Since he was hurt, to put it mildly, Ray was travelling first class for the first time in his life.  It had been Fraser's idea, not that he minded.  And for some mysterious reason, their tickets were cheaper than standard first-class fare, just because he was injured.  Medical something-or-other.  Fraser's fault, no doubt.

        Everyone promised to visit.  Ray liked these people, their strength, their beauty that went far beyond the surface - - although their surfaces were, um, not bad.  He wanted to come back, see them again, learn more about them and their fight.  And he wanted to show them around Chicago - - not that there was much to show in Chicago.

        Their flight was called.  Passengers began to board.  One final round of good-byes.

        Ray had a window seat, the seat to his right vacant, Fraser and Turnbull directly in front of him.  Fraser'd gotten him two seats so that he could relax and rest and stretch out or something like that.  Ray was just grateful that he wouldn't have to sit beside some stranger - - at this point, he was looking at everyone suspiciously, wondering, "Demon?  Half-demon?  Vampire with sunblock?"  He still thought that their pilot looked a little inhuman, but Fraser said that he was being ridiculous.

        People bustled around, finding seats, stowing luggage, complaining to flight attendants.  Ray just settled in and buckled his seatbelt and hoped that his pain meds would kick in at some point.

        "Is this seat taken?"

        About those pain meds.  The doctor hadn't said anything about hallucinations.  So why was Lindsey McDonald sitting beside him?  He reached forward and pulled Fraser's hair.  Fraser batted at his hand.  No help from that corner.  He turned and poked Lindsey's shoulder.

        Lindsey kissed him.  Very soft and way too fast and right in public.

        Ray liked these drugs.

        He slept through the flight.  In Chicago, they found their luggage and retrieved Dief.  The Lindsey-image was still there.  It sat in the front seat with him when he drove away from the airport.  He dropped off the Canadians at their apartment, then drove to his own place.

        "Interesting."

        Cluttered was more like it.  He visited the toilet and took more pills and pulled off some of his clothes and got into bed.  Minutes later, Lindsey was there with him, warm and unbelievably comforting.

        He was put on desk duty for a while.  Not only was he injured, Welsh was worried that he'd lost his marbles.  He wasn't surprised.  But there was a trust level between them that meant that when he finally sat down and talked to Welsh about what had happened, Welsh listened.

        He started a semi-regular correspondence with Wesley, mostly trying to understand some things, educate himself at least somewhat about demonology.

        Once his pain pills were gone, he realized a few things.  He still hurt.  And the pills had drugged him so that he slept hard.  Now, without them, he had nightmares.  Bad nightmares.

        But Lindsey was there.  Lindsey, warm and comforting and so so fucking pretty.  And he could climb on top of Lindsey and kiss that soft mouth and get himself off against Lindsey's hip.

        And then one day he was doing paperwork and he found himself being introduced to Assistant State's Attorney McDonald.

        What?  Lindsey wasn't even a citizen of this state.

        His live-in something-or-other had his ex-wife's job.  Was Lindsey fucking with his mind for fun?  Okay, so he'd helped to take down Wolfram & Hart, which probably totally destroyed Lindsey's life.  So Lindsey was trying to ruin his life, too?

        Something-or-other.  They weren't friends.  They weren't lovers.  They lived in the same apartment and slept in the same bed, and when he had nightmares Lindsey held him, and when he wanted to get off he kissed Lindsey instead of masturbating, and now they had to work together sometimes.  They didn't talk together or eat together.

        Dief was in love with Lindsey.  So was Ray.  Even Welsh fell for him.  Frannie went so nuts she was almost blind to Fraser - - who was happily married and seemed relieved that her attentions were focused elsewhere now.

        Ray had had Stella once.  She was in Florida with the real Ray Vecchio.  Now he was in love with someone else.  He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for it to drop like a cartoon safe right on his head and squash him flat.  But he wasn't a cartoon, and he knew that this time he wouldn't get up and walk away from the trauma.

        He didn't have the slinky sexy body he'd had at twenty, but he thought he still looked pretty good.  He didn't have a great Harvard education, but Fraser thought that he was intelligent.  He didn't suck at his job.  He didn't make a lot of money, but he didn't spend any, either, so he had plenty in reserve.  He didn't have a ton of seduction experience, but Lindsey never pushed away his kisses.  So...maybe he stood half a chance, here.

        No one noticed that they were living together.  Fraser and Turnbull and Dief knew.  Fraser never talked about it, though, never said a word.  He wasn't sure how to interpret that silence.

        So he called Fraser on it.  And Fraser said, "I'm worried about you, Ray."

        "Why?  Worried about what?"

        "You're very much in love with him."

        "So?"

        "Does he feel the same way?"

        "I don't think that he has feelings."

        "Ray-"

        "You think he does?"

        "He must."

        "Maybe he loves about himself too much to love me."

        "He came all the way to Chicago to be with you."

        "He didn't have anything in L.A.  We toasted his bosses, his entire firm.  If he stayed, somebody probably would have come after him and killed him.  He had to get out of there, and there was a seat on the plane.  And you, you're the one who gave him the ticket."

        "You wanted him to come with us.  I only did what I thought you needed."

        "And what do I need now, if you've got it all figured out?"

        "You need him to love you."

        "I'm not getting that, though, am I?"

        Fraser looked at him.

        "You never give up, do you?"  Lindsey turned, looked at him.  "You're out there every day in Chicago, just like Angel.  Fighting and fighting."

        "I'm not a quitter."

        "It's called pragmatism."

        "It's called pessimism and giving up and being a coward."

        He had a stake-out.  Fun fun fun.  By the time he got home, he was dead tired.  Lindsey was in bed, asleep.  He crawled into bed and brushed kisses over Lindsey's shoulderblades and settled in against Lindsey's heat.  Lindsey stirred and reached for him, pulled him even closer.

        And in the morning, when he had weird hair and sleep breath and crud in his eyes, Lindsey kissed him and stroked him up and turned him on and didn't let him out of bed until he'd come twice.  Hell of a way to start the day.  Woke him up nice and good.

        He wasn't a quitter.  He'd fought for Stella and lost.  He was going to fight for Lindsey, too.  And if he lost...

        He started with conversation.  He talked to Lindsey, and Lindsey had to talk back, and eventually they were talking like normal people, about their jobs and their days and who needed to buy more peanut butter.  Little by little, he got to know Lindsey.

        The first time Lindsey's semen shot over his fingers, Lindsey panting against his mouth, Lindsey in his bed and in his arms and in his hand and on top of him and beautiful and aroused and coming on him, the sheer exhiliration and thrill of it made him come, too.

        A week after that, Lindsey came in his mouth.

        Two days later, Lindsey came in his body.

        The next morning, he yelled at Fraser for not telling him how good getting fucked felt.

        Then one night he was lying in bed, one hand behind his head threatening to rip the pillow open, his other hand gentle in Lindsey's thick, soft hair.  Lindsey was licking his pelvic bone, two fingers nudging his prostate, his cock drooling on his stomach.  It seemed to be Ray's fate to have lovers who never gave head.  His headstone would declare: Stanley Raymond Kowalski: Never Had a Blowjob.  People would come from miles around to laugh.

        Tongue on his nipple.

        Tongue in his mouth.

        Nipple on his tongue.

        Cock in his mouth.

        Jism down his throat.  He rubbed himself off and came on the mattress.  Lindsey kissed him and fell asleep in his arms.

        "I love you."