The Usual Disclaimers: Ray and Fraser (not to mention Stephen and sorta Marty, and Mrs. Flannigan) ain't mine, ain't never gonna be mine (damn!), and I make no money off writing about them so go sue somebody else. Rated NC-17 for graphic M/M sex. If you're underage where you live, or if M/M sex is not your bag, hit the back button now. I mean it.

Soundtrack: Nitty Gritty Dirt Band: Broken Road. Lowen & Navarro: All Is Quiet, Not Like You, I'll Set You Free, Maybe Later; from "Broken Moon." Bonnie Tyler: Total Eclipse of the Heart. Cyndi Lauper: True Colors, I Drove All Night, Primitive. Rufus Wainwright: Tower of Learning.

Mucho thanks to my betae, in alphabetical order: AuKestrel, Beth H., Betty, Journey, Judi, and Otsoko. Without you guys, this would be full of errant commas, purple culminations, you name it. Y'all are the best. --Kellie

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True Colors
© 2001 Kellie Matthews

        
What were the odds, Ray wondered, that someone Fraser knew would end up sitting right next to him at The Mane Event while he got his hair worked on? If it was anyone but Fraser he'd figure the odds were astronomical, but somehow Fraser had this weird effect on odds. Things just never quite seemed random around Fraser. Still, it seemed weird that this chick would show up at the same place he was.

Of course, it was a popular salon and he did go there pretty regularly. Once a month, like clockwork, ever since the time Stella had convinced him to lighten his hair. They'd gone to her stylist, Debbie, since his then-barber probably didn't know a bottle of bleach from a bottle of catsup. Stella had loved the results, so he'd kept on doing it. Well, to be honest, he probably would have anyway. He liked it too. He might not be the vainest guy on the planet but he knew what looked good on him.

As Stella had moved up through the ranks at work, she'd also moved on to a more expensive salon, but Ray liked Debbie, who was thin, blonde, wore her own hair experimentally, and appreciated his willingness to do the same. Not to mention they had the same taste in women and could talk about that if the conversation lagged. So he'd kept going there. The only part he hated was sitting around doing nothing while the bleach and color worked. He got bored out of his skull, and Debbie was usually busy doing another cut at the same time. So he'd kind of gotten in the habit of eavesdropping as a means of entertainment.

"So, you still seeing that guy you told me about? The really good-looking one?" the other stylist, Marty, asked his client.

The chick sighed. "You mean Ben?"

Ray probably would have ignored the conversation, but the name had caught his attention. He kept listening as he flipped through the magazine looking at old pictures of Madonna and Tom Cruise.

"I don't remember the name, but you told me about him last time you were here. He's Canadian, right? Some kind of military? I just remember you talked about how hot he looked in his uniform."
Ben. Canadian. Uniform. He was hooked. It was a little bit weird to be sitting in a hair salon eavesdropping, but hell, being nosey was sort of his job. And could he help it if Marty and his customer were right next to him, and not whispering or anything? And could he help it if the People Magazine he had in his lap while he was waiting for his hair to process was nearly a year old?

The chick sighed again. "Yeah. That's him. Ben. He's a Mountie. He works at the Consulate."

They had to be talking about Fraser. Turnbull's first name wasn't Ben, and neither was Thatcher's. He caught himself leaning forward, trying to hear better. Okay, so it was none of his business, but they were talking about his partner, for God's sake! And, yeah, he was curious. Fraser hardly ever talked about anything personal. He didn't even know Fraser was seeing anyone. When the hell did Fraser have time to see anyone? He basically worked two jobs, and hung out with Ray most of the rest of the time.

"That's right, I remember now," Marty said.

Ray looked into Marty's mirror, trying to see the chick's face. All he could tell was that she was a blonde, but Marty had most of her hair in her face at the moment so Ray couldn't get a good look.

"So why the big sighs?" Marty asked, snipping away.

"Oh, it's nothing," she said. Marty snipped some more, and she sighed again, then almost immediately she continued. "He's just so frustrating!"

Ray almost nodded in agreement. Yeah, that sounded like Fraser.

"In what way? Tell me?" Marty prompted. "Maybe I can help. After all, I'm a guy too."

Ray shot a look at the electric-blue snakeskin-print leather pants Marty was wearing and kept his mouth firmly shut. If he let on he was listening they'd shut up.

"Well, he's just. . . so wonderful. He's so handsome, and kind, and considerate."

"And that's frustrating?" Marty asked, sounding surprised. "Isn't that every woman's dream come true?"

Ray decided yeah, he was a guy after all.

The client sighed. She did that a lot. "I know. Sometimes I think I'm crazy. We go out, have tea, and wonderful talks, and go to interesting events, and we have so much in common, but . . . well, maybe he's too polite. There's more to a relationship than holding doors open and saying 'thank you kindly.'"

Too polite? Ray wondered if that meant what he thought it meant.

"Too polite?" Marty asked, obviously on the same wavelength.

"I'm not even sure he knows what a kiss is," she said morosely.

Ah-ha. Okay, Ray was starting to get it. She wasn't scoring. That explained the frustration.

"Oh, honey," Marty said sympathetically. "How old is this guy?"

"A little older than I am," the chick said. "Thirty-five, thirty-six, somewhere in there."

"Hmmm," the stylist muttered thoughtfully.

"Hmm, what?" Blondie prompted.

"Is he married?"

"Of course not!" she said indignantly. "I would never date a married man!"

"Sweetie, believe me, you might not know."

"Ben wouldn't lie. He's not married."

"Hmmm, divorced, then?"

"No. He's never been married."

"Live-in?"

"Not that I know of."

"Uh-hunh," Marty said, as if that explained something. "Well, I think I know what the problem is, but I don't think you're going to like it."

"What?"

"He's gay."

The girl let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle that instantly triggered recognition. He knew who it was now: the property-inventory chick. The one who liked bark tea and Inuit throat-singing. And who provoked that same nervous laughter in Fraser.

"No way!" she exclaimed.

Ray wanted to echo that. Fraser, gay? On what planet? He was just Canadian. Just because he wasn't the kind of guy who kissed on the first date didn't mean he was gay.

"Trust me, hon, I know the signs," Marty said drily. "They're all there." He held up a hand and started ticking off points. "Thirty-something guy who's never had a long-term relationship with a woman. Incredibly good-looking. Takes care of himself. Smart. Good conversationalist." He ran out of fingers and had to start on the other hand. "Polite. Works in a field that requires the wearing of a uniform. Never kisses or gets out of line. Oh yeah. He's gay all right."

"But. . ." The chick sounded bewildered. "If he's gay, why would he go out with me? Why wouldn't he tell me?"

"He's probably in the closet. Most military gays are. They have to be. He goes out with you for camouflage."

"Camouflage?" Now she sounded pissed. "You mean he's only seeing me so people will think he's straight?"

"Well, maybe, maybe not," Marty said, backpedaling, probably realizing that pissing off his clients was a bad idea. "Maybe he doesn't know it himself, or doesn't admit it to himself. Lots of guys do that."

"Let's check your color, Ray," Debbie said, startling him as she took the shower-cap off his head. He hadn't even noticed she'd returned from whatever she'd been doing in the back. "Looks good. I think it's time to rinse. Come on back to the sinks."

He wanted to stay and listen, but he didn't want to end up looking like Billy Idol like he had that one time she'd forgotten about him. He nodded and got up, following her to the back where she rinsed, and shampooed, and conditioned, then she took him back to her station and hit him with the gel and the blow-dryer. By that time, Marty's client had gone and he was standing watching Debbie finish up with Ray. As he usually did, he gave Ray an admiring look when she finally took off the bib-thingy and let him stand up.

"Looking good there, Detective Ray," Marty said. "As usual. I'd be proud to have you as my date to the Policeman's Ball."

Usually Ray didn't mind Marty teasing him, but this time it bugged him. He glared. "Look, just because somebody does or doesn't do stuff, that doesn't make him gay."

Marty blinked, taken aback by Ray's abrupt change from their usual routine. "What?"

Oops. Ray shook his head. "Sorry. Um. Nothing." He turned to Debbie, digging out his wallet, pulling out enough cash to cover his bill, and leave a hefty tip. "Thanks. Gotta run."

* * *

"So, Fraser, you seeing anybody?"

Fraser looked up from his soup, startled. "Excuse me?"

Ray wished he could take back his question. It was none of his business. He'd been telling himself that for nearly a month now. None of his business whether Fraser was or wasn't seeing a chick. Or a guy. Or anybody at all.

But that damned conversation in the salon had been niggling at him for weeks. And he'd found himself watching Fraser, watching the way he acted with women. And the way he acted with men. And. . . well. . . he was starting to think maybe Marty was onto something. Not that there was anything wrong with that. It's just that it made him think about things. Things he didn't usually think about. Things he'd forgotten about. Things he couldn't stop remembering.

"Do you mean . . . like a psychiatrist?" Fraser asked cautiously.

Great. He'd made Fraser think he thought he was a nutjob. Well okay, he did, but that was beside the point. "No, no, not that kind of seeing someone. I mean, like dating."

Fraser didn't look comforted by the clarification. "Ah. Why do you ask, Ray?"

Ray waved a hand dismissively in the air. "Just. . . you know. Guess I was hoping somebody was getting some action, since I'm not. Sort of, what do you call it, victorious pleasure."

One side of Fraser's mouth lifted infinitesimally. "Vicarious pleasure?"

"Yeah, that."

"Ah. Well, I hate to disappoint, but no, I'm not seeing anyone."

"Oh." Once again, his mouth went on without him, sort of on autopilot or something. "What about that chick from the property office?"

"Chick from the. . . you mean Ms. Cosgrove?"

"Dunno her name. Blonde. Giggles a lot."

Fraser nodded. "Mary Cosgrove. We occasionally meet for tea, conversation, and the odd cultural event, but I'm not seeing her romantically."

"No?" Ray asked, resisting the urge to ask just how odd the cultural events were.

He shook his head. "No."

"How come? She's cute. She's got the hots for you."

"Ray!"

"I'm just saying."

"Well, you can just stop saying. It's inappropriate. Ms. Cosgrove is a very nice young lady."

"Fraser, she's what, two, maybe three years younger than we are? We're not in wheelchairs yet. Give the young-lady thing a rest."

"Yes, well, be that as it may, it's still inappropriate. In any case I'm sure you're wrong. Ours is a purely intellectual relationship."

Ray snorted. "Oh yeah. She just wants to think about getting into your pants."

"Ray!"

"All right, all right. But it's the truth."

Fraser cocked his head and regarded Ray quizzically. "You really think she's interested in me romantically? I hadn't gotten that impression."

"Is the moon a big, dusty ball of rock?" Ray asked, deadpan.

Fraser looked disturbed by that news. "Oh dear."

"Oh dear? Why 'oh dear'? She's not bad looking. Seems nice enough."

Fraser sighed. "Well, to be honest, she reminds me of the younger sister of an old friend. It's difficult to feel romantically inclined about someone who resembles someone you used to babysit."

Ray nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. I could see that. Plus that giggle. . . no offense, but doesn't it get wearing?"

Fraser looked at him ruefully. "Yes, actually, it does. Worse, it seems to provoke a similar response in me."

"It's nerves. She makes you nervous."

Fraser frowned a little. "I hadn't thought about it, but perhaps she does."

"Most women make you nervous," Ray said, thoughtlessly.

Fraser looked away. "Yes, well, I don't have your facility with the opposite sex."

"Facility? You make me sound like a parking garage or a public john. I got no facility, Fraser. I've had one relationship in my life. Nobody else gives me the time of day."

Fraser glanced at him, then away again. "What about Luanne Russell? And the lady with whom you went to Acapulco."

Ray snorted. "Let me tell you, Fraser, she wasn't a lady. And as you know, those worked out real well. Thing is though, I'm used to that. Once a geek always a geek, you know, and women don't dig geeks unless they have as much money as Bill Gates. But pretty much every woman we meet wants to go out with you, so I don't get what the problem is."

"There is no problem, Ray. I'm simply not interested in being a 'trophy boyfriend.'"

Ray sat back, startled by the cynical tone in Fraser's voice. "That was kind of un-Mountie-like there."

"Forgive me, I didn't realize I was required to be 'Mountie-like' during my off hours," Fraser snapped.

Wow. That'd been downright snarky. He was hitting some nerves and he wasn’t sure why or what to do about it. "Well, you don't have to be Mountie-like. But you usually are anyway."

Fraser sighed. "Is there some reason why we're continuing this conversation?"

"I. . . " Ray said, and then stopped. No need to dig the hole any deeper. "Nope. No reason at all. Forget I said anything."

"An excellent suggestion." Fraser said shortly.

Ray went back to practicing his observational skills. Two weeks later, after spending four hours in the car with Fraser on stake-out, with another four to go, his mouth got him in trouble again. He was bored. He was thinking. A dangerous combination. He poured a cup of lukewarm coffee from his thermos, sipped it, looked at Fraser, and opened his mouth.

"Fraser?"

Fraser didn't take his eyes off the building they were observing. "Yeah?"

"You ever have a steady girlfriend?"

Fraser turned and looked at him, frowning. "What?"

"A steady girlfriend. You ever have one?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"It's an 'I'm curious about my partner' question. Anything wrong with that? I mean, jeez, Fraser, for a guy who talks all the time, you never say anything about you. It's all about solving crimes, and philosophical stuff. I just wanted to know, okay? Look, you know everything about me. You know about my folks. You know about Stella. You know about my crappy school record. You know about my commendations. You know how I like my coffee and probably what color underwear I have on. Hell, you know I pissed myself in front of a bank robber when I was thirteen. But me? I know bupkus about you."

"Bupkus?" Fraser echoed, bemused.

"Do not start with me," Ray said threateningly. "You can figure it out from context."

Fraser didn't argue the point. For once. He just changed tactics. "You want to know whether or not I urinated in my clothing when I was a teen?" he asked.

Ray sighed and put his head back against the head-rest, eyes closed. "Never mind."

The silence lasted about ten minutes. Fraser buckled first.

"No," Fraser said into the stillness.

"No? No what? I'm not even doing anything," Ray protested, a little confused.

"No, I've never had a steady girlfriend," Fraser said after a moment.

"Oh. Hunh," Ray said, thoughtfully. "How about an unsteady one?" he joked.

Fraser went very still, and something like a shadow passed across his face. He swallowed and looked out the window again, a muscle flexing in his jaw. "Yes. But you knew that."

Ray's first reaction was relief. Okay, so Fraser wasn't gay. Good. That settled that. But then he realized there was something odd about the way Fraser had answered him. He narrowed his eyes, and wished Fraser was looking at him. But he wasn't. So who was he talking about? Lady Shoes? Janet? Neither of them really counted, did they? "I do?" he asked, finally, hoping for elaboration.

Fraser's back got stiffer, if that was possible. "I'm sure you've read the file, Ray. Isn't that why you asked?"

File. Read the file. What file? He had to mean case files. Fraser? Case file? Girlfriend? He ran his brain frantically back through all the case files he could remember, especially those involving Fraser and someone female. Mackenzie King? No. Katherine Burns? No. Maybe? Wait . . . suddenly it hit him. He knew. Oh fuck. They'd been really careful in that file, to word it in such a way that it didn't leap out. But it was there. 'Although he asserted that she had spent considerable time there, no trace evidence from the suspect was found in Constable Fraser's apartment.' It was so obvious, how the hell had he missed it? God.

"I . . . sorry, Fraser. It was a joke. A stupid joke. I. . . I forgot. I'm really sorry."

Fraser nodded once, but didn't look at him. It was very quiet in the car for the rest of their shift. Ray had often wished Fraser was less talkative, but he hadn't meant like this. It sucked. And it lasted. And it got worse. The next day, Fraser was completely missing. He called, apologetic, to say he had to attend to some consulate business. The day after that, Turnbull called to tell him Fraser was too busy to call. Ditto the third day.

Ray wasn't stupid. After the third day, the message was pretty damned clear. He'd fucked up, bigtime. And he had to put it right. Had to make things right with Fraser. He . . . missed him. In fact, it was kind of weird how much he missed him. The only thing he could compare it to was that it felt a lot like the way he used to miss Stella when they had a fight and she'd storm off to her parent's house for a few days.

That realization kind of freaked him out a little so he stopped thinking about it and tried to figure how you apologized to another guy. He knew how to apologize to women. His mom liked roses-- that lavender kind that matched Elizabeth Taylor's eyes. With Stella it had been a bottle of wine and a box of expensive chocolate. But he couldn't exactly take Fraser flowers. That would be weird. Plus Fraser didn't drink, and taking him chocolate would be as weird as flowers.

"Hey, Ray!" Frannie's voice was as grating as always, but when he looked up he saw she looked a little mopey. Her big, sad brown eyes made him think of a Basset hound without the bags. Even her dark-brown hair seemed limp and listless.

"What's up, sis?"

She rolled her eyes. "Hardy ha-ha, bro. Where's Fraser?"

"Busy," Ray said. He should have figured that was what was bugging her. "Turnbull said they're busy."

"Oh," She sighed and turned around, then stopped. "Hey, I almost forgot. You have a message from somebody named Debbie. . . ." She lifted her eyebrows at him. "Reminding you about your date tonight." She waved a 'While You Were Out' memo at him. "Are you nuts, taking a woman out to a boxing match?"

Ray stared at her. Date? Debbie? Boxing match? Was he sleep-dating? He pulled the note out of her fingers and figured it out. The Mane Event. Except Frannie had spelled it 'main event.' That explained it. "Maybe my date likes boxing," he teased. He wasn't going to tell her it was a reminder about the trim and root-job he had scheduled after work. That was the only bad thing about his hair. Maintenance. He'd let Frannie think it was a date. No harm in that.

"Ray, no woman likes boxing. If they say they do they're lying to impress you. See, this is why you don't have a girlfriend. You just want to do all the guy stuff."

He wanted to protest that he liked to dance, liked to do dinner, he was a romantic, really. But what was the point? He did like to do that, but he liked the other stuff. . . better. And to be honest, he hadn't much missed the romance all that much. Well, aside from dinners out. But he went out to dinner with Fraser all the time. At least he had, before he'd fucked up. And, okay, so there was one other kind of romance he missed. Long, slow, sweaty love-making. By candlelight-- that was the romantic part. He wondered idly what Fraser looked like by candlelight.

Whoa. Where the fuck had that thought come from? He shook his head to clear it. "Thanks for the message, Frannie. Guess I better head out, don't want to be late."

She nodded. "Have a nice time. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." She winked broadly. He winked back.

"You got it."

He was still trying to think of how to apologize to Fraser when he got to the salon. He was surprised to find Debbie there alone. She didn't like to be there late by herself.

"Where's Marty?" he asked, looking around.

"In the back. He thought maybe he ought to stay there until you left," she said pointedly.

Ray sighed. Great. Another guy he had to apologize to. "Hey, Marty!" he called out.

The curtain across the entry to the back room twitched a little and Marty looked out.

"Hey,"he said, a little tentatively.

"You don't have to hide, you know."

"I thought maybe you had a problem with me," Marty said, stepping fully into the room.

"Nah. Just. . . overreacted. Sorry."

"Thanks, glad to hear it."

Ray nodded, and Marty went over and started messing with stuff at his station, rearranging the supplies on the rolling cart. Looked like he was getting ready to do a perm. Debbie trimmed Ray up, dabbed the bleach onto his roots and then went in back to make a phone call. Once she'd gone, Marty turned to look at Ray.

"Did I say something that pissed you off, last time?"

Ray shook his head. "Not really. It's just, you were talking about how some guy was probably gay. And I was kind of listening. Shouldn't have been, I know, sorry. But the guy you were talking about is my. . ." Ray suddenly decided that discretion might be called for, since Mary was still Marty's client. "I mean the guy you were talking about sounded a lot like my partner. And it got me wondering about him, which was kind of unsettling."

"Why would it be unsettling?" Marty asked, frowning.

"Just because I never thought about it. Never thought he might be. And he's my partner, so I figure if he is, I ought to know it, right? I mean, that's a big thing. So I was kind of feeling pissed that he might be and I didn't know it."

Marty nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, okay. I think I get that. So, did you ask him?"

"Did I . . . hell no! He's. . . not the kind of person you can ask that kind of thing. But I figured it out anyway. He's not."

"How did you figure it out?"

"He had a girlfriend once. Bad news type, but he had one. So he can't be."

Marty looked at him pityingly. "One? Ray, I've had about a dozen girlfriends."

For a second Ray just stared at him. Finally he got his mouth working. "Oh."

Marty nodded. "Yeah."

Ray scowled. "I did not need to know that."

"Sorry," Marty said, but he didn't look sorry. He dinked around with the perm stuff some more, then looked at Ray again with a mischievous expression. "You know, if your partner really is gay, I feel sorry for him."

Ray sat up, indignant. "Hey! I wouldn't hold it against him! I'm cool with that! I may be a cop but I'm open-minded."

Marty chuckled. "Settle down, cowboy. I just meant that it would be hell being gay and working with you, because you're sort of Gay Fantasy Number Twenty-two, but it would be all 'look-but-don't-touch.'"

Ray wasn't sure his eyes could get any wider. "Me?" he asked, his voice coming out with a squeak he hadn't heard since seventh grade.

Marty nodded, grinning "What, you think I've been joking about that Policeman's Ball thing all these years?"

"I . . . uh. . . guess I never thought about it at all." He looked at Marty again, frowning. "Hey, how come I'm all the way down at twenty-two?"

Marty burst out laughing. "Because you're not wearing leather, and a wife-beater, and you don't smoke."

"Oh," Ray said again, slightly mollified. Just then the timer went off.

"Marty, I'm stuck on the phone, would you check Ray out?" Debbie yelled from the back room.

Marty snickered, and Ray grinned.

"Sure thing," Marty called back, and came over to stand behind Ray, lifting the plastic and inspecting a couple of strands. "He's done, should I take him out of the oven?"

"Please," Debbie said.

"Okay, up, let's go rinse," Marty said, nodding at the sinks.

Ray got up and followed him, leaning back in the chair, closing his eyes, feeling the warm water like fingers on his scalp, washing away the itchy solution. It was kind of strange to have Marty working on him after he'd just confessed to finding him attractive. He remembered that Fraser had said he was attractive, too. Of course, he'd asked first. What the heck kind of question was that to ask your partner, he wondered. And what kind of partner answered it, flat out? Well, the answer to that was clear enough. A Fraser kind of partner.

And now he was back to square one on that, too. Wondering. Not knowing. And worse, realizing that while he'd confided all kinds of stuff to Fraser, apparently Fraser didn't feel free to do the same in return. It bothered Ray, bothered him a lot that Fraser couldn't talk to him about his problems. Or his past. Judging by his reaction, he needed to talk to somebody about the psychokitty he'd apparently done the nasty with. God, he still could not believe he'd read that file and not realized what was up. He had to hand it to Vecchio. That had been one slick whitewash.

The water shut off and Ray opened his eyes to find Debbie standing over him. Kind of a shock. He had been so deep in thought he hadn't even noticed the handoff. Weird. He sat up, taking over towel duty and scrubbing at his hair. She surveyed him critically, and nodded. "Looks good. Sorry about abandoning you there, my sister's having a crisis."

"That's okay, family comes first."

"You want the usual?" she asked as he stood up.

He shook his head, declining the gel and blow-dry. "Nah, actually, I think I'm just going to head out. I need to try to catch someone and grill him."

"A suspect?"

"No, my partner," Ray said with a grin, raking his hands through his hair and studying the result in the mirror. It would do. He got out his wallet and took out double the usual amount and handed it to her. "Half's for Marty," he said, and looked over at Marty. "Thanks guys."

He headed for the Consulate, hoping to catch Fraser alone, but to his surprise Fraser, Turnbull, and Thatcher, were all on hand, along with a half-dozen guys in suits, cowboy boots, and cowboy hats, who were milling around in the foyer. He managed to sidle over to Turnbull, since he couldn't catch Fraser's attention, carefully avoiding the piles of luggage.

"Who're all the good ol' boys?" he asked, nodding at the group.

"Members of a cattleman's association, here for a trade convention sponsored by Ottawa. There was a mix-up with their hotel reservation and they've been staying here for the past three days. Fortunately, they're leaving later this evening. Unfortunately, not until after dinner, so I must get back to the kitchen."

Ray frowned. "So you're sort of running the Canadian Consulate n' Guesthouse here?"

"Essentially, yes, Detective."

Okay, so maybe Fraser hadn't just been avoiding him. That made him feel better. He watched Fraser deep in conversation with a beefy guy with a string tie, and sighed. He could tell he wasn't going to get any quality time with his partner tonight. "Okay, thanks. Look tell Fraser to call me when he gets time, okay?"

"I certainly shall."

He went home and fixed tuna sandwiches for dinner, which he ate in front of the TV watching ESPN. He felt antsy and the game didn't hold his interest. He found himself cleaning up the house because he needed to be doing something. He loaded and ran the dishwasher. He put clean sheets on the bed and started a load of laundry. He even cleaned the bathroom. His mom would probably take his temperature if she saw what he was doing.

He was on his way down to the laundry room to retrieve his stuff from the dryer when he rounded a corner and ran smack into Fraser, who was on his way up the stairs. They nearly went down, which could have been bad, but Fraser somehow got an arm around Ray's waist while the other one clutched at the railing and he managed to keep them upright. They ended up close. Front-to-front close. Really close. Like closer than Ray could ever remember being with another guy who wasn't his dad.

Funny thing was, Fraser didn't let him go right away, which made Ray remember a lot of other times when they hadn't let go right away. It hadn't always been Fraser not letting go, either. Oddly, he realized that he couldn't ever remember seeing Fraser touch anybody else as much as he touched him. That was. . . interesting. It was also interesting that he didn't mind, at least until Fraser suddenly leaned forward and. . . sniffed.

Ray craned back and stared at him. "What?" he snapped, weirded out.

Fraser shook his head, let go, and stepped sideways on the stair, separating them by several inches. "I thought I detected. . . ah, nothing, never mind. Turnbull said you wanted to see me?"

Ray shook his head, sighing. "I told him to have you give me a call when you got time. I didn't mean you had to run over here as soon as the Cartwrights left."

Fraser looked puzzled. "Who?"

"The cattlemen's association guys."

"I don't believe any of them were named Cartwright."

"Fraser. . . the Ponderosa, Little Joe, Hoss. . . . ah, never mind." He dug in his pocket and got out his keys and handed them to Fraser. "Here. Let yourself in. I have to go get my laundry."

Fraser nodded and headed up. Ray dashed down to the basement, pulled his stuff out and piled it in the basket, then dashed back up. Fraser was sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the TV. Ray put his laundry-basket down next to the couch and waved a hand in front of Fraser's eyes.

"Earth to Fraser. . . you forget you don't like TV?"

Fraser looked up. "Sorry. I'm just very tired."

Ray nodded. "Yeah. Guess it could've been worse. Could've been Shriners. Then you'd be cleaning up all those little stick-on jewels and stray fringe."

Fraser smiled a little at that, and stifled a yawn. Then his nostrils flared a little as he inhaled deeply, and cocked his head to look at Ray with a slightly puzzled expression. But he didn't say anything, so Ray groped around for something to break the silence.

"You want some tea?" he asked finally.

Fraser nodded. "Please. Something caffeinated."

Ray fired a finger at him. "You got it. Caffeine coming up."

He went into the kitchen and nuked a cup of water, then dunked a tea-bag in it until the water turned the color of coffee. He figured that was probably strong enough, and took it out, only to find Fraser folding his laundry.

"Hey, you stop that! Jeez!" He snatched a pair of briefs out of Fraser's hand. "You're not my maid, Fraser!"

Fraser looked embarrassed. "Sorry. I've done so much laundry the past few days it was just force of habit."

"Thatcher had you doing their laundry?" Ray asked, appalled. "For God's sake, Fraser! You're a cop! A great cop! What the hell is wrong with that woman?"

Fraser beamed at him. "Thank you, Ray. That's very kind."

"It's not kind. It's the truth. Look, you drink your tea, I'm going to get my laundry out of folding range."

He leaned over to pick up the basket, and Fraser sniffed. Again. Real subtly, but noticeably. It was making Ray a little paranoid. Unless he had completely lost his sense of smell, he was fine, but he had to know.

"Fraser, what is with you? I showered today."

Fraser looked embarrassed. "Oh dear. No, it's not that. It's just, well, something smells like peroxide."

Ray felt relieved. "Oh, that. Yeah. Just got my roots done."

He'd never seen Fraser with his jaw dropped. It wasn't a really good look on him, but it was kind of fun. Fraser finally shut his mouth, only to open it again.

"Your. . . roots?"

"Yeah."

"I, ah, didn't realize you . . . ." he stopped, clearly at a loss.

"Colored it?" Ray asked. "Yeah. Have for years." He sighed dramatically. "You've lost all respect for me now, haven't you?"

Fraser looked distressed. "Of course not! Why would I . . . "

"Joke, Fraser. Joke." Ray said hastily. "Okay?"

Fraser settled, looking relieved. "Ah. Yes. Well. I do, though. Respect you."

"Glad to hear it, buddy. Be right back. Drink up." Ray took his laundry into his room and set it down, and took a step toward the living room just as the phone rang. He was closest to the bedroom extension so he picked it up there.

"Vecchio."

"Stanley?"

He sighed. She was never, ever, going to call him Ray. "Hi, Mom. What's up?"

"Well, I was shopping today, and there was a wonderful sale on dress shirts at the men's store. I thought I might go back tomorrow and pick some up for you."

"I don't need any shirts."

"A man always needs more shirts. Especially a man who does laundry once a month," she said pointedly.

"I did laundry just today!" he protested.

"That's lovely dear, I'll come by on Monday to iron for you."

"Mom, you don't need to do that."

"I just like to be useful, you know."

Ouch. Okay. Round one to Mom. "Okay, yeah. You can iron. But I don't need any new shirts."

She hesitated. He could visualize the disappointed expression on her face and he felt guilty.

"It's such a good sale. . . ."

He sighed. Round two to Mom. "Okay, mom. One shirt. One."

"What color?" she asked brightly.

He went to his closet, looked at what he had. "Grey? Or maybe olive. Something neutral. No primary colors. They don't go with anything I own."

"Wonderful. I'll see what I can find."

"Thanks, Mom. Talk to you soon."

"Bye Stanley, love you."

"Love you too, Mom."

He thumbed off the phone, hoping no one was tapping it, because conversations like that would probably blow his cover. Shaking his head, smiling a little, he walked into the living room.

"So, where's Dief. . . ." His voice trailed off as he looked at Fraser, who was still sitting bolt upright on his couch, apparently sound asleep. At any rate, his eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, and his breathing slow and regular. Ray supposed he might be meditating, but he kind of didn't think so. Fraser still held his mug between his hands, propped on his knees, apparently untouched. That was dangerous. If he relaxed too much, he'd end up with a lapful of hot tea. Just thinking about it made Ray cringe.

He went over and knelt beside the couch, checking up close to see what sort of grip Fraser had on the mug. It looked pretty loose, so he very carefully reached over and eased the mug out from between his hands. Fraser barely stirred. In fact, he was so out that Ray wasn't sure a bomb going off in the next room would wake him up. Grinning, he shook his head and put the mug down on the coffee table.

It was strange to be this close, to be able to look at Fraser, really look, and not have to worry about getting caught doing it and having to try to explain. Something-- something he'd been guilty of on more than one occasion. Everybody did it, so he didn't feel too badly. He couldn't really help it though. Ever since that first moment in the bullpen when he'd heard someone call his name, and turned around to register. . . well, okay RED was the first thing he registered, which tipped him off to the identity of the person calling his name. But the next thing had been: "Jesus God, that's the most beautiful man I've ever seen." Followed swiftly by "I will never ever get another date if I hang around with this guy."

Which, oddly enough, had not turned out to be true. In fact, he'd had more success in the dating department than Fraser had. Though that wasn't saying much. And now he was back to that again. Could you tell if someone was gay by how they looked? By how they acted? No, not really. Not unless they were into the whole stereotype thing. No. Fraser was just Fraser. Weird. Wacky. Wonderful. WWW. His brain tried to take a detour to www.Fraser.com but he stopped that before it got out of hand and went back to using this rare occasion to study Fraser closely.

He was still the most beautiful man Ray had ever seen. Handsome just didn't cut it. Handsome was more rugged than Fraser was. Fraser was beautiful. Up this close Ray could see crows-feet developing at the corners of his eyes, a scar on his chin, and one that ran along the bridge of his nose. None of that detracted from his extraordinary good-looks. A peppering of beard-shadow darkened his jaw. Ray wondered what he would look like with a beard. He couldn't quite get his imagination to go there, though. His dark hair was a very fine, a little wavy, and shot through with random threads of bright silver.

Whoa. Fraser was going gray. Ray found himself fingering his own hair. If he stopped getting it colored, would it have gray in it too? They were nearly the same age. It probably would. That was strange to think about. Not so much for him, as for Fraser. That made him seem more human, somehow.

So did the crows-feet, and the scars. Just like his lopsided smile, and that crooked eye-tooth. Ray knew if he ever kissed Fraser, his tongue would want to find that tooth, see if he could feel that twist. . . and. . . what the hell was he thinking? Kissing Fraser? He stood up so fast he bumped the coffee table and knocked over the mug. He swore under his breath and started mopping with the newspaper he'd left there.

"Ray?" Fraser sounded confused.

Ray jerked around. "Fraser! Hey. Sorry. I was just, um, trying to move the cup. I didn't mean to wake you up."

Fraser opened his mouth soundlessly, closed it, and his face turned pink. "I'm terribly sorry, Ray. You must think I'm inexcusably rude."

Ray shook his head, folding up the wet newsprint in some dry pages. "Nah, I think you're tired. What, they have you running out for booze and hookers at three a.m.?"

Fraser turned even pinker. "Ah. . . well . . . ."

Ray stared at him. "You didn't!"

"Of course not, Ray! I did make a liquor run for them, as they had threatened to do it themselves in their rental car and I could hardly allow them to drive in their condition. I do, however, draw the line at trafficking in human beings."

Ray put a hand on his chest and breathed a sigh. "Thank God. For a second there I was worried."

Fraser quirked an eyebrow at him. Ray grinned back, and they both laughed.

"So, what did you want to see me about?" Fraser asked.

Ray stood there for a moment trying to remember. Then he did, and sobered instantly. Oh yeah. "I, um. Jeez. I don't know how to do this with a guy. Sorry, Fraser."

Fraser got a very strange expression on his face. Sort of watchful, and oddly . . . hopeful? "You don't know how to do what with a guy, Ray?"

Ray looked down. "If you were Stella I'd have wine, and maybe chocolate."

"If I was Stella?" Fraser asked, starting to frown a bit.

"Yeah. And my mom's big on flowers."

Fraser now looked thoroughly confused. "Your. . . mother?"

"Yeah. That was her on the phone," Ray said, unnecessarily. "Okay, the thing of it is, I wanted to apologize," he said, wishing he wasn't standing there like an idiot with his hands full of wet newspaper.

Fraser still looked confused. And a little disappointed. "Apologize?"

"Yeah."

"For what?"

"The other day. I was out of line. But I wanted you to know it wasn't on purpose. I mean, yeah, I wanted to know about you, but I never twigged about the Metcalf chick until after you said that. I wasn't pulling your chain."

Now it was Ray's turn to be confused, because there was no doubt about it. Fraser definitely looked disappointed. His relaxed posture tightened into its usual ramrod straightness.

"Ah. I see. Well, thank you. In retrospect, I should have known that. You've never been deliberately hurtful. I do appreciate the apology, though. And you mustn't feel that anything more is needed." Abruptly he stood up and reached for his leather jacket, which lay across the back of a chair. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll head on back to the consulate."

Ray started to put out a hand and grab him, but couldn't, since his hands were full. "Hey, what's your hurry? You just got here."

"I am rather tired," Fraser said a little stiffly, their earlier rapport gone.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Look, let me drive you home. It's my fault you came all the way over here. I owe you."

"Nonsense, Ray. A good walk will help me sleep more soundly. Good night."

Ray dashed to shove the newspapers into the trash, and met Fraser at the door. "You sure I can't give you a lift?"

"Quite sure," Fraser said crisply. "Good night, Ray."

"'Night, Fraser," Ray said, watching him stride down the hallway toward the stairs, wishing he knew what the hell had just happened. He closed the door slowly, locked all the locks, then went and washed newsprint off his hands. As he washed, he reviewed the last few minutes, and something Fraser had said hit him like a ton of bricks. 'You've never been deliberately hurtful.' Did that mean he'd accidentally been hurtful to Fraser?

That thought kept running through his mind as he got ready for bed, and then as he lay there, trying to go to sleep. He made himself stop thinking about it. Then other things started up. Things like how slow Fraser was to let go of him on the stairs. Things like how often Fraser touched him. Things like how often he touched Fraser. Things like the fact that thinking about those things was beginning to have a certain surprising physical effect on him. He sat up, snapped on the light, and went into the living room where he turned on the TV and watched Godzilla Versus Rodan until he fell asleep.

* * *

Fraser had good lips. Not thick, not thin, though the upper lip was thinner than the lower. But then so was Ray's. They looked soft. They were never chapped. Just pink enough to catch attention, without being too pink. And he had that maddening habit of letting his tongue just sort of slide out across them now and then, whenever he was thinking through a particularly difficult problem, or when he was amused. His mouth often carried a subtle curve, as though Fraser found something very amusing, but was sure no one else would so he was keeping it to himself. That smile was the worst, for Ray. It made him. . . it made him want. . . things he shouldn't want.

Ever since that first time Ray's brain had jumped the track, the thought of kissing Fraser had kept coming back. No matter how much he tried not to think about it. It was like that old joke about not thinking about an elephant. And sometimes it happened at the weirdest times. Like yesterday when they were questioning a suspect and he started wondering what Fraser might taste like. He was somehow sure it wouldn't be anything normal, like old coffee, or the onions from the salad at lunch. And none of that was anything he ought to have been thinking about while working a case.

". . . Ray!"

Fraser's exasperated tone made Ray realize he'd already said his name at least four times already. He snapped his attention up to Fraser's eyes. "Yeah?"

"Do I have something in my teeth?"

Ray blinked. "What?"

"You were staring at my mouth."

"I was?" Smooth move, Kowalski. "Didn't know I was. I was just kind of. . . spacing out," he lied.

"Ah. I see." Fraser said, in that voice that said he didn't see at all. He looked at Ray with a worried expression. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Me? Yeah. Fine. Why?"

"Well, over the past few days, weeks actually, you've seemed a bit. . . distracted. Is anything bothering you?"

Yeah, like he was going to tell Fraser what his problem was. Uh-hunh. He still wasn't sure one way or the other which team Fraser played for, but he wasn't about to trot out the fact that he was starting to think of Fraser the way he used to think about Nastassja Kinski. Hell he wasn't sure what team he was playing on any more, as far as that went.

"Ray?" Fraser prompted.

Shit. Did it again. "Nothing's bothering me, Fraser."

Fraser's eyes narrowed. Ray could almost feel the x-rays scanning his brain. He kept his mouth closed. Finally Fraser sighed.

"I'm sorry you don't feel you can confide in me," he said, with that sort of pompous tone he got when he was upset and trying not to show it.

Ray felt guilty. "Look, Fraser, if I could confide in anybody it'd be you."

Fraser pounced. "So there is something wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," Ray said with deliberate emphasis.

Fraser studied him, then nodded. "But something is bothering you."

Ray sighed and put his head down on his desk, turned slightly to the side so he could still see Fraser's face a little. "If I admit that do I earn a 'get out of questioning free' card?"

"Ray, aren't we friends?" Fraser asked, his gaze soft and concerned.

"Of course we are!"

"Then why can't you confide in me? Unless . . ." a shadow darkened Fraser's gaze. "Unless I'm the problem," he finished, his voice way too quiet.

"Fraser, it's not you!" Ray yelled, frustrated.

Everyone in the bullpen turned and looked at them. Ray felt his face getting hot. Fraser got pink too, and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, perhaps we ought to continue this conversation outside?"

"Perhaps we shouldn't continue this conversation at all," Ray muttered, then he sighed, knowing he had to clear things up or Fraser would just go on thinking he was Ray's problem. Actually, he was Ray's problem but that wasn't his fault. "Okay. Fine. Let's go for a drive."

"Excellent idea," Fraser said, pleased. "Diefenbaker?"

Dief stuck his head out from under Frannie's desk and whined. Fraser sighed. "Now, Dief."

Dief grumbled, but complied. Ray led the way out to his car, thinking it was a good thing he had a job where nobody thought it was weird if you just got up and left sometimes. He unlocked the driver's door, and then tossed the keys to Fraser, who caught them neatly. After Fraser unlocked his side, he got in and handed them back to Ray as he buckled up. Ray started the car, pulled out, and drove for a while. Fraser managed to not say anything until about six minutes had passed, then he cleared his throat.

"So. . . our conversation?"

"Yeah. Look. It's just me being weird, okay? I've just got a lot going on in my head, a lot of stuff to think about. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Is it anything I can help with?"

Oh, what an opening. Be strong. "Nah. Just. . . you know, sometimes life just kind of seems to take a little step to one side. You go along thinking you're one thing all your life, and then all the sudden you find out maybe you're something else entirely."

Fraser looked at him sharply, and then just as quickly looked away as he nodded. "Yes, yes, I know exactly what you mean." Without looking at Ray, he spoke again. "What aspect of your life is it that has. . . slipped sideways?" he asked gently.

"That's not important. I just wanted you to know it isn't you."

"It is important, Ray, if it's causing you distress. Is it work-related?"

"No," Ray said, before he remembered he wasn't going to say anything.

"Ah. Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski, then?"

"No. Look, it's okay. Everything's fine."

Fraser frowned. "Clearly everything isn't fine. If it's not me, and it's not work, and it's not Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski, then I confess I'm at a loss. Your parents, perhaps?"

Ray was starting to get annoyed. "Just let it go, Fraser. You don't want to know."

"But I do want to know. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"No, I can't. Okay?"

"No, it's not okay. I don't understand why you won't talk to me about this. Don't you trust me?" Fraser asked, clearly hurt.

Shit. Ray knew from long experience there was no help for it now. Once that cannon went off, it was all over but the shouting.

"Goddamnit," he growled, and took a quick right turn into a parking lot where he stopped the car, and looked at Fraser. "You want to know? You really want to know? Fine. Okay. Don't say I didn't give you a chance to not know this. I do trust you. I trust you enough to tell you something even though I know it's going to really fuck things up. And when it screws things up, do not come whining to me, because you're the one who just had to know."

"Had to know what, Ray?"

"That I want to know what your mouth tastes like! Okay? You happy now?"

His outburst was followed by a good thirty seconds of total silence. Fraser's eyes got huge. His tongue stole out to moisten his lips nervously. "I. . . ah. . . you what?" Fraser finally asked, incredulously.

"You heard me, Mr. Bat-Ears. I want to kiss you."

Ray knew he was coming off with more attitude than he should, but he wasn't really sure how not to. He'd never been in this situation before. He didn't know the rules. Then Fraser surprised him. He'd been expecting blushing, stammering, and revulsion. What he got was a faint, puzzled frown.

"I see. And how long have you felt this way?"

"A little while."

"May I ask what precipitated it?"

Ray couldn't quite believe they were sitting there calmly discussing this as if they were talking about a case. "How the heck should I know?" he snapped. "I just sort of realized it one day."

"Ah. I take it this isn't. . . usual?"

"Hell no. I just. . . keep wondering, you know. I've never kissed a guy." It sounded stupid, so he shrugged, trying to make light of his own admission. "And if I was going to kiss one, I figure you'd be it."

Fraser looked at him steadily. "This is why you've been sounding me out as to my romantic relationships, isn't it?"

Caught. Ray felt himself blush. "I, um. . . yeah."

For a moment Fraser's gaze softened, and warmed, and a tiny smile started to curve his mouth, then in mid-smile everything changed. He tensed up and looked away, a muscle in his jaw tightening. His normally fair skin seemed to pale further. "I see. Perhaps you ought to take me home."

Ray stared at him, a little confused. "Home?"

"The Consulate," Fraser said clearly.

"You're freaked out," Ray said, morosely. "I knew it."

"I'm not 'freaked out,' as you so quaintly put it. I'm . . . ." Fraser stopped, and Ray saw him slowly clench a fist, and then unclench it, just as slowly. "I'm just disappointed in you. I would have thought that even if you had somehow determined that I've some experience in the field, as it were, that you would know better than to think I'm that sort of person."

Ray was even more confused now. "Wait. . . hang on. . . what? What experience? What sort of person?"

Fraser's gaze met his, full of bitter irony. "Surely you can say it, Ray. Experience with a male lover. And while I understand that my familiarity might make things easier for you if you're finding yourself questioning some aspects of your sexuality, I should also think that familiarity would also lead you to realize it's not in my nature to be casual about such a thing."

Ray was speechless. Had Fraser really just said what he thought he'd said? Had he just flat out admitted he was gay? He ran the words through his Fraser-to-English translator again just to be sure, and got the same result. "You're. . . gay?"

Fraser actually rolled his eyes. "Don't be disingenuous. You already knew that."

"I. . . no. I wondered, but . . . I mean I thought maybe, but then I thought not, but . . . ."

"Enough. Please," Fraser said wearily. He glanced out the window, and then opened the door and got out, putting the seat forward. "Dief, come on. We're walking home."

Wait. No. No, this wasn't right, Ray thought. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He had no idea how it was supposed to go but he was pretty sure this wasn't it. He slammed the car-seat back into place with his arm, smacking Dief in the nose with it and getting an aggrieved whine as a result. He leaned across and craned his neck to see Fraser where he stood next to the car. "Fraser! Come on. I'll take you back."

"Thank you, I'd rather walk. I could use the exercise."

"You're not being fair!" Ray blurted. "I told you I didn't want to tell you. I wasn't going to tell you. I didn't think you would. . . do that. You made me tell you. I said you wouldn't like it!" And he'd been right, though for drastically different reasons than he'd been thinking.

Fraser frowned. "That's true," he said after a moment. "You're absolutely right. It was unfair of me."

"So get back in the car!"

"I. . . I'd really rather not, Ray. I need a little time to think. I'm sorry. May I let Dief out?"

Ray sighed, and nodded. "Yeah. Okay. I won't hold the wolf hostage." He leaned back and let Fraser put the seat forward again. Dief hesitated this time, with a glance at Ray that looked worried. Ray liked to think he was worried about him, not about getting smacked in the nose again. Finally he gave a soft whuff, and jumped out of the car. As Fraser returned the seat to its normal position, Ray leaned across again.

"See you tomorrow?" he asked, trying not to sound anxious.

Fraser hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Certainly."

"Great. That's greatness. Tomorrow."

Fraser nodded again, and then set off in the direction of the Consulate. Dief started after him, with a last glance back over his shoulder at Ray.

Ray watched them go, his stomach in a knot. "That was not cool," he announced to no one. "That was so not cool."

* * *

Curiosity. Was that it? Ray had thought about it all night, since sleeping was pretty much out of the picture anyway. The more he'd thought about it, the more he thought maybe Fraser was right. He'd never thought about kissing Fraser before that day at the salon when Marty had said he figured Fraser was gay. Well, okay, except for that time on the Henry Allen, and Fraser had said that wasn't a kiss and since he didn't lie Ray had to believe him. And yeah, they did touch a lot. But maybe Fraser had touched Vecchio a lot too. Maybe that was just how he was with his friends. It wasn't like he had a lot of friends that Ray could watch him with to check.

The next day he tried hard not to think about the part where Fraser had said he had experience with guys. Tried not to wonder who. Where. When. How. Jesus. The more he tried not to wonder the more he wondered. He wasn't all that well-versed in the hows but he wasn't clueless, either. He'd found a Blue Boy in a locker at the gym one time and had been downright fascinated by it. Maybe that should have tipped him off. Any normal guy would probably have burned the thing. He'd kept it instead, safely hidden in the same drawer as his Playboys and Penthouses.

Hunh. He hadn't thought about that in a long time. Those magazines had gone into a box when he'd moved into his own place and were still there, down in his storage locker in the basement. But. . . wait. What did that mean? He'd still been married to Stella then, and he'd kept it? That was kind of weird for a mostly-happily married guy. He sat there for a while wondering about that, and worse, thinking about going down to the locker and finding that box when he got home. Fortunately he'd managed to distract himself from that thought by going over interviews on his last case.

Unfortunately even that wasn't enough to distract him from wondering if Fraser was actually going to show or not. Around two-thirty he heard Frannie go into 'coo' mode and looked up to see Fraser walk into the bullpen. He let out a sigh of relief and felt a big, goofy grin spread over his face. Thank God. Before Fraser could notice, he quickly looked down at his files. He didn't want Fraser to think he was checking him out or anything.

A minute or two later Fraser escaped from Frannie's clutches, sat down in the chair next to his desk and cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, Ray."

Ray looked up, doing his best Steve McQueen casual. "Hey, Fraser. Didn't see you come in," he lied. "How's things at the Consulate?"

"A bit hectic, actually. There was a film crew in today and Constable Turnbull managed to trip over a cable and sprain his ankle. Then Inspector Thatcher inadvertently ignited a fire by using her blow-dryer and hair-spray simultaneously. If you ever find yourself in need of an impromptu incendiary device, you might keep that in mind. Fortunately no one was injured when the hair-spray cannister blew up, as she had the presence of mind to throw it into the alley behind the building. Unfortunately the bathroom window will need to be replaced now, as she neglected to open the window before throwing the can."

Ray stared at him, wondering when he'd gotten to the point that things like that sounded normal, and then nodded. "Thanks for the tip, you never know when something like that might come in handy," he said, refraining from adding 'Especially if you're involved.' "So what was the film crew doing there?"

"Filming a documentary on Canadian consulates. Unfortunately their grant from Telefilm Canada is rather small, so the scope of their documentary is of necessity limited to locations they can reach by car, or rather, van. Though they might stretch that to include some of the Central American consulates as well."

"Yeah. That ought to be fascinating. I bet none of the other consulates is nearly as interesting."

"The director did comment that on the whole, his experience here had been much livelier than he'd expected."

Ray snorted. "Oh yeah. So, you want to read the latest on the Berenboim case?" he asked, holding up the file.

Fraser started to reach for the file, the hesitated. "Ray, about last night. . . ."

Ray held up a hand. "Over and done with, Fraser, over and done with. Water under the bridge, as they say."

"But, Ray, I . . . ."

Ray shook his head. "I mean it. Just consider it never happened."

Fraser looked like he was going to argue, but finally he nodded, even though he was still frowning a little. "Very well, Ray. If that's how you want it."

"How I want it don't matter. It's how it's got to be," Ray said simply, and he handed Fraser the Berenboim file.

Fraser looked at him assessingly for a long moment, then he opened the folder and started to read.

There. That wasn't so bad. Ray just hoped he wasn't fooling himself that he could do that. Hoped Fraser wasn't either.

* * *

So much for hoping, Ray thought, after dropping Fraser off at the Consulate. He watched the other man walk up the stairs and let himself in, watched the door close behind him, and sighed. Nothing was different, but everything was different. Fraser never touched him any more. In fact, he never got closer than about a foot, which made it pretty tough when they were both trying to hide behind a dumpster to keep from getting shot, because there wasn't enough room for both of them plus a foot of clearance. He'd had to bodily drag Fraser out of harm's way today. Fraser hadn’t seemed too happy about it either.

Ray had felt compelled to made a bad situation worse, by pointing out the bullet scar on the bricks not three inches from where Fraser had been standing when Ray had yanked him back. Fraser's jaw had tightened up then, and Ray had dropped it, but it was typical these days. Things were almost as bad as they had been back before the Henry Allen. Which he really shouldn't be thinking about, damn it. Ray ran a hand through his hair, then looked at his watch and swore, pulling out into traffic and nearly causing an accident. Somehow he managed to get to the salon only five minutes late.

He noticed Marty's station was all tidied up and empty, and he nodded at it. "Where's Marty?"

"He has a hot date tonight," Debbie said. "He had to get home and make himself beautiful. He knew you'd be here in a few minutes and that you'd stay while I closed up. You will, right?" she asked, a little anxiously.

Ray knew Debbie had been nervous about closing alone ever since she'd been robbed a couple of years back. He nodded and plopped himself down in the chair. "Sure. Got nothing else to do." Not since Fraser stopped spending the evenings with him, anyway.

Debbie lifted her eyebrows at him as she whisked the cape around his neck. "You okay?" she asked.

"Peachy," he snapped. Then he sighed. "Sorry. No. Not really. But I shouldn't yell at you because my life's a mess. How could you tell?"

She tapped a finger against one of the tendons in the back of his neck. "When you're stressed out these get really tight. What's up? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he said. Then he thought about it for a minute, and looked up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Maybe. At least you'd understand, I think."

"Why's that?" she asked, mixing up her solution in a blue plastic bowl.

"Well, you've been through it. Sort of."

"Been through what? Beauty school?"

Ray chuckled. "Yeah, can't you see me working here for a living?"

She laughed. "In a word, no. You've got me curious now. What have I 'sort of' been through?"

He shivered a little as she started painting the goop onto his hair. It always felt cold. "You've been through finding out you're attracted to chicks."

She grinned at him in the mirror. "That's your big dilemma? I hate to break this to you, honey, but this is not news. You've always been attracted to chicks," she teased. A moment later she sobered abruptly and turned the chair so she could look into his eyes, frowning just a little. "Ray, are you trying to tell me you think you're gay?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Or bi or something. See, lately I've been. . . ." He stopped for a moment, having a hard time trying to find the right words, and having to remember to keep Fraser's name out of it.. "There's this guy. And he's . . . different. And suddenly, well, for a while now, I've been feeling kind of . . . interested. But I don't know. . . maybe it's just because I haven't been laid in about a year. Maybe it's just curiosity. Maybe it's an early midlife crisis. Who the hell knows? All I know is, I want to kiss him. I want to. . . um, never mind." He hoped she wouldn't notice his blush. She didn't seem to. She just nodded, made a little 'hmm' sound, and went back to painting his hair.

"So . . . you have feelings for this guy?" she asked from behind him, frowning slightly.

Ray watched her in the mirror, and nodded. "Yeah. But he thinks it's just because I'm nosey or something."

"You talked to him about it?" she asked, surprised.

"Sort of. Not really. Just a little."

"Hmm. And what did he think about it?"

"He was . . . pissed. Well, as pissed as he ever gets. He thinks it's just because I figured out he's been with guys, and it made me curious."

Debbie daubed the last bare spot of his hair and then came around to the front so she could look at him again. "Is he right?"

Ray sighed, and shrugged. "I. . . don't know. Maybe. Could be. I don't think so, but. . . I don't know."

"Hm. So, tell me about him. What's he like?"

Despite his mood, Ray felt himself starting to smile. "He's. . . one of a kind. He's like. . . like a Sherlock Holmes who licks mud and jumps off buildings. Thinks he's Superman or something. He's kind of annoying sometimes because he's so damned good at everything, but he's the kind of guy who makes people better just by being around. You sort of have to be better whether you want to or not."

Debbie looked thoughtful. "Interesting."

"What's interesting?" Ray asked, worried. There was something scary about the way she'd said that.

"Well, I asked about him and you told me about him. Not about what he looks like. Not about how he acts with you. You told me about him. What he's really like. Quirks and all. You admit he's annoying, but you're attracted anyway. That tells me you like him for him. Not just because he's cute, or because he flatters you or anything."

"Well, he is cute," Ray said. "Well, cute's not really the word for it. But yeah, I like him for who he is. I have for a long time. Before I started feeling. . . before I started wanting. . . well anyway. Yeah. I like him. We're friends." He sighed. "Or we used to be."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I fucked up. Ever since I told him, things have been screwed up. Weird."

Debbie sighed and nodded. "Yeah, I've been through that. There was this woman once, we were friends. I really liked her, but when I told her I was interested in her, it kind of messed things up. But it will get better. It'll just take some time."

"I hope so, because right now it sucks."

"Yeah," Debbie patted his shoulder sympathetically. "So, hey, the important stuff: what does he look like?"

"He's about my height, but bigger. Not fat or anything, just built different. Sort of like the GTO-- sleek but with muscles. Dark hair that's a little wavy when he lets it be, but usually he doesn't. Blue eyes-- but not like Paul Newman blue. They're darker, almost gray, sort of dusty. Like a dark blue car where the paint got kind of oxidized."

Debbie laughed, shaking her head. "Ray, my friend, you've got it bad. Any time a guy starts comparing someone he likes to a car, you know he's in deep."

Ray felt himself turning red again. "Yeah, well. He's really good-looking. Women fall all over themselves when he's around."

"And how does he react to that?"

"He usually just kind of stares at some spot on the wall and pretends it's not happening. He's a pretty straightlaced kind of guy."

Debbie snickered. "He can't be that straightlaced if he does guys."

Ray smiled. "You don't know Fraser." Shit. He wanted to call back the name. He was just so used to using it that it had slipped out.

She cocked her head, looking at him curiously. "Fraser? Isn't that your partner? The Canadian?"

Ray nodded, sighing. "Yeah. I forgot I wasn't going to say his name."

"Don't worry, Ray, my lips are sealed. You know I can keep a secret. I've never told a soul that you took my girlfriend to that party where you knew you were going to see Stella about a month after the divorce."

"For which I am eternally grateful. And to her, too. And I know you won't say anything, I'm just. . . well, you know what the road to hell is paved with." He shrugged and smiled wryly.

"I sure do. And anyway, you're right, I don't know him, but I'd like to meet him some time."

"I'd bring him in, but he gets his hair cut down at this barber shop on West Racine near where he used to live. Says he can't go anywhere else because Mr. Lingenfelter would be upset."

"West Racine?" Debbie asked, surprised. "Up, time to rinse. You mean that place with the old-fashioned barber pole out front?"

"That's the one," Ray said, getting up and following her to the sinks.

"Wow. I thought only guys over sixty went there."

"Guys over sixty, and Fraser."

"Does his hair look really bad?" she asked, turning on the faucet and testing the temperature.

Ray grinned. "It wouldn't dare. Hey, you know, I think I've got some pictures of him out in the car. I could get them after you're done."

"You have pictures of your partner in your car?" Debbie asked.

From her tone Ray guessed this was not something she considered normal behavior, so he explained. "They were duplicate copies of the ones Frannie took at the department picnic a couple of months ago. She gave them to me and I put them in the glove compartment and kind of forgot they where there until just now."

"Uh-hunh," Debbie said, in obvious disbelief. "Put your head back."

Ray did. He figured he wasn't going to convince her in any case so why try? She rinsed, then toweled him off and took him back to the chair to trim him up. When they were both happy with his look she took the drape off him and stood back.

"Okay, beautiful, go get your pictures. You've got me curious what kind of guy could lure you off the straight and narrow."

Ray snickered. "Good one. I'll be right back."

He dashed out to the car, hoping he was right and the pictures were still there. They were, and he pulled them out, also hoping they hadn't melted together during that hot-spell back in early September. Fortunately they seemed to be fine. He headed back inside and handed them to Debbie with the best shot on top. Fraser, 'dressed down' in jeans and a gray RCMP t-shirt, Dief at his side. Dief had a hotdog in his mouth. Fraser was deep in conversation with Lieutenant Welsh. Debbie glanced at the photo, and then looked up at Ray wryly.

"Am I right to assume we're not talking about the guy who looks like an oversized bulldog?"

Ray shuddered. "That's my lieutenant. I am definitely not warm for his form. Fraser's the other one."

She nodded and studied the picture.

Ray watched her expression change, surprisingly, to one he was all-too familiar with. "I thought you liked chicks," he said grumpily. "And don't drool on it."

She looked up from the picture. "Ray, I haven't slept with a guy in twenty years, but this?" She pointed at the picture. "This could almost make me change my mind," she winked. "I completely understand why you might be curious about what this guy is like in bed."

Ray winced. "It's not that!" he protested.

She looked at him, eyebrows up. "Weren't you just telling me a few minutes ago that you thought it was?"

"I, um. . . yeah," he sighed, trapped. "I don't know, Deb. I'm just all mixed up."

"Yeah, I bet you are. Hey, I have an idea. Why don't I take you out on Friday night and you can see if anyone else trips your trigger?"

Ray stared at her, puzzled. "What?"

"There's a bar over on Halstead, Sidetrack, it's a mixed place. Lesbians, gays, a few token straights. It's not my usual hangout but I know people there. Marty likes it, for instance. We can go and you can kind of . . . test the waters."

He thought about it. Testing the waters didn't sound too bad. Well, other than the fact that he was a cop planning to go to a gay bar. But then again, any other cop he might see there would probably be just as happy to keep his mouth shut in return for the same favor, so. . . . He looked at Debbie threateningly. "This better not be like the time you took me to that lesbian bar and I was the only guy there and everybody thought you were dating some really butch chick," he said threateningly.

Debbie laughed, shaking her head. "Oh God. I'd almost forgotten about that! No, I promise you won't be the only guy there this time. Actually, we've even gone there before, do you remember? Not last time, but the time before that, when you and Marty and I went out after I finished your hair?"

He thought back, and nodded slowly. "The place with the videos?"

"Yeah. That's it."

He remembered it. Like she'd said, there had seemed to be people of all persuasions there, so even if someone did see him there, they probably wouldn't think anything of it. Last time it hadn't really even registered on him that it was a gay bar. He supposed he should have been tipped off by the fact that there had been a lot of really good-looking men there, and Marty had seemed to know all of them. Debbie would be there to steer him. . . well, maybe steer him straight wasn't quite the right term, but something along those lines. And he had nothing else to do. No pressure. He nodded, slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, that would be cool.

She smiled. "Great. See you Friday, then. Dress nice, but casual."

He nodded. "Where should I pick you up, and what time?"

"Why don't I pick you up?"

Ray frowned. "But I . . . ." he started to object.

Debbie shook her head. "Ray. It's a whole new ball game, don't get stuck playing by the old rules. I don't drink, so if you need...well...if you want a drink or two, it won't be a problem."

"You saying I'm going to need to get drunk to get through a night with you?" Ray asked with a grin.

Debbie smacked him on the back of the head. "That's enough out of you, if you still want to do this."

"Hey, watch the hair! And yeah, I do." He ignored the tight knot in his stomach that seemed to be forming at the idea of going cruising . . . for guys.

"Good. I'll pick you up at eight, then."

"Okay. Friday at eight. I'll wait for you out front." Ray said firmly. He wouldn't back out. He wouldn't. He would be there.

* * *

After work on Friday Ray went home, ate, showered, shaved, and then stood in front of his closet trying to decide what to wear. In the end he took so long that Debbie had shown up at his door before he was dressed. When she knocked, he'd looked at his watch, swore, yanked on his black jeans and his Bulls sweatshirt, and answered it.

"You chickening out?" she'd asked challengingly.

"No," he said, giving her attitude right back. "But what the hell does 'nice, but casual' mean? I know what Stella would've meant but that's probably not the same thing you mean."

Debbie's brown eyes were bright with amusement. "I seriously doubt it," she agreed. "Come on. Madame Deborah is here for a consultation. Take me to your closet."

He did. She'd hmm-ed and perused, made snarky comments about his ability to dress himself, and then finally pulled out the black commando sweater he'd gotten when he'd been loaned out to S.W.A.T. for a while as a marksman.

"This," she stated firmly. "This is perfect. You look good in black. It sets off your hair. It goes with everything. It has very manly vibes. Put it on."

"Manly vibes?" he asked dubiously as he skinned out of the Bulls shirt and pulled the sweater on over his gray tank.

"Yes. And do something about your hair. I'm not going to be seen with you like that, you might tell someone I did it. Get moving."

"If I wanted to be bossed around by a chick I wouldn't be going to a gay bar," he complained.

She just laughed.

* * *

It was a lot weirder being in a gay bar when you knew it was one, Ray realized, after only having been there for half an hour. It must be like being Spiderman, and having your Spideysense going off all the time. What would once have just sailed right over his head, now suddenly had meaning. When a guy looked at him a few seconds too long, he wasn't necessarily wondering if he'd gotten the sweater at the Army Surplus store, or sizing him up as a potential threat. No, these guys were sizing him up for some other potential entirely.

That had freaked him the first couple of times, until Debbie had gotten a couple of tequila shooters down him, and found some guy she knew to take him out to the dance floor. Dancing he knew. Dancing he was comfortable with. And hell, he'd danced with other guys for years at all those stupid school dances that Stella's parents wouldn't let her go to, and Ray's parents had insisted he attend. So he danced. And when he finished that one, another guy asked him. And it got easier each time.

Really, it wasn't so different from what he knew. Actually it was better in some ways. At least he was the one getting asked, instead of always doing the asking, and getting turned down most of the time. But after about four songs he was thirsty, and headed back toward the table. As he got close, he saw Debbie talking with a statuesque, auburn-haired woman who looked eerily like that Warrior Princess actress from TV, so he detoured to the bar to give her some space. Debbie usually went for petite blondes, but he didn't want to cramp her style in case she was branching out.

He asked for water, and the bartender got out a bottle of Evian. Ray winced.

"Um, hang on," he said, before the guy could open it. Okay, he might be in a gay bar but there was no way he was drinking Evian. "How about club soda with a twist, instead?"

The bartender nodded, put back the Evian, and got Ray his club soda. He sat at the bar sipping his drink, wondering how long he ought to give Debbie, when someone sat down next to him.

"I'll have whatever he's having."

Ray turned to look at his neighbor, a slightly heavy guy in jeans and a dress shirt under a sport jacket. He looked nice, with dark, curly hair and gray-blue eyes.

"Um, you may not want to do that," he said, figuring he ought to warn the guy.

"Why not? It looks good."

"It's just club soda," Ray said, feeling silly.

The guy just nodded. "Yeah, dancing really works up a thirst. I saw you out there. You're good."

Ray knew he was blushing, and hoped it would be put down to exertion. "Thanks," he muttered, and turned back to his glass.

The bartender came back with the guy's drink, and a few moments were taken up by the exchange of money for beverage. Ray glanced toward the table, trying to see Debbie, but couldn't from where he was sitting. He shifted position so he could see the dance floor instead.

"Would you be interested in dancing with me?" the guy next to him asked.

The formality of the question reminded Ray a little bit of Fraser. Actually, a lot about him reminded him of Fraser. He felt a faint flicker of. . . something. Not quite interest. But something he hadn't felt dancing with those other guys before. Trying to calm his racing pulse, he took another sip, then nodded. "Sure. Just give me a few here."

"Of course! I meant after you finish your drink, and cool off," he said a little apologetically. "I'm Stephen, by the way."

Apparently first names were all that was needed. "Ray," he said.

Stephen smiled. Really nice smile. "Nice to meet you, Ray. I don't think I've seen you here before."

Okay, points off for the lousy line. But then, no one was perfect. Okay, almost no one. Ray shrugged. "I've been here before, but not for a while." It was true, barely, but it made him sound more experienced than he was.

"That would explain it," Stephen said, taking a sip of his drink. "What do you do?"

Ray had practiced in the mirror for this one. "I'm in security," he said, without missing a beat.

Stephen looked interested. "Computer security?"

Ray laughed. He hadn't even thought of that interpretation. "No, the other kind."

"Oh." He sounded disappointed.

"You?" Ray asked, just to make small talk.

That got a little smile. "I'm a database administrator for a consulting firm."

"Which explains your question," Ray said, grinning. "Sorry, I'm afraid I have to have help just to make a computer print."

"Well, if you're trying to make a computer print, that might explain the problem, since you need a printer for that," Stephen said, then he immediately looked embarrassed. "I mean, that was a joke, you know?" he explained earnestly.

Ray laughed. The guy really did remind him of Fraser, right down to the blush. "I know, relax."

"Thanks." Stephen's expression was rueful. "I'm just not very good at this." He waved a hand vaguely, indicating the bar, its patrons, and, Ray assumed, the general scene.

"You and me both," Ray said, draining his water. "So, uh, you still want to dance?"

"I. . . um," Stephen hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."

As Stephen downed the rest of his own drink, Ray wondered why he'd hesitated. Then after he set the glass down and started toward the dance floor, Ray understood immediately. Stephen had a limp. A bad one. He probably hated dancing. Ray caught up to him in two steps.

"You know, on second thought, I'm not really into this song. Would you mind if we just talked?"

A look of gratitude flashed over Stephen's face and he nodded. "I'd like that."

Ray smiled. "Greatness. Come on, I'm here with a friend; we can go invade her table."

Stephen hesitated again, looking worried. "Her?"

Oops. Probably confused the poor guy. "Yeah, she's my stylist. Last I saw her she was talking to a red-headed Amazon, I'm thinking she might need rescuing, since she usually goes for that type." He nodded toward a sweet-looking blonde woman who was walking toward the bar.

Stephen relaxed. "Oh. No problem. Where?"

Ray pointed, and they made their way slowly around the periphery of the dance floor and up to where Debbie was sitting, alone now. He introduced them, first names only, and then as Stephen was sitting down Debbie glanced at Stephen and then at Ray, and lifted her eyebrows a little. Ray scowled at her and she grinned.

"So, where'd the Amazon go?" Ray asked, looking around.

"Off to greener pastures. She's not my type. Speaking of which, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go try my luck with that blonde over at the bar," Debbie said, standing up. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do. . . um. . . on second thought, never mind that." She grinned and winked and headed for the bar, making a beeline for the chick Ray had pointed out to Stephen just minutes earlier.

He laughed. "What did I tell you?" he asked, nodding toward the bar.

Stephen followed his glance and grinned. "I'd say you know her pretty well."

"Yeah. Pretty well. So, you go by Stephen, or Steve?"

"Either. Even 'hey you.'"

Ray chuckled. "Yeah. I know that one."

"So do you do-- what do they call it-- personal security?" Stephen asked, half-shouting to be heard over the music.

"Sometimes," Ray said carefully, thinking of the times he'd had to escort prisoners.

A strangely bitter smile twisted Stephen's mouth. "Could've used some of that a few years ago."

Ray looked at him sharply, hearing something in Stephen's voice. . . putting things together. "Somebody hurt you?"

Stephen sighed. "More like I hurt myself, but I wouldn't have had to if . . . shit. Never mind. I don't want to talk about that."

Ray nodded, tamping down his curiosity. "Fair enough. You're a database administrator, hunh? What exactly does one of those do?"

As Stephen launched into a mostly incomprehensible explanation, it hit Ray all of the sudden that they weren't just two guys who'd met in a bar and were talking just for conversation. This was a pickup. Or at least the start of one. His mouth instantly went dry and he wished he'd gotten another drink to bring back to the table. He looked at Stephen, and instead of seeing a nice ordinary guy, he was seeing a guy who wanted to take him to bed. Because he knew that's what was going on here.

He ruthlessly slowed his breathing to control his incipient panic, and glanced around for a waitress. Spotting one a few tables away, he flagged her down with a quick apology to Stephen for the interruption. He wanted water. He wanted something harder. He compromised and got water, and a beer. Stephen ordered a beer too. Nice. Normal.

Yeah, right.

Ray hoped like hell he didn't look as scared as he felt. Stephen seemed like a nice guy, but even with women Ray didn't go to bed on the first date. And this wasn't even a date. And he wasn't anywhere near ready for . . . anything that serious. But he'd said he'd dance, then he'd brought Stephen over to the table, was that leading him on? He didn't want to do that. Or to hurt the guy's feelings.

He was just trying to figure out how to let Stephen down gently when it suddenly hit him that Stephen hadn't been the only one thinking about potential sex. He had. Almost. Stage two of his panic attack set in immediately. He had thought that Stephen was attractive. That he seemed nice. Just a hair short of wondering what he'd be like in the sack. Worst of all, he'd done it for no more reason than because Stephen kind of reminded him of Fraser. And that was bad, shallow, and just plain wrong.

"I'm boring the hell out of you, aren't I?" Stephen asked, conversationally.

Ray jerked himself out of his thoughts and looked at Stephen, registering the self-deprecating smile and the wary pain in his eyes. "No! You're not. . . I didn't. . . I'm just. . . shit." He sighed and shook his head. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just having a minor freak-out here."

Stephen started to look a little worried, and Ray realized he sounded like a head-case.

"No, don't worry, I'm not a crack-head and I'm usually pretty stable. It's just that to be honest, I've never done this before and I'm not sure I should be doing this now."

Stephen looked completely confused now. "You've never done what before?"

God. How was he going to explain it? He sighed. "See, I kind of lied before, when I said I'd been here before. I mean, I have been here before, once, for a drink with a couple of friends. That's it. I've never come here with . . . intent. Hell, I'm not even sure I have intent now."

He hoped that was enough. He waited while Stephen worked through his fairly cryptic comments, praying it would be.

"Oh," Stephen said, finally, and his gaze met Ray's, understanding and sympathetic. "I get it."

Ray sagged in relief. "Good. Okay. That's good. Look, I'm really sorry."

To his surprise, Stephen shook his head and smiled. "No, that's okay. I'm glad you said something. It's better than thinking you were backing off because I'm overweight and . . . damaged, like most guys do."

Ray scowled, feeling guilty. "Maybe you're talking to the wrong guys."

"Maybe so," Stephen shrugged. "But that's the story of my life. Wrong guys." He laughed humorlessly. "You'd think I'd've learned a long time ago not to talk to strangers."

Before Ray could ask what that meant, the waitress returned with their drinks. Ray paid for both of them, over Stephen's protests, and took a long pull at his own beer, letting the cold bitterness wash the taste of panic off his tongue.

Stephen took a drink of his own beer, and raised his bottle to Ray in a toast. "Thanks for being honest," he said. "And for the beer. I'll head back over to the bar now."

Ray shook his head. "You don't have to. Why don't you tell me again what you do and I'll listen this time?"

Stephen looked surprised. "I thought. . . ."

"Nothing wrong with talking, right?" Ray asked. "And since I'm feeling guilty that you think I'm honest when I lied to you twice, I'm going to 'fess up to the other one, too. I'm not 'in security.' I'm a cop."

Stephen stared at him, clearly shocked. "A cop?"

Ray nodded and took another swig of his beer. "Yup."

"What the hell are you doing there, then?"

Ray smiled ruefully. "Good question. Trying to figure myself out, I think. Now, I know cops aren't most folks favorite people, so I won't feel offended if you want to scram."

"No way. Now I'm interested," Stephen stopped suddenly, and looked apologetic. "I mean, not that way." He stopped again, and his uncomfortable expression deepened. "Well, yeah, that way, but I was always interested that way. Now I'm interested in other ways. . . shit." he said, laughing and shaking his head. "I'm just digging myself a deeper hole here, aren't I?"

Ray laughed out loud. "How about if we just sit here and drink our beer and talk about the Bulls?"

Stephen nodded. "That sounds like a really good idea," he said fervently.

Both of them were much more at ease after that. Ray wasn't sure how long they'd been talking when he heard a familiar voice.

"Yo, Detective Ray? Is that you?"

He turned around, doubly glad now that he'd 'fessed up to Stephen. "Yeah, hi, Marty."

Marty was looking unusually sedate in a faded jeans and a white tank, with a blue camp-shirt festooned front and back with silver dragons. As usual his dark blond hair was perfect, his goatee was flawlessly trimmed, and Ray was pretty sure he was wearing mascara and blue eyeliner. He kept looking from Ray to Stephen and back, clearly curious and surprised. "What are you doing here?"

Ray raised his beer. "At the moment, having a beer and shooting the shit," he said, knowing full well that wasn't what Marty wanted to know.

Sure enough, a faintly irritated expression crossed Marty's face, but it was gone in an instant. He looked pointedly from Ray to Stephen again, and Ray realized a little belatedly that he was waiting for an introduction.

"Marty, this is Stephen. Stephen, Marty. Marty works with Debbie."

They shook hands, and then Marty looked at the empty chair next to Stephen. "Mind if I sit?"

Stephen shook his head. Marty sat, and studied Stephen for a moment.

"You have great hair," he announced. "It's naturally wavy, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Um, thanks," Stephen said, looking a little taken aback.

Ray chuckled. "It's okay. Marty and Debbie run a salon. Mane Event."

Stephen relaxed. "Oh."

"Sorry, I assumed you knew Debbie, since Ray mentioned her. Though I'm sure I would've remembered if you'd been in the salon," Marty said, letting his gaze slide down, then back up again. "Yeah, I would definitely have remembered you."

Ray rolled his eyes, and gave Marty's ankle a kick under the table to warn him to tone it down. Subtlety was called for here. Marty shot him a startled look.

"Actually, I don't really know Ray or Debbie," Stephen said. "Ray and I just met. But, you know, I could use a trim," he said, with a look at Marty that Ray could only term interested.

Marty grinned at Ray with a 'so there' expression, and dug a hand into his pocket. Ray couldn't help but notice where Stephen's gaze was directed as he did so, and he stopped feeling quite so guilty for having inadvertently led Stephen on. Maybe things would work out okay after all.

Marty finally managed to locate what he was searching for, pulling out a slightly bent business card. "Got a pen?" he asked, looking from Stephen to Ray.

Neither of them did, so they had to snag one from a passing waiter. Marty used the pen to scrawl something on the card, gave the pen back to the waiter and handed the card to Stephen.

"Here you go. The one in pen's my home number. Call anytime."

Stephen fingered the card, looking surprised. "Um, thanks," he said, then shot a slightly worried look at Ray.

For a second Ray couldn't figure out what he was worried about, then he got it, and smiled at him, hoping that conveyed the fact that he wasn't pissed off that Marty was making a play for Stephen. Or that Stephen didn't seem to mind. Hell, as far as he was concerned it was great.

"So, what do you do?" Marty asked Stephen.

Ray and Stephen looked at each other and laughed.

Marty looked bewildered. "What?"

"Nothing. Just deja vu," Ray said, grinning. "But if we're going to talk, maybe we should see if we can find a quieter table."

"Ain't no such animal," Marty said. "But there's a great coffee bar not far from here where you can actually hear yourself think, and the food's good if you're hungry."

"That's a great. . . oh, shit," Ray said.

"What?" Marty and Stephen said, in unison.

"I forgot. I caught a ride here with Deb. I can't really take off."

"I can give you a lift home later," Marty said. "She won't mind. In fact, she was in hot pursuit when I saw her a couple of minutes ago, and looked like she might just have landed her catch. Wait here, I'll go tell her we're kidnapping you."

It dawned on Ray suddenly that Marty and Stephen might prefer he didn't tag along, but it was too late, Marty was already halfway across the room. Oh well. He could always get a taxi if need be.

"He's. . . pretty. . . um. . . " Stephen said, letting his sentence trail off. He shrugged.

"Yeah. He is." Ray agreed with a grin. "Marty's cool."

Stephen looked at him and one corner of his mouth quirked upward in a smile that was astonishingly like Fraser's. "I'd say he's hot."

Ray chuckled. "That too. He seems to like you."

"Yeah," Stephen said, a little wonder in his tone. "He does." He seemed to shake himself, and looked back at Ray apologetically. "I. . . um, I'm afraid this is a little awkward for you, I'm sorry."

Ray shook his head. "Nah, not a problem. Like I said, I probably shouldn't have even come here tonight."

"Well, I'm glad you did," Stephen said with surprising warmth. "And you've given me a whole new outlook on cops."

Ray laughed drily. "Just don't tell my boss, okay?"

"Not a word. Couldn't even if I wanted to, since I don't even know your last name."

"True enough. You know, if you and Marty want to go by yourselves, I can stay here. I won't be offended."

"No!" Stephen said vehemently, shaking his head. "I'd rather you came along. I. . . don't like being alone with people I don't know well."

There was fear in his reaction. The kind of fear that prickled Ray's cop senses. "What happened to you?" Ray asked, quietly.

"Nothing. Never mind. Just. . . please?"

"You don't know me very well either," Ray pointed out reasonably.

"No, but. . . you're a cop," Stephen said.

Okay, Ray got it. That made sense, even if it was based on a mistaken assumption that he'd be safe with a cop around. Ray didn't think it would be smart to shatter his illusions. "You got it. But if you change your mind, just give me the signal and I'm out of there."

Stephen smiled, and nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"And by the way, it's Vecchio. I work out of the 27^th."

Stephen's gaze warmed. "Miller. Stephen Miller." He held out his hand and they shook. "Glad to meet you Ray Vecchio." He shoot Ray an odd look. "You know, you don't look much like a Vecchio."

Ray snorted. "You wouldn't be the first person to say that."

* * *

Ray woke to knocking at his door. Not banging or pounding. Knocking. Polite, but insistent. Mormons, probably. Or maybe Jehovah's Witnesses. He groaned. It wasn't fair. It was Saturday, he wasn't on call, he wanted to sleep in, and he got missionaries. He sighed and lay there, barely breathing, hoping they would go away if he was quiet. He could go back to sleep then. What kind of people came around knocking on people's doors at . . . he squinted at his alarm clock. Uh-oh.

He grabbed his glasses for a better look. It didn't help. The number on the clock steadfastly refused to change into a seven. It was one-twenty-three. P.M. He'd been supposed to meet Fraser at twelve-thirty at the Consulate to go over the logistics for the car-wash Turnbull was holding the following Saturday to aid dispossessed Canadian country singers in Nashville. Obviously Fraser had waited around a while before setting off. But why hadn't he called? Then Ray remembered turning the ringer off on the phone before he fell into bed around three in the morning. Shit.

He rolled out of bed and grunted as his back and hip protested, but forced himself to bend down and pick up his jeans and sweater off the floor

"Coming!" he yelled, dragging his jeans on and up. He skipped pulling the sweater on and buttoned up as he walked, undid the bolt and lock, and opened the door. Oh yeah. Definitely Fraser. Definitely pissed. That smooth, bland expression didn't fool Ray for an instant. He could see the little bulge of tension in the muscle along his jaw.

"I am really sorry, Fraser, come on in, I'm getting dressed. Went to Sidetrack last night, then out for coffee. Anyway, I was up really late, and I forgot to set my alarm and the ringer was off on the phone."

Fraser stared at him. Blinked. Swallowed. "Ah," he said after a moment. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Yeah, mostly," he said as he pulled on his sweater and sat down on the couch to dig his boots out from under the coffee table. Leaning forward hurt, and he winced. "Ow. Met a really nice guy named Stephen. And Marty was there. We hung out."

Fraser's blank look transmuted to one of concern. "Are you injured?"

"Nah, just strained my back a little last night."

A really peculiar expression came over Fraser's face. "Strained . . . I see. And how did you do that?"

Ray shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He barely believed it himself. Walking out of the coffee-bar last night and stepping on a stray skateboard was something that usually wouldn't happen to him unless Fraser was around.

"I'm sure I probably wouldn't," Fraser said, just a hair short of snippy.

Ray closed his mouth on the explanation he'd been about to offer. "Anyway, sorry. Come in. I need coffee, you want some tea or something?"

"No thank you."

Ray nodded and headed for the kitchen to run the water on hot and make some coffee. He spooned instant coffee into the water, added about a tablespoon of sugar, and tasted it, making a face. It would do, considering he was in a hurry. Taking the coffee back out to the living room, he sat down on the couch next to Fraser, and winced again, trying to remember if his insurance covered chiropractic.

"I really am sorry, Fraser. Is Turnbull upset?"

"Last I saw him he was locked in the bathroom."

Ray sighed. "I suck."

Fraser opened his mouth, then closed it again, almost primly. Ray got the message.

"Okay, okay, let me drink this, get my shoes on, and I'm good to go."

Eclairs from La Madeleine soothed the wounded Turnbull, but cut no slack with Fraser. Ray tried to be conciliatory, even volunteering to wield a chamois. It didn't help. The last time he could remember apologizing to anyone as much as he had during the meeting had been the day Stella told him she wanted a divorce. Except that time he hadn't really known what he was apologizing for. After he'd gone home he realized that maybe there wasn't that much difference after all. For some reason, he had a feeling oversleeping wasn't the real problem.

For the first time, Ray experienced being on the receiving end of Fraser at his most polite, and finally understood how intimidating that could be. Though he hadn't said a word that Ray could interpret as particularly negative or threatening, he just exuded a feeling that something sharp and steely was lurking under the surface, a trap for the unwary. He'd never seen that before. Or rather, never had it directed at him. He didn't like it, and he wished he could fix it, but without a working time machine he didn't have a chance at that. All he could do was make sure that Fraser didn't think he was still after him, 'that way.'

Of course the problem there was that Ray had a hard time lying to Fraser, and he did want him 'that way.' Sometimes when Fraser bent his head to look at something, Ray found himself staring at the nape of his neck and wanting to put his lips against it, to feel the smoothness of the skin there. The slow slide of Fraser's tongue across his lower lip while thinking that Ray used to think was just a little goofy had suddenly taken on erotic significance. He wanted to follow that path with his own tongue. Wanted to taste Fraser's lopsided smile. Wanted to take off the tunic and henley and boots and jodhpurs and boxers and explore every inch. None of which made it any easier to lie, even by omission, to Fraser. Or to himself.

Still, come Monday he would do his level best to put Fraser at ease with him again.

* * *

By Thursday Ray wasn't sure how long he could keep it up. Being perfectly professional around Fraser was driving him out of his mind. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to count on Fraser as a friend, not just a partner. He . . . missed him. Missed just hanging out, eating together, talking together, God help him, he even missed the Inuit stories. Most of all he missed the touching. It hadn't even been the erotic kind of touching, but Fraser was the only person who touched him at all, and Ray really, really missed that. He hated that he'd messed things up, messed them up, because he couldn't keep his brain above his zipper.

Fraser still showed up every day to work. They still solved cases. But as soon as they had wrapped up their cases for the day he was gone. Didn't even ask for a ride home. He didn't seem to miss Ray at all. Dief, on the other hand, did. He was cranky and badly-behaved, and Ray had caught Fraser having heated words with the wolf several times that must have been about him, since Fraser shut up when he saw Ray. Ray pretended not to notice, and managed to sneak Dief goodies on the side when Fraser's back was turned, which made him marginally less surly. Fraser didn't understand that going off sugar cold-turkey was rough. Going off Fraser almost cold-turkey was rough, too.

Thursday was chilly and rainy. They'd spent most of the day tracking down a reluctant witness to an armed robbery. They'd found him at a bus stop, and had to chase him down when he took off. Finally they'd caught him and had ducked under an overhang to take his statement. Fraser had left his hat in the car, not wanting it to get too wet, and on the way back to the 27^th Ray had stopped at a stoplight, glanced at Fraser, and somehow his attention got caught by the beads of rainwater glinting in Fraser's dark hair. Ray wanted to reach over and smooth his fingers through the thick, heavy curls. The next thing he knew the car behind him was honking and Fraser was staring at him like he'd lost his mind. Maybe he had.

"Sorry. Spacing out," he muttered as he put the car in gear.

Fortunately they were only a few blocks from work by then, and Ray managed to keep his attention on the road the rest of the way. Getting out of the car, Fraser started to walk away in the direction of the consulate, and Ray couldn't stand for him to go yet.

"Fraser, hang on!"

Fraser stopped, and looked at him, eyebrows lifted in query.

"I. . . um. I'm not sure I got the whole statement right. Could you hang on until I get it typed up and double-check me?"

Fraser frowned slightly, but nodded. "Of course, Ray."

Okay, so it was lame, but it worked. Fraser sat down by Ray's desk as Ray booted up his computer and started to transcribe the statement from his notes. He'd gotten three sentences finished when Frannie came up with a sheaf of 'while-you-were-out' memos.

"Good, you're back. You can call these guys, they've been driving me bats."

Ray took them, glancing at the names. Two were from Stephen Miller, the other three were from some guy named Martin Robbins. Ray didn't recognize the name, so he figured that was something about a case, though the number was naggingly familiar. Still, work should come first, and he was kind of a little nervous about calling Stephen back. He looked apologetically at Fraser.

"Sorry, hang on. Got to make a call before I can finish."

Fraser nodded. "Certainly," he said politely. Sitting down next to Ray's desk, he pulled out his handkerchief and started dabbing at some mud splashes on his pants.

Ray picked up the phone and dialed. The line was answered on the third ring.

"Mane Event, Marty speaking."

"Marty?" Ray asked, surprised. No wonder the number looked familiar. "It's Ray. Hey, I thought I was calling some guy named Martin Robbins. . . oh." He got it suddenly. He hadn't even known what Marty's last name was until that moment. "Let me guess, your mom and dad were into country music?" he asked.

Marty sighed. "Yeah. I guess I'm just lucky our last name wasn't Twitty, or Presley."

"Believe me, I can relate," Ray said. Marty knew what his real name was, since he'd known him long before he became Vecchio, so he knew Ray really did understand. "Look, what's up? I got three messages from you. Somebody rob the store? Is Deb okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine, there' s no problem at the store. No, it's Stephen."

Ray frowned. "Stephen? You mean Friday night at Sidetrack Stephen? What about him?"

"I really liked him, Ray. Like, a lot."

"That's cool. What's it got to do with me?"

"I want to go out with him."

Ray felt like he must have missed something important. "You want to go out? So? Do I look like his mother? You need my permission or what? Ask him."

"I did. I called him and asked him out for tomorrow night. He said he won't go out with me unless you go too."

Ray sat there for a minute, trying to make sense of that. "He said what?"

"He won't go out with me unless you go too," Marty repeated.

Okay, weird didn't begin to cover it here. "He wants me to go out with both of you?" Ray asked, just to be sure he'd heard it right. "Look, Marty, I'm flattered but I don't really think. . . ." Ray began.

"I think he's afraid of me," Marty said sadly, interrupting Ray. "Did I come on too strong? What did I do wrong? Maybe the eyeliner? Should I take off the nail polish?"

"How the heck should I know?" Ray asked, still confused, but starting to put together pieces. Stephen was afraid to be alone with strangers. Marty asked him out, and Stephen called Ray. Hmm. "Wait, wait. Look, he didn't turn you down, right?"

"Well, not exactly, I guess."

"Good, that's good. He wants me to come too, right?"

"Yeah. But I don't understand why."

"Maybe I do. Look, let me call you back. I need to make another call first, and check on something. But don't worry, I think this is okay. It might even be good. And, hey, I'm free Friday night, so if you guys want me, I'm there."

"Really? You mean it? I mean, I know it's not your thing, so . . . ."

"Well, I always said I'd try anything," Ray said with a grin. "Just keep your pants on. I'll call you back."

"Okay. I'll be here."

Ray hung up and looked at Fraser, who was still dabbing distractedly at the same mud spot. "Fraser, just give up and get those cleaned," Ray said. "Look, can you do me a favor? Go over and ask Frannie to see if she can find anything on a guy named Stephen Miller. Brown and blue, about six-feet, mid-thirties. Works in computers."

Fraser's gaze went sharp and hard. "This man is a criminal?"

"No. At least I don't think so. Damn. Have we got a way to look for victims?"

Fraser frowned a little. "Not as such, no. There may be a way, but I suspect that attempting it would be far beyond Francesca's abilities."

"Oh." Ray sighed. "Never mind then. And I probably shouldn't in the first place-- it hasn't got anything to do with a case."

"I. . . ." Fraser hesitated. "I could try."

Ray looked at him sharply. It was the first time in ages Fraser had done anything that even held a hint of being personal. "Yeah?" he asked cautiously. "You'd do that?" God. He sounded so . . . needy. "That'd be great," he said, trying for a more level tone.

Fraser nodded. "It may take a few minutes."

"Not a problem. Hey, I really appreciate it. Really."

Fraser nodded and headed over toward Frannie's desk. Ray picked up the phone and dialed Stephen's number. An answering machine picked up on the fourth ring, one with a pre-recorded generic message. Ray sighed. "Stephen? Hey, it's me, Ray. I'm returning your. . . ."

There was a click, and then a real voice. "Ray?"

"Yeah. Hey there. You called?"

"Yes. I know this is an imposition, I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's okay. What's up?"

"You know your friend Marty?"

Ray played along. "Yeah, what about him?"

"He asked me out."

"Did he? You want to go?"

"I . . . yeah. I do. It's just. . . ."

"Just what?" Ray prompted.

"Remember what I told you the other night? About being around people I don't know very well?"

"Ah," Ray said, and only after he said it did he realize he'd sounded just like Fraser. "Yeah. I remember. So you don't know Marty well enough yet?"

"Exactly," Stephen said, sounding relieved. "So I was wondering if you would mind coming along with us."

"So, I get to play chaperone?" Ray teased. "Make sure you keep your hands off each other?"

Stephen laughed nervously. "Well, uh. . . . "

"Nah, I get it. Don't worry. If it gets to that point I'll make a graceful exit." Fraser reappeared then, with a sheet of paper which he placed on the desk in front of Ray. "Hey, thanks, Frase," he said, picking it up. The name Stephen Miller was featured prominently. "Okay, sorry, back to you now, Stephen. Just let me know when and where, and I'll be there."

"Thanks, Ray. I owe you."

"Yeah, you do. I'll think of some way to collect."

Ray hung up and started reading the print-out Fraser had given him. He didn't recognize the format, and glanced up at the header, eyes widening as he realized it wasn't even a CPD case. Hell, it wasn't even an American case. The information had come from the RCMP. His eyes narrowed as he read on. Kidnapping. Leg-hold trap. Apparently the perp, one Floyd Lucas, had committed suicide and tried to take his daughter, Dolores, with him. Fortunately he hadn't succeeded, or nobody would have known about Stephen. He whistled softly. "Oh man. Okay. This is starting to make sense now. Jesus. No wonder he's screwed up."

"Do you think he's in need of psychological care?" Fraser asked, his voice quiet, but urgent.

He looked up to find Fraser watching him worriedly, and he shook his head. "Stephen? Yeah, probably. But he's not like, violent or anything. More like scared. He's nice enough, I don't get any bad vibes off him, he's just kind of . . . damaged. But then, hey, aren't we all?"

"Are you sure you should be . . . associating with this person?"

Ray felt his jaw drop a little. Had Fraser, the man who thought even the worst people had some good in them, actually said that? Yeah, he had. Whoa. The End Times must be near. Apparently Fraser realized he'd just done something uncharacteristic, because he cleared his throat.

"That is to say, perhaps you should encourage him to see a therapist?"

"Yeah. Good thought. But how I'm going to do that without letting on that I've been abusing my connections in order to get information on him is a good question," Ray said drily.

Color washed across Fraser's face, and he looked away. "Yes, well, I really oughtn't have. . . ."

"Yeah, you oughtn't have, but I appreciate it. Helps a lot. Thanks."

Fraser nodded, slightly more relaxed. "You're welcome," he said, probably out of habit. Then his expression grew more uncomfortable. "I, ah. . . ." He ran his fingers along his eyebrow and cracked his neck. "I would appreciate it if you would destroy that when you finish with it."

"You got it. Just call me Fawn."

To his surprise that drew a ghost of a smile from Fraser. "Shredding should indeed be sufficient. Well, I should be getting back to the Consulate, we have a reception tonight."

"You want a ride? If you hang on for about ten minutes I can do that for you."

For a moment it looked like Fraser was going to say yes, but then he shook his head. "No, I'll walk, thank you."

Oh well. Looked like the detente was over. Ray suppressed a sigh. "Okay. It's your feet. See you tomorrow?"

"Ah. . . likely not. The visiting dignitaries for whom we are having the reception will still be with us tomorrow."

"Oh. Okay." Once upon a time Ray would have asked him to do something on the weekend, but he'd had enough of getting turned down so he didn't bother any more. "Well then, Monday?"

"I expect so."

"Great. Have a good weekend."

"Thanks, you too." Fraser turned, took a step, then stopped and looked back. "Ray, please be careful," he said quietly, then he turned and walked quickly away.

Ray stared after him for a moment, wondering what that was all about. Not coming up with any answers, he shook his head and looked at the paper Fraser had given him again. It was kind of weird that Stephen was Canadian. He wondered how he'd ended up in Chicago, since Stephen didn't have the excuse of being on the trail of the killers of his father. Well, not that Ray knew of, anyway. Trying not to think about Fraser, he picked up the phone to call Marty back.

* * *

Friday night started awkwardly, but armed with what he knew about Stephen, Ray steered the conversation carefully. Within a few minutes Stephen knew that Ray had known Marty for almost ten years, knew where he worked, that he and Debbie were co-owners, that he was currently unattached, had a good sense of humor, and most importantly, wasn't into anything involving chains. Stephen started to relax visibly. When Stephen relaxed, Marty started to relax too. And from there on the evening turned into subtle torture.

They'd made Ray pick the restaurant. He was in the mood for Chinese so he suggested his favorite place in Chinatown, not far from the Riverwalk. Bad plan. He'd eaten there with Fraser so many times that as soon as they walked in the door, Mr. Ming had come over to ask where Fraser was. Very bad start. That had started him thinking about Fraser even more. Remembering the first time they'd eaten there together, which had been the same day they'd met. Trying to make small-talk, he'd told Fraser about going there with his parents as a kid and drinking the fingerbowl, thinking it was soup.

That had led to Fraser telling him about the first time he had lobster, on a date no less, and using his utility knife on it because no one had ever taught him how to eat one. Not that there was a nice, polite way to eat a lobster. God, he missed trading stories with Fraser. He missed a lot of things about Fraser. Even though Fraser hadn't actually gone anywhere, he might as well have.

Then there was Marty and Stephen. They were clicking. Ray could see it happening. Clicking the way he and Fraser used to. Only better, because they both wanted the same thing. Each other. He watched the subtle touches of hand to shoulder, hip to hip as they shifted together and apart on the booth's bench. Remembered having that. Knew he wanted more. He missed what he'd had, and wished for what he couldn't have. And he wanted that time machine even worse. If he couldn't have more, he wanted everything to be back the way it was.

He must have said something, made some sound, because suddenly both Stephen and Marty looked at him. He stared back, trying to think of something to say but his brain was full of Fraser and wanting and hurt and he couldn't. Marty's gaze flickered down, then back up to his face, and he frowned.

"Ray? Are you okay?"

Ray looked down at his plate, realized he hadn't eaten a shred of his Szechuan beef with broccoli. That must have been what Marty had noticed. "Yeah, fine," he said. God. He hadn't even sounded convincing to himself there.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Sorry. Look, you guys mind if I head on out?"

Stephen and Marty looked at each other, and Ray started to relax. He was going to get away with it, they were at that stage where nothing mattered but them. Then they both seemed to nod at the same time, and Stephen spoke.

"Yeah, we mind."

It took a minute for him to process that. He hadn't expected it. "You. . . oh." He clenched his jaw, then relaxed the muscles enough to talk. "Well, that's too bad, 'cause I'm going anyway." He slid along the bench and stood up, threw some bills on the table to pay his part of the tab, and stalked out of the restaurant, happy to have something to be pissed about. So, they thought they could tell him what to do? Not hardly. He headed for the parking lot and his car. Just about then his shadow thrown on the ground by the streetlight multiplied, growing twins, one on either side. He tensed, ready for a fight if it turned out to be a mugging.

"Hey there, cowboy," Marty said. "Slow down. Talk."

Oh, great. Babysitters. Ray shoved his hands into his pockets to hide his fists, and shook his head. "No."
"Why not?" Stephen asked, on his other side.

Ray stopped and glared at him. "Do you talk to everybody about all the shitty stuff in your life?" Stephen flinched, and Ray instantly felt badly, knowing what he knew about Stephen. "Hey, that was out of line, I'm sorry," he said quickly.

Stephen shook his head. "No, no it wasn't. And no, I don't talk to everybody about . . . my life. In fact I don't talk to anybody about it. But that doesn't mean it's the right thing to do. After eight years, I think I'm finally beginning to realize that."

Whoa. That was. . . way more than he'd bargained on. Ray wanted to tell him that he knew, but he couldn't. He didn't want to get Fraser in trouble.

Marty tugged on his elbow. "Hey, we're not far from Ping Tom Park. Let's take a walk down to the river, we can talk there."

Ray let himself be steered down to the park, with its pagoda-like pavilion. A few other people wandered through the area, but it was a little chilly for just hanging out so they mostly had the place to themselves. The sound of the river was soothing. Ray walked over to where he could see the moving water, and leaned against one of the pillars. He told himself that he could feel the sinuous dragons sculpted on it through his coat, but he really couldn't. The park's lamps spread pools of light and shadow around the area.

&qu