This is all Andre's fault. There I was minding my own cyberbusiness when she asks me to smack her for thinking that a DS/HCL crossover might be workable, but since she was working on her Unnamed Opus she didn't want to be distracted. Well, darn her, the idea got into my head and took root like kudzu and. . . well. . . this is the result.

This is a Due South & Hard Core Logo slash crossover (yes, I am unhinged). Benton Fraser belongs to Alliance/ Atlantis and Paul Haggis. Billy Tallent belongs to Michael Turner, Bruce McDonald, Noel S. Baker, and "Ed Festus Productions." Man, he really gets around, doesn't he? Rated NC-17 for explicit m/m sex, bad language, and angst. There are also references (not explicit) to non-consensual sex and abusive relationships so be warned. Also there are some MAJOR RUIN-THE-ENDING-TYPE SPOILERS for Hard Core Logo, as well as some minor spoilers for the DS episode "Dr. Longball." Oh yeah, and I had to fudge the timeline a little, so assume this is an AU where HCL took place about a year later than it really did, and that the minor league season extends into October. And don't hit me.

Soundtrack for this one: Hard Core Logo's 'Blue Tattoo,' Sarah McLachlan's 'Mary' and 'Angel,' Luka Bloom's 'Cold Comfort,' Tara MacLean's 'Evidence,' Paul Brady's 'Help Me To Believe,' and last but certainly not least, Bruce Cockburn's 'The Whole Night Sky.'

Thanks to Audra, Andreshan, LaToot and Meghan for beta!

–Kellie

---

Northern Comfort
c. 1999, Kellie Matthews


        Benton Fraser sat at the Consulate reception desk, processing a stack of immigration applications in the glow of the banker's lamp, feeling depressed, and alone. Of course, he was alone, since it was after hours and save for himself, the Consulate was empty. But that wasn't why he felt alone. Ray had been gone only a few hours, yet he felt as if it had been weeks. He knew why, of course. It was because Ray had gone on a vacation without him. More than that, had gone with a woman. It shouldn't hurt. He knew better. He and Ray did not have that sort of relationship. Never would. Ray was solidly, undeniably heterosexual, and this trip only served to underscore that.
        Unfortunately reality rarely played a role in fantasy, and somewhere deep inside Ben had felt that Ray was beginning to respond to him as more than just a partner. Since the incident with the stolen gold bullion, their interactions had grown increasingly intimate; they spent most of their time, even free time, together. Of late there had seemed to be something, a spark between them which was almost sexual in its intensity. Then Ray had, with odd reticence, announced that he was going on vacation, to Acapulco, with someone named Laura, whom he'd never even mentioned before, and Ben's fantasy had come crashing down around him like a glacier calving.
        Somehow Ben had managed to hide his hurt behind a blandly congratulatory remark, and had worked hard not to spoil Ray's vacation by behaving pettily. It had been difficult, but he thought he'd managed it. No matter his own feelings, Ray deserved happiness. He was a good man, a good partner. Would have been a wonderful lov . . . . A knock at the door interrupted that thought. Probably just as well. He oughtn't be thinking things like that. It was futile and only made him feel worse.
        A glance at his watch told him it was after ten, an odd time for anyone to be calling at the Consulate. At least, with Ray out of town it was. Ray occasionally showed up at even odder times, and would probably have let himself in using a credit card at any rate. Fraser thought for a moment about going to get his tunic from his office, but since it was probably Turnbull having forgotten something, including his key, there was no reason to be formal. He got up, crossed the foyer and opened the door to find the caller walking away, down the stairs. A tallish, slender man in a flannel shirt and jeans, with spiked blonde hair, holding some sort of case in his right hand. Ben's heart sped up.
        "Ray!" he exclaimed, pleased.
        The man turned, startled, no trace of recognition in his gaze. Fraser stared. It wasn't Ray, but . . . it was. The visitor was alike enough to be Ray's twin, yet he was sure he'd never seen this man in his life.
        "Excuse me?" the man asked.
        "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else. Can I help you?"
        The man's gaze flickered down, back up again, and he flashed a quick grin. "Interesting pants there. You a Mountie?"
        Fraser was a little surprised. So few people here in the United States recognized even the full uniform, much less just the trousers. He nodded. "Yes, I am."
        "Thought so." The visitor nodded toward the door. "Didn't think anybody was at home. Thought someone just left a light on, I mean, it is after hours." His voice was a little rougher than Ray's, the accent and phrasing subtly different.
        "I was working a bit late. Is there something I can do for you?"
        "Hope so. I'm kinda stuck. Got here for a gig, but it's been canceled. Somebody forgot to call and tell the new guy." He jerked a thumb toward his chest, apparently indicating that he was the 'new guy', then shrugged and flashed a smile that was half wince. "Different band, same old story."
        He stepped forward a little, into the glow cast by the security light, and Fraser could see that there was dirt on his face, or was that a bruise? His eyes narrowed, realizing that there were several bruises, and scrapes as well. Actually, now that Ben could see him better, he realized the man looked as if he'd been rolling on the ground. He frowned.
        "Are you injured?"
        "Nah, had worse," the man said, shrugging again, then he held up the case in his hand and grinned. "At least they didn't get my livelihood."
        Fraser could see now that it was a guitar case. He was beginning to wonder if the man was ever going to come to the point, but he held his irritation back, realizing he was responding as if this was Ray, not a complete stranger. He wondered if his tendency to be irritable with Ray was part of what had prompted him to go on vacation with that 'Laura' person. He ought to have better control over himself, it wasn't Ray's fault he was attracted to him.
        "They?" he prompted gently.
        The man sighed, slumping a little. He looked tired, drawn even. "Yeah. Got rolled for my wallet. They got my passport, too. That's why I'm here."
        The light dawned. "You're a Canadian citizen?" That would explain why he recognized the uniform.
        The smile came back, slightly shy, as he nodded. "Vancouver, B.C. You? I'd guess the Territories."
        That startled him. How on earth had the man guessed that? It wasn't as if his birthplace was written on his forehead. Fraser blocked out his surprise, and concentrated on the task at hand. "You were robbed?"
        The other man nodded. "Dumb, right? You'd think I didn't live in cities most of my life. Walking around like a goddamned tourist, forgetting to watch myself."
        "One shouldn't have to 'watch' oneself all the time. As for the lost passport, I'm sure I can assist you with that problem. Please come in and I'll get started on that immediately. Did you notify the police?"
        His guest nodded. "Yeah, they're the ones who told me there might be somebody home here, even though it was after hours." He grinned. "Guess they were right. Maybe my luck's changing." He shifted the guitar case a little, and put a foot on the first step, tried to take the second one, and his left knee buckled as he put weight on it. He gave a strangled little gasp, and almost dropped the guitar, and Fraser saw pain flash across his face as his knee hit the step.
        "You are hurt!" he exclaimed, taking the guitar and putting an arm around the other man's waist to assist him to his feet. Good lord, he was thin! Thinner even than Ray. He could distinctly feel ribs under his palm, through the man's clothing. His protective instincts stirred. "Please, come inside."
        The man nodded and leaned on him, limping, as Fraser steered him into the parlor and seated him in the big wingback chair, then stepped back.
        "Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP," he said, extending a hand.
        "Billy Tallent, sometime guitarist for mediocre bands," the blond man returned.
        "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tallent."
        The man laughed. "Just Billy. 'Mr. Tallent' sounds like something off a bad sitcom."
        Fraser nodded, and they shook hands. Billy's hands, like the rest of him, seemed eerily like Ray's. Long fingers, elegantly recurved thumbs, narrow palms. Like Ray, he wore a bracelet around one bony wrist. Unlike Ray, he also wore a heavy silver ring on one thumb, and a lighter band on one forefinger. To Fraser's astonishment, the man didn't let go of his hand immediately. He turned it over in his own, traced a finger across his fingertips, then he finally let go and looked up.
        "You play?"
        Ah. He must have felt the calluses. Fraser nodded, embarrassed. "Only for my own edification."
        Billy looked him straight in the eyes and snorted rudely. "Fuck that shit. You play 'cause you love it."
        Pinned by that clear blue gaze, Fraser felt himself coloring, and cleared his throat, annoyed with himself. Many, if not most people cursed, he shouldn't be so sensitive. "I do enjoy it, yes."
        Billy dropped his gaze, and nodded. "That's the best way to be. Don't ever do something you love for a living."
        There was something profound in that statement, Fraser decided. And there was something haunted in the other man's eyes. He studied the thin, slouched figure for a moment. It was hard to tell what was scrape, what was bruise, and what was dirt. Though there was a bloodstain on the knee of his jeans which explained why he'd fallen outside. He probably wasn't injured badly enough to need a physician or the police would have taken him to the hospital, but he did need cleaning up.
        "Wait here, I'll be back in a moment."
        Billy nodded wearily. "Not going anywhere."
        Fraser retrieved a pen and paper from the desk. "If you'll just write down the correct spelling of your name and your social insurance number, I'll get started on that replacement passport for you as well."
        "Thanks. Appreciate it, since it's after hours and all. But if you'll hand me my guitar case, I can do better than that," Billy said. Fraser got it for him, and the other man unfastened the case and slipped his long fingers beneath the neck of the instrument, tugging out a piece of paper, which he handed to Fraser. It was a photocopy of the first two pages of his passport. He grinned. "Lost it once before. Now I always carry a copy somewhere else. That work for you?"
        "Yes, this will be very helpful," Fraser said, then he glanced at the paper, and frowned. "I thought you said your name was Tallent."
        "That's my stage name, Boisy's the one I was born with."
        "Ah," he said, reassured by that. "If you haven't yet called your bank card issuers to report the theft, you should do so now," Fraser said, nodding toward the phone on the small table next to the chair. "We've discovered that asking for the replacement cards to be delivered here to the Consulate often expedites the request." He handed Billy the sheet of Consulate letterhead he held. "Here's the address and phone number."
        "Thanks. Good idea." Billy dug in his guitar case for something else, pulled out a ragged, much-folded piece of paper and started unfolding it.
        Fraser assumed that it contained bank-card information, and left the room, going first to his office where he took a moment at his computer to send off an information request on William Boisy. That done, he got out his sweatpants to loan the other man, and retrieved the first aid kit, a towel, and a washcloth from the storage closet. Returning to the parlor, he stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering what strange synchronicity had brought this man to his very door. The universe was sometimes a very odd place.
        "I'd like to see to those injuries," he said quietly.
        Billy jumped a little, eyelids snapping open. He must have been dozing. He glanced at what Fraser held in his hands, and looked embarrassed.
        "Look, I'm a big boy now, I can do it."
        Fraser put on his stubborn face. "I've had some EMT training, I think it would be best if I looked after you."
        The blond looked uncomfortable, then he sighed and shrugged. "Okay, whatever. But can I wash up first?"
        "Certainly, and since I suspect it won't be possible for me to attend to your knee without doing damage to your trousers, you may wish to change into these." Fraser held the sweatpants up for inspection. "The washroom is there." He nodded toward the door.
        The other man started to push himself awkwardly out of the chair. Fraser held out a hand, and Billy took it, allowing the larger man to pull him carefully to his feet. The Mountie followed as he limped across the floor to the washroom, and once he was there handed him the sweatpants, towel, and washcloth.
        "Thanks, man." Billy said, closing the door.
        His slow, awkward movements reminded Ben of Ray's, after he'd been 'sparring', and he suspected the guitarist was in considerable pain, but determined not to show it. He waited patiently while he heard the sound of the toilet being flushed, water running, and various rustling noises and low-voiced curses that seemed to indicate the man was having some trouble undressing. Finally the door opened, and Billy hobbled out, barefoot now, wearing Fraser's sweatpants and his own t-shirt, holding his jeans and boots. He looked even paler and more tired than before.
        "Got to buy some looser jeans," he commented wryly, confirming Fraser's suspicion that he'd had difficulty in disrobing. He sat down carefully, left leg extended in front of him. "Man, I'm too old for this shit," he said with a sigh.
        Ben wondered exactly what 'shit' he meant, but couldn't think of a way to ask that wouldn't involve using the word, so instead he crouched at Billy's feet and started to ease the left pantleg upward until he had the soft fleece pushed well above his knee, which was swollen, and purple, and bore a bad cut across the patella. He tsked, shaking his head, opening an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit
        "This will hurt."
        "Can't hurt much worse," Billy said drily. "Go on."
        Fraser gently swiped the pad across the cut, heard the hiss of an indrawn breath as the sting hit. There didn't appear to be any dirt or gravel in the wound, so he applied antibiotic ointment, and taped a non-stick gauze pad over it. "I'm going to wrap it, to reduce the swelling," he said, just to break the silence. "And I'll get you some ice for it in a bit." He carefully wound an elastic bandage around the joint, not so tight as to impede circulation, while still snug enough to provide a modicum of support for the injured tissues. That done, he eased the pantleg back down. "There. That's done, now I'll attend to those scrapes on your face."
        Billy rolled his eyes. "Don't bother. Some people would probably say they improve the view."
        Fraser was taken aback by that statement. "Why on earth would someone say that?"
        Billy laughed, then he looked at Fraser, and an odd expression came over his face. He frowned. "You really meant that, didn't you?"
        "I never say things I don't mean," Ben said, a little offended.
        Billy laughed softly. "Then you're one in a million, Constable Fraser. Do people call you Ben?"
        "Rarely," Fraser said, perfectly honest. "Most people just call me Fraser."
        "Hunh," Billy said, eyeing him. "Yeah. I can see why."
        Ben frowned. He'd never really known why that was, himself, and here this stranger was presuming to think he knew? "And that would be?"
        The eyes fell, lifted, assessingly, then Billy shrugged. "Well, you're a pretty formal guy. I can tell that just from looking at you. I bet most people'd feel weird calling you by anything other than a title. Me, I'm just the opposite. People I don't even know call me Billy. Pretty fucking pathetic, for a man my age."
        Ben forced himself to ignore the profanity. It was becoming clear to him that this man was hurting, in an entirely non-physical way, though there was that as well.
        "What would you prefer to be called?" Fraser asked him, wanting to give aid, somehow, to the mental agony as well as the physical.
        The haunted eyes shifted briefly to his, then away, and Billy made a wry face. "That's just it. I've been Billy so long I don't know anything else, so Billy I stay. But thanks for asking. You're a nice guy, B. . . I mean, Fraser."
        "You can call me Ben," Fraser said, surprising himself.
        Apparently he surprised Billy, too, for there was a flicker of something across his face, a slight glow of pleasure, and he nodded. "Will do."
        "I'd still like to treat those scrapes," Fraser said, not knowing what else to say. He felt oddly awkward around this man.
        Billy looked at him, eyes gleaming with a hint of amusement. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. You were a Boy Scout, weren't you?"
        "You have a remarkable facility for character analysis," Ben said, disconcerted. "Speaking of which, how did you know I was from the Territories?"
        Billy chuckled. "You've got that self-sufficient thing going. And the polite thing. Figured you weren't from anyplace where you got much exposure to city shit."
        "Ah. Well, excellent deductions. Have you ever considered a career in law enforcement?"
        That earned a full-out laugh, Billy pressing a hand against his ribs as if they hurt him. "Oh fuck, no! And they wouldn't have me. I'm a juvie, all the way, Ben. But thanks for the compliment." He leaned back in the chair, tilting his head back a little, closing his eyes. "Okay, fix me up and earn your merit badge. Just don't use that red stuff, okay? I don't want to look like a clown."
        For some reason Fraser found himself disappointed when Billy closed his eyes. They were so incredibly lucent . . . good God! Fraser felt himself blushing, and cracked his neck. Just because he looked like Ray was no reason to go mooning over him like a lovesick teenager.
        "Actually, iodine has been shown to retard the healing process. I have a salve which works much better," he said blandly, to cover his discomfort.
        He opened a fresh alcohol pad and leaned in to dab at the scrapes. Now that he was close, Fraser could see that although some of the bruises and scrapes on Billy's face were recent, there were others, older, nearly faded. And there was a faint scar-like mark on his lower lip, as if it had been split. Dragging his gaze away from that beautifully modeled mouth, he mentally shook himself again. He had to get himself in hand.
        "Were you in another fight recently?" he asked, incurably curious.
        The blue eyes flashed open, and the pain in them was depthless. "No."
        "Ah," Fraser said, confused, and disconcerted by the emotion revealed there. "I just thought, well, some of these bruises appear to be older than the others."
        Eyes closed again. "Yeah. A week and a day now. Just eight days. But it wasn't a fight. Not really. I didn't know. Didn't understand. My fault. I should've told him. God. Oh, god." The rough, smoky voice broke, and the man curled over, burying his face in his hands, weeping as if his heart were broken.
        Fraser hovered over him, distressed by his pain, wanting to help, not knowing how. After a moment he awkwardly reached down, put a hand on one bony shoulder, then hesitantly put his other hand on the other shoulder, and drew the other man to him, holding him gently as he sobbed. As if it were not at all unusual, the other man's arms slid around his waist, and he hid his face against Fraser's's stomach. Fraser could feel the heat and wetness of tears as they soaked into his undershirt. He didn't pull back, though a disapproving voice within him told him he should, and after a moment he found himself gently stroking the spiky hair, finding it surprisingly soft to his hand, though a trifle 'crunchy' from the styling products used to produce that look. The storm lasted only a short while, and then the other man seemed to startle, realizing he was weeping in the arms of a stranger, and he drew back, covering his face with one long-fingered hand.
        "Christ! Sorry, you must think I'm a fucking headcase."
        "I think you're a man in a great deal of pain, but you seem perfectly sane to me."
        The hand didn't move, but he saw the corners of Billy's mouth twitch in a stillborn smile. After a moment he wiped his eyes, and lowered his hand, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. "So, is dealing with fucked-up semi-hysterical guitarists usually in your job description?"
        "My job description has never been any too well-defined. I'm sure I could find justification for nearly anything within it." Fraser paused a moment, gathering his resolve, then forged on. "Would you like to talk?"
        Billy's eyes focused on something a long way away. He drew in a deep breath, let it out in deeper sigh, and fidgeted with his shirt pocket, then looked up. "Don't suppose you have any cigarettes? Smoked my last one at the station, couldn't afford more."
        "No, I'm sorry, I don't smoke."
        The corners of Billy's mouth lifted. "Figured as much. Bet you don't drink, either."
        "That would be correct," Fraser admitted, feeling somewhat sheepish, though it really wasn't that unusual.
        Billy snorted, eyeing him with a grin. "Okay, you've got to have some kind of bad habit. Please tell me you hump like a mink, or haunt strip joints or something."
        Fraser blushed, and Billy groaned. "Christ, the man's a fucking saint! Jesus, Ben! What do you do for fun?"
        Fraser thought about that. He supposed his diversions would seem a little tame to someone like Billy. "Well, I read, I walk, sometimes I listen to music, or play guitar. Sometimes I go out with my friend."
        Those luminous eyes pinned him. "Friend? Singular?"
        Fraser felt a momentary sense of emptiness so strong it was actually painful. A hole in himself that seemed as if it would never be filled. He closed his eyes, trying to force it to abate before it showed.
        "Sorry, it's none of my business. I'm being an asshole, you should tell me to fuck off."
        Billy's voice was apologetic, and despite the off-color language, the gentleness of it made the lump in Fraser's throat swell, so he shook his head to let the other man know he wouldn't do that.
        "Lemme guess, you don't swear either?"
        The warm amusement in the other man's tone, not mocking, but rather oddly inclusive, almost undid Fraser completely. He turned away to hide his lack of control, and a moment later felt a hand on his shoulder.
        "Hey, look, I snotted up your shirt, only fair you get to do mine." Billy paused a moment, then spoke again. "Um, something happen? You and your friend have a fight?"
        Ben shook his head again, not trusting his voice, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to take Billy up on his offer of comfort. For some reason the fact that he was a complete and utter stranger made it seem all right. Why was it he could allow his feelings to show with someone he would likely never see again after he left the Consulate, but could never reveal them to those closest to him?
        "Tell you what, I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Billy said in a sly, cajoling tone.
        Fraser snapped around to stare at the other man in shock.
        Billy grinned back at him. "Ha! Gotcha. I just meant maybe we could sort of trade stories, and you can think of things to say to make me feel better and I'll do the same for you. You look like you got your share of problems yourself. Too bad you don't drink. Getting drunk makes it so it doesn't hurt to talk."
        Now that was an argument in favor of drinking. The only one he'd ever heard that tempted him in the slightest, but having seen in others that once the alcohol wore off things always seemed to be as bad or worse, Fraser shook his head, and cleared his throat. "I realize it's not precisely in the same league, but my grandmother swore by a cup of tea," he offered.
        There was a moment of silence, then Billy laughed softly. "So did mine. Sounds good."

* * *

        They sat in the Consulate kitchen, drinking tea, eating the peanut-butter sandwiches Ben had made after realizing Billy was hungry, and talking. Ben learned rather more about touring punk-rock bands than he'd ever had any desire to know, but it was interesting to have a glimpse into that world. Something else to add to his store of knowledge. Fraser gently kept drawing Billy out, knowing he hadn't yet come to the source of the pain that was written so clearly in his gaze. He resisted the other man's attempts to get him to talk. Focusing on someone else's problems helped him avoid his own. He was perfectly aware that was what he was doing, and, strangely, he suspected that Billy was aware of it as well, judging by the shrewd, searching glances he surprised on occasion when Billy thought he wasn't paying attention.
        Fraser excused himself and went to his office to check on a response on his query. There was one, so he returned to the kitchen, and found that Diefenbaker had deigned to come out from wherever he'd been sulking since Fraser had refused to get him an ice-cream when the vending truck passed, and was sitting at Billy's side with his head on the man's thigh, looking quite revoltingly blissful as Billy absently massaged his ears and ruff. Billy looked up as Fraser entered the room, and smiled.
        "Nice dog. Yours?"
        "Actually, Diefenbaker is half wolf, and as for whether he's mine, well, I suppose he is, in a manner of speaking. He's certainly my responsibility, though it's his choice whether or not he remains here. I sometimes believe chooses to stay with me simply so he can live in Chicago and eat junk food instead of having to hunt and fend for himself in the wild. And he shouldn't be harassing you like that."
        Billy looked at the wolf in his lap, and grinned. "He's okay, so long as he doesn't have a thing for sausages."
        The sentence was accompanied by a wink, and Fraser had to think for a moment to understand, then he dropped his eyes to the paper he held, a little rattled by the other man's easy, bawdy humor. "I received that reply from Ottawa, so if you'll come back to my office I'll get started on your paperwork."
        Billy nodded, gently nudged Dief's head off his leg with his elbow, and stood, to limp behind Fraser out to his office, carrying his mug of tea. Fraser took his place at the typewriter, and Billy settled gingerly onto the other chair.
        "Birth date?"
        "October twenty-fourth, nineteen-sixty."
        Fraser looked at the passport copy to confirm that, then looked back at Billy, startled. He would have sworn the other man was younger than that. That made them closer in age than he'd imagined.
        Billy looked back at him, eyebrows lifted. "Did I get it wrong?" he asked, one corner of his mouth quirking upward in an uncertain smile.
        "No, no sorry. That's quite correct. Mother's maiden name?"
        "Anne Mary Machlis."
        Fraser typed, then looked up. "Car theft?"
        Billy blinked at him for a moment, looking puzzled, then he slowly started to smile. "Told you I was a juvie. Regular little asshole, 'til I met Joe . . . " his smile faded, and a shudder went through him. He closed his eyes, and quickly brought up his mug to take a drink.
        There it was, Fraser thought. The pain. It must somehow be related to this 'Joe' person. If he'd put Billy on the straight-and-narrow, he must have been a good person. "Was Joe a social worker?"
        Billy choked on his tea, and for a few seconds Fraser thought he was going to have to Heimlich the man. Finally he managed to breathe, wiped his eyes, and came up laughing.
        "Jesus. That's a good one. He'd've loved that. No, Joe Dick was an asshole too. He and I, we started the band, and that kept us outta trouble. Well, mostly." The smile evaporated again, and he sighed. "God-fucking-damn him. Why'd he have to . . ." Billy's eyes filled with tears once more, and he carefully placed his mug on the desk. "Sorry. Got to use the john." He got up and left the room.
        Fraser waited a moment, staring after him thoughtfully, then he moved over to the computer, pulled up web-browser window, and typed in a query. A few moments later it returned several hits, and he pulled up the first one. It was from an Edmonton paper, a story and obituary on one Joseph Mulgrew, aka Joe Dick, former lead singer for a band called Hard Core Logo, who had apparently died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound eight days earlier. The pieces fit.
        He accessed the second hit; a concert review which read more like a play-by-play of a boxing match. The last paragraph in the story mentioned the suicide. It had happened that same night. He tried to imagine how he would have felt had Ray died after that fight at the shipyard, before they had resolved their anger, their hurt. He shuddered. God. No wonder Billy was hurting. He heard the toilet flush distantly, and quickly closed the browser. Let him come to it in his own time. Don't force it.
        By the time Billy had limped back into the room, Fraser had completed the duplicate passport request and faxed both the photocopied passport and the replacement request to Ottawa. They would courier the new passport back to the Consulate next day. He turned to find Billy standing in the doorway watching him, tiny beads of moisture clinging to his hairline, betraying the fact that he'd splashed cold water on his face, trying to keep control. How familiar that was. His expression was carefully neutral now. Having seen how animated and expressive he normally was, it seemed alien to Fraser that he could be so still.
        "Look, I've been here too long. I need to let you go home. It's late."
        "Actually, this is 'home,'" Ben admitted, with a slight nod toward the cot behind the desk.
        Billy's eyes widened. "Christ, they make you sleep here?" he exclaimed in appalled tones. "Isn't that kind of like slavery?"
        "Oh, no. It's purely voluntary. After my apartment building was incinerated by a performance arsonist, I just found it more convenient to stay here."
        "A performance arsonist?" Billy asked, bemusedly. "Now there's one we never thought of. But anyway,
if you could just let me use the phone to call a hotel and a cab, I'll get out of your hair. Uh, and if I could maybe hit you up for that emergency cash you mentioned, so I can actually pay for the hotel and the cab." He smiled wryly. "Feels weird, hitting you up for money."
        "You're not. You're making a perfectly reasonable request of a consular official. We keep funds on hand here for this very reason. You aren't the first person to need to replace stolen funds, nor, I'm sure, will you be the last."
        "Oh. Well, that's different then."
        Fraser nodded. "Quite. Wait here, I'll get the cash and the documents you'll need to sign for it."
        Billy nodded, and settled carefully back on his chair. His face went back to being expressionless, and Ben stifled a sigh as he left the room. It was clear that for some reason the other man had decided not to speak any further of his pain. Apparently tea was simply not conducive to heart-to-heart conversations. Perhaps he should have gotten a bottle of Scotch from the Consulate's liquor supply. He went into the Inspector's office and found the documents he needed, opened the safe and removed seven fifty-dollar US bills, and then relocked it.
        Fraser wished he could think of some way to get Billy to stay, to talk longer, to get to the heart of his pain. As a peace officer trained in suicide prevention he knew that a person who had been close to a suicide was actually far more likely to make such an attempt himself than someone who had never known that kind of tragedy. Logically it would seem that the opposite should be true, but it was not. The feelings of loss and guilt could be overwhelming, and he strongly suspected that was the emotional state Billy currently inhabited. Frankly, Ben was afraid for him. For a moment he considered withholding the money, or finding some legal way to keep Billy confined to the Consulate, but had no documentable reason to do so. Billy's legal offenses had occurred long ago, and had no outstanding warrants or judgements. No. There was simply nothing he could do.
        Feeling even more dispirited than he had earlier that evening, he walked back to his office. Billy was just putting down the phone and closing the phone book as Ben entered the room. Probably making a hotel reservation, or calling a cab, as he'd said he was going to. When he looked up, his eyes were dark and haunted. Fraser resisted the urge to reach out and hold the man again. Circumstances would not allow it now. He forced a pleasant expression to his face, and placed two documents on the desk in front of the other man.
        "Here you are. As it will likely take a day or two for your credit and bank cards to be reissued, I've taken the liberty of drawing three-hundred and fifty dollars for you in US funds. If you'll sign the receipt and the note of hand for it, it's yours."
        Billy looked startled. "Hey, I don't need that much. Shit, that'd last me a week, at least."
        "You can always return whatever you don't use when you repay the rest. Travel can often be more expensive than one expects."
        Billy chuckled wryly. "Yeah, especially when your best friend lets Thelma and Louise fuck off with all your cash . . . " Pain suddenly tightened his features, and he shook his head. "Christ, let it go, asshole. Let it go," he said, clearly talking to himself, not Fraser.
        "Let what go?" Ben asked gently, hoping it might prompt him to begin talking again.
        "Never mind. It's nothing." Billy leaned forward and scrawled his signature on both documents. "There. My cab will be here in a couple of minutes." He pushed himself to his feet, and looked down. "Guess I better go put my own pants back on."
        "I don't need those at the moment, why don't you keep them until you come back to retrieve your new bank-cards? With your injured knee, your jeans may be difficult to get into."
        Billy looked up, startled, fingering the fleece on his thigh. "These are yours?"
        Fraser nodded. Billy had an odd look on his face. "Oh, um, I just figured they were loaners you kept around here for tourists dumb enough to get mugged. Thanks, that's really nice of you. I'll make sure they get washed before I bring them back."
        "Don't worry about that, I'm just happy to have been able to help. " He wished he could do more to help, but apparently that wasn't fated.
        Billy went back to the parlor and put his boots back on. Looking down at himself, he grinned. "Man, I look like a fucking geek. Sweats and boots. All I need is a watch-cap and mitts, and I could pass for homeless. Which I would be tonight, if not for you. I really do appreciate everything, you've been cool, Ben."
        He held out a hand, Ben took it, and they shook hands a little awkwardly.
        "Again, I'm happy to have been of assistance. And it's been a pleasure meeting you."
        Billy made that rude snorting noise again. "Oh yeah. I'm a fucking barrel of laughs." Without waiting for Fraser to reply, he picked up his jeans and guitar case and headed for the front door.
        Ben followed to wait with him. "Where will you be staying?" he asked, somehow unable not to.
        "Dunno. Wherever the cab driver takes me, I guess."
        Fraser frowned. That lack of destination bothered him. "If I may make a suggestion, there's a moderately priced motel not far from here. It's not luxurious, but serviceable. I can give the driver directions if you like."
        "Serviceable works. I'm not picky."
        Ben heard a car pull up outside, and opened the door, revealing a Yellow cab waiting at the curb. "Your ride. I'll carry your guitar, and you should take my arm down the stairs."
        "Ben, I'm a little banged up, not crippled."
        "As you say, however, you did have trouble getting up the stairs earlier, and going down them puts as much stress on the joint as coming up them does, so I suggest. . . "
        "Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. You want another merit badge. Fine. I'll just pretend I'm a little old lady and you can help me cross the street. Sure you don't want to just carry me?" he asked, with a wink and a lightning-fast grin.
        For a moment Fraser was seriously tempted to do so, just to see the expression on Billy's face, but he restrained himself and picked up the guitar instead. Billy put a hand on his arm, leaning a little as they descended the stairs. He opened the door of the cab and carefully placed the guitar inside, then turned to give directions to the driver before straightening. Billy was looking at him intently.
        "Look, if you ever need anything, I'm there. I mean it."
        Fraser nodded, knowing he did; knowing he would never take advantage of it, either. "Good night then," he said, still wishing he could have thought of some reason to detain the other man, feeling almost despairing that he could not.
        "'Night." Billy took a step toward the cab, then stopped and looked at Fraser again, his face tense and pale. "Christ! I can not do this. Look, I know I'm the world's biggest pussy for asking this, but I . . . I just can't handle being alone. I just need someone to keep me from thinking about . . . things. Do you think you could come with me? Talk some more?"
        Profound relief swept through Ben, and he nodded instantly. "Certainly. Just give me a moment to close up." He gestured toward the Consulate.
        Billy nodded. "No problem, we'll wait. The driver won't mind a few extra bucks, and I'll get him to put the guitar up front."
        Fraser stepped back into the building and shut down the computer in his office, then realized he was still half in uniform. He couldn't go out like that. He shook his head, and removed his boots and jodhpurs as quickly as he could, and pulled on a pair of jeans instead, then shoved his feet into his hiking boots and yanked the shorter laces into place. Dief stood up then, looking up at him expectantly and he hesitated, then shook his head.
        "I'm sorry, Dief. I'll be back later, but first I need to make sure he's all right. I would take you, but most lodging facilities don't allow animals."
        Dief settled back down with a soft whine.
        "Thank you, I do appreciate your understanding."
        Shrugging into his jacket, Fraser grabbed his hat, shut off the lights, and locked and closed the door behind him. Billy was still standing next to the cab, and an expression of relief flashed across his face as he saw Fraser emerge.
        "Thought maybe you changed your mind," he said softly.
        "Actually, I changed my clothes," Ben swept a hand toward his jeans, and Billy's gaze followed.
        "Right, no more funny pants," he said, grinning. "You get in first, that way I don't have to scoot."
        Fraser nodded and ducked into the cab. A moment later Billy was easing himself in, wincing as he tried to find a comfortable position for his leg.
        "If you turn toward me, and put your feet on this side of the divider, it will put less stress on the joint." Fraser suggested as Billy pulled the door closed and the driver pulled into traffic.
        Billy nodded, and did so. He had long legs. Very long. Like Ray's. Ben wondered for a moment if those long legs were currently tangled with a more feminine pair, somewhere in a hotel room in Acapulco. He shuddered, swallowing hard, pushing that image out of his mind.
        "Ben, you okay?" Billy asked.
        Fraser opened eyes he didn't realize he'd closed to find the other man studying him attentively.
        "Yes, I'm fine," he lied.
        Billy's gaze narrowed, and one corner of his mouth lifted. "Yeah, you're about as fine as I am. Y'know, I think there's a couple of really crappy liars in this cab."
        Fraser found himself half-smiling back. "I suspect you may be correct."
        Billy nodded. "Thought so."

* * *


        The rest of the brief cab ride was accomplished in silence. Arriving at the motel, Ben carried the in guitar and waited while Billy checked in. From where he stood, Ben couldn't hear their conversation, but after one exchange the clerk's eyes flickered from Billy to Fraser and back with bright curiosity. Billy shook his head, grinned, and said something about a bodyguard, loudly enough for Ben to hear. The clerk shrugged and turned his attention back to the task at hand. Money changed hands, as did Billy's jeans. Fraser assumed he was handing them over to be laundered. A few moments later, Billy turned and motioned for him to follow. Luckily there was an elevator, as the room was on the fourth floor and Billy's knee might not have been able to handle the stairs.
        The small room was anonymous, even barren. It could have been anywhere, in any city. Wallpaper and bedspread in muted greens, a bureau, a desk, a television, and of course, a bed. A king-sized bed. Which reminded him of his painful speculation in the cab, and he had to distract himself, by placing the guitar case carefully against the wall and divesting himself of his jacket and hat. By the time he finished, Billy had pulled one of the pillows out from beneath the covers and propped it against the wall, and was seated on the edge of the bed trying to get his boot off, flinching as the torquing movements hurt his knee.
        Fraser moved to kneel beside him, cupping his calf in one hand, taking the boot in the other and slipping it off in one smooth motion. Suddenly he was intensely aware of the intimacy of their respective positions, and also of how much this man looked like Ray. He felt his temperature rising in a very unexpected way, and had to remind himself that this was a stranger in need of aid, not his partner. Even if it were his partner, he ought not be thinking such things about him. Forcing himself to be impersonal, he repeated the actions on the other side, then nodded for Billy to swing his good leg up onto the mattress, while he lifted the injured one and eased it down onto the bed. Noting a wince, he fished the other pillow from beneath the covers and slid it beneath Billy's knee so it was no longer flat against the bed. Finished, he glanced at Billy's face to find the other man gazing back at him intently, almost speculatively. Fraser cleared his throat.
        "I should go down to the desk and see if they have any aspirin. And some ice. You need something for that," he said, nodding toward his leg.
        "I'd rather have a bottle of Scotch and a some smokes," Billy said a little petulantly.
        "Neither of those substances are particularly conducive to the healing process. In point of fact, both of them are quite deleterious to your health."
        Billy snorted. "That's the point, Ben. It's that whole live-fast-die-young-leave-a-good-looking-corpse mind set. 'Course, no way I can do that last one so why the hell I'm bothering with the first two is a good question."
        Ben studied him, reminded once more of Ray. 'Do you think I'm attractive?' seemed to echo a little plaintively in his ears.
        "I think you would make a very attractive corpse," he said thoughtlessly.
        The blue eyes widened, and then Billy chuckled. "I kind of think maybe you meant that as a compliment, but I'm not really sure. Do I need to be worried here? Do they let Boy-Scout Mounties be serial killers?"
        Fraser suddenly realized what he'd just said, and felt his face go hot. "Oh good lord! I didn't mean that the way it . . ."
        Billy laughed again. "Nah, I know that. Don't worry about it. Look, sit down will you? You're making me nervous."
        Fraser looked around, realized there was no chair in the room, and started to lower himself to the floor.
        Billy sighed loudly. "Christ, Ben, getting mugged isn't contagious. It's a big bed, sit over here. I think I can keep my hands to myself."
        Startled, Ben stared at him, saw nothing but good-natured teasing on that expressive face, and relaxed a little. That jest had been a little too close for comfort, as if the other man had somehow sensed his thoughts a moment earlier. He settled onto the bed, shoulders against the wall. Billy looked over at him, and shook his head.
        "Goddamn, I never saw anybody sit at attention before. Do you ever slouch? Even a little bit?"
        Ben felt himself go red, and deliberately unstiffened his back just a little. "Is that better?"
        "Is what better?" Billy asked.
        Ben was about to point out that he'd actually relaxed, when he noticed the gleam in the other man's eyes and the tiny upcurve of one corner of his mouth, and he realized he was being teased. Again. He took it as a personal challenge and brought up his knees, feet flat on the bed, leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his knees, which he knew would produce a noticeable curve in his spine. Then he realized he still had his shoes on and quickly swung his feet down to the floor again. As soon as he'd done that, he heard Billy snickering happily.
        "I knew it. You can't! Jesus Christ, Ben, were you raised by Martha Stewart or something?"
         "Martha who?" Fraser asked blankly.
        "Never mind. I can't believe I even know who she is. That's what living in LA will do to you. I watch too fucking much television." He was quiet for a moment, fingers fidgeting with the pocket on his flannel shirt, then he let his head fall back against the pillow with a sigh. "Shit, I would kill for a cigarette, but I hurt, and somebody won't go get me any," he said, with a narrow-eyed look at Ben. "And do not tell me I should quit."
        Ben, who had been about to say that very thing, closed his mouth and nodded. Billy was quiet for a moment, staring at the ceiling, then he looked over at him again.
        "So, who's 'Ray?'"
        Fraser stiffened. "Ray?" he asked, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably.
        "Yeah. When you came to the door, you said 'Ray', then you said you'd mistaken me for someone else."
        "Ah. Well, Ray is my. . . my partner. Unofficially, of course, as I have no jurisdiction here."
        "Mmm. He usually come by so late?"
        "Occasionally," Fraser admitted.
        "He the friend you mentioned?"
        Billy really was amazingly perceptive. Disconcertingly so. Ben thought for a moment, then realized that perhaps this was the way he could get Billy to talk about what had happened. By opening up, by revealing some of his own private pain, it would encourage the other man to do the same. And again, it seemed as if opening up to a complete stranger was precisely what he needed, since he simply could not do so with anyone he knew. He leaned down and started unlacing his boots so he wouldn't have to look at Billy as he spoke.
        "Yes. He is. Or was. No, is."
        "Don't sound too sure."
        Ben pulled off his boots and set them beside the bed, then lifted his feet to its flat surface and leaned back against the wall, assuming what he hoped was a marginally relaxed pose.
        "Yes. I'm sure he is my friend. What he is not is more than that."
        Billy shifted position a little to look at his face. Ben stared blankly at the far wall, refusing to meet those luminous eyes, eyes which saw far too clearly, it seemed.
        "Gonna explain that?"
        Ben sighed, and locked his hands around his knees, staring at them now. "I should first ask you a rather personal question, one whose answer will determine whether you want me to remain and talk with you, or leave immediately."
        "Hunh?" Billy said, sounding amused. "Was that English or some other language?"
        "Forgive me. I'm afraid I tend to become somewhat bombastic when under stress. It's a coping mechanism."
        "Am I stressing you?" Billy said, regarding him closely.
        "Not precisely, although the situation does have stressful components."
        "If you don't want to get into it, it's okay. I get that."
        For an instant he sounded almost painfully like Ray. "I . . . think I would like to 'get into it', actually. I suspect I need to. If you're willing to listen."
        "I told you, you need anything, I'm there."
        "Before you say that, I should ask that question I spoke of."
        "Ask away."
        Ben cleared his throat, feeling a blush rise just at the thought of asking this. He felt the need to preface the question. "I must ask that you not speak of this to anyone. At least, not in the same breath with my name. It could present certain difficulties for me, career-wise."
        "Lips are sealed, Ben. Not a word to anyone. On my . . . well, I'd say on my honor but I haven't got any. How about I swear it on my guitar?"
        Ben knew that for Billy, that was probably as binding as swearing on a Bible. He nodded. "Thank you. So. My question . . . " Blood rose in his face, hotter than before. "What is your stance . . . ah, I should say, your personal opinion, on-- well, on same-sex relations?" There. He'd said it. Finally. He'd rarely found a simple question so difficult to ask.
        Silence. Fraser kept his gaze firmly on his hands, barely breathing as he waited for an answer. He heard Billy draw in a long, shaky breath, then let it out in a sigh.
        "Fuck. You?"
        Although the juxtaposition of those two words could have led him to believe he had just been told to leave, the phrasing said otherwise. It was a statement of surprise, and a question. He closed his eyes, tightly, holding back the tears. "Yes, me. Not him," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
        "Oh, Christ . . ." Weight shifted on the bed, a hand touched his shoulder, rubbed awkwardly. "That-- well, that sucks."
        Ben nodded, half laughing, half weeping. It felt so good to get it out. To say it to someone, even as painful as it was. And he was so relieved that Billy hadn't turned away in disgust. The hand slid down to his back, moving over his shoulders, his spine, oddly soothing. He managed to get his breathing under control, and his tears a moment later. He drew in a deep breath, and wiped his eyes.
        "I'm sorry, I don't usually . . ."
        "No problem," Billy interrupted, softly. "Seems t' be the night for it."
        There was a moment of silence, but Billy's hand never stopped moving on his back in a slow, almost hypnotic circling. It occurred to Ben that no one had touched him like this since his mother had died. Certainly Ray touched him. A physically demonstrative person, Ray thought nothing of flinging an arm around his shoulders, of patting his shoulder, holding his arm, dragging him around corners and behind cover, even an occasional hug. He touched Ben so often that it was sometimes enough to be distressing, since it only left him wanting more. And of course, he had touched and been touched by Victoria, but that had been entirely different, overtly sexual. However, this sort of sustained, voluntary, yet nonsexual touch was completely absent from his physical lexicon. It made him feel strangely childlike.
        "So. You wanta talk about it?" Billy asked.
        Fraser sighed. "There's little to tell."
        "You ever touch him?" Billy asked suddenly, his voice strangely fierce, his body as tense as a drawn bow.
        "Well, of course. All the time. It would be difficult to work together without touching . . . "
        "Not that way, idiot. I mean touch him. Fuck him."
        Ben was shocked speechless for a moment, then he finally managed to find his voice. "Good Lord, no! Of. . . of course not! That's just. . . just . . . no!"
        The tension seemed to flow out of Billy like water. "Okay. Okay, that's good. I mean, if he's not, like you said."
        Ben shouldn't have understood that, but he did. Billy meant that if Ray did not feel the same way about Ben that Ben felt about Ray. Ben tried to regulate his suddenly quick breathing, swallowing to moisten his dry mouth. Hearing that said so brazenly had brought images to mind that were far too powerful for comfort. Billy sat up suddenly, turning away, swinging his legs off the bed and lurching to his feet with a soft grunt of pain. He started to pace, limping.
        "I shouldn't've said that. I had no business asking that. I mean, you wouldn't. I can just look at you and know that. You would never touch anybody unless they wanted you to."
        A sudden, stealing guilt came over Ben as he watched the other man's pained movements. "I did, once, though. In a way," he confessed, not entirely sure why.
        Billy swung around to stare at him. "You? No way."
        "Yes. I . . . I kissed him. So to speak."
        "Either you did or you didn't."
        "We were trapped, underwater. I had to give him air."
        Billy looked disgusted. "Ben, that's not a kiss."
        Ben closed his eyes. "I know. But I wanted it to be. I dream of it as if it were."
        "Dreaming and doing aren't the same. You know that. I know that." He seemed to shiver, and turned to draw aside the curtain and stare out the window at the wall of the building next door. When he spoke again, it was so quietly that Ben had to strain to hear him. "Even if it was, a kiss-- that means something. It's not just a fuck with someone who's too screwed up to say no."
        As Ben tried to puzzle out the meaning behind those words, Billy put a hand on the glass, palm flat, fingers looking spidery against the dark, then he curled his fingers into a fist, tapped the glass lightly with his knuckles, then slightly harder. Suddenly alert, Fraser rolled off the bed and launched himself at the slender figure, grabbing his wrist just as he drew back his arm, muscles fully tensed to smash his fist right through the glass. On the way down he managed to twist his body enough so that he ended up taking the brunt of the fall as they hit the floor. Billy struggled, fighting his hold, surprisingly strong for all his thinness. It seemed as if the more he tried to hold him down, the harder he fought, until Ben resorted to wrapping both arms around him and pinning him to the floor, using gravity to subdue him.
        "Billy, stop. Please, stop. I don't want to hurt you, and I'm not going to let you hurt yourself. Stop."
        Abruptly the smaller man's body went lax. Wary of a ruse, Ben waited a moment, then he felt the telltale shudders of sobs as they racked the body beneath his in eerie silence. He shifted his weight, rolling to his side, still holding Billy, soothing a hand down his back, trying to mimic that sexless comforting Billy had offered him earlier.
        "You should talk about it," Ben said softly. "You have to, or it will eat you alive. Tell me. I'll listen."
        The blond head rolled slightly, side to side. Negative. A gasping breath, more tears.
        "Billy, please. You listened to me. Let me listen to you. Let me help. Tell me what you're feeling."
        "How could he do that?" A whisper.
        "What did he do, Billy?" Ben prompted softly, hoping this time he would continue.
        Billy sniffled, coughed, laid his head against his forearm, not looking at Ben. "Does he know, your friend? Have you told him?"
        Well, he was talking. The wrong subject, but talking, nonetheless. Progress of a sort. Ben sighed. "No. I can't. It would-- well, it just wouldn't be a good idea."
        "You don't know that," Billy said, a world of sorrow in his voice. "Could make a difference. A big difference. I know. Damn him, if he'd ever said a word, if he'd just fucking told me. . ." His voice broke, but he went on. "How could he fucking do that to me when I'm starting to think I can trust him again? Just like before, he doesn't ask, just thinks he knows what I want, what I need. Fucks me again, puts it on me, like it's my fault. I was gonna tell him! I just wanted to tell him when we were up, after the concert. But he can't wait. Can't just ask me, when that asshole Bruce tells him first. No, he has to fuck me again, just like before. Except this time I can't even get mad at him, 'cause he's fucking dead!"
        The words stopped abruptly, and a moment of quiet ensued. Ben felt a little dazed. It was becoming clear that Billy was holding in more than the suicide of a close friend. Although he knew he was naive in many ways, he was fairly certain that Billy had just used the word 'fuck' in two, or perhaps even three completely different ways. Certainly he was using it as an expletive, which Ben was learning to cope with, and once in the common parlance of 'to do wrong' but the other use was the word's most basic meaning. Sex. That in turn seemed to tie into the strange tension he'd observed in Billy earlier, when he'd asked 'You ever touch him?' That question took on a new and disturbing significance now. Before he could think of what to say, Billy took a deep breath, and seemed to pull into himself somehow.
        "Sorry. That was a fucking stupid way to say you should tell your friend how you feel. Maybe kiss him. I'd've been . . . Jesus, none of this shit would've happened if Joe could've . . . if he'd just told me! How he felt. Or showed me. Anything to let me know it wasn't about the band, or the money, or a contract. That it was about me. But no, he can't fucking tell me, he has to let me think it's all about anger, and power, and control, which it was, too, but it was more than that and he never told me. For five damned years he lets me think that, right up until he . . . And even now I'm not sure. When all it would have taken was a kiss."
        "Until he what, Billy?" Ben asked, knowing it would hurt, but knowing Billy needed to say it.
        Billy's slender frame tensed even more. "Until he put a bullet through his fucked-up asshole brain, goddamn him. But I can't say that. You can't be mad at a dead person!"
        There. Finally. Part of it anyway. It was almost as much of a relief to Ben to hear him say it as it must be for Billy to have spoken of it at last. This he could help with. This was within his realm of understanding. "Yes, you can. It's perfectly normal to be angry right now," Ben told him gently. "It's actually a very common reaction to the death of a loved one. He left you behind to try to pick up the pieces, left you to clean up the mess, to feel guilty, to wonder if there was something you could have said, or done differently . . ."
        Billy moaned, shuddering. "Oh God. I know there was. It was my fault. If I'd told him about Jenifur, told him, instead of those assholes on the film crew. . . Christ! I practically put the damned gun in his hand and told him to pull the trigger!"
        "No, you did not," Ben said firmly. "There are always other paths. That he chose that one says that he was already well along it before whatever you think you did occurred. Once a person has reached that place, they need professional help, and there is little which even the most concerned friend can do to turn them aside. Joe made a conscious choice to exclude you from his confidence, not to speak of his feelings, or his intentions. You can't be expected to have read his mind."
        Ben paused a moment, then went on to the more delicate subject that needed addressing. "He also, from what you said, made another conscious decision several years ago, one that resulted in a terrible breach of trust between you and perhaps precipitated this outcome. Now, perhaps I've misinterpreted, and forgive me if I seem to pry, but did Joe . . . hurt you?" Ben frowned, irritated with himself. That was far too coy, and too easily misinterpreted. "That is, did he force you . . . to have sex with him?"
        There was a long, tense silence, then finally Billy sighed, and nodded against his arm. "Yeah. I mean, I think so. I was pretty screwed up. I'd been drinking, a lot. He was coked up, but more together than me, by a long shot. I was trying to talk to him, and he wasn't listening. I was furious at him, he blew the deal. Again. Had to screw up another shot at success-- I swear he was scared to death of that, like it would fucking contaminate him or something. So he pissed in the guy's drink, for God's sake! Stupid! So I keep drinking and getting madder, and all the sudden he wants to make nice, and he's touching me."
        Deep breath then. A slight shift of position, easing the pressure on his injured knee, which made Ben feel guilty and want to stop him, to make him get back on the bed where he wasn't in so much pain, but he didn't want to stop the flow of words yet. Billy needed to talk. And Ben needed to listen. To help. It was almost a compulsion.
        "Now, don't get me wrong here. It wasn't the first time. We'd messed around some before, nothing serious, just that 'whatever feels good' kind of stuff, sometimes with girls, sometimes not, it didn't really matter. But I didn't want him to touch me then, I was mad, you know, and the last thing I want is him all over me. Especially when I figure out he wants more than we ever did before. So I tell him that, or I think I did, and he keeps going, and I'm too plowed to think straight, and he's a big guy, and . . ."
        The torrent of words stopped abruptly, then started again in a different place, like a record skipping over a scratch. Ben tried not to let his dismay and upset communicate itself to Billy through his touch, trying to remain calm, and relaxed, though he was appalled by what he was hearing.
        "Maybe he was just too messed up to hear me. Maybe he thought I didn't mean it. But whatever it was, after that I just couldn't be around him, couldn't trust him anymore. I mean, I may be an asshole but even I know you don't do stuff to people when they say no. And the stupid thing is, if he'd just fucking told me how he felt, I wouldn't have said no. Idiot! I loved him! More than anybody else in my whole damned life. Thought he loved me, too, until then. But that made me think he must not, 'cause you don't do that to people you love. So I left."
        Billy ended there as if he'd run out of words. Ben waited for him to go on, but he didn't. After a few seconds it became clear he was finished, and Ben slid his hand up to Billy's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly.
        "Billy, what you did was right. You did what you had to do, for you. In situations like that, when one party is abusive, you have to get out."
        "He wasn't abus . . ." Billy began indignantly, then he stopped and thought for a moment. He turned his head a little to look at Ben with red-rimmed eyes. "Hunh. Never thought about it like that before. Thought he was a manipulative bastard, thought he was an asshole, maybe even fucked up beyond hope, but never really thought of abusive. But that was what he grew up with. What he knew."
        Ben studied him intently, hearing the unspoken 'we' behind those words. He suspected Billy too had come from a less than ideal childhood environment, though he seemed to have survived it better than many. Schooling his face to be carefully nonjudgmental, he nodded. "It's a terribly common pattern. You said you thought he loved you, and he may very well have done, but he probably had no idea how to go about expressing that love in a positive manner. Did he ever express regret over his actions?"
        Billy lifted a hand, rubbing his forehead, hiding his expressive face behind his palm as he did. "No. I mean, not really. Said he was sorry if he was a little rough, that's all. Like it was okay for him to fuck me but not for him to hurt me doing it. And the worst thing was, he made me. . ." his voice trailed off, and Ben saw the pale skin of his cheek darken behind his hand. "Never mind. You don't want to know that."
        "It's all right, Billy. You can tell me."
        A head shake, face still hidden behind his hand. "Can't."
        Clearly, the topic was something deeply personal, probably humiliating. After all Billy had already revealed, Ben could barely think of anything that could be worse, but clearly the other man thought it was. Perhaps it was time to make a change in venue. Curiously reluctant to forsake the feeling of that slender body against his own, he moved away, into a crouch beside him.
        "Would you roll onto your back, please?"
        Billy dropped his hand and looked at him, startled, and Ben thought he saw a hint of shame clouding his eyes for a moment before surprise replaced it. "Why?"
        "Don't worry, I intend nothing untoward," Ben assured him.
        That drew a sudden, swift smile. "Untoward? They teach you to talk like that at the Depot?"
        Ben smiled back, pleased by the break in the tension. "I'm afraid that was my grandmother's doing. She was most assiduous in the instruction of grammar and vocabulary."
Billy chuckled. "That explains a lot." He rolled onto his back with a slight wince as his knee flattened. Ben leaned down. "Now, if you would sit up, and place your arms around my neck . . ."
        Billy eyed him dubiously. "What for?"
        "Trust me?" Ben said, then wished he could snatch back the words as he remembered how little reason Billy had to trust anyone. Strangely, Billy didn't flinch or withdraw. He considered for a moment, then did as Ben had instructed. Ben felt rather as if he'd just been given a gift. Carefully he slid one hand around Billy's back, and the other beneath his legs, and cautiously balancing himself, he stood up. Billy's arms tightened automatically as he yelped in surprise.
        "What the fuck?"
        "I'm just moving you to the bed, your knee has been stressed enough." He moved toward the bed, carrying Billy easily, though not effortlessly. A moment later he was leaning down to place him on the mattress, and then tucking the pillow back beneath his knee again. "There. Better?"
        Billy stared up at him, wide-eyed, and shook his head as if to clear it. "You're weird, Ben."
        Despite himself, Ben found himself smiling. "Ray sometimes says I am a freak."
        "He's right. I mean, not that that's a bad thing, but . . ."
        Ben's smile broadened. "Understood. Now, I'm going to get some ice for that. Stay there."
        "Or you'll what?" Billy challenged.
        Ben couldn't think of an answer. The question disconcerted him. He shook his head. "Or you will be in pain, obviously."
        He turned to go, puzzled, fighting the conflicting feelings that Billy raised in him. He wanted to help him, to heal him, yet he was also attracted to him. He wasn't used to being attracted to two different people at the same time. It felt strange, and forbidden. As he picked up the ice-bucket and key-card and stepped out of the room in search of ice he tried to analyze his own reactions.
        Was the attraction he felt simply due to the fact that Billy looked like Ray? Certainly it didn't hurt. Was he somehow substituting one for the other? He didn't think so, but could not help but suspect himself of it, simply because the resemblance was so strong. They were alike in more than physical ways. Both men were vulnerable, wounded even. That attracted him. He frowned as he realized that. What did that say about his own mental state? He didn't want to think about that. Deliberately he moved into efficient mode, and locating the ice machine, he filled the container he held and went back to the room. He stopped in the bathroom and lifted out the plastic bag that lined the waste can. Emptying the ice-bucket into it, he twisted it tightly and tied it closed before wrapping it in a hand-towel from the rack behind the toilet.
        "Here we are, hold this for a moment," he said, handing the bundle to Billy as he reached down to carefully slip the leg of his sweat pants up above the other man's knee, above the elastic bandage, keeping his movements brisk and professional. "You should see a doctor about this as soon as possible, as you may have sprained it, or torn a ligament, and you don't want permanent damage to ensue. I remember a trapper outside of Yellow Knife who once went two weeks on a torn . . ."
        "Ben, stop," Billy said quietly.
        Ben stopped, his hands resting on Billy's bent knee, his head down.
        "Look at me."
        He looked up, slowly, hoping his emotions weren't written all over his face. Billy's eyes were shrewd and bright as he studied Ben's face. "Tell me about Ray."
        Relief. He hadn't figured it out. "Ray is . . . he's my best friend. Well, my only friend."
        "No. I don't believe that. But I believe that you believe it. Why are you so hard on yourself, Ben? I mean, you're not like me, you don't have 'loser' tattooed on your ass. You have a real job, a grown-up job that people respect. You're smart, you're kind, and good. You know how to talk, how to act. Shit, you're even fucking unbelievably gorgeous. Why can't you just let yourself be happy?"
        Ben looked away, unable to bear that brilliant scrutiny. "I don't know. I just don't . . . feel . . . good enough. Don't feel I deserve it."
        Billy laughed. "Christ, there's not much hope for me then, if you don't!"
        "No!" Ben exclaimed, looking up again. "This has nothing to do with you, not with you, or Ray, or anyone. It's simply . . . me. Who I am."
        "It's wrong, Ben. That's not who you should be."
        Ben sighed. "Very few of us are who we should be."
        Billy was quiet for a moment, then he sighed, too. "Well, you got that right. Ray. You were telling me about Ray. Do I remind you of him? You called me by his name outside the Consulate."
        Ben nodded. "Yes. The resemblance is . . . well, frankly, it's rather astonishing."
        Billy nodded, as if that made sense. He studied Ben for a moment longer, then his gaze flickered down to the towel-wrapped bundle in his hands. Silently he held it out and Ben took it, molding it carefully around Billy's knee, holding it in place. The cold seeped through the towel, through his hands. It felt good. Soothing. He always felt at home in the cold. The silence lengthened, not unpleasantly. He liked silence as well. Finally Billy spoke again.
        "When you had me on the floor, for a second I kind of thought you were Joe. He was about your size, your coloring. Except for the fact that you're not an asshole, and you're better-looking, you could be his brother. That's why I freaked out."
        "I'm sorry! I didn't realize . . ."
        Billy sighed, interrupting his apology. "Ben, I didn't tell you so you'd feel bad, I told you so you would know I understand. And it's okay."
        Ben stared at him, frowning a little, trying to puzzle out the meanings in those statements. There were many possibilities.
        "You want to kiss him?" Billy asked.
        It took Ben a moment to realize he meant Ray. Once he did, he nodded, a flush painting his face.
        "And more?" Billy prompted softly.
        He nodded again, somehow compelled to honesty by this man. He could never have admitted this to anyone else. Could barely even admit it to himself.
        "I wanted that, too. I wanted to kiss Joe. I wanted to . . . make love with him. Not just fuck. There's a difference, you probably don't know that. Even after he . . . even after that. Or maybe because of that. See, I loved him, and I wanted to know what it was like to make love instead of fucking. Fucking is all I've ever done. Bet you don't have a clue what I'm talking about, though. You've probably never fucked anybody in your whole damned life. And no, I don't mean I think you're a virgin so stop bristling," he said with an amused glance at Ben, who subsided. "I mean you just don't think in those terms. It's not part of your . . . vocabulary."
        Ben found himself listening with his whole being, unconsciously leaning toward the source of that soft, husky voice as if Billy held the key to something that had been locked away from him for years. His entire life, perhaps. Anticipation shivered through him, and he tried to push it away. Just because Billy's words could, with some imagination, be considered a prelude . . . no. They were simply words. Explanation. Nothing more. He must not let himself get carried away with unrealistic daydreams.
        "I guess now I'll never know if we could have had something more, or if it was too late for him." Billy carried on, conversationally, as if he was not speaking with incredible intimacy of things that Ben had never discussed with another living soul. "I think maybe it was too late for Joe a long time ago. But talking to you here, admitting what happened, makes me hope maybe it's not too late for me. I'm tired of being empty, Ben, I want more than that."
        Billy stopped and stared off at nothing, his gaze distant and unfocused. Ben watched his face, seeing shadows and the yearning in it. Waiting. He knew Billy wasn't finished yet, and after a moment that was proved out when the other man sighed and spoke again.
        "It's weird . . . I just found out I have a daughter. Her name is Billie." He sighed. "After me, I guess. She's about five years old, I don't know exactly. Shit. I don't even know her birthday. I never even knew she existed until a few days ago, her mother never told me. Still hasn't. I just figured it out on my own."
        Billy fidgeted nervously with his shirt pocket again, Ben guessed he was looking for cigarettes. A daughter? He tried not to think about the carelessness that implied. It was clear that Billy had come a long way from those days, and shouldn't be judged on those merits.
        "I, uh, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised she didn't tell me. I mean, I was not exactly somebody you'd want to play house with." He laughed drily. "Maybe I should be surprised I haven't had a string of paternity suits. It was like that on the road. A lot of anonymous fucking, rarely safe, because it wasn't easy if it was safe, because it didn't feel as good. Assholes, all of us. Idiots, too. I'm amazed I'm not dead now, or living on AZT. But I guess I'm just a lucky son of a bitch, I guess, since I'm clean.
        "But ever since Joe, I've wondered sometimes if any of them said no to me, and I was too fucked up to hear them. That scares the shit out of me, thinking that I could have done that. Gives me nightmares. Did I hurt anybody like that? I don't think so, but I don't know. And then he called, and like some stupid cow I went. I was hoping . . . well, you know what I was hoping for. Already told you that. But it was just like before. He hadn't changed at all, and I had. I moved on, he was still exactly the same. And I didn't know what to do to get past that."
        He shook his head, rubbed his hands over his face, through his hair, and shuddered. "Christ. You said that Joe didn't know how to love, and neither do I. Hard to learn what you've never had. But I-- I want to learn. I want to be able to say before I die that I know what love is." He finally looked back at Ben. "Don't you want to do that, Ben? Don't you want to say that?"
        The question seemed to go straight into Ben's heart like the shining blade of a well-honed knife. He felt his throat thicken, but nodded, blinking back tears. "Yes," he managed to choke out past the lump.
        "Then tell him. Show him. It's worth the risk. Believe me, I know. Better to risk feeling too much than to end up feeling nothing at all."
        Ben shook his head, feeling a desperate urge to run away from this too deep, too revealing conversation, yet somehow chained in place, saying things he had never imagined saying to anyone. "I can't. I don't . . . I'm not good at . . . I don't . . . I don't want him to go away," he whispered, feeling, and sounding, like a six-year-old child who had lost his mother. "Everyone I love goes away."
        "But at least you had them, Ben. That's more than a lot of people get."
        The truth of that felt like a sunrise. It had never occurred to Ben before that it was more than a lot of people had. He'd simply taken it for granted. Had thought everyone else had more.
        "Ben?"
        He looked up, to find Billy reaching out to him, his right hand extended, palm up in invitation. He closed his eyes. This wasn't him. He wanted it. But it wasn't him. He wanted it. The ice bag slid from numb fingers, slipped off the bed to the floor. He reached out, put his hand in that long, narrow-palmed one, allowed it to draw him forward.
        "Your hand's cold," Billy said softly.
        "Yes. The ice," Ben explained meaninglessly.
        Billy lifted Ben's hand and placed it square in the center of his chest. Against his palm Ben could feel the other man's heartbeat, fast, hard, as if he'd been running. Or was afraid. Fear. Billy was afraid. Just as he was afraid. Different reasons perhaps, but the same result. Two fearful hearts. He let his fingers spread out a little, soothing back and forth across that hard plane. Billy closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, his palm resting against the back of Ben's hand as his fingers moved gently. Ben's gaze slid down that angular face, to the beautifully modeled mouth. He wanted to taste it. So much. Why was this so difficult? Why couldn't he just lean forward and . . .
        His lips came to rest on warm, satin-textured flesh. Slightly moist. Yielding. He brought his hands up, cupping the stubbled jawline, tipping Billy's head slightly to one side so he could seal their lips more closely. Strangely, now that he'd started, this wasn't difficult at all. Billy's lips parted at his urging, warm breath misting into his mouth. He licked out, tasting a faint hint of hours-ago tobacco, not terribly unpleasant, to his surprise. Tea. Peanut butter. Something else, unidentifiable, unique. He licked again and again, searching for that taste, finding it on palate, in the soft hollow between teeth and lips, then on tongue, which slid and tangled with his own as that yielding mouth came to life, suckling at his own, biting. Delightful. Exotic.
        Billy made a soft sound, definitely not a protest, and his arms slid around Ben's waist, pulling him down so their bodies were touching almost everywhere, one knee coming up alongside Ben's hip, making a space for Ben's body there, between his thighs. It was strange to feel hardness there, where his own body remembered a different configuration. A little to his surprise, he found the hardness under him was just as erotic as that barely-recalled softness. He wanted to touch, to explore this uncharted territory, so strangely familiar, yet so startlingly unfamiliar as well. To map it, to learn every nuance of it, every valley, peak, plane . . . the topography of desire.
        He let his hand slide down Billy's throat to his chest, a solid curve beneath a palm. A slight rise there beneath thin cotton. Nipple. He let his fingers take it, tugging softly, feeling it harden. Billy moaned into his mouth, body arching beneath his. Suddenly it was too much. Ben pulled away, almost panting, shaking his head.
        "No, this isn't right. I can't use you."
        "Shhh, you're not," Billy said, his hand caressing Ben's arm, moving over his shoulder, like before, only not like before, this time with sensual intent. "It's okay."
        "No. You don't understand. I don't want to make you a substitute. You don't deserve that. It's not right, it's not fair."
        "Nobody ever said life was fair, Ben," Billy said with a sigh. "But I understand." Billy's hand slid higher, up his throat, fingers threading into his hair, stroking. "I know it's wrong for me to use you as a substitute, too. For Joe. I know you don't love me, you love Ray and you know I don't love you, I loved Joe. But if . . . if we can be that for each other, do that for each other, we're not hurting anyone, are we?"
        Billy's voice was tentative, almost sorrowful, the hunger in it almost palpable, the need an echoing ache in his own flesh. No. They weren't hurting anyone. And it felt so good, to be held, to be close to someone. It had been so long. To feel the warmth and closeness of that wiry body against his own, to taste in Billy what he could not taste of Ray.
        "Ben, we don't have them. I know you love Ray, and I don't expect that from you. I just need to know it's possible, that people can have this. Let me feel that, let me pretend just for now right now that I can have that, that this is for me."
        Ben started to protest that, feeling that wasn't nearly enough, but Billy put his fingers over his mouth, shaking his head.
        "Let me give you what you can't, or won't let yourself have. It's okay, Ben. We can do this for each other. It's comfort, Ben. Nothing wrong with comfort."
        Billy's fingers exerted a gentle pressure against the back of Ben's neck, urging him to lower his head again, not pushing, easily resisted, should he want to. But he didn't want to. He wanted to yield. He wanted to comfort, and to be comforted. He let those fingers coax him down, let his mouth settle over the warmly welcoming lips beneath his own. Billy's tongue flickered against his mouth, clever, agile, teasing. He chased it with his own, found it, moved slickly. Resistance disappeared, and desire renewed itself; fire finding dry tinder. As he had started to once before, Ben let himself become an explorer, learning the unaccustomed terrain of this almost stranger's body with all his senses.
        Taste; the subtle salt of sweat, the sweetness of mouth and tongue, the bitter undertones of burning leaves. Scent; sweat again, faint, acrid, strangely rich. Soap. Something citrusy in his hair. A hint of smoke. Touch, the shifting of cloth beneath his fingers as he pushed Billy's shirt aside, then the living warmth of silky skin, a little loose over hollow belly, where grief had been feeding off him. He stroked softly, letting his fingers edge beneath the drooping waist of too-large sweatpants, felt the lithe form beneath him arch into his touch, breaking their kiss with a little shiver.
        "Mmmyeah," Billy sighed softly against his mouth.
        Sound; husky, low, breathless, the strange, erotic vibration of a hum against sensitive flesh. The soft clinging sound of lips parting, touching, parting again. Ben delved into that wet heat again, more fiercely now, letting himself slip the leash of his control, just a little, remembering somehow to temper his need with gentleness, wanting to give that comfort, to give Billy the reassurance he needed, though he wasn't entirely sure of its truth himself. He felt Billy respond, moving against him, mouth open, hands stroking up his flanks, the backs of his thighs, his buttocks, moving higher to tug the back of his t-shirt free of his jeans. Ben tensed in anticipation as those long fingers slipped beneath his shirt, splayed over his back, then began to move, callused fingertips playing unwritten chords on his skin.
        Ben moaned and shuddered. So long, so long untouched, he felt as if he were rediscovering sensation, as if his body had been asleep for years, and circulation was only now returning to his flesh. Painful, yet welcome. It came to him that he could not touch, or even see as much of Billy as he wanted to, mostly because he was lying on him. He shifted position, moving to lie beside him.
        "Hey . . ." Billy protested, frowning, and opening his eyes.
        Ben didn't speak, he just reached out and took the lower edge of Billy's shirt in his hands. Billy's protest died, and a smile curved his mouth. He lifted his arms, and Ben stripped his shirt up, and then off. Finally, sight; Billy had the look of someone who hadn't eaten properly in days, but there was a certain wasted beauty about him. The stubble-framed mouth, oddly angelic considering the words that tended to issue from it, traces of a subtle smile lingering at its corners. His eyes were closed again, their luminescence hidden, but even closed they held a sleepy sensuality. His chest was a bare, bony width sheathed in pale gold skin, like chamois, with light sienna nipples and only the faintest dusting of hair.
        Leaning over, Ben used his tongue to trace a border around one of those nubs, feeling the faint crinkle of fine blond hairs against his lips, then he breathed across saliva-damp skin and watched the skin pebble and tighten. Only then did he take it between his lips, wringing a soft cry from the other man as he sucked and tongued. Strange, to be so intently focused on giving pleasure, but to have that very focus return pleasure. Usually when he was focused, it was to the exclusion of all other sensory input, yet now it seemed only to heighten his own desire.
        Billy reached down and trailed his fingers across Ben's cheek, then slid them between his chest and Ben's mouth, breaking the suction. As he lifted his head, Billy reached out and began to unbuckle Ben's belt. Ben went still, suddenly nervous, but he didn't protest as Billy removed his belt, opened the button on his jeans, and then very slowly drew the front of his shirt out of his pants to match the back part, and then eased his hands beneath it, pushing it up. He got it bunched under Ben's arms, and looked him in the face with a smile and a quickly lifted eyebrow. Blushing, Ben finally got the hint, lifting his arms so Billy could draw his shirt the rest of the way off.
        Barechested, Ben felt achingly self-conscious. He'd always been embarrassed by his smooth, pale skin, had been teased about it at the Depot, in the barracks, along with so many other things. That had been a difficult time for him. He'd also always felt he was too thin, although compared to Billy he was positively bulky. But Billy's gaze was anything but mocking. He drew in a breath, reached out to touch, sliding his fingers down Ben's chest, making him shiver.
        "Beautiful," he breathed. "Fucking beautiful." Suddenly Billy was rolling to his knees, reaching for him, and just as suddenly he flinched. "Ouch, damn it! Fuck!" He collapsed onto his side, cradling his injured knee, then looked up and shot a startling grin at Ben, who was about to start fretting. "I'm okay. Just surprised me." He chuckled. "Shit, you got me so hot I forgot about it. How the hell am I supposed to do anything if I can't move?"
        Ben smiled. "I can move, so you don't need to."
        Billy closed his eyes and groaned, flopping onto his back with one hand over his heart. "Am I dead?"
        Concerned, Ben leaned over him. "Of course you're not dead, why would you say that?"
        Billy opened his eyes, mischief shining in them. "Because I am in fucking heaven, that's why, you idiot," he said affectionately, reaching up and hauling Ben down against him, mouth open and demanding. The kiss turned hard, almost fierce, both of them were panting by the time Ben drew back with a soft protest.
        "Sorry!" he gasped, suddenly remembering that Billy had already had one negative experience with a man. "Too hard!"
        Billy grinned fiercely. "Not too hard. I won't break, Ben. I may be scrawny but I'm strong."
        Ben's eyes narrowed. "You're not scrawny," he said adamantly. "Don't say that."
        The fierceness faded instantly, and Billy's smile turned sweet. "You're just as gorgeous inside as you are outside, aren't you, Ben?"
        Ben blushed, again. Lord, how he hated that tendency.
        Billy pulled him back, smiling. "You have better things to do," he said huskily. "Touch me, Ben. I need you to touch me. And I want to touch you." His hands went to Ben's jeans, to that unbuttoned waistband, finding the zipper, pausing there. His eyes lifted to Ben's, clearly asking permission. Swallowing with a suddenly-dry throat, Ben nodded shallowly. Billy smiled in a very satisfied manner as his fingers shifted and the zipper slid down. He eased his fingers inside the fly, and his eyes widened.
        "Holy. . . you some kind of masochist, Ben? I mean, Jesus. Starch?"
        Ben looked at him, puzzled. "Excuse me?"
        Billy shook his head, laughing. "God. I should know better. Never mind. Just, next time you do laundry, forget the starch. You'll be a lot happier, believe me. At least part of you will be." He grinned and winked. "Now, I'm a real soft-hearted guy, and I can't stand to see a wild thing all caged up like that, so I think we need to set you free, Benton Fraser. Unfortunately since I'm walking wounded here, guess you're going to have to do the honors." He tugged on Ben's belt-loops, pulling his jeans down an inch or so. "Off."
        Ben hesitated. He wanted this, he did, desperately. But it was so . . . intimate. So frightening. To make himself vulnerable like this, after what had happened the last time he'd touched another human being in desire. But Billy wasn't like Victoria. . . he was, perhaps, not entirely ethical, but neither was he a criminal. And, he was hurting, and so was Ben.
        "Please?" Billy asked, his voice warm, and urgent.
        Propelled by that single word, Ben's hands went to his hips, finding the heavy denim, pushing it down a little more, hampered by his position. He rolled over, hung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat up, then stood, pulling and tugging at the fabric until the garment slid down to his knees, thinking, oddly, of Billy's comment earlier that evening about needing to buy looser jeans. He bent to push them the rest of the way down, and Billy moaned.
        "Jesus, Ben. If I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to kill me! But as long as you're up, you need to get a couple of things before you come back, okay?"
        Fraser finished removing his jeans and absently folded them as he turned. "What things?"
        Billy put his arms negligently behind his head. "My guitar case, for one. And I bet there's one of those little bottles of hand lotion in the bathroom. Bring that, too."
        Ben nodded, put his jeans on the bureau, then went and retrieved the requested items, thinking they were a trifle odd under the circumstances, but trusting that Billy knew what he was doing, since he had a great deal more experience at this sort of thing than Ben did. When he returned, Billy took the lotion from him and set it on the little table built onto the wall beside the bed, then he opened the guitar case, flipped open the pick-safe, and withdrew a small packet, which he placed next to the lotion on the table, then closed the case and handed it back to Ben, who placed it next to the bed.
        As Ben turned back from doing that, he saw what Billy had just taken from the case, and suddenly both requests made a great deal more sense. He felt himself flushing, both with embarrassment, and a sense of erotic anticipation so startlingly powerful it made him shiver. Billy reached out, wrapped his long fingers around Ben's hand and pulled gently.
        "Come on, come back. You won't be cold for long."
        Ben allowed himself to be drawn back, those words seeming strangely significant. He'd been cold for so long, but now he was thawing. Was that good, or bad? Did he even care? Not right now. Right now, he just wanted to feel again. He wanted to not be alone, just for once, to feel the warmth and passion of another human being. He stretched out next to Billy and was about to reach out, to begin his explorations anew, when suddenly he was enveloped in surprisingly muscular arms, and pulled in fully against that wiry body, Billy's mouth on his, strong and hot, tongue licking at his own, so hot, so good. He found himself on his back, with Billy over him, that angel mouth moving down his throat, little bites, nips, licks, a slick trail of tongue across his collarbone, then down to a nipple, sucking softly, nibbling. Ben arched into that touch with a groan of pure need, heat exploding through his body, every sensation seeming to end up, somehow, in his groin.
        Feel. Yes. Feel. Shuddering with the intensity of it, Ben slid his hands down the sleek, narrow back, hands going beneath the loose waist of borrowed sweatpants, finding nothing else to hamper his touch, just hot, bare flesh. He cupped the shallow curves of buttocks in his hands, pulling Billy down, bringing his hardness firmly against his own erection, blazingly aware how little separated them. His boxer shorts felt rough and constricting, and as if reading his mind Billy lifted away, and those clever hands were slipping under the waistband, and carefully peeling them down.
        "Lift." The word was breathed with husky impatience.
        Ben lifted. His shorts were removed, discarded. Billy started kissing his way down Ben's body once more. Beautiful, wonderful, talented mouth. Driving him out of his mind, dragging little gasps and moans from reluctant lips, making him arch and twist. Agile tongue, lips like silk, teeth a shocking hardness that made him cry out when they tugged gently on erect nipple, or scraped against the protrusion of a hipbone. He tensed, fingers winding into the bedspread, as Billy's mouth skimmed across his belly, his tongue dipped into his navel, then traced a line down, down. . . he shivered with frustration as it moved sideways, along the line of demarcation between skin and pubic hair.
        "Please," he choked out, almost a sob.
        The word hadn't even fully left his mouth when he felt fingers curl around him, firm, warm, and wonderful. Then even better, mouth on thigh, teeth gentle against the inner surface. He bucked, whimpering, as the fingers began to stroke. He lifted his head and looked down just in time to see that blond head descending, lips parted, eyes closed in what looked like rapt concentration, and then he was seeing and feeling in unison as wet heat enclosed him. His fingers clenched into full-fledged fists, his body arching up off the mattress. Billy put an arm across his hips to hold him down, and began to stroke and suck at the same time. Ben shook, gasping, needing. Tongue slid gently around him, flickering against the sensitive spot just below the head, then dipping into the hollow at the tip before swirling back down where it had been a moment earlier.
        Billy paused for a moment, lifting his head, and leaned across him, fingers still stroking, then he was back down, almost before it registered that he'd been gone. A moment later Billy's hand slid lower, urging his thighs apart, and there were fingers slipping between his thighs, higher, cool, slippery fingers, and one was circling and then sliding inside him, gentle, and shockingly intimate. He heard himself make a raw, and overtly sexual sound that shocked him as much as that touch. . . inside him. Then that long finger was pressing deeper, and found something and oh, God, he'd never had any idea anything could feel that good! Just as Billy's mouth slipped off his aching flesh again, his last thread of control snapped and pleasure tore through him, lightning, thunder, delight.
        Thunder gradually resumed its normal beat, and Ben realized it was just his heart. Lightning was just the starburst of colors against tight-closed eyelids. Delight was definite, and sweet. Sensations began to coalesce, Billy's head, heavy against his thigh, fingers playing idly in the pool of wetness on his belly. His own hands tangled in the covers. Sweat cooling all over him. Mouth dry from gasping breaths. Streaks of moisture, drying itchily down his temples.
        A delicious lethargy lulled him toward sleep, until it dawned on him that he was the only one who'd gained release. With that he was reaching down with a clumsy hand to stroke what he could reach of Billy, which was one small ear, and his soft-crisp hair. Billy made a little mmming sound, which vibrated strangely against his thigh and woke surprising little echoes of arousal.
        "Hey," he said, conversationally. "You doing . . . okay?"
        Ben nodded, then realized Billy probably couldn't see him, and attempted to speak. "Yes. Oh, yes. That was . . . it was . . . " For almost the first time in his life, words failed him. There simply wasn't one. Not in any language he knew. Wait. Perhaps there was. "Perfect."
        Billy chuckled. "Ben, you need to get out more."
        Ben thought about that, and sighed. "You're probably correct."
        "Thought so."
        He felt the bed shift a little, and opened his eyes to see Billy sitting up, no, standing up, and walking, or rather, limping toward the door. He looked almost comical with sweatpants sagging down around his hips, and rucked up above the elastic bandage on his left knee.
        "If you need something, let me get it, you should spare your knee," Fraser said, pushing up onto his elbows.
        Billy looked over his shoulder and grinned. "I don't think this is something you can do for me. Kinda have to do it myself, if you know what I mean," he said, nodding toward the bathroom.
        "Ah, of course," Fraser settled back, feeling more relaxed than he had in . . . well, since he could remember. He heard water running, then a moment later heard Billy's voice.
        "Heads up!"
        He looked up, saw Billy grin from the bathroom door, lift an arm, then a white object came flying toward him. He managed to get a hand up fast enough to catch the warm, wet item before it hit him in the face, and discovered it was a washcloth. He smiled, and used it. He thought briefly about getting up and taking it back to the bathroom, then in a fit of deliberate and uncharacteristic laziness, he just dropped it on the wood-grained Formica of the night table. He put his arms under his head and closed his eyes for a moment.

* * *

        Ben woke to find Billy curled up against him, head on his shoulder. The light next to the bed was off now, though the bathroom light provided indirect illumination. He felt heat rise in his face as he realized he must have fallen asleep before Billy returned to bed. How incredibly discourteous! Worse, he must have managed to sleep through Billy taking a shower as well, because now instead of cigarettes he smelled of shampoo and soap, and his hair was still damp. That gave him a slight feeling of reprieve, because it meant Billy hadn't been out of the shower all that long. He shifted a little, trying to see the clock-radio on the night table, though he hadn't been paying attention before that so looking at the clock really wouldn't help.
        "Relax, Ben, it's only been about half an hour."
        Billy definitely sounded amused. How had he known what Ben was doing?
        "I'm so sor . . .," Ben began, utterly chagrined, only to have Billy reach up and put a hand over his mouth, cutting him off mid-word.
         "Stuff it. God only knows how many times I've done it, and for a fuck of a lot longer than half an hour, so settle down, okay?"
        Ben nodded, and Billy lifted his hand off his mouth. Ben caught it, and brought it back down, placing a kiss in his palm, then licking the same spot. Billy shivered and turned toward him, hips moving, tight against his thigh, and Ben realized that the other man had shed the remainder of his clothing and was naked now, naked, and partly aroused. Steadily becoming more aroused, as Ben's tongue laved his palm, his wrist, and up his forearm. He paused to suck at the tender hollow at the elbow, not hard enough to raise a bruise, but enough to cause Billy's breath to catch, and for him to press harder into Ben's thigh.
        There was something oddly reassuring about being able to feel that response, to know it was honest, and unfeigned. For years now he had wondered if Victoria's apparent pleasure had been just that, only apparent, not actual. That she could have been planning all she had, and still have gained any pleasure in his bed was beyond comprehension to him.
        "Mmm, don't stop," Billy said huskily.
        Ben realized he had, and started again, moving steadily upward. The taste of ashes was gone from Billy's skin, he simply tasted clean, and wonderful. Taking the other man's hand in his, Ben stretched both their arms above their heads, and licked in the crease where arm molded to body. Billy shuddered, sighed, made a little pleasure-sound in his throat. Turning a little, Ben aligned their bodies, face-to-face, moving instinctively to bring their hips together. He was becoming aroused again, himself, by the taste of desire, the subtle scent of arousal, the feel of flesh against his own. So complex, so simple.
        He slid his free hand down that spare body, reading it with his fingers, eyes closed, feeling each tensing that signaled sensitivity, hearing each caught breath, each sigh, finally coming to rest on one tense thigh. He smiled, knowing that tension, let his fingers trail across, hover briefly, then gently surround. A soft moan broke from his lover's parted lips as he pushed into his hand, flesh hard, and heated, and silky. Part of him startled at that thought, then he wondered why. Yes. Lover. However briefly.
        Ben wrapped the word around him, it was as sensual as velvet against his need. Just for tonight he could be that, for this man who'd never had one before, and maybe for himself, as well. A chance to be the lover he wanted to be with someone else, and that was all right, for now, because there were no expectations between them. Just desire, and loneliness, and a little caring. Why it should be so easy with a stranger and so terribly hard with a friend was a mystery to him, but it was. He had to accept it. He leaned in and brushed his lips across the hard, angular curve of one cheekbone, followed it down to those parted lips, dry from panting, and moistened them with his tongue.
        Billy arched into his hand again, bucking a little. Soft slide of skin on skin, so well-known, but so uncommon. He sealed their lips together, and began to stroke, steady, firm. This he knew. No mystery here. Brush of thumb across slick, hot skin. A shudder and groan. He set a slow, maddening pace, knowing it would make it better in the end. He skimmed his other hand down Billy's back, over the scant arc of buttock, down to thigh, curving beneath it to lift it over his own. Billy reacted eagerly, shifting his knee higher, hooking his calf behind Ben's hip, giving him the access he wanted.
        He eased his fingers into that gap, gently caressing the soft, loose folds surrounding testes, hearing breath sucked in desperately through a nose, since mouth was closed by his own tongue. Remembering that stunning pleasure Billy had evoked within him, he searched, found. Wait. Not like this. Lifting his head he looked around, saw the lotion, still uncapped, on the nightstand. He reached for it, spilled some onto his fingers and reached down again, finding again, stroking gently around, over, hearing the soft sounds of pleasure, the gasping breaths. Now, now, in.
        One of Billy's hands clenched on his shoulder, painfully hard, his whole body tense. And Ben remembered. He froze, unsure, angry with himself for forgetting. How could he have forgotten? How could he be so insensitive? Slowly, gently, he started to ease his hand back. Billy let go of his shoulder and slapped his hand tightly around Ben's wrist, halting him.
     &