The Consulate is quiet. Inspector Thatcher and Constable Turnbull have
left for the day, returning to their homes and the lives they lead outside
of work. As always, I remain here, because I have nowhere else to go.
No-one to go home to. Only Diefenbaker, who does not care where he sleeps,
as long as he is with me. I am grateful for his loyalty and friendship.
But tonight it is a poor substitute for what I truly need. 

//Ray.// I let his name curl through my body. Seductive, alluring, yet
so golden and beautiful I can barely stand it. Sometimes it hurts even
to look at him, so full of energy and life. I feel old by comparison,
though we are the same age. Weighed down as I am by hidden emotions and
tenacious control, I'm amazed that I can keep up with him. We connect
on a level that is almost uncanny in its completeness. 

The idea makes me smile wryly. Not *quite* complete. There are things
I keep hidden from everyone, even Ray. *Especially* Ray. Things that
would cause him to turn away from me, if he knew that I felt them. That
I *feel* them, for him. 

Oh, he wouldn't be disgusted, or even insulted. He wouldn't belittle
me in any way. Ray is too - too *Ray* to every hurt anyone he cares about
like that. He has no hang-ups about such things. He would possibly even
be flattered by my feelings for him, in a way. But it would change things
between us, and that I cannot risk. He would see me differently. The
easy camaraderie, the sense of brotherhood we share, which I have come
to depend on so heavily - it would all vanish, and I would be alone again.
Lonely. I would lose everything that I hold dear, save for the wolf at
my side. 

I do not think I could survive that again.

So it is that I sit here, in my small, dark office, with Dief on the
floor beside me and a bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch whiskey open on
the desk in front of me. The bottle was sealed when the evening began.
It is now decidedly less than full. I squint in the dimness, aiming for
accuracy. The bottle is, in fact, two-thirds empty. Not a bad effort
for a man who professes not to indulge in strong drink. The liquid is
the same colour as my boots, I note idly, examining them as they rest
on the surface of my desk with my feet still in them. It is something
I have watched Ray do many times. Now it helps me feel closer to him.

I know I am pathetic. Sitting here alone in the middle of the night,
steadily drinking myself into forgetfulness for love of a man I know
I cannot have. It is a situation derived straight out of a romance novel,
and a bad one at that. Still, I cannot refrain from imagining a suitable
conclusion: Ray storming into the room, eyes and hair wildly dramatic,
declaring his love for me in front of God and Queen and man, and meaning
every word. I let myself revel in the thought for just a moment. If only
... 

Then I laugh harshly, saluting myself with the glass and drinking deeply.
It will not happen. Ray does not love me. He does not even know me. Not
the deepest parts of me, which no-one has ever seen. I would show him,
if he wished it. I would give him everything, all of myself, if he wanted
me to. 

And there's the rub. Ray, for all his sensitivity and beauty, does not
see me. He sees nothing but Stella, the misty memory of his only true
love, who has moved on. I can see the signs in both of them. After living
with it for so long, it is second nature for me to see unrequited love
and the pain it causes. I have vowed never to inflict that kind of pain
on Ray. I do not wish to lose him like that, the way he has lost Stella.
But in this, as in most affairs of the heart, he has the advantage. Because
at least he *had* Stella, if only for a while. 

The slow ticking of the clock is the only sound in the room. I reach
for the bottle again, noting my unsteady hand and blurred vision. Good.
The liquor has done its work well. Tonight, at last, I might sleep without
dreaming of what might have been. Then I feel the first tears slide down
my face, and I know the true depths of despair. When did I start lying
to myself? 

I take the bottle with me when I climb into bed. It pains me that I am
brought so low, to use alcohol as a crutch like this. But the alternative
is to show myself to Ray, knowing that he will reject me, and that, I
fear, would destroy me completely. 

And yet, some small vestige of hope remains. I laugh bitterly and disdain
the glass, raising the bottle in a final toast to the stubborn futility
of love. Then I close my eyes in pretence of sleep and await the coming
of dawn. 

FINIS