This is an original fan story. However, it uses characters and situations created by Paul Haggis and Alliance Communications Corporation. I make no claims to any copyrights regarding these characters. This story is for my enjoyment and for the enjoyment of other readers.

REDUX
A Due South slash novel by Ruth Devero
Part one
(Sequel to "The Fire This Time")

It was cold. He hunched over his cards, feeling the cold wash down from the top of the mountain. A royal flush, all hearts.

Cold, and the snow falling around him. He brushed the snowflakes off the cards, but they kept falling, dimming the figures.

Cold, and the snow covering the cards, burying them even as he frantically brushed, brushed, brushed.

Cold; oh, god, so cold, and the cards a blankness now, completely covered, the figures gone, as if they had never been there.

Gone; and he was alone in the swirling snow.

Benton Fraser jerked upright in bed, cutting off a shout. Awake now, he relaxed back onto the chilled, sweat-soaked pillow. Cold was the breeze from the window, not the blizzard of his dream. Autumn, with its chilly wind, had invaded his sleep, providing the winter that had temporarily filled his soul.

Just the coolness of early October, nothing more. At his sigh of relief, Diefenbaker twitched his ears.

The wolf was the only other creature in the room, and suddenly Fraser felt the chill of loneliness sweep through him again. Silly, really: the apartment had never felt all that empty before, when it held just him and Diefenbaker. How could it feel as if someone were missing, when all the inhabitants were present and accounted for?

He knew the answer to that even before the question formed itself in his mind. Don't lie to yourself, Fraser, he sternly told himself. Just because he doesn't live here, that doesn't mean you can't miss him. Don't negate your feelings for each other by implying otherwise.

Fraser turned and looked over at Diefenbaker, who gazed placidly at him. Not enough. Wrapping himself in the blanket as if it were those long arms was not enough. Wrapping himself in his own arms was not enough. Imagining that that warm body was just behind him was not enough.

The loneliness stirred in him again, with an unease he realized came from the image in the dream: a poker hand erased, as if it never had been. A royal flush, negated.

Fraser forced a laugh into the silence, breaking it. Silly. Dreams were--well, just games the mind played while one was asleep, rearranging thoughts to slot them into the subconscious. Not prophetic, not profound. Nothing, really, to pay attention to.

But the unease whispered through him as he stared into darkness. Erased. A royal flush.

Suddenly the chill that prickled his skin was not from the open window. . . .

Chilly in here. Ray Vecchio tugged the blanket tighter around him and looked again at the alarm clock. Couple hours until he had to get up; what was keeping him awake?

Don't fool yourself, he told himself sternly. You know what's keeping you awake. Fraser. You want Fraser. You want to warm your feet on his back, to reach out and find him there next to you, to see that sweet, sleepy face every morning.

Ray tugged impatiently at the blanket, swearing when it came out at the foot of the bed. He wrapped himself up tighter. It wasn't enough, of course; it wasn't really Fraser's arms holding him close, Fraser's warm body erasing the chill.

Ray twitched at the blanket; he turned onto his side. One hand found the warmth of his groin and lingered there, molding the silk of pajama trousers to stirring flesh. Oh, god, he wanted Fraser, wanted Fraser, wanted Fraser--

Just before things got serious, he took his hand away. That wouldn't be enough, either; it would just remind him of who he was missing.

Whom. Of whom he was missing. Ray grinned. Grammar: he hadn't realized it rubbed off.

He looked at the clock again. An hour and fifty-two minutes until he had to get up. Get some sleep, Vecchio.

He stared up at the ceiling. When exactly had he started to get this way? Was it just after Fraser spent that night here last spring after his apartment house was fire damaged? Something about having the Mountie here, where Ray could fuss over him, tuck him in, watch those shining cerulean eyes gradually close themselves in sleep, where Ray could look though very definitely not touch, not with the rest of the family right there. Fraser undressing in front of him as they went to bed that night, just like it was something Ray had the right to see. The sweet intimacy of what felt like a stolen kiss the next morning, while everyone else slept. He could still taste it. Was it then, when he realized the sheer delight of having Fraser right within reach?

Or was it later, when hours spent at Fraser's started to get commented on, when sometimes it seemed impossible to work some time alone with him into the everyday demands of family and work? When the fact that he wasn't dating seemed to become an issue for Ma; when he started feeling lonely even in a house full of Vecchios, turning in bed at night for a warmth that wasn't there, listening during dinner for a voice he rarely heard. When it became an effort not to work Fraser's name into every conversation, to keep his mouth shut about the one relationship central to his very existence.

He sighed. Boy, Vecchio, you really know how to pick 'em. Irene, the sister of his enemy. Angie, now the former Mrs. Ray Vecchio. Suzanne, who'd left him for duty. And Fraser. His laugh curdled in the darkness. Fraser. Another guy. Yes, Vecchio, you really know how to keep your life simple.

Watch the pattern the headlights made on the ceiling when a car passed; try to relax. Six months. Six months of loving Fraser. Six months is a very long time, Vecchio, to keep your love life secret. Six months is a very long time to lie to your family.

Ray sighed and closed his eyes. Relax, Vecchio. Get some sleep. Imagine life in a universe where a guy telling his family he's in love with another guy doesn't end in screams and a code 245: the poor guy getting assaulted with a deadly weapon, probably his own. He smiled wryly. Maybe a code 999: officer requires assistance--now!

He tugged the blanket tighter. Give it a rest, Vecchio. Try to sleep now; think about this in the morning. . . .

Morning seemed to come all too soon. Fraser went through the before-work routine automatically, holding the dream at bay with the comfortable rituals of bathing, of dressing, of consulting with Diefenbaker about plans for the day.

Ray was not available to give him a ride to work this morning. He couldn't always be at Fraser's beck and call; sometimes he had to be elsewhere. Self-pity was--inappropriate. Longing was--well, it was an over-reaction. Besides, a brisk walk to the Consulate would clear Fraser's mind. It was going to be a lovely day.

The breeze whisking down the street was unexpected, and for a moment Fraser seemed caught in the dream. Snow. And a coldness beyond the autumn chill. . . .

"Those iceeee fingers up and down my spiiiiine--"

"Oh, yeah, that's original, Jaworski." Ray steered his prisoner through a tuneless gauntlet of "That Old Black Magic," "It's Witchcraft," and "Voodoo Woman." Jeez, cops couldn't sing.

Why him? Why always him?

"Oh, mama, cast your voodoo spell on me!" a teenage perp yodelled.

"Aw, quit it," Ray muttered when his prisoner wiggled her butt for her audience. Why him? Why always him? Voodoo woman, indeed.

Not that Alessandra Willson didn't look the part: orange hair gelled into spikes and veiled under a scrap of black gauze; eyes ringed solid in black eyeliner and black eyeshadow; lips the color of fresh blood; inch-and-a-half-long fingernails painted jet black with little ghosts and pumpkins on them; little black dress with practically no skirt, artfully ripped to almost reveal things nice women didn't show on the street; black hose ripped likewise; strappy black shoes that could only hurt to walk in. Just your average vampire hooker.

Who mostly fenced stolen merchandise. Step up from her former career: pickpocket.

He paused as they reached Booking, stared straight into her eyes. "You're really not gonna tell me," he said.

Aless stared back at him, that look that said she wasn't talking.

"Okay," said Ray. He pulled her to the cop at the counter. "Book 'er--"

"Don't say it." Daniella Brown fixed him with a glare. "Don't say, 'Book 'er, Danno.' Just don't say it. You got no idea how tired I am of cops comin' in, sayin', 'Book 'em, Danno.' Like I ain't heard it about a thousand times before. Only joke they know. And none of 'em brings donuts."

He regarded her evenly as he dropped the white sack onto the counter. She opened the sack, looked at the two creme-filled donuts inside.

"Okay," she said, "you can say it."

Ray smiled sunnily. "Sergeant Brown," he said, "would you please see to the booking of this suspect?"

"Smart-mouth," she said. A grin crept onto her face. "All the time I'm surrounded by smart-mouths. And none of 'em brings coffee."

"Well, today you're in luck," Ray said, just as the first dolly trundled by: three cases of Dos Asnos coffee, grown in Colombia. Each case pictured two donkeys kicking up their hind legs, presumably from an excess of caffeine.

"That all?" Brown said, leaning out to watch the coffee being trundled to the evidence room.

"The other fifty-two cases are on their way," Ray assured her. "Along with thirty-six more cases of those."

He jerked his chin toward the dolly bearing four cases of One World condoms, being pushed by a blushing rookie.

"Oh, honey, think you got enough for your date?" the transvestite Lipkowitz had brought in yodeled out as the rookie went past.

"There's a little map of the world printed on every one of 'em," Ray confided to Brown, who was choking back laughter. "You should see what happens to Australia when those things get stretched out."

"Sheez, coffee and condoms," said Lipkowitz. "Add cigars, and you got America in the nineties, right there in one place."

Ray turned to his suspect. "Aless," he said gently, "I wish you'd tell me."

Her eyes narrowed. He could sympathize: certain parties would not be appreciative if she told him where she'd gotten the stuff.

"Okay," he said. "Book 'er, Danno." Maybe later.

Up the stairs to the squad room, where Elaine Besbriss was glaring at one of the new computer monitors they'd installed in the squad room. "This thing's gettin' slower and slower," she complained to the room. "I thought they fixed this."

"It's that time of day," said Phaedra Dewey, for once more than five steps from her new partner, Jack Huey. Huey and Dewey: somebody in the Department had a sick sense of humor.

Ray watched Elaine's shoulders tense. Dewey had that effect on people: that "I-know-everything-and-you-don't" air grated on everybody but Huey and--

Leave it outside, Vecchio. Don't think about him. Constable Benton Fraser, Super-Mountie, heart of Ray's heart, breath of Ray's breath, and all the other mushy stuff that barely began to describe how Ray felt about him. Just leave it outside, Vecchio. Had it only been six months?

At his desk, Jack Huey looked up. "Lieutenant's looking for you." Why did he always seem to be gloating when he said that?

"Lieutenant!" Ray said, entering Welsh's office.

"Detective. Good of you to join us."

"I was bringing in a perp, sir." And making a damn good bust, sir.

"The fence?"

"Yes, sir. Alessandra Willson. Fifty-five cases of Colombian coffee. Forty cases of--" Smother a grin. "--of Chinese condoms."

"Chinese?"

"New World Order, sir."

Welsh gave him that eye again--that look that hinted that Ray was smarting off, but he couldn't quite prove it. Then he looked past Ray, through the open door. "New World Order, indeed."

Ray glanced back, caught a glimpse of white wolf and of red uniform that made his heart jump. "Lunch date, sir."

"Only lunch?" said Welsh. "No thermonuclear devices in Captain Kangaroo lunchboxes? No dolphins being killed for tuna salad? No hostages at Ernie's Grill?"

"Just lunch, sir." No time for anything else.

"Well, enjoy yourself. I look forward to your report on the New World Order."

"Yes, sir."

"And," Welsh went on before Ray could get out of the office, "to your reports on these new cases."

Don't flinch; just take the folders.

Welsh smiled. "Bank robbery, a couple homicides, aggravated assault. In other words, Old World Order."

"Of course, sir. Right away, sir."

"I refuse to believe half the database is nothing but Vecchio's old cases!" Huey exploded as Ray dropped the folders onto his desk.

"Perhaps the computer's gone into an nth-complexity infinite binary loop." Dewey, enlightening the masses.

"Actually, Detective," Fraser said, "the nth-complexity infinite binary loop doesn't actually exist."

"Oh, really." Her voice seemed to drip icicles.

"Yes. Actually, it's very interesting. You see--"

"Lunch, Fraser." Ray grabbed his arm to turn him. If Fraser kept on, there'd be another homicide to write up.

"Whatever it is, it's a pain in the neck!" Elaine said as he and Fraser left the squad room. "Why does it keep pulling up Vecchio's cases?"

"Poor judgment?" said Huey.

Ray turned, then was turned back by the iron-hard fingers gripping his arm. Another senseless death averted.

"So," Ray murmured as he and Fraser left the station house, "lunch, or a quickie?"

He was rewarded by a flush of scarlet in the handsome face.

"Red suits you," he whispered to Fraser.

"That's not amusing, Ray."

"Oh, yeah, it is, Fraser. Trust me."

"Would you like to go to the Korean deli, or did you have somewhere else in mind?"

"Korean's fine. So I guess it's 'no' about the quickie."

"Well, we'd hardly have time: it usually takes me ten minutes just to get back into this uniform, and what with the length of time it takes to get to Racine and back--"

"Who said anything about getting out of the uniform?"

"--And, if I didn't get completely out of uniform, I'd be so rumpled that Inspector Thatcher would notice--"

"One little wrinkle! Don't Canadians wrinkle?"

"Not Mounties, Ray."

Oh, that open, blue-eyed look that implied he was telling the absolute truth. Not Mounties--

"Just go in." Ray held the door for him--and found himself then holding the door for a little old lady, two businessmen, and a woman with three small children. At least Dief had the grace to ignore the open door. Off his game: being doorman was the Mountie's job.

So, lunch was lunch after all. Not that bad, really--just, well, not entirely satisfying. He walked Fraser to the Consulate, talking about nothing, not yanking him into the alley for a kiss, not tugging him behind that truck over there for a quick grope. Perfect gentleman. Ray had the right to be proud of himself.

Back of his mind, though, was having quite a little party all on its own, dreaming up all kinds of stuff to keep him awake at night. . . .

Last night's dream had come with him to work, swirled with the light breeze down Ontario as he stood sentry outside the Canadian Consulate, waited patiently in a corner of his mind while he spoke to caterers on the telephone, wove through his words as he consulted representatives of state agencies about necessary permits, spiced the scent of the rose Ray must have left on his desk while he was out on an errand. Lunch with Ray hadn't dispelled it: now it worked its way into the ink as he addressed invitations, flavored the tea he drank at his break. Why did it hold him? What could it signify?

Surely not discontent with this relationship--the most satisfying of his life. Never could Fraser have imagined the delights of being in love with Ray Vecchio: the sheer joy of being so in tune with such a delightful--and, yes, occasionally irritating--being.

A relationship that had built slowly from standoffishness to trust, from fascination with the foreign other to real regard and appreciation of the other's talents. From the occasional case solved together to a growing friendship that had somehow slid into something deeper before either realized it.

Fraser smiled down at the envelope he was stamping. Far deeper than friendship, though they hadn't known it at first. That first awkward forfeit during a poker game--such a startling thing for Ray to demand and for Fraser to give--and his body responding in a way he had not planned, making love where it should have merely cooperated. That second game, and another forfeit--and more lovemaking. And then--and then a swirl of emotion and love and tenderness, days when Fraser's body seemed to rule his heart, or his heart ruled his brain. But, love. A final, heart-healing declaration of love. A sweetness for which he'd been unprepared.

That first night, after they had declared their love, after hungry lovemaking had become sleep, after they had awakened to eat, they had found their way again to bed, there to touch with hands and mouths, exploring and arousing for what seemed hours. Tender, slow, gradually losing all sense of the world outside the bed, wrapping themselves in pleasure and sensation: whisper of skin on skin; echo of a sigh; tang of sweat; crispness of pubic thatch; rasp of stubble against stubble; the warm, sweet heat of mouth on mouth, on throat, on belly, on musky scrotum. Tips of fingers drifting over every millimeter of his skin; tongue laving his thighs, his buttocks and, astonishingly, dipping into the crevice between; the strangled gasp as he engulfed Ray's penis with his mouth; cool sole of a foot stroking his back while fingers tightened in his hair; hot mouth languidly sucking his fingers in tempo with his own slow sucking; mouth on his, upside down, then sliding over his skin farther, farther, farther down; trembling body above him as his penis slid into a soft, hot mouth. Again and again, they brought each other to the brink, watching the other's joy and pleasure. And all that was himself melted away, until he could not say what mouth sighed against what throat, whose hand stroked whose penis, until he was nothing but the heat of love, the ecstasy of Ray's pleasure. Again and again; until, on some unspoken signal, they took each other beyond, to an exquisite instant: locked in his embrace, Ray's body arching against his in a long orgasm Fraser felt more strongly than his own.

That sleep came, Fraser had not known until he woke from it, shivering at the cold from the window, protecting Ray's body from the chill. Pulling the blanket over them both, he looked down at the figure in his arms and sleepily realized that he was no longer alone inside himself, that now there was someone else there with him, completing him, filling what had been empty. He had not known that such completion would be waiting for him; he had savored it as he slid again into Ray-scented dreams--

"Yes, sir!" Fraser jumped to his feet.

"I said, 'Are you done with those invitations yet?'" Inspector Margaret Thatcher frowned at him from the doorway.

"Almost finished, sir--ma'am--Inspector."

She regarded him closely. "Are you all right, Constable?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Didn't it hurt to slam your hand in the drawer like that?"

Didn't it hurt to slam his hand-- He looked down at the hand in question, which most certainly seemed to have been slammed hard in the upper right-hand drawer of his desk. Reaching absently for something when her voice had broken into his daydreams and startled him into trying to hide--well, trying to hide what he was thinking about? Thank heaven his scarlet face could be explained by such a ridiculous accident.

"Well, sir, now that you mention it, it does hurt just a tad."

She looked at him.

"How are the permits coming?"

"Fine, sir. I've gotten almost all of them."

Pause.

"I hope we don't have the same trouble this time that we had last time. With the--events."

"I really doubt, sir, that this time we'll have a nuclear incident on a train full of unconscious Mounties. The laws of chance alone would--would preclude it."

"Of course."

Pause.

"Well, Constable, if you think you've everything in order..."

"Yes, sir."

When Inspector Thatcher turned from the doorway, her frown had not smoothed itself out.

Fraser realized why when he started to reach for his pen.

Hand still caught in the drawer.

Oh, dear. . . .

Oh, damn.

Oh, damn, he was thinking about the Mountie again, when he was supposed to be concentrating on that report, still curling, half-typed, from his typewriter. What was wrong with him? You'd think after six months a guy wouldn't still get so--so loopy about his love life.

Ray sighed and reached for the white-out.

"You know, if you used a good word processing program, you wouldn't need all that white-out." Dewey, spreading unwanted information and sour good cheer. "You could just input everything on a form and make corrections right on the screen."

And be perfect, like you. "Yes," said Ray, "but think about all the little children who go to their beds with full tummies at night, because kindly Uncle Ray goes through thirty-five bottles of white-out every week. Think about the fragile little old people who feel like such useful members of society, weaving all these typewriter ribbons by hand--"

That clack-clack was the sound of her heels as she stomped off. Ray shook his head. No courtesy. People just had no patience to be courteous any more. Couldn't even finish a polite conversation.

He peered at the report, fooled with the carriage in order to squeeze an "m" at the end of "condo", so the sentence now read, "Forty cases of One World brand condom were found in the suspect's apartment." Oh, damn. "Condom" needed an "s," and there was no room. He sighed, ripped out the report, and started over.

Trouble was, he was having a harder and harder time keeping his love life separate from his work life. Well, they did overlap to a large extent: Ray's cases and Fraser just seemed to attract each other. Not that Ray really tried to keep them apart. It was just weird, was all.

And dangerous. A hand halted before it reached for Fraser on the sidewalk. A sudden surge of joy stifled when Fraser walked into the squad room. Ray surveyed the room. How many of those cops would still be his friend if they found out about him and Fraser?

He grunted. Well, actually, how many of those cops really were his friend now? Just write your damn report, Vecchio.

Focus. Just focus.

But dried rose petals in the top drawer of his desk spiced the air when he opened it for yet another bottle of white-out, and he couldn't help but smile. Fraser's roses, still popping up in unexpected places. Long-stemmed roses from a long-legged Canadian. It was so much fun, being in love.

That night they'd finally admitted it, in the chilly shower of Fraser's fire-damaged apartment building. Just the thought, and Ray's heart still quickened.

What felt like the whole rest of that first night, they had touched each other, explored each other with mouth and tongue and fingers and cock. God, he'd never done that before, never experienced anything like that before: the stoking of some slow, hot flame inside him, that seemed to melt something in him so he couldn't later even remember the things they did. Just snatches, mostly Fraser: that hot, wet mouth on every inch of his skin; words that were half a moan; fingers caressing the crevice of his ass over and over; tongue tracing the lifeline in his palm; sentences tangled up in sighs; fingers skimming him all over, mouth following; a slow, solid sucking on his cock; Fraser's strong fingers in his mouth. At some point, everything seemed to blend, so that when they finally came, he could have sworn he actually felt Fraser's orgasm, a spasm of pleasure even sweeter than his own.

Next morning, silence woke him: the absence of Fraser's breathing, of his heartbeat. Ray sat up. Out with the wolf someplace. This waking up alone didn't feel so bad, because he didn't feel like he was alone; there was something of Fraser inside him, filling up the empty spaces. Ah, god, he loved this part of being in love.

Quick shower, quick shave, both ice-cold and, well, shrivelling. Quick shuffle down the cold floor of the hallway back to the apartment, to make--well, damn, no coffee.

But when the door opened and Fraser stepped in, suddenly Ray didn't need it. Ah, god, look at him. Ah, geez, look at his face light up like that. Guy whose blood was perking along like Ray's suddenly was didn't need coffee at all.

They gazed at each other for a long, silent moment. Who needed words? A step into a sweet kiss. Oh, geez, who needed words?

"I was gonna make coffee, but--" said Ray.

"What brand do you like?"

Some guys were so romantic. "I'll ask Ma." Gosh, he smelled good.

"I passed the workmen on the way in," Fraser said. "They think they'll be done inspecting the gas lines today. Until then, I guess it's--cold showers." He was grinning.

"Good thing," said Ray, which was about the funniest thing either of them had heard in a long time.

Oh, it was a shame to break from that long, deep kiss, to get into clothes and get ready to go to breakfast and to work. Just before they left, Fraser pulled open Ray's jacket and checked the gun in Ray's holster. Ray grinned at him. Yes, dear; I'll be careful, dear.

Ray settled Fraser's Mountie hat firmly on his head. "Keep your hat on," he said to Fraser's bemused expression.

"Keep my hat on?"

"Yeah. Haven't you ever noticed, you lose that hat, you get hurt?"

"What?"

Time to go. He walked out of the apartment ahead of Fraser.

"Yeah, Fraser. Think about it! Ever since I've known you, every time you get beat up, stabbed, or--well, whatever, it's only when you're not wearing the hat. You got the hat, you get shot at, jump off buildings--no problem. That hat ain't just a hat, Fraser; it's armor. You keep it on."

"But that's--that's just ridiculous, Ray! That's just--just ridiculous!"

"Nevertheless, scientific observation, Fraser. Can't be wrong. Once or twice, coincidence, but... Really, it's scientific fact."

"But Ray--"

Out on the street by now, passing the workmen. Just arguing like a couple of regular guys. "You are gonna get this place in shape real soon," Ray said as he passed the workmen. "Guardin' this place is a real pain."

Safe in the Riv, Fraser's hand moving to Ray's thigh as they pulled into traffic. "But, Ray, that's the most ludicrous--"

"Nevertheless." Geez, what a beautiful morning. Arguing sweetly with the one he loved. Damn, love was wonderful--

"Vecchio? Why does that computer have such a jones for Vecchio?"

Ray jerked to attention, knocking over the bottle of white-out. Oh, damn, all over page one of the new version of his report. Ah, jeez.

"No accounting for tastes," Elaine said.

"Maybe it really has gone into an nth-complexity infinite binary loop."

Ray paused in his mopping. Who the hell ever told Huey he knew a damn thing about computers?

"Actually, there's a computer virus that makes it do just that," Dewey informed the world.

"Oh, really." Huey sounded fascinated.

"Yes. It's called 'Good Times'--"

"That's it! I'm rebooting!" Elaine broke in.

Rebooting. Good idea. Ray sighed and cranked yet another report form into the typewriter. "Forty cases of One World brand condominiums were--" Oh, where the hell was that white-out?

"Maybe it's an nth-complexity infinite probability loop." Dewey, an hour later, still Albert Einstein on the computer.

The click of wolf toenails on the floor was like the answer to a prayer. Ray jumped up and grabbed his coat.

"Diefenbaker!" Elaine forgot her frustration with cyberspace in fussing over the wolf.

And there was the wolf's owner, equally worth fussing over.

"Fraser!" Ray tried to keep his tone light. "Give you a lift?"

"Certainly!"

"What's wrong with the hand?" Ray said as they made their way downstairs.

Fraser looked at his bandaged right hand. "Office accident."

"Well, let's hope it's covered by workman's comp. Those paperclips can be deadly."

"Drawer, actually."

In the Riv, wolf in the back, Mountie stetson on the dash, Fraser's hand on Ray's thigh when they were safely away from the station house. Feeling the warmth of that hand, Ray felt himself relax. Safe.

"I was gonna pick you up," he said.

"I needed to--walk off some excess energy."

Ray grinned at him. "There are more interesting ways."

"Thinking about those was the cause of the--excess energy."

Ray laughed. Oh, yeah, he could understand that. "So, did you--drain all the--energy?"

The hand on his thigh tightened. "I certainly thought so, until I walked into your squad room."

Ah, jeez, there was enough excess energy in the car now to light half of Chicago. Too bad it couldn't go anyplace.

"This is the night I got to take Ma to Aunt Ina's, remember?"

The hand let go. "Oh. I thought that was tomorrow night."

"Damn, I wish it was. Dinner and a whole evening of Aunt Ina's gall bladder and Aunt Ina's bunions and Aunt Ina's palpitations. When I could be having palpitations of my own focusing on your mouth and your cock and that really tasty place on the back of your neck."

The fingers tightened on his thigh again--more firmly than before.

"How about I come over afterward?"

"But your mother will--"

"Yeah. You're right; she will. Besides, what I got in mind, we won't want to get out of bed for a week."

The hand caressed his thigh. Fraser looked wistful. "I wish we--I wish we--could be more--open--about our relationship."

Ray's heart did a flip-flop. "Yeah, so do I."

He pulled into a parking spot near Fraser's apartment building; they looked at each other for a minute. More open about the relationship meant hurting people Ray just couldn't bear to hurt.

The hand patted his thigh. "Come up for coffee?"

Oh, yeah--he could come up for coffee.

Coffee took time, of course: all that water to heat. And waiting for water to heat, a guy had to find something to occupy his time. And his hands. And his mouth.

And so the next thing a guy knew, he was on the floor, pants to his knees, with Fraser under him, clutching his ass and gasping "Ray" and "yes" and "there" and "oh" while his cock slid against a hot, naked belly softer than any rose petal and he did some clutching and gasping of his own and all the water in the pan boiled clean away.

Fraser's gentle thoroughness cleaning Ray's belly and cock afterward with a wet washcloth was almost foreplay all over again. Ray reached for the back of Fraser's neck, brought his mouth down for a kiss that could have ignited a dead sun. Damn, he loved coffee.

Somehow it wasn't quite the same beverage later on that night at Aunt Ina's house.

On to part 2