I hope no one minds, but I'm taking a muse-insistent break from "The Fmaily" to chase a wayward plot bunny. I hope to post the rest of it soon.
TITLE: *Double or Nothing*
AUTHOR: Manna La Droit
RATINGS: NC-17
PAIRING: RV/BF (that means slash!)

Double or Nothing
by Manna La Droit


PART: 1/2
***
The suspect looked through the glass.
Yes, Benton Fraser, RCMP, was certain of it. Those dark eyes, desperate and jaded and so much older than they should have been in the young man's face, were looking *through* the glass, resolutely aware that the mirror in the interrogation room hid unknown observers, perhaps a video camera.
When the eyes turned to Ray Vecchio, CPD, everyone in the room knew Trevor Durham, reputed "boy" of Vincent "Tiger" Perrelli, wasn't going to say another word.
Ray leaned back, signaling to Huey and Fraser, who sat in the room with him, and to Lieutenant Welsh, who was indeed watching through the mirror, that the interview could take a little break.
Everyone sort of relaxed a little, and Ray briefly met Benny's eyes, giving nothing away to anyone except his friend. Vecchio didn't like this. There was even a good shot that Durham knew nothing. He wanted Perrelli in that chair, answering these questions.
But Perrelli was probably back in Italy by now, protected by the family. If they were going to find Diana Marshet alive, it could only be through Durham's help...if the young man with the old eyes knew anything at all.
There was a good chance that he could help them if he wanted to. Perrelli was known for being unable to keep secrets in bed -- a character flaw that had resulted in a string of dead lovers. Durham himself might well have been next on Perrelli's list of permanently ex-confidants, and something told Fraser that the man knew it.
Fraser had not actually been in the room when they arrested Durham, a fact for which he was grateful. The detailed descriptions already going around the station of a naked, oil-slick body handcuffed to a bar hanging from the ceiling were more than enough for him. Just at the neckline of Durham's T-shirt Fraser could see the yellow-dark edges of bruises, and there was a healing cut on the man's lower lip. Everyone in the room and watching through the mirror -- everyone, doubtlessly, by now, in the station house -- knew what Durham had done for, been for Perrelli.
But Fraser pushed those thoughts away. Durham was a man who had made his choices, and what mattered now was not his relationship with the criminal who had abducted Ms. Marshet, but what information he might hold because of it.
A uniformed officer, Corbin Schmit, knocked on the door softly and then came in with a slotted cardboard tray of coffees. Durham was offered one first, and he took it with a slight sneer.
Fraser shook his with a murmured, "No thank you," when the tray was pressed at him, but Schmit met Ray's eyes with a glimmer and Fraser realized the "coffee" next to him was actually tea. He forced himself not to look at Ray when he took the Styrofoam cup and held its warmth in his hands. It was cold in here, and the smell of the tea diffused for a moment the stench of sweat and fear and anger.
Fraser took a sip of the tea and felt its warmth in his stomach -- or was that the warmth simply of knowing Ray had thought to arrange this for him? Certainly the heat of his feelings for Ray was as familiar as the sensation of drinking tea. He saw as Ray's hand -- so fine and slender, hands that would look best plucking a harp or conducting a Russian symphony -- took the last cup out of the tray, and for a moment it felt as though they were sitting around Fraser's apartment, talking about nothing in that way Ray had, complaining, praising, dropping in a moment from his childhood, listening while Benny told the story of his mother's death, his father's duties, his grandmother's library.
Ray, he noticed with thoroughly smothered alarm, was looking at him strangely. But then, with a hidden smile, he realized his friend was looking at his father's watch.
"I figure we got about maybe another hour before your lawyer gets you out of here," Ray said in an almost friendly tone. Durham looked at him. "But that doesn't matter. If another hour goes by, I figure she'll be dead by then anyway." Durham said nothing, and Ray shrugged. "I guess you, living that sort of life, letting Perrelli use you all the time like you're nothing, I guess it's too much for you now, huh? Worrying about another life, having to make an effort to care. It easier just to be hard all the way through." Ray smiled bitterly and tipped his half-drunk coffee in a toast. "Here's to looking out for number one, right? After all, we can't prove nothing. You're going to get off a free man."
"Vecchio," Huey murmured. Not a warning, not in front of a suspect, but there...a reminder.
"Aw, come on, Jack. He's outta here. So what if she's dead? She doesn't know anything about pain, about suffering. I bet our friend Trevor here could write a book on what she doesn't know. That's why she deserves to die, right, kid?" Ray leaned forward suddenly, voice low and deadly as he stared into those ancient eyes. "And see, that's the problem, right there. You *do* care. You care so much you're going to kill her. And when this is over, you're going to have to live with that, live with the fact that you killed a woman you don't even know just because she didn't end up handcuffed to some psychopath's bed."
"Ray," Fraser spoke, the automatic protest of the "good cop" out before he even knew if they were still playing that role. But it wasn't loud, wasn't commanding. Just...a reminder.
And then, impossibly, Durham's eyes flickered.
"Just him," the young man muttered.
Fraser realized those dark eyes were on him. They flickered to Ray just as everyone else no doubt realized it.
"Just him," Durham repeated.
Ray stood up without looking towards his unofficial partner, jerking his head at Schmit and Huey to proceed him out of the room.
"Whoever's behind the glass too," Durham said.
Ray nodded. "You got it."
"Ray..." Fraser met Ray's green eyes and saw the man promise. No one would be in the interrogation room.
He was alone with Durham, but neither of them moved until a soft rap -- Ray's -- on the mirror signaled the all-clear.
Durham looked at him.
"Will you tell me where Ms Marshet is?"
Durham nodded, then shrugged. "I'm not sure, but I got an idea."
But Durham said nothing more.
"Is there something you want from me first?" Fraser hazarded. Durham's hands were cuffed behind the chair, a result from his earlier physical protests at being interrogated. If it were within the law, Benton Fraser would do whatever this man wanted to save Ms Marshet's life, and Fraser allowed his eyes to say as much.
"You're like me," Durham said softly.
Fraser shook his head without hesitation. "Actually, I have never found pain or humiliation to be...a stimulant." Having his heart stomped on, loving where it was impossible? Yes. Bondage and discipline? No.
But Durham was shaking his head and shrugging impatiently at the same time. "Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you'd like it pure vanilla. But you still want...what you shouldn't." Durham's eyes suddenly, horrifically, tracked over to the closed door. "And he doesn't even know. Hasn't got a clue."
Fraser swallowed and knew he'd gone pale.
Durham leaned back now, enjoying himself. "The guy wears it like a crown, don't he? Italian-macho, Crucifix-wearin', Catholic cop! Probably can't stand watching pride parades in his neighborhood, or seeing guys figure skating on TV. You could probably show up naked in the clueless bastard's bed with Hersey's on your nips and he'd just think you crawled into his bed instead of his sister's by mistake."
Mr. Durham couldn't possibly know anything about Ray's sister. He was just extrapolating on stereotypes. The fact that his accusations were so accurate was just chance, just the desperation of a man hurt, Fraser could tell, down to his soul.
For with every hateful, hurting word from his mouth, Durham was allowing his eyes to tell another story, the story of degradation and self-disgust. Even as he writhed inside from the pain of Durham's knowledge, Fraser yearned to help the young man inside all that aching, empty pain.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Durham?" Fraser whispered.
Durham leaned in again, his eyes hungry now, his mouth poised at though to bite. "Tell me about it. Tell me how you feel."
No. Fraser leaned back. No, this wasn't something he could do. He'd never even allowed the words in the quiet of his mind. No.
The watch on his wrist flashed the image of time. They knew Ms Marshet had been hurt. They didn't know how badly.
"Why?" he managed. "Why do you want that from me?"
Durham laughed, an ugly noise. "Look at you."
Fraser couldn't help looking down. He was, perhaps unfortunately, in his dress reds. He'd been on guard duty when Ray had driven up just as the chimes were sounding, yelling at Benny to get in, to help, to come with him.
"You look like you should be on money," Durham said. "And you got the respect of all the cops here. They don't even wonder what you're doing here. You not no jurisdiction. I ain't Canadian and neither is Perrelli. You must be special, huh? All the girls watch you -- I saw outside. I bet you go to church and get your man, huh?" Durham laughed again, a little more desperately. "Get your man, but you can't get him. He doesn't want you, would probably hate you, huh? If he knew?"
The words came out before he was aware of their presence. "Ray is my friend."
"Vinnie was mine, at first." Durham's eyes were open now, showing what Fraser no longer wanted to see. "I knew I liked men, but the rest of it, I had no idea, man. None. Vinnie showed me. Little things at first, just a bit here and there, and it turned my crank and I came *so hard.* And then...it was like a drug, you know? The more I wanted, the more he gave, the more I wanted." Durham broke off, leaning back again, defeated and yet so cruel. "You want him to fuck you, right? Suck his cock?" Durham thought a moment. Fraser couldn't quite remember how to breathe. "Or does it never get that far? Do you just think about those hands of his, and his eyes? Prettiest eyes I ever saw on a man. Got no right to be on a cop, do they?"
Fraser opened his mouth to object, but could think of nothing. Ray's eyes weren't pretty. Ray's eyes were beautiful. Beautiful, not pretty. Not much of an objection.
"What do you want, Mr. Durham?" he could only ask again.
"Tell me what you want. Tell me one thing you want from him. Sit there with your perfect little uniform and your superhero crime-fighting record and tell me something you want from your friend that would make him sick if he knew it. Tell me so I know..."
"Know what? You couldn't use it for extortion. As you yourself pointed out, Ray would never believe you."
"Fuck you!" Durham looked hurt, insulted, outraged. There was no time for this. "I ain't interested in telling anyone, you shit!"
"Then *why?*" Fraser allowed his voice to go loud, just slightly...perhaps not so slightly. "Why do you want it?"
Durham bit his lip, catching his teeth on the scab there, opening it up. Bright, dark blood. "Because if you want it, then I...then anyone can feel...and I can find my way back." Durham's eyes pleaded. "Save me, man. Show me it's something anyone can want. Save me, and I'll save the girl, just like a hero too." Cynicism flashed bright and hard as blood. "It ain't much, is it? But it would be something. I got nothing now."
Fraser felt himself beginning to agree, and fought it, like he'd once fought the freezing waters for his life. Dief, however, couldn't save him from this. He could save Trevor Durham, and Durham could save Ms Marshet. There would be no one to save Benton Fraser, but the Mountie had known that for a very long time now, hadn't he?
Besides, there was no time.
"I'm...washing the dishes." His voice was too low, too soft. Durham was learning forward now, hungry again, but hopeful too. Needful.
"My hands are in the hot water, at my apartment. I'm standing there in my uniform pants and undershirt, in my boots. The water's hot and steaming." He stopped. It was too difficult to do this. Durham just waited, face blank as a man might look right before the kill, or before a gasp of pleasure...expectant, hopeful. Needful.
"Ray is there, talking, but then he stops talking. He comes up behind me. He says nothing." Fraser was beginning to pant between and around the words. His hand was crushing the foam cup. The cool tea dripped between his fingers, but he couldn't let go. "He slides off my braces. He pulls up my shirt and pushes down my pants and...underwear...and then...I hear his pants slide down his legs and he...takes me."
"And you can't stop him?" Durham whispered, and there was compassion there, as painful as Fraser's own shame.
"No. My hands are wet."
Durham's eyes closed, his body slumped forward, and a breath that must have filled his entire body was slowly released.
Fraser tried to clear his throat. His forehead was sweating. "Mr. Durham."
"Warehouse, on South Jefferson, between Twenty-Seventh and Pearl. He sometimes stores livestock there. He wouldn't have left anyone there. She could be alone, in one of the pens for the dangerous animals."
Fraser stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Durham."
"Thank you, Mr. Fraser," Durham said, the words lost as the Mountie opened the door and called out for Ray -- who was standing nearby, keeping an eye on the observation room door. In seconds, everyone was in motion.
When they found Diana Marshet in the smallest holding pen, her hands and feet bound with tape, a slightly festering wound in her side, Fraser knew that whatever the outcome of his interview with Trevor Durham, he could never regret it. But he also knew, even as he helped them load her onto the gurney, that something in him, some sort of control or sheltering wall, had been removed. For the first time, being with Ray was painful, and, pleading his own equivalent of exhaustion, he asked his friend to drive him home.
"Yeah, long day, huh?" Ray asked before leading them, as he always did, back to the car.
"So," Ray asked as he sat behind the wheel, leaning just slightly away from the lupine tongue trying to drool down his neck. "You wanna talk about what Durham said, or not?"
"Or not, Ray. If you don't mind."
Ray shrugged easily, though Benny knew he wasn't pleased. "I don't mind, Benny, but you know you got to write a report on it."
"He simply wanted to tell me what he knew about Mr. Perrelli without feeling that he was being judged."
Ray accepted that as the truth. It was, after all, the truth, in its way. And Ray was his friend.
In his way.
Ray dropped him off and he climbed the stairs with Dief following. It was very late, well past midnight, and he had duty early in the morning. Not guard duty, thankfully. There was a trade delegation coming in tomorrow, and Fraser was to oversee their comfort and security. It was almost real work. He would need to be fresh and alert, charming and quietly competent.
He washed in the communal bathroom, changed into his red longjohns, and bedded down.
And they came, as he had known they would: a thousand fantasies fueled by the words he'd had to make form on his lips. Ray kissing him, Ray touching him, Ray above him, below him, by his side, in the car, in this bed, in Ray's bed, on his desk, on Ray's desk, in a back alley, in the Yukon, amongst the ruins of a plane crash (rather difficult that one, since all his memories of the crash were formed by only four senses), at that leather club, in church -- shocking, that one -- and somehow even on Meg Thatcher's desk. The inspector, at least, wasn't in the room.
Years of RCMP discipline, and years of self-discipline before that, weren't to be undone by fantasies, even thousands of them. Fraser turned on his back, closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. At dawn, he awoke and dressed and waited for Ray to give him a ride to work.
"Hiya, Benny." Ray let Benny settle a bit into the seat, failed this time to avoid that drooling tongue, and made disgusted noises at man and wolf for almost the entire trip to the Consulate.
*How often have we done this? How could I manage my days without it?* Benny looked out the window and let the inevitable question come. *How much longer can I stand this? How long before...something...breaks?*
He went through another week, almost, getting up earlier to clean and iron and wash before Ray arrived, going to bed later and later, bringing Consulate work home with him while Diefenbaker sat at his feet and said nothing.
He thought more than once, when the mood struck him, that if he were truly the wolf that Dief took him for, matters would be so much simpler. He would walk over to Ray, sniff his genitals, perhaps mock-fight him, and then, with luck...Wolves mated for life.
But light moods were becoming rarer and rarer, and finally, on a Friday night after he and Ray had eaten too much pizza, talked over their week, and made tentative plans for "a movie or something" Saturday afternoon, Fraser lay in his bed and thought about possibilities for survival.
Sex with Ray -- incredibly heterosexual, slightly homophobic, crucifix-wearing, Catholic cop Ray -- was out of the question. Leaving, however frequently he considered it, was also out of the question. What could there be in the middle?
Nothing, with Ray. Nothing physical, that is. Everything else with Ray, always with Ray. Did the man realize, Benton Fraser wondered, that he would be seeing Benny for the rest of his life? If Ray married again, as he probably would one day, Benny would be his best man. He would be uncle to Ray's children, as he was currently to his nieces and nephews. He would help Ray move, or fix his latest Riv, or do...anything. Whatever Ray wanted.
Fraser was not a stupid man, nor naïve, however much people might believe that of him. He knew that if he were going to live for the next fifty years at Ray's side, he had to find some sort of outlet, some release for the endless burn of his body.
Which would mean another man...if he were up to it, which he wasn't. Too much chance of being caught, of having Ray find out. Ray would hate him as surely for being gay without his involvement as he would for making a pass at Ray himself.
So sex was out. Had anything else touched him? Could any sort of connection be made with another man, a gay man?
And then he saw that his mind was playing with him. He saw what he had wanted now, for days.
Trevor Durham was gone, faded back into the crowd huddled in Chicago's darkness where Benny only went to rescue or to apprehend. But in the interrogation room, as horrible as it had been, a man, a gay man had known his secret. There had been the briefest connection. Did it perhaps not matter that the understanding had been unwelcome? A man had known, had shared with him the desire Ray could never know.
Reckless, so reckless, Benny gasped at it. To go into the night and find someone who would know, someone not a criminal, someone simply able to accept that he wanted his best friend, someone perhaps with those same knowing eyes -- though not as old, not as hurt -- someone who could look into his own eyes and know the truth and...commiserate?
Was it so impossible?
Certainly, it was a great deal more probable than that Ray would ever come here to his bed and hold him down and fuck him.
Benny moaned aloud. The unbidden crudity had made him hard. He could almost see Ray's hands on his thighs, holding him open, and then...oh God, then that part of Ray he'd never managed to get a good look at. There had been glimpses during two showers, one at the house while the family paraded through -- Benny hadn't even wanted Ray then, and looked back at that episode as "The Great Waste of Opportunity" -- and then another, about two months ago, at the station where Ray had sluiced off "God only knows what" and yelled out his plans while Benny assembled the fake bomb they were going to bring to the embassy. Benny had finished and gone to the back to tell Ray, managing only that glimpse before Ray's towel hid his body and that gently curving length from view.
But despite Ray's loose clothes, Benny had seen him wet -- had carried him once when he was soaked through. He knew Ray's nose fit the stereotype nicely, and he knew that having Ray's penis inside him would be every bit the incredible sensation he dreamed.
With his right hand wrapped around his erection, coaxing it towards a release he hadn't been able to find for almost a week, Benny felt his left hand creep down and around before his finger slipped inside. He gasped and shuddered and groaned and thought only of Ray, pretending it was Ray's hands on him. Ray's beautiful hands would be so gentle, a little uncertain, but deft. Ray's hands would be deft.
*Ray's hands would be covered in vomit. Endless streams of vomit before he --*
Fraser forced himself not to finish the thought, but it didn't matter. His erection was gone.
Cursing words that would shock Ray, and pretty much everyone else he had ever known, Fraser shot out of the bed. After scrubbing his hands, he dressed.
He needed a distraction. He needed something to keep his mind on sex and away from Ray's disgust. Perhaps a dirty magazine, or a video...expect that he didn't have a VCR. Or a TV either.
A magazine then. Men bought them all the time.
Dief lifted his head, but Benny murmured, "No, please." The wolf sniffed slightly, then went back to sleep.
But once on the street Fraser found that his feet did not know where to go, or perhaps it was that they did know, and the rest of him didn't. In any event he seemed to wander for some time before the knowledge made it to his brain and he hailed a taxi.
Far, far out of the 27th Precinct, near the super-trendy dance places, he found a place that would do. Clean, not seedy, with good drinks and music that didn't make your ears want to run off and hide...or so he had heard once, and committed greedily to memory. Perhaps even then he'd wanted to do this simple action of walking into a place where every man in sight was Just Like Him.
In the end, he did nothing more than make that grand entrance. He ordered a beer, which he did not drink, and watched other men dance. He turned down a great many offers to dance himself in the first twenty minutes or so, but then word seemed to get around about him, in a friendly way, and he was simply accepted in silence. He supposed the others thought he was waiting for someone.
And he was, though it wasn't until over a week later, on Saturday night now, that Benny saw him.
Another week had been spent with Ray, another week conquered, wrestled into submission. And there was no doubt that the bar was helping.
He'd made a few nodding acquaintances by then, and recognized some of the couples. It was a nice place, and no on here hated him. He felt himself relax, and knew it was all right to do so. And then while he pretended to sip on his beer that second Saturday night he saw him.
Tall, lean, Italian perhaps, or perhaps more vaguely Mediterranean. He was American-born, no question, and liked loose, well-tailored clothes. His hands were in motion as he talked to a man standing near him, and when he turned to scan the bar, Benny saw that his eyes were pretty.
And knowing.
The man looked at Benny for perhaps a second before he excused himself from his friend and walked in a straight line across the bar.
"Hello," the man said simply. His voice was close enough. "Charles Roth."
"I'm Benton," Benny began, and then somehow it was easy. "May I buy you a drink?"
The man looked surprised, and for a moment Fraser believed he had ruined his chance, but then Charles smiled and laughed softly. It was a pleasant laugh, if a little wry. "Yes, you may buy me a drink."
He sat on the stool to Benny's right and ordered a beer. Fraser put a five dollar bill -- American -- on the bar and then looked in those eyes. In the light, he couldn't tell what color they were. Brown with a touch of hazel, perhaps. Charles wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle and the fingers were so slender and nimble Benny felt his face heat up.
And he knew, without even shock now, why he had come here, what sort of distraction he needed.
And he was not shocked. Disgusted with himself, perhaps, but not...surprised even.
He expected Charles to talk, but instead they watched the dancers together for a while in silence. When Charles finally asked him if he wanted to dance, Fraser agreed eagerly, and the smile that came to his face when they stood up would not be banished. Charles was just the right height.
The song was slow and steady. Fraser shivered when Charles' hands went to his waist, and without thinking, without letting himself think, Fraser simply enfolded that long, lean body in his arms and tucked his face into the man's neck. The smell was all wrong, of course, but the feel of that body seemed almost perfect. It was so easy to pretend it was frightening, but he calmed himself and moved with Charles to the music and the need inside washed back a bit, giving him more ease than he'd had in months.
Charles pressed against him and Benny welcomed it. Ray's hips, he thought, were more narrow, and Ray's back was straighter, smoother. He wondered if Charles' backside would be as pert, as firm as the half-seen cheeks Ray sported. But then, as long as Fraser didn't ruin his chances, he should be able to find out for himself soon.
The thought made him dizzy, and he leaned into Charles' warmth like a dream.
The music turned fast and they made their way to the bar. Charles ordered another beer and Benny set out another five dollars, but the man waved it away.
"My turn to buy a round," he said. Fraser smiled back. Then Charles excused himself for the men's room. After a while, Benny saw the man talking to some people in the corner, and was certain he was the object of their discussion. Charles seemed thoughtful as he returned, but his smile was warm enough to remind Benny of Ray once more.
They sat through several songs together. Charles spoke briefly of his business -- tax law -- and Benny tried to feign interest. Information that made Charles less like Ray, however, was not what he wanted to hear. The man seemed to understand Benny's lack of enthusiasm and talked instead of the bar, of how long he'd been coming here, of his surprise in not seeing Benny before.
"Yes, I just started coming here a week ago."
"Is that when you lost him?" Charles asked gently.
Fraser looked at him in confusion. "Who? What do you mean?"
Charles looked at Benny carefully, then ran a hand through his thick but very short hair. "Do you live around here, Benton?"
Fraser felt heat shiver through him. "Yes. That is...it's some miles distant, actually. But I did walk here...this evening."
"A walk? Sounds great."
And as easy as that, they were walking outside together, towards Benny's home, where they would take off their clothes and share however much Charles was willing to share. If it were enough, Benny could take from it enough to make it feel like Ray, and the memory would last and last...
Until it wasn't enough, and there would be some other anonymous man with Ray's face or body or hands or voice.
Fraser was not, despite many people's impression, naïve. He knew his body's needs must be met. And he did not even feel guilty for using Charles in this fashion. Mr. Roth wanted sex for a night with a stranger, and he was going to get it.
"We will need to stop by a drugstore."
Charles looked at him in surprise, and Benny faltered slightly. "Won't we?"
Charles stopped walking, then started up again, keeping the pace very slow.
"I have what we need."
It was so late, there was no one about. The cars were there, of course, playing music sometime, sometimes with very loud motors. Otherwise, it was quiet, and Benny realized it had rained just a bit when he was inside the bar. He should have noticed right away. His thoughts, however, were of his narrow bed.
Would Dief understand? He couldn't let the wolf see him being mounted, or his role of dominant male in the pack would suffer. He thought, perhaps, Dief might forgive him if it were Ray, but not some stranger getting him to submit. Benny chafed slightly at the man's slow pace. His body needed this so much.
"Is it my hands?" Charles asked.
Fraser faltered again, and they stood there in the slightly yellow streetlight.
"You keep looking at my hands. And I think, maybe, my build, right? They're like his."
Fraser just stared, and stared, and then managed to strangle out, "How did...you...?"
Charles folded his arms. "Some friends at the bar told me they couldn't believe it. You'd been coming there for days and wouldn't dance, didn't even seem to know what a line was. And then I walk in and you're practically screwing me with your eyes. Much as I'd like to think I'm that gorgeous, you don't want to talk to me, you dance with your eyes closed, and you keep looking at my hands."
Fraser's head bowed slightly in defeat.
"HIV?" Charles asked.
Fraser frowned at him, head coming back up. "What?"
"AIDS. Did you lose him that way?"
Fraser laughed, a grossly inappropriate response. "I never had him. I never will."
Charles smiled and shook his head. "You shouldn't be so certain, you know. He married?"
"No."
"Straight?"
Fraser didn't answer. Charles laughed softly.
"Hey, nobody's that straight, Beautiful. You sure you made your intentions clear?"
"He can never know." Fraser took a step towards his home, silently urging Charles to follow. He should have hailed a taxi. Charles would have the whole story out of him soon, because Benny couldn't lose him, and that wouldn't be fair to Ray.
But then another thought occurred, horrific and cold.
"Are you going to say no now?" Fraser asked, knowing Ray would know it sounded desperate, hoping Charles would only know it sounded a little flat.
Charles fell into step at last beside him. "You're not going to want me to dress up like him or anything, are you?" The question was wry, but slightly serious.
Fraser's eyes unconsciously raked the smooth, loose clothes. "No need."
"Dresses like me already, does he?"
"Yes."
"A man of taste."
"Yes." They walked several steps more before the words tumbled out. "Excellent taste, intelligent in a way I can't manage, loyal, kind, honest, beautiful, volatile, so incredibly *there.* He's done nothing but save my life since I met him."
"You guys firemen?"
Fraser frowned and said nothing.
"Cops." Charles said it with the tone of the brilliantly enlightened. Fraser hunched his shoulders just slightly, walking faster. "This begins to make sense." They covered another half-block. "He your partner?"
"No."
"But you work together a lot, right?"
"Why do you want to know?" Fraser rounded on him, then thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans and walked on, making sure Charles was with him.
"Well, to tell you the truth, this is turning me on."
Fraser half-closed his eyes in pleasure. The perfect response. It wasn't far to home now.
"I wasn't always into the bar scene, you know," Charles said. "I was with this guy for four years, thought I'd be with him forever." The voice turned bitter over the roar of a bad muffler. "I got a little sour on the whole True Love thing after that."
"I'm sorry." The words were almost perfunctory.
"So what's his name?"
"No."
"Funny name," Charles smiled, but Fraser increased their pace again. He wanted to run.
"Come on," Charles coaxed. "You're only going to cry it out anyway."
Fraser slowed, hands clenched in his jeans now. Charles was right. He *wanted* to scream Ray's name, loudly, over and over.
"Ray."
"Nice name." Charles walked for a bit in silence. "I bet he doesn't call you 'Benton,' right?"
Fraser didn't answer.
"Ben."
The Mountie was marching a bit now.
"Benny."
"Please don't."
"He the only one who calls you that?"
Fraser shook his head, but it wasn't a refusal.
A hand held his shoulder. Charles leaned in, made sure Fraser felt his body against him, and murmured in his ear. "Take me, Benny."
Fraser groaned, jerked away, rounded on him again, his hands out, flailing and catching Charles by the shoulders.
Dark eyes blazed back at him, and suddenly he was being pulled into the shadow of a doorway. Hot, insistent lips found his mouth, and he was being kissed by a man, a Ray Vecchio-like man, but not Ray, not close enough, but too close to push away. And someone was touching him, someone who had made another uninvited connection, someone who had power over him, unpleasant but intimate. Fraser's hands went down the man's sides, feeling his leanness, and his callused hand cupped those pert curves.
Charles leaned back, grinding himself slightly against Fraser's emergent erection. He started softly as the streetlights caught the shimmer of wet lashes.
"You really love this guy, huh?"
"Yes." Yes, it felt good to say it.
Charles snorted, soothing a hand through Fraser's thick hair. "You're gonna restore my faith in humanity, you know that?"
"I don't want to save you." The words were harsh with truth.
"We could save each other."
"I never want to see you again after tonight."
"Yeah, I figured that part out."
Charles pulled slightly away, and Fraser suppressed a whimper.
"Look, Benton. You sure you can't just tell him what's what? If he's got good taste, he'll have to realize what he's getting here."
"He would hate me."
"How can you know that?"
A thousand reasons fell around them like leaves, like snowflakes, almost. He always did this to himself.
"He's Catholic."
"Well, that's --"
"Italian, divorced and a ladies' man, the head of his household, American, homophobic, surrounded by hundreds of Italian Catholic homophobic cousins. I could show up in his bed with chocolate on my chest and he'd think I was looking for his sister." Fraser laughed, feeling so far from himself he feared he would never find his way back. "She won't leave me alone, in fact."
"Oh yeah?"
"He once told me if he wanted anyone to sleep with her, it would be me."
Charles winced. "Ouch."
Benny's breath caught. "He's the best friend anyone could ever have. And I want to touch you and pretend that you are him. Decide now if you can tolerate that, because I can't take this anymore."
"How far is it to your place? Should we take a cab?"
"Seven blocks."
"You can call me Ray, if you want." Charles smiled at something Benny didn't get, but his tone was sincere.
They walked five of the seven blocks in silence.
"You hate yourself for this, don't you?"
Fraser hunched his shoulders again.
"You gonna hate me afterwards too?"
Fraser shook his head.
"It's amazing you're doing this for him."
Fraser stopped dead, his head swiveling to look into Charles' eyes.
"For him?" Fraser's voice was hoarse. "This is for me."
Charles shook his head. "This is what you have to do to protect him from yourself. It's so gawd-awful I can't stand it."
"Does that mean you're saying no?" Fraser's voice was half-panic, half-grief.
"How much farther, Benny?"
Fraser smiled, tremulously, and they walked the last part now in an unexpected, almost impossible accord. His heart felt unexpectedly light, and his body was tingling with anticipation that was almost joyous.
He found to his relief that he liked Charles, and now that Charles wanted this -- no doubt it would make a good story on future dates -- there was no need for shame and guilt and...Oh dear.
"What is it?" Charles asked.
"Ray's car." Fraser said the words like death.
It was there, parked in front of his apartment building. Ray was inside, behind the wheel, talking on the cell phone, he thought. It was hard to say at this distance.
"Ray? He's here?"
Fraser was about to order Charles away from him when Ray turned his head and saw them.
And so tonight would be known to him forever as "The Second Great Waste of Opportunity."
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Charles."
The man walking with him towards Ray's car looked at him in alarm.
"What? Oh. You mean it's ruined, huh?"
Fraser said nothing, gathering himself, hardly hearing the man.
"Well, damnit," Charles muttered.
"Benny!" Ray was getting out of the car. "We got a line on Perrelli. Looks like they didn't want him back in the fatherland after all."
Fraser stopped now by the car. Ray's eyes were bright and excited. "Word is he's hiding on the south side, and guess who was just spotted coming out of Findango's?"
"Trevor Durham?"
Ray blinked in surprise, then wiped the air between them with his hands as though it were impossible Fraser had so missed the mark. Benny noticed Charles noticing Ray's hands.
"No, no. Mark Mateel, an old business associate of Frank Zuko's." Ray voice dropped. "You see, Zuko always wanted to do business with Perrelli, but Perrelli was too big for him. Well, now that he's hurting and Zuko's in jail, someone's moving in for the opportunity." Ray pulled away with a smile. "We're staking the place out, and I thought you'd want to be there."
"I do, Ray. Thank you very much." He turned slightly, acknowledging Charles' presence.
"This a friend, Benny?" Ray's face was completely open and happy, welcoming and kind.
"Charles Roth," Charles said, holding out his hand.
"Ray Vecchio. Any friend of Benny's..." Ray laughed. "Well, actually, any friend of Benny's usually has me reaching for my wallet. But you look gainfully employed. Nice to see you moving up there in the world, Fraser!"
"Hadn't we better get moving, Ray?"
"Yeah, but I thought you might like to change into your uniform, Benny. There's gonna be a lot of brass there. I don't want you mistaken for a civilian."
"Well, technically, Ray, my position is not really enhanced by my association with --"
"We'd better get moving, Benny!"
"Of course, Ray."
"You need a ride somewhere, Charlie?" Ray asked.
The man shook his head, smiling back easily.
"No, I'm almost where I was going. Good to see you, Benton."
"You as well, Charles."
Ray nodded at Benny's friend, then turned with Fraser and walked into the man's apartment building.
Charles Roth waited until they were out of sight, then looked around carefully, drawing an appreciative gaze over the green 1971 Buick Riviera, then turned and walked to a better neighborhood where it wouldn't be so hard to catch a cab.
He was disappointed, extremely disappointed, that he wasn't going to have a chance to make love to Benton. It had been so long since anyone cared about anyone else in his bed that he wouldn't have minded at all that the object of such deep affection wouldn't actually be present.
He was also, he admitted, a little relieved. Benton had "major heartache" written all over that gawd-lovely face. Charles couldn't help realizing he'd been spared a lot of sleepless nights' pointless yearning for an impossible instant replay.
He was also, to his surprise, quite flattered. Ray Vecchio had a huge nose and not much of a chin. He was actually a little funny-looking. But with those eyes and that way of moving and that warm heart stuck out like that for anyone to see, like so few people you met in real life his odd looks somehow bypassed handsome and went right into stunningly sexy and absolutely edible. Benton had seen *him* in him? That was a compliment indeed.
Charles realized he was walking for real now. The night was fine, and home was only a few miles away. It was somehow wonderful to walk through the world when love existed in it. Tragic and unrequited and so beautiful like in the movies or something.
For days it sustained him, days where he stopped seeing all men only in terms of how sexy they'd be in bed and started talking to people again. People were real to him again, and he found to his deep relief that it was possible to care about them, not just about their finances, about their lives. He ended up going to lunch with a woman he knew just so she could tell him about her kid, and he didn't even mind!
He ended up telling just a little of Benton's story, stripped of all identifiable aspects, and found to his amusement that the two men he told refused to believe it was real.
What did they know, anyway? He'd seen love: desperate, agonizing love. Benton had saved him whether he'd wanted to or not.
It was Thursday morning, a quiet moment in his office, when Charles came to earth with a thud.
Benton was going to go out to the bar again, wasn't he? Maybe he already had. He was going to find someone else with Ray's body or smile and he was going to expose himself once more, a little more desperate this time even than the last.
And who knew what sort of pervert he was going to find?
Shit. Didn't Benton know about things like blackmail? What if he stumbled across some BDSM freak who hurt him? What if he said one wrong thing and ruined his life?
Charles could see it so clearly: some slimy creep with Ray's nose holding Benton down and fucking him while those gorgeous blue eyes were closed against the world, pretending it was his friend holding him down, making love to him while his body was used.
Charles would have been gentle, and kind, and would have stopped the second Benton didn't want it anymore. But how many people would be like that? Charles himself hadn't even known he was like that until Benton said Ray's name.
Ray. Ray Vecchio. Charles had seen that crucifix glinting in the streetlights. He knew a lot of gays with crucifixes -- some as tattoos, for that matter. Italian -- that didn't have to be fatal. And homophobic -- that might actually be a good sign.
Charles had made just a few inquiries over the last few days, just a word here and there. He's found out that Ray was a detective with the 27th Precinct, and Benton a "deputy liaison officer" with the RCMP. Bringing along some diplomat to a stakeout was really quite promising, and that business with Ray thinking about the uniform...
It wasn't his place to interfere, but Charles knew he'd get no sleep tonight, thinking about Benton fucking strangers and calling out Ray's name.
Charles left word with his secretary that he'd be taking a long lunch. The drive to the station house got him into that really bad downtown traffic, but he found a spot to park in eventually.
He'd never been inside a police station before. It was noisy and strangely dark, almost gloomy. He asked for Vecchio at the front desk and was given somewhat grumpy directions.
The "bullpen," as it was called on TV, and probably not in real life, was busy. Several women with somewhat elderly pantyhose were lounging by the desk of a tall, sharply dressed black man who was holding an annoyed conversation on the phone. A portly man in a white shirt who somehow screamed "I'm the Lieutenant around here" without saying a word passed by holding a cup of coffee and disappeared in an office.
There was Vecchio, sitting at a poorly lit desk and looking over a file. Charles crossed the room, dodged one of the prostitutes and stopped by the detective's desk.
"Hello, Detective Vecchio."
Beautiful green eyes looked up at him, and for a moment he found himself sympathizing with Benton. Those eyes could really get to you after a while, no question about it.
"Charles Roth," Vecchio said with a smile. "Benny's friend."
Charles answered the smile even while he noticed the difference in Vecchio's manner. The man wasn't any less polite, not was he distant, but there was little similarity here to the open-hearted man in the street. Perhaps it had been the man's jubilation, or the presence of Benton that made the difference. Or perhaps it was simply that he was talking to a detective in the station house, and one could only be so sincere as a matter of course.
"That's right." He stuck out his hand and had it shaken. Charles had always liked his own hands. Vecchio's were nicer.
"What can I do for you?" Ray asked, motioning towards the wooden chair by his desk.
Charles sat. "It's about Benton."
"He in trouble again?" Vecchio asked tolerantly.
"Yes," Charles said, almost as an experiment.
Ray's eyes went instantly serious.
"What's going on?"
"I need to talk to you, Detective. I don't think you want to do it here. If you could come with me for lunch?"
"Danger trouble or some other kind of trouble?"
"Dangerous, but not right this minute, probably."
Ray scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I really believe it would be better if we talked this over in private."
More scowling, but Ray was already reaching for his jacket. Armani. Very nice.
Vecchio walked over to a beautiful woman at a computer who didn't quite look like a cop, then came back.
"I got an hour. Olympo's okay for you?"
"Fine, Detective."
"Call me Ray."
Charles nodded and followed the man out, his palms beginning to sweat. He'd never tried to save anyone before. There was a really, really good chance he was only going to make things a whole lot worse.
END PART ONE
Feedback? This any good or should I stick to my series?
Manna



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