PART THREE

*** *** ***

Stan was running, running down a dream-corridor littered with dirty scraps of paper and broken bottles. He skidded to a stop, feeling glass grind beneath his heels. He turned, lifting his gun, sighting at the shadow-shape behind him. Blue eyes gazed blandly into his and Stan drew a shocked breath. He dropped the gun, reached out a hand. Fraser dissolved into shadows. He squinted his eyes against a sudden flare of light, put a hand to his ear. An insistent, shrilling beep was drilling into it, pulling him out of this place, whatever it was. He slapped at his coat pocket for his cell, but it wasn't there. His fingers hit his own bare chest and his eyes slowly slit open.

Dawnlight through the blinds. His own bedroom. His cellphone.

His cellphone was still ringing.

Stan reached out a sleep-clumsy hand, knocked his watch off the bedside table, snagged the phone and brought it to his ear. Three-quarters of his brain asleep, he answered with a year's worth of habit. "Vecchio."

Silence, and then a low, familiar chuckle. "You gonna let me have that name back anytime soon, Kowalski?"

"Huhwha...aww, shit." Stan felt a sleepy smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He lay back, eyes closed, stretching luxuriously in the warmth of the sheets. "Hey, Ray. Whatthefuck you want at...what the hell time is it, anyway."

"Sheesh, such language. Seven-fifteen."

"What? Shit! I'm...I'm up." Stan sat, wincing, ruffling a hand through his hair. He could almost hear Ray smiling at him through the line.

"Riv doesn't wanna start, partner. Catch a ride with you?"

Stan smiled. "Uhh, sure, Vecchio. I'm outta here in...fifteen."

"Thanks, partner." Ray clicked off. Stan got up, headed into the bathroom. Squinted at the mirror...oh geez, that hair. "You ain't a beauty, Kowalski." His voice came out sleep-roughened, husky, but there was a playful note in it even he could hear. "You know what? It don't matter." He made a face at himself and then stepped into the shower, turning on the taps full-blast and as hot as he could stand it, not even aware that he was smiling.

*** *** ***

The problem with the Riviera turned out to be the starter, much to Ray's annoyance. First there was a delay in finding a replacement part; then he had to personally visit four separate garages before he found one whose mechanics impressed him sufficiently for him to allow them access. Stan picked him up in the mornings, quietly amused at the fuss.

"Dammit," Ray groused, settling in beside his partner for one of their early morning rides. "There better not be a scratch on it when I get it back."

"You ever think that maybe you an' that car just ain't meant to be, Vecchio?"

Ray glared at him. Stan cracked a grin at him. "Well, this one's, what, number four?"

"Just *drive,* Kowalski."

Stan did so, still grinning.

They continued the pattern of their shared evenings, their easy enjoyment of each other's company unaltered by the newly physical aspect of their relationship. There were times, when they watched ball games or sat up late, going over case strategy over pizza and beer, that Stan could completely forget that that side of it existed. The essence of their partnership was unchanged, and it was that bond that drew him in, absorbed him.

They fell into the habit of going for walks around Stan's neighborhood after work, just strolling side by side through the gradually warming evenings, talking. With some accompanying hesitation, these conversations began eventually to include the topic of Benton Fraser. They found it easier at first to stick to lighthearted reminiscences, sharing funny incidents that were pure Benny. When they were finally able to have a discussion about him without either of them suddenly falling silent or developing a pained expression, it was a mutual acknowledgement that the last barrier between them was beginning to crumble.

On one of these evening walks, Ray tried to explain to his partner the way working with Benny had made him feel. Hands thrust in his pockets, head down, he struggled for words to convey the confusing mix of emotions. The admiration for Benny's uncanny skill and perception, tempered by a vague, frustrating sense of his own inadequacy; a sometimes infuriating feeling that even the damned wolf had had things figured out before Ray himself could catch up with his partner's ideas. Ray had never had occasion or desire to question his own abilities prior to his partnership with Ben; the experience had been both uplifting and humbling. And over it all, of course, the deepening pull of attraction, the helpless, hopeless way he had fallen under his partner's unwitting spell.

"Ray, do you think he knows? Do you think he even has a clue? What...what the hell goes on, behind those eyes?"

"I don't know, partner. If anyone should, it's me...and I just don't."

Stan had reached out and clapped him gently on the shoulder. Eventually, they turned and headed back to the warmth of the apartment.

The passion between them, like a perpetually banked fire, erupted at odd moments into white-hot flareups, the resulting frantic couplings leaving them breathless and drained and eminently satisfied. They were as eerily compatible in this respect as they were in most others; they seemed to share an unspoken awareness of each other's desires and needs at any given time.

During an innocuous evening of television or casework, apropos of nothing he could figure out, Stan would suddenly feel Ray's eyes on him and all at once the flush of arousal would flow over his own body, his hips shifting forward involuntarily, a lazy tension settling over his muscles. He'd look into his partner's face, knowing his own eyes were reflecting a seductive heat.

And Ray would flick a glance in the direction of the bedroom; or simply stand and hold out a hand for him. On a few occasions they had been unable even to make it that far; Vecchio's passion-clumsy hands had shoved him roughly over the back of some convenient piece of furniture, slid forward for a few moments of frenzied groping, utterly without finesse, until they were both bucking and shuddering and harsh-voiced with need. After the first time this happened, Stan had wryly insisted on keeping a stash of necessary supplies under one of the couch cushions.

They kept religiously to their rule about professionalism in the workplace, and to their mutual relief found it relatively easy to uphold. They were both absorbed by their working partnership; their relationship easily crossed back over the line into the earlier days of their friendship when they passed through the doors into the precinct. This also helped them to avoid any uncomfortable speculation on the part of their colleagues; there were no liquid glances or special touches between them, nor anything about their interaction with each other that gave any hint at other than a solid friendship.

On only one occasion had their physical relationship asserted itself outside of the safely private confines of Kowalski's apartment. Vecchio still could not recall the incident without a reawakening of lust firing in his groin and sending a faint flush to his cheeks.

They'd been on their way to dinner at a pasta restaurant a few miles from the station, Ray driving a department car he'd managed to scrounge. Out of nowhere, he'd suddenly become intensely aware of the way Stan sat sprawled in the seat beside him, grey eyes squinting at the road, his customarily tight clothing outlining the litheness of his body. Ray had glanced over at him more and more frequently as he drove, noting the unconscious tenseness of the muscles, the way Stan's shoulder holsters accentuated the shape of his chest and upper arms. All at once he knew the restaurant was an impossibility; the odds were good that he wouldn't make the apartment, either. Fighting for control, he'd pulled the car onto a side road that led into a warren of disused, dirty back alleys. Kowalski shot a look at him, his eyes registering alarm and then a quiet, incredulous amusement.

"Jesus the fuck Christ, Vecchio! What is it with you??"

Ray pulled the car over, almost stalling it out. They were angled at the back of an alley, beside an overflowing dumpster. He turned narrowed eyes on his partner, drew a slow, controlled breath. "Get...out."

Kowalski frankly gaped at him.

Ray unsnapped his safety belt, leaned towards him. "*Move.*" His voice was harsh, almost unrecognizable.

Stan fumbled unseeingly for his door handle, almost fell out of the car. Stood shakily. Ray climbed clumsily across the seat, following him, rose to his full height outside the car. His eyes, greener than Stan had ever seen them, blazed into his partner's face.

For the space of five seconds they stared at each other, Stan's breathing becoming ragged as his arousal spiked to match his partner's. Ray took in the flush staining the smooth planes of his face; the silver-blue eyes darkening, narrowing in an unconscious invitation. The tip of Stan's tongue flicked across his lower lip.

As if from a distance, Ray saw himself put a hand on his partner's shoulder, his fingers digging strongly, almost cruelly, into his flesh. Felt himself push downwards, hard, heard his voice, shocking even to his own ears: "On your knees, detective."

And Stan had lifted an almost demure glance into his face, a split-second before his entire body seemed to melt downwards, sinking bonelessly under the pressure of his partner's fingers, until he was kneeling before him. Ray had looked down at him, their eyes locking, Stan's smile gentle and knowing and lazy. It was too much; he'd closed his eyes, lifted his head back, his breath puffing into frost in the night air. Felt his partner's hands at his belt, warm fingers slipping inside, pulling him free--then the sudden chill against his bare skin. He'd had time for half a shiver before an incredible, velvetslick heat wrapped itself around him and engulfed his entire length.

His hips had shot forward, to be met and held by strong hands. Moaning, he clawed at his partner's spiky hair, trying to temper the urge to buck forward into the welcoming warmth. Stan's tongue flicked over him from root to tip, his mouth sliding maddeningly along the pulsing length of him again and again.

Ray had no idea how long it had gone on, as he stood there in that filthy, deserted alley, a sodium-arc light glaring overhead, his shuddering body braced against the car, his partner at his feet all but worshipping him with that hot mouth. At one point he'd risked another glance downwards, and the image that met his eyes had almost made him lose everything right then.

Stan's knees were spread apart on the dirty pavement, his jeans already mudstained, every muscle visibly tense through the thin denim. One hand slid with rough, frantic rhythm along the rockhard bulge at his crotch, the fingers wrapping underneath to cup his balls. His other hand continued to press firmly at Ray's hip, keeping control of his forward thrusts. His eyes were closed, the spikes of his fair hair darkened with sweat, clinging to his forehead.

Ray had shut his own eyes against the sudden, unrelenting rush of sensation gathering in his groin. Drawing ragged, gasping breaths, consciously stifling the moans that rose to his lips, he'd held out for a few more shuddering, bucking strokes before spilling a hot, choking flood down his partner's throat.

Stan had stayed with him, swallowing, until the last spasms passed, then gently drew back, rubbing the back of his hand across his swollen mouth. He threw a sultry glance upwards into Ray's face.

Ray had dropped to his knees, heedless of the dirt, his expression at once sated and shocked. He put a hand, gentle this time, on his partner's trembling shoulder. "*Stan.* Jesus. Are you--"

Kowalski was rubbing furiously at the clearly outlined hardness at his crotch. His panting sped up, his eyes closing.

"Kowalski. Let me help you. What do you--"

"S'all right, I got it," Stan panted, the fingers of his other hand scrabbling to unhook his buttons. Releasing a strangled cry and a curse, he pulled his straining cock free seconds before a thick, hot whiteness jetted out of it, spattering the cracked and littered pavement.

Ray could only watch him, his emotions an uncomfortable mix of desire, awe, and shame. And then Kowalski had shifted back onto his heels, wiped his sweating brow with the back of one wrist, and lifted those silvery eyes to his face.

To Ray's amazement, they were twinkling at him. Stan's voice was steady, if a bit breathless, and tinged with his usual good humor.

"You know, Vecchio. When I said I wanted to go out tonight for some Italian, I don't think this is exactly what I--"

"Stan. For god's sake, I'm sorry. I'm not usually a selfish bastard, I promise. I don't know what the hell you do to me."

"Vecchio. Enough. And don't worry about bein' selfish. After all, you ain't through with me yet."

Ray had raised an eyebrow at him, but Stan was pulling a rumpled handkerchief out of his pocket, cleaning up as best he could. They'd gotten back into the car, clicked the safety belts, sat for a moment in silence, watching their breath puff into the air.

Ray had looked over at his partner. "You want--"

"Pizza in my freezer, Vecchio."

He'd put the car in gear and all but squealed out.

Most often, however, their encounters took place in the relative comfort of Stan's narrow bed, with an indifferent moon their only witness. Ray continued to marvel at his partner's uncanny grace, his sensual litheness, as he lifted and wrapped and wound himself in countless combinations around Ray's body. The silent way they had of communicating, of sensing each other's needs, only became more pronounced as time went on and they learned each other's responses and triggers.

Vecchio was conscientious about maintaining the emotional distance he deemed necessary during their intimate sessions. Somewhere inside, he sensed that his partner was aware of his efforts in this regard and was grateful for them. Stan was less able to control his behavior during the height of arousal and the immediate aftermath of release. Ray steeled himself to keep his concentration on the pleasure of the sensations generated by their coupling. He touched his partner with respect and desire, but with the intention to arouse and stimulate, rather than to caress. He would glance into Stan's face from time to time to gauge his reactions, but deliberately prevented himself from staring into his partner's eyes. During the heated, frantic peaks of intercourse, when control was a bare thread, he would sometimes allow his lips and tongue to graze his partner's neck; but never his face.

And on a few occasions, when unbidden feelings of tenderness had threatened to overcome his resolve, he had roughly turned Kowalski over onto his stomach before entering him, even though his infinitely flexible partner was utterly capable of taking him face to face. Stan seemed to sense the reason behind this occasional preference of his partner's and raised no objection, submitting as he always did to whatever Vecchio wanted to give him.

The moments immediately following climax were the hardest to get through for both men. Vecchio became adept at closing his eyes, steadying his breathing and pulling away from his partner's arms. Stan sometimes made soft, involuntary sounds of protest at this but never actually attempted to hold his partner back. Giving his friend a warm and affectionate smile, Ray would disappear into the bathroom for a few moments; by the time he emerged, Kowalski would be dressed and usually in the living room.

Almost always, they sat and talked together for a while afterwards, reassuring each other by warm glances and affectionate banter of the connection between them, the trust and the friendship.

One night, as they sat separated by careful inches on the couch, their bodies suffused with the relaxed afterglow of satiation, Ray hesitantly asked his partner to tell him about the day Benton Fraser had left.

Stan sighed, stretched his legs out before him. "Aw, Ray. Sure, if I can. I didn't know you wanted to know about it--I woulda told you before."

"I'm not sure I wanted to hear it before."

Stan smiled in the darkness. "Okay. He'd...he'd been telling me about it for weeks, actually, before he left. After we'd gotten back to the city, it was like he immediately wanted to be up North again. And...alone." He closed his eyes. "I'd thought...I'd been almost sure he'd want to take me with him."

"It doesn't make any sense, Stan. What did he even come back for in the first--"

"Ray, you're asking the wrong person, okay? *None* of it makes sense. I didn't think there'd be anything to hold him in Chicago. That is...I didn't dare to hope that there might be."

"He must have told you something, Stan. You were...closer to him than I was. I could tell that."

"Oh, Ray, that's such bullshit. I didn't ever have a clue what he was really thinking, about me anyway, about us. He never let me understand anything. And that day--" He paused, gathering his thoughts.

Ray waited quietly.

"That was...he got me so confused, Ray. We were standing there, and out of the blue he wraps his arms around me. I was in shock."

"And I barged in on you. Shit, if I hadn't done that he might have--"

"I don't believe that any more, Ray. He didn't do things without thinking them out first; if he'd wanted us to have some kind of really private moment before he took off, he would have arranged it. He said his goodbyes in that corridor for a reason. He didn't want me getting any wrong ideas, probably."

Ray considered that. "Well, so what did he tell you?"

"He said--he said he had some things to tell me, but that he didn't know how to, or something. And that...that he was coming back, and we'd see each other again." Stan's voice dropped a notch, became wistful. "And that he couldn't call me Ray any more. I guess there's really only one Ray in his life, after all."

"Awww, Stan. Goddamn him anyway."

Stan blinked. "Ray, you can't really get mad at--"

"The hell I can't. He's hurt you, he's hurt both of us. Maybe not intentionally, and maybe we were both as much to blame. But he could have made things easier, Kowalski, regardless of what his feelings are. You're easy to read. There's no way he didn't know how you felt about him, even if you tried to hide it, and I don't think you did. If he didn't return it, he had no business touching your face and dropping all those mysterious hints in your lap. And if he *did* return it, he had no business taking off."

Vecchio stopped, drew breath. Stan looked at him with something like awe.

"Jeez, Vecchio. You're like, upset on my behalf, here."

"Well, yeah."

Stan's fingers slipped into Ray's hand and were squeezed gently. A few minutes passed while they each pursued their own thoughts.

"Ray."

"Yeah."

"Did you notice that look he gave you when you came out and saw us? That confused the hell out of me too. It, like, meant something."

"Didn't mean anything I could figure out, partner. Just made me feel like I was going to either puke my guts out or spit nails or both." He drew his brows together, remembering the fit of rage that had sent him out to wander the streets, ripping Stan Kowalski to shreds in his thoughts. He sighed. "You wouldn't believe what ran through my head after that, Stan. Some pretty filthy shit, mostly about you. And then it all came out two weeks later, when--"

Stan twined their fingers more tightly together, looked into his partner's face. They'd been over this before. "Ray, will you quit with the apologies about West Falls. That was as much my fault, and it ended up doing us good, and I don't blame you for it, so just stop."

"I don't feel so bad about knocking you in the slats as I do about calling you a slut, Kowalski. Way, way the fuck out of line. And believe it or not, not like me at all. It was like I was...almost someone else, for a while." He closed his eyes at the memory.

"Ray." Stan's voice was quiet. "We were both someone else. For a year."

Vecchio sighed softly, touched by his partner's understanding. "Yeah. I got the easier part of *that* deal. I only hadda play a mobster; your guy was a *real* asshole."

He felt rather than saw Stan's smile in the darkness.

*** *** ***

"Ow!" Stan pulled his finger out of the steaming mug of coffee and sucked on the tip. "Why aren't there ever any spoons around here? My smarties won't sink."

"Why dontcha go register a complaint with Elaine?" Ray poured his own cup and stepped closer to his partner. They were momentarily alone in the coffee area. "Riv should be ready tomorrow, partner. Thanks for giving me a hand."

Stan was gingerly finger-stirring again. "No problem, Ray."

"Ma's bugging me to bring you home for dinner as a thank you."

"Awww, she's a classy lady, Ray. Say..." he leaned close, dropped his voice. "What'd Frannie say to that? She want me over?"

Ray rolled his eyes. "You having depraved, disgusting thoughts about my sister again, Kowalski?"

Stan chose this moment to drop his eyes and bury his nose in his steaming mug. He felt Vecchio's hand on his shoulder, gently; his voice suddenly low in his ear.

"Think nothing of it, Stan. I'm sure they're not half as depraved as the ones I've had about your ex-wife."

By the time Stan finished coughing scalding coffee and melted chocolate out of his lungs, his partner was long gone.

*** *** ***

Ray hurried down the steps of his mother's house to where Stan's car waited at the curb. Pulling open the door, he dropped into the seat and shot his partner an apologetic glance. Stan pulled out into traffic almost before Ray's door was closed. "Get the hell in, Vecchio, we're gonna be way late!"

"Sorry about that, Stan." Ray kept his voice casual. "Jerked off twice in the shower this morning. Didn't realize the time--uhh, Stan? That was a stop sign you just blew--"

"You *what?!*"

Vecchio couldn't keep the laughter back any longer. "Drive, Kowalski."

Stan steadied the car and shot a glance at him. "Musta been good, whatever it was. You gonna tell me what you were thinkin' about?"

"Yeah. Some day."

Stan shook his head, squinted at the road again. But he was smiling. "Hey, Vecchio. I'll drop you at the garage on lunch today, all right? You can check on your precious green machine."

"Sure, Stan. We gonna grab a bite after I pick it up?"

"Actually, Ray, I'm gonna head back down to those gaming arcades we scoped out the other day. Wanna talk to a few of those kids."

"What, about the cult homicides? Kowalski, forget it. They don't know nothing, and they won't tell you if they do. You're chasing shadows. I'm not about to waste the investigation's time on--"

"Which is why *I'm* doin' it, on my lunch hour, all right?"

"You're whacked, Stan. But okay." Vecchio smiled to himself, his thoughts already on the imminent return of his beloved Riviera. If Stan wanted to spend his time wandering around video arcades, that was fine with him. Ray was sure that the haunted-eyed, punk-dressed teens they'd briefly chatted with a few days prior were unconnected with the underground cult which was suspected of responsibility in two recent killings, even if they had been wearing silver rings with an unusual symbol. He was further convinced that they knew nothing of any substance about either the cult or the homicides; and finally that any information they did have was not about to be shared with a member of the Chicago PD.

As it turned out, he was wrong.

On all three counts.

*** *** ***

The case wrapped a few days later, the crucial piece of information a tip from one of Stan's green-haired, sullen-voiced informants. There was a jubilant, chaotic celebration in the squad room the day the arrests were made, glad-handing and congratulations all around. For once, Stan didn't seem to be trying to hide himself behind a stack of files during the festivities. He accepted the handshakes and backslaps with an easy smile.

Ray was watching him from across the room, feeling a familiar yet unwanted thrill of arousal. Stan's eyes were sparkling, his color high. His movements radiated a coiled, graceful energy.

Vecchio sat down at his desk and busied himself with the required paperwork, trying to calm the involuntary physical reaction of his body. Just as he had it under control, he sensed a presence beside him and looked up into those glittering silver eyes.

"You comin' over tonight?"

Ray just looked at him; he came over every night. But even he sensed there would be something different about this one.

"Yeah, why don't you do that?" Stan went on. "Say seven o'clock." He turned and strolled away without waiting for response.

Ray put his pen down and drew a trembling breath.

*** *** ***

He sat in his car outside Stan's building, hands fisted on his knees, trembling. His skin was flushed, his breathing shallow and uneven. He closed his eyes, mentally counted to ten, and willed away the insistent, painful erection threatening to split the seam of his trousers.

He pressed his head back against the headrest, shivering. It wasn't working. He could not shake the images of Stan's face, his movements, the way his eyes had pinned and held him above that easy, laughing smile. He shook with the intensity of his arousal, one hand sliding inexorably between his legs, cupping his own ironhard length, pressing hard. //Christ. Jesus. Get a goddamn grip, so to speak. It's ten steps. Ten frigging steps and you're in the building, you think you can do that, you slut?//

Ray squeezed rhythmically, feeling himself shudder, his hips lifting sharply. He moaned. //You gonna start this party by yourself, here? Ruin a four hundred dollar pair of--//

That got him moving, and he wrenched the car door open and all but stumbled out, taking the steps two at a time, grateful to whatever saints watched over horny Chicago cops that he met no one in the vestibule or hallway. Outside Stan's door he ran a hand through his sparse hair, licked his lips. //Enough. You're as beautiful as you're gonna get, Vecchio. Like it matters.// He knocked, heard an answering grunt from behind the door, pushed it open and went in.

Stan was at the kitchen counter with his back to Ray, and he turned with a smile of greeting. The expression in his eyes was so open, so relaxed that Ray was unprepared for the sudden, swift approach, the hand that shot out and gripped his wrist, pinning it against the wall beside Ray's head. Stan leaned into him, his body hard against Ray's, one leg sliding up between his thighs. His hips pinned the other man against the wall, grinding against him, both of them almost vibrating with tension and arousal.

Stan lifted back a centimeter, raised his head, looked into Ray's panting face. Incredibly, he was smiling. "Hey, Vecchio."

Ray groped for coherent response, came up empty. "Hey, caveman." Stan's smile widened and his eyes gleamed. Ray found himself babbling more gems of wisdom. "S'okay, y'know, Stan. I...I kinda like it." //Like he can't tell that. Like you aren't about drilling a hole into him through two sets of pants here...//

"Thought you would."

Ray closed his mouth against any other idiocies that might fall out, and let Stan take him by the wrist, more gently this time, and lead him into the other room.

Stan slid his gaze up and down his partner's body, still wearing the same lazy smile. Hooking his t-shirt over his head with his customary one-handed stretch, he flung it onto the floor and tilted his head at Ray. Ray's fingers flew to the buttons on his own shirt, not willing to risk Stan's fumbling yet efficient approach to divesting him. They slipped out of the rest of their clothes silently, staring into each other's eyes.

As Stan advanced, Ray stepped automatically backward, coming up against the bed behind him, falling back onto it. He shifted back, spreading out without thinking, his eyes raking Stan's starkly outlined form above him. The broadness of the shoulders, the rounded yet compact hardness of his upper arms. Ray closed his eyes, sensing as Stan lowered himself, sliding up his body, the hairs on his chest rising. His thighs pressed themselves around Stan's slim hips, his chin lifting as his partner's hot mouth found his neck, licking, breath fanning him. The sensation raised delicious shivers all over his skin and he arched up as Stan released his full weight, pinning Ray solidly beneath him, crushing him into the mattress. //Oh, God.//

Stan shifted onto his elbows enough for Ray to breathe, and continued his assault on the hollow of his neck and shoulder. Ray's hands slid up over the warm, silken skin of his back, feeling the play of muscles, one hand slipping up to caress the spikysoft hairs on the back of his neck. His eyes flew open in sudden shock at the feel of Stan's teeth against the sensitive flesh of his neck, he was nipping hard enough to hurt, sucking hard, raising red welts that would no doubt purple over by--"Stan!...ohh, Christ..." But he knew Stan was beyond understanding, and the insistent, rocking movement of his partner's hips against his own was rapidly sending all coherence to the winds. He slid his hands down, dug his fingers into Stan's lower back.

Stan's cock slid against his own, pressing into the firmness of his lower belly. One strong-fingered hand slid down his side, cupping his hip, lifting him against the other man. Stan raised his head, stared down into Ray's dazed face. Their eyes locked.

"You want it, Vecchio? Huh?"

There was not a speck of moisture in Ray's throat. He could only stare back at the wild interplay of emotions on Stan's face. Exhilaration, joy, passion, sureness. It didn't matter, anyway. The question did not require an answer. Stan gave him that easy, slow smile again and Ray wondered at the hot flare of lust it triggered in his belly. He watched raptly as Stan shifted back, lifting his hot weight off Ray's shivering body, sitting back on his heels. He leaned sideways, one hand groping in the nightstand, and Ray's paralysis broke. He sat up himself, one hand reaching blindly, finding Stan's solid chest, pressing against his heart. Feeling it beneath his fingers, pounding.

Stan shivered at his partner's touch, marveling at the naked intensity on his face, the fact that he was responsible for it. Finding what he sought in the drawer, he slipped one corner of the small packet between his teeth and tore it open one-handed, his fingers sure and steady. Ray sank back, watching him, propping himself on his elbows. Stan tilted his head and looked at him, rolling the slick latex over himself, the muscles in his arm tensing. Ray wondered dimly if he knew how he looked like that, how the starlight made his spiky hair into a fuzzy glow and glinted off his pale, narrowed eyes. He was dangerous. The feeling of not being in control was frightening as well as intensely arousing, and Ray's body jerked when his partner's fingers, slick with some incredibly warm wetness, slipped between his legs.

He opened his mouth to guide Stan, to offer instruction, and found his breath escaping in an audible rush at the sensation of his partner's fingers pressing into him, slow, sure, unfaltering. There was no pain, no awkwardness. Stan's touch was at once gentle and firm, easing him, relaxing him, the slipperiness coating him thoroughly. Ray closed his eyes, asking himself for the hundredth time when he was going to learn not to underestimate this man.

Stan had not spoken since his husky-voiced question. Ray was moaning, shifting his hips against Stan's thrusting touch, a slow burning ache beginning. A shiver of alarm in his belly when Stan suddenly leaned forward, his fingers sliding out, his hands coming up to touch Ray's body. Ray scooted back reflexively, his mind scrambling for the words to delicately tell his partner that the effortless knees-up maneuver as Stan did it was utterly beyond him, that he would break something trying, that they had to-- "Stan. Hey, slow...I can't..."

"Shhh." Strong hands slid under Ray's back, lifting and then wordlessly flipping him over. A moment's muffled breathing into the sheets and then he felt the man's warmth full-length against his back, his weight barely suspended, a hot, husky voice in Ray's ear:

"On your knees...*detective.*"

And Ray could hear the smile in his voice, even as a strong arm slid under his belly, pulling him up and back as if he weighed no more than a king-sized pillow. Braced on all fours, his entire body shaking with need, he could only wait as Stan slid a caressing hand from his chest down over his belly. Ray's stomach muscles jumped and quivered, his back arching. Stan's hand slid lower, caressing his balls, lifting them gently, then slipping around his hardness, firm, knowing, sure. "*Stan*..." Ray gritted out, and then bit back a groan as Stan placed the warm, slick head of his cock against him and rolled his hips slowly, smoothly forward.

Burning pain. Excruciating, screaming pleasure. He shook with it, his upper body dropping down onto his elbows, his breath tight, constricted gasps. Stan held himself still, his hands on Ray's hips shaking slightly. Ray recognized the tiny indication that Stan's control was not absolute, and instead of fear the knowledge brought a realization that they were equals in this, both passengers on the same wild ride, driven by passion and need. Stan draped forward, his hands sliding up, his breath against Ray's shoulders. "Hey...hey, Vecchio, all right?"

"Yes," Ray said, amazed at the steadiness of his voice. "Hey, Stan. You...you remember that fantasy I was gonna tell ya about, that I had in the shower..."

Stan chuffed soft laughter against Ray's hair. He pulled back, eliciting a sharp, gasping cry from the man beneath him, shoved forward //ohh, God// harder than he'd intended but he couldn't help it...and if Ray could talk, he could too. "T-tell me, Vecchio..." Good, his voice hardly shook much at all. "He tall and dark with blue eyes?" Another backthrust, and now he felt Ray's hips bracing to anticipate him, to meet him.

"No, Kowalski...you, just you." Ray's voice dropped lower, his head drooping downwards, but Stan could hear him clearly. "Just you, doin' this...doin' this to me."

Stan felt something indefinable spreading and growing in his belly, climbing up to engulf his heart in flame. His hips slammed forward, and this time Ray cried out but he could not stop himself, he was thrusting smoothly and surely, his hands brutal on Ray's hips. Short moments later he felt the other man's rhythm shifting, becoming more urgent beneath him, and he slid a hand around to wrap Ray's straining erection in hot, slick sureness. His fingers glided and slid, matching his own rhythm, the sensation cresting, his heart knocking against his chest in almost painful staccato. Ray suddenly threw his head back and tensed under him, his cock hardening in Stan's grip...Stan drove forward, a cry in his throat, thick hot wetness spurting through his fingers, a rolling white wave of sensation releasing itself, every muscle singing, straining, trembling, and then relaxing all at once, his weight collapsing forward, helplessly, arms instinctively enfolding the man beneath him as he rolled them both sideways, a tangled boneless heap of sweat and flesh and pounding hearts.

He fought for breath, panting raggedly against Ray's shoulder. A stinging sensation burned at the backs of his eyes and he closed them tightly, pulling his partner closer, nuzzling into the back of his neck. They were still joined, Ray's hips pressed back against his own. Stan felt his limbs becoming leaden, his heart gradually slowing.

Ray slipped a hand around Stan's forearm where it wrapped him around the chest. His body felt utterly drained, a crystal clarity of thought and emotion suddenly arriving inside his mind. He pondered this realization silently for some minutes, a gentle, wistful smile playing about his full lips. He felt Stan's slowing breath against him, the soft nuzzling caress of his mouth against Ray's neck, and pulled forward slowly out of his arms, driven by a need to see his friend's face.

Stan sighed softly as Ray rolled away from him onto his stomach and then onto his opposite side, propping his head up on one elbow and regarding Stan with an infinitely gentle look in his dark eyes. He was smiling with some private thought and Stan gave in to an impulse to reach out, to brush a finger lightly over the pouting lips. Ray took hold of his hand and kissed the palm, his eyes closing.

Stan felt his heart turn over in his chest. The wild exhilaration that drove him was gone, replaced by an ineffable tenderness threaded with uncertainty. He could not read what he saw in his partner's face. Licking his lips, he drew in a shaking breath. "Hey."

Ray smiled against Stan's palm and did not open his eyes. "Hey, Kowalski."

Stan turned slowly onto his back, feeling Ray's mouth against his fingers, the back of his hand. His breathing sounded shaky in his own ears and he fought to steady it.

"Stan." Whispered against his fingertips. Ray was licking at them gently.

"Yeah."

Ray spoke quietly, seriously. "You were...somethin' else today. You blew us all outta the water, me included, me especially. I shoulda believed you earlier on, we woulda closed the case three days ago."

"Awww, I didn't do nothin. I got a shitload of lucky breaks, is what I got, Ray. Fell into place for me. For us, I mean, you did more'n half of the work --"

Ray's hand tightened around Stan's almost painfully. "Stop it, Stan. I've been working this drill for thirteen years, I know the difference between a case that cracks out of luck and one that would be sitting in Unresolved Files for another ten years except that one hardass cop put in one hundred and ten percent of himself to do the job right. I was..." he paused for breath. "I was so fucking proud that you were my partner, today. You make me look good. You make us both look good."

Stan was not looking at him. Ray released his fingers and Stan put a hand over his eyes, but not before Ray glimpsed the expression of pleasure and joy. It was enough. He shut up, rolling onto his stomach, stretching luxuriously on the rumpled sheets.

Stan reached over and started rubbing his back with slow, sure strokes. They talked in quiet voices about the past days' events, idle, soothing chatter. Ray pillowed his head in his crossed arms, smiling to himself, waiting, listening. The tone of his partner's voice began to become more animated. Stan hesitantly brought up some of the so-called "lucky breaks," recounting how he'd been able to chase down some of the more elusive leads, admitting eventually that maybe there'd been more to it than a run of good fortune. When his voice actually took on a slightly superior tone when he recalled the way Vecchio'd initially dismissed his hunches, Ray knew he'd won.

"Like I said, partner. Blew us all away."

And Stan just looked down at him, his face glowing with an absurdly endearing combination of blush and pride. Ray had scant moments to admire it before he noted the darkening of arousal in his friend's eyes. Seconds later, he felt strong hands pulling him back against his partner's body, warm breath against his neck.

"Whoa, there, Kowalski. Down. We just--"

"Trust me, partner." Stan's teeth against him, that smile back in his voice. His hips pressed forward hard, the pulsing length of him against Ray's back, his hand sliding across his chest and stomach.

"*Kowalski.* You're out of your freaking mind--" Ray's breathing sped up, his body reacting in spite of himself. He felt himself hardening, the warm reawakening of desire in his belly. "Stan, listen to me. I'm not--ohh, Jesus." The unmistakable crackle of plastic behind him and something like real fear kicked Vecchio's heart into double rhythm.

"Just tell me when it hurts, Ray..." Dreamily. As if part of him wasn't there at all...

"Kowalski! It already *does*!!" Further speech was sucked into a keening, agonized, ecstatic gasp as Stan slid back inside him almost effortlessly, his hand coming around to tease Ray's newly straining cock with warm, slippery fingers, his mouth fastening itself hotly to his partner's neck.

"Hey, Vecchio..." A push. A backthrust. "You want me to stop?"

"Fuck. Goddamnit. Sweet Christ. *No.*"

Ray felt the curve of those lips against his neck, heard something in his ears that may have been low, husky laughter.

Unknown minutes later Ray lay back on the destroyed, sweatsoaked sheets, watching his partner, struggling for an expression of violated dignity and failing utterly. He could not keep the warmth out of his eyes.

Stan stood before him, fastening the button on his jeans. He still wore the confident, purely joyful expression he'd had most of the day, and Ray drank it in, not knowing when it would ever reappear.

Stan scooped up his robe from a chair, tossed it at the bed, actually tipped a wink at Ray and sauntered out of the room.

Ray gritted his teeth, got up painfully, wrapped the robe around him. Felt the smile trying to tug at his lips.

He padded into the livingroom, spotted Stan at the refrigerator. "Kowalski."

He turned, smiled.

"I'm taking a shower now. *Alone.*" Slightly threatening expression. Arms folded across his chest.

"Sure, Ray."

"I'd appreciate a *knock* first if you feel any more sudden, shall we say, *urges.*"

Stan's mouth quirked up at one corner. "Sure thing, partner."

Ray rolled his eyes and headed into the bathroom. When he emerged, Stan was sprawled in the corner of the sofa, spooning Rocky Road out of a pint container and staring idly at the television. The volume was turned down.

He glanced up at his partner, and Ray noted a flicker of shyness in the grey eyes. "Hey, Vecchio. You gonna sit down here next to me?"

"Sit down? Maybe in a week or two."

That got him a visible blush and the hasty redirection of his friend's gaze into his ice cream. But there was also the faintest hint of that cocky smile.

Ray crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees beside his partner. He grabbed Stan's face with rough fingers and had the satisfaction of the startled intake of breath, the dilation of his friend's eyes. Ray leaned in close, whispered harshly into Stan's ear. "Fucking incredible, you hear me? You got that? Like nothing else."

Stan tried to turn his face away, his cheeks stained deep pink, his eyes refusing to lift to his partner's face. Ray held him, his voice a low hiss. "You gonna do that for me again sometime, hey?"

Stan drew a shaking breath, the ghost of a nervous laugh. "I--I don't know, Vecchio. Maybe. We close another case like that, who knows..."

Ray released him, stood up, strode into the bedroom and dressed. Stan was standing by the apartment door when he returned, wiping chocolate off his mouth with the back of one hand. Ray had to grin at the picture he made. As he stepped closer, Stan's eyes suddenly widened in shocked horror. He smothered a gasp with his hand and stared. Ray chuckled softly, lifting his chin experimentally. He fingered the tenderness at his throat. "Yeah, it's a beaut, isn't it? Just a little pink now, but it'll darken up by--"

"Vecchio! *Jesus!* Did I--"

"No, Stan. The Dragon Lady stopped by while you weren't paying attention and molested me."

"*Christ!!*"

Ray opened the apartment door, stepped out, flashed his partner an easy grin over his shoulder. "Night, Kowalski. I think I'll let *you* explain this one tomorrow, anybody asks."

*** *** ***

As it turned out, nobody did, at least not to Ray's face. But there was rampant speculation. Ray moved casually through his typical departmental routine, pretending to be oblivious to the sudden goggle-eyed looks and hushed murmurs, shooting quelling glances at anyone who seemed about to be stupid enough to open his mouth and make a teasing crack.

The marks on his neck faded after a day, but the whisperings did not. It amused him that as far as he was able to determine, nobody had caught on to the correct scenario. He caught snatches of gossip as he passed through the halls, and Stan reported what he picked up; there were theories running the gamut from attractive witnesses they'd interviewed on some recently wrapped cases to a clandestine tryst with his ex-wife.

He and Stan chuckled over it as they sat together over takeout or walked through the increasingly mild evenings, talking in low voices, exchanging occasional looks of affection or teasing or simple happiness. Stan seemed unbothered by the fact of the departmental gossip, aside from a residual shyness, but Ray wondered how he'd react if someone stumbled upon the actual truth and started spreading *that* around. He wondered how he'd react to that himself.

Mostly, however, he gave himself up to the pleasure of watching his friend's developing confidence spread out to encompass their working partnership. Stan was still inclined to take a back seat in the investigations they worked together, but he was noticeably more assertive about his pet theories and ideas, and, most gratifying to Ray, no longer brushing off the expressions of appreciation and congratulation that came his way. Ray doubted he'd ever become the credit-hungry publicity hound he himself was, but that was just as well.

Their after-hours relationship continued to be a source of sweetness and satisfaction that drew Ray in more and more with each passing day, enfolding him, ensnaring his heart and mind and body. Ray felt it happening, was helpless to put up resistance against the developing intensity of his feelings. He no longer had any real desire to do so. He had admitted the truth of it to himself already, and found himself on a few occasions on the point of making some kind of declaration to Stan, but something held him back. Some sixth sense that Stan was not ready; had not made the same commitment in his own heart. Ray could live with that; he could wait. So he did.

They spent almost all their off-hours time together; doing the same kinds of things they had been for the past six weeks, enjoying each other's friendship and companionship, and continuing to find mutual pleasure in the white-hot physical side of their relationship. There had not been a repeat of Stan's knee-weakening performance on the night of the cult killings wrapup, but Ray knew fully what his lover was capable of and no longer doubted that that side of him would re-emerge, some day. Time rolled on in an eminently soul-satisfying pattern; the demands of the working days, met together, the sharing and sweet release of the evenings.

In the midst of his contentment, something vague and shadowy teased at the back of Ray's mind. After reflection, he realized it was the calendar.

It had now been nearly three months since Fraser had gone.

*** *** ***

"Stan, it's not like I *want* to go to this stupid thing."

"Yeah, yeah. It woulda been fun to go, you know, together."

"You're stuck here, partner. Can't be helped. And if I whined to Welsh about not wanting to go without you--"

"Yeah, yeah," Stan said again, but he was grinning. "Get outta town."

Ray gave him an easy smile and a surreptitious wink, turned and headed down the station steps and into the waiting cab.

It was a three-day Evidenciary Procedures conference in Milwaukee. Stan was tied up with preparations for his upcoming courtroom appearance as a witness in a bust he'd assisted with months ago. Despite his good-natured grousing, he was inwardly somewhat glad of this opportunity for a few days' worth of enforced solitude, free from the admittedly pleasurable distraction of his partner's presence.

He dove into his relatively mundane workload during the days, trying not to be too conscious of Ray's absence from his side. In the evenings, however, he opened himself up to his feelings, allowing himself to recognize the kernel of loneliness inside him. He spent hours sitting on his couch in dimness, no television or radio, watching the night sky outside his window, lost in reflection.

During the past few days, starting even before Ray had left, he had been aware of increasingly frequent and surprisingly strong thoughts of Fraser. He saw the calm yet twinkling blue eyes, the handsome intelligent profile; remembered the way it felt to have the Mountie walking beside him in that upright yet curiously graceful way he had. He didn't know where the images were coming from; he had not been deliberately dwelling on his former partner. The fact that these thoughts were bubbling to the surface of his mind now had to have some significance; Stan was determined to discover what it was and what they meant.

He went over it in his mind, no longer afraid to ask himself hard questions about his relationship with Frase--what he had wanted from it; what he still did want. He remembered the way it had hurt even to think about him in those first days after he had so inexplicably walked out of Stan's life, marveling at the way his mind and heart felt stronger now, more capable of cutting through the confusion.

The night before Ray was due back, Stan paced his small apartment, suddenly feeling stifled. He swept up his jacket and headed out, head down, feet sure and swift.

His steps took him to the streets and neighborhoods where he and Ray had walked together these past weeks. Ignoring the pronounced feeling of solitude, Stan walked, the wind ruffling his hair and bringing faint color to his cheeks. He roamed around for nearly two hours before he began to tire, and headed homewards, his body invigorated by the activity, his mind clearer.

As he approached his building he lifted his head, scanning the familiar area, his eyebrows drawn together in a sudden frown. What was it? A nebulous sense of something approaching, just out of reach, unseen. Shaking his head, he trotted up the steps and pushed open the front door.

He stopped just inside, his heart suddenly knocking, the sense of Fraser's presence so strong, so compelling that he whirled around, half expecting to see the Mountie standing there in full uniform. "Frase??"

His voice echoed around the empty vestibule. Nothing there but shadows. "Frase," Stan repeated in a whisper, licking dry lips. "You coming back? Is that what it is?" He glanced around him once more, closed his eyes. "I miss you."

No answer.

Stan sighed, headed inside, climbed the stairs to his apartment. Fishing the keys from his pocket, he found a wistful smile tugging at his lips.

//Who you kidding, Kowalski? You know who you miss. You know who you really miss.//

*** *** ***

At eleven-fifteen that night, his phone rang.

"Yeah."

"Hey, Kowalski. Hey, how you doin?"

"I'm doin' all right, Ray. You?"

"Shitfaced. Drunk. Plastered. Lonely. Horny. Mish you. Did I tell you I was shitfaced?"

Stan laughed. "You don't have to."

"Bunch of brilliant minds they got here, Stan, you shoulda seen it. You wanna know what their big ideas are for improv--improvin' chain'a'cust'dy security measures?"

"Tell me, Ray." He smiled in the darkness, amazed at how his mood had lifted with the sound of his lover's voice in his ear. His breath caught at his own thoughts. *Lover.*

Ray proceeded to regale him with a blistering critique of the past days' events, in slurred, wandering detail. Stan listened and giggled and sighed in the darkness, sprawling himself on the bedclothes. He pictured Ray doing the same on his motel bed, wondered if he had his clothes off. He closed his eyes, willing his thoughts away from that direction.

"Hey. Hey, Stan. All by myself here, kinda sucks, you know? Miss you, baby. Want...want your hands on me. Ohh, Christ."

Stan hoped his gasp wasn't audible. His hips lifted, his jeans suddenly tight against him. //God.//

"You there, Stan? Say, I'm sorry if I'm not makin' any sense. Did I...did I just call you baby a second ago?"

Stan grinned. "Yeah, you did, Ray."

"Jeshus. Remind me never to mix Daniels and...what was it...Johnnie Walker. God." His breathing was loud in Stan's ear; it sounded ragged. Stan slid a slow hand down his stomach, unable to block the images Ray's voice was conjuring in his mind. "Hey, Kowalski. You wearin' anythin?"

Stan chuckled into the phone, wishing fiercely he could see Ray's face. "Yeah, Ray. Jeans and a t-shirt."

"You unzipped?"

Stan snorted embarrassed giggles. "Ray, I am not doing this. I can *not* do this." But his hand slid down with slow, caressing firmness over the hard bulge, squeezing. He shivered. //So good. He makes me so hard. It's so, so good, what we have together. What is it, anyway?//

"Awww, come on, Stan. You know...you know you're jusht going to after we hang up anyway."

"Yeah." Stan grinned into the phone, knowing Ray could sense his expression. "But that's different."

"How different?"

"Well, I can't concentrate with you talkin' to me, Ray."

"Yeah? Tell you...tell you what." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'll tell you dirty Mountie stories."

Stan's shocked gasp was followed by a spurt of hysterical laughter. He howled, holding the phone away for a moment, wiping streaming eyes, getting his breathing under control. He could dimly hear Ray on the other end, his voice sounding frantic.

"Stan? Oh *SHIT* that was bad!! I'm sorry, you have...you have no fucking idea how stoned I am, baby. Stan? You okay? I said it again, whatdya know..."

Stan got himself together with an effort and held the phone to his ear again. "Vecchio? You're off your ass."

"I know that. Look...I didn't mean...that was outta line. I don't know, Stan...these things just pop into my head."

"Ray. It's okay. I laughed my ass off. I get you, okay? Quit explainin." He had been smiling nonstop for twenty minutes. His heart was full; his cock throbbed. //Come home.// "You gonna remember this in the morning?"

"Yeah. Prob'ly. Usually do." He chuckled softly. "I embarrassin' myself too bad?"

"Naw. No more than usual."

"Asshole."

"Doof."

An affectionate pause. Then: "Stan. I really do miss you."

"Yeah, Ray. Me too."

"I'll come over tomorrow night, that okay?"

"Sure, Ray. You gonna call me baby when you get back?"

A pause.

"No. Yes. I might."

Another pause.

"You want me to?"

Stan closed his eyes. "Yeah."

*** *** ***

"You got a date or something, Detective?"

Stan looked around, surprised out of his thoughts. Elaine stood at his desk with a fax in her hand, smiling.

He narrowed his eyes at her, confused. "What's *that* supposed to mean?"

"You're all excited about *something.*"

Stan's scowl deepened. Elaine rolled her eyes at him, slapped the fax on his desk and flounced away. "Whoever she is, she has my sympathy!"

Stan allowed the smile back onto his face. Ray was due in late this evening; he'd promised to come by as soon as he could. Stan was in a happy, nervy state of anticipation and not concentrating very well on work.

Forty minutes after his shift ended he was climbing the stairs to his building, arms laden with two heavy brown grocery bags. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon today he'd realized he was starving as he couldn't remember being in weeks; contemplating the likely contents of his refrigerator had sent him to the market after work. He slid the bags into the crook of one arm and fumbled his mailbox open with his free hand, pulled out a jumble of catalogs, bills and junk mail. Headed up the stairs, planning out what he would do with the intervening hours until his partner arrived. Cook something, for a change. Dig out his tapes and push the couch back for a practice session? Jeez, he hadn't worked on his moves for months, seemed like. He was in the mood to do it again.

Stan let himself into the apartment, smiling, allowing himself to feel the contentment in his heart. Pushing the door closed with one elbow, he suddenly felt one of the grocery bags start to slip. It was tearing. He hurried forward and dumped them both on the kitchen table; as he did so, the jumble of mail he held awkwardly in one hand fell to the floor and scattered.

"Klutz." He smiled, bent, began scooping it up.

Froze.

One envelope had skidded apart from the others. Thick white paper, creased and rumpled; marked with the heavy ink of cancellation. A postmark from some obscure unpronounceable settlement.

The handwriting was instantly familiar.

Stan picked it up, groped behind him for a chair. Pulled himself into it.

He stared at the envelope with eyes that did not see it; eyes that were turned inwards. His fingers slid lightly over the paper surface, feeling the strokes of the pen. The contents felt bulky. Stan gripped it with sudden force, his fingertips pressing grooves into the thickness of paper.

He sat there, feeling the pounding of his heart, listening.

Closed his eyes.

Released a shuddering breath, the name on his lips a whisper.

"*Ray.*"

*** *** ***

"Stan."

The word was barely audible in the dimness of the hallway. Ray had to smile as he heard it escape his lips. He stood before Stan's apartment door, trying to still his racing heart.

On the trip back from O'Hare he'd begun to feel a rising, almost frantic sense of worry, a compelling desire to close the distance between himself and his partner that overlaid the eager, happy anticipation of the previous hours. His flight had been delayed an hour, then there were snarls of traffic. He'd grappled with his own temper, not wanting to get involved in an incident of road rage which would further delay him from his goal.

He could not fathom where the strange almost-panic was coming from; he only knew it would not subside until he could see his partner's face.

Drawing a calming breath, he knocked at the apartment door.

"It's open."

Ray stepped into the oddly dark apartment, pushed the door closed. His eyes scanned the small space, picked up the outline of his partner sitting at the kitchen table, his hands knotted in front of him.

"Stan? You all right?"

The pale eyes lifted to his, and Ray's stomach tightened. Through dry lips, he said: "Something's happened."

"Yeah, Ray. Something has."

"Can you tell me, Stan?" His voice held only the faintest tremor.

"I will. I want to tell you--everything." He stopped.

Ray stood in the semi-darkness, considering the man before him. Stan's tension thrummed in every line of his body; his eyes were full of a wordless, anguished plea.

Ray held out his hand. "Come here."

And Stan got up in a swift, fluid motion, pushing the chair back, stepping towards his partner. He reached out; Ray's hand closed firmly around his, strongly. They stood inches apart. Ray stepped backwards towards the couch, pulling his partner with him. Felt it behind him and simply lay back, heedless of the wrinkles being pressed into his thousand-dollar suit, pulling Stan down against him, his arms opening without hesitation, enfolding the other man, tightly, their legs entwining, Ray's hands stroking, soothing, his lips just brushing his partner's hair.

"*Ray*. What the--oh *god* this is nice..." Stan pressed his face against Ray's chest, his arms sliding fractionally closer around him.

"Ain't it?" Ray held him, nuzzling the soft blond spikes, one hand sliding slowly up and down his partner's back. His heart gradually slowed its frantic knocking, calmed by the solid weight against him, the welcome feel of his lover in his arms.

Several silent minutes passed. Ray sensed the man in his arms relaxing marginally, his breathing becoming easier. Eventually Stan lifted his head and stared with troubled eyes into Ray's face. He seemed about to speak, but then dropped his gaze, sighing. His trembling became more pronounced, his arms wrapping the other man as if terrified of being let go.

"Hey. *Hey*, Stan." Whispered. Ray slipped his fingers under Stan's chin, lifted his face, looked directly into the frightened eyes. "Whatever it is, it's all right. I'm not going to let go of you, you understand me? Whatever it is."

Stan closed his eyes, leaned forward, rested his forehead against Ray's. He released a shaky breath. "Ray. God..."

Ray's voice was low, steady, tender. "Love me?"

"Jesus yes." It came out in a rush, whispered, desperate.

"Then it's all right. Okay? It's--" he tilted his head, brushed his lips across his partner's. "This what you want, Stan? Tell me."

"More--more than anything." His eyes were open, glittering; Ray stared into them, saw the truth reflected there. He leaned forward again and took Stan's mouth, slowly. Warmly. Completely.

Stan sighed against him, slipped downwards slightly into his arms. He rested his head on Ray's chest, one arm wrapping his waist. Ray stroked his shoulders, held him, felt the trembling lessen, the ragged breathing ease. The silence stretched out around them, and finally Stan spoke into it, his voice softly muffled against his partner's body.

"He wrote me."

Ray felt a cold knife of fear slide itself into his chest. But almost immediately, a soft warmth surrounded it, began to melt the cutting edge of worry. "I see." Slowly. "Can you tell me, Stan? What did he say that's got you all upset?"

"I don't know, Ray. I didn't--I haven't opened the envelope."

"I see," Ray said again, and suddenly he *did* see, all of it, gloriously, the last cobwebs of doubt banished, the sweet joy of knowing rising in his heart. He pulled the man in his arms even closer against him and closed his eyes.

Stan was talking softly. "I will, though, Ray. I mean, I'm going to open it. At some point."

"Sure you are." Ray tipped his partner's face up. Nuzzled along his temple and down one cheek, feeling the faint rasp of whiskers against his lips.

"I mean, I...I--Christ, Ray, that feels good. I, uhh, want to know what he has to say to me."

"'Course you do, Stan..." Ray's voice was low, husky. He trailed soft kisses down into Stan's neck, feeling the other's intake of breath. Stan shivered, nestled closer, released a trembling sigh.

"It took...almost two weeks, for it to get to me. I don't guess...I don't guess it'd matter so much if I waited"--a hissing gasp as Ray's teeth grazed his throat--"a little while longer...Yeah." Stan's fingers came up, brushed Ray's jawline. He tilted his head, whispered against his partner's open mouth. "Yeah. I think that's what I'll do."

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