Dual by Hth We're tidying up after the party, alone in the squad room. Really, I would have thought officers of the law would exercise a little more restraint, although I admit that a person can get caught up in the moment while bobbing for trout. He's bored, and his patience is wearing thin. If we don't finish soon, he'll find some excuse to slip away. "Come on, Fraser, city pays people to do this kind of thing," he finally says, impatiently. "It doesn't seem sporting to create extra work for the custodial staff, Ray, especially when it's so simple for us to do it ourselves." "Are you always like this?" "Yes," I say. I don't know what he means exactly, but yes, I'm certain that I am. Or so I've been told. "You're consistent, Benny, I gotta give you that." "Thank you, Ray." "That wasn't a compliment!" "I admire consistency." He makes a wild gesture with one arm; I think it is a direct appeal to God for intervention on his behalf. "*Consistency* is not my idea of a fucking virtue, all right?" I rein in my anger, ice it down so that I can store it away. "Your idea of a virtue, in that case, is...?" I've long wondered. No, I hate myself for the thought. No, he's a good man, a good friend. He steps closer to me, and sheer stubbornness prevents me from headlong flight away from his sudden intensity. "I dunno, Fraser -- not being an asshole?" "Surely you don't mean to imply--" "Don't you *surely* me!" He grabs my sweater in both his fists, pulling very close to me. "No *surely,* no *certainly,* no *understood,* and no fucking thank you's, you get it?" "Ray--" His voice drops to something I've never heard before, a raspy growl. "Just get worked up for once in your life, can't you? Can't you?" I sit by his side, on his desk -- Ray's desk. His feet are swinging, heels beating against the desk in a peculiar, almost Latin rhythm. The samba? It's after two in the morning, and weÕre discussing tourism in Chicago, and Al Capone. There is so much more to him than meets the eye. Without any warning, he turns and leans across me, kissing my lips. More than meets the eye, indeed. "Of course I'm capable of, as you say, getting 'worked--'" He cuts me off with his mouth hard on mine. I've wanted this forever, and never known it. Our coupling is a blur. My skin bears the memory of his hands searching for the right grip on me, but I never quite manage to look him in the eyes. I am a coward, I am cruel and unfair, I am weak, but this is more than one should have to bear. I can make love to him if he is Ray Vecchio, and I can make love to him if he is not, but he is both and neither, and haven't the first clue how I feel, except that I am in over my head. There's a smell of tobacco on him, very faint. I wonder if he quit smoking in order to be my Ray. I know it's wrong; I know our relationship, the only true friendship I have, will inevitably be changed by this, and very possibly damaged. But I've seen him this way only a handful of times, all demand, his green eyes gone almost black with danger. I like it. I let him push me down, let him do as he likes. Whatever he wants. I owe him everything.I taste blood in my mouth as I'm sucking on his fingers; he pulls his hand away, and I see that I must have bitten him, because he's bleeding from the cuticle. "Sorry," I choke out, for the sake of courtesy. He smiles. It's almost vicious. "Forget about it." His fingers trail over my cheek, and I know I'm being marked. I'm so exhausted. How long have I been this tired? I never notice such things until it's much too late. I lay my head down on his bare chest, and I am perfectly still. God. What have I done? His heart is loud under my ear, and its rhythm is quite distinctive -- strong, even, and fast, more reminiscent of a hare's heartbeat than a human's. This is the sound of him. What have I *done* -- in the station house, on his desk, with a stranger? This is wrong in every way. Except that his fingers are in my hair, and I have always had a gift for reading hands. He has hands that could only belong to a kind man, warm and generous and accepting. He makes it feel right. I like him. I really do. I can feel the anger in his hands. ItÕs humbling, to realize how much anger he's been hiding away. I try to remain relaxed; I want him to have whatever he needs from me to make it better. I adapt to it quickly -- the pain of his hard hands, his fingernails, his teeth, the way he moves roughly and unrestrainedly inside me. It's...bracing. It's almost pleasant, like the wind when it's just cold enough to eat away at your sanity, exhilarating and challenging. Only his mouth is not a test. His tongue is a constant flicker of pure pleasure that drains away all my tension; it moves from my nipple to my throat to my lips, and it does so much more than my fragile resolve to prevent me from fighting against him. I want him to taste me, more than I want anything. How much could I endure to have him kiss me like this, soft and possessive? More than this -- much more than the small aches and pains Ray can visit on my body in the course of his rough lovemaking. I love him. I really must. "So, I guess -- this wasn't my dumbest idea ever, huh?" I find his hand, lace my fingers through his. "This was a nice idea, Ray. Thank you." The real Ray hated it when I thanked him after sex. This man just gives a single, short chuckle, and squeezes my hand. He rolls away from me, and the bed rocks as he flops onto his back. "God! I needed that." He turns his head and smiles at me. I've never seen a smile like Ray's. Sometimes I think I would do anything to be caught in the edge of its aura. But I think that's mostly self-deception. If making Ray smile were truly my uppermost goal, surely I would be more often successful. "Hey, Fraser? You think we could bug out of here? Someplace where I don't feel like I should be punching a timecard." "Of course, Ray." I stand, and he sits up. For the first time, I think I am looking at this man with ordinary eyes, the way any stranger might view him. It's a shock; I didn't realize how much my study of him has been caught up in the facts and details of his features, in how they are not Ray Vecchio's features, and how that colored my very awareness of his physical attractiveness. It's a shock to realize.... That he is handsome -- extremely handsome. I am more than aware of it now. I *know* it. I see it. A whole new desire twitches inside me. I need him, because he is the only thing I have to hold on to now, and my life is darker than death, too cold and too empty to face alone. But I would have wanted him, regardless of the circumstances. I shiver. This is the first instant, our eyes meeting, both of us silent, that it's just the two of us in the room together. I don't know what it means, or where it will lead. "Benny, what do you think you're doing?" "Looking at you, Ray." He rolls his eyes, but I think that secretly he is pleased. "Are you going to make this weird?" I refuse to let him make me nervous. I am in control here; I always am. That's why he fears me so much, why he wants to hurt me even though he loves me. "I am going to take this seriously, yes." "Benny, c'mon. There's no--" he gestures around my nearly empty apartment, a wide swoop of the arm -- "no future here. Just let it be what it is." "Understood," I say, knowing it will make his eyes narrow in annoyance, and not caring. I do understand. And I will let it be what it is. Whether what it is is what I think it is or what he thinks it is...time will tell. Putting the uniform on is not a quick process. He gets tired of waiting for me as I'm shrugging on the coat, and he slips in, his chest against mine, my suspenders in his hands. I have to stop and kiss him. It's a lovers' kiss, slow and leading nowhere, only meant to be reveled in, enjoyed as it is. My hands find the back of his thick hair, and I hold him where he is. For the first time since I returned from Canada, I can convince myself that I belong in Chicago. He moves his mouth so that it's against my cheek, and he murmurs, "Was that -- right? Was that how it was?" It floors me. Is that...? Because he thinks...? And to my shame, he's more correct than I want him to be. Regardless of whether or not there is an attraction between us, I certainly would not have allowed the advances of anyone I'd known under a week to progress to a liaison in a public building -- if it hadn't been for how things were. I let my fingers stroke down his cheek. "I doubt you've been very fully informed, when it comes to how it was between Ray and me." "You were -- lovers." He stumbles a little over the word, but I can hear pride in his voice; he doesn't want to be defeated by his own confusion over this. Lovers. I kiss him again, briefly. "Not in the way you think we were," I tell him. "What you were no doubt told comes as much from rumor and speculation as from truth. We were *partners.*" "With fucking." I cup his chin in my hand, fix his eyes with mine and will him to believe me. "What you and I just did...no. It wasn't right. It was nothing like Ray would have done it." The look of defeat on his face is too endearing, and too awful. "Ray," I continue, "you can't fool me into believing he's still here. All you can do is...." I take a deep breath, and admit the truth. "You can help me move on. He's gone, and I can't follow him. But I still have -- a life here." Such as it is. It is the only one I have now. "Holy shit," he says quietly, as though giving voice to what I cannot say as I stand in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. I did not notice him following me, but he's standing in the doorway now, still completely nude. I look...as though I've been in a fight. There are bruises on my face and my shoulders, and raw bite marks on my chin and chest. My lips are swollen, my hair is in chaos, and I can see the deep ache in my muscles telegraphed through my eyes. "Jesus Christ," he goes on, still quiet. "Fraser, I'm -- I'm sorry. I must've been out of my head or something...." Yes. Of course you were. I shrug and say, "I'm fine." "You're not fine! You look like hell, Fraser." I shrug again. "Well -- aren't you going to say something?" "Like what, Ray?" "Like, 'go to hell' or 'don't ever touch me again?'" Is that what he's hoping I'll say? Maybe it would be the excuse he needs. Nevertheless, I won't let him have that. "Nonsense, Ray. I'm fine." "Don't be *fine!* You're just gonna...you're gonna let me do this? You don't care that I fucking hit you? You're not *mad?*" "I'm not mad. But if I could have a moment of privacy...?" He seems inclined to keep pushing, but after a moment he withdraws and closes the door behind him. I sit down on the cold edge of the bathtub. It doesn't hurt to know that I've pushed him this far, that the way I'm constantly trying to change or challenge him has driven him to hitting back at me in the only way I've given him the opportunity to do. It only hurts to know that I'll take no steps to rectify the situation. I will use him, and he will use me, and we will remain in one another's lives, and I can't seem to care that it's wrong. I can't seem to care about anything other than keeping my partner as near to me as I can. No, I'm not angry. Nor am I crying. A cut will sting as it heals, whether or not it is brushed with a drop of salt-water. We eat pie at the diner near the station, where the on-duty uniformed officers stop in for coffee. I order blackberry cobbler, and Ray orders lemon meringue. The real Ray had an addiction to coconut cream. No one asks me where my partner is; I wonder if anyone in this city ever notices anyone else's face. He drops me off at the consulate, and although I've been wondering if this is occasion for a kiss, he just touches my shoulder, something of a friendly punch and something of a caress. It seems appropriate enough. As I change clothes for my few remaining hours of sleep, my eye catches on the postcard beside the cot. His postcard. I pick it up and turn it over between my hands, imagining that I can feel his energy, his presence, printed onto it. I miss him. I miss my friend, my companion, my not-quite-lover, my troubling and fascinating Ray Vecchio. I wonder if the City of Chicago has hired a man who can cure this hurt inside me -- not just the sting of missing Ray's presence, but the bitter recognition of all the plans we might have made, all the adventures we might have had, all the things we might have said to each other, strong heart and quick mind meeting strong heart and quick mind. The future we will most likely never truly have now. I wonder if they can pay someone to stay with me after everyone else has gone. What's the going rate for that now? *Warm Me Up.* I turn the light out, and continue to hold his message between my hands. If I could say the same words to him.... If only I could. I could, I realize, say them to Ray...the new-- no, his replace-- no. No, I don't even know what to call him in my own mind. Ray Kowalski? It could be dangerous, to become too comfortable with the sound of that name, as it can never be allowed to have voice. For now, he must be Ray Vecchio to everyone else in the world. And who, or what, must he be to me? I close my eyes, and I can feel his hands splayed flat on my back, the pulse leaping in his neck, his tongue moving with agonizing slowness down the length of mine. I roll over, face down on my narrow cot, and I tell myself again that I can survive this. This, too, shall pass. Just because I cannot see my own future through the darkness does not mean I donÕt have one. I do. I will. I imagine that I am taking his hand again, nestling my fingers between his. If I must be blind, then I will trust him to lead me through. He has...good hands for it. "Make It Go Away" Holly Cole Make it go away or make it better, Isn't that what love is supposed to do? Make it go away or make it better Cause I would do either one for you. This is not the way you should see me This is not the face I recognize Should I lay my head down here for a moment Would you sing to me like I'm your child? Cause I'm not angry and I'm not crying I'm just in over my head And you could be the angel that stayed on my shoulder When all of the other angels left Make it go away cause I am weak and This is more than one should have to take If you do this for me then I will promise I'll make it go away for you someday There are reasons and silver linings There are lessons but I don't care Cause I just need a hand that I can hold on to When it's darker than death out there Oh I'm so cold and so far away from my home But tonight you're where I belong You're everything right When I'm everything wrong