me, and as I tonguefuck his mouth he bucks against me with a little whimper.

God, feels weird, I'm half dressed, he's all dressed, but I can feel his cock right next to mine. Warm, smooth old denim stretched tight over hard flesh. His sweater's a little itchy against my stomach. I want him naked. I want me naked. I want more room. I pull my mouth from his, push against his shoulder.

"Bedroom."

"Yes," he breathes reverently, like he's praying. "Bedroom."

He slides back, gets one knee on the floor, winces a little as he gets to his feet, tugging at his too-tight jeans. I reach out for what's just above eye level, mold my hand over it, squeeze a little. He gasps, eyes closing, mouth opening. God, he's so fucking hot. And he's so fucking mine. I almost can't believe I'm really this lucky. He wants me. I want him. Could it get any better than this? Well, duh, Kowalski, of course it can. Naked, sweaty, and in your bed. Much better. Shove myself to my feet, grab his hand and drag him, not resisting, to the bedroom. It doesn't hurt to walk any more-- there's just a hint of leftover soreness. That's going to make playing a lot more fun.

I rip my t-shirt off and toss it away, then yank his sweater up, and off. His hair's all messed up now, kind of wild and curly. Disorderly, I think, grinning. I slide around behind him, wrap my arms around him and rub myself up against his denim-covered ass, and then let my hands slide down to his waist. Pop the button, slide the zipper down, slow and easy. He moans a little, combination of relief and need. Slip one hand inside his fly and stroke him through his boxers. God, he's hard, and leaking right through the thin cotton.

He growls and reaches down, tugs my wrist until I let go, then he twists out of my arms and he's fighting to get out of his jeans and boxers. I already figured out he's still got his shoes on and I'm on that fast, tugging his untied bootlaces loose so he can kick off everything at the same time, jeans and boxers inside out, bracing a hand on my shoulder so he doesn't fall over while he does it.

The target he presents like that is too good to resist, so I let my hand slide up his thigh to cup the soft weight of his balls, trail my tongue across his thigh. I've done all this stuff before, but God, I don't remember it being anywhere near this good. His skin is warm, smooth, and pale, though there's a flush spreading up his belly, starting somewhere under the mat of silky, dark curls between his thighs. I love the taste of his skin, clean, and faintly salty. Suck a little at his hip, which nearly makes his knees buckle. Cool. He chokes a little.

"Ray. . . dear lord. Bed."

Oh, yeah. Forgot that was where we were headed for a sec there. He's a lot more distracting than ice cream. Next thing I know he's got his hands under my pits and is practically dragging me up off my knees, then walking me backward to the bed. That's kind of funny, and I'm laughing a little as I hit the mattress, until he comes crawling up over me with a look of steely-eyed determination on his face that I never thought would be aimed at me. It rattles me, heats me up. Jesus.

He's straddling me, leaning down to take my face between his big, square hands, and his mouth is coming down on mine. God. I'm jealous of everything he's ever licked. If I'd had any idea he could kiss this good, I would have been sucking face with him that first day in the Riv, and telling him he could put his hands wherever he damned well pleased. I feel the brush of his balls against my stomach, reach down to wrap my fingers around his cock. He thrusts into my fingers and gasp-grunts into my mouth, pulls away to lick the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, an eyebrow, my ear, which is bizarre, but hot. I start to stroke him, but he quick reaches down and stops me, panting.

"No, not yet!"

I get it. He's that close, I'll send him over if I keep at it, and he wants more. I want more. Yeah. A lot more. I let him go, pat his thigh, and he slides down beside me where he's not quite such a temptation. It's easier to roll around here, to touch everything I want to touch. I fill my hands with the firm curves of his ass, like I've wanted to do for fucking months now, and squeeze a little. He puts a thigh over mine, opening up just like that, and at the same time he reaches over and cups the back of my head, turning my face to his, and our mouths meet again.

Starts soft, almost sweet, intensifies gradually. He tugs at my lower lip with his teeth. I return the favor. He makes little breathy sounds, almost grunts, like he's so turned on, so excited he can't keep quiet. Never imagined he could sound like that. Our tongues meet, slide and clash. Whenever I start something, he takes it over, whenever he starts something, I pick it up and run with it. Partners. A duet. Definitely a one-two punch.

My fingers dip into the cleft between his cheeks and he bucks against me, then turns onto his side, pulling me with him. I figure out why a second later when one of his hands slides down my back to cup my ass like I'm doing his. He's more careful than me though, his touch light, too light. I let go of him for a second and reach back to push his hand harder against me. He squeezes, and yeah, oh yeah. That's it.

I try the leg over thigh thing on him, and his breathing speeds up, his fingers skimming unhesitatingly into the space I just gave him. A finger teases my ass, and instead of that weirding me out I get hot, really hot, remembering every fantasy I've ever had about what it would feel like to have him over me, in me. A little sound slides out of my throat, as animalistic as any of the noises he's making. He shudders, licks my ear again. His tongue, my ear. . . sends shivers through me that all converge on my cock. Wonder if I taste as good to him as he does to me?
"Ray," he says in my ear. "I want . . . ."

He stops. I wait, but he doesn't finish. Probably afraid he'll freak me out. Like anything would freak me out at this point. Wonder if it would freak him out if I told him what I want? He said he did more than experiment. Wonder how far he went? Far enough for what I want? Do I really want it? Yes. I've been thinking about it practically ever since I met him. Am I unhinged to want it? Maybe. Do I care? No.

I turn my head, bite his earlobe. "I want, too," I say. "I want you to fuck me through the mattress."

Okay, yeah, I am absolutely unhinged. I just asked my partner to put his cock up my ass. And I want it so bad I could come just thinking about it. Not that that's anything new. What's new is the asking, is him being here. Being here, completely still, like for a few seconds I'm not even sure he's breathing.

Uh-oh. Too much too soon. I'm getting ready to laugh and say I was kidding when he gives a whole-body shiver and says "Yes!" in a kind of just-won-a-trip-to-Bahama voice, and he's un-straddling me, grabbing a pillow and pulling it down so he can put a hand on my hip and urge me over onto it.

Talk about instant gratification. That's one thing I can already tell is going to be seriously great about getting down and dirty with Benton Fraser. When he makes up his mind, by God it's full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. That metaphor nearly makes me snicker, and probably would have if he hadn't chosen that moment to put his tongue back to work.

I grab the other pillow and bury my face in it as he works his way down, and . . . oh Lord, he isn't really gonna put his tongue there is he? I whimper mindlessly into the pillow as he does just that. Jesus. . . who knew that would feel so good? When he follows his tongue with a wet finger it just gets better. Weird, but better. But after the wet wears off it's sort of uncomfortable, too. I swallow twice, find my voice. "Lube. Nightstand."

Can't manage a complete sentence but that's enough for him to understand. And I'm so glad I brought it in here from the bathroom to jerk off with Wednesday morning. Don't always use it, but the glide it gives makes me last longer so I can do it slow and lazy. Tonight's not going to be either of those things, though. He stretches, manages to grab the bottle with his left hand because the right one's still occupied, or rather, occupying. Then he's back, and working coolness up into me. It's kind of a shock, but nothing like frozen fruit, and knowing what it is makes it erotic, not uncomfortable.

I like the way his fingers slide in me now. Fingers. God, I can feel that, he's using two. He gives a little twist, presses hard, and I moan, seeing stars, feeling stars. Never, ever feels this good when the doc does that. Probably just as well or it would be embarrassing. He keeps working me, in, out, gentle, but very determined. I can feel myself easing, opening up. He knows what the hell he's doing, that much is obvious. He's going to be in me. In me. Think about it . . . kind of scared and turned on at the same time. He's not a monster, but he's not small either-- thicker than I am, if not as long.

He must've felt me tense up, because he stops moving his fingers and leans down, starts to kiss and lick the back of my neck, stopping to bite gently, which really rocks me, sends my hips rolling against the pillow, and oh, man that feels good, inside, outside, everywhere. He licks a line down my neck, rakes his teeth over my shoulder blade, and when I buck again, he pushes his fingers in at the same time. I gasp, my cock throbbing, almost losing it right then and there.

"God! Fraser!" Not sure which one's which at the moment.

He licks back up to my ear. "Shift your thighs apart," he says, his voice a throaty growl that sends shivers through me. I duck my head against the pillow and spread 'em. Feel him kneel between them. Start to tense up, then I remember how careful he was taking the splinters out of me. Trust him. Trust.

Feel his hand on my hip, feel the blunt, solid heat of his cock nudge up against my ass. Let myself go as boneless as I can as he starts to push. Instinct keeps me breathing, lifts my hips up and back as he angles in and down. Burn blooms, right on the edge of pain. Fuck! Over the edge of pain. I almost jerk away but his fingers tighten on my hip, and he makes a . . . sound. . . that holds me still as he keeps pushing. Breathe shallow, trying to stay relaxed. Disjointed thoughts flit in my brain. Fingers. Open. Trust. Cock. Fraser. Love. Now.

We both sob, suddenly. And there, he's there. He's panting and I can hear him, feel the flutter of his belly against my ass, feel his pulse echoing through me, his cock in . . . God . . . inside me. Feel the soft crush of pubic hair, and the warm weight of his balls. I'm shaken, shattered, but somehow whole too. He is in me. The pain's gone, just a faint dull throb, nothing next to the stunning, amazing feeling of him there.

He rubs his cheek against my shoulder, says my name in a broken whisper, and I know he feels it too. We've always had . . . something. Connection. Deeper than partnership, just didn't know what to call it. Now I do. Scares the hell out of me. But this doesn't. Not any more. He can't seem to move, so I start a slow, shallow rocking. My cock starts to harden up again, and it's pretty weird to realize I got soft and didn't even notice. He notices the rocking though. Feel his fingers clench again, hear him gasp, feel his hips twitch. Yeah. Oh yeah. Like that.

I rock. He rocks. Pushes up on his arms, shifts his weight, puts a little power behind his thrust this time and those stars bloom behind my eyelids again. "Yeah!" I manage to gasp out. "God, yeah."

He does it again. Then again. A little harder, a little faster. I know this, know this rhythm, yeah, know this spreading heat, this tightening, but it's better, all this new stuff, better, and hotter and why am I thinking when I just want to feel? His cock, my cock, the sting of sweat on abrasions, the slide and catch of hard flesh in me, the smell of sex and Fraser together, the sound of him, little huffs of exertion and pleasure each time he goes deep, and my own gasps and moans as I take him. It's too much, too hot, and I'm gone, just gone, sending a choked howl into the mattress as I come in long, sweet pulses.

The feeling is just starting to fade when he whimpers, shudders, and God, I swear I can feel him come. He collapses against me, a heavy, sweaty, pretty much inert mass. The weight makes it harder to breathe than normal, but it's no big deal and I kind of like the feeling. Never felt it before. Never had someone crash on me like that, it's usually me doing the crashing. After a couple of minutes he pushes up with a groan, and slides his softened cock out of me. Kind of hurts a little, and the air drying the sweat and spunk on my ass feels cold, so I grumble. He pulls a corner of the bedspread up over me, loops his arm across me, and pushes his nose into the crook of my neck with a sigh.

"Ray," he says, contentedly.

"Fraser," I say back.

He pokes me in the ribs with a finger. "Ben."

I turn my head, look at him. Well, the side of his head anyway. "Ben?"

He nods. I smile like an idiot. "Ben. Yeah. Okay."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

We lay there for a while longer, and suddenly, out of the blue, Fraser starts to laugh.

"What?" I say, puzzled.

"Banana hammock?" he asks, laughing still. "Oh, dear lord."

I grin. "Wondered how long it would take you."

I hug him, and he hugs me back. We drift off with all the lights still on.

* * *


Wake up with a shock, the phone's ringing. Fraser's on the side of the bed closest to the phone, and before I can crawl across him to get it, he's picking it up.

"Good evening, Canadi . . . ."

I grab the phone and wrestle it away from him, though he won't give it up until he really wakes up all the way and realizes he's not at home, at which point lets go like the phone is hot. "Kow. . . uh. . . Vecchio." I say into the phone, trying to see the clock. Jeez. It's two-eighteen in the morning. Either this is a work call or somebody died, and my heart kind of seizes up a second as I worry about my folks.

There's a slight hesitation, then I hear a vaguely familiar voice, soft, sort of breathy, slight accent. "Detective Vecchio?"

"Yeah, that's me. Who's this?" Even as I ask, my brain finishes kicking in, overriding the adrenalin surge. "Ms. Martinez?"

"Yes. Please, I'm so sorry to wake you. I called at your work, I thought they would put me through to your voice mail."

"Nah, 'sokay. I told 'em to route you here if you called," I say, "I know you keep late hours. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to talk to you, but not during the day hours. It needs to be when he . . . when the other businesses are closed. Can we do that?"

I stifle a yawn, look at Fraser, he's watching me intently, wonder if he can hear her side of the conversation. Our eyes meet, I lift my eyebrows, and he nods. We don't want her to spook. If we wait, she might. I nod back, and turn my attention back to the conversation. "Yeah, we can do that. Look, since we're awake anyway, why don't we do it now?"

"Oh, no, you wouldn't want to come out now, I'm sure you're . . . busy."

Funny pause. Wonder if she figured out that I didn't answer my own phone? Well, at least she'd probably understand. And frankly, no, I don't really want to get out of bed with Ben Fraser on this night of all nights, to go take a witness statement, but that's my job, and it's his job and we both know it. "It's okay, really," I say. "We're here to do this, and we're gonna. Be there in about . . . um . . ." We've got to shower, don't want to show up smelling like sex. "Half an hour. That work?"

"It's very generous of you."

"Okay, see you then." I hang up, hand Ben the phone, and give him a look. "Ben, do not answer my phone like that, okay? It confuses people."

He blushes a little. "I'm terribly sorry, I just wasn't quite. . . ."

"Awake yet," I say, cutting him some slack. "Yeah, got that. Next time just say 'hello' okay?"

His eyes get warm, and I wonder what I said to get that look, but don't have time to think about it. "Okay, we gotta get moving here. Come on, we'll shower together," I stop, and wink at him, "and be good. We need to be at the clinic in thirty minutes."

He nods and we both roll out of bed. And . . . ooohkay. Looks like I'm not going to be sitting easy just yet. This is gonna take some getting used to. He looks at me sideways as we walk toward the bathroom.

"Are you all right?" he asks, and I swear there's a little hint of a smile working at the corner of his mouth that on anybody else would probably be a smirk.

"Ohyeah," I say. "I'm good." I smirk right back at him.

We shower fast, somehow manage not to get distracted. I'm working gel through my hair when I hear him in the other room.

"Oh, dear."

I look around the door, see him standing in my bedroom holding his jeans and sweater with a troubled expression on his face. "What?" I ask. "We didn't rip 'em did we?"

"What? Oh, no. It's just . . . my uniform is at the consulate."

Oh. Okay. I get it. "Don't worry about it. She'll probably be happier seeing you in jeans. Doesn't seem to be big on uniforms."

"Well, true. But if I'm acting in an official capacity, then technically . . . ."

"Fraser, just think of it as undercover."

He thinks about that, nods once and starts to dress. I go back to my hair, shaking my head and smiling.

When we walk into the clinic I can see she's not surprised that Fraser's with me at nearly three in the morning. Her gaze slides from me to him and back, and she smiles a funny little smile that makes me blush. Yeah, she's got our number. There's a coffee maker on the counter and she gestures at the full carafe.

"Would you like coffee?"

I nod and reach for a styrofoam cup, pour myself some coffee and add a couple of sugar cubes from the box next to the pot. They have those stupid little stir-sticks that're almost useless but I swish one around in the brew anyway hoping to spread at least a little of the sweet around.

"Would you like some, Constable Fraser?"

"No, thank you, I'm not a coffee drinker."

She smiles. "Neither am I. There's a hot-pot and tea bags if you prefer."

He smiles back. "That would be very pleasant."

She nods and reaches under the counter, brings out a little basket of assorted tea bags and a hot pot, which she takes into the back to fill. Fraser looks at me. I look back. We both get silly grins on our faces. She comes back out and I try to cover my grin by sipping my coffee but she gives us another knowing smile as she plugs in the hot-pot. I start to wonder if maybe it's a good thing that she's figured it out. She seems more relaxed now. A lot more.

"Thank you both for coming out so late. I have seen some things," she says after a moment, watching the water start to steam in the pot. "But it's. . . hard to speak."

Her hands are at her sides, clenched into fists. She's still afraid of us. Of what we represent, if not us personally. Testing a theory, I move a little closer to Fraser, put my hand casually on his shoulder. I feel him startle a little under my touch, but he takes his cue from me, doesn't move away. "Yeah, we know. Maybe if we all sat down?"

Her gaze lingers a moment on my hand, then she takes a deep breath and nods sharply. "Yes, yes, please sit."

I nod and go sit down on the waiting room couch, putting my cup on the end table covered with pet magazines, and get my notebook out. Fraser comes over a moment later with a cup, dipping a tea bag in it as he sits next to me, a little close, but then even before tonight we kind of tended to live in each other's space. She sits down in the vinyl armchair across from us, sighing, then she looks up again.

"I. . . in my country, one did not go to the police. Especially not people like me."

"People like you?" I prompt, gently, because I know the last thing she wants to hear is that we already know. I want it to come from her.

She looks uncomfortable, stares down at her hands, looks back up, speculatively, her eyes shifting from me to Fraser and back. "Forgive me, I have no right to ask this, but are you . . . ." she stops, shakes her head, and gets up, pacing nervously. "No. I'm sorry. Never mind."

"Ms. Martinez," Fraser says quietly. "Ray and I are partners, if that helps at all."

It's a shock to hear him say that, to know it means something different than it ever did before, and I can't help but look at him, to see in his eyes what I think is probably in my own. I can't believe this is happening. I'd pinch myself if I thought it would prove anything. Suddenly I hear a sharp intake of breath, not mine, not his, and remember we're not alone. Look back at her, she's staring at us, wide-eyed, a little shocked, a little . . . sad, and suddenly she's nodding.

"Yes. Yes, it helps a great deal. Oh. . . Dios, to have . . . to be able to be who you are. . . ."

I clear my throat. "Well, that's not always an option."

She sighs, nods slowly. "No. No, I suppose not. One must still be careful. But it's so much better than . . . well. You understand."

Fraser nods. "Unfortunately, yes."

"So, you were going to tell us, about people like you?" I ask quietly.

She nods. "Yes. Yes, if you can be strong, so can I. I am . . . I was not born . . . a woman, do you understand?"

I nod, and so does Fraser.

"Yes, we understand," he says gently. "Does that have some bearing on the reason you haven't come forward before?"

She nods again, hands twisting together in her lap. "Si. It does. Since I came to the United States it has been difficult for me to find work. Most of the places which would agree to employ me were not places I would . . . wish to work. It seems that the only employment for someone like me is to be a . . . how do you say it, masculina la reina? A . . . 'queen?'"

I figure out she means drag queen and wince. "Yeah. I get the picture."

"Si. And that is not me. I just want to live a normal life. Go to work, go home. Have a proper home, and a cat, and maybe meet someone nice someday."

She looks at me a little wistfully and I feel kind of bad for a second, and smile ruefully. She sighs.

"So you see, finding work was hard. But this job, the man who owns the clinic and interviewed me, he is blind. He does not judge me on what I might or might not be, only on my voice, and my skills. So I work hard for him and do a good job, and don't mind the strange hours, because it's a good job, and I can save money for mi operación. It is very expensive, to become what I am inside, instead of what I am outside. You understand?" She looks at us earnestly

I think I do, and it takes some willpower not to cup a hand protectively over my crotch. Just thinking about it gives me the heebiejeebies. Maybe it's weird, but even though I loved getting fucked by Fraser, one of these days I want to do the same to him. There's no way in hell I'd want to go through life without my penis. It must be rough to feel that strongly that you're not who you're supposed to be. I'm damned lucky not to feel that way.

"Um, yeah. I get it," I say, trying to sound un-freaked out. "So, you afraid you'll lose your job if you talk to us?"

She's up out of her chair again, pacing again, then she turns and nods. "Si. He told me if I said anything he would tell Mr. Longstreet the truth about me, and I would lose my job."

"Who told you that?"

"I. . . please, can he do that? Will I be fired if I tell you?"

Fraser and I look at each other. It's a tough question. She shouldn't be, but there's really no way to guarantee that, unfortunately. She'd have a case for discrimination if she did get fired, but that wouldn't solve her short term problem and she probably couldn't afford the lawyers she'd need to sue his ass. I'm still trying to figure out what to say when Fraser decides to tackle it for me, thank God. He's better at this kind of thing than I am.

"Legally, no, I don't believe you can be fired for . . . er . . . crossdressing. However, I suppose that if the gender indicated on your job application didn't match your appearance, some might consider that an element of fraud was involved. It's a delicate situation, and I entirely understand your hesitation."

I hate watching her face fall as he talks, and I'm kind of surprised he's being this up front with her instead of going on about the principle involved. Maybe he did learn something on the Warfield case, after all. He frowns thoughtfully, then looks up.

"Perhaps you might be able to give us a few hints that might lead us to evidence of this person's involvement, without verbally implicating him and thus having to testify?"

She thinks about that, looks dubious. "I don't know. Maybe."

I'm torn. I want to push her, I want answers, now. I want to put this guy away, whoever he is, but if Fraser's backing off, maybe he's got a plan, even if I've got no clue what it is. I push down my impatience, close my notebook, and stand up. "Look, why don't you think about it?" I say. "It's a robbery case, its not going anywhere. You can take a little time to decide."

She looks relieved that we're not pushing her. "Si, I will do that. I'm sorry to call you out for this. I want . . . I want to help but I'm afraid."

"It's all right. It's our job," I say, echoes of Joe Friday in my head. "You take care. If you have any problems, call, okay?"

She agrees and we head out. We get into the car, I ease down, settling, fastening my seatbelt, and just as I'm about to start grilling Fraser on what he's up to, he looks at me.

"Thank you, Ray."

I have to stop and think. "What for?"

"Allowing me to . . . play my hunch."

"Hunch? You had a hunch?" I ask, stunned. Okay. This is too much for one day. I find out Fraser's gay. . . or something close to it, I find out he's got the hots for my ass, I can deal with that, oh yeah, but on top of all that, a hunch, no, that's one too many earth-shaking things in one day.

"Well, perhaps hunch is the wrong word," he says after a second.

I start to breathe again. Okay. Okay, maybe the world isn't shifting on its axis after all. "So what was it?"

"She has legitimate concerns, and I believe that with a little effort and deductive reasoning on our part we can determine who this person is without her telling us."

Okay, now that sounds like Fraser. I relax some more. "Yeah? You think you know?"

"I have an idea, yes."

"Run it by me," I say, starting the car and pulling out. There's almost no traffic at this hour. It won't take long to get home.

"It's someone who works in one of the other businesses here, clearly, or she wouldn't have requested we come out while they were all closed. It's also someone whose word she feels will be taken seriously, which points to someone with respectable standing in the community. The person is male, clearly. It's also someone who is not above using intimidation tactics. Does any of that sound familiar?"

I start to smile, tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel. "Oh, maybe just a little."

"I thought you might find it so. And since the suspect in question isn't likely to be leaving the vicinity any time soon, I think we can afford to wait for her decision."

"You might just be right."

"I'm glad you think so. Ah. . . Ray, you missed the turn."

I look at the street sign, glance at him, confused. "Hunh? What turn?"

"To take me home."

Something kind of clenches in my chest. "You. . . um. . . want to go back to the consulate?" I'm pretty proud of how normal I sound when I ask that.

"I . . . ah . . . thought it would be best."

Out of the corner of my eye I see his thumb go across his eyebrow. Something's up here. My brain's rushing a million miles, trying to find some way to read this situation that doesn't end up with divorce papers or their emotional equivalent in my lap. Okay, okay, think. Maybe he's a little freaked out. I know I am. I mean, the whole making it with a guy thing is just part of it. But no, that's not new. He obviously knew what he was doing, so maybe it's like, the thing to do, with guys. What do I know about how guys are with other guys? I never did anything with anyone I knew before. Before I can stop myself, words I haven't thought through are coming out of my mouth.

"You know you don't have to do that." I really don't want this to be what it feels like, but I can feel it heading there, like a car off a bridge.

He takes a deep breath, quiet, through his nose. Then another. Another. Like he's trying to keep from getting mad. God, I can't drive right now. I pull over, put the car in neutral and set the parking brake, not looking at him, not daring to. That clenching in my chest is tighter, tight enough to hurt. "Okay, Fr. . . Ben. Just. . . tell me one way or the other. D'you want to go back to the consulate?"

One more deep breath, then a single word grates free. "No."

That sounded like it hurt. "No?" I ask. God, I hate the tentative sound in my voice, but it's too late to unsay it.

He shakes his head, hard. "No. No, I don't. I don't want to."

"Back to my place?"

He nods. I take one of those deep breaths, and feel that knot under my sternum start to unravel a little. Putting the car in gear, I take off the brake, check the mirrors, and pull out. Neither one of us talks the rest of the way to my place, or on the stairs, or in the hall, or even after I open the door and nudge him inside with my hand on the small of his back. When I turn back from locking the door he's still standing there, hasn't moved. I shrug out of my coat, and then tug at his. He surrenders it to me and I hang both of them up.

I've got a million questions I want to ask, need to ask, but something stops me. Not yet, they're saying. Not yet. Instincts, Ray, instincts. They're your thing, listen to them. So instead of asking him what the hell he meant back there, what was he thinking, I just take his arm and steer him through the dark apartment to the bedroom.

"Shoes off," I say, almost a whisper, and to my surprise he sits on the edge of the bed and starts to remove them as I toe off my own boots and unzip my jeans and slide them off. I leave my t-shirt and briefs on, I don't want to give him the wrong idea here. While he's messing with his boots I tug down the covers as much as I can with him sitting on part of them, and when I hear his second boot hit the floor I push against his shoulder. "Lay down."

He hesitates for a second, then does it. I nudge him over to the other side of the bed where the covers are down, which also happens to be the side away from the phone, just in case, and then pull down the covers on my side and slide in next to him. He's tense. I can feel that without even touching him. I move right up against him, drape an arm and a leg across him and pull him in close.

I don't say anything, don't ask any of the questions my head wants to ask, because something tells me if I push he might run. We're right on the edge of that bridge, front end of the car hanging over the water, swaying, and if I move too much we'll go right over. If I wait, if I'm quiet, then eventually we'll get balanced and maybe then we'll figure out how to find ourselves a more stable position.

I feel him start to relax. It's slow, almost one muscle at a time. Like he's consciously telling each one to let go. After a while he shifts a little, and one of his hands comes up to rest on my arm where it crosses his chest. His fingers are warm through the sleeve of my t-shirt. Surprisingly restless, they stroke and twitch. A few more minutes pass, and then he puts his other hand on my thigh, high up, near my hip, squeezes a little. It's not a come-on, just . . . reassuring. It's nice. Finally he sighs, turns his head, and kind of strokes the side of my face with his nose. Weird, but then, this is Fraser. And it's nice too. I turn my head a little, do the same thing to him, and he chuckles softly.

I feel some of my own tension start to melt as he shifts more, turning in toward me, his arm burrowing under me, uncomfortable for a moment until we get settled again. Feel his lips, warm and soft, against my jaw.

"Ray," he says. That's all.

"Ben," I say back.

Relief is growing. I think the car's stopped swaying. And it's four-wheel drive and we've managed to get it in reverse. Slow, real slow, we're easing back from the edge. I kiss him back, on the cheekbone. Always wanted to do that. He has amazing cheekbones. Hell, he has amazing everything. But I can't wait forever, and I have to know. I don't want to spoil the moment, but this is too important to put off. Keeping my arm around him, I speak quietly into his temple.

"Don't make me guess, Ben. Talk to me."

He stiffens against me, a shudder wracking him. He's quiet for a moment, then finally he dredges up some words. "I. . . what do you want to know?"

Okay. Lay it on the line. Find out what you did. "Did I give you the idea I didn't want you around? Cause if I did, I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, hard, pushing back a little to look at me, his expression horrified. "No, Ray! You didn't do anything, it's just me. I-- I'm sorry. I'm just very bad at this."

"Which this? Talking?"

"That . . . too. But not just that. Relationships in general. I just can't quite seem to get the hang of them."

"God, do I know that feeling," I say, sighing, my fingers moving in his hair, massaging the base of his skull. "You and me, we have to work at this, because neither of us are good at it. So, what was going on in that head of yours?"

"I. . . it's been my experience that my partners tend to . . . leave. I suppose I thought that I would make it less awkward if I went home, since you could hardly be expected to leave your own apartment."

I feel my jaw drop. I feel a sudden, unhappy wash of relief. Maybe I didn't cause this, maybe I didn't do something that made him think I didn't want him. The relief is followed immediately by anger. I can't believe what he's saying here. "So, uh, were they. . . it was 'they,' right? More than one?"

He won't meet my eyes, but he nods. "Yes."

For some reason I find that reassuring. The idea that Fraser might be as virginal as he generally comes across was kind of weird to me. "So, um, were they married?" I ask, trying to figure out why anyone would bed down with Fraser and then take off.

He stares at me in shock. "Ray! Certainly not!"

"Okay, okay, sorry. I just wondered, 'cause I mean . . . well, usually people who don't want to stick around tend to have reasons, like someone else they're making time with."

He sighs. "No. I'm afraid I was the only reason."

"That's bull," I snarl. "Me, I'd say they were unhinged."

He makes a sound, nearly a whimper. "Or I am."

I shake him a little. "Stop that. You're not unhinged, you were just lonely. Everybody gets lonely. Nobody's got a lock on that. And these people you were with before, they were obviously fucked up, because anybody who wouldn't want to stick around you has to be fucked up. Don't let them being fucked up fuck you up, okay?"

He nods, and shudders, ducking his face down so I can't see it. I hug him roughly. "Look, Ben, we all make mistakes. Pick people who aren't good for us. Happens to the best of us, obviously. But you got smarter, 'cause you're here now, right?" I say hopefully. I want to tell him I'll treat him right, but I can't do that, I don't want to tempt fate. I've fucked up before, I might do it again, though I'm going to do my damndest not to. Of course, I also want to find out who hurt him and kick them in the head, but I can't do that.

"God, I hope so," he says softly.

"You tell me who it was, I'll hunt them down and fuck them up for you," I offer.

He smiles a little, shakes his head. "I don't think that will be necessary," he says, and kisses my ear, then strokes my shoulder. I kiss his temple, and squeeze him around the waist a little. We keep doing that, finding weird places to kiss and touch, pulling closer. And it's strange, because it's almost non-sexual.

I mean, yeah, it feels good, but it's not going anywhere, it's just like . . . we can't not do it, can't not touch. Like we're talking to each other with lips, and fingertips, and palms, and inner arms, and knees; using physical contact to reassure and connect, because words don't work. After a little while he seems restless, and he pulls away from me with a little pat on the ass.

I almost protest, but then he's sitting up and taking off his sweater and I relax again. Okay, that's good. That's real good. His jeans follow, but he leaves his shorts on just like I did. He tugs at my shirt, and I'm not stupid, I wrestle out of it and toss it to the floor as he lies back down and pulls me close. Feels even better now. All that smooth, warm skin against mine. The touching is even better now, without so many obstacles. Skin talking.

We keep going like that for a while, wrapping ourselves in connection, and might have just gone to sleep, except that he ups the ante. He starts tasting as well as touching. Soft little licks. Long slow licks. Unpredictable touches of warm, wet tongue on my throat, my shoulder, my wrist, my chin. And it's not like I can't feel that he's half hard. That still stuns me. I turn him on. He wants me. He likes me . . . hello Sally Field . . . and I'm not going to look a gift Mountie in the mouth.

I put my hand under his chin and tip his face up a little, find his mouth with mine. Soft, warm kiss. Gentle. Sweet. I taste him. Sweeter. He tastes me back, a slow reach of tongue, like he's memorizing my mouth. Probably is. His hands come up from my waist, thumbs sweeping across my nipples, very deliberately. Little sparks of pleasure follow his touch. I let my tongue meet his, stroke, and suck.

He whimpers into my mouth, and I slide a hand down his thigh, fingers just inches from his cock. He thrusts toward my hand, asking for touch. Not yet. Not yet. I kiss him some more, let my other hand cup his ass, rubbing a little. He shivers each time my fingers skim across the firm curves of his ass, shifts his hips so he can press himself against my thigh and pump, impatient. Impatient. How weird is that? I'm patient, he's not. But we already did hard and fast, and it was great, but we need to go slower, no more driving off bridges.

Slow. Slow, and easy. I need that right now, think he does too. I soften the kiss, push him over onto his back so I can cover him, line our cocks up right next to each other, and roll my hips against his. The two thin layers of underwear between us mute the sensation just a little, just enough, but we both gasp anyway. He reaches up to stroke his fingertips down my face, across my jaw, then they're sliding behind my neck, bringing me down to him again. I kiss him, gentle, no tongue, roll my hips again.

His hands come up around my hips, trying to force me to move faster, harder, but I lift my mouth from his and shake my head, then lower it again to open his lips with mine, to invite his tongue into my mouth and suck on it. I lift up, and push his boxers down so I can get my hand inside, fingertips skimming his belly just above where his pubic hair starts. He pushes me off him, startling me. For a second I worry, but then I realize he's struggling out of his shorts and I relax. Okay. I have to stop freaking out every time he wants to take his clothes off. He lies back down and tugs deliberately at the waistband of my briefs.

"Ray," he says in a tone I know real well, that on-the-verge-of-annoyed tone.

I laugh and skin out of my briefs, let him pull me over him again. I shift my weight, get a knee between his and nudge his legs apart. He makes a happy-sounding noise and brings his knees up around me, tilting his hips. That nearly breaks my resolve. God. He's asking me to. . . no. Damn it. No. There's no hurry. We can do that later. Not now. Slow, I remind myself. Slow.

Kiss him again, lean to one side, skim my hand down between us. Shift a little, and-- yeah-- there. I can do this. Wrap my fingers around both of us, slow stroke. He gasps, and I almost do. God, that's wild. Good thing I've got long fingers. Good thing I didn't pay attention to just how thick he is before I let him fuck me.

I notice something else a little different from me, too, some slip-and-slide that I don't have. Oh, cool. I mean, I noticed he wasn't cut the first time we were ever in the urinal together, but I never realized how different that would feel. I'm a little jealous, it's . . . fun. Play with that a little, kind of getting off on it, on the feel of him against me, on the slick leakage we're both putting out, twisting my hand across the tops of our cocks to pick up more slick and make the stroke easier.

He whimpers, so I do it again, and he bucks. He likes that. I start throwing that twist in every few strokes, until he's humping up against me, his thighs taut. I reach my other hand down and cup his balls, feel them getting tight. Let my fingers stray lower, down to the smooth spot below his balls, lower still, and I rub two fingers across the little hole there that you swear could never take anything as big as a cock and . . . Jesus, don't think stuff like that when you're trying to be slow and easy.

"Ray," he gasps. "God. . . please!"

His voice cracks hoarsely. I shiver all over. Okay, okay, I've had about as much slow as I can handle. Seems like maybe he has too. Slide my hand out from under him and slide my fingers across our cocks a couple of times, gathering slick wetness on them, then return them to ass while I lower my head, find one of his nipples, a hard little nub under my tongue, and start sucking. Spread that slickness on my fingers where it needs to go as I up the pace, stroking hard, and fast, and not particularly gently.

I can tell by the way he moves and the sounds he's making that he's close. So am I. It's getting hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but feel that twisting tension in my thighs and groin, hard not to let go of my own cock and put it . . . . there. No, this is for him, I think, but he wants more, so I slide a finger in, angling in and down, searching . . . . Ben arches, and I feel the pulse start around my finger, and a second later the hot slickness of his semen is flooding over my fingers and my cock.

I pump us together a few more times, until he shudders and jerks and I know it's too much for him, and I let go. He pulls me down to him, holding me hard, shaking a little. I'm still so hard it almost hurts, but I don't hump him, don't stroke myself. I don't want to distract him, don't want to take any of the pleasure away. After a little while his arms tighten around me in a hug, and he squirms a little on my finger. I figure it's uncomfortable and carefully ease it out of him, and he gasps, and I feel his cock twitch just a little against my stomach.

Ben shifts again, then moves one hand, pushes at my shoulder until I roll us onto our sides, then he slides it down between us and finds my cock. His hand feels so big, and warm, and right, wrapped around me like that. He strokes me gently, slowly, moving down sometimes to cup my aching balls, returning to curl around my penis, to rub his palm across the leaking tip. He lets go for a moment, wipes a handful of come off his belly, returns to stroke me again, a smooth, slick glide.

I'm panting, my hips moving, trying to make him go faster. God, I asked for this, didn't I? Torture, yeah. Good torture. He pushes me onto my back and hooks a hand under one of my knees spreading my legs, and then that hand slides up my inner thigh to play with my balls again, sometimes sliding down between my cheeks to stroke there with a fingertip and after last time I'm so sensitive it makes me jerk and groan.

Oh, God, it's so great, too great, but it's like I can't come, none of it's hard enough or fast enough to make me come. It just keeps building until I'm thrashing around and moaning his name. The come he was using for lube is getting sticky now, and I'm getting friction again, and that's good, that means I'll get to come soon, then I hear the pop of the lube bottle opening and I moan. Shocking cool drizzle over my hot cock, and he's rubbing again, slick and smooth.

He rubs more lube over my balls, then down between my legs, his fingers smoothing in circles around the opening there. I remember him pushing into me, thick, and hard. His finger slides into my ass, retreats, enters, retreats, same rhythm as his hand on my cock, and each time it pushes in it goes a little deeper, and it doesn't hurt at all because I'm slick with lube and sweat and it's not very big. His other hand tightens, twists a little, distracting me as his finger slips all the way in, deep, searches, finds. I whimper. God, I need to come. He presses inside, strokes outside, twists again, and I dig my heels into the bed, shove myself back onto his finger and let go, the pleasure blazing through me like lightning. I feel hot wetness splattering my chest and belly, and I'm sobbing out loud.

I don't even remember him letting go, or taking his finger out of my ass, but the next time I'm noticing anything it's not there, and his tongue is sliding over my stomach. And if I hadn't just come I'd probably do it again as I realize he's licking come off me. I'm not sure whether to get down on my knees and thank God that I seem to have finally been rewarded for every good and semi-good and even just vaguely responsible thing I've ever done in my life, or to be annoyed that Ben is so damned good at everything. I figure probably the former, but I can't resist teasing him a little.

"You always gotta do everything better than everyone else, don't you, Ben?"

He lifts his head, and I see his teeth as his smiles. "Well, I was taught that one should always do one's best, Ray."

I chuckle. "Even hand-jobs?"

"Even so," he agrees, solemnly, and then goes back to licking.

I reach one floppy arm down and scrabble around until I find his hair, pet it a little, and sigh. He stops licking, slides up next to me, propped on an elbow. He smells like me. I pull him over and kiss him. He tastes like me too. Kiss him again, softer, a third time, softer still. He strokes the back of one hand gently against my hair, and then starts to get up. I catch his arm. Where the hell is he going now?

"Hey, what's up?"

"I am."

Roll my eyes, even though he can't see that in the dark. "I figured that part out. How come?"

"I need to urinate."

I laugh, and let go. "Sorry, thought you were trying to leave again. Bring me a washcloth, okay?"

"Certainly." He takes a step, hesitates, then looks back at me, very solemnly. "Ray, I won't leave," he says in a voice that sounds close to breaking, then he turns fast, and heads for the bathroom before I can say anything.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out he's got issues there. I can't believe anyone would leave this man. He's about the best thing that ever happened to me. Were they crazy, or just terminally stupid? I want to talk to him, want to tell him I won't leave either, but the way he took off says he might not be ready yet. He may not have ever had a marriage break up, but I think maybe he's got some of the same problems I picked up while my marriage was going down the tubes. I know that not-good-enough feeling, and it really sucks.

I lay there thinking about that while he whizzes. And okay, it's probably warped of me but I like the fact that he's comfortable enough with me to not close the bathroom door while he does it. I hear him flush, hear water running, and then he's sitting on the bed next to me again, a wet washcloth in one hand. I grab it, wipe my hands off, and toss it at the hamper over by the closet, then pat the bed beside me. "Okay now?"

He nods and lies down next to me kind of stiffly. I'm wondering what the problem is, and it takes me a minute to figure out that it's that he's not used to sleeping with anyone else. I did it for years, I got pretty good at it, but he sleeps alone . . . sleep being the operative word. I nudge him with my knee. "Turn over."

"Excuse me?" he sounds puzzled.

"On your side, turn over. Face away from me."

He does it. I pull him back against me, push a pillow under our heads, and loop my arm across his waist. "There. Better?"

He stays tense for a few seconds, then he sighs, nods, and I can feel him sag a little as he puts one hand over mine where it's spread against his abs. Yeah. Better. Definitely better, I think as I'm dozing off.

* * *


It's past noon when I finally crack an eye open and survey the world, slightly stunned to find Fraser still sacked out next to me in a bed-hogging sprawl that's got me up against the very edge of the mattress. That's kind of funny, since he usually sleeps on something that's about a foot wide. Or maybe that's why he's sprawled out . . .still, it's pretty typical Fraser. Give him an inch . . . . Oooh. Now there's a thought. And not just an inch, either. He was lobbying pretty hard for that last night. Might be fun to try today.

I ease out of bed cautiously and discover I'm not really sore, which is a surprise. Go to the bathroom, wash up, look in the mirror and decide to shave. Normally it doesn't matter if I have a jaw like sandpaper, but if I'm going to be sucking face with Fraser, maybe I should. Beard burn's no fun. Grab my glasses and head in to the kitchen to see what I've got that's edible and hear Fraser groan a little. I duck down so I can look through the pass-through and see him push up on one arm and look at the clock. His expression is priceless. He shoves himself up fast, looks my way.

"Good lord, Ray! Why did you let me sleep so late?"

"Hey, I just got up myself, there was no 'letting' involved. Besides, it's Saturday. It's okay."

He rakes a hand through his hair, rubs his jaw, and nods slowly. "Oh. Yes, you're quite right. I'm just. . . lord, I'm not sure I've ever slept past noon before."

"Well, hey, late night last night. You're allowed. You eat bagels?"

"Yes."

"Good. Want tea?"

"Please."

"I'll put water on."

He stands up, looking around, kind of embarrassed.

"There's a robe in the closet," I offer.

He goes and gets it, pulls it on and looks a lot more comfortable. I try not to smile. He can fuck me six ways to Sunday but he's embarrassed to wander around naked. Guess I better put something on while he's in the bathroom. I put the water on to heat and get the bagels out, then go get a pair of sweatpants and pull them on. Head back in and cut the bagels, stick them in the toaster, and get out plates and mugs. I open the cabinet to dig for my teabags, and when I turn around he's right next to me. He's looking at me kind of oddly and I lift my eyebrows at him. "Hey, Ben. Something the matter?"

He reaches to touch my clean-shaven jaw, and a little smile curls one corner of his mouth. "Yes. Who are you and what have you done with Ray Kowalski?"

I snicker, looking at his jaw. I have more stubble by noon than he grows overnight. "Okay, I resemble that remark. Just thought you might like to show up for work Monday not looking like you've been frenching a Brillo pad."

His eyes warm at that, and he reaches toward me, hesitates, then gets that determined look on his face and his arms go around me, pulling me into a hug. Surprised, I hug him back. He's not a toucher, not a hugger like I am. That was hard for him and I know it. We stand there for a minute, then he steps back, his face a little pink.

"The water's boiling," he says into the quiet.

I hand him a mug and the tea, and rescue the bagels which, as usual, are stuck in the toaster. One of these days I need to get one of those extra wide toasters. Put the bagels on the plates, get out the cream cheese and slather mine, hold up the knife and lift my eyebrows at him. He nods so I do his too, and then make my coffee and we both go sit down at the table to eat. He takes a bite, sips his tea, and looks absently disheveled and sleepy. It's pretty weird, and I find myself staring at him instead of eating, until he catches me at it and looks at me questioningly.

"Sorry. Just. . . spacing out," I fib, taking a bite.

He nods. "Yes. I find I'm a little distracted myself."

I chuckle. "Guess that's not surprising, for either of us." Remembering last night, I figure it'd be a good idea to let him know I want him to stick around, that I want to spend time with him both in and out of bed. "So, I need to go to the grocery store today, I'm out of pretty much everything real, but the rest of my day's free. What else you want to do?"

He looks a little surprised that I'm asking him, but seems pleased. "Well, I need to get Diefenbaker."

I nod. "We can do that, take him for a run or something. And stop by the Consulate and get you some spare clothes."

He blushes again, but nods. "Yes. Good idea."

"Hey, I know, there's a Hawks home game tonight, they're playing the Oilers. We can see if we can scare up tickets. They'll be nosebleed seats but that's okay."

I don't get the reaction I expected at all. Instead of looking pleased he shakes his head. "Actually, I'm not really in the mood for hockey."

I gape at him. "Fraser! That's . . . un-Canadian! That's kind of like saying you're not in the mood for sex!"

"Well, there are times when one might not be in the mood for sex, that's not unreasonable," he says.

He's trying to distract me and I know it. "Oh no you don't. What gives?"

"Nothing ?gives' Ray, I'm simply not interested in attending a hockey game at this time."

There are shadows in his eyes, and he's all stiff and tense again, and I finally get that there's a sore spot here. Back off. Jesus. Shouldn't try to think or talk before the caffeine kicks in. It kind of bothers me that even after last night he doesn't want to tell me about whatever it is. More than bothers me. I mean, we're partners. He knows about all my crap. His can't be that bad. But I remind myself that this is Ben Fraser and though he's gotten some better since I've known him, he's still not real good at that sharing thing. I shrug, trying to be casual.

"Okay, whatever." Take a bite of the bagel I don't want anymore and force myself to chew and swallow, take another swallow of coffee, and decide I've had enough breakfast. "Gonna go take a shower."

I take my dishes into the kitchen, throw two-thirds of the bagel in the trash under the sink and rinse the plate, put it in the dishwasher, then chug my coffee. I know I'm going to need that. Put the cup in the dishwasher too, close it, and I'm about to head for the bathroom when Fraser startles me with a hand on my shoulder.

"Ray. . . I . . . ." he starts, then stops, clearly at a loss.

Oh God that's a scary tone. Apologetic, hesitant. Shit. I close my eyes. First he backs off on doing stuff with me, now this. Instant Stella-flashback. Been here, done this. Yeah. I know this part. Guess maybe I jumped to a conclusion there, thought he'd want to hang out, since he never got to do that before. "It's okay, Fraser. You don't have to say it." Fuck. My voice does not sound good. Not at all.

"No, I'm afraid I do, I really do. I'm sorry, very sorry, but I . . . ."

He stops again, and I'm real glad I didn't eat the rest of that bagel, wish I hadn't had the coffee. "You don't have to apologize. I get it, Fraser," I say, fast, before he can go on. "Enough."

He's quiet for a moment. "You get what?" he asks finally.

Jesus. Make me say it. Okay, I am not going to emotionalize all over him here. He doesn't deal well with that, and I do have a little pride. Deep breath, quiet so he doesn't hear it. Here we go.

"I get that you don't want to hang out, and that's all right," I lie. "You go on home and I'll see you Monday at work. If you want to wait until after I shower I'll give you a ride." Okay, good. That sounded pretty normal, only a little shake there. And hopefully a shower will give me time to get a handle on my feelings, tuck them all in where they don't show.

"Ray!"

He sounds shocked. Shocked enough that I turn around. He's staring at me, eyes wide, and . . . scared? What's that about? He starts shaking his head.

"No. No, you . . . I . . . that's not what I . . . no!"

He reaches out, puts both hands on my shoulders, tries to pull me closer, but my instinct is to resist that right now so I only sway a little bit forward. When he realizes I'm not moving, he shocks me by moving closer himself, his hands sliding up and down my upper arms like he thinks I'm cold and he's trying to warm me.

"I didn't mean to make it sound like that. I'm just . . . damn it, I told you I'm just not good at talking, not like this."

He looks pissed, but it doesn't seem to be with me, and I'm still processing that 'damn it' when he goes on.

"When I said I was sorry, it was an apology, Ray, not for something I planned to say, but for something I'd already done."

I frown. "Done? What?"

"I shut you out," he says bleakly.

My brain is kicking in. I don't know if it's caffeine, relief, or both. "Yeah, you did."

"I'm sorry," he says again, dead serious, staring right into my eyes, inches away. "I find it very hard to talk about certain. . . things. My relationships have been. . . ." He takes a deep breath. "Bad. Mark was actually the better of the two, by far."

"They both guys?"

He shakes his head. "No. No, one was a woman. She. . . I . . . I'm sorry. I just can't talk about her, not yet. It's not your fault, please don't think that."

"No. Okay. I know. Women can really do a number on you." Okay. I overreacted. I need to watch that. But now I've got some clues about Fraser that I didn't have before, and I need more. Maybe I can start with the lesser of two evils, since I don't want to push him to talk about the chick until he's ready. "So, was your mom scared by a hockey player when she was gonna have you?" I ask, trying to make it easier for him to talk. I've noticed that humor seems to help break down his barriers.

He smiles ruefully. "No. No, but I was, as they say, 'burned' by one."

That's such a foreign concept to me that for a second or two I'm thinking burned as in heat, which I know can't be right, but then the detective part of me puts it together. He already told me he had a guy lover before me. I just tried not to think about it much. That's what he's talking about. A weird combination of emotions goes through me, almost all at the same time. I'm jealous. Yeah, I know that one. I'm pissed off, because 'burned' means hurt. And I'm sad, for the same reason. And I'm thrilled, because he's talking to me, telling me, opening up. I need that like I need air.

I lean a hip against the counter, pull him against me, my hands on his waist, his still on my shoulders. "Tell me."

He tries to tense up, and I shake him a little. "It's okay, Ben. Jeez, I've got an ex too, you know. Having exes is like having a minefield, and you gotta give each other maps so you don't step on the damned things by accident."

He nods, staring down at my hands on his waist, one of his hands slides off my shoulder, lifts, fingertips smoothing an eyebrow. "I. . . yes, I know. I'm simply . . . ."

"Not good at this. Yeah. I get it. Who is?"

He looks up, meets my eyes, his blue-gray ones level and regretful. "Well, you seem to be."

I shake my head, "That's only in comparison, Ben. Yeah, so my folks didn't think it was a sin to show an emotion now and then. That doesn't mean I like it, or do it worth a damn."

He smiles a little. "I think you do it very well."

"Well, that's cool, but this isn't about me."

He sighs. "No, no, it isn't. I. . . Mark and I were friends when we were young. I had rather a crush on him, though I wasn't consciously aware of that at the time. He went on to become a successful professional hockey player and we kept in touch for quite some time, until he no longer had the time to spare. I hadn't seen him in years when I happened to meet him again when he was in Chicago with his team for a game. He was a witness to a liquor store robbery."

This is starting to sound real familiar. Real familiar. I remember this, which is impossible because it never happened to us. I don't know any hockey players named Mark, so then how can I rememb. . . oh, shit. I remember because I read it. Well, I read the public version. The Vecchio version. Minus the part where the hockey player was doing Fraser. "Mark Smithbauer," I say.

His head snaps up, his eyes meet mine, startled. "Wha. . . how did you know that?"

"Vecchio's case files," I say. "You bodyguarded. He was cheating."

He's a little pale, but he nods. "Yes, that's correct. I'd forgotten you had to read the files."

"So, he put the moves on you, and then dumped you?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, a flush flaring across his face. "Well, it was rather more complicated than that."

I want to find the guy and use his face for a knuckle rest. Even if he could probably wipe up the ice with me. "Asshole. He knew you had a crush on him. Used that." Fraser is so not a one-night-stand, or one-week-stand, sort of guy. He wouldn't have slept with Smithbauer if he'd thought that's all it was. At least, I don't think so. Maybe I'm projecting, but I think I know Fraser pretty well after all this time. He's . . . courtly. Like someone from another century. He deserves to be treated with respect, not like some fucking groupie.

Fraser shifts uncomfortably. "I would say, rather, that we used one another."

"That's because you're a nice person. I'm not." I think about it. I remember what the guy looks like, saw him on TV a few times. Big guy, good-looking in a rough kind of way, athletic, Canadian. . . and apparently fucked in the head. You get a gift like Benton Fraser dropped in your lap and you dump him? What's with that? "So what happened," I ask. "I mean, he must've taken one too many headshots, to dump you."

He looks embarrassed. "Well, it wasn't entirely his fault." He sighs. "I'm afraid I have . . . had . . . rather a habit of confusing desire and attraction with something . . . deeper."

Ouch. I spend a second fervently hoping he's not still doing that, hoping I'm not doing that. "Well, that's pretty easy to do," I say cautiously.

"All too," he agrees.

"So, let me guess. You started making commitment noises and he freaked and took off for more northerly climes?" I ask, because commitment is what I'd want. It's what I did, once upon a time, before I found out fairy tales lie about the endings. It's what I want now, and am too damned scared to ask for. I wonder suddenly, what happened with the chick. He said she was worse than Smithbauer. What did she do to him? What did she want from him? What did he want from her? I think we'll have to deal with those things, but not now. One step at a time.

Fraser nods, though his eyes still hold a distant pain. "I suppose he probably saw it that way. Essentially, that's what it boils down to, when I think back on it, though at the time I wasn't really aware that I was doing that. In the long run it was just as well, as I eventually realized that though we were quite compatible in . . . er. . . bed--" his face gets even more flushed, "--we weren't remotely compatible out of it."

I can't help myself. I laugh, a short, humorless bark. "Sorry, it's just. . . that sounds kinda familiar there, Ben."

He looks at me shrewdly, and nods. "Yes, well, I suspect there are certain similarities."

At least that's not a problem here, since we've spent close to a year together out of bed and we get along great. When we're communicating, anyway. I decide to risk a question about Fraser's other ex. "What about the chick? Were you more compatible with her?"

Fraser looks grim. "Rather less, as I'm not cut out for a life of crime." My jaw drops, I'm so floored by that, and he adds, "There should have been a file on her, as well, Ray. The case concerned money stolen from a bank in Alaska and used to frame Ray Vecchio and me."

It takes a minute for the memory to surface, but then I get it. "Holy shit, Fraser."

"Indeed. Could we save Victoria for another day, please?"

"No problem, buddy." Now that I have some of the facts, I can understand completely why Fraser wouldn't want to even think about her. Fucking bitch shot Dief, I remember that. Guess he was right about Smithbauer being the better of the two.

I grab on tight to Fraser for a minute, hold him close and try to tell him without words that he's safe with me. I think he knows that already, at least I hope he does, but it feels really good, so I just go with it.

We stand that way for a while, doing the gentle-touching thing, and I start thinking about hockey players again. Smithbauer. Hunh. Who'd have guessed it? I shake my head. "Jocks, go figure. I'd never have thought somebody that macho would let you do that."

Fraser looks at me puzzled. "Let me do what?"

I can feel my face getting kind of hot. "Um. . . you know. That. What we, uh. . . did last night."

"Last night?" I can tell he's reviewing, and his face is getting a little pink too.

"The, uh, the first time."

He blinks, blushes harder, cracks his neck. "Ah. That. Well, he. . . didn't."

He didn't. He didn't? Then . . . . I look at Fraser. "So who. . . um. . . I mean, you knew . . . ."

He clears his throat, stares at the toaster, and puts one of his hands over mine, his thumb stroking across my knuckles. "It's not difficult to figure out the mechanics, once one has been on the . . . other side."

Ohh. Okay. Okay, I'm starting to get it here. "So you never. . . ?"

He shakes his head, still staring at the toaster. I shake my own head, and feel a grin rising despite my embarrassment. "Got kinda turned on, hunh?"

He closes his eyes. "You have no idea," he says in a voice like he found God.

I have to kiss him. Gently at first, going rapidly hot as his tongue slides along my lower lip, then dips in to count my teeth. I pull back a little, grin again. "Oh, I don' t know. I might," I say casually, catching his hand, leading it down to the woody tenting my sweats all the sudden. He cups me, no hesitation, fingers squeezing, rubbing the soft fleece against my cock. I take his mouth again, leaning into him hard, flicking my tongue inside, pulling back to nip at his lower lip. More kissing, this time he pulls back a little.

"Didn't you say something about a shower?" he asks huskily.

Oh, now there's a thought. Naked, wet, slippery Fraser. Oh yeah. "Mmmm, I might have," I say. "I mean, gotta get clean, right?"

"Certainly. It's only civilized," he agrees.

"I dunno about you, but I don't think what I'm thinking is even remotely civilized," I growl against his ear.

He shivers, clears his throat. "I. . . I've always been comfortable in the wild."

Okay, that does it. I head for the bathroom, dragging him with me. Well, not exactly dragging, he's moving pretty eagerly too, and I know I'm going to be really happy about the fact that my building has a huge hot-water heater. Start the water, skin out of my sweats about the same time the robe hits the floor, and we spend a few seconds necking in front of the shower before climbing in and closing the door behind us.

It's a tight fit for two grown men, but we don't mind being close. To my surprise, he doesn't grab me right off. Instead he picks up the shampoo and puts some in his palm, then starts to work it through my hair. His fingers feel great on my scalp, massaging and stroking.

"I like your hair," he says. "I've always wanted to touch it."

"Yeah?" I ask, kind of dazed. I'm having trouble getting used to a touchy-feely Benton Fraser. Not that I would give him up for a second.

"Yes. From the first day, from the moment you turned around. It was somewhat. . . disorienting."

"Well, you kinda had a lot to be disoriented about. God that's nice."

"Good. Rinse now."

He pulls me back into the stream of hot water and I rinse, and then move out of it again and shake my head to clear the water out of my eyes. Before I can reach for him, he's got the conditioner, and is working that in. His fingers slide and slick on my hair, and then he stops for a moment.

"Hmmm," he says.

"What?"

"Nothing. Rinse again."

I do, and before he can get at me again I grab the soap and get my hands nice and slick, rub them down his back, cup his ass. He's just. . . solid, all over. Smooth, and, well, curvy, but not at all like slim, soft Stella. Feels strange. Good. For quite a while now the only person I've touched is me, and I don't feel anything like him either, I'm rougher, bonier, stringier.

He shifts under my hands as I rub, making little half-grunted sounds of appreciation that make me slightly crazy. I let my fingers go between those muscular cheeks, to stroke and tease while I rub myself up against him, my cock against his, trapped between our wet bodies. His hips follow mine, and I can feel the muscles in his ass tighten and release as he moves. Cool.

"Yes," he breathes, his head tilting back, exposing his throat. I must be part vampire, because that makes me want to bite. Remember his teeth on the back of my neck last night, maybe it's one of those instinct things. I lick the side of his neck, taste water, and, faintly, Fraser. Suck on his earlobe, and he jerks, and moans.

"Ray. . . ."

I bite a little. He jerks again.

"Ray!"

"Mmm?" I ask, flicking my tongue in his ear. He grabs one of my hands, puts something in it. I look down at the tube of conditioner in my hand, puzzled. "You want me to do your hair?" I ask, not sure why he didn't give me the shampoo first.

He laughs, shakes his head. "No." He turns around and braces both arms against the tiles.

I look at the tube a little dubiously, but he usually knows what he's talking about so I guess I'll trust him on this one. After all, it's his ass. I twist the cap, squeeze some onto my fingers, rub it around a little. It is pretty slick. As good as the expensive kind in the bottle on the nightstand, really. Better in some ways because this stuff stays where you put it. I slip my hand down between his cheeks and soothe some of it over him, and he shifts a little, so the water's not going straight down his back and washing it right off again.

Start easy, kind of massaging. Take it slow, maybe a little slower than he did last night because I have no idea what I'm doing, though it's not easy to go slow-- my body's asking me what the hell I'm waiting for. Fraser reaches back, grabs my hand, and pushes my fingers hard against him. Okay, guess he feels the same way. That gives me the shakes all the sudden. I mean, like he said, the principle's pretty easy here, but damn it, this is Fraser, and that makes a difference.

I wrap an arm around his waist and find his cock with my left hand, stroke it kind of awkwardly as I work a finger into him. He shudders and moans, bucking into my fingers, and I can feel his cock swell a little at the combined sensations. That reassures me, and I stroke him inside, where he's hot, and smooth and . . . small. Jesus. Okay, Ray, relax. If you could take him, he can take you. Stroke some more, cock, ass, both, he moans, his hands fisting on the tiles.

Okay, what'd he do next? Oh yeah, two fingers. Let go of him for a second to grab the conditioner and layer more of it onto my fingers, put them back. They go in easy, way easy. Maybe this will work after all. Where's that. . . search a little, no, not there . . . . He gasps and humps air for a second, then he shifts his feet further apart.

"Ray. . . please."

Something about that so-familiar word said in that unfamiliar moan just about does me in. If I wasn't soaking wet I'd be sweating. Hell, I probably am sweating, just can't tell. Pull my hand back, stroke some of the slick stuff over my cock, shuddering as I try not to come before I even get inside him. I ease up close, one hand on my cock as I fumble myself into place, my other arm back around his waist, groping for his cock. I push in, and he pushes back, and we slide together, lock and key.

Jesus. Tight, hot, smooth as silk. I mean to take it slow, but he feels so fucking good. My hips pump once, despite myself, and his head drops forward, and I see his hands clench and unclench against the wall.

"Yes!" he hisses through his teeth. "God. . . yes, that's it. That's . . . perfect."

Unfamiliar word this time, familiar voice, husky, panting, exerting. That gets him another pump, and he moans, his feet sliding a little, toes pigeoning inward as he tries to get traction on the slippery tub. I brace against him, tighten my arm around his waist, and thrust again. Starting to get it now. What he wants, what I need-- we need. He shifts a little more, shoulders down, ass back, and we're stable, and I've got it down, found the music. Hips moving, swaying into him, my slick hand folded tight around his cock. Faster, harder, and he meets me, more than halfway, hot, and wild, and yeah, he had the right word, perfect. Perfect.

Feel his stomach tighten behind my arm, feel him arch, and his head goes back, bliss all over his face as he starts to come, deep, rhythmic pulses starting inside where I can feel it all around me. Can feel it outside, too, in the way his cock jerks in my hand, his semen lost in the swirl of water down the drain. My thighs start to shake, and then I'm holding him hard as I lose it, bucking into him roughly, wringing a last moan and shudder from him as I come in ecstatic waves, my head against his back, my arms tight around his chest.

He slides to his knees, and I go with him. We kneel in the pounding spray, panting. I know it's just sex, but God it feels like more. It is more. He just gave me the trust I've been wanting from him since day one. Gave it to me unconditionally, truthfully. I hug him hard, trying to convey what I'm feeling in some way that doesn't involve words, since I'm no damned good at that. His hands cover mine, and he squeezes back, telling me the same thing. He may be good at words when he's working, but not here. Here he's just as bad as I am.

The kneeling thing doesn't last long, the tub is hard on the knees, and I ease back, uncoupling us. Fraser hisses and shivers a little, and I soothe him with one hand. I'm not quite sure how, but I manage to get to my feet, and hold a hand down to pull him up too.

"God, I'm so too old to do this humping like minks at the drop of a hat thing," I sight with a grin. "We gotta slow this down, Ben."

He looks at me, his expression almost comically disappointed, before he realizes I'm teasing him. "Ah, but just think of how beneficial it is for your cardiovascular system."

I grin. "Yeah, well, you're already good for my heart."

That gets me grabbed and kissed until I can't breathe. He finally lets me go and we pant for a few seconds. The steamy air doesn't help, though it's not gonna be steamy much longer if we don't finish up, even with an apartment-type hot water tank. I grab the shampoo and do his hair. He's getting careless about the length, letting it get a little long between trips to the barber. I think that's a good sign, I think that means he's being less Mountie and more Benton Fraser. It's thick and soft under my fingers, and up this close I can see some gray flecks at his temples, and a few elsewhere. I remember the pictures I've seen of his dad, all steel and snow, and wonder if Ben'll go gray like that.

Something shivers through me at that thought, at the idea of knowing him then, of still being . . . whatever we are now, together, when he's gray and I'm still dyeing mine blonder because I'm a vain s.o.b. Then it hits me that I just thought of him as Ben, not Fraser. I've been saying it, but not thinking it. It feels . . . strange, but good. I kiss him again, and push him under the water to rinse. Pull him out again and pick up the conditioner with a chuckle. "How'd you know this would work?" I ask, squeezing some out and working it into his hair.

"I read the label," he says, leaning back into my fingers.

I look at it. Nope, I'm not crazy. "Nowhere on this tube does it say ?conditioner and personal lubricant,' Ben."

He chuckles. "I meant I read the ingredients, Ray. Amodimethicone, gylcerin and methylparaben are all commonly used in lubricants. The other ingredients are all cosmetic grade and largely inert, and as there is no warning against ingestion, it was relatively simple to extrapolate that it would be safe for our purposes."

"I love it when you talk dirty, Ben. Rinse." I soap down fast while he's doing that, and when he's done we trade so I can rinse and he can soap, and we get out just as the water's beginning to cool down.

"I'm afraid your fellow tenants won't thank us for our water consumption," he says, his head half-buried in a towel.

I drag my attention back from watching water droplets run down his chest and disappear into the thick, dark curls around his cock. "Hunh? Oh, yeah, well, it's afternoon, nobody's likely to be showering right now anyway. And they can do laundry in cold."

"That's not very community minded," he says, frowning faintly.

"Well, if you think any of them would care if they used all the hot water, then I'll be happy to pretend I do."

He thinks about that. "Point taken. So, aside from getting Diefenbaker, and going grocery shopping, what would you like to do today?"

"I dunno, what's the weather supposed to do?"

"Yesterday's weather report said there was a sixty percent chance of snow, and judging by the way the light's coming in the windows I would suspect that the forecast was an accurate one."

I wrinkle my nose. "Snow. Well, that lets out nude sunbathing. . . ."

"Well, actually, Ray . . . ."

"You are not ever going to convince me that there's such a thing as Inuit nude sunbathing in snowstorms, Fraser, so give that one up right now."

He chuckles. "As you wish."

I watch him pull on his jeans, and frown a little. "You have anything you can wear out?" I ask.

"Wear out where?"

"Dinner, concert, that kind of thing."

"I see. Well, I generally wear my dress uniform to such events."

"That's not what I asked. Do you have a suit? A blazer? A shirt that is neither plaid nor thermal?"

"Ah . . . no. Not as such."

"Yeah, and not as anything else, either. Okay, that's on the agenda for today then."

"What is?"

"Getting you a suit, a shirt or two, maybe a tie."

"Ray! I . . . ."

I hold up my hand. "Do not try to tell me you can't afford it, Ben. You don't have rent, mortgage, or car payments, so unless you're paying serious alimony to those three ex-wives you got up in Yellowjacket, Whiteknife and Moose Nostril, or you got a gambling problem you've been hiding, or somebody's blackmailing you, you can definitely afford to buy one suit."

He looks at me like I'm terminally unhinged. "Moose Nostril?" he asks, one corner of his mouth twitching as he tries not to smile.

"You know what I mean."

"Hmm, it's odd, I can't recall having married three times, either, perhaps I'm suffering from some form of stress-induced amnesia. . . ."

"Yeah, stress at spending money, you tightwad. We're going shopping."

He balks, I knew he would.

"I really don't see why it's necessary, my uniform serves perfectly well," he says, sounding a little pissy about it.

I sigh, and look at him meaningfully. "Maybe I don't want to have dinner with Constable Fraser, okay? Maybe I just want to go out with Ben."

He absorbs that with a blink, tilts his head a little, and his eyes narrow as he studies me. After a moment his gaze warms, and he lets his smile out a little. "In that case, yes, I think shopping would be entirely appropriate."

I relax a little. He got it. Thank God. I was afraid for a second there that he would think I was dissing the Uniform, and I'm not. I just want to hang out with the man, not the Mountie.

* * *


Fraser was right, it's snowing. Not a lot yet, but enough to slush up the streets. We go to Turnbull's and he's not home, so we head to the Consulate, which is also empty, except there's a note there for Fraser from Turnbull saying that he's taken Dief out on an ?expedition' and he hopes Fraser doesn't mind but he'll have him back by six. Since that means we're free for a while, I drag Fraser off to the place where Stella and I always used to get my suits.

We get inside and stand in the foyer for a few, shaking snow off our coats and taking them off. It's a nice store, not a chain, and no annoying muzak or clueless salesbots. I know the guy who owns it, went to school with him from sixth grade all the way through high school. His dad used to own it and he took it over when his dad retired. They've got something classical on the sound system. Fraser listens for a minute and nods knowingly.

"Vaughan-Williams," he says. "Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. Lovely piece."

"Yeah, kinda sad, though." I sniff the air a little. "This place always smells a little funky."

He sniffs too. "Silk and wool do have quite distinctive odors. I think you're also smelling the starch and sizing used on the fabrics, and . . . ."

Before he can tell me what the janitor had for dinner last night, I see Doyle Murphy heading our way, smiling broadly.

"Ray Kow . . . ."

"Vecchio," I correct him before he can get the rest of it out of his mouth. "Ray Vecchio, Doyle."

He looks a little puzzled but he goes with it. "So, Mr. Vecchio, it's been a long time since you've been in. Welcome back." He looks around curiously. "Is Mrs. . . Vecchio with you?"

Ouch. Forgot about that. "Nope. Mrs. Vecchio isn't Mrs. Vecchio any more." God that sounds even weirder than the truth. "Which is, by coincidence, why I haven't been in for awhile." Time to change the subject. "Doyle, this is Fraser. He needs a suit."

Doyle's eyes sweep over Fraser like he's memorizing him for a line-up, and his whole face lights up. "Oh yes, he certainly does," he agrees in a kind of purring voice that I know means he's thinking serious money.

I snap my fingers. "Doyle. Yo, Doyle. Pay attention. Nothing too expensive. Nothing trendy. Nothing too out there-- no Versace, no Miyake. Just classic stuff. Got me? I don't want to have to get physical with you here."

He knows I mean it too, even though the last time I punched him out we were in eighth grade. He nods.

"All right. Let me see what I can find. Lauren okay? Maybe Dior?"

"Yeah, low end. Last season."

"Single or double?"

"You tell me."

He looks at Fraser critically. "With that shoulder to hip ratio, I'd say double, but I'll pull both, just to see."

"Go for it."

"What are we talking, about a . . . forty-four regular?"

"Do I look like a tailor? Get a tape measure."

Doyle sighs. "Color?" he asks plaintively.

"I like brown," Fraser puts in helpfully.

I shake my head. "No. No brown. You have a brown uniform, you can't have a brown suit. That's cheating."

Fraser sighs, sounding resigned, and I can't believe he didn't put up a fight. Guess it's because he's in unfamiliar territory. Menswear is probably pretty scary for him. I look at Doyle. "No black either, too severe. Anything else."

Doyle fishes a tape measure out of his pocket and checks a couple of Fraser's vital stats and then heads off to round up some prospects. Fraser looks at me like he just found out I'm really the Crown Prince of Molgravia or something. I lift my chin.

"What?"

"I just . . . you. . . seem to know a great deal about haberdashery. I hadn't realized it was an interest of yours."

I shrug. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't exactly call it an interest, but you don't spend fourteen years married to The Stella and not learn your way around a suit. Doesn't mean I want to do it every day."

"No, no certainly not. No ?crispy' shirts."

Geez, he remembered that? Funny. "That's right. I like to be comfortable. But I pay attention."

"I do like that blue suit of yours, the one you wore during the Scarpa case."

"You do?" That surprises me. I didn't even think he'd noticed I was wearing a suit, considering how much of his attention was on Lady Shoes.

He nods. "Yes. You looked very handsome in it."

I can feel my face getting red at the idea that Fraser just said I'm handsome, in public, but fortunately Doyle is heading back our way with an armful of suits. I reject a couple right off the bat. I mean, come on, sage green? I know I said last season, but really. I think he only brought that one to see what I'd do. A couple are too boxy, so they get discarded too, and we're left with three, one blue and two gray, one of which is a slightly darker and bluer shade than the other.

Doyle gets Fraser a shirt to try things on with and sends him to the dressing room. He looks at me like he wants me to come too, and I shake my head. I'm pretty sure he can dress himself and both of us in a dressing room is a bad idea. Besides, I need to talk to Doyle without Fraser around. Once he's inside and the door's closed I turn to Doyle. "Hey, Doyle. How's business?"

"I can't complain. What's with the Vecchio thing?"

"Undercover assignment."

He nods. "I figured it was something like that. Hey, I'm sorry about. . . I mean, I hadn't heard, about you and. . . well. Sorry."

"Yeah. Thanks. Probably for the best all around."

"Seeing anybody?"

"Um. . . yeah. It's pretty new, though. Don't want to jinx it. Look, do me a favor with Fraser, here, okay?"

"Sure, anything. What?"

I fish out my wallet and get out my credit card, holding it out. "Whatever the suit we end up getting costs, don't charge him more than five hundred, okay? Tell him it's on sale. Put the difference on my card."

His eyebrows go up. "How come?"

"He's Canadian," I say. "A Mountie. Kinda my partner, we have this international cooperation thing going." Doyle knows Canadian money's not worth a lot down here, and I figure he knows cops don't get paid all that good to begin with.

Doyle nods sagely. "Gotcha." He looks speculatively at the dressing room. "Heck, if he'd be willing to do a few shots for an ad, I'd be tempted to just comp him the suit. It's be good for business."

I frown. "What's that mean?"

Doyle shrugs. "A guy who looks like that wearing one of our suits? Nice publicity."

Okay, Doyle thinks Fraser's good looking. Well, that's not exactly news, everyone thinks Fraser's good looking, but for some reason it irks me. "Look, Fraser's not like that, he doesn't see that, and he gets embarrassed easy. Just put it on my card."

Doyle nods and goes to take down the information off my card. Fraser comes out, in the blue suit and I just about drop my teeth. Yeah, it was a real good idea for me not to go in there with him. I don't think Doyle would appreciate the results. He's barefoot with the suit, which for some reason really turns my crank, and I'm glad I have my coat to hold in front of my crotch.

The suit's a Ralph Lauren in a wool so heavily felted it's almost velvety, with a slightly slanted double pocket treatment that emphasizes his waist like the pocket flaps on his uniform do. Unfortunately that same feature means it will go out of style faster. Still, the blue is good on him. Really good. He needs to wear more blue.

"Ray?"

"Sorry, Ben. Just trying not to drool, here," I say with a wink. "Turn around."

He turns, stiffly, and I'm not as happy with the back. It's single vent, and just doesn't do much for his ass. Of course now that I think about it maybe that's a good thing, but still. "Unbutton."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"The jacket, Ben."

He blushes. "Ah. Yes."

Doyle comes back as he's doing that, his hand sliding my credit card deftly into his pocket as he sees Fraser. He whistles softly. "Very nice."

Fraser reddens and fidgets uncomfortably, and I nod. "Yeah, looks good," I say matter-of-factly. "Okay, go do one of the other ones, Ben."

He quickly disappears into the dressing room and Doyle looks at me. "Sorry. He really is kind of shy, isn't he?"

I nod. "Yeah. Way."

He shakes his head. "What a guy like that has to be shy about. . ." he starts, then he gets a little pink and uncomfortable-looking, like maybe it occurred to him he was talking about a guy. "Well, anyway, here's your card back, we're all set. So, um. . . you and Stella, what happened?"

I pocket the card and shrug. "Just. . . different people now, that's all. You know how it goes."

He nods companionably. "Yeah. Yeah, sometimes I feel that way with Marilyn, but we've got the kids, that helps us remember it's important to work on it."

I know he doesn't mean it the way it sounds, but the subject's kind of a sore one. Fortunately Fraser steps out again, in one of the gray suits. The single-breasted. Another Lauren, tailored enough to not be too boxy but there's nothing very special about it. We make him turn around, and I definitely know it's not this one. The blue one was better than this. I wave him back into the dressing room to try again.

"So, how's your dad?" I ask Doyle, trying to get him off the subject of my personal life. It works, and he launches into a rant about how his dad can't leave the place alone, is always coming in and rearranging stock, and telling him he needs more ties and stuff. Ties. That reminds me, Fraser'll need a tie. And a handkerchief. And, God, shoes, socks... he can't wear his hiking boots with a suit. He's going to kill me. The dressing room door opens again, and God damn he is gonna kill me, I'm going to keel over right here and now, heart failure. But at least I'll die happy.

I look over at Doyle, and if I didn't know he was arrow straight I'd sock him for the way he's looking at Fraser. But he is, so I can't. This suit's a double breasted Dior, charcoal gray with just a hint of blue to it, and I know it's just a bunch of fabric, but Fraser in it is . . . wow. Okay, so maybe Stella was onto something about the right suit being a real plus.

Fraser clears his throat, looking at us curiously. "Is it all right?'

"Um. . . yeah, Ben. It's, uh, greatness." I look at Doyle again. "That one."

He nods, hard. "Absolutely that one."

Fraser turns, looks at himself in the mirror, frowning slightly. "Do you think so? I thought the last one was perfectly acceptable, and, ah . . . it's not quite so dear."

Dear. Oh yeah, that's Canadian for pricey. I nudge Doyle with an elbow and rub my fingers together. He gets it.

"Actually, Mr. Fraser all the suits I brought over were off the clearance rack, since Mr. Vecchio said nothing too expensive. The price on the tag is the original price, however after markdown the one you're wearing will be four eighty-five."

Fraser frowns at the mirror some more, then looks at Doyle. "So with tax, it would be-- five hundred twenty seven forty-four?"

Doyle pulls out a calculator and crunches numbers, then looks up, surprised. "Yeah. Exactly."

Well, it's more than five hundred, but if it was right on the money that'd probably make Fraser suspicious so I'm not too mad. And I know I guessed right about his expense tolerance when he nods thoughtfully.

"I see."

"Why don't you go change back to your street clothes?" I suggest. "Think about it."

He agrees and disappears again. Doyle looks at me. "I could use a clerk who can do taxes in his head."

"Forget it, Doyle, I don't think he's clerk material. But you did good. Look, we need a few other things, shirt, tie, socks. I'll pick those up too, okay?"

"He nods. Tone on tone is in this year. I have a shirt that will be perfect. You want to pick out a tie and a pocket square?"

I nod and head for the ties while he goes to get the shirt. Find a nice muted paisley silk, all in shades of gray, except for a little swirl of red here and there, same shade as his uniform so I figure Fraser'll like that. Plain gray pocket square. Detour over by the socks and find some gray ones, plain, no goofy patterns or stuff. Wonder how I'm going to get him shoes. Oh shit. Hems.

"Fraser, don't take the pants off!" I yell across the store. "Doyle! We need that suit for tonight! Can you run the hems now?"

He puts the shirt down on the counter and nods. "Yeah, it's dead today, no problem. It'll take me five minutes. I'll go mark them for him."

"Shoes," I say morosely. "He's only got hiking boots."

Doyle looks stricken. "You're kidding?"

"No."

"Jeez, Ray, even your biker boots are better than that. Okay, hang on. Two doors down, Discount Footwear."

I grin and pile my haul on the counter by the shirt. "Love ya, Doyle. I'll be back."

It hits me as I'm heading out the door that I know Fraser's shoe size. That's. . . scary. I wonder for a second what Doyle makes of all this. He didn't bat an eye, but it's got to be a little weird, me buying stuff for Fraser. Maybe he thinks it's part of the undercover thing. As I zip my coat up I frown about the fact that it's a problem, that we can't just tell people, and have it be okay. Sucks.

Thinking dark thoughts about why people can't just live and let live, I duck into the shoe store and I must be living right, because I find a pair of gray nubuck slip-ons with a side buckle kind of like my boots have. Right size, right color, and right price-- only forty bucks. I pay for the shoes and dash back to Murphy's with them. Fraser's out of the dressing room again, still wearing the pants, and he and Doyle are discussing Fraser's amazing mathematical abilities and the fact that you can't get good help these days. I give Doyle the evil eye and hand Fraser the shoe box and the socks I picked out.

"Doyle, Fraser doesn't have a green card so stop trying to recruit or I'll have to arrest you. Fraser, go put these on so Doyle can do the hems."

"Actually, Ray, because of NAFTA I don't need a green card, as long as . . . ."

"Fraser. Shoes. We still have errands to run."

"As you say." He looks at the box and frowns. "Ray, did you buy these?"

"Yeah. You can pay me back. Just go put them on."

He shoots me a look that tells me we're going to Have Words on this topic, but he does take the shoes and socks and goes and sits down to put them on. Doyle gets the hems marked and Fraser goes and changes, handing out the pants to Doyle and emerging in his street clothes a few minutes later. Doyle's busy in the back with the pants, and Fraser comes over, carrying the shoe box.

"May I have the receipt please?"

"Nah, don't worry about it," I say, figuring it's worth a try.

"Ray." He sounds irked. "The receipt please. I'm not carrying enough cash to repay you right now, but I can write you a check or I'll get you cash on Monday."

"Ben, didn't your granny teach you that you don't reimburse people for gifts?"

He opens his mouth to protest, closes it, and looks really annoyed. "That was low, Ray."

I grin. "Yeah, well, sometimes with you a guy's got to play dirty."

He gives me a look that promises I'll get my just desserts for that later, and then Doyle comes out with the suit on a hanger in a Murphy's suit-bag and Fraser gets out his checkbook. As he starts writing I look at Doyle questioningly and he nods so I know the extra goodies are in the bag too, and I nod back. He slips me the receipt for my part of the tab when he shakes my hand as we're on the way to the door. I hope to hell Fraser never figures that one out.

Finally we're out of there. Hit the grocery store, and discover that Fraser has even weirder taste in food than I thought. There I am buying fresh vegetables, and meat from the butcher counter, and he's sticking Dinty Moore beef stew, baked beans, and canned peas in the cart. I stop then, and look at him. "What are you doing, Fraser? Are we going camping?"

He looks puzzled. "No, why?"

"What's with all the long-term preservation stuff?"

He looks in the cart, then back at me, puzzled. "I'm not sure I take your meaning. It's just food."

"You eat that kind of stuff all the time?"

He nods. "Yes."

"No wonder you liked the grub on the Henry Anderson," I say shaking my head.

"Allen."

"Yeah, whatever. I take it cooking isn't your strong suite?"

He looks embarrassed. "Ah, no. That would be correct. It's not a skill either my father or my grandparents cultivated. It's a difficult one to learn living in an environment where most of your supplies come in tins."

"Well, that's okay, that's cool. Everybody's got to suck at something, right?"

"I'm not sure I would put it quite that way, but I suppose in principle I would agree that we all have different skill sets."

"Yes, we do. Fortunately for me what you lack in the cooking department you make up for in the . . . eating department."

I wasn't sure he'd get it but he goes red and coughs so I know he did. He's not as innuendo-challenged as he likes to let on.

"Ray! We're in public!" he whispers.

I sigh, depressed all of the sudden. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. Come on. Let's go back to my place." I steer the cart toward the front of the store, and he stops me by snagging my sleeve.

"Ray?"

He sounds uncertain, and I turn. "Nothing you did wrong, Ben. Just. . . ." I can't think of how to say it, and a frustrated sound comes out instead. "Just . . . I hate that we have to think that way."

"Think what way?"

"Look, we can't talk about this in here. Come on, let's go home."

We get to the checkstand and I let him pay, I don't want to argue, not when I know we've got what may turn into an argument ahead of us. It pretty much offsets the shoes. We take the bags out to the GTO and as I start the car I look at my watch and swear. It's nearly five. By the time we get home, unload the groceries and put them away, it'll be time to go get Dief. I rest my head on the steering wheel for a second and feel Fraser's hand on the back of my neck.

"Ray, I'm sorry. Whatever it was I said that precipitated this mood . . . ."

I shake my head under his hand. "You didn't do anything but remind me how screwed up the world is, Ben. Something I already knew but have kind of been avoiding thinking about the last couple of days."

"I'm afraid I'm not following," Fraser says, puzzled.

I lift my head and look at him. "Come on, Ben. You said it yourself in there. We're in public. And as long as we are, we can't touch, can't joke, can't kiss, or hug, and all just because we're both guys."

I see the light dawn. He clears his throat, and scratches his eyebrow. "Ah. Er. . . well, to be honest, I suspect I would have had the same reaction were you a woman, Ray."

I stare at him wondering for a second if he's saying something about my masculinity, and then I get what he means and I can relax again, even start to laugh. "Oh, Jesus. Yeah, you would, wouldn't you? Okay. So maybe discretion's not such a bad thing after all. Eighteen-ninety penal code is perfect for you. But we should talk about how we handle it, you know."

"I don't think there's any need for us to change our relationship in any overt fashion. In fact, to do so would invite more suspicion than it averts."

I think about that. He's got a point. We do pretty much hang out all the time and nobody seems to think anything about it. So as long as we're not doing the public display thing, there's no reason why anyone would think twice. But it still sucks. I frown. "I still hate that it's got to be a secret."

He sighs. "Yes, well, I concur, but even I have to admit there's very little chance of changing most people's minds on the subject, and no point in tempting fate." He looks at me earnestly. "There's a substantial risk involved, I realize that, and I would be extremely disturbed to be the cause of any sort of retaliatory action toward you."

I glare at him indignantly as I realize what he's saying. "Oh, so it's okay if you get gay-bashed but not me?"

He frowns. "I didn't mean . . . ."

"Good," I cut him off. "Because the same goes for me." I sigh, and nod. "Yeah, hate it but it's the smart thing to do, you're right. Okay. So, let's go by the Consulate and see if Turnbull's back yet, if not we'll wait there. I don't want to get home just to turn around and go out again."

Turnbull's there waiting for us when we arrive, and Dief is sacked out snoring on the floor in front of the reception desk. He doesn't even wake up when we walk in. Turnbull says it's because he took him down to the lakeshore fishing and Dief spent the day chasing waves and gulls and wore himself out. He takes a lot of wearing out, so they must've been fishing for a while. Only Turnbull would go fishing in a snowstorm.

Fraser goes into his office to get a change of clothes and I lean on the desk and look at Turnbull, who looks weird out of uniform. He looks mostly normal, and maybe even kind of nice-looking or he would be if he had half a brain. I'm surprised again that he and Frannie haven't hooked up. I mean, he's her type and unlike Fraser he doesn't run screaming from the room when she bats her eyelashes. Of course, that's probably because she's batting them at Fraser, not him.

"So, you catch anything?"

"Yes, I did, Detective. Several catfish, and a good sized whitefish. It appears they're making somewhat of a comeback."

"Good for them. You, um, you aren't gonna eat them, are you?"

"Oh, certainly not. Catch and release. This close to the city I'm afraid the mercury and pesticide levels are probably astronomical. So have you and Constable Fraser been working today?"

"Not today, last night, though. Had to interview a witness at three a.m."

"Ah, and he spent the night with you?"

"Yeah," I say, casually, remembering the 'no big deal' angle. "Even my couch is better than that cot of his."

He nods. "I must say I do think it would be nice if he found more comfortable lodgings. I hate to think of him sleeping on that cot," he sighs.

Turnbull's a big softy, but it's nice to see that he cares about Fraser as a person, not just his superior.

"Perhaps you could try to convince him he needs to find more suitable lodgings?" he asks, hopefully.

I cough. "Um, yeah. Maybe. And maybe pigs'll fly, but hey. . . ." I shrug. Fraser's not big on doing stuff for himself, but I find I want to do something nice for him. I never dated a guy before, don't know the drill, but I always liked doing the romantic stuff. . . dinner, dancing. Well, dancing is out, but dinner should be okay. There was this restaurant I once went to with Stella that was cool. It was a legal-beagle thing and boring as hell but the food was great, and they had stuff I figure Fraser will like. Maybe I can get a reservation for tonight. "Hey, Turnbull, you got a yellow pages?" I ask.

"Certainly. Which section?"

"The one with the R's."

He pulls one out of a drawer and hands it to me. "Here you are."

I flip to the restaurant section, put my finger under the number I want and pull out my phone. I'm starting to dial when Turnbull sees what I have my finger under and looks up at me.

"When are you trying to get in?" he asks.

"Tonight," I say, kind of annoyed. What business is it of his?

He shakes his head sadly. "I'm afraid you'll never get into Everest on this short notice, Detective."

I stop dialing. "I won't?"

"Highly unlikely. They're usually booked several weeks in advance."

"And you know that how?" I can't imagine him being in a place like that. Hell, I can't see me there. Now Fraser, that's different.

"My friend Martin works there. He's their dessert chef."

"Oh. Guess he'd know."

"Yes. Is this for a special occasion?"

"Um, yeah, sort of." He's right, I know he is. Good restaurants are always booked a while in advance. Damn. I hang up and start looking at other listings, trying to think of someplace decent where we might have a hope in hell of getting in tonight. I really want to do this, I don't really know why. It's just. . . Fraser's special, and he deserves to be treated like he is, but nobody ever seems to.

"Hmmm," Turnbull says. "Are you particular about your table placement?"

I look up. "What? Um, no. Don't care. One's as good as another."

"Give me just a moment then." He picks up the consulate phone and dials. A few seconds later he's chattering away in French to someone on the other end. I catch the name "Martin" and suddenly I get it, and I feel heat in my face as I realize Turnbull is trying to get me a table so I can take Fraser out to dinner, but he doesn't know that. The conversation goes on for a few more seconds, then he's saying my name with a French accent, well, not really my name but Vecchio's name, sounds funny in any case, then he says "Au 'voir, cher'" kind of low and . . . sultry, and hangs up, smiling as he looks at me.

"You're in luck. They've had some weather-related cancellations and Martin was able to work you in at seven forty-five. It won't be a stellar table, but adequate nonetheless. There aren't any truly bad tables."

"Turnbull, you're a wonder. I owe you one."

"Not at all, Detective, I'm happy to help. I hope you have a good time. Be sure to have dessert, Martin is a wonderful chef."

"I'll save room," I tell him. Not like that's a hardship. That's the best part of the meal. Fraser sticks his head out of his office, and eyes Turnbull meaningfully, then ducks inside again. What the heck is taking him so long? How long does it take to grab fresh skivvies and his shaving kit? Then I get it. He's being discreet. Doesn't want Turnbull to see. Okay, I need to cause a distraction. I look up the stairs. "Hey, is the Queen crooked?"

Turnbull's up on his feet like a shot, dashing up to the picture, eyeing it critically. "Perhaps a tad. I'll adjust her, would you let me know when she appears straight?"

"Sure, no problem," I say, and jerk a thumb toward the door as Fraser looks out. He nods and slides past me carrying a small satchel, opening the door and heading for the car. "Move the left corner down a little," I call up to Turnbull.

"Like this?"

"Um, no, that's too much. Back to the right a tiny bit." He moves it again. "Yeah, that's good. Looks good."

He steps back, surveys the photo, and nods. "Yes, that is better. Thank you for bringing that to my attention, Detective Vecchio."

"Anytime, Turnbull."

Fraser's back on the threshold, empty-handed now. "Shall we go, Ray?"

I nod. "Sure, Fraser." I nudge Dief with a toe. "Hey buddy, up and at 'em. Come on."

Dief moans and sighs, and lumbers to his feet like he's a hundred. Fraser chuckles.

"It looks as if he had a good workout today, thank you kindly for that, Turnbull."

"Certainly, sir. I very much enjoyed having his company."

"Have a good evening, Turnbull."

"You as well, sir. And enjoy your dinner."

"I'm sure we will," I say, and I'm out the door before I realize he said that to Fraser, not me, and I'm half tempted to turn back and ask him what he meant, but no, no play it cool. Maybe he was talking to Fraser first, then me. Yeah. Must have been.

* * *

The streets are slicking up, and it takes longer than usual to get home. Once there we drag all the various bags of clothes and groceries into the apartment and I start putting food away while Fraser takes his suit and shoes into the bedroom. Two minutes later he's back out again, scowling at me.

"Ray," he says severely.

I look up, bag of tomatoes in my hand. "What?"

"There are items in the suit bag which I did not purchase."

"Really? Go figure. Wonder how that happened? Doyle must've been distracted or something." I turn around and open the fridge, lean down to put the tomatoes in the vegetable bin, and next thing I know Fraser is plastered up against my ass and he's hauling me upright. He nuzzles my neck, licks my ear, and as I shiver he sighs.

"I should make you give me that receipt, but I suspect you wouldn't let me pay you for them either."

"You'd be right," I say smugly. "See, I can't take you out to dinner in a suit with no shirt on under it, even if they do wear 'em like that on the runways."

His hands, which had been sliding up and down my thighs, stop moving. "Runways?"

"Yeah. You know. Catwalks. Runways."

"At the airport?" he asks, sounding puzzled.

I laugh. "No, Ben. Fashion shows."

"Ah," he says, sounding like a mystery of the universe has been solved, and his hands start moving again, one of them coming around to mold itself over my dick, pushing me back against him, so I can feel his half-hard cock against my ass through our jeans. "Well, thank you, very kindly. I . . . wasn't aware we were going to dinner."

His hand tightens a little around me, and his hips shift a little against my ass . "Um. . . I . . . dinner. . . yeah," I manage, incoherently, then it hits me. Dinner. "What time is it?" I look at my watch. "Damn it, we, um. . . gotta be good here, Ben, our reservation's at seven-forty-five, and we still need to put things away, and clean up and change and stuff, and we need to allow extra time to get there 'cause the streets are a mess. . . ."

He licks my ear again, and his fingers find the top button on my jeans. "We have plenty of time, Ray."

We don't. I know we don't. But, God, I've never seen him like this, didn't even know he could be like this, and I don't want to stop and I'm so wishing I'd asked for reservations for tomorrow night instead but I didn't. "Ben!"

"Mmm?" he asks, on the third button now.

"We, um . . . you gotta . . . oh fuck that feels good!" I pant as his fingers slide inside my jeans. He stops, suddenly, fingers on my bare skin.

"Ray!" he gasps, clearly surprised.

I grin. "Yeah, I know. What would my mom say?"

His fingers curve around me, stroking. "She would likely be appalled, but I certainly appreciate it."
My knees are trying to buckle but his arm goes around my waist, holding me up. "Close the refrigerator, Ray."

Refrigerator? What refrig--oh. I bat the door closed with one hand and lean back against him. Maybe we've got time. We'll just have to hurry a little. Maybe I won't iron my shirt. He nibbles on the side of my throat, stroking me inside my jeans, just a slow, lazy slide. Okay, I can put off shaving, too. . . I've been worse.

His thumb teases across the head of my cock, spreading the slickness around, and I moan, feel him hump me a little, then he's easing out from behind me and pushing me back against the counter. As he slides to his knees in front of me, yanking my jeans the rest of the way open and down around my thighs he steadies himself with a hand on my hip and leans in, taking my cock in his mouth. His eyes close, and his expression is like a kid with his favorite flavor ice-cream cone. The sight of him like that is nearly as good as his mouth around me, and I have to brace my feet wide and clamp my hands onto the edge of the counter so I don't collapse in a heap.

My feet keep sliding on the melted snow on the floor, my toes curling in my boots, my hips humping toward his mouth, but he doesn't let me thrust. He pulls back every time, making me crazy, concentrating all his attention just on the head of my cock, his tongue working me, teasing the little slit before moving to suck me for a while before going back to licking again. As if that wasn't enough, he's making little noises, breathy murmurs, like he's really, really enjoying it.

I itch to grab his head and hold him still so I can indulge my need to fuck, but somehow I resist the temptation. He leans forward, reaching past me for something on the counter, then eases back again. For some bizarre reason I start thinking of toast, but then he sighs a little and I glance down to see he's got his jeans open, one hand wrapped around his own cock as he sucks me, pumping in time to his sucking.

I watch, mesmerized, as he strokes himself, the flushed crown of his cock showing above his fist on the downstrokes, and I start to shake. Then he's got a hand between my legs, back behind my balls, and he's easing a slick, greasy finger into me, and now I'm thinking popcorn not toast and I almost start laughing as I understand why, the smell of melted butter finally clueing me in. A second finger goes in and it burns a little, but just as I think that he curls his fingers and-- "Oh . . . holy. . . fuck!"

I see his hand on his cock moving faster, and my breathing speeds up to match. His mouth, his fingers his cock, my cock, that searing, sparking joy building until I give myself up to him with a choked whimper. As I start to come he finally takes me in, all the way down, all that sweet, wet heat searing around me, his tongue softly stroking the underside of my cock as he coaxes spurt after spurt from me. The last thing I see before I have to squeeze my eyes closed is his cock pumping creamy wetness across his fingers.

I moan a little as he slips his fingers free and lets my cock slide from his mouth. It suddenly feels cold in the apartment and I shiver a little, and he starts to tug my jeans up, one-handed. I stop him, shaking my head. "No, I don't want to have to wash 'em, Mr. Improvisational Lube," I say with a grin. "I'm going to go grab a fast shower. Alone, so it stays fast. You can get one when I'm done if you want one. And then we gotta put away groceries and get dressed, pronto, because we're not missing our reservation."

* * *


Somehow we make it to the car by seven. Fraser put away the groceries while I was showering, and my mom's shirt-ironing bent for once is welcome, because my favorite dress shirt is clean and pressed. Fraser looks good enough to eat, and is pretty self-conscious about it, so I have to stop myself from getting gushy with him, which only makes him worse. As we hit the road heading downtown, he looks at me curiously.

"May I ask where we're going?"

"We're going mountain climbing," I say with a wink.

He looks at me blankly. "Excuse me?"

"Everest." I say.

He frowns. "Everest is in the Himalaya's, Ray. I hardly think we're going to be driving there."

I chuckle. "Everest is on the fortieth floor of the Stock Exchange building. And they have valet parking." I frown. "They better be careful with the GTO or I'll kick them in the head."

"I'm sure their insurance company requires them to hire adequate drivers," Ben says reassuringly.

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of," I mutter darkly. "Adequate."

"Well, you let me drive it and by your standards I'm only an adequate driver," he says reasonably.

"Yeah, well. . . that's different," I say, feeling my face getting warm. "You're. . . well, that's just different," I end lamely.

"Thank you, Ray," he says after a few seconds, sounding kind of emotional.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and see him beaming at me like I just gave him a medal. Okay, well, he got it. Good.

We get to the building and pull into the garage, follow the signs to the valet. Thank God it's not some hotshot teenager, it's a steady-looking guy our age who looks at the GTO and smiles like he's seeing an old and still-loved girlfriend.

"Hey, haven't seen one of these in years. Great car, really great."

I smile back. "Yeah, they don't get much better than this. Take care of her."

"You got it. Enjoy your dinner."

I nod, and herd Fraser over to the elevator. There's another couple waiting there already, a man and a woman, early thirties, attractive and well-dressed. The woman keeps looking at Fraser, which annoys me, and I figure if I were her guy I'd be getting irritated, but he's too busy trying to get reception on his cell phone to notice. Deliberately I put my hand on the small of Fraser's back, and lean in close to his ear.

"Fraser," I say real quietly. "I ever tell you how hot that coat is on you?"

"It is quite warm. . . " he begins, then he suddenly realizes what I meant, coughs, turns pink, and scrubs at an eyebrow, eyes wide. "No, Ray, I don't believe you have."

His eyes aren't the only wide ones. Ms. Thirty-Something's are too. She's also getting kind of pink. I wink at Fraser. "Well, I should have."

He gets even redder and stares at his feet. I glance at the chick, and she's staring at the floor too. Good. The elevator arrives and we ride up in silence. Once the other couple is off, Fraser and I follow, and he stops me after a few steps.

"Ray, was that wise?"

I shrug. "I don't care, she was poaching. Besides, nobody here knows us from Adam."

He nods thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose. I . . . do you really like this coat?" he asks, looking down at the pea-coat that usually goes with his dress uniform.

"Oh yeah. Definitely." Of course, I haven't yet seen him in something I didn't like, so that's a given. Still, the coat is among his hotter wardrobe items.

He looks back up and smiles kind of shyly. "May I say I think you look quite fetching, Ray?"

If we weren't six steps from a crowded restaurant, he'd get kissed for that, but I do have some sense, so I just grin at him idiotically. "Yeah, you can. Thanks. Come on, before they give away our table."

We hit the coat check right behind the yuppie couple, and surrender our coats. The chick looks at Fraser again, then sighs, throwing me a rueful glance. I grin at her and lift my eyebrows, and that gets me a giggle. She thinks it's funny. Okay, maybe she's not so bad after all. We wait while they're seated, and then the tuxedoed Maitre d' comes over for us. I give my name, well, the name I'm using, and he nods. "Yes, of course. Martin's friends, yes? Right this way."

We follow him to a table that's thankfully removed from the big plate glass windows that look out on a snowy Chicago night, the snow catching pink and yellow highlights from the streetlights far below. After he seats us and hands us the big ivory-colored menus Fraser looks at me questioningly.

"Martin?"

"Networking," I say. "Friend of a friend, he pulled some strings."

Fraser nods, looking around. The place is sort of a combination of classical and modern, with lots of white arches supporting a glass skylight over part of the room. At the moment all you can see up there is the fuzzy white glow of backlit snow, but I remember that on a summer night it's pretty amazing. In the main part of the room the look is more traditional, with fluted white columns and fancy gold scrollwork, though the thick carpet has an odd leopard-skin look to it and the wall mosaics of big cats are a little bizarre. Ornate chandeliers show off all the linen and crystal, and the brass railings between the upper and lower sections of the restaurant look like gold.

"It's delightful," Fraser says, sounding a little uncomfortable.

"You don't sound too sure there, Ben," I say, a little worried.

"No, no it is. I'm just . . . unused to such surroundings."

I grin. "Yeah, I get that. I can't do this very often. Just use the forks from the outside to the inside. Stella always said you can't go wrong that way. And don't butter your bread all at the same time, do it one bite at a time."

He nods solemnly. "Good advice. I . . . ah . . . won't have to have lobster, will I?" he asks, looking concerned.

It's a strange question, but I shake my head. "Nah, look, see?" I open the menu and point. "They've got all kinds of things."

He surveys the menu, then looks back at me, frowning. "Ray, the prices listed are . . . ."

I lean forward, my voice low. "Fraser, you never talk about money on a date. It's tacky."

He turns red again. "I. . . date?"

"Well, what would you call it?"

"Ah. . . dinner?"

"Just go with it, Ben. It's a date. Okay?"

He nods, looking embarrassed but pleased, and he doesn't balk about the prices anymore. I stare at the menu, glad it has translations, and try to decide what I want. There's the beef tenderloin, but I had that last time and I don't want to be boring. I know whatever I have it will be good. I watch Fraser over the top of my menu, see him reading the listings, and then he smiles.

"Something look good?" I ask.

"Yes, le médaillon de chevreuil sauté aux baies de sureau sauvage."

I scan down my own menu, find something that looks like what he just said. "The venison? I kind of had a feeling you might like that."

"I haven't had venison in years. I'm a little surprised to find it on the menu here."

"Yeah, well, that's why I picked this place, Benton-buddy," I say, grinning. "And they've got a couple of salmon appetizers, too."

"So I noticed. Though the shirred egg with Osetra caviar appeals as well."

I wrinkle my nose. "Knock yourself out with that one, I think I'll have the crab salad."

"Not an aficionado of caviar?"

"No, not much."

He looks at me with a gleam in his eye. "That's odd, I would have thought you might like it, all things considered."

I think about that, about the wicked look, and feel dense. "Um. . . why?"

He smiles, and that's wicked too. Leaning across the table, he pitches his voice to a level only I can hear. "Well, the flavor is rather reminiscent of semen."

I crack up for a second, blushing as I do. God, his sense of humor is so whacked. People look at us and I remember where the hell we are and get myself under control with a big gulp of water. "I can't believe you just said that!" I whisper.

"I was simply stating fact," he says, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Mmmhmm. Fact. I'm gonna have to watch it here, aren't I?"

"Quite possibly," he allows, returning his attention to the menu.

Damn. Now I'm sitting here trying to pay attention to the menu and all I can think about is sliding under the table and unfastening those nice Dior pants. . . .

". . . would either of you gentlemen care for a drink?"

Okay, Ray Kowalski time to put your napkin in your lap, drink more water, and pay attention to the nice waiter. I shake my head. "No, water's fine."

Fraser looks at me, surprised. "Ray, just because I don't drink doesn't mean you can't."

"I know, but I'd be in sad shape if I had to have a glass of wine to enjoy a meal, Ben. It's okay." I look back at the waiter. "Just water."

"For me as well," Fraser echoes.

The waiter nods and rattles off the specials, then leaves us to make up our minds. I stare at the menu again, getting a little lost. "Hey, you know what 'backaofa' means? It sounds like it ought to mean 'behind.'"

Fraser smiles. "I believe it refers the cast iron 'baker's oven' in which the food is prepared. The dish is usually a stew of meat, potatoes, and onions in a wine-based broth. It's a specialty of Alsace, which I gather from the menu is where the chef here is from."

It sounds good, but I find myself worrying about the onions. I don't want to turn him off later. I'm about to decide on something else when, in that Psychic Friends way he has that sometimes freaks me out, he says casually:

"You know, I'm very fond of onions."

I look up, catch that gleam in his eyes again, and find myself grinning back stupidly. "Yeah?"

"Indeed. So if you were thinking of ordering le filet de loup de mer sauvage en backaofa, I wouldn't mind having a taste, if you'd like to share."

I'm beginning to understand that chick in A Fish Called Wanda. There's something about hearing someone you want saying things in another language that's kind of hot, even if it's just the dinner menu. Especially when he's got that wicked look going at the same time. I nod. "In that case, I think I will."

"Did you know that 'loup de mer' means 'wolf of the sea'?"

I stare at him. "That's not funny, Ben. Dief'll be mad at me."

He chuckles. "On the contrary, Diefenbaker is very fond of sea bass."

I shake my head. "Deaf, and a cannibal too? I'm shocked."

* * *


It's funny, after we finish the meal, it dawns on me that we just had a five course dinner and I can barely remember what I ate, or what he had. Well, except for dessert. Fraser gets Granny Smith beignets with rose-hip coulis that turn out to be funny-looking apple donuts with some sort of tart reddish sauce, but he seems really happy with them. I order the chocolate fantasy--five different kinds of chocolate, including chocolate ice cream in a chocolate cup. Fraser teases me about being a chocoholic, which I cop to, no arguments.

A few minutes after we order dessert, I'm stirring my coffee and Fraser has a cup of fresh-brewed tea when this guy in a white coat and sort of flat cap-thing comes out of the back with a tray. He serves us with a flourish, and then steps back, smiling. He's not tall, and has curly dark hair, and amused brown eyes behind small wire-rimmed glasses. His face, and his middle, are both just a little rounded, though I wouldn't really call him fat.

"Have you gentlemen enjoyed your meals?" he asks with a slight French-ish accent.

We nod, and he smiles bigger. "Wonderful, I'm so pleased. I hoped you would. I'm Martin Remy, by the way, and I hope you enjoy my desserts as well. I thought I ought to come and see who Renfield sent me. It's not often I get to meet his friends."

Fraser looks at me in surprise and I know I'm going to hear about this later, but there's no help for it now, and I don't want to be rude. The guy's hands are occupied with the empty tray so I don't offer to shake, but I introduce us, it's only polite.

"Thanks a lot for getting us in on short notice, Mr. Remy. I'm Ray Vecchio, and this is Benton Fraser."

He nods at each of us, his gaze sharp and assessing. "It's a pleasure to meet you both. You would be. . . Detective Vecchio, yes? And Constable Fraser?"

Fraser and I both nod, and the guy looks satisfied.

"I thought as much, I recognize you from the stories Renfield has told me. He aspires to be more like you."

I cough, wondering what the hell Turnbull has been telling him about us. "Yeah, well, aspiring to be me maybe isn't that smart, considering how often I get my . . . rear . . . in a sling, but that's nice of him to say so."

He looks from Ben to me again, and a funny little smile quirks his mouth. "Well, I should get back to work, it's been very nice meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Martin heads back to the kitchen, and Fraser clears his throat. "You 'networked' with Turnbull?"

I look back at him, wounded. "Hey, you don't have to make it sound like that. He saw I was having trouble getting a reservation and he offered."

"You told him we were having dinner together?"

"Um, no, not exactly. He asked if I was taking someone out for a special occasion and I said I was."

"And what special occasion would that be?"

I glance at my watch to check the date, and there's something familiar about it, but I have to look twice before it hits me. God, I hadn't even thought about it, not once. Two years ago I never would have dreamed that someday I'd get through this day and not even notice. "Well, I guess you could say it's an anniversary."

He frowns. "An anniversary of what?"

I lift my coffee cup in a mock toast. "Here's to my divorce. It was final two years ago today. Funny timing, isn't it?"

The slight hint of annoyance on his face disappears instantly and he reaches for my hand, then pulls back, suddenly aware of where we are, covering his slip with a tweak of the single flower in its vase on the table.

"Ray. . . I'm sorry, I had no idea!"

I shake my head. "Nah, it's okay, Ben," I say, somewhat amazed to find it's true. "I mean, it really is okay. I think. . . well, she'll always be special to me, but it's not like it was. Hasn't been, I think, for a while. Maybe for longer than I realized. I think I was just kind of mooning over her out of habit. But not any more."

He still looks worried. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asks quietly. "I know you were together for a very long time. It must be terribly difficult."

"It was, at first. It gets easier. Doesn't hurt to have her growling at me every time she sees me. Maybe she knows that," I say thoughtfully.

Fraser looks at me narrowly. "I think you assign her motivations purer than they really are."

I chuckle. "Yeah, maybe so. What about you, Ben? Your motives pure?"

His eyes get hot as he shakes his head slowly "Not in the least," he says softly. "At the moment, at least, they are entirely base."

I manage not to swallow my tongue, and look at my dessert. "I don't suppose they'd give us a doggie bag?"

He shakes his head. "I'm afraid the ice cream would make that problematical. And we don't want to insult Mr. Remy by leaving them untasted.""

I sigh. "Yeah, yeah. Okay." I dip up some ice cream, lick it suggestively off the spoon. He takes a decisive bite of one of the torpedo-shaped beignets on his plate. Okay, I get the message: no more suggestive licking in public. We try not to hurry through dessert, not wanting to offend Turnbull's friend, but still manage to get out of there fairly soon after that. I tip the car valet a twenty for taking good care of my baby, he had it parked right next to his station. He looks so happy I wonder why the people who eat forty floors above him can't spend a little more on the guy who parks their cars, and we head out.

It's stopped snowing and the plows have been out on the main streets so we make it home in good time. Finally we're in the apartment, and the door's closed, and we're shedding coats like they're on fire. I grab Fraser and start loosening his tie, flicking my tongue into his mouth. Stella once said a man in a suit is like a present and his tie is the bow. I get that now.

I'm sliding the smooth length of silk free of his collar, and he's got his hands on my ass and is pulling me in against him when he notices the light blinking steadily on my answering machine and points me at it. I know I won't be getting any until I play the message so I let him go and push the button. A familiar, lightly accented voice starts speaking apologetically.

"Detective Vecchio? This is Gabriela Martinez," she says. "I'm very sorry to call on a Saturday night, but I thought you would want me to call right away. I have thought, as you suggested, and decided I must do what is right, I should tell you that three times I have seen Mr. Fellowes taking things out of the Lingerie Lair late at night, and always the next day there are policia here, and he says he has had a 'break in.' I don't know what more you need, but I will be here all night if you need to talk to me."

There's a click, and then dial tone. I look at Fraser. He looks at me. We both sigh. "Well, at least it's only ten," I say, yanking off my own tie and heading for the bedroom to change. He's right behind me, unbuttoning his shirt. We get changed pretty quickly, roust Diefenbaker off the couch and bring him with, since he likes Ms. Martinez. Besides, I don't think Fraser knows how to be a Mountie without him. On the way out the door I pop the answering machine tape out and stick it in my pocket. After being a cop as long as I have, I know anything that can be used as evidence is worth having.

* * *


The drive to the mall takes about twenty minutes, and when we get close I start getting a bad feeling. I can see the flash of emergency lights off buildings and the hazy sky somewhere near where we're going, and flip I on my scanner. Listen for a couple of minutes to a bunch of unrelated calls, but before the one I'm waiting to hear rolls around, we're turning the corner and I can see four cop cars, a fire truck, an ambulance, and the coroner's wagon all sitting in the parking lot outside the vet clinic. I look at Fraser, and wonder if my face looks as grim as his does.

I find a spot on the edge of things and park, and am getting out of the car when my cellular rings. I yank it out, hoping against hope that it's good news. "Vecchio."

"Detective Vecchio?" Unfamiliar voice, not the one I was hoping to hear, for sure.

"I just said that. Who's this?"

"Officer Saarinen, 27th division. We found your business card in the possession of a crime victim and thought we ought to call you."

Fuck. "Where are you? Who had it?"

He reels off the address of the clinic, and then says. "The victim is an Hispanic. . . female. . . I think. The paramedics weren't quite sure. We don't have a positive ID yet. You might want to come down."

"We're there already, just pulled up. The black GTO at the south end of the lot. Got a call on my machine we were coming to check out. Wave your hand so I see who you are." A figure standing beside one of the blue-and-whites waves a hand, a uniform cop with a cellular in one hand. I kill my phone, take a deep, deep breath trying to calm my nerves and look at Fraser.

"Is she . . . ?"

I cut him off, fast. "I don't know. I didn't get that far. Come on. Let's go."

We get out and slog through the snow to the guy who called. He looks familiar, I've seen him around the division a few times. He looks about twelve, looks like I probably did when I got the Botrelle call. Shit.

"The Hispanic woman you mentioned, Ms. Martinez, is she okay?" I ask, afraid I already know the answer. My hands are shoved into my pockets, clenched into fists.

He swallows hard, shakes his head. "No. She's. . ." his gaze slides over toward the coroner's wagon and back to me. "She didn't make it."

I want to cry, scream, hurt something, someone, preferably myself at the moment. I look at Fraser, see the guilt in his eyes, and I know he's thinking what I'm thinking. If we'd been home instead of out enjoying ourselves, we might have been here, and Gabriela Martinez might still be alive.

"So, what happened here?" I ask gruffly, because that's the only way my voice will work.

He takes a breath, obviously trying to get some control too. For some reason that helps me. I feel calmer. I'm an old hand at this, been doing it for years. He's just a kid.

"Armed robbery," he says.

I stare at him, dumbfounded. "Armed robbery? Of a fucking vet clinic? They couldn't have had more than a hundred in cash, if that."

He nods. "They were after the drugs. Some narcotics, but primarily Ketamine. The vet was in the back with the animals when three guys came in and forced the receptionist to let them into the back. The vet heard the commotion and hid, and then while they were cleaning out the drug cabinet I guess the receptionist said something about calling the cops and they shot her and took off."

"You get descriptions?"

He nods. "Yeah, and we've got an APB out. The vet saw it all through a gap in the door he was hiding behind."

My fists are out of my pockets. "He saw it all, and he just let it go down? Where is this guy?"

"Ray," Fraser says quietly, his hand on my arm.

I jump. Jesus, I'd half forgotten he was there. I look at him, and the pain in his eyes smothers the urge I had to find the vet and beat the snot out of him. I suck in a deep breath, let it out. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Not his fault. He was scared. Anybody would've been."

"He's an older guy," Saarinen volunteers. "Sixty if he's a day. He's not doing too well either. Pretty shook up. You guys knew the victim?"

I nod. "Yeah. She was a witness on some thefts in one of the other units recently."

Saarinen looks interested. "Armed robberies?"

I shake my head. "No, just missing inventory. Inside job, most likely. You need me to ID her?"

"Yeah, just for the record, since the vet's pretty incoherent right now."

Fraser steps forward. "Would you like me to identify her, Ray?" he asks softly.

He knows how I feel about bodies. There's something about that-- shell-- that gets to me. It's not really the death part so much as it is the absence of life. It always makes me feel like my own hold is slipping some. Normally I'd be falling at his feet with gratitude, but not this time. I shake my head, hard. "No. I . . . no. I'll do it. She in the wagon?"

Saarinen nods. "Yeah. They brought her out a few minutes ago. The paramedics are inside with the vet now. I could ask him for the official ID, but I hate to do that."

I nod, and turn to trudge over to the black wagon, sensing more than seeing Fraser and Dief at my back. That helps. The coroner is sitting sideways in the driver's seat, feet outside the car, filling out some paperwork, and he looks up as we come over.

"Can I help you gentlemen?"

I pull out my badge, show it to him. "Vecchio, 27th. I can ID the victim."

He nods and gets out, goes around to open the back, pull out the gurney and unzip the body bag just enough that I can see her face. She looks . . . okay. Quiet, and pale. At least they didn't shoot her in the face, though there's a little smudge of blood on her chin. I nod once. "Yeah. That's her. Gabriela Martinez."

"Her?" The coroner says, frowning. "The paramedics said . . . ."

I look at him hard. "Her. You make sure it says that, you hear me?"

He nods. "Yeah. Okay, I hear you. Settle down."

Behind me, Dief whines softly. He can smell the blood and death. Fraser leans down and whispers something to him, stroking his ruff gently. Dief pulls away, backs away a few feet, his hackles up, then he lifts his nose to the sky and lets out a long, plaintive howl. The coroner jumps and turns around, staring at Dief.

"Jesus, what the fuck is that?"

"He's a wolf," I say. "And he liked her."

He shivers a little. "Spooky. Gives me the creeps."

"The howl of a wolf does wake a certain atavistic response in most of us," Fraser says.

The guy looks at him funny. "Ata-what?"

"Atavistic," I snap. "Like primal."

"Yeah. Whatever." He zips the bag closed and pushes the gurney roughly back into the wagon.

I pull a fist back, but Fraser catches my arm and shakes his head and I let it go, even though the guy pissed me off. I settle for another dark look. "You take her to Mort, okay? Nobody else. If I hear you let somebody else have her, I'll hunt you down and kick your ass."

My face must be saying what it needs to say because he swallows hard and nods. "I got it. No problem, Detective."

"Good."

Dief finishes his salute, and I take a deep breath. The cold makes the air taste cleaner than usual, seems to help clear my mind. I look around and realize I haven't seen anyone from the detective division yet, so I go find Saarinen again.

"Who's on this one from the bullpen?" I ask, looking around.

He sighs. "Nobody yet. They're short-handed so they told me to hold the scene until they free somebody up."

"Call in, tell 'em I'm freed up. I'll take this one."

He nods and leans to grab the radio and call it in. Next thing I know my cell is ringing, it's Sheehan, the night shift Lieutenant, and she sounds peeved.

"Vecchio, what the hell are you doing there? You're not even on call this weekend!"

"Look, Lieutenant, the victim was a witness on one of my cases. They called me in to make the ID. Let me take it, I'll do you proud."

She's quiet for a second, then: "You think the cases may be related?"

"Nah, not really. But I figure as long as I'm here, and I've already been working the place and know the area, it makes sense." I say it casually, because I don't want her to realize how bad I want it. If she does, she won't give it to me.

She thinks about it, and sighs. "Okay, but don't screw it up."

"Don't worry, I've got my patented anti-screwup device with me."

She laughs. "I don't believe you! You dragged the Mountie out in this?"

"Hey, it's his kind of weather."

"True," she says. "Okay, go get 'em Vecchio. Find the bastards."

"I will. Oh, I still need some techs down here, before the scene gets too messy."

"They're already en route, should be there any time now."

In fact, there's a CPD van pulling up, that has to be them. "Yeah, they're here, gotta go."

I meet the techs, Jackson and Brown, at the van and they go in to process the scene in the back. The paramedics and the vet are sitting in the lobby on the orange vinyl couch. He's about Mort's age and kind of looks a little like him, too-- tall and thin, beaky nose, gray hair. He's obviously been crying, and his lab coat is bloody. One of the paramedics looks up and I realize I know her, she's worked a couple of cases I've been on. I glance at her badge, C. Barton. Oh yeah. Clarice. I look at her with my eyebrows lifted and she gets up and comes over.

"Hey Vecchio. Under the circumstances I won't say it's good to see you."

"Yeah, this sucks," I agree. "Think I can talk to your guy there?"

She nods. "He's pretty shaky, but okay. Not hurt, just upset. He tried to save her, you know. Worked damned hard, and almost managed it, despite being a vet, not a doctor. He's a good guy. We've got him lightly sedated but I think he's probably coherent enough for you to question if you want to give it a shot."

Now I'm really glad Fraser stopped me from smacking him earlier. We go over and Clarice introduces me to Dr. Katz, and I hunker down so I'm lower than him, and look up.

"Hey, I'm Detective Vecchio, out of the twenty-seventh. I know you already talked to Officer Saarinen, but do you think I could ask you a few questions?"

He nods, but he's distracted-- he keeps looking across the room to where Fraser's standing by the receptionist's desk. I realize after a second that he's looking at Dief, who's sticking close by Fraser like he's afraid he might lose him, too. "That's my partner, Constable Benton Fraser, and his wolf. Well, I think he's only half, you want to meet them?"

He jerks his attention back to me, looking embarrassed. "No, no, it's just that it's so nice to see such a handsome, well-cared for animal, especially one that's not injured. . . ." His voice cracks a little and he sniffles, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Detective. This is all so terrible, Gabby was . . . I can't believe she's . . . ." he trails off, shivering a little.

I shake my head. "It's okay, I understand. I, um, sort of knew Ms. Martinez, a little. She was helping us on a case."

His gaze sharpens up a little. "You're that detective? She spoke highly of you. She said you weren't at all what she expected from a cop."

I can feel myself turning red, and cover by getting out my notepad. "Yeah, well, I try. Can you tell me what happened here tonight?"

I listen, taking notes as he recounts pretty much what Saarinen told us earlier. Then he tells me his daughter is on her way to get him, and that he called the clinic's owner to tell him what happened. He says the guy's coming to pick up their 'patients' and take them to another vet. They only have two animals at the moment, a cat who burned its paws on battery acid by crawling up inside a warm engine compartment, and a dog who got hit by a car and has a broken leg and a couple of broken ribs, but they don't want to leave them here untended overnight, especially not after all the upset.

"So you need to get in back and get them?" I ask, figuring out that he's not just telling me to tell me.

He nods. "Yes, If I could. Is that allowed?"

"Let me check with the techs, see how they're doing. Where are the animals?"

"They're all the way in the back, there's a kennel area, one room for cats, one for dogs. If need be we can go in the back door, that way we don't have to . . . ." he shudders. "Go through the surgery."

Fraser's been following our conversation and he looks at me. "Why don't I check with the technicians, Ray? Just a moment."

He's through the door before I can tell him not to. I know he's trying to spare me from having to go in there, though he knows I really should check it out myself, and will have to before we finish here tonight. He's giving me time to gear up for it. A moment later he's back.

"They won't be finished for quite some time, and they said that going through the back is an excellent suggestion. Do you have a key for the rear entrance, Dr. Katz, or will they need to unlock it for you?"

The doc pulls out a ring of keys. "I have one right here."

"Excellent. Ray and I can assist you with the animals. Shall we go around back?"

Katz nods and we all troop outside and head around to the back of the building. While we're there Fraser nudges me with an elbow and nods toward the back of the lingerie store. I see it too. Fellowes' BMW. Seems strange to see it there this time of night, who'd leave an expensive car like that sitting around in a strip-mall parking lot, even in a good neighborhood?

Then it hits me, there's only a dusting of snow on it. It hasn't been sitting there all day getting snowed on. I look at Fraser and can tell he's thinking the same thing. I start chewing on the fact that Fellowes is here, now, of all times. And he'd threatened Gabriela if she talked to the cops about him. Makes me wonder if he might've had something to do with what went down here tonight. Except he struck me as the bully type, all bark and no bite. And how would he know she'd called us?
No, something's not scanning there. Still, he's here, or I'd bet a week's coffee he is, and he might have seen something that could help. We just have to wait him out. He'll want to get out of here as soon as he can. So Fraser and I help Dr. Katz put the sleepy dog and cat into a pair of carrying crates and take them back around front, Fraser and I carrying the dog crate between us, because there's a good-sized golden Lab in it, and the doc brings the cat, which is about all he's good for, as wrung out as he is after everything that happened.

We've just gotten them into the reception area when a big white Suburban pulls up out front. I see Saarinen go talk to the driver, then he motions for them to park where they won't mess up the tire tracks and footprints in the snow that the photographer is snapping pictures of. Two people get out, a woman with a kind of pixieish face, for all that she's in her fifties, and a lean, tallish guy a little older than her. The guy's with a dog that's wearing one of those funny handle-harnesses that guide-dogs wear. What's a blind guy doing here? The blind guy stands next to the Suburban while the woman goes and opens the back up.

"That must be the owner of the clinic," Fraser says in an undertone. "Ms. Martinez said he was blind."

Oh, yeah, I remember that now, she did. "I thought she meant it symbolically," I say. "Hey, Dr. Katz? Is that the guy you're waiting on?"

He looks up from making soothing noises to the cat and nods. "Yes. Mr. Longstreet and his wife. Good. We can get these two off to their new accommodations. Would you mind helping me again?"

"Certainly not," Fraser says pleasantly, and we pick up the crate again, and carry it out to the waiting vehicle.

We get the animals settled while Dr. Katz has a conversation with his employers, and then he gestures us over and introduces us to Mike and Nikki Longstreet, and Mike's guide-dog, Paxtu, or at least that's what it sounds like he said. They're a good-looking couple, both trim and athletic, his hair is mostly gray but with a little hint of blond left here and there. It's a good look, and makes me think maybe it'd be okay to let mine go natural someday, too. The woman is clearly dyeing hers dark, but it looks good on her. Guess you can go either way. Right now they both look shaken, Nikki especially, she keeps saying 'that poor girl.' over and over, in what sounds like a southern accent. Mike has a hint of drawl, too, though not as pronounced as hers. I look back at the clinic, then at Mike.

"Can I ask you something, about Ms. Martinez?"

He nods, his head tilted slightly in my direction, almost like he's looking at me even though I know he can't be. I notice he's got bright blue eyes. It's a little disconcerting that he doesn't wear dark glasses.

"Certainly, Detective Vecchio."

"Did you ever get complaints about her from any of the other mall tenants?"

I can feel his attention sharpen. "No, no, I never have. Why?"

"We'd been by to ask her about some thefts that have been going on in one of the other units, thought she might have seen something. In the course of talking to her she said she was a little worried that someone might have complained to you about her," I say, fishing.

"Gabriela Martinez was an model employee, I doubt I'd have listened to any complaint about her."

"Yeah, okay, good," I say, trying to figure out how to ask what I need to ask. I guess there's no good way. Then Fraser comes to my rescue, bless him.

"Were you aware, sir, that Ms. Martinez was a pre-operative transsexual?"

Mike smiles a little. "I'm blind, Constable Fraser, not deaf. Of course I knew that." He pauses for a moment, then turns his head, zeroing his attention in on Fraser. "Do you think that may have contributed to her death?"

I'm impressed. The guy's sharp. I clear my throat and he's focused on me again in a second. "No sir, at this point we have no reason to believe that."

"I see. But you mentioned it for a reason, no doubt?"

For a second I'm thinking that I have to protect Gabriela's privacy, then I realize that there's no need any more, and that shakes me a little. I sigh. "She didn't know you knew, and when we spoke to Ms. Martinez previously she said that someone had threatened to tell you about her if she helped us, told her she'd lose her job."

He looks shocked for a moment, then his long-jawed, angular face goes tight and angry. "Who told her that? If it was a someone from the clinic, they're history."

"No, no, it wasn't anyone at the clinic."

His expression lightens. "I'm relieved to hear that." He frowns then. "So who was it then?"

"I'm afraid I can't say."

He nods. "It might compromise your investigation, I understand. Before I retired I was an insurance investigator for many years down in Louisiana, and I worked closely with the police on many occasions. If I can help, please let me know."

Fraser and I look at each other. Insurance investigator? That might actually come in handy. Then Fraser looks back at Mike.

"Do you know if Ms. Martinez has any next of kin, significant other, or friends we need to notify?" he asks.

I should have thought to ask that. Damn.

"I don't think she put anyone down on her application," Mike says, frowning. "Nikki can you check that when we get home?"

"You bet. As soon as we walk in the door." She looks at me. "Where should I send the information, Detective?"

"You can call or fax it to the 27th's detective division, tell them it's for me and they'll put it in my box. Here's the info." I give them one of my cards and she tucks it in her purse, then turns to her husband.

"We need to get the animals over to Carl's," she reminds him softly.

He nods and turns to me again, fumbles in his pocket, and gets out a card. It's printed with his name contact information, and there's also a bunch of raised bumps on the card. Braille, I realize.

"Please," he says. "I meant it, if there's anything at all I can do, don't hesitate to contact me."

"Thank you, sir, we will."

Mike and his wife get in the Suburban and head off. A few minutes later Dr. Katz' daughter arrives and takes him away. I look at Fraser and take a deep breath. "Okay, time to look at the scene."

He nods, and follows me back inside. Jackson and Brown are busy measuring and photographing, and stringing the bloodstains. They'll be at it all night, I'm pretty sure, judging by the amount of spatter. I swallow hard, not really interested in getting reacquainted with my dinner, as they tell us their preliminary conclusions, which involve the use of a shotgun at close range. That explains a lot. No wonder the doc couldn't save Gabriela. Poor kid. She didn't have a chance. It's just not fair. Sometimes I really don't like people very much. Makes me wonder what I'm doing in this job. Then I look at Fraser and remember.
We go back out front and I get out my notebook and lean on the counter to start making a few notes. "Okay, we have three perps, two white males, one black male, all in their mid-twenties. Street clothes, no colors that Katz noticed. One of the white guys has a leather jacket and a shotgun, the black kid had a handgun of some sort." I sigh, shaking my head. "Not a lot to go on."

"We've had less and solved cases," Fraser says optimistically.

"Yeah," I put down my notebook and rub my eyes, then something on the counter catches my eye and I reach to pull two sheets of clinic stationary toward me. After a second I hand them to Fraser. "What's that look like to you?"

He looks at the pages, then back up at me. "It appears to be a list of times, makes and models of vehicles, and associated licence plates. Some of them have a type of animal noted next to the licence plate."

"Remember how she asked if she should make a note of any unusual traffic? Looks like she did more than that. I'd say she kept track of every car that came into the lot, even told us which ones ended up being patients. And you notice that there are two vehicles that show up on both pages, multiple times?"

He nods. "Yes, I did. Mr. Fellowes black BMW shows up twice last night, both times well after closing time, as did an older-model medium blue Ford van. Fellowes was here again tonight, twice, as was the van, which came by around eight thirty, and reappears as the last entry on tonight's sheet."

We look at each other with a certain feeling of grim elation. "Looks like Gabriela Martinez may have helped us solve her own murder. And she might just have given us Fellowes as well, between my answering machine tape and this list. Let's get this van description and plate out to Saarinen and have him add it to the APB on our shooters, and then have him clear all the blue and whites out of the lot and we'll see if Fellowes makes a run for it."

* * *


Twenty minutes later the parking lot is empty except for the tech's van. I moved the GTO about a block down the street and walked back. Fraser and I are huddled behind the scuba store's dumpster, watching the BMW like hawks.

"Fraser?" I ask in a whisper, trying to distract myself from the fact that I'm cold, and somebody I liked just died.

"Yes, Ray?"

"Do hawks see real good?"

"Comparatively, yes, though not so well as owls, if you're talking about birds in general."

"So how come we don't say 'watching something like an owl' then?"

"I couldn't say," he says, but I know he won't leave it there. Sure enough, he doesn't. "It's an interesting question. Perhaps when the phrase was coined, no research had been done on the comparative visual acuity of various avian species."

"Hunh. Probably not. So are bats really blind?"

"Not entirely, no."

I chuckle. "Kind of like me, hunh?"

"You're not blind, you just don't see so good," he says, in a pretty damned good imitation of me.

I laugh quietly. I'd kiss him but we're working, so instead I squeeze his arm a little and stamp my feet. If I'd known we'd be doing stakeout in the snow I'd have put on warmer clothes and an extra pair of socks.

"Are you cold?" he asks, looking at me, worried.

"Does the pope wear a dress?" I ask back.

"I don't believe they refer to his garments as dresses, however, I take that to be an affirmative?"

I nod and he frowns harder, and steps behind me, wrapping his arms around me. I'm instantly warmer, but I squirm a little. "Hey, we're on the clock, Fraser!" I hiss at him.

"I'm aware of that. I'm simply sharing body heat. I would do so with anyone in a similar situation."

I think about that, and scowl myself. "You better not."

"There's no reason for jealousy, sometimes it's simply a matter of survival."

"Well, okay, I guess if you were going to freeze and there wasn't any other means of survival I might forgive you," I allow.

"That's very generous of you," he says drily. "I'll keep . . . ."

We both shut up as we hear the creak and scrape of a door opening, and we lean to peer around the edge of the dumpster. Sure enough, it's the back door of the Lingerie Lair, and Randy Fellowes is stepping out onto the loading dock with an armload of boxes. He fumbles with something, and I hear a car alarm chirp, and his trunk opens up. Fraser takes a step, he's like Dief sometimes, too eager to get to that donut. I put my hand on his arm. "Wait a sec, let him get there," I whisper.

Fraser nods and settles. We watch Fellowes makes his way carefully down the snowy stairs and over to his car, starts putting stuff in the trunk, and I nod. We step out, walking in sync, like we do, Dief right with us. Fellowes is busy rearranging boxes in his trunk and doesn't even notice when we stop a couple feet away. Geez, I could shoot the guy and he wouldn't even know what hit him. Good thing I'm not a perp. I pull out my ID.

"Chicago PD, we need to ask you a couple of questions."

He jerks upright, dropping a box and a handful of papers. The box opens when it hits the ground, dumping that ivory silk nightie with the lace on the breasts out across the snowy asphalt. Fraser leans down and picks it up, carefully shaking snow off of it.

"I believe you dropped this," he says mildly.

Fellowes' takes it kind of automatically, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's. Fraser bends back down and picks up the papers, and his eyes narrow, then lift to mine. He's got something there. I can tell. Fellowes notices he's got the papers and drops the nightie again as he grabs them out of Fraser's hands. "I . . . I didn't see you there, didn't realize you were here!"

"Yeah, well, we are. Got called out to work on a murder."

His eyes go wide. "M. . . murder?"

I look at him hard. "Yeah. Don't tell me you didn't notice the parking lot was full of cops?"

He swallows hard. "I. . . yes, I guess I did notice. I guess I figured there must have been an accident."

"I'm surprised you didn't come out to investigate," Fraser says, picking up the nightgown again and dropping it into the trunk, since Fellowes clearly wasn't going to take it from him. "Most people would have been curious."

"I was busy."

"Yeah? Doing what?"

"Um . . . inventory."

"You don't sound too sure there."

"No, I mean, yes. I'm sure."

"Okay. No problem. So how long were you here doing inventory?"

I glance at Fraser, he's watching me with this funny, almost admiring look. Weird. But Fellowes is talking so I snap my attention back to him.

"I. . . a couple of hours, I guess."

I pull out my notebook, look at what I copied down off of Gabriela's notes before I put them in an evidence bag. "Since eight forty-seven?"

He frowns, staring at my notebook. "Uh, yeah, I guess, somewhere around then."

"Good. I'll need you to come down to the station with us, make a statement."

"What?"

"You were here at the time of the murder. You might be a witness. We need to take a statement."

"Can't I do that tomorrow?" he asks, his voice a little shaky.

I shake my head. "No can do. Gotta be now. See, you might forget something important if we wait." I lie baldly.

"But it's nearly midnight! I don't want to go to the station, I'm tired."

I sigh, rubbing my face. "Yeah, I'm tired too. Working late makes me cranky. So does people getting killed. How about you? You're working kinda late hours here too, aren't you?"

"I . . . yeah. It's easier to, uh, do . . . inventory, when there aren't customers around."

I nod like I believe him. "Yeah, that makes sense. So, you were also doing inventory between . . . " I look at Fraser again, pulling him back into the interrogation. "When was it, Fraser?"

"Between six thirty-three and seven ten, and the night before that around nine-seventeen and again at one twelve," he says.

I knew he'd remember. I look back at Fellowes and see he's really getting a little spooked.

"I . . . may have been. Why?" he asks weakly.

I shrug. "No reason. Come on, my car's down the street. We'll take you down to the station, get things rolling."

"What things?"

"Statement. Told you that."

"I think I want to call my lawyer," he says, balking.

I look at him, all innocence. "You want a lawyer to give a witness statement? How come?"

"I. . . guess I always just thought you should have a lawyer, if you were going to be talking to cops."

I shrug. "It's up to you if you want one. It'll just keep me up later while we wait for 'em to show up."

He's not quite as stupid as I thought, because he figures out that keeping me up later might not be a good idea.

"Well, I guess I wouldn't have to call him."

"Your decision." I say, "But I want to get out of the cold so let's go."

He nods, hesitates, and then picks the box up off the ground, sticks it and those papers in his trunk and closes it, then turns the car-alarm back on. He doesn't need that, but I don't tell him I've pre-arranged with Saarinen to have someone keep an eye on the car. He doesn't need to know.

As we start to walk, I look at Fraser, and he looks back and nods approvingly. He sees where I'm going, I think. He's trusting me on it. It's a good feeling. We get to my car, and Fellowes protests sitting in the back with Dief, so Fraser volunteers to sit in back with him and Dief gets the front seat. He's pretty smug about it, too. Smug wolf is not a pretty sight. Under my breath I warn him about ear-licking and we head for the 27th.

"So, you need to take inventory off the premises?" I ask after a few blocks.

"What?" he asks sharply.

"All that stuff from the store in your trunk back there. You going to take it home to do inventory?"

"What exactly are you implying?"

"Not implying anything, just asking a question."

"I was taking the merchandise out for a . . . lingerie party for a good customer."

"Lingerie party?" I ask. "Like, people wear that stuff and eat small food and drink champagne?"

"No, you show the lingerie and people buy it at the party."

"Doesn't sound like a party to me," I say. "So who's having this party?"

"One of my customers."

"Got that. Which one?"

"I don't have to tell you that," he snaps irritably.

"Okay, have it your way," I say amiably, and we keep driving. I'm silent, Fraser's silent, and I know by the time we get to the station that Fellowes is going a little nuts. We take him in and put him in Interrogation Two, and I start reading him his rights. He stops me before I get past 'silent.'

"What the hell is this? I thought I was here to make a statement! As a witness!"

I round on him, poking a finger at his chest, stopping a fraction of an inch before I actually touch him. "Look at it my way, Fellowes. I'm investigating a string of burglaries in your store. I got a witness who puts you on the scene at suspicious times. So I figure that makes you a suspect."

"I told you I was just taking the stuff for a party!"

"And you won't tell me who's having the party."

"Because it's none of your damned business!"

"You don't seem to understand here. I'm a cop, investigating those burglaries, and
that makes it my business. Now, let me finish with this." I rattle off the rest of Miranda, and then make him tell me he understands. He tells me he wants his lawyer, so I let him make his call and then take him back to the room to wait.

Fraser and I go get coffee while he stews. Well, I get coffee, Fraser gets his milk out of the fridge and chugs right out of the carton. He claims it's more ecological than using a glass and then having to waste the water to wash it. I think it's just his little way of being rebellious, and it's not like anybody else in this office drinks the stuff. They know better. He puts down the carton and looks at me, eyebrows lifted. I grin. I was waiting for that.

"Yeah, yeah, I got an idea."

"I assumed so," he says.

I give him my idea, and he nods thoughtfully. "It might work. He doesn't seem particularly bright. It may depend on the quality of his counsel."

"Yeah, I know. I'm hoping we get lucky there."

Luck's not something you want to rely on, and I don't want to think about that too much right now so I change the subject. "What were those papers he dropped?" I ask.

"Insurance claims forms. Filled out. Although I only got a brief look at them, I believe one of the listed garments fit the description of the nightgown he dropped."

"Now isn't that interesting." I think for a minute. "Okay, I think we've got probable cause to impound his car and get a warrant to search it."

"It certainly seems so," Fraser says.

"Let's run it by the boss."

He nods, and we go talk to Sheehan about the case. She's having a rough night. Usually whenever I see her she's on the front end of her shift and she looks all neat and crisp, but tonight her graying blonde hair is coming out of its bun, there's a coffee-stain on her blouse, and she's got bags under her eyes nearly as bad as mine usually are. Still, she listens to us, agrees with my plan, and has dispatch call Saarinen and tell him to bring the car in. I warn them about the alarm.

Fraser and I go back to the lunch room and talk about hockey and other mindless stuff until the lawyer shows up about half an hour later, a guy named Terry Mason. My luck's back on track, because I've dealt with him a few times before and Stella always said his J.D. is only marginally better than mail-order. They consult for a while, and then he comes out to tell me his client is prepared to answer 'reasonable' questions. Fraser and I head back into the room and I take a seat at the table across from Fellowes. Fraser's standing just behind me to my left, I can feel him there, strong and steady. Sometimes I think just having him there makes me smarter.

"So, Mr. Fellowes, you seem all over that whole 'minding your own business' thing," I say casually.

"Yeah," Fellowes says. "I mind my own, everybody else minds their own, everybody's happy."

"Is that right?" I say. "So you were minding your own business when you threatened to get an employee of the vet clinic fired if she mentioned that you have a habit of dropping by your business after hours?"

That gets me a good sixty seconds of dead air. Then he growls. "Fucking pervert."

His lawyer grabs his arm and shakes his head.

"Would you be talking about me?" I ask, quiet and grim.

"No!" he backtracks quickly. "No, it was just a . . . I was talking about. . . . that freak over at the clinic. I knew he was trouble. Just because a guy works late, he thinks that's suspicious? What's suspicious is a guy who dresses up like a woman."

"Ms. Martinez was quite helpful in our investigation," Fraser says levelly. "We have a recorded statement from her, and a log she kept of vehicular activity in and around the mall."

"So what? So I work late! That's no crime!"

"No," I say. "But having a witness killed to shut her up is."

Both Mason and Fellowes gape at me.

"What?" Fellowes yelps.

"I thought this was a theft investigation!" Mason says. "You never said anything about a murder!" He looks from me to Fellowes to Fraser like he's not sure who he's saying that to.

"You never asked," I say, which is true. "See, we just find it a little strange that we're investigating some burglaries, and we get a witness who places your guy at the scene. Next thing we know we've got an armed robbery and a murder on our hands, and the victim of the murder just happens to be our witness. Don't you find that a little . . . what's the word, Fraser?"

"Coincidental," he says helpfully.

"Yeah. That. Coincidental. Seems kind of over the top to have somebody killed over a little insurance fraud, but hey, I've seen weirder things in my day."

"I didn't kill anybody!" Fellowes yells.

"Maybe you didn't pull the trigger, that doesn't mean you didn't get somebody else to do it. That's still murder," I say, examining my nails. Need to file 'em, they're a little rough, and that won't do any more. It might matter now.

"Look," Fellows says, sounding desperate. "Okay, so maybe I took a couple of things from the store and told the insurance company they got stolen, but I never killed anybody, or hired anybody to kill anybody!"

Mason groans and puts his head in his hands. "Randy, as your lawyer I strongly advise you to shut up!"

Fellowes shakes his head. "I'm not going down for murder! I only wanted to scare the guy a little, figured if I made noises about telling his boss about him, he'd clam up!"

"She very nearly did," Fraser says, grimly, "But fortunately for us, her sense of justice prevailed."

"I still didn't kill her!"

"Guess we'll see," I say. "In the meantime, you just confessed to theft and fraud in front of witnesses, so we're booking you on those charges."

I look at Fraser and jerk my head toward the door. He nods and we head out to get a uniform to take Fellowes down to holding and start filling out paperwork. As the door's swinging closed behind us I hear Mason groan again.

"You stupid fuck. I don't believe you did that."

He sounds so disgusted that it's all I can do not to laugh out loud. I make it a few feet down the hall then turn to Fraser, grinning a little. "We did it. I knew he'd roll over if we hit him with the murder angle."

Fraser nods. "An excellent tactic."

Suddenly I flash on Gabriela's face, all pale and still and . . . empty. It hits me all at once, a strange, horrible rush of everything that's happened in the last couple of hours. I can't move, I just stand there in the hallway, frozen in place, not sure if I'm going to throw up or cry or just what.

Fraser takes one look at me, yanks open the door to Interrogation One, takes a quick look inside, and then drags me in. He closes the door and leans back against it, pulling me into his arms, holding me close as I shake, and breathe, and swallow and finally get myself under some kind of control. "I hate this," I say into his neck. "I hate this. I hate it."

"I know," he says simply. "I know." And there's a weight of sadness in his voice that just rocks me. I sob once, briefly, then catch the next one back, swallow it down in a huge, painful lump.

His arms briefly tighten around me so hard I can't breathe, then he lets go just a little. "I hate it, too," he says against my hair, hoarse and low.

I hug him back, hear his breath rush out in a sigh. We stand like that for a few moments. God, it helps. It helps a lot, just knowing that he knows, he understands, he feels it too. Sometimes being a cop is the world's worst job. Times like this I think I know what he sees in the wild, white north, think about miles and miles of nothing, no people, and it sounds so fucking good. Someday maybe I'll get to see that. But right now I've got a job to do. I take a deep breath and push him away a little, nodding my thanks, seeing his in his eyes.

"Okay. Let's do it," I say.

He nods, and we open the door and step out into the 27th's swirl of perpetual confusion. I grab the first uniform I see and ask her to take care of Fellowes, and we head upstairs to tell Sheehan about Fellowes. She looks up as we come in, and there's an expression of grim satisfaction on her face.

"Guess what?" she asks, almost exultantly.

I sigh. "Sorry, Lieutenant, I'm too tired to guess."

She nods sympathetically. "Yeah, I forget you're not used to these hours. You know that blue van you added to the APB for your armed robbery and homicide suspects?"

I nod, almost holding my breath, feeling Fraser tense next to me. Funny that I can feel that and we're not even touching. How long have I been able to do that, I wonder?

"We got it while you were interrogating Fellowes. A couple of patrol officers spotted it over on Wacker and tried to pull it over. The van took off and the officers gave chase, we sent in three other cars and cut them off down by the waterfront."

"Was it the right one?" I ask, my voice sounding like I've been eating glass. "Was it them? Did we get them?"

She nods. "Oh yeah, it was. And they weren't really happy about getting caught. The guy with the shotgun, his name's Tommy Merrick, and he's got a sheet as long as my arm. Anyway, he tried to take some of our guys out, but apparently is better at hitting a close-up target who can't defend herself. There was an exchange of gunfire, and he was hit."

"Good," I growl, feeling like maybe there may be justice after all. "Hope they killed the bastard."

Sheehan gives me an understanding look, but shakes her head. "I hate to disappoint you, Detective, but from what the paramedics say it appears he'll live to see trial," she says drily. "His accomplices surrendered immediately after he went down, and are at this moment fighting to see who can point their fingers faster."

"Point to whom?" Fraser asks quietly.

"At Merrick. Apparently the entire job was his idea. He'd taken his sister's dog to the clinic a few weeks ago after it was injured, and he saw the drug cabinet and hatched the idea. They said no one was supposed to get hurt, they only had the guns to scare people with, but I guess the victim remembered Merrick and he panicked when she told him that."

I stare at her, shaking my head. "God, what a stupid fucking waste," I hear myself say. "Just stupid."

She nods solemnly. "Yes, yes it is. Now, you done good, Kow . . . Vecchio, you too Fraser. Go home, guys Get some rest, and try to forget about this for a little while."

I nod, but I know that forgetting about it isn't going to be easy. It never is.

* * *


We drive home in silence. Walk up the stairs in silence. I don't hear any televisions or stereos as we pass the other apartments, guess all the neighbors are asleep, even though it's a Saturday night. No, it's Sunday morning now. Quiet as a church. I remember why I hate churches. Dief's nails on the floor seem loud in the quiet of the deserted hallway, and the sound of my deadbolt sliding open cracks like a gunshot and makes me flinch. Fraser's hand lifts to my neck and rubs lightly, soothingly. I sigh and let my head fall back against his hand, and his fingers firm up, digging into the tight muscles there for a few seconds before he lets go, and puts his hand on the small of my back, a gentle pressure, urging me on inside.

I open the door and we go in. I hang up our coats while Fraser heads into the kitchen to get down the oversize mixing bowl I usually put popcorn in and fill it with water for Dief. Watching him, I smile a little.

"I don't get why you do that when you know he'll just go drink out of the john instead," I say.

Fraser's shoulders slump suddenly. "I know. I just . . . ."

His voice trails off and he shrugs almost helplessly. Abruptly I realize he's as bad off as I am, and I have no idea what to do now. He's the one who always knows what to do. Out of the blue everything just seems weird between us. I don't know how to touch him, like a friend, without him thinking maybe I mean more. I mean, I got it, before, when he held me, but now all the sudden I'm worried he might take it wrong, and now is so the wrong moment for him to think I want to put the moves on him. What he needs now, what we need now, is comfort. That's all. Someone else to be there, to make the world seem a little less cold. Awkwardly I put my hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly "Ben?" I say uncertainly.

He shudders under my hand. "I'm just . . . tired," he says hoarsely.

I know he doesn't mean sleepy. Or not just. "I know, I know. Come on."

He lets me lead him into the bedroom and we take off our shoes, then crawl under the covers fully clothed. We're both cold to the bone. Even though the temperature outside wasn't much below freezing, the temperature inside us is much, much colder. We lay side by side, stiffly, not touching. I'm trying to figure out why everything is suddenly so weird, worrying, trying to think of what to say, how to reach out, and I'm so inside myself I'm startled when he does it first. He rolls over, puts his head on my shoulder, and sighs.

Automatically my arms go around him, and I feel him sag against me and just like that everything is all right again. I stroke his hair, and his hand comes up to my shoulder, his fingers going under the neck of my t-shirt to touch my skin, just touch. It's just going to take some time for us to learn that this is okay now. We've both been holding in and back so long and so tight that it's hard to stop. And it's got to be a lot harder for him, so if he can do it, I can do it.

"Ray?" he says softly into the darkness.

"Yeah?" I say, automatically.

"So nothing's. . . changed, between us?" he asks, solemnly.

Memories roll through me. A wet, lake-flavored mouth on mine, breath in my lungs. I close my eyes, feel a smile welling up inside me, chasing away the cold. I know what he's asking, and I know how to answer him. Yes, we're still partners, still friends. We're just. . . more, now. "No, nothing's changed." I say, tightening my arms around him, feel him relaxing, melting against me. "Nothing at all, and everything."


* * *


Feels weird to be off work on a Wednesday, but when I asked Welsh for a couple of hours to go to Gabriela's funeral he told me to take the afternoon off. The only good thing about the last couple of days has been Ben's steady presence, and I suspect he's been feeling glad that I'm around, too, though we've both been feeling guilty as hell that we weren't there, that we didn't stop it. Seeing how many people are here to see her off almost makes it worse. She'd touched a lot of people in her eighteen months here, all kinds of people, old, young, in-between, straight, gay, and neither. Seeing all the people who'd miss her was hard.

Weirdly, lots of people brought their pets to the funeral, which is strange but cool. There isn't a single animal-related incident, though Dief is showing a lot of interest in a pretty black and tan girl dog that looks like a German shepherd, kind of, but isn't. Ben chides him for unwolflike behavior, since wolves are supposed to be monogamous, but I remind him that none of Dief's lady friends have been wolves and besides he's half pig anyway. Ben smiles a little at that but I can see the shadows in his eyes and could kick myself for forgetting he'd said that to Gabriela.

Mike made all the arrangements for the funeral, even paid for it. He's also spent some time the last couple of days helping us put together the insurance fraud part of our case against Fellowes, who Mike said he'd never liked, thought he was sleazy. Which is true, and it feels good to have gotten the guy, but it doesn't make up for the rest. After the service is over, Fraser and I are standing off by ourselves watching people, and Dief, as he flirts, when Nikki brings Mike and Paxtoo over to us then wanders off. He gestures toward the crowd, I guess he can hear them.

"Lot of people," he says.

"Yes, quite a lot," Fraser echoes.

Mike tilts his head, listening intently. "Ray? You here?"

I sigh, and nod automatically, then remember. "Yeah, here Mike."

He looks from me to Ben. Well, no, he doesn't look but he. . . attentions from me to Ben, then he frowns. "What's wrong?"

Ben and I look at each other. "Um, what do you mean?" I ask.

"You two sound strange."

"Well, it's a funeral," I point out.

"Yes, but that's not . . . ." He stops, frowns again, then he nods like he figured something out. "You can't feel guilty, you know," he says out of the blue.

"Why not?" I snap, suddenly annoyed.

"Ray," Ben says softly.

"Sorry. But I do feel guilty," I say to both of them. "And you do too, Ben, don't tell me you don't."

He looks at me, startled, and I realize suddenly I just called him Ben in public. Shit, got to watch that. At least it wasn't at work. Mike won't think it's weird. He shakes his head, and sighs.

"No, I wouldn't tell you that. It would be a lie."

Yeah. I know him. It's so tempting to reach out, take his hand, pull him into my arms, but I can't. Not here.

Mike shakes his head slowly. "I do understand, you know. I felt that way after my first wife was killed in the same explosion that left me blind. I felt it for a long time, but eventually I realized that there was really nothing I could have done to change things. It may sound fatalistic, and I don't mean it to, but I do think things happen the way they're meant to, for whatever reason. Call it destiny, God, or whatever."

"Hard to see what reason there was for her getting killed by some idiot punk," I growl.

"I suppose it depends on your philosophy. If you believe in reincarnation, maybe next time around she'll get the right . . . equipment."

That surprises me. I have to think about it for a second. But Mike goes on.

"You can't live your life on 'could haves' and 'should haves,' you know. You have to keep looking forward, not back. Gabriela wouldn't have wanted you to take responsibility for her death. The only person that responsibility properly rests with is the man who shot her. So if you want to feel guilty about something, feel guilty about the fact that you'd be pissing her off if she was here," he says decisively. "Now, if you two will excuse me, I'm going to go find my wife and go celebrate the fact that we're both alive, and in love, and that despite its occasional tragedies, life is always worth embracing." He looks down at Paxtoo, says: "Find Nikki," and they set off confidently across the room.

I look at Ben, he looks at me, and I find myself starting to smile a little. "Um. . . guess he told us."

"So it would seem," he says with a rueful smile.

I look out the window. It snowed a little more last night, adding a fresh coat of white to the greying layer beneath it. Everything looks. . . clean, which is rare in Chicago. The shadows are getting blue and long, there's not much daylight left, and I think about how pretty Dief's favorite park would look right now, the one that's not far from my place. Just as that thought starts to come together, Dief himself shows up, a little grumpy that the lady with the not-German Shepherd just left. I ruffle his fur sympathetically and look at Ben.

"Come on, let's go to the park."

They both seem to like that idea. Sometimes I'm not sure who needs more exercise, Ben or the wolf.

At the park there are a lot of tracks in the snow from the people who've been there before us, but a lot of it still has that clean feel to it, and there are a few patches of snow that the kids didn't get to. Dief's running around, happy in the cold and damp, stops to scratch his ear, and then gets up and runs again. It's cold, the wind is cutting, and night's coming on fast. The lamps that line the paths are blinking on. There's not another soul in the park. I look down at the wolf butt-print in the snow, then look at Ben, and start to grin.

He looks at me funny. "Ray, are you all right?"

"I'm great, Fraser, I'm great." I let myself go, falling backward onto the snow, catching myself on my elbows so I don't whack the back of my head. He gasps and starts forward. "Ray! What's wrong?"

"Don't mess up my snow, Fraser," I say.

He stops. "Excuse me?"

I spread my arms, swiping them through the snow, making wings. "I'm making an angel."

"You're what?" Now I'm really getting the 'you're unhinged' look.

"Didn't you ever make snow angels?" I ask, staring up at him, still grinning despite the fact that my ass is getting cold.

He looks at me, baffled, and shakes his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You grow up at the North Pole and you don't know how to make a snow angel? What's with that?" I ask, and reach a hand out to him. "Help me up."

Ben pulls me to my feet with a single strong tug, and God, that right there turns me on. Once I'm up I turn and point with my left hand, because he's still got my right hand in his. "There, see? Snow angel. Well, I didn't make the skirt part, because it's a guy angel, but see my wings?"

He studies the imprint I left in the snow, then he looks at me with this indescribably . . . tender . . . expression. "I always see your wings," he says quietly.

Tugging at my hand, he pulls me against him and kisses me. His mouth is cold on the outside, warm on the inside. He tastes like life, and that's definitely worth embracing. After a second I pull back a little.

"Freak," I say into his mouth.

He laughs against my lips. "Takes one to know one, Ray."

He lets me go after a minute, and I brush the snow off my backside and look around for Dief, who's disappeared again. White wolf, white snow, hard to see. "Where's Dief?"

Ben turns around to look, surveying the park with the same intensity he usually uses on criminals. Something about the bare back of his neck between the collar of his coat and his hat stirs evil impulses in me. I scoop up a handful of snow, shape it into a ball, and let fly. The snowball takes him square at the base of the neck, perfectly placed to send icy particles down his back. Even without my glasses I couldn't miss from this distance.

He turns, fast, eyes dangerously narrowed. "Did you throw that?"

"Throw what?" I ask, shoving my wet hands into my pockets.

"You realize, don't you Ray, that they don't hand out the RCMP marksman's insignia to just anyone?" he asks coolly.

Uh oh. As usual, my smarts kick in after the stupid idea is already a done deal. "Well, I kind of figured. I mean, after the Henry Whatsis and the diving masks and all."

He bends down and starts to pack a snowball. "You're also probably unaware that I won the annual Inuvik Public School snowball championship each year in which I actually attended the school," he says, like he's discussing the weather.

I start backing up. No, that's not going to cut it. I take off, running hard, but it does no good, his snowball nails me right in the back of the head anyway. I lose my balance and go down on one knee. If he'd had a gun I'd be dead. Fortunately I'm just cold and brushing snow out of my hair, and leaning down to re-arm myself, since he's doing the same. I squint-- the fading light isn't helping my vision any-- and pitch. Shit. No reaction, I must've missed.

I fumble in my jacket for my glasses, am just getting them on when he nails me again, upper arm this time. I drop my glasses but manage to catch them before they hit the ground, grab a new handful, pack it down, and . . . yeah! Got him this time! Right in the chest. Helps to be able to see.

Another snowball nails me in the thigh. Shit, no time to gloat. I need to get moving, he's got my range. Re-load and start running. This time he misses, though not by much. I retaliate, and out of nowhere Dief leaps up and catches the damned thing in is mouth, looks pretty startled when he crunches down and it breaks up. My teeth ache in sympathy.

Ten seconds later I have a faceful of snow and am frantically trying to wipe it off my glasses so I can see to aim. I get hit twice more in quick succession, shoulder and chest, and by that time I'm laughing so hard I can hardly breathe, and I collapse into the snow.

"Do you surrender?" he calls.

"I surrender. I give up, too. Uncle. You win."

Ben comes to stand over me, grinning like a fool. I stare up at him, wondering how this feeling snuck up on me, how I fell so damned deep and so damned hard without even realizing it. I don't even want to know what my life would be like without him. I grin back at him. "I should've known better than to take on a Mountie. Especially one with an unfair advantage."

"What unfair advantage would that be?"

"Well, see, I've got this problem, when I look at you, the idea of running away is not high on the list of things I want to do."

He smiles. "I suppose under the circumstances that could be considered a problem, though I'm . . . pleased to hear it."

"Yeah." Another evil thought occurs to me, and I hold up a hand like I want him to help me up. He reaches down and takes, it, and I yank, hard, rolling as I do. He lands face-down in the snow next to me, his hat flying off, and I laugh, sitting up. Before I can get to my feet, though, he's got a hand hooked in the back of my belt and is rolling me onto my face, his other hand trying to pull back my coat collar.

I know what's coming and I cross both arms over the back of my neck. Dief's barking excitedly about three inches from my ear, he wants in on the fun. I hear Ben make a frustrated sound, then he's yanking up on my belt loops, and I'm just not fast enough to get my hands where they need to be in order to keep myself from getting a snow-wedgie.

I yelp like Dief with his tail caught in a door, and manage to flip Ben over with a half-remembered wrestling move from sixth-grade gym class. We're both laughing like maniacs as I sit on him and yank open his coat, looking for payback. Only problem is, he's wearing so damned many layers I can't figure out how to get at skin. I look at his face, about to complain, and the words never make it out. He's so... alive, so present, so amazing, and the pure, unashamed happiness in his face makes me forget everything but how I feel around him.

We both stop laughing, almost at the same time. I reach down, touch his face, run my thumb across his parted lips. He turns his head and kisses my palm. I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the snow in my pants, and I pull him up so he's sitting too, and wrap my arms around him, just. . . holding him. He makes a soft, contented sound, and some time passes like that, until Dief gives a sharp bark, and Ben nuzzles my neck and sighs.

"Someone's coming."

I nod, and let him go. We both stand up, brushing off snow. Without him wrapped around me I'm suddenly freezing. He nods toward the parking lot.

"Let's go home, Ray."

Home. He called my apartment home. I know I'm smiling at that, but I don't say anything, don't want to jinx it. We hightail it back to the car, drive the short few blocks to the apartment in a silence very different from the guilty, cold one we've been living in for the last couple of days. This one's as warm, and comfortable as an old blanket. He's got a hand on my thigh as I drive, and every time I shiver he rubs it. Weirdly, it helps. Well, okay, it might be the heater but I think it's him.

The walk from the car to the building doesn't help with the whole cold thing, and he's not touching me any more, though he sticks pretty close all the way up the stairs.

"You should change immediately," he says as I unlock the door for us.

"We're both cold and wet," I point out.

"Well, I have an extra layer of . . . ." he begins.

I cut him off with a grin. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, don't be dense. We are going to hang out, on the same couch, all over each other, and while you may not mind sitting around in wet clothes, I'm not into clammy. You brought over sweats, right? Wear ?em."

"Ah, I see." He blushes, smiles shyly, and nods. "Good idea."

I'm full of ?em," I say, living dangerously. He lets it slide though, and heads for the bedroom to change. I shiver again, even though the apartment is warm. Something hot to drink would be good. I go into the kitchen and put water on to heat, open my cabinet to see what kind of tea I have, and spot something better. I get down the big brown canister I forgot I had, get out two mugs, and spoon hot-chocolate powder into both of them, then put the canister away and stand there, zoning out, waiting for the water to boil.

Ben comes out of the bedroom in his sweats, sees me in the kitchen and sighs, shaking his head. He goes back in the bedroom and returns a minute later with a sweatshirt and sweatpants for me. He sets them on the kitchen counter and then starts to unbutton my shirt. I grin a little and let him, wondering how far he'll go. Pretty far, it turns out. He finishes with my shirt, unbuckles my belt, unzips my pants and lets them fall in a cold, wet heap around my feet. He unbuttons my cuffs and slides my shirt off.

Once that's off, he roughly pops my Bull's sweatshirt on over my head and starts trying to stuff one of my arms into a sleeve. I figure that's pretty silly so I take over from there, and as I'm pulling the sweatshirt on, he feels up my ass, or I think he is for a second before I realize he's checking my briefs to see if they're as wet as my pants were. Which he should already know, since he's the one that was icing my ass out in the park. He slides my briefs off too, but it's matter-of-fact, not sexy. Feels pretty strange with my sweatshirt on, but the rest of me bare down to the ankles.

Next thing I know he's down on the floor, one of my feet in his hands as he pulls my boot, sock, pants, and briefs off all together, then repeats that for the other side. He grabs my sweatpants off the counter and holds them while I step in, then he pulls them up and ties the drawstring at the waist before moving back with a combination self-conscious and self-satisfied expression. Okay, that was a little weird. Not bad-weird, but kind of nice-weird.

The teakettle starts to whistle then, and I turn off the stove and move the kettle to a different burner so it shuts up. I just keep looking at him, trying to see inside his head. And it works. All the sudden I know why he's treating me like I'm a six year old. And I smile, and pull him into a hug, and kiss him once, softly, then let him go and point him at the living room with a little pat on his ass.

"Go sit."

He nods but instead of going, he makes a move to pick up my discarded clothes.

"Leave 'em." I say. I see him struggle with that a little. Dirty clothes on the kitchen floor aren't a concept he can easily cope with. "Go on," I prompt.

With one last glance at the pile, he goes. I tamp down the urge to laugh and pick up the teakettle to pour water into each mug, and stir. I wish I had marshmallows to put in. Oh well. Next time. I pick up both mugs and go into the living room with them. He looks past me toward the kitchen. I can't help it then, I do laugh.

"Ben, they're not going to sneak into the refrigerator while we're not watching and pollute the food. I'll get 'em later, okay?"

He sighs. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yes. But it's kind of cute."

"Cute?" he asks, offended.

"Yeah. Here," I hand him a mug. He looks, sniffs, and starts to smile. "Oh. . . I haven't had this in years."

"Well, you know, it's just what you do after you play in the snow. You go in the house, drink hot chocolate, and watch cartoons. Next time I'll have marshmallows, too."

He glances at the television. "Watch cartoons?"

I nod, pick up the remote, turn on the tube, and then hit play. Ben nearly chokes on his cocoa, and can't seem to decide whether to stare at me or the tv.

"Ray!"

I grin. "You gotta love the Internet, right?"

He nods, and the smile in his eyes just about makes me tear up so I look at the tv instead, at the robot-boy with experimental hair. I take a sip of hot chocolate, then settle back and pat the couch beside me. "Come on. Get comfortable. I got all twelve tapes."


* * * Finis * * *

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