Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/594955.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      due_South
  Relationship:
      Ray_Vecchio/Irene_Zuko, Benton_Fraser/Ray_Vecchio
  Character:
      Ray_Vecchio, Irene_Zuko, Benton_Fraser, Francesca_Vecchio, Frank_Zuko
  Additional Tags:
      Gift_Fic, Love, Friends_to_Lovers, Friendship, Backstory, Teenagers, Teen
      Romance, Sex, First_Time, First_Kiss, Past_Relationship(s), POV_Third
      Person_Limited, Siblings, Episode_Related, Abuse, Bad_Parenting, Angst
  Collections:
      due_South_Seekrit_Santa_2012
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-16 Words: 11753
****** I'd Do The Stars With You Anytime ******
by DesireeArmfeldt
Summary
     Ray Vecchio's courtship of Irene Zuko, and of Benton Fraser.
Notes
     Thanks to Sock_Marionette for the suggestion that inspired this story
     and for beta-reading.
     Note: Most of the “present” timeline of this story takes place during
     and around the Season 1 episodes Pizza and Promises, Hawk and a
     Handsaw, The Deal and Heaven and Earth. Events from those episodes,
     The Blue Line, The Duel and Free Willie are referenced.
Ray was fifteen when he realized Frankie Zuko’s little sister might be worth
paying attention to.  He knew she existed, of course, but why would he think
about other guys’ kid sisters?  Bad enough that his own were always trying to
tag along after him.
In junior high, he and Frankie had pretended to be friends, more or less.  But
then there was the thing with Marco and the basketball that Ray couldn’t think
about too hard; anyway, Frankie was an asshole and a bully, always had been.
Which wasn’t Ray’s problem, but he drew the line at letting Frankie think he
could walk all over Ray.  Frankie was welcome to his pick-up basketball games. 
He was even welcome to swagger down the sidewalk and hang out at the drugstore
with his little pack of “friends” taking up the whole place like he owned it. 
But coming over to Octavia to play street hockey in front of Ray’s house and
scuff up his sisters’ hopscotch games: that wasn’t something Ray could let
slide.  That was a challenge.
So there was Ray lounging on the front steps of the Zukos’ big fancy house, all
by himself because none of his so-called friends were real keen on getting in
Frankie’s face, the wimps.  Praying Frankie would show up before his dad did,
because pissing off old man Zuko was definitely not on the agenda.  But
fortunately, Frankie came home at his normal time, and oh yeah, the look on his
face told Ray he’d scored.  Frankie got right up in Ray’s face, throwing
insults, and Ray gave back as good as he got—loser, asshole, brownnose,
bastard, cocksucker—wondering what was going to happen when they switched over
from insults to punches, because Frankie had an inch and twenty pounds on Ray,
easy.
But he never found out, because there they were, shouting in each other’s
faces, and then suddenly they were both drenched and spluttering under a brief
but icy waterfall.
“Shut up and act civilized, both of you, or I’m getting out the garden hose!”
Irene yelled from a second floor window, brandishing the empty bucket at them.
 “I’m not kidding!  Behave!”
Ray wiped his eyes and looked up at her: dark hair hanging down out of the
window like she was Rapunzel, generous mouth rolling out insults in a mixture
of Italian and English that made his cheeks hot even though none of the words
were actually dirty.  Glowing in the late afternoon sunlight as she glared down
at them like an avenging angel.
That was how it all began.
 
                        *                                    *           
                        *
 
Ray isn’t sure when he started thinking of Fraser as a real person rather than
a) an annoying stranger or b) a freak from an alien planet. 
He was still on the fence about how much he was going to bother helping Fraser
track down his fathers’ killers, when there they were getting chewed out by
Welsh for the bar fight (bar disaster with lots of guns) that was all Fraser’s
fault, and there was Ray sticking up for Fraser like they’d been called in to
the principal’s office.  And then Welsh ordered him to drop the case, and what
did Ray do?  Ran off to help Fraser like he was sneaking out of the house after
being grounded.
All of which is to say that somehow Fraser had become Ray’s friend before Ray
had even decided whether he liked the guy.
 
                                    *                                   
*                                    *
 
The worst part of PE was when Mrs. Lorenzo came to teach them to dance.  Ray
liked basketball and he was okay enough at most other sports to not totally
embarrass himself.  But he was no good at dancing.  He was always forgetting
the steps or bumping into other couples or tripping over his partner’s feet. 
It shouldn’t have been that hard.  Normally, Ray could walk and talk and watch
where he was going all at the same time.  He could dribble a ball down the
court without running into anyone or getting the ball stolen, which was much
harder than the frigging box step. 
The problem with dancing was, you had to do it with a girl.  And somehow,
getting within arm’s length of a pretty girl turned Ray into a moron.  The more
he tried to be cool and smooth and impress her, the more idiotic he sounded. 
As for trying to talk to a girl and do anything else at the same time,
especially dance, just forget it.  Also, just to make things worse, sometimes
holding a girl or even just thinking about it was enough to give Ray a boner,
and then he had to stumble through the whole thing while keeping as much
distance as possible and hoping the girl couldn’t see—or, God forbid, feel—what
was going on in Ray’s pants.  Which didn’t help any with his coordination or
his sweaty palms.
And then, there was the torture of having to pick partners.
Irene had skipped a grade and ended up in Ray’s class for Junior year, and she
was nearly as tall as Ray even though he'd finally started growing for real,
and she had curves like a woman, and. . .yeah, not at all kid-sister-ish any
more.  She was maybe not the most beautiful girl in class judging on a straight
points system, but she was right up there, what with the big, blue-green eyes
and the long, soft hair that made Ray want to just plunge his hands into it. 
Not to mention the killer smile, which she threw around casually like she
didn’t know what kind of damage she was doing.
For weeks, he plotted his strategy for getting her to dance with him.  He
figured the trick was to find something to talk to her about in the minute or
two before class started, so that when Mrs. Lorenzo told them all to line up
and pick partners, he’d be right there and could just casually toss it off:
hey, you want to dance with me?  He practiced saying it in the mirror, so he
could get the tone right: confident, cool, and charming.  Interested, but not
too interested.
When it finally came down to it, he sounded kind of breathless and squeaky but
she didn’t laugh at him or anything.  Just said, “Sure,” and put her hand in
his.
Score!
Except it was a frigging disaster.  The more Ray tried to stand up straight and
step out confidently, the more he found himself stepping on Irene’s feet, or
pulling one way while she tried to go another, or losing the beat entirely. 
“Just listen to the music, Ray,” she hissed in his ear, tugging on his arms. 
“1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…”
“I know, I know.  Look, you got to follow where I’m going,” he snapped back
under his breath.
“That would be easier if you were going somewhere in particular,” she replied. 
“And if you were following the beat.”
Ray could feel himself blushing, as if he didn’t look like enough of an idiot
already.  “You’re distracting me,” he grumbled.
Shockingly, she squeezed his hand.  Not a yank; a soft squeeze.  He shot a
startled glance at her face and saw that she was giving him this strange little
smile, kind of pleased, kind of. . .intrigued.
Sweet baby Jesus.
“Okay,” he said.  He really wished he could dry his palms, but that would have
meant letting go of her.  “Okay, look, we can do this, just. . .just relax and
close your eyes and let me lead.  Okay?”
Now her smile did get kind of mocking, but she actually closed her eyes and
stood there in perfect ballroom position, waiting for him to do something.  So
he pulled her in closer, positioned his hand firmly on the small of her back,
and tried to make his arms firm but supple like Mrs. Lorenzo had said.  He took
a step back and Irene came with him.  Startled, he nearly forgot to keep
moving, but he managed another step, and another, 2, 3…
He was holding her almost close enough for slow dancing; close enough to feel
the warmth of her skin through her blouse and smell not just her light, flowery
perfume, but the sharper girl-body smell underneath.  Since her eyes were still
closed, he could watch her face.  She was smiling, kind of amused and dreamy at
the same time, so he decided to push his luck.
“It might be easier if you put your head on my shoulder,” he whispered.  Her
smile showed that she had his number, but she didn’t tell him off, and her head
drooped forward onto his shoulder, and Ray got a whole minute of heaven before
the song ended and they had to change partners.
 
                                    *                                   
*                                    *
 
Ray jams the keys into the ignition and floors the Chevy—go go go stupid
fucking piece of junk—peeling right so he can head off the Caddie before she
makes it to the parking lot entrance.  She’s halfway there already, but Ray’s
learned a trick or two from nine years of car chases, not to mention a lifetime
driving in Chicago traffic.  It’s not quite enough, though: the Chevy doesn’t
have enough juice to get him to the gate in time, he’ll have to—fuck! Fraser’s
standing right in the Cadillac’s path.
Move move move you fucking idiot, you can’t play chicken with this lady, she
just tried to shoot us both, she’ll splash your guts all over the fucking
pavement, Fraser, move your ass!
He grinds the pedal into the floor, slamming the steering wheel over hard as
the engine groans.  The Chevy rams the Caddie—Ray’s arms lock in reflex as he’s
thrown forward—gotta remember to wear a seatbelt next time I decide to play
action hero—something in his wrist goes pop but he’s still in control of the
car as it slews to a stop, plowing the Cadillac to one side.
Before he can even check to see what happened to Fraser, Fraser’s there,
climbing over Ray’s hood to check on Mrs. Nutjob-Used-Car-Thief.  When Ray
perfectly reasonably yells at him about the importance of not doing stupid
things to get yourself killed, Fraser responds by telling him off for changing
the plan, which apparently involved Ray doing crazy driving stunts with some
totally othercar.  Then he assures Ray that no apologies are necessary, which
he seems to think is the end of the conversation.
No apologies necessary?  No frigging apologies necessary?  What Fraser means is
he doesn’t feel the need to apologize to Ray for setting him up to watch Fraser
get killed because Ray didn’t know to take the Plymouth.  And what kind of
crazy plan involves standing in front of a moving car and trusting your partner
to save your ass at the last second anyway?
But it worked.  Fraser’s okay, everyone’s okay.  Just like nobody got shot in
that warehouse where the bond thief put a gun to Ray’s head.  Just like they
survived being trapped in an industrial freezer because Fraser used frozen meat
first as blankets and then as a bulletproof vest.  And really, that’s too crazy
even to think about, but here they both are, and there’s a whole bunch of bad
guys in jail.  And it’s Ray’s name on the paperwork, but if it wasn’t for
Fraser and his wacked-out plans, no one would have ever known about the
horsemeat smugglers or the used-car scam, let alone brought the perps in.
So Ray shakes his head, smiles, and claps Fraser on the shoulder.  “Come on,
I’ve got a hell of a lot to explain to Welsh, and since you got me into this in
the first place, you’ve got to come back me up.”
“I’d be glad to,” says Fraser, as they cuff the woman and escort her back to
the office so Ray can call for a cruiser to collect the two prisoners.  “There
is still one loose end to tie up, though.”
“Oh?  What’s that?”
“Lenny’s car is at the bottom of lake,” Fraser reminds him.  (Like Ray’s going
to forget that fact in a hurry: he almost drowned in the damn trunk!)  “And
though the car thieves may eventually be required to make restitution, I don’t
imagine that the legal process will move swiftly.”
“So?”
“So, in the meantime, Lenny needs a car—access to a car, anyway—so that he can
keep his job and meet the terms of his parole.”
Ray looks at Fraser, who gazes back at him with that innocent look that Ray is
learning not to take at face value.  They both know what Fraser wants, although
he’ll never say it straight out.  He’ll just zap Ray with silent Mountie guilt-
rays until Ray gives in, so Ray may as well skip the part where he pretends he
has any choice in the matter, save some time.  It’s late, and he’s exhausted
from being half-drowned, and he’s still got to make it through an argument with
Welsh and a pile of paperwork before he can get something to eat.
“All right, look, how about I lend Lenny my car,” Ray offers, then quickly
clarifies, “Just for a couple of weeks, until he can make some other
arrangement.”
“That’s very generous of you, Ray,” says Fraser.  “Lenny will be very
grateful.  And I’m sure he’ll take good care of it.”
And oh, shit, that’s a warning: Are you sure you want to do that, Ray?  Which,
no, he doesn’t, thank you very much. 
“I ain’t letting him behind the wheel.  He doesn’t have insurance, myinsurance
doesn’t cover that, and anyway, I’m not letting some punk kid wreck my Riv.”
Fraser nods.  “Lenny seems to be a reasonably good driver for his age, but
you’re wise to be cautious.”
Ray sighs.  “I’ll drive.  But you’re coming, too.”
“Of course.”
“And only for a couple of weeks.  I mean it.  I have a life, you know.”
Jesus Christ, thirty-three years old and he’s moonlighting as a pizza delivery
boy, now.  Good thing his old man isn’t around to hear about it.
Of course, the fact that his dad would hate it almost certainly means it’s the
right thing to do.  Who says Ray never learned anything from his old man?
“Come on, let’s get moving.  When we’re done explaining this mess to Welsh,
we’re going to Giordano’s for deep-dish.  My treat.”
 
                                    *                                   
            *                                                *
 
“Good afternoon, ladies,” said Ray, pretending to tip a hat he wasn’t actually
wearing.  Irene raised her eyebrows skeptically; Angelina and Christina (ages
six and eight) giggled.  Ray solemnly kissed the girls’ pudgy little hands,
which, of course, made them giggle more.  They both looked expectantly at Irene
when Ray held out his hand to her.  Rolling her eyes, she let him kiss her
hand, too, but didn’t let him hold onto it afterwards.
“When are you going to join the twentieth century, Ray?” she asked.
“Hey, it never hurts to be polite,” said Ray.  “Besides, I just can’t help
showing my appreciation for such natural beauty.”  He gave the little girls a
wink, relieved to have been able to get that line out without tripping over his
tongue.
Irene rolled her eyes.
“Ready to hit the swings?” she asked the kids.  They ran eagerly for the
swingset; Irene followed, her long legs easily keeping up with them.  Ray
tagged along.
“Push me, push me!” Angelina insisted.  She shrieked with delight when Irene
sent her swooping much higher than her own pumping could achieve.  Christina
was already swinging under her own power, but not nearly as high, so Ray
stepped up behind her, caught her at the top of her backward arc, and gave her
a solid shove.
The girls’ braids flapped behind them; their patent-leather shoes kicked
against the backdrop of brick and cement and glass that towered over the little
scrap of playground.  Grinning, Ray looked over at Irene, who smiled back at
him.
“You know, if you want your own babysitting job, I hear Mrs. Franconi’s
looking,” she said.
“Got a job already,” he said, which was true.  In fact, he was going to be late
for it if he didn’t leave in ten minutes, tops.  Anyhow, he didn’t want to
think about the fit his old man would pitch if Ray took a babysitting gig. 
Looking after his own sisters when he was twelve was one thing; getting paid to
look after someone else’s?  That was for girls.
“So this is, what, just a hobby?” asked Irene.
“I like kids,” he told her.  He couldn’t quite get up the balls to spit out I
like you. Not that she didn’t know it already, but it would sound dumb.  So he
just gave her what he hoped was his best smile and kept pushing Christina, and
Irene kept smiling back.
 
                        *                                               
*                                                *
 
Fraser’s a good guy.  Fraser cares about justice.  Fraser sweats the small
stuff and badgers Ray into backing him up while he does it.  Yes, he drives Ray
nuts sometimes with the dumpster-diving and the mud-licking and the door-
holding and the arguing with armed criminals who have a gun to his head, or
Ray’s head.  But Ray has to love the guy for the way he just won’t quit until
he’s made everything come out right.
This is not news, but it hits Ray right between the eyes in the visiting room
of the loony bin as Fraser spits a pill into his hand and offers it to him for
evidence.  Fraser, who’s checked himself in as a mental patient to a joint
where he thinks there’s been murder done, stripped himself of uniform and
authority and frigging dignity, and put himself in the hands of people who
might just give him a dose of electroshock on general principles.  Because
Fraser will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of the mystery.  Period.
If Fraser had been around in ’87, Ray thinks, he wouldn’t have wondered what
the hell Ray thought he was trying to accomplish by going back to that arson
scene for one last shot at finding something, anything, to link fucking Charles
Carver to the crime.  Fraser wouldn’t have advised him to give it up and move
on to some fight he could win.  Fraser would’ve been right there with him,
sifting through ashes, probably tasting them and explaining how the mineral
composition matched the smell of Carver’s hair or some damn thing.  Hell,
Fraser would’ve found a way to send Carver down for the real nasty stuff, the
abuse and murder, not just the damn arson.
“So, how’s the food?” he asks Fraser.  What he really wants to say is, Thanks
for reminding me what it’s like to have a real partner, or Thanks for reminding
me how to care,or even I’ve never had a friend like you, but can’t actually say
any of that stuff.  Not here and now, that’s for sure. 
So instead, he pats Fraser on the shoulder and tells him to hang in there.
“I will,” says Fraser, with an earnest nod.
“Okay, Benny.  I got to go.  I’ll visit again soon.”  Ray stands up with a
little pat to his shirt pocket where Fraser’s pill is stashed.
Fraser nods again, his eyes meeting Ray’s.  “Thank you, Ray.”
And that’s partly for show, thanking Ray for the visit; and partly for real,
thanking him for doing his part on this case, taking the pill to the lab and
all the rest of the legwork, not to mention keeping tabs on Fraser in this
self-imposed undercover op.  But the intensity of Fraser’s gaze makes Ray think
maybe Fraser’s thanking him for more than that.
 
                              *                                               
*                                                *
 
Hurrying to meet Irene, Ray rounded the back corner of the ice cream shop, but
pulled up short at the sound of angry voices in the alley.  He sidled along the
wall to peek around the corner.  Frankie had Irene backed up against the alley
wall, gripping her by the arm.  Irene looked like she was crying, but she was
yelling right back in his face.  They weren’t exactly trying to keep quiet, but
they were shouting over each other, so Ray could only catch bits and pieces of
what they were saying.
“—Pop finds out you’ll wish you were never born—“
“—none of your business who I see—”
“—job to look after you—“
“—don’t need a babysitter—”
“—your reputation, the family’s reputation—”
“—look after myself—”
“—selfish, thoughtless, irresponsible—”
“—not the one fucking everything with two legs—”
“I am your brother.  You do not speak to me like that.  If Pop heard those
words coming out of your mouth—”
“So why don’t you just tell him and get the hell out of my business?”
“Oh, you don’t want that, you really don’t want that.”  Frankie’s voice dropped
dangerously.  “I don’t want him thinking I can’t look after you properly, and
you don’t want him knowing you’re giving yourself to some fucking poor excuse
for a—”
Ray would have stepped in then, except that what did that say about him, if he
was willing to take Frankie on for insulting him but not for the way he was
treating Irene?
As he hesitated, Irene cut Frankie off: “I’m not giving myself to anybody, this
is your whole problem, you think I’m just some thing to be handed around—”
“Nobody puts his hands on my sister.”  Frankie’s voice was sharp and deadly,
and fuck, Ray had to do something, because when Frankie sounded like that it
meant someone was about to lose a couple of teeth.
“Then get yours off me,” snapped Irene.  “Otherwise I’ll scream for help and
you can explain our family business to Mr. Leoni and all his customers.”
Before Ray could move, she came storming out of the alley, nearly barging
straight into him.  Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she didn’t stop
moving, just put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him backwards, gesturing
frantically at the dumpster behind the ice cream shop.  Ray ducked behind it as
Irene spun in her tracks.  Then he couldn’t see anything, but a few seconds
later, he heard Frankie’s footsteps echo off the walls and fade away.
Ray came out from behind the dumpster and was half-surprised to find Irene
still there, hugging herself and staring furiously in the direction Frankie
must have gone.
Ray hurried to her side.  “What happened?  He didn’t hurt you, did he?  ‘Cause
I swear, if he did—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start.  I’m fine,” she said, although she was crying
and obviously not fine at all. 
“He’s got no call to treat you like that.”  Ray fished in his pockets for a
handkerchief but came up empty.  “Are you okay?”
“That bastard,” Irene spat.  She swiped the tears from her eyes, leaving a
smear of mascara across her cheek.  “It’s all right for him to sneak around
with Susan Polanski even though he’s got a girlfriend for Christ’s sake, but
God forbid I should ever look at a boy, that would make me some kind of slut.”
“Hey, hey, come on, it’s okay.”  Ray put his arm around her shoulders and tried
to pull her close, but she resisted—not pulling away-away, but turning her head
and scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.  “Don’t worry.  If he does anything
to you, I’ll break his face.”
Irene made a sound that wasn’t quite laughter.  “Oh, Ray.”
“What?  I will, I promise you.  He can’t treat you like that.”
She shook her head.  “Frankie won’t do anything to me.  You’re the one I’m
worried about.”
“I can take him,” said Ray, although he wasn’t sure that was true.  Not to
mention that if Frankie did come after him, he’d probably do it with a gang to
back him up.
She looked at him, then, with her big, wet eyes, her cheeks blotchy with
crying, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Don’t,” she said.  “Stay away from Frankie, Ray.  I mean it.”
“Okay, but—”
“You’ll just make things worse if you start something with him.  Promise.”
“All right.  I’ll stay out of his way unless he tries to start something with
me,” Ray told her.  “Cross my heart.”  He sketched a big X across his chest
with one finger, which got a faint smile out of her, like he’d hoped it would. 
Then she leaned in and—oh God—kissed him. 
They’d never kissed before, though Ray had been trying to work up to it, so the
surprise of it almost distracted him from the actual kiss itself.  Her lips
were soft and firm at the same time, and he’d always kind of imagined their
first kiss being delicate, but she was kissing him hard, mashing his lips
against his teeth before he caught up with what was going on and kissed her
back.  He’d kissed a couple of girls before, but this was different.  This was
the real thing.
Grinning like a total headcase, Ray wrapped his arms around her.  This time she
let him hold her close with her head on his shoulder, her breath warm and damp
against his throat.
“Nobody’s going to take you away from me,” she whispered fiercely in his ear.
 
                                    *                                   
            *                                                *
 
Ray walks down the steps of Y to the Riv where Fraser’s waiting in the
passenger seat.  His hand’s starting to swell—he socked Zuko a good one, that’s
for damn sure, and how is it fair that punching someone hurts almost as much as
getting punched?  He should be shaking, but he’s not.  He feels. . .fine. . .or
maybe a better word would be numb.
He slides into the driver’s seat.  Fraser hands him his gun.
“How are you?” asks Fraser.
“Scared to death,” Ray says.  And he should be scared, because you don’t
humiliate a guy like Zuko and leave him standing behind you, and Ray’s got his
family to worry about, not to mention Fraser, whose face is starting to show
ugly bruises from his earlier beating.  But he doesn’t feel scared.
“That’s probably wise,” says Fraser quietly in that neutral tone that makes it
really hard to figure out what he actually thinks.  Ray shoves the Riv into
gear and pulls away from the curb, not looking at Fraser’s face, because he
can’t.  Because, oh yeah, apparently Ray is scared, here.  Just not of Frankie
Zuko.
They drive in silence.  Ray can’t figure out if that’s a good sign or a bad
one.  Fraser’s not usually shy about criticizing Ray—or, more annoyingly, that
criticizing-without-criticizing thing he does.  He’s not shy about letting Ray
know when he’s proud of something Ray’s done, either, although he usually uses
a lot fewer words for that.  But Fraser’s not saying anything, here, and it’s
sure as hell not because he doesn’t have an opinion about Ray laying Zuko out
on the floor and blackmailing him into leaving the shoemaker guy alone.
Bullying.  It’s Fraser’s voice saying it, but only in Ray’s head, because real-
life Fraser is just sitting there beside him, staring out the window, saying
fuck-all.
What the hell did you want me to do? Ray asks Fraser-in-his-head.  You wanted
Paducci taken care of, and no one else was going to lift a finger. Youcouldn’t
do anything for him.  You couldn’t go in there and knock Zuko down, play by his
rules, lower yourself to his level.  So okay.  That’s my job.  Happy to do it. 
Just don’t look at me like that.
“Ray!”  Fraser’s sharp exclamation snaps Ray’s attention to the road just in
time to slam the brakes on so they don’t sail through a red light into a busy
intersection.
“Sorry,” Ray mutters.
Fraser’s watching him as he waits for the green, as he eases carefully through
the intersection, as he cuts across town heading for Fraser’s place.  Ray can
feel Fraser’s eyes on him, but the silence is suffocating.  He couldn’t turn to
look at Fraser if his life depended on it, even if he weren’t busy trying not
to wreck the car.
After a million years, he finally pulls up in front of Fraser’s apartment
building.  He lets the engine idle, but Fraser doesn’t get out of the car, and
still doesn’t get out of the car.  Probably he’s waiting for Ray to look at him
or say something or who the fuck knows what Fraser wants from Ray, except that
whatever it is, it’s impossible, like always, and Ray wishes Fraser would just
give up, get out of his car, leave him the hell alone.
Fraser’s hand closes gently around Ray’s forearm.
Ray stares out the windscreen at the dark street with Fraser’s strong fingers
holding onto him in the silence.
Eventually—feels like forever—Fraser says softly, “Sleep well, Ray.”  And takes
his hand away, and is out of the car, door thumping behind him.
Ray sleeps miserably, of course, waking up every couple of hours from dreams
he’s probably just as happy to remember only snatches of.  His fist smashing
across Fraser’s mouth, blood on Fraser’s lips, on Ray’s hand as he tries to say
no, wait, that’s not what I meant. . .Ray begging Fraser to hit him, but Fraser
just stands there looking at him with an unreadable expression and Ray wakes up
before he finds out whether Fraser’s going to do it or not.
Finally he gives up and just lies there staring at the ceiling as daylight
slowly brightens his window.  He wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at a
basketball again without thinking of goddamned Frankie Zuko.
 
                                    *                                   
            *                                                *
 
Frannie pounced on Ray the minute he stuck his head in the door.  “Pop wanted
to know where you were all afternoon.  I told him you’d gone over to Joey’s to
study.”
“Thanks, Frannie.  I owe you one.”
“You owe me six, and that’s just this month.”  Frannie scowled.
“I know, I know,” Ray told her, hastily laying out silverware on the dining
table before Ma could come yell at him for not doing his chores.  “You’re the
best, honest to God.  Listen, I’ll take you out for ice cream tomorrow after
school.”
Frannie didn’t even bat an eye at that.  “Ray, you’re going to get into
trouble—“
“Don’t worry, it’s fine, I just missed the bus is all—“
“I’m serious.”  She glanced around to make sure the kitchen door was still
closed.  “You’ve got to stop sneaking around with Irene Zuko.”
Ray’s stomach lurched—how the hell did Frannie know about him and Irene?—but he
tried to bluff it out.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Actually, I do.  Probably half the school knows about it, and it’s only a
matter of time before somebody tells Frankie, and then he’ll kill you both. 
And then he’ll tell his pop and he’ll kill you for real,” Frannie hissed
furiously.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Ray told her.
“That’s what the dinosaurs said before the sun fell on them,” she snapped.
“Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” he said.  “Frankie’s an asshole, and his old
man is. . .”  But even to Frannie, Ray couldn’t quite talk like that about old
man Zuko.  “Anyway, they’re not going to find out, and if they do, it won’t be
the end of the world.  I promise.”
“Tell that to Ma when Mr. Zuko has you shot!” Frannie said fiercely, then burst
into tears.
Ray pulled his sister into a hug.  “Nothing like that is going to happen,” he
repeated firmly, patting her on the back.  “Just don’t you worry about it.”
“Somebody has to,” she sniffled into his shoulder.  “And apparently you’re too
stupid, so that makes it my job.”
 
                                    *                                   
            *                                                *
 
Guys like him don’t marry girls like you.  That’s fairy tale.  And girls like
you get hurt and guys like him don’t even know it and that’s life.
One hand on the wheel, Ray rubs his face with the other, trying to focus on the
road, trying to get the stupid fucking words to stop repeating in his head. 
He’s been up for seventy. . .eighty. . .he can’t even remember how fucking long
he’s been up by now, what with all the chasing around after the lost girl and
Fraser’s pet psychic homeless guy and the dickwad feebs and of course he lost
his temper with Frannie, what could anyone expect, the week he’s been having? 
And it’s not like Frannie didn’t deserve—didn’t need Ray to knock the stars out
of her eyes, make her stop making a fool of herself and setting herself up for
worse than humiliation.  Because maybe Fraser. . .maybe he slept with her and
maybe he didn’t, but either way Ray knows damn well it was Frannie who did the
pushing.  Can’t blame Fraser for being human enough to go for a pretty girl
who’s been throwing herself at him for a year.  And honestly, if he did, it was
probably only because he was too freaking embarrassed or polite or—or nice to
turn her down.
Not Fraser’s fault Ray’s sister is dumb as rocks when it comes to men.
Not Fraser’s fault.  Not Fraser’s fucking fault.
You are so afraid to reach out or something that you really want.
Yeah, easy for Frannie to say.  Like Ray hasn’t spent his whole life trying,
reaching out and getting smacked down.  Like he hasn’t been turned down or left
by every woman he’s ever wanted, up to and including his ex-wife.  Like he
hasn’t spent his life taking shit from his dad and half the neighborhood for
turning cop, then taking shit from his boss and the other half of the
neighborhood because there's no way a guy like him could possibly be a
cleancop.  From his mother for risking his neck and getting divorced and not
giving her grandchildren.  From his freak of a new partner, for not being a
saint and a superhero all rolled into one pretty package.
Some asshole cuts him off; Ray slams on the brake and pounds his horn,
cursing.  The light’s gone red now, so he slumps in his seat, waiting for the
green.
“Something I really want?  What the hell would that be?” he mutters.
Fraser would probably be able to tell him the answer.  Or, no, Fraser wouldn’t
tell him, Fraser would just listen to him like he does when someone’s upset or
struggling with a big moral decision.  He would maybe ask a few leading
questions, and it would all just come out of Ray’s mouth, so obvious, so
simple.
But Fraser’s not here.  He wasn’t in sight when Ray finally got up the energy
to walk out of the interrogation room after his fight with Frannie.  Ray didn’t
look for him, just made a beeline for his car.  Because he just couldn’t deal
with Fraser right then.  He might have socked him in the face or. . .or
something.
Horns blare behind him.  He floors the Riv and shoots through the intersection,
swerving to miss a car turning left across traffic.  Fraser’s not there to
criticize him for cutting it close.  Fraser’s walking alone in the shitty
streets of his slum of a neighborhood, or he’s cooking spaghetti for his stupid
wolf, or he’s asleep on his crummy bed in his rat-hole apartment.
Ray thinks about driving over to West Racine to apologize.  He’s not sure if he
means apologize for not offering Fraser a ride home, or for jumping down his
throat about Frannie, or for Frannie herself, for Zuko, for the fact that the
world is basically a shit-hole in spite of how Fraser wants it to be.  Or for
something else entirely.
Fraser would be polite about it.  He’d let Ray in, even if Ray woke him up. 
He’d listen to whatever bullshit came out of Ray’s mouth.  Fraser’s his friend.
Ray really, really needs some sleep.
You know what happens to people like you?  They get old.  They get alone.  And
they die.  And they never know.
 
                                    *                                   
            *                                                *
 
Cold raw almost-spring night and Ray was out without his jacket, his hands
stuffed into his armpits, and yeah, it was the cold that was making him shake,
that was it.  Staring up at the dark windows of the Zuko place, not even
thinking straight enough to wonder what he was doing there.
Irene’s window was on the second floor, right of center.  He chucked a handful
of gravel up there; it took him three tries before he actually hit the window
and then another before Irene stuck her head out and saw him shivering down in
the street.
God bless her, she didn’t protest, didn’t make a sound, didn’t disappear back
into her window and leave him in the dark.  She gave the big vine by her window
a shake, gesturing at him to climb up.  She helped him scramble over her
windowsill and pulled the comforter off her bed to wrap him up.  Didn’t touch
his banged-up face, didn’t say anything, just held him close under the
comforter until finally the heat of her soaked into him and the shivers tapered
off.
“My ma’s in the hospital,” he whispered to her there in the dark.
“Shit.  Is she going to be okay?”
“He put her there.  I couldn’t. . .I tried, I fucking tried.”  
“Jesus, Ray,” she murmured.
“He doesn’t—that’s not what he—he didn’t mean to.  She fell.  And I. . .and he.
. .”  He swallowed against the churning of his stomach.
“Your sisters?” she asked.
“Took them to Aunt Maria’s.” 
“Good.  That’s good.  You did good, Ray.”  She stroked his head, holding him
tightly as the tears leaked out of him onto her nightgown.
“It’s never going to be enough,” he whispered, and Irene whispered back, “It’ll
be all right.”
 
                                    *                                   
            *                                                      
*           
 
One of the great things about Fraser is that he understands how to bicker.  Ray
comes from a family where bickering is the normal way you communicate.  You can
tell someone’s actually upset about something important when they shut up. 
Bickering is how Ray deals with people, and it’s also how he expresses
affection: we can give each other shit, we must be friends.  Now, granted,
Fraser’s not a big one for yelling, and when he gives people shit, it’s so
subtle they never know he’s doing it.  Also, he has this total polite act—okay,
not act, exactly, because he always has good manners, even when he’s laying
down the law or refusing to do what people want him to.  But Fraser gets where
Ray’s coming from; he speaks the same language, even if his accent’s a little
funny.  He bickers with Ray all the time about little stuff like traffic
regulations and the meanings of words and whether it’s okay to lick chewing gum
someone spat out in the street.  It’s one of the reasons they get along so
well.
But for the last couple of weeks—since the Zuko thing, to be honest—the
bickering between him and Fraser hasn’t been their usual friendly kind.  Seems
like Ray can’t open his mouth without jumping down Fraser’s throat for no
reason. 
At first, Fraser responded with his guaranteed-drive-you-nuts calm-voice-of-
reason schtick, which of course only made Ray’s temper shorter.  Then Fraser
started getting annoyed (people think the Mountie never lets anything ruffle
him, but by now Ray can tell when Fraser’s irritated).  But the last couple of
days, Fraser’s just been getting quieter and quieter, barely speaking to Ray at
all apart from the minimum necessary to get work done.  Keeping an eye on him,
though.
Right now, Fraser’s sitting by Ray’s desk, silently reading through the billion
files Ray shoved at him when he arrived, and also watching Ray sideways, which
Ray’s pretending not to notice.  Ray’s mostly not talking, either, because he
knows if he does he’ll just snap at Fraser.  He doesn’t feel like talking,
anyway; he feels run-down and miserable, like he’s coming down with the flu. 
He’s tempted to tell Fraser to get lost, but Fraser would probably argue with
him, and then Ray might lose his temper for real, which Fraser doesn’t
deserve.  Fraser doesn’t deserve any of the treatment he’s been getting from
Ray; Fraser hasn’t done anything.  (Well, except maybe let himself be seduced
by Frannie, but if so, he’s apologized for that, and anyway Ray’s not thinking
about that any more.)
Ray’s just trying to work up the energy, or the nerve, to suggest that Fraser
should call it a day, when Fraser—apparently out of the blue—puts the files
down, leans forward across Ray’s desk, and says, “I’m sorry, Ray.”
“What are you apologizing for this time?” asks Ray, although if it’s anything
like the last time Fraser tried to apologize to him, he really doesn’t want to
hear the answer.
Fraser frowns, then says, “Actually, I’m not sure.”  He licks his lips before
continuing, slowly, looking Ray straight in the eyes.  “But you’re upset with
me, and I expect it’s because I’ve done something that. . .offended you.  And
I’m sorry for that.”
Ray wonders what word Fraser was thinking instead of offended.
“Yeah, great, thanks,” he says.  He gets up and heads for the break room, the
john, anywhere away from his desk.  But of course, Fraser refuses to take the
hint.  Instead of giving Ray a little space, he follows on his heels.  As they
pass the supply closet, Fraser yanks the door open, does a nifty little pivot,
and bam! the two of them are shut in there, practically nose-to-nose in the
dark.
Ray stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps his mouth shut.
“Ray, I can’t make amends for what I’ve done unless you tell me what it is,”
Fraser says.
“Fraser, I am not discussing this with you in a supply closet,” Ray tells him. 
“We can talk about it somewhere else if you prefer,” suggests Fraser in that
ultra-reasonable tone that makes sane people want to hit him with a brick.
Fortunately, there are no bricks in the closet, so all Ray can do is snap, “I
do not want to talk about it at all!”
“If this is about Francesca—”
“Don’t talk to me about my sister!”
“Ray, please.” 
Ray’s never heard Fraser sound so. . .young, before.  It reminds him of the way
he looked when he was following that Smithbauer jerk around, like Benny had
turned into a teenager, heart on his sleeve for anyone to take a piece out of,
desperate for his best friend to like him. 
“I hate to see you hurt,” says Fraser.  “Please.  Tell me how to fix this.”
“Fix what, Benny?  Fix me?  It’s too late for that, don't you think?”  The
words spill out of him, harsh and bitter.  “I’m never going to be like you. 
I’m never going to be what you want me to be.  I cut corners and bend regs to
get shit done, and I go home to sleep at night and don’t worry about all the
people whose problems it isn’t my job to solve.  And when I do go out on a limb
to make a difference in this rotten world, I get my hands dirty, because that’s
how it works for people like me.  I’m a bully, just like Zuko.  Just another
fucking splash of dirt on your nice, clean world.”
He needs to get out of here, but Fraser’s between him and the door, and
besides, he can’t let anyone see him like this.
“Ray,” says Fraser softly.  “I’m sorry.  I. . .didn’t know you felt this way.”
“Yeah, because you think I don’t listen to you.  You think I don’t give a
damn.  You think it’s easy, following you around while you act like the world’s
supposed to be some kind of fucking Christmas special?”
“No,” says Fraser.  “I know it isn’t easy.  I’m astonished that you put up with
my company at all, let alone with as much grace as you do.  I’m aware that I
can be difficult to get along with.”
“You’re fine, Fraser,” Ray sighs.  “This is not about what I think of you. 
It’s about what you think of me.”
“You’re my friend,” says Fraser.
“Smithbauer’s your friend, too,” snaps Ray.  “You think I don’t know how you
felt about him taking money to throw that game?  You think I don’t wonder how
you feel about what I did for your damn shoemaker?”  What I did for you, he
can’t quite spit out.  But Fraser’s not an idiot.
Fraser’s voice isn’t much more than a whisper.  “It was a battle I couldn’t
win.  Not without you.  And what you did.  You saved Mr. Paducci’s life.”
“But you—think less of me for it.”  It’s only the dark that lets Ray get the
words out at all.
Fraser’s quiet for a long moment.  When he does speak, he sounds unusually
hesitant.  “I think more of you for your willingness to make sacrifices in
order to defend the weak and innocent.  In this case, a sacrifice I. . .would
not have been able to make, myself.”
Ray doesn’t know what to say to that.
After a moment, Fraser speaks again.  “I sometimes wonder what it says about me
that I’m unwilling to compromise for the greater good.  And that I’m willing to
let someone else—to let you—do what I refuse to do myself."
“Don’t you change.”  The words are out of Ray’s mouth before he knows he’s
going to say them.  “I love you just the way you are.”
Fraser doesn’t reply.  In fact, he says nothing so loudly and for so long that
finally Ray has to snap the light on to find out whether he’s teleported out or
turned into a pillar of salt or what.
Fraser’s staring at him with a stunned expression. 
After what seems like a million years, Fraser says quietly, “I think the last
person who was able to say that to me was my mother, and she died when I was
six.”
“Well,” says Ray, because they can’t just stand here in the closet staring at
each other forever.  “Well, okay, so we’re a couple of misfits, that’s why we
get along so well.”
Fraser opens his mouth, but Ray isn’t giving him a chance to say something they
might both regret; he just claps Fraser on the shoulder, saying, “Come on,
let’s get out of here, I need something to eat, and then we’ve got to track
down a stolen van full of live snakes, just the kind of case that makes your
day.”
“Right you are,” says Fraser as he opens the door.
 
                                    *                                   
            *                                    *
 
He’ll remember Irene’s kisses until the day he dies.  Sometimes he wakes up in
the middle of the night thinking about them.  He and Irene were just
teenagers—kids, really—and he never knew how she learned to kiss like that.  He
liked to think she was just naturally good at it, the way she was good at
school and dancing and track. . .Yeah, all right, he wasn’t the first guy Irene
had kissed, he knew that.  But that was okay.  He was the one she was kissing
now, the only one.  She could have had just about any boy in town, but she
wanted him, Ray Vecchio.  Wanted him here in the alley behind DeRosa’s liquor
store.
“Ray. . .mm. . .Ray, stop it, we have to stop now.”
“You don’t like?”  He pulled his mouth away from hers, put a little space
between their bodies, because that was what a gentleman should do, even though
he was pretty sure she did like what he was doing.  She’d been kissing him and
rubbing up against him just as enthusiastically as he had, plus which, this was
Irene and if she didn’t like something, she wouldn’t make any bones about
telling him so.
“I have to go,” she insisted.  “I’ll be late and Pop will want to know where I
was.”
“So don’t tell him.”
“Ray,” she said warningly, pushing on his shoulders.
“All right, all right, sorry.  I just hate that we can’t. . .”  There was no
point in saying the rest.  They’d said it all a million times before.  Her
father, his father, her brother, people talking, the whole frigging sorry nine
yards. 
She kissed him on the forehead.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Algebra, dummy.”
“No, but after school?” he asked.
“Ma wants me to help cook for the party on Saturday.  I’m sorry.” 
As she turned to go, he blurted out, “Wait, I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
His heart started pounding like they hadn’t been together all this time, like
he hadn’t had his tongue in her mouth on a regular basis and his hands under
her shirt and even up her skirt that one time.  But he’d been thinking about it
for weeks, and this was his chance; he had to ask her, now.
“Will you come to the prom with me?”
“What?”  She looked at him incredulously; he couldn’t tell if she was happy or
angry or what.  “Ray, that’s ridiculous, are you insane?”
“No, I’m tired of all this bullshit sneaking around.”  He took her hand.  She
didn’t resist, so he kissed it, looking up at her through his eyelashes.  Her
mouth twitched in that way that meant she was trying not to smile.  The knot in
his stomach relaxed a little.
“Just come with me,” he coaxed.  “What can they do to us?”
Irene looked at him for a long moment, then sighed.  She didn’t pull her hand
away, though.  “Ray, it’s a beautiful idea and I love you for it, but no.  You
know we can’t.”
He wanted to argue, but he could predict pretty much exactly how both sides of
that argument would go, and Irene wasn’t actually wrong.  And he didn’t want to
fight with her.  She was on his team.  Not to mention, it was a sucky way to
waste the little bits of time they could steal together.
“Yeah,” he sighed, squeezing her hand.  “I know.”  She was so beautiful, he
could look at her forever, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t fair, and. . . 
“Wait, did you just say—?”
“Yes.”  She kissed him softly.  “Now shut up.”
“I love you,” he told her.
“I know."
 
                                    *                                   
*                                    *
 
Ray only knows Fraser’s got a birthday coming up because he did a little
intelligence gathering at the Consulate one afternoon when Fraser was on statue
duty.  Because, obviously, Fraser would never admit that he has a birthday, in
case somebody took it into their head to celebrate it.  Fortunately, he has Ray
to take care of this kind of thing.
“Hey, Benny, what do you want to do for your birthday?” Ray asks as they sit
down to grab a quick hamburger on their way back to the station house.  Fraser
actually does a very small, blink-and-you’d-miss-it double-take, and then gives
this weirdly shy smile that does funny things to Ray’s stomach. 
“Frankly, I don’t usually celebrate my birthday,” says Fraser.  “Not that I
have anything against the tradition, I’ve simply never had much reason to do
so.”
“All the more reason to do it up right this year,” Ray tells him.  “Hey, I
could throw you a party, there’s lots of room at my place.” 
“Actually, to tell the truth. . .”  Fraser rubs his eyebrow with his
thumbnail.  “I think I’d prefer something a little quieter.  More. .
.intimate.”
Ray chokes in surprise and has to take a hasty drink of water and pretend like
he’s coming down with a cough.  Because even though the way Fraser said it was
not suggestive or anything, still. . .Still.
So that’s how they end up at Scarpetta’s, where Ray doesn’t normally even go
for a date unless he thinks he’s got a serious chance, seeing as how it costs
an arm and a leg.  It’s the place you go for golden wedding anniversaries and
engagement parties.  It’s next door to sacred, and it’s the best restaurant Ray
knows, and Fraser deserves a taste of that.  And Ray gets to give it to him.
Fraser’s out of uniform; shockingly, he’s wearing a tuxedo.  He claims to have
borrowed it from Huey, but if so, Huey owns a tux that doesn’t fit him for
crap, because the damn thing fits Fraser perfectly.  He looks like a million
bucks, that goes without saying.  Ray’s got on a good suit, which makes him
underdressed next to Fraser, but he doesn’t really mind, he’s just happy that
Fraser chose civvies.  Because this is not Mountie business in any way.  It’s a
purely social birthday. . .party.  Two-person party. 
And kind of a weird one, after the first few minutes.  It’s not like Ray and
Fraser don’t go out to eat together all the time.  Yeah, okay, not usually at a
fancy place, and yeah, okay, it’s Fraser’s birthday, but even so, it shouldn’t
be a big deal.  Except Fraser’s just looking so quietly delighted by the whole
thing that somehow it’s getting Ray agitated, to the point where he’s
completely thrown off his game.  He can’t keep track of what he’s saying, he
can hear his laugh getting loud and fake, and he finds himself fussing with his
food because it’s easier than looking at Fraser’s weirdly happy face.
But of course, Fraser picks up on Ray’s antsy behavior, and responds by
turning. . .hearty.  His smile gets broad and self-conscious; he laughs at his
own jokes; he starts using words like crackerjack. He keeps the conversation
flowing—takes it over, when Ray dries up completely.  Makes interesting
observations about the news headlines, Italian cuisine, Eskimo hunting
techniques, Ray doesn’t even know what-all.  All Ray knows is that Fraser’s
disappeared behind some kind of defensive wall of nervous cheer, and it’s all
Ray’s fault, he’s ruined the whole evening and he didn’t even do anything.
Which, come to think of it. . .maybe that’s exactly the problem, here.
He takes a gulp of his wine and looks across at Fraser, who’s still chattering
away about something or other.
“You want to dance?” Ray asks.
That surprises Fraser enough to actually shut him up for a second.  He blinks
at Ray for a couple of seconds, then asks, “Are you sure?”
“Fraser, when someone asks you to dance, you say yes or no.  Maybe you say no,
thank you kindly; or no, I’m feeling tired; or no, I’d rather die than dance
with a guy who’s losing his hair.  But those are the options.  What you don’t
do is start a debate.  So.”  He stands up and holds out his hands.  “Yes, or
no?”
Fraser tenses up for a second, and Ray’s suddenly sickeningly sure that this
has all been a horrible mistake.  But then Fraser just relaxes all at
once—body, face, everything—and he flashes that little shy smile and no, okay,
everything’s going to be okay.
“Yes,” says Fraser.  He puts his hand in Ray’s and actually waits for Ray to
give him a polite assist out of his chair, like he’d do for a woman.  Puts his
free hand on Ray’s shoulder and waits expectantly.
Ray isn’t much of a dancer to begin with, and the fact that he’s standing in
the middle of a crowded restaurant ten blocks from his mother’s house with his
arms around a guy is, face it, pretty nervous-making.  But he’s damn well not
going to give Fraser any reason to say I told you so, not that he’d actually
say so.  Anyway, it’s not like there’s room to try anything fancy: Scarpetta’s
doesn’t actually have a dance floor, as such, just a little space between
tables.  Ray grips Fraser’s hand firmly but gently, using his other hand, the
one on Fraser’s back, to guide him, just like Mrs. Lorenzo taught them back in
P.E.  Just a simple box step, which is about all Ray remembers how to do, but
at least he doesn’t trip on his own feet or Fraser’s.
And Fraser follows Ray’s lead like. . .magic.  It’s like riding a bike: Ray
doesn’t even have to think about what to do, he just moves and Fraser’s there
with him, right where he needs to be.  Fraser’s posture is real upright and
formal, like usual, but he’s not stiff at all, just solid.  A bomb wouldn’t
shake him, but just a little pressure from Ray’s hand can steer him.
Which is weird, Ray realizes.  Not that Fraser can dance: the guy can do
everything else, it would be weird if he couldn’t dance.  But he’s a guy, he
must be used to leading just like Ray is, and yet, here he is, following Ray’s
lead like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  He’s not fighting Ray for
the lead; he’s not resisting or hesitating.  He’s not criticizing or making
suggestions or silently disapproving of Ray’s moves.  He’s just flowing along
with the music, going where Ray wants him to go.
Fraser’s gaze is fixed over Ray’s shoulder (just like Mrs. Lorenzo taught), and
he’s wearing this solemn expression that obviously wants to turn into a smile,
because the corners of his mouth keep twitching.
“Hey, Benny.”  Ray smiles as Fraser’s face turns to his, and yeah, all right,
Fraser’s mouth relaxes into a smile, his eyes crinkling around the corners as
they look right into Ray’s.  Ray’s heart kicks and his palms start to sweat,
but screw it, he’s a grown man and if embarrassment could kill you, he’d have
been dead years ago.
Ray twirls Fraser under his arm and reels him back in, smooth as anything, and
from there it isn’t hard at all to lean in and kiss his smiling mouth.
It’s a sweet kiss, but it’s got some oomph, and not all on Ray’s side, either. 
Some of that oomph is coming from Fraser, who kisses him back like he doesn’t
plan to stop any time soon.  Ray’s got one hand on Fraser’s cheek, the other
planted on the small of his back, and when he moves that lower hand just a
little, just rubbing Fraser’s back a tiny little bit, he feels Fraser shiver.
Ray pulls back to look him in the face, trying to ignore the fact that they’re
standing here like some kind of Disney-type statue in the middle of a crowded
restaurant.  Benny stares back at him with that shy-teenager, tagging-along-
after-Smithbauer expression.
“I have an apartment,” he says quietly.  Whatever Ray was expecting him to say,
that wasn’t it.
“I know.  It’s a rat-hole.”
“It’s private.  More so than your house.  Fewer relatives.”
“Is that what you want?” asks Ray.
“I love you, Ray,” says Benny like it’s an answer to the question, which maybe
it is, at that.
 
                                    *                                   
            *                                                *
 
Up the stupid vine, stairway to heaven.  Irene’s bed, enclosed by curtains, was
a whole separate world.  A little planet just big enough for the two of them. 
Making out with Irene made Ray muzzy-headed and goofy and clumsy, kind of like
the couple of times he’d gotten drunk on booze swiped from peoples’ parents’
liquor cabinets, except without feeling sick afterwards.  Both their shirts
were off, her bra, too.  Ray could barely see her.  Just a sliver of light from
the window sliced through the crack where one curtain met the next; it drew a
diagonal line across Irene’s ribcage.  Her breasts were curved shadows; her
face all but invisible.  But he could tell from her breathing and her low
laughter that she liked what he was doing, not to mention the way her hands
guided his head, encouraging him to linger over her breasts. 
He licked her nipples, then took one into her mouth and sucked on it.  That had
seemed like a weird thing to do the first time he tried it, but Irene said it
felt good, and it actually was kind of a turn-on for him, too.  Or maybe it was
just the way it made her breath get all quick and shallow that was the turn-on.
He was lying halfway on top of her, his legs between her knees, his bare
bellybutton resting on her skirt, right on top of her pelvis, his crotch
rubbing against the sheets, which felt nice, but not as nice as her hand on him
would.  He scooted up the bed, rolling so he was beside her instead of on her. 
He ran a hand up her thigh, under her skirt, then stroked his thumb over her
panties.
“Ray. . .” she whispered.
“Can I?” he tugged at the waistband of her panties.  She let him pull them
down, wriggled her way out of them entirely, but then surprised him by
squirming away into the dark at the head of the bed.
“What—?”
Her hand found his and pressed something into it.  Something flat and square
and sealed in plastic. . .When he realized what it was, he stopped breathing
for a second.
Her breath was loud in the dark.  He reached out his other hand, found her
shoulder, then her face.
“Really?” he asked.
“Really.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
“I’m sure.”
His heart was hammering: from happiness or terror, he couldn’t tell which.  He
fumbled the wrapper open, then spent forever trying to roll the condom onto
himself in the dark.  So long, in fact, that Irene made a little exasperated
noise and reached over to help him.  Her sudden touch on his dick nearly made
him hit the ceiling, but didn’t help him get the condom on any faster.
When he finally got the damned thing on (it felt weird, and he couldn’t tell if
he’d done it right or what), he kissed her and eased her back down onto the
pillows.
“You’re sure this is okay?”
“Ray,” she warned.
“Okay, okay.”  He took a deep breath, let it out.  Tried to smile, although she
probably couldn’t see his face.  “Okay.”
“Okay,” she echoed back at him, teasing.
He reached around behind her, fumbling for the button and zipper of her skirt
with one hand because he had to lean on the other one to keep from falling
over.  He managed to get her skirt open, but then she was lying on the fabric
and how was he supposed to get it off her?  He tried to tug it over her hips. 
Irene squirmed, levering her hips up off the bed and then wriggling up towards
the headboard as Ray pulled the skirt the other way.  All that movement made
the mattress jounce like a bus going over potholes, and Ray was up on his knees
with both his hands busy, so the next thing he knew he was sprawled half across
her with his nose mashed against her shoulder. 
Irene dissolved into giggles.  Ray tried to push himself off her, but she
pulled him down again, both arms clamped firmly around his bare back, muffling
her laughter against his shoulder.  Ray started laughing, too.
“Shh, shh, someone will hear.”  She pushed his face into a pillow, still
giggling herself.  With a grunt of protest, he wriggled free and grabbed
another pillow to shove at her, and the whole thing turned into a breathless
tussle, both of them trying to stifle their laughter, with Irene’s four-poster
bed creaking fit to bust.  Ray ended up pinned under Irene, with her hands
pressing his wrists down into the bed.  Her hair brushed his face as she looked
down at him.
“Take it from the top?” she murmured. 
He licked his lips and nodded.
He carefully rolled her over onto her back, gathered up her long hair out of
her face and arranged it on the pillow.  He kissed her mouth.  Then he kissed
the hollow of her throat and kept going down, between her breasts, down to her
bellybutton, to the edge of her springy curls.  She raised her knees, spreading
her legs wider. 
He wondered what it would be like to kiss her down there—he’d heard of eating
out, knew what it was, kind of, but he didn’t want to freak her out and anyway
he had no idea how to do it.  So instead he just ran his hands over the inside
of her thighs and then moved them in to meet on that cushion of hair between
her hips.
He’d touched her there before, but not from this angle, and not for this.  He
looked up at her face, which he could barely make out in the dark; she was
looking at him, but that was about all he could tell.
“Ray.  It’s okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed.  He touched himself to make sure the condom was still rolled
all the way up.  With his left hand, he awkwardly held her open so he could
position himself with his right.  He took one more peek at her face, just to
make sure she wasn’t going to stop him after all, but then he had to close his
eyes before he could push into her.
It wasn’t like having her hand on him; it was miles away from the way he felt
when he beat off by himself.  It was like she was touching him everywhere at
once; or like his whole body and mind were focused down into one spot and one
consuming feeling.  It was like falling, or falling apart.  It was like being
injected with happiness.  It wasn’t like anything.
It was probably over pretty quickly, though at the time it felt like forever. 
Ray rolled to one side before he let himself collapse, so he wouldn’t squash
Irene.  He gathered her into his arms and nuzzled her hair as his breathing
gradually slowed down.  He felt limp and warm and sleepy, but no, he couldn’t
drift off, there was something important, he just had to remember how to think.
. .
“You okay?” he whispered.
“Yeah.”  He couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not.
“Sure?”
“I’m sure.”  Her face turned to his and they were kissing, and that was nice,
yeah, maybe he could just do this forever, soft sleepy kisses. . .
She moved his hand down between her legs; rocked it back and forth a little
until he got the idea and started stroking and rubbing her under his own
steam.  They kept kissing and her breath speeded up until she was gasping
softly against his mouth and he was kind of gasping, too, and then suddenly she
melted against him, totally limp except for her grip on his wrist. 
He didn’t dare move; he would’ve stopped breathing if he could’ve.  Until she
pressed her lips against his collarbone with a contented little noise, slid one
leg over his and snuggled up against his chest.  Grinning, he kissed the top of
her head.
The vine was even more of a pain to climb down than up, and the night was cold,
and it was a long walk back to Ray’s house where he’d have to sneak in without
waking anybody up.  He held Irene close, with her hair tickling his nose,
trying to stretch out the minutes as long as possible before she reminded him
to get going.
 
            *                                                *           
                                     *
 
Benny closes his apartment door behind Ray and the two of them just stand there
looking at each other.  Ray wasn’t nervous before, but now he doesn’t know what
to do with his hands or his eyes.  Benny’s rubbing his eyebrow and tugging at
his cuffs like suddenly the tux jacket’s too short, which isn’t helping Ray’s
nerves any.
“We don’t have to. . .”  Ray blurts out.
“What?” asks Benny.
“You know.  Do anything.  We can just. . .”  Ray doesn’t even know how to
finish that sentence.  Especially not with Benny looking at him like that.
“It’s all right,” says Benny quietly, putting his hand on Ray’s shoulder.  It’s
the voice he uses to talk desperate men out of setting themselves on fire; no
way not to believe that voice.  So Ray does.  Except then Benny goes still and
says, much less certainly, “Isn’t it?”
“That’s right, it is,” Ray assures him, and steps forward into kissing range.
After that, it’s easy.  They kiss sweetly for a while, with their arms around
each other like the closing shot of a classic movie.  Then just when Ray’s
thinking he ought to maybe be making some kind of a move except that what
they’re doing feels too nice to interrupt, one of Benny’s hands comes up to
cradle Ray’s head and the other slides down to firmly grip his ass and suddenly
they’ve catapulted out of nice smack into hot and moving fast into frantic. 
Benny steers him backwards and Ray just goes with him, letting Benny worry
about where they’re going while Ray concentrates on getting Benny’s bowtie off
and his shirt buttons undone (and thank God Huey’s tux isn’t the ritzy kind
that takes studs all up the front). 
The backs of Ray’s knees hit the bed and he sits down hard, half expecting
Benny to just fall straight on top of him and rip his clothes off.  But Benny
stops and stands there with his shirt hanging open and his jacket still on and
his chest flushed from the heart up.  Looks down at Ray with huge eyes, his
lower lip between his teeth.
“Don’t change,” he says, low and intense. 
Doesn’t he know how much Ray has changed already, because of him?  How much he
makes Ray want to be better than he is?  But Benny’s eyes are boring into him,
and he gets that this is a gift Benny’s giving to him, but it’s more than
that.  Benny wants him not to change.  Ray doesn’t know why the hell he's what
Benny wants, but he reaches up with both hands for Benny’s bare waist.
“You know what’s under the hood,” he says, through a throat so tight he can
barely breathe.  “You taking me as-is?”
Benny nods.  His hands settle lightly on Ray’s shoulders.
“’Cause I don’t do refunds,” says Ray. 
Benny makes a noise like he’s been shot and then Ray’s flat on his back with
Benny’s full weight pressing him into the mattress and Benny’s mouth covering
his and Benny’s hands touching him everywhere at once.  Ray manages to wrestle
the shirt and jacket off him and wriggle out of some more of his own clothes,
leaving them wrapped around each other like a pretzel with their pants and
shoes still on.  They’re both panting hard now, and Ray can hear himself
moaning in a way that ought to be embarrassing except he can’t be bothered to
care, because Benny’s breath is hot against his ear, and Benny’s whispering
roughly, over and over, so softly Ray can barely hear him:
“Don’t go.”
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