The Ultimate Love Thing

Greatness, a slashfic in two parts

Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex

Pairing: Ray Kowalski/Renfield Turnbull, Benton Fraser/Ray Vecchio

Disclaimer: "due South," with its characters and themes, belongs to Paul Haggis and Alliance, not to me. I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor.

Wherein Mounties conspire to drug one of Chicago's finest; Vecchio has a dirty mind; and Kowalski averts a feeding frenzy with Mountie on the menu.

Notice: Yes, I made Turnbull say "ablutions," in honor of the first RK/RT fic I read.

"Greatness" Part Two: The Ultimate Love Thing

Wednesday:

Ray woke up, peed, showered, brushed his teeth just to get it done for once, and found some clothes. Then he went to the kitchen. Turnbull was cooking; Fraser and Vecchio were eating. "Hey."

"Good morning, Ray," Fraser said. "I trust that you slept well."

"Never better. I'm hiring Turnbull permanently." He caught Vecchio feeding Dief a piece of waffle under the table and grinned. "Hey, Dief, save some for me."

"Ray," Fraser said. "Dief, you've been spoiled quite enough. Really, between the two of you, he's completely unfit for-"

"Come on, Ben, we're on vacation here," Ray said. "Hey, thanks," he told Turnbull as a full plate was set before him. "Definitely hiring you."

"I already have a job, Ray," Turnbull said.

"No kidding. Standing in the July Chicago heat in your full dress uniform for hours at the Ice Queen's whim, that's one great job."

"Kowalski, we're not trying to start an international war here," Vecchio said. "Insulting the Mountie way of life isn't a good idea."

"Especially since he outweighs me by like a hundred pounds of muscle," Ray said. "Come on, don't all get pissed at me, here. You all know I'm a Mountie groupie, practically. And the uniforms actually look good on some people."

"Some people, Ray?" Fraser asked.

"But the Ice Queen, or the Dragon Lady," he said, with a nod to Vecchio, "she's got some issues there. And that guard duty standing sentry thing whatever it is, in that whole Mountie outfit, in the middle of a Chicago summer, what are you, nuts?"

"Constable Turnbull, you will refrain from responding in any way to Ray's comments," Fraser said. "Ray, perhaps you would like to commit yourself to eating for the time being."

"In other words, sit down and shut up, Ray, before Turnbull kicks you in the head," Ray said. "Got it, Ben." He committed himself to his waffles.

About an hour later, Ray and Fraser were talking on the sofa. Turnbull was finishing up in the kitchen and Vecchio was over there, talking about something. Then Vecchio came over to the sofa and said, "Come on, Benny, we're taking Dief for a walk."

"Of course, Ray. Ray, would you like to join us?"

"Ray's stayin' put, Benny. He went out yesterday and had to be carried back. We're not going through that again." We? "We're clearing out for a while. Turnbull's going to be cleaning," Vecchio added.

"Take me with you," Ray said quickly.

Fraser smiled. "Now, Ray, there is no need for alarm. Yes, Dief, we are coming. Have a good morning, Ray. Turnbull."

Ray sank back into the sofa cushions, wondering if they'd come back soon or not. Probably not. He was alone with a crazy cleaning Mountie. A Mountie he'd insulted and angered earlier. A Mountie who probably knew how to kill with a bottle of Endust.

He and Turnbull had had a weird quasi-relationship in the past, where Turnbull was clutzy and cleaning and nuts about curling, and he'd teased all of that. Turnbull could be ridiculously frustrating sometimes. But Turnbull obviously had great respect for Fraser, and Ray liked anyone who saw something special in Fraser. Of course, everyone saw something special in Fraser, but some people had unending respect for it and some didn't. The ones who didn't made Ray mad. Turnbull did.

"Turnbull?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"Could you kill me with that Windex?"

"Well, Ray, I imagine that-"

"Oh god, don't start thinking about ways to do it now."

"Ray, you did ask."

"You wouldn't do it, would you?"

"Of course not, Ray. Homicide might cause the revocation of my consular duties."

"You could say it was self-defense."

"A Mountie does not lie, Ray."

"Course not. Might take away your little red suit."

"My RCMP full dress uniform is red serge, Ray, but it is not little."

Considering the guy had seriously broad shoulders, a height issue, biceps about twenty inches around, and thighs like - - not going there, Kowalski. Change the subject. "Don't suppose you want any help cleaning."

"Thank you kindly, Ray, but I will manage fine on my own."

"You want me out of the way?"

"You are fine as you are, Ray. If I do find you to be in my way, I will render you unconscious with a careful application of Windex solution and-"

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're funny, Turnbull?"

"No, I can't say that anyone ever has, Ray. Would you like to now?"

"No."

"Ah."

Turnbull was being frustrating and annoying, and last night had just done the massage without any problems that Ray had noticed, so maybe things were okay after all. Plus, the guy must be in his element now, cleaning up the cabin.

Maybe they could be friends. Fraser was absolutely his best friend ever, but Fraser had Vecchio now, so things were bound to be different. Not that Turnbull was a replacement, and not that he could exchange one Mountie for another, but being a loner wasn't always the best thing, and if Fraser was preoccupied, Ray could use a new friend, maybe. And he liked Turnbull, he did. Turnbull was a freak, too, just like he and Fraser were, plus they had stuff in common being law officers and everything, plus maybe it would help Fraser to feel better having something else red and Canadian around sometimes. Two red Canadians, two detective Rays, they could start their own club.

Of course, if Turnbull was going to be weird and annoying all of the time, it might be too much like Fraser and he'd have to end the friendship.

"Turnbull?"

"Yes, Ray?"

Turnbull was still cleaning in the kitchen. Some people. "You..." How was he supposed to ask this? "You feel like making a new friend?"

"Certainly, Ray, there should be room in everyone's life for another person."

Interesting policy. "I mean like a friend. Someone you do stuff with and spend time with and, you know, not just say polite hellos to like an acquaintance or work partner or something."

"Ah. I do not have any friends, Ray, so I suppose that there is an opening in my life where one would be acceptable."

No friends at all? At least he had Fraser, who was at least a friend and a half. Plus, now, Vecchio. "Think we could be friends?"

"With the understanding that curling is not an acceptable topic of conversation?"

"Well, no, I guess if we were friends I couldn't really stop you from mentioning it ever."

"Although you would appreciate restraint on my part."

"Yeah."

Turnbull put down everything and walked over to stand in front of him, in front of the sofa. "Ray, I would be honored greatly if you would consider me your friend."

God, had Stella taken his marriage proposal this seriously? "That's good, Turnbull. Or, you know, not to jump the gun, it took me a while to get there with Ben, but I could call you by your first name, right?"

"If you would prefer it, Ray, feel free to do so."

"Voice an opinion, Mountie."

"I would be honored-"

"Not that again."

"What do you want me to say, Ray?"

"Tell me in one word or less what you want me to call you."

"Ren."

"Good. Now get back to cleaning."

"Yes, Ray. Thank you, Ray."

"I don't know what you're thanking me for, but don't."

"Yes, Ray. I'm sorry, Ray."

"Don't do that either."

"Our friendship is off to a promising beginning, Ray."

Ray laughed. "Sure is."

Thursday:

Ray tugged on his sneakers. "Come on, Ren, grab some suntan lotion and come to the lake with me. Dief, you wanna come too?"

"Is this wise, Ray?" Fraser asked.

"Course it is. Between Dief and Ren looking after me, nothing could happen."

"You know that those words invite disaster," Vecchio said.

"Does that mean you're volunteering to come with me?" Ray asked.

"No, I'd better stay here and keep an eye on Benny," Vecchio said.

"You do that. Ren, you coming or what there? Pitter patter, Mountie boy."

"You may address me as Ren, Renny, Renfield, Turnbull, Constable, or Constable Turnbull," Ren said. "'Mountie boy' is an unacceptable form of address to which I will not respond."

"Okay, then it's just me and Dief. See you all later." Ray walked out of the cabin with the wolf.

"Ray," Fraser called. Ray kept walking. He started down the path, whistling to himself aimlessly. After a minute or two he heard someone behind him. At about that time he realized that he was whistling "O Canada." He chuckled out loud and switched to Creedence Clearwater Revival. Finally he made it down to the lake. "Dief, look out for yourself." He toed out of his sneakers, pulled off his socks, and peeled out of his shirt. "Hey Dief, how cold is the water?" he asked, stepping into it. "Pretty damned cold." He went in up to his ankles, over his ankles, to his knees. He was wearing ragged old denim cut-offs. "Don't kill any squirrels or anything," he told Dief. He glanced out of the corner of his eyes and saw Turnbull. He'd guessed as much. "Constable Renfield Turnbull," he said, his back to the Mountie. "Got any suntan lotion?"

"Yes, Ray. Would you like some?"

"No, just checking."

"Really, Ray, I am aware of your casual attitude toward personal safety. However, I must advise you that-"

"I'm here for some peace and quiet. This is my vacation. Leave the lectures at the door."

"Yes, Ray."

"This is your vacation too, hunh?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Not exactly how you planned to spend it. Baby-sitting a cantakerous cop, being bored out of your mind, giving Ben and Vecchio sex time."

"I am not baby-sitting you, Ray, I am keeping an eye out for your well-being. I am not at all bored. As for Constable Fraser and Detective Vecchio, how they spend their personal time is none of my affair. All in all, I am having a most wonderful time."

"Don't get out much, do you?"

"No, Ray."

"Look, I don't mean to be bitchy. I'm feeling restless, I got cabin fever or something, I'm used to running around doing something, I haven't danced in about a month, I'm itching to get laid, I'm just feeling pissy and I'm taking it out on you. But we're friends, I shouldn't be doing that. So toss me some suntan lotion and I'll go for a swim."

"A swim, Ray?"

"Well, I can float and splash around some without ag...ag..."

"Aggravating your injury, Ray?"

"Right." Did Mounties memorize the dictionary? He walked over to Turnbull at the edge of the lake; Turnbull handed him the bottle. He slathered it on his chest, arms, face, neck. He slapped some on his shoulders and down his legs. "Good to go."

"Your back, Ray."

"Oh, no way, I'm not doing some girly movie ploy."

"Ray?"

"Let it burn." He tossed Turnbull the bottle and waded into the water again. "Okay, sharks, come and get me." Ray let himself float on the top of the water, on his back, closing his eyes. "This is so relaxing. Gotta do this every day." He hummed to himself, wondering how far he could float out like this. Not far; it was just a lake, after all, not some huge river with great currents. The cool water felt good in comparison with the hot sun. How could Turnbull stand to wear all of those clothes? He opened an eye and peeked; Dief was okay. Turnbull was out of the hiking boots and socks, rolling up jean cuffs. Turnbull carefully unbuttoned and removed the outer shirt, revealing a dark green T-shirt. Two shirts, in this heat? Some people. Ray closed his eyes again.

He was drifting, in mind if not in body. To keep himself from sleeping, he moved his arms and hummed. Maybe he could paddle himself all around the lake like this. He kicked his legs a little, waving his arms through the water. "Ren?" he called.

"Yes, Ray."

"Shit!" He almost overbalanced. Turnbull was right at his side, standing hip-deep in lake water, still in the jeans and T-shirt. "Hi."

"Hello, Ray."

"You know the words to 'O Canada.'"

"Of course, Ray."

"That was not an invitation to sing it."

"Understood."

"Can you sing?"

"Passing well, yes, Ray."

"Passing - - English, Ren."

"Yes, Ray, I am able to, shall we say, carry a tune."

"No Pavarotti, hunh?"

"No, Ray. I do not even know Italian."

Ray rolled his eyes, then closed them. Some people were impossible. With Fraser, it was sort of natural, innocent; with Turnbull, it was totally on purpose. "Dief's okay?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Gotta get back to Chicago soon. Get my stitches out, get back to work, vacation's over."

"Yes, Ray."

"It'll be good, city life, civilization. Back to my desk, making collars."

"Yes, Ray. Undoubtedly a return to your normal life will be a welcome comfort in many aspects. However, I would be remiss were I not to mention that this relaxation and respite agrees with you."

"Yeah, hanging out here's been good. Away from the stress stuff."

"You would no doubt enjoy it more were you able to be more physically active."

"Oh, you mean my tirade earlier? I should apologize for that. I've just got cabin fever. Good to get out here, relax a little."

"You are accustomed to a high-energy lifestyle, Ray. It is only natural for you to miss your usual activities."

"Driving, walking around, running after perps, dancing, yeah, I miss that stuff. Getting laid, I've been itching for that more and more for a while now, that's nothing new." His eyes were closed, still, and he kept them shut now on purpose. Talking about sex in front of Mounties made him feel like a pervert trying to corrupt the innocent. Of course Mounties knew what sex was, even had sex, but it wasn't something that polite people discussed. Fraser was having sex these days. But he wasn't as familiar with Turnbull as he was with Fraser, and Turnbull wasn't having sex, at least not in the past week or so.

Ray, careful not to overbalance, cupped his hands with water and spilled it over his face, then over his chest. He opened his eyes and said, "Hey, Ren."

"Yes, Ray?"

He cupped a handful of water and threw it into Turnbull's face.

"Ray, that was entirely unnecessary."

"That's what's good about it." He did it again. "We're on vacation, Ren."

"Does that give one license to act like a seven-year-old?"

"Totally." He grinned. He waited for retaliation, but didn't expect what came next. Turnbull's hand came over his face, sealing his nose and mouth, and pushed his head underwater. Turnbull's other hand came under his back, keeping him floating. Turnbull let him up a moment later, and he exploded into curses and laughter. Turnbull ducked underwater, and Ray tensed, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. He was not going to get scared, he was not going to picture Turnbull accidentally drowning. Waiting. "Turnbull, you'd better get your ass back up here," he muttered. Waiting. Then he felt something brush the back of his neck. He screamed like a girl.

"Really, Ray."

"You're dead, Mountie." Shit, gone again. Stupid Mounties and their enhanced lung capacity. Lesson: don't taunt Mounties. He probably should have learned that by now. If that little shit put a trout down his shorts, the Canadian Consulate would be down by one Mountie. Waiting, waiting, pissed, not at all scared, not a bit. "Fuck."

Turnbull surfaced yards away, out toward the center of the lake, treading water. Then Turnbull swam over to him and ducked underwater again.

"What the hell is he doing?" Ray demanded of the sky.

Turnbull pulled his hair and tickled his feet before resurfacing.

"Crazy Mountie!"

Turnbull said, "Boys will be boys, Ray," and one hand came to the small of Ray's back and pulled at his waistband. Ray screeched.

"Fucking crazy fucking loony fucking Mountie, if you put a fish down my pants I will kick you in the head!"

"You're welcome to try, Ray." Turnbull gripped his shoulders and pushed him toward shore across the surface of the lake. As soon as he could, he got to his feet and rounded on Turnbull. "You're dead, Mountie boy."

"Who?" Turnbull asked.

"As soon as I get Flipper out of my pants, you're dead."

"I'll leave you alone to tend to that situation." Turnbull dodged him and went to shore. Ray cursed and opened his cut-offs, stripped out of his cut-offs and boxers, and made sure that he and his clothes were fish-free. Then he sighed. He didn't want to put his soaking clothes on again, and he'd rather just hang out (so to speak) and let them dry a while, but was it polite to lounge around naked? In front of Turnbull? In front of Turnbull who had at one point expressed sexual interest in him? He didn't want to be rude, and he didn't want to be seen as taunting, and he...oh, hell. Sacrificing personal comfort for the comfort of others; what was getting into him these days? He managed to get into his underwear again, then pulled on his jeans and zipped up before heading to shore. He sat on his former rock and ran his hands through his wet hair. "We're wet."

"Yes, Ray." Turnbull sat on the ground at a polite distance, eyes on the lake.

He tugged on his T-shirt. Turnbull started to unroll pant cuffs. "You gotta wear all of those clothes?"

"Do they disturb you, Ray?"

"No, they - - well, yeah, I guess they sort of do. It's vacation time, time to kick back and relax. I know that the polite starched thing, clothes and personality wise, is sort of a part of you and Ben, but you could try to be a little looser, clothes and personality wise, for the next few days and see how it goes."

"I will consider your advice, Ray, thank you kindly."

"Hell." He sighed."And don't 'language, Ray' me."

"Yes, Ray."

"You know... I was married to Stella. And I loved her and everything. Except it turned out that I kept being in love, I kept wanting to be with her, and she stopped. So I was left pining for her, lusting after her, wanting to spend my life with her, while she was sort of half-ignoring me and half-trying to be patient with me. I got pity sex from my own wife. I'm over her now, which I don't really get, I mean, I thought that it was a forever thing and it turns out that it's finished for both of us. But what I'm saying is, I loved her and I wanted her and I knew that I shouldn't, I knew that it wasn't returned, but I couldn't help myself. And when she did let me touch her, I couldn't refuse, I wasn't strong enough to say no, even though I knew that it wasn't everything that I wanted. So..." Don't stop now, Kowalski, you're about to make some sense. "I just, people who are stronger than I was, I admire that. And people who take what's offered, I understand."

"Yes, Ray. That is both intuitive and generous."

"Am I making an ass of myself?" He was looking fixedly at the stones at his feet.

"No, Ray."

"I don't have the right to ask whether you want me, or whether you ever really did, or how much. I won't ask, that's not my business. I just want you to know that if you did want me, or if you still do at all, that I sort of understand. I get it, wanting what you can't have. Sometimes, having what you shouldn't want. And, if you were anybody else, if you were anybody else, I'd probably do the pity sex thing. But I can't. Because you're Constable Turnbull, and it's not my right. Am I explaining this right? I don't think so. Let me try again."

"Please don't."

He looked up and over at that request, saw Turnbull's flushed and averted face. "God, you did take that the wrong way. Ren, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like... I just meant that I like you, I respect you, I admire you, and if I didn't I'd fuck you, but I do, so I can't."

"You like me too much to have sex with me."

"You deserve better."

"I don't see how. Ray, I would take, from you, anything at all. I've had so much already..."

"You have it bad," Ray realized, feeling doomed. "Real bad."

Turnbull turned his head, met Ray's eyes. Ray saw shiny tears and a hungry, greedy lust and some downright terrifying devotion.

Ray collapsed on his back. "This is so not good. Not good at all. We're supposed to be friends, Ren. Hang out together and annoy the heck out of each other friends. Polar opposites bonding over curling arguments. And if anything, I should be the horny one. Hell, I am the horny one. You're supposed to be this pillar of virtue guy. And why me? I know, I know, Mounties have feelings and drives like other people, the prick and bleed thing - - forget I said that, wrong image. And if Fraser wants wild hot monkey sex with a Chicago cop named Ray, why not you? But you deserve better than a roll in the hay with me, Ren. You deserve the pure love of a lifetime, all of that stuff, and I'm just not that. I'm not good enough for you."

"You'll pardon me if I disagree."

"You're not exactly unbiased."

"Are you?"

"Hell no, but that's not the point."

"Ray, I ask nothing of you. I do not expect your pity or your love. I understand that you cannot return my affection, and I understand that you do not find me sexually appealing. I would appreciate it if we could continue our friendship. Should you find that impossible under these conditions, I will understand and withdraw."

"We're still friends. We have to stay friends. We're going to stay friends. And I don't pity you. I feel guilty. If I accidentally or stupidly do something that bothers you, just tell me and I'll stop it. No more full body massages - - which is too bad, because god that felt good."

"I am glad that you enjoyed yourself, Ray."

"Did I ever. But we gotta stop that stuff."

"Certainly, Ray. Please, do not feel inhibited in my presence."

"Me, inhibited? That I'd pay to see. Let's hike back to the cabin; I could use some food. Hey, Dief!"

That evening, while he and Fraser were talking on the sofa, Ray noticed Turnbull and Vecchio having a hushed conversation across the room. He frowned and said to Fraser, "What's that about?"

"As neither Ray nor Turnbull has seen fit to include us in the conversation, I do not know, Ray," Fraser said.

"Hey, Kowalski," Vecchio said. "You mind if we borrow your stereo for a little?"

"Why?" Ray asked, suspicious.

"You know, play a few tunes, get down and funky."

Get...what? "Okay, do whatever you want, I'll stay here and pretend you haven't gone loony."

"Thanks." Vecchio and Turnbull went down the hallway, returning shortly with Ray's CD player. Turnbull plugged it in and set it up while Vecchio looked through Ray's CD's. "What is this stuff?"

"It's called music," Ray said.

"Would you care to make a recommendation, Ray?" Turnbull asked.

"Why are you listening to my CD's?" Ray asked.

"So that we can dance," Turnbull said.

"Dance music. You guys dance? Okay, okay, dance music. Should've brought my camera. You know how to dance?"

"I used to dance quite often, Ray," Turnbull said.

"Swing dancing," Vecchio said. "Not that getting jiggy with it crap."

"You swing dance?" Ray asked. "And before, when it wasn't a fad? The things you learn about people. Okay, toss on some Benny Goodman, I think I packed him."

"Thank you, Ray." Turnbull carefully put on the CD.

"Are you any good?" Vecchio asked Turnbull.

"Vecchio, he's a Mountie. If he does it at all, he does it real well."

"I don't suppose you'd like to dance," Vecchio said to Fraser.

"Ben's got three left feet. You two go ahead," Ray said, settling comfortably to watch. Fraser smiled in amusement and encouragement at Vecchio and Turnbull. "Music's playing, time's a-wasting, let's go," Ray said.

"You owe me," Vecchio told Turnbull.

Ray knew what was happening. Turnbull knew how pissy he'd been about not being able to dance, so he was going to get to watch dancing, at least. It was a thoughtful thing to do, really. And since Turnbull looked pretty far gone with embarrassment, it seemed like a self-sacrificial attempt to cheer Ray. That was pretty generous of Turnbull, to go through this humiliation just to try to please him.

He'd never expected someone of Turnbull's build to be graceful. But Turnbull showed a surprising amount of finesse, knew the moves really well, knew hard complex moves, and had a muscular strength that made it possible to toss around Vecchio.

Ray and Fraser exploded with applause when Turnbull and Vecchio finished. Vecchio wiped off sweat and said, "I need a nap."

"Go on, Ben, put Vecchio to bed," Ray said.

"Come on, Benny," Vecchio said. "You heard Kowalski."

"Good evening, Ray. Turnbull, thank you for sharing your talent with us." Fraser left with Vecchio. Turnbull was pink. Ray nestled down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

"Ray, if you fall asleep here, you'll be sore and stiff come morning."

"We should dance together some time. Once I'm all healed and everything."

"I would enjoy that, Ray."

"Yeah." Ray yawned and forced himself to stand. "Bedtime for me. See you in the morning, Ren."

"Good night, Ray."

Friday:

Ray didn't see Turnbull in the morning because Turnbull had gone off early for a morning run. Turnbull returned eventually in RCMP sweats, accompanied by Dief. Turnbull and Fraser had a conversation over by the door.

"What's going on?" Ray asked, walking over to them.

"Turnbull has located laundry facilities," Fraser reported.

"There's a laundry around here? Where?" Ray asked.

"Not a public laundry, Ray, but Turnbull tells me that Mrs. George Quentin will allow us free use of her washer and dryer."

"You're going to some stranger's house to wash your boxers?" Ray asked. "I'm running out of clothes myself, but I'm not going to start - - what, you were out jogging and you just found a house and knocked on the door and asked to use her washing machine? How many people did you ask before you found her?"

"Mrs. Quentin was the first person I approached, Ray," Turnbull said.

"Right, I forgot, you're a Mountie. Everyone likes to help Mounties. Especially the cute ones. Well, you all go right ahead and wash your clothes."

"We thought that you might like to accompany Turnbull, Ray," Fraser said. "We know that you'd like to move about more."

"I'm not going. I wouldn't want to interrupt Mrs. Quentin's quality time with Turnbull. I don't think she'd want any intruders."

"Ray, what you are insinuating is inappropriate and rather ridiculous," Fraser said.

"Is her husband home?" Ray asked Turnbull.

"No," Turnbull said. "Mr. Quentin works from-"

"See?" Ray asked Fraser. "How old is she?"

"Thirty-two," Turnbull said.

"What did she call you?"

"Constable. Really, Ray-"

"Did she do it in that breathy 'I'm so impressed by your title and a man in uniform' voice?"

"I'm sure that she didn't, Ray."

"Uh-huh. Go ahead and let her help you wash your skivvies, Ren."

"Might I have your dirty laundry as well, Ray?" Turnbull asked.

"Fine. You'll probably do a better job with it than I do, anyway."

Minutes later, showered and changed, Turnbull had two bags of laundry in each hand. Fraser met him at the door and said, "Since Ray seems uninclined to accompany you, Turnbull, I would be happy to-"

"No," Ray said. "No no - - you think George's wife is going to do any better with both of you there? It'll be a feeding frenzy, with Mountie on the menu. Ben, you stay here and keep Vecchio company. I'll go. Someone has to keep Ren out of trouble, and you're hardly qualified." He jerked two bags from Turnbull's hand and stomped out of the cabin.

"Thank you kindly, Ray," Turnbull said a moment later, catching up to him easily.

"Is this place twenty miles away?"

"No, Ray. I would judge the distance to be two miles."

Two - - language, Ray. Okay. "Lead the way, Mountie."

They reached Mrs. Quentin's cabin. It was between their cabin and the "town," but off on a path of its own. Briefly Ray wondered if Turnbull had just pretended to go out jogging and really came here every day. He grinned at the thought. Turnbull walked up to the porch and knocked at the front door.

A stunning blonde in jeans opened the door. "Constable. Welcome back. Ah, you must be Detective Kowalski."

"Must be," Ray agreed, a little unnerved.

"Well, Constable, you know where the equipment is. I'll just get out of your way. There are drinks in the fridge, cookies on the table, help yourself." She reached to a table by the door, got her purse and sunglasses, and said, "When you're ready to leave, don't bother to lock up. If you do, I'll be locked out myself. Have a good day, gentlemen."

"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Quentin," Turnbull said as she left.

Ray followed Turnbull into the house. "She's letting us in her place alone all morning?"

"Yes," Turnbull said.

"She knows who I am?"

"I told her briefly of the circumstances of our vacation."

"So, you know where the 'equipment' is? That was a leer. She leered at you, Ren."

"I am sure that she did no such thing, Ray." They went through the kitchen to the laundry room. "This may take quite some time, Ray."

"Hey, I'm on vacation, I got nothing but time. I'll let you take care of the sorting and washing and drying and folding."

"That might be for the best, Ray."

Ray chuckled and perched himself against the dryer. "So what if Mr. Quentin comes home and sees us here?"

"We will explain the situation to him, Ray."

"Think he'll buy it?"

"It will be the truth, Ray. Our piles of laundry might help to convince him of our case."

"That's true." He toed out of his sneakers. "Good thing we're doing this. What I'm wearing is the last of my clothes. In fact, this stuff could use a wash, too."

"We are in relative privacy here, Ray. If you wouldn't be uncomfortable, you could disrobe temporarily and allow me to clean your clothes for you."

"What is this, some cheap trashy novel plot? Here, you can have my socks, anyway, and my shirt. The jeans gotta stay on cause there's nothing underneath them."

"Oh dear."

"Now I really hope Mr. Quentin does come home," Ray said, grinning.

"Really, Ray."

"I bet he'd call the cops. Or the local insane asylum."

"Perhaps he would, Ray."

"Oh, now you're just mocking me."

"Why would I do such a thing, Ray?"

"Because you're a mean Mountie who doesn't like me. Ren?"

"Yes, Ray?" The washer started and Ren kept sorting.

"Have you been with lots of guys?"

"No, Ray."

"A few guys?"

"No, Ray."

Ray felt impending dread. "One guy?"

"No, Ray."

"A woman?"

"No, Ray."

"You're totally chaste, celibate, virginal, pristine, untouched? No sex, no kissing, nothing?"

"That is correct, Ray. Except that I did touch you."

"Oh god." Well, this was getting worse and worse, wasn't it? At least Fraser had had Victoria before Vecchio. Of course, Victoria was evil and insane.

They were there for a while, in the Quentins' laundry room. Turnbull sorted, washed, dried, and folded the laundry with a brisk efficiency. Ray lounged around the room and watched. They talked as they waited, about anything and everything. Turnbull gave him a long, involved explanation of curling. He still hated curling, just on general principle, but he liked how much Turnbull liked it.

That was one of the signs. Liking something because someone else did, or liking it just because it made the other person happy - - that was one of the signs. One of the signs that a casual friendship or passing flirtation was turning into something more meaningful. One of the signs that if he didn't back out now, he'd never escape unscathed. He'd done the same thing with Stella, liking something just because she was enthusiastic about it. Not just to humor her, but to see the pleasure that it gave her. Like those stupid English Romantic poets. She'd gotten a thing for them in high school, and she'd had an interest in them ever since, and he knew all about Burns and Blake and Keats and Wordsworth and Coleridge and Shelley and Byron just because Stella liked them. He could recite "She walks in beauty, like the night, yada yada yada," and he blamed her.

"Ren."

"Yes, Ray?"

"You know Byron?"

"George Gordon?" Turnbull asked. "I am familiar with his works, yes, Ray."

Polite Mounties didn't ask, "What the Hell does that have to do with laundry or curling?" Ray grinned a little. "So do you remember any?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Recite some."

"Really, Ray."

"Just one."

"''Tis time this heart should be unmoved, / Since others hath it ceased to move; / Yet, though I cannot be beloved, / Still let me love! / My days are in the yellow leaf; / The flowers and fruits of love are gone; / The worm, the canker, and the grief / Are mine alone! / The fire that on my bosom preys / Is lone as some volcanic isle; / No torch is kindled at its blaze - / A funeral pile. / The hope, the fear, the jealous care, / The exalted portion of the pain / And power of love, I cannot share, / But wear the chain.'"

"Stop stop stop!" Ray exclaimed.

"'Tread those reviving passions down, / Unworthy manhood! - unto thee / Indifferent should the smile or frown / Of beauty be.'"

"Ren, come on, please."

"Yes, Ray?"

"You shouldn't say stuff like that."

"It's the only poem of Byron's that I remember well enough to recite, Ray."

"So you're saying that it's just a bunch of words that you happen to remember. That you're not the unbeloved lover, that you're not wearing the chain, that you're totally indifferent to the smile or frown of beauty. Maybe I sound totally egotistical arrogant whatever, thinking that every little thing's about me, but for some odd insane reason you seem to have centered your feelings on me even though I don't deserve it, so excuse me for-"

"May I interrupt, Ray?"

"Please do so I can stop babbling."

"I'm not indifferent to anything about you. But you have made your point clearly; you have no intention of being more than my friend. I value our friendship and I would not want to jeopardize that relationship by pressing for more. I respect you, and I will not be making unwanted advances."

"Okay. You're my friend, I'm you're friend, we're all friends together. And there are cookies in the next room, I'm starving, come with me, friend, and steal some cookies with me."

"You cannot steal what is freely given, Ray."

"Sometimes it's wrong to take it anyway. Could we not get into deep meaningful talks while I'm hungry?"

"Of course, Ray."

They finished the laundry. Ray redressed. Turnbull left a note for Mrs. Quentin and they toted the clean laundry back up the mountain.

That evening, after eating and talking, Fraser and Vecchio disappeared for the night. Dief wandered off down the hallway, too. Ray and Turnbull went to Ray's room.

They sat on the floor and talked aimlessly. Turnbull was unfailingly polite, but managed to be funny and sarcastic and teasing, too. Ray could never be that impossible; he was too direct. He liked how Turnbull's intelligence and insight were in no way hindered by that naive and fumbling persona. He knew that Fraser used politeness and manners to keep people at a distance; Turnbull was doing something similar. Ray himself downplayed his intelligence and pulled on his toughness like a shield. Sometimes Fraser respected it and let him put on the act; sometimes Fraser wouldn't let him, forced him out of it one way or another.

Turnbull, with the cleaning and the curling and the politeness and the clinging to duty, was ridiculous and frustrating. Ray had never had this much fun with anyone but Fraser. Of course, he wasn't sexually attracted to Fraser, so there was a difference. But his enjoyment of Turnbull didn't come from sexual electricity or flirtation; it came from simple conversation, spending time together, getting to know each other. He'd barely spent time with Turnbull before now, and he was discovering a person he'd never guessed existed, a person he already wanted to... To what? Know forever? Know better? Know in the biblical sense?

Not that the Bible strictly condoned intimate sexual knowledge between a Chicago flatfoot with experimental hair and one large Canadian Mountie. Ray wasn't sure what God had to say about it. Probably, "Way to go, Ray!"

Turnbull's eyebrows went up incrementally. "Is something amusing, Ray?"

"You have no idea."

"That would be the reason behind my asking the question, Ray."

Ray got up and sat on the foot of the bed, knees spread, elbows on knees, chin in his hands. "So you've never been with anybody. And Fraser had one person before Vecchio. Are you guys totally oblivious? You could have anyone you wanted, either of you. Everybody Fraser meets falls all over the place for him - - I gotta keep making sure I don't slip in the drool. And you, you must have the same thing. So what's going on? Is it the waiting for the ultimate love thing?"

"Yes, Ray."

"I only ever had Stella for the longest time. Ages of Stella. Then she left me, and then I sort of tried, with other people, other women, people I met on cases, that sort of thing. But I never got anywhere with it. Maybe it was them, maybe it was me, maybe I knew that it wasn't the right thing for me."

"What is the right thing for you, Ray?"

"Wish I knew. Maybe I need the ultimate love thing, too. Right now I'd just settle for a good blow job. I don't know how you do it, waiting, celibacy. It just makes me crazy horny."

Turnbull shifted a little, kneeling before Ray, sitting back on his heels. "Let me help you, Ray."

Ray looked into Turnbull's blue eyes. Broad-shouldered young man kneeling in front of him, muscular thighs bulging under denim, eyes looking into his evenly, lips pressed tightly to prepare for rejection. He had to say no. Turnbull wanted him, really and truly wanted him, but it wasn't right, it would be using Turnbull, and Turnbull knew it. But, see, Turnbull knew it, Turnbull was - - no, no rationalizations, Turnbull was an adult able to make decisions, yes, but so was Ray, and he knew that he couldn't possibly say-

"Yes please."

His cock ached. His balls ached. His joints ached. His mouth was watering.

Turnbull scooted forward a bit, reached out, unbuttoned the fly to his jeans. He was hard already, which embarrassed him, but Ren didn't seem fazed.

"Wait," Ray said. "You can't just open my pants and pull it out like-" He closed his mouth to keep back the words "a two-cent hooker." God, what was he doing, trying to do, kill the guy? He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor, then shimmied out of his jeans. A second later he had a Mountie's head in his lap, and he just knew that Turnbull was smelling him, and then he was being tasted, which slammed right through him, made his vision all swirly for a second. God, a tongue on his cock, there was a tongue on his cock. He leaned back on his elbows and watched, thighs spreading. Two cents, hell, he'd pay thousands of dollars for this kind of attention. He wrapped his legs around Turnbull, hooking his feet at the small of Turnbull's back, keeping Turnbull there. Turnbull licked all around the base of his cock, licked all over his balls, licked up the underside of his cock, licked over the head. Kissed his thighs, kissed his abdomen, licked all over the place, then the teeth started in, and then Turnbull came back where he wanted it, licked over the head of his cock again. Wet Mountie lips wrapped around the head, and he was inside Turnbull's mouth, which was worth every bit of the groan he gave. He fisted his hands, digging his elbows into the mattress, trying to keep his body under control. Grabbing Turnbull's head, shoving his hips, no, that would be unacceptable and rude. Turnbull's eyes were closed, and Turnbull had moaned some too, and he was pretty sure from the look on Turnbull's face that this was a happy time. Then Turnbull breathed carefully and then, oh, yes, oh, then he was down Turnbull's throat, being sucked and swallowed, and he was down inside Turnbull where it was hot and wet and snug and he fit perfectly, and he'd never ever felt anything like this before, so this was how deep-throating felt. Leave it to a Mountie to do this on the first try. He gave one small guilty thrust, and Turnbull moaned, which just god sent him right over the edge, and he thrust up again, again, and he was moaning, and Turnbull was moaning, and he hadn't felt this good ever in his life, and he came down Renfield Turnbull's throat.

When he could breathe and see again, he was lying flat on his back, feet on the floor, Turnbull's tongue in the crease where his thigh met his torso. He moaned softly, just to see if his vocal chords still worked after that scream. He was breathing funny now, panting, he suspected, but he couldn't be certain because his hearing was foggy. Wait, foggy hearing? That made no sense. Then again, how could he be expected to think under these conditions? He challenged anyone to think when, oh, yes, Renfield Turnbull was licking his navel. Strong hands slid under him, lifting his ribcage from the mattress, as Turnbull's mouth moved up his sternum, found his right nipple. He gasped in pure, unadulterated pleasure. He'd never told anyone about it, but Stella had liked his nipples, had toyed with them to make them increasingly sensitive, and they weren't stale flat things like most guys's. Turnbull seemed to know exactly what to do with him, and he wanted more, yes, please, more. Turnbull licked over to his other nipple, got to know that one thoroughly. Kissed a trail over to, what, there? Hell, if Fraser licked anything and everything, why not Turnbull, too? He might have heard somewhere that the underarm was a good place for pheremones, and that seemed like an interesting Mountie thing too. Besides, this really felt good. He had melted entirely; there were no bones left in his body. He slid off of the bed, right off of the foot, until his back was braced by the bed and two Mountie hands, and his butt was resting on Turnbull's knees. Turnbull's face was in his neck, nibbling his collarbone, kissing his voicebox, licking all over, sucking at his skin. Now the ears, ah, yes, bite the earlobe, lick a little, he planted his feet on the floor and gripped Turnbull's hips with his thighs, wrapping his arms around Turnbull's neck. "You still gotta do from the waist down and then turn me over and do the back," he said in a remarkably unsteady voice.

"Yes, Ray," Turnbull whispered, licking down his jugular.

"And then will you suck me again, please?" Eyes closed, he rested his head against the bed, tilting back to expose his neck and chest to Turnbull's mouth again.

"Yes, Ray." Turnbull trailed slow kisses across his jaw from ear to ear, then sucked his clavicle. He just moaned and slipped one hand down to tug at his balls. Before his hand could reach its destination, it was lifted in one of Turnbull's. Turnbull kissed his knuckles, kissed his palm, sucked his fingers. No one had sucked his fingers before. Oh god it turned him. He didn't dare open his eyes to look; it would have been too much, way too much. Turnbull licked his wrist, sucked at his pulse, nibbled up his arm, made love to the crook of his elbow, went up his arm some more, across his shoulder, down onto his chest, then to the other arm, down that arm gradually, then more finger sucking.

Ray was ready to come again, but Turnbull was too busy to tend to it.

What felt like ten hours later, Ray had all new erogenous zones: his toes, the arch of his foot, the backs of his knees, and definitely the back of his neck. His spine was tingly - - jelly, but tingly. He couldn't catch his breath. He'd spent five of those ten hours on his stomach, on his elbows, shuddering, panting, gasping, thighs spread, Turnbull all too literally tongue-fucking him. Then he'd been rolled over, limp and tense all at once, one part of him completely and absolutely not limp. Turnbull was tending to that part of him right now. He'd been tasted all over, licked and sucked and kissed and nibbled from scalp to toe and back again. By now Turnbull could outscore Stella in a quiz on Ray's body and Ray's physical responses to sexual stimuli. This time, when he was sucked down Turnbull's throat, he exercised no self-control: he sat up, took Turnbull's head in his hands, and shoved his cock down as far as it could go, pulled it back and shoved it down again, slamming his hips against Turnbull's face, wanting it, needing it, feeling Turnbull sucking and milking. He came with a scream and collapsed.

He woke up alone, naked, and clean under the covers, in the dark.

"Shit." He got up, then waited a moment to get his knees to work right. A good orgasm took the muscle control right out of him. Two fantastic orgasms, well, it was a wonder he could remember where the floor was. He walked out of his room eventually and went to Turnbull's. The room was dark. He heard panting, labored breathing. Moonlight from the window helped him to adjust, and he walked toward the bed.

"Ray?"

"Hey." He watched Ren's dark form sit up in the bed. "How long was I out?"

"Twenty-eight minutes."

"Sorry about that. You disappeared on me."

"I didn't think that you'd want me to remain."

He placed the now-diminished panting sound. He'd heard it before, from himself, when he was either finished chasing a perp when he was out of shape, or when he was deep into sex. In most cases lately, deep into jerking off. God, Turnbull jacked off? Why hadn't he realized that?

Well, now he just felt guilty. And turned on again.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Slid a hand over in the moonlight. Turnbull was sitting hunched up, practically knees to chest, but, "You're naked?"

"Yes, Ray."

He slid his hand over more, across the bedsheets, to Turnbull's hip. Burrowed his hand into Turnbull's lap. Found what he wanted, hard and hot and throbbing and drooling against his hand. Turnbull gasped, made a strangled choking sound, and came.

Ray realized that, um, maybe he should have, um, asked first. You know, for permission. Because it wasn't really a good idea to grab a guy's dick without knowing beforehand that it was okay. Especially when the guy was a.) your friend whom you were supposed to care about and b.) large and muscular and trained to kick some serious ass.

He realized, a minute later, that he still had his hand on Turnbull's dick. So he loosened his grip a little, then a little more, and finally let it go. His slick palm rested on Turnbull's slick abdomen, which shuddered under his touch. Slowly, without conscious muscle control on his part, his hand slid down into the thatch of hair between Turnbull's thighs. Past Turnbull's dick, then against Turnbull's balls. Curious, he regained muscle control and touched, fondled, explored a little. Then back across the perineum. Oh, god, what was he doing? He grazed his fingers over the pucker, then back again. Traced around it. His fingers were wet with semen, and he nudged one fingertip against Turnbull's hole.

Oh. So that's what it felt like inside a guy. Tight. Damned tight. And hot. Clamped around his cock, this would feel - - oh, okay, better not think about it. At all. Ever. Especially not when his brain already had been fried at least twice tonight. He wormed his finger around a little, pressed in deeper. Wriggled it out again. Went back in with two this time. Time to set up permanent residency in Turnbull's ass. And he didn't know every last thing about guy-on-guy sex, but he did know that he was supposed to be hitting a hot button in here somewhere, some gland that made happy fireworks go off, like an orgasm without coming. Either Canadians didn't have one or he wasn't getting the right angle. He pushed in just a little deeper and heard a slight gasp. A slight gasp meant something, because so far Turnbull had pretty much been in sentry mode, absolutely still and silent.

Wait, still and silent was not what he wanted here. Of course, if Turnbull didn't want to be touched, there were plenty of ways to let Ray know it. On the other hand, he still hadn't asked for permission and he'd shoved two fingers up the guy's butt without hearing any requests to do so. And that was a pretty personal thing to do to somebody, so it would have been a good idea, Ray you idiot jackass, to make sure that it was okay first!

He eased his fingers out again, pulled his hand away, and focused his eyes. Turnbull was hard again; that couldn't be a trick of the shadows. He moved over, knelt astride Turnbull's hips, planted a hand by each of Turnbull's shoulders, looked down into Turnbull's face. "Ren."

"Yes, Ray?" Turnbull asked.

"Do you want me to keep touching you?"

"Yes, Ray, please. Thank you kindly."

He looked down at Turnbull's body. "I am definitely the one who should be thanking you here, Ren." He rested his weight on his left hand and ran his right hand over Turnbull's six-pack. "God you have the best body." He slid his hand up and rubbed his thumb over Turnbull's nipple. "I can't believe I'm hard again. Ren, roll us over." Blue eyes opened in shock, looked up at him. "Put me on my back and get on top of me." Carefully they rolled until he was looking up at Turnbull. "Get on top of me, get against me. Come on, I won't squish." He wrapped his arms around Ren, who cautiously settled on his body. "Come on, more. Yeah, that's good. Feel that? Me against you, my cock against yours, naked skin, feels so good..." He wriggled against Turnbull's body on purpose and felt Turnbull's cock react favorably. A definite plus to being with a guy: no way could a guy fake sexual pleasure. "Lay down on top of me and rub against me. No way I'm coming again, but you feel good for another round, and I want this, come on, I won't break." He pulled Turnbull closer; Turnbull's face was buried in his neck, Turnbull breathing hot and moist against his skin. Turnbull's body rubbed and thrust against his body, and he could feel how Turnbull's muscular strength was holding back to keep from fucking him through the mattress. He wrapped his legs around Turnbull and rocked back in response, thrusting against Turnbull's motion, their cocks finding a happy slick place with precum and Turnbull's previously spent semen. He heard a strange moaning sound coming from his throat, and he felt his eyes roll back in his head, and he knew that he couldn't possibly come a third time, but this felt good, too good, it felt like-

He heard, just then, an odd clicking sound. What was that? Oh, it was Turnbull. He ran his hand up and down Turnbull's back, and he thrust up once hard, and Turnbull came with a tiny gasp and one tightly controlled, full-body shudder.

Just then Ray's mind said "You can't be serious!" and his mouth let loose a scream and he came. Not as impressively as his first two times, but he came nonetheless. Wow. What was he, sixteen?

"Sorry. Didn't mean to shout in your ear like that." His arms squeezed Turnbull tightly. Turnbull was much bigger and stronger than Stella, and it was great to be able to hug and feel a solid mass there. Turnbull was a guy, a big strong tough guy, trained to kick ass, trained to use a weapon, able to protect and defend and all of that good masculine stuff. Wow. With Turnbull, another guy, another cop, he could...

Wait, hold it, stop. Stanley Raymond Kowalski, what are you doing? For that matter, what have you done? You just got two blow jobs and a full-body tasting from a man you jerked off and finger-fucked and did whatever the fuck that last move was called with, and why? Didn't you promise yourself that you'd never touch him? And now you haven't just touched him, you've touched him in places you've never touched yourself!

Turnbull started to move away. Ray tightened his embrace, saying, "Don't move, I'm still thinking about it."

"I'm sorry, Ray, but I must insist." Turnbull unwrapped Ray's limbs and left the bed, then left the room. Ray ignored the cooling gunk on his stomach and rolled to his side, closing his eyes, muttering, "Fuck," and falling asleep.

Saturday:

He woke up alone, naked, and clean under the covers, light shining through the windows.

Ray knew that what he remembered happening could not have happened. Not in this lifetime, not in this universe. Unless, of course, he was completely without morals. Not immoral, amoral. He should be locked up somewhere, solitary confinement, throw away the key, no chance for appeal. He was a danger to himself and others. Definitely a danger to the pure and innocent, to the beautiful and principled.

Beside him on the bed he found a pile of his clean clothes. He dressed and went to pee, then walked out into the rest of the cabin.

Green eyes looked at him. "Morning."

He could use coffee. A cigarette. LSD. He made some noise of greeting and sat at the kitchen table with Vecchio, resting a hand over his stitches.

"Turnbull's been gone for hours. Ben's out running with Dief. He wanted to stay to talk to you, but I thought you might want a little time first. Never had you pegged for a screamer, Stanley."

"Go to hell."

"Wanna tell me what happened?"

"I'm Satan." Gone for hours. Been gone for hours. As in, went out for a long jog? Or as in, gone and never coming back you've fucked up royally, Kowalski?

"Satan," Vecchio repeated. "Satan must have a great sex life. Three times, Stanley? In two different rooms?"

"What were you doing, sitting up taking notes?"

"I spent most of the time trying to admire how pretty Benny blushes."

"God, I wasn't trying to humiliate everyone in the cabin! I embarrass Ben, I totally..."

"Totally what?"

"Totally fucked up any chance of ever..."

"Ever what?"

"Ever having a friend. Ever having more than a friend."

"Thought you didn't want more."

"I'm not supposed to get more. But you're taking more, aren't you? Why can't I?"

"I'm taking more because I'm doing my damnedest to give it back. I'm taking more because I am in love with Benny. I'm taking more because giving to me makes Benny happy. I don't think that you're making Turnbull happy at all."

"He wanted me and I wasn't strong enough to say no. And I had no idea what I was getting into when I said yes! I mean, he... I'll spare you the gory details. But I have never felt like that in my life, and there's no way anyone can say no to that."

"I spent years saying no to Benny."

"Because you loved him."

"And you don't love Turnbull."

"No, of course not."

"Of course not? You'd better have some huge reason for not loving him if you're going to say that."

"I can't love him. I don't deserve him. I don't, I can't... I'm not good enough for him."

"And I'm good enough for Benny?"

Ray thought about it. Actually thought about it. "Yeah. You are."

Vecchio tried to cover the surprise. "So why can't you be good enough for Turnbull?"

"Have you met him? Have you met me? And you still need to ask? Vecchio, tell me he's not gone."

"Gone? What, gone for good? No. He left a note for Benny."

"A note?"

Vecchio handed it to him.

Constable Fraser-
I will return before sunset. Please make see to it that Detective Kowalski receives his antibiotics.
-Constable Turnbull

"God, his handwriting really looks like that?" Ray asked. Back to formalities, titles.

"Get your meds," Vecchio said.

Fraser and Dief came back not much later. Ray wanted to apologize to Fraser for fucking with Turnbull; Fraser was Turnbull's superior, besides which Ray felt like a hideous ogre for proving to Fraser what a crappy person he was. He couldn't wait to see Turnbull, to explain, to apologize, to see how much damage he'd caused. But he was afraid to see Turnbull, afraid of rejection and hatred and disappointment. He always was such a disappointment to the people he wanted to care about him. He disappointed his parents, he disappointed Stella, now he'd disappoint Fraser and Turnbull in one fell swoop. They'd hate him. RCMP memos would go out warning people to stay away from him.

But Fraser just looked at him.

"Ben, I'm sorry," he said, knowing that he sounded pathetic, moving to stand in front of Fraser in the middle of the kitchen. "I've never fucked up this badly. Tell me what I can do to fix it."

"If you feel the need to make amends, Ray, perhaps you had better make that request of Turnbull," Fraser said.

"Don't do that, come on, don't go polite distant Mountie on me."

"What do you want me to say, Ray?"

"Tell me we're still friends."

"We're still friends, Ray. We're in a partnership."

He hugged Fraser tightly. He needed someone not to hate him. He needed desperately for someone to like him, because he hated himself. Fraser hugged back just a little, gradually growing accustomed to his touchy-feely behaviors.

"Kowalski, you have the lousiest timing of anyone outside of Frannie's trashy novels," Vecchio said. Ray frowned and drew back, bewildered until he saw Turnbull standing just inside the front door.

"Ren knows Ben's yours," Ray said.

"I no more belong to Ray than Dief belongs to me, Ray," Fraser said.

Ray watched Turnbull cross the room and go down the hallway. After that, he heard the shower start. "I want to go home," Ray said, miserable.

Around the dinner table, there was no conversation.

Ray stayed up late for no reason other than not wanting to go near his bed. Finally he forced himself to his room. In bare feet in the darkness, he laid on his bed, curling up on one side, loathing himself. He had his parents. Welsh. Vecchio. Fraser. He'd gotten greedy, wanted more, wanted Turnbull, wanted Turnbull in more ways than he should have, and now look what he'd done. He should have been satisfied with what he had. Having Fraser for a best friend should have completed his world. But no, he wanted more. One more Mountie to complete the set. One more Mountie, even weirder than the first. One more Mountie, this time with sex. And a better body (take that!).

What a body. He should have looked more, touched more, gotten to know it better. Now he'd lost all chance of ever getting it back under his fingers.

But he had touched some of it, had learned some of it. Just enough to make him ache for more. He rubbed his fingers above his fly, hating himself, denying himself pleasure. He didn't deserve to lie here and jack off over Turnbull. No way. But, god, he was horny, he wanted Turnbull, he wanted that mouth again. He unbuttoned the first button, shoved his hand down inside, grasped himself roughly.

Froze.

Watched a large dark form walk from the doorway to his bed. Watched it kneel before his bed.

Turnbull's face was in his crotch, nose pressed against the back of his hand. Smelling his skin and his pre-come and whatever. He eased his hand out of his pants, and Turnbull carefully finished the unbuttoning. Everything was opened and shoved out of the way so that Turnbull could pull out his cock, hold it in two gentle hands, give it a tender kiss, and suck it down like Dief, like Dief on a hungry day. He rested one shaking hand on the back of Turnbull's head, Turnbull swallowing him, Turnbull's nose pressed in his pubic hairs. He brought his other hand in a fist to his mouth and bit down on it hard when he came.

"Don't leave."

His cock was released from Turnbull's mouth. Turnbull stopped touching him. He removed his hand as well.

"God please don't leave me," Ray whispered fiercely, knowing that he sounded like a complete idiot, needing to say it anyway.

"I'm sorry, Ray, but I must go," Turnbull said, quietly, probably out of respect for the couple across the hallway.

"No. You can't go." Turnbull stood, turned away, left. No no no fucking shit no no - - Ray got up, realized that he was hanging out of his pants, stripped impatiently, and ran across the hall to Turnbull's room, which he entered quickly. Turnbull turned to him in the darkness. "You can't go. I'll just follow you. Across the hall, across the country, I don't care."

"Ray, what do you want from me?"

"Be in love with me."

There was a silence. Finally, "All right, Ray," Turnbull said softly. "I will be in love with you."

"Forever."

"Yes, Ray."

"And let me sleep with you."

"Yes, Ray."

Turnbull was barefoot, hence the silent stealthy walk into his room, yet dressed in jeans and at least two layers of shirts. Turnbull laid down on the bed; he laid down beside Turnbull, turning, resting his hands on Turnbull's shoulders, resting his body against Turnbull's, rubbing his nose against the soft clean cotton of Turnbull's shirt. "Hold me close," he said softly. "Hold me like you love me."

"Yes, Ray." He was held in a warm, strong embrace, supported and protected. He was naked, still, and Turnbull pulled up the covers over him to keep him cosy. He felt tears prick at his eyes as he snuggled up to Turnbull. He was desperate and he was needy and he was going to die from a broken heart, but at least he could pretend that his life wasn't shit and that he wasn't hurting others.

Sunday:

Ray woke up alone again, in Turnbull's bed. Not entirely alone; Dief was sitting on the floor, by the door, looking at him. "What?" he asked, defensive. "Get out, go away." Dief snuffed at him and left. He rested on his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he should try to act like someone with any morals at all and go take a shower and get out of this room, or if he should just jack off his morning erection right here on Turnbull's sheets. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers around his hard-on, wondering if he should go back to Chicago, hand in his badge, and-

The noise that came out of his mouth was nothing he'd ever heard. His eyes opened in shock to see Turnbull right there again, wet lips all around him, long lashes lowered, hands gripping either side of the bed for support. God, Turnbull got better at this every time, amazing as that sounded. There was no room left for improvement, never had been, but each time it just felt like heaven, like really sexy erotic pornographic heaven. Turnbull started taking it slower now, easing off of him, licking around a little, kissing, nibbling. Teeth, Turnbull used teeth, were all Mounties this insane? And then that perfect wet hot suction was back, and Turnbull swallowed him right down to the root, and then there was sucking and tongue and sucking and tongue and sucking and he came, hard, howling.

God, he had to get this noise thing to stop. It was embarrassing as hell.

He wanted to go back to sleep. Turnbull had let go of him, being nice enough to realize how sensitive he was now, or maybe just wanting to get the hell away from him. "Ren," he said, reaching down, taking Turnbull's chin in his hand, "Lick me. Here." He tugged and Turnbull came up his body, eyes lowered. "Nice and soft." He relaxed, closing his eyes, and felt Turnbull's tongue make a soft little lick across his right nipple. He stayed there, on a gentle plane of bliss, feeling post-orgasm lethargy but also feeling little sparks of happiness from Turnbull's tongue on his nipples. He wasn't asleep, but he wasn't really tuned into the real world, either. At some point he breathed, "Hmm, higher," and Turnbull slowly licked up his pecs, licked his collarbone, licked his shoulders, licked his neck, licked his ears. Smooth steady stroke of strong wet tongue gentle over his collarbone, then flickering against his earlobe, running up and down the side of his neck. "Ren, do you love me?" he asked softly.

"Yes, Ray."

"Tell me."

"I love you, Ray."

He wrapped his arms around Turnbull and rolled them over, fast. He buried his face in Turnbull's neck and shook. He was not crying. Guys didn't cry. Men didn't cry. Cops didn't cry. He laid on top of Turnbull, clutching Turnbull, face pressed against Turnbull's skin, eyes closed, lips pressed tightly together to keep that whimpering sound from escaping. Turnbull held him close, stroked his naked back, rubbed a cheek against his hair, stayed strong and warm and solid for him.

"Forever," he said.

"Forever, Ray. I will love you always."

He forced himself to stop acting like a little girl. At least he hadn't actually cried, not with tears or anything. Now that would have been beyond humiliating. He raised his head and looked into Turnbull's face. Turnbull looked back at him patiently. "I'd, um, better get dressed or something."

"Yes, Ray."

That night, he went to bed early. He slept badly, in brief snatches of five minutes between stretches of gazing at the ceiling. Finally he got out of bed and went to Turnbull's room, naked. He climbed right on top of Turnbull, who woke with a start. "Tell me you love me."

"I love you, Ray."

"Suck me, Ren. Nice and slow. Gentle."

"Yes, Ray."

Turnbull moved slowly and carefully. He was eased onto his back comfortably, head on the pillows, fingers of one hand sliding over Turnbull's hair, knees propped over Turnbull's shoulders. Turnbull licked at his asshole, mouthed around his balls, then very tenderly licked and kissed at his cock. Ray sighed in pure pleasure, fingers tightening whenever it got too good. The pressure built fast, and Turnbull kept going. It felt wonderful, and he wanted it to last, but he also wanted to come, and Turnbull wasn't giving him enough friction or suction. God it was heaven, but it was too gentle, too slow. "Harder," he panted. "Harder, harder, god, yes, Ren, please, harder." And then, there was no other word for it, Turnbull swallowed him fast and suckled, hard. He screamed and somehow managed not to fall unconscious. He gasped, panted, shuddered, blinked to clear his vision. "God, Ren."

Turnbull set his legs down on the bed again after releasing his cock carefully. A loving hand smoothed up and down his outer thigh.

"Ren, come up here."

Turnbull stretched out alongside him, leaning down over him. He shifted slightly, half on his side, and looked into Turnbull's face, one hand easing down Turnbull's body. Turnbull was looking at his mouth. He licked his lips slowly, on purpose; Turnbull's jaw dropped slightly, lips parting. His fingers found the head of Turnbull's cock. Turnbull twitched. Turnbull's cock jumped against his hand. So his first impression had been correct; Turnbull was hung. Seriously well-hung. He started a stroke, pumping and fisting on Turnbull's cock, wondering how much Turnbull could take. Turnbull panted slightly, as though trying to be silent, watching his mouth, hips very still. As though with one movement all would be lost.

Ray dropped his own jaw, let his tongue come out slowly to run ever so slowly over his lower lip. The cock in his hand surged.

"Ren."

"Yes, Ray," Turnbull said softly.

"Jack me like I'm doing you."

"Yes, Ray."

Oh, god, the man had good hands. It had to be a sin to feel this good. It was a sin; he was one evil bastard. Turnbull didn't deserve this; Turnbull deserved much, much better. Everything. He couldn't be everything for anyone. He'd fucked up trying to be anything at all to Stella. He was nothing. A big fat loser.

Well, not really. He was a good detective. He was a good partner. He was a good friend. He just wasn't good enough for one slightly insane squeaky-clean Mountie.

He was a total shit for using Turnbull like this, but hey, if Turnbull wanted to stop, they'd stop. He wasn't forcing anything. He wasn't making Turnbull do anything. He'd always gotten the impression that no one could make Turnbull do anything. The guy could be seriously stubborn at times.

Monday:

On Monday Ray woke to find Turnbull walking into the room. It was Turnbull's room, so that was okay.

"Good morning, Ray. How do you feel?"

"Just great." He did. The old healing process was going in leaps and bounds. And he'd slept well all wrapped up in Mountie. How could anyone not sleep well feeling that safe and secure? There should be a store for Mounties somewhere. One in every bed, maybe. Two kinds: one all horny and sexy, the other all sweet and comforting. Lucky Ray had found the special deluxe edition.

"I'm glad to hear it. We'll be leaving tomorrow morning."

"Leaving? Chicago?" He didn't want to go back. He missed his work, he missed the city, he missed having places to go and restaurants and noise and lights and people. But if he left, he wouldn't have Turnbull anymore. Turnbull all closed up behind a uniform in front of the Ice Queen, or across the city in a different apartment, meant that he couldn't have Turnbull close at hand to talk to or get blow jobs from, meant that...

"You seem disappointed, Ray."

"We'll still be friends, though, right?"

"We agreed to be friends, Ray. A good friendship does not depend on location."

"Okay. That's good. So we can still hang out and stuff back in Chicago."

"I would like that very much, Ray."

"That's good. Do you think we could still have sex?"

"Would you like me to make love to you in Chicago, Ray?"

"What do you mean, make love?"

"To continue as we have been."

"Have been? You mean you think this is making love?"

"Yes, Ray."

"So you've been making love to me since Friday? And what I've done, that stuff, that was making love too?"

"Yes, Ray."

"You gotta tell me this stuff, Ren! So...if we're making love...that makes us...lovers."

"I suppose that one might say that, Ray."

"You want me to say that?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Okay, then. So we're...lovers. You and me."

"Yes, Ray."

"Since we're already lovers and all, you think we could...kiss?"

"I would like that very much, Ray."

"Okay." He pulled Turnbull closer, hands on Turnbull's broad shoulders, and pressed his lips to Turnbull's.

When he came up for air he was flat on his back and still naked underneath Turnbull. Trying to breathe, he slid his hands over Turnbull's shoulderblades through flannel and said, "We gotta get you outta these clothes here, Ren."

"Yes, Ray." Turnbull stripped. Fast. Then he was flat on his back and naked underneath a naked Turnbull, who was trying to lick his tonsils.

Oh, oh, god, he arched and rubbed against Turnbull, who wrapped a muscular arm around his waist and sucked on his tongue. "Ren."

"Yes, Ray?" Turnbull asked politely before licking his teeth.

"Feels so good."

"What does, Ray?"

"Being with you."

"As it should, Ray."

"Think so?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Why?"

"I love you, Ray. And I'd venture to say that you may be in love with me as well."

"I'm in love with you?"

"Yes, Ray."

Mounties didn't lie. And they weren't wrong, ever. So. "Ren, you think we could do this?"

"Do what, Ray?"

"Be together? Like a couple?"

"Yes, Ray. We can do anything if we put our minds to it."

"You really think so?"

"Yes, Ray."

"You wanna put your mind to fucking me?"

Turnbull looked into his eyes and turned red. "Ray, I would be honored-"

"Is that a yes there, Ren?"

"Yes, Ray."

"Greatness. Have at 'er."

"I'd much rather have at you, Ray."

"Good."

"Great," Turnbull corrected with a sweet smile.

Ray smiled right back. "Greatness."

matthew@matthewtime.com
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