Bell, Book and Mountie by lamardeuse

Bell, Book and Mountie
by lamardeuse

Fraser/Kowalski, NC-17

Based on the movie Bell, Book and Candle, information about which can be found at MovieDiva's page here. I have recast the roles in the film as follows:

Cast

Gillian Holroyd.........................Ray Kowalski

Shep Henderson.....................Benton Fraser

Nicky Holroyd...........................Ray Vecchio

Queenie Holroyd......................Frannie Vecchio

Merle/Sidney............................Stella Dubois

Pyewacket................................Eisenhower (Diefenbaker)

Mrs. DePass............................Harding Welsh

INT. RAY'S SHOP, DAY

Ray Kowalski was not having a good day. The overseas shipment was late again; Mrs. Maplehurst was going to have his head if she didn’t get her Indian cobra in time for Christmas. To make matters worse, he was out of crickets and there wasn’t a single supplier in all of Chicago that had any. He knew because he’d called every one of them.

Eisenhower stared up at him dolefully, his piercing blue gaze flickering between the soft-shelled turtle tank—which contained four very hungry soft-shelled turtles—and Ray.

“Do not look at me like that,” Ray told the dog sourly. “It’s not my fault Frannie opened that box by accident and let them escape.” It had taken him three hours to round up half the crickets his harebrained sister had let loose, and the other half were still roaming free in his apartment and shop. He’d found three in his coffee pot this morning.

Ike brushed against his leg, and Ray reached down to stroke behind his ears. “Yeah, I know it,” he said, acknowledging the dog’s scolding. “I’m in a rut so deep I can’t see daylight. I need to do something different. Try something new.”

Ike whuffed softly, head jerking toward the door. Ray spun on his heel, expecting a customer, but it was only—

—well, maybe 'only' wasn’t the best word. Benton Fraser, Ray’s new upstairs neighbor, did not appear to have one quality for which only was a suitable description. Besides being tall, dark and extremely fucking gorgeous, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Ray had never been much for the polished, wide-lapel type, but Fraser was polite in a way that most well-heeled squares were not, and there was something in his eyes that told Ray the suit did not tell the whole story of the man inside it.

Fraser looked up then and caught Ray gazing at him through the glass. Before Ray could react, the other man produced a guileless smile and waved at him. Ray raised a hand in reply, and after a moment Fraser turned away and headed up the wide wooden stairs.

Ray looked down at the dog and grinned ferally. “Hey, Ike, you want to get me a Christmas present?”

The dog whuffed again, and Ray frowned.

“Too big to wrap?” Ray stared at his familiar for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Jeez, I sure hope so.”

INT. FRASER'S APARTMENT, DAY

"Oh, dear!"

Considering he'd come upstairs to find his front door unlocked and slightly ajar, it wasn't a shock to find someone inside his apartment. Instead of the traditional masked intruder, however, fate had chosen to present him with a petite, dark-haired woman with huge brown eyes and a hand-in-the-cookie-jar expression.

"Is this your apartment?" the woman demanded, her earlier shocked outcry yielding to naked curiosity. Fraser blinked at the abrupt change; even after nearly a year in Chicago, he was still often surprised by the bluntness of Americans. They seemed to think nothing of walking up to any chunk of territory and planting their flag.

The irony of that crept up behind him and smote him on the back of the skull. It made him surly.

"Yes, it is," Fraser responded, much more tartly than he would have a year ago. "Would you mind telling me what you're doing in it?"

The young woman pursed her lips and flung an arm at the window behind her. "I came in because your window was open and the wind was blowing in," she said with a touch of haughtiness. She also drew herself up to her full height, but Fraser noted this didn't have much of an effect. "I don't imagine you wanted a gizzard all over your fancy books."

Fraser frowned, then decided that pursuing it would be futile. There would likewise be no point in mentioning that his door had most likely been closed and locked before she'd decided to rescue his collection of Twain first editions. "Yes, well, you're right about that," he admitted, gentling his voice. "I wouldn't have liked to have them ruined."

She eyed him warily for another moment, then broke into a guileless smile that somehow unnerved him. "I'm glad you're not angry with me, Mr. Fraser."

Fraser cocked his head. "How did you know my name?"

"Oh, I've known about you since you moved in," she said cheerily. "I live upstairs." She jerked a thumb skyward.

"Directly above me?" he asked. She nodded, and Fraser decided to exhibit a little of that American curiosity. "Tell me, are you studying modern dance?"

"No," she answered, her expression turning wary once more.

Fraser pressed on. "It's only that - every night I hear rhythmic footsteps and chanting - "

"Can you understand what I'm saying?" she interrupted, body suddenly tense.

Fraser shook his head, and the woman practically sagged in relief. "Good." She turned her mercurial attention to his desk. Trailing one finger over his blotter, she crooned dreamily, "You have beautiful handwriting."

Fraser pinched the bridge of his nose; much more of this and he'd have an incapacitating headache. "I, uh - "

"I took a few minutes to clean up your letters and papers," she continued. "You're kind of a messy guy for someone with such an expensive suit. It's Brooks Brothers, isn't it?"

Fraser shut his eyes against the sudden spike of pain. "Well. Once again, I thank you kindly for rescuing my - ah - books."

She blinked at him prettily.

"But I had planned to do some telephoning."

Blink. Blink.

"Some private telephoning?"

The young woman's warm gaze swiftly turned icy again. "No problem. I'll just remove myself from your adobe, shall I?" As she stalked past him, she raised her chin and declared, "Before you moved in a guy who worked for Reader's Digest lived here, and he was really nice." A dramatic pause. "Really nice."

When the door slammed shut behind her, Fraser released a huge sigh and collapsed into his leather wing chair. Pulling at the knot in his tie, he loosened it sufficiently to allow the throbbing in his head to subside.

Closing his eyes again, he tried to summon a few pleasing images to restore his equilibrium.

The Northern Lights blazing across a cloudless, star-laden sky.

A pristine, snow-capped mountain.

Stella with her arms crossed, asking him if he was actually going to wear last year's tuxedo to the wedding.

Fraser sighed again, allowed his brain to edit the image slightly.

Stella smiling at him in unabashed joy. Better. Not as likely, but better.

His fiancée had insisted that he take her out for Christmas Eve, which he supposed was appropriate considering the circumstances. He told himself to buck up, to pull himself together, that he was only tired; after all, he'd moved two weeks ago, he was starting a new job in the new year, and tomorrow he -

A picture of his downstairs neighbor appeared suddenly behind his eyelids, exploding like a supernova. Ray Kowalski - they hadn't been formally introduced but he'd noticed the man's name written in tasteful gilt lettering on the shop window - was a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a disturbingly magnetic package. From his fanciful collection of exotic reptiles to his close-fitting black turtlenecks and wild blond hair, it was clear he was a nonconformist like many of the artistic 'beatnik' types Fraser had encountered during his early days at the CBC. But there was a jittery, crackling energy to him that defied an easy label. Something told Fraser that any relationship with Kowalski would be like kayaking the rapids on the MacKenzie - an adventure fraught with hidden dangers and unparalleled excitement.

Fraser's eyes snapped open. Dear lord, he was losing his mind. With a pained grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and strode over to his desk, then seized the receiver and raised it to his ear.

The telephone emitted a blood-curdling scream. He promptly dropped it. From its prone position on his desk, the receiver continued its high-pitched tirade:

"COSI FAN TUTTI! POLLO GRANDE DELL'ARTE! SEMPER UBI SUB UBI! BLEEEAAAAAARRRGGGHHHH!!!"

Fraser picked up the receiver between two fingers and slammed it back on its cradle, ending the connection to whatever ring of Hell he'd accessed.

"Oh, dear," he murmured. Something told him this was going to be a very long night.

INT. RESTAURANT, EVENING

"As soon as I got a look at it I saw red. I turned right around and walked into Barry's office and told him Huntley and Brinkley do not rate a closet for a dressing room, and neither do we."

Fraser poked a listless fork into his Waldorf salad. Normally he found Stella's ambition, evidence of what he had come to recognize as the American spirit, refreshing and invigorating. But tonight, it sounded a shrill, dissonant note in the already jangling orchestra of his thoughts.

“So he says to me, honey—God, I hate it when he calls me that—honey, thing is, you’re not Huntley and Brinkley. And I told him, ‘Not yet we’re not.’”

He looked up after Stella fell silent; she was glaring at him across the table, her features pinched and narrow. It was then that he realized he’d spoken her last sentence along with her. Well, what did she expect? he thought rebelliously. She’d certainly said it often enough in his presence for him to commit it to involuntary memory.

“I was agreeing with you,” he said, raising his eyebrows in a gesture of innocence.

Her eyes narrowed further; after nearly a year, she could see right through his disguises. Ray Kowalski, it seemed, could see right through him too—and they’d only known one another for a handful of minutes.

The second thought should have frightened him as much as the first should have reassured him. But neither one had the desired effect.

“Well,” she said frostily, “I was only trying to do the best I could for us.”

“I understand that,” he told her, fighting to keep his own voice warm, “but it’s—it’s only that it’s Christmas Eve. Even Chicago’s premier journalist deserves a holiday.” He reached out a hand across the table and covered hers. Her hands were the most beautiful things about her—graceful and expressive, a dancer’s hands. They told him stories he didn’t think Stella meant to reveal.

A shy smile, one he’d forgotten she possessed, appeared on her face. “Chicago’s premier journalist?”

“That would be you,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

The vulnerable expression faded from her face, to be replaced by something a great deal more durable. She raised her glass of Mumm’s and waited for him to do the same before she spoke. “Today, Chicago…”

“Tomorrow, the world,” he finished for her, in what he hoped was an equally determined tone.

Fraser wondered if every successive version of the person you loved strayed a little further from the original, like a mimeograph of a mimeograph of a mimeograph.

Or perhaps, he mused, savoring the cold, sharp tickle of the bubbles as he swallowed, perhaps he was the one who was straying.

INT. SCRABBY END, EVENING

“Ray, you’ve been like a wet sheet all evening,” Frannie complained.

“Blanket,” Ray corrected automatically, his elbows resting on the small round table, his gaze fixed on his scotch.

“You always get this way when you drink whiskey,” she continued.

“Wrong: when I get this way I always drink whiskey.”

Frannie sighed and took a resigned sip of her Singapore Sling. “I don’t know why I hang out with you,” she said morosely. “Ray is a lot more fun.”

Ray raised his eyes to the stage, where Frannie’s real brother, Ray Vecchio, was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his latest band, his long fingers deftly negotiating a pair of bongos. He was wearing the new beret he’d won off Lucky Pierre in a recent poker game and a pair of narrow-lensed sunglasses he’d probably picked up at the five and dime.

He looked like a complete and utter dick.

“You just like me better because I have more than three functioning brain cells,” Ray shot back, downing the rest of his drink. Sure, Vecchio and him had grown up together, but like most brothers, real or not, they had a hard time seeing eye to eye on major issues. Such as, Ray thought Vecchio was a complete and utter dick, and Vecchio thought Ray was one. It was a relationship fraught with fascinating contrasts like these.

It didn’t help that Ray was about a thousand times better at spell casting and potion brewing than Vecchio was. Vecchio was a fairly laid-back guy, but there was an inner core of competitiveness that made him insufferable sometimes. For instance, there had been the time when Vecchio had come back from a book signing downtown, and had boasted for a week that he’d talked to Alan Ginsberg. So Ray had whipped up a little summoning potion, and the next time Vecchio came for a visit he found Alan Ginsberg lounging naked in Ray’s living room.

There were some perks to this witchcraft gig, he supposed. But right now, with the memory of Benton Fraser’s smile fresh and raw in his mind, Ray was hard-pressed to think of them.

“Don’t you ever wish you could be normal?” he asked suddenly.

“Normal?” Frannie parroted. “God, no. Normal people are boring. Humdrum.”

Ray nodded at the passing waiter in a silent request for another drink. “I think maybe I wanna be humdrum for a while.”

Frannie’s lips curved knowingly. “I bet you’d like to be humdrum with that Mr. Fraser.”

Ray chewed on his lower lip. “Maybe,” he conceded.

“Ha! I knew it!” she crowed happily. Leaning forward, an evil glint in her eye, she asked, “D’you think you could get him away from his fiancée?”

Ray’s gut plummeted for his shoes. “What fiancée?”

“Her name is Stella. I saw a picture of her in his desk when I was snoopying around.”

Stella, Stella…the name rang a bell, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. “Hm.”

“What ‘hm’?” Ray jumped at the sound of the voice coming from right behind him. He hadn’t even noticed that Vecchio’s set had ended.

“Ray’s got a new boyfriend,” Frannie gushed to her brother as he slid his long frame into a chair.

“For Chrissakes, Frannie,” both men growled in unison.

“Well, you could have, if you did a little—” She wiggled her fingers.

“He’s straight,” Ray bit out. There was no point in listening to the little voice in his head that was telling him then again, maybe not. Whether or not Fraser was one-hundred-percent-all—uh, Canadian heterosexual, there was no question that he’d chosen his team. And Ray had absolutely no patience for men who lived one way and played another.

“That wouldn’t make any difference to you,” Frannie continued blithely. “You could turn Rock Hudson gay if you wanted to.”

Vecchio made a grunting noise. “She’s right about that,” he conceded.

Ray turned to him in surprise. “Was that a compliment?”

Vecchio shrugged. “Hey, it’s Christmas. Consider it your present, ‘cause I sure as hell didn’t buy you anything.”

Ray shook his head. “I don’t want to become one of those sad warlocks who uses their talents to get laid.” He considered for a moment. “Well, okay, maybe now and then.”

Vecchio snorted.

Ray shook his head. “But not for him. I don’t want him that way.”

Frannie gaped. “You haven’t fallen in love and lost your powers?”

Vecchio stared at her. “Are you unhinged?”

“Of course not,” Ray sighed. The waiter chose that moment to deliver his third round, and he savored the burn of the whiskey before adding, “That’s an old wives’ tale. It’s the opposite. We can’t fall in love.”

Silence descended on the table for a few moments.

“Well,” Vecchio said, lifting his drink in a toast. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

Frannie covered her disappointment well. “You’re no fun,” she pouted, folding her arms and looking away from him.

“Yeah, I know, I suck,” Ray answered, feeling oddly hollow. He raised the whiskey glass to his lips again, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“Speak of the Angel,” Frannie said archly.

Ray placed his glass on the table carefully and turned to face the direction of her gaze.

There, just inside the door, stood Benton Fraser and the woman who had to be his fiancée. As they advanced through the smoky interior, recognition sparked inside him.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered under his breath. “That Stella.”

INT. SCRABBY END, EVENING

"You're not telling me he lives in your new building?" Stella's face was even more pinched than usual, as though she'd smelled a rotting caribou. Luckily, they were still out of earshot of Ray and his companions, although the other man was staring straight at them, so he couldn't have missed Stella's expression.

"You know - ah - Mr. Kowalski?" Fraser wasn't expecting this; he'd assumed that Stella and Ray did not inhabit the same social circles. One look at the smoke-shrouded interior of the Scrabby End confirmed that assumption. Stella wouldn't be caught dead in a night club like this one. The walls were a mixture of exposed brick and primitive murals that reminded him of Eastern Woodlands Indian cave paintings. The patrons were an even more intriguing mixture, a cornucopia of ages and races. Not one of them seemed inclined to wear a suit and tie - well, with the exception of a few of the women.

"Are you listening to me?"

"I'm sorry," Fraser said automatically. "You were saying?"

"I was saying that he's a creep," Stella said primly.

"Well, now," Fraser demurred, "I don't know that that's - how is it that you know him?"

"He went to my junior high one year," she said, shuddering. "Until he got kicked out."

Fraser blinked. "He got - "

Stella shook her head firmly. "I don't want to talk about it. He's a creep, Ben. He's also queer as a three dollar bill."

Fraser felt his cheeks flush. "Well. He's been nothing but courteous to me."

Stella actually leered at him. "Yes, I can imagine he went out of his way to be courteous to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Fraser demanded.

Stella waved a hand. "Nothing, nothing," she muttered. "Can we run screaming now, please?"

"I can't do that. They've seen us. It wouldn't be - "

Stella heaved a put-upon sigh. "Oh, God, you're never going to learn to be American, are you? All right, but quickly." And taking him by the arm, she began to half-guide, half-drag him toward Ray's table. Fraser stumbled slightly before falling into step so that he wouldn't appear to be his fiancée's backward child.

"Is this the son I raised to survive alone in the trackless wilderness with only his wits to guide him?"

Oh, dear Lord, not now, thought Fraser. "You did no such thing," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "We moved to Toronto when I was ten, for Heaven's sake." He risked a glance at the apparition beside him and swiftly wished he hadn't.

Robert Fraser, once Canada's premier radio journalist, had been haunting his son for a little over a year now, since he'd been killed in the pursuit of a story uncovering the attempts of the Chicago mob to infiltrate Toronto's criminal scene. The younger Fraser's pursuit of justice for his father's murder had led him to Stella and an unexpected career turn south of the border. None of that truly needed exploring at this juncture, however, because at the moment Fraser was primarily concerned that his normally three-piece-suited father was dressed in a black velvet smoking jacket garnished with a red silk neck scarf. The ridiculous ensemble was topped by a cranberry beret. He was also smoking a cigarette in a long white holder.

"What in God's name are you wearing?" Fraser whispered.

"I'm trying to blend in, son," Fraser, Senior whispered back. "If you'd actually stuck with investigative reporting, you'd know more about it. It's called being undercover."

"No one can see you," Fraser retorted. "What's the point - "

"Hey, man." Fraser's head jerked up in time to see a young man with shoulder-length black hair look right at his father and nod approvingly. "Nice threads."

Fraser stared at the young man, then at his father. Fraser, Senior beamed. "Thank you, lad. You've excellent taste."

"Go. Away," Fraser gritted between his teeth.

His father and the young man gave matching Fraser haughty glares. "You're starting to sound just like them, son," Robert opined frostily. "Don't forget where you came from."

Fraser turned to deliver a scathing retort, but the old man had disappeared. With a final withering look, the dark-haired youth also faded into the smoke.

Fraser sighed heavily, then realized he had stopped walking and Stella was staring at him.

He looked around him, only to discover he was standing in front of Ray Kowalski's table. The three people seated there were regarding him with varying levels of interest and healthy doses of amusement thrown in.

"Why Benton Fraser, you just get more fascinating all the time," Miss Vecchio said breathily, fluttering her hand before her face like a fan.

Ray leaned back in his chair as his gaze swept slowly from Stella to Fraser to the place where his father had just been standing. When those cool azure eyes returned to Fraser, Ben felt the weight of that gaze as surely as a caress.

"Compliments of the season," Ray drawled. "Care for an egg nog?"

INT. SCRABBY END, EVENING

Ray hadn't seen Stella Dubois since she was fourteen, but she still had that lemon-sucking expression down cold, the one that told whoever she was looking at that they weren't good enough to eat the gum off the bottom of her shoe. Considering how much she'd looked at Ray that way in eighth grade, it was downright nostalgic to see it again. Ray was about to tear up with the golden memories, here.

"How can you not have heard of our program?" Stella sniffed. “It’s number two in the ratings after Milton Berle.” There was a miniscule twitch in the corner of her eye as she glared at Ray; that was something new. But then, those gray-flannel status seeker types were nervous all the time. That's why the Milk of Magnesia guys were raking in the dough.

Ray shrugged. "Don't own an idiot box." He took another sip of his drink and tried to appear bored. The truth was that once he'd figured out who Fraser was, he'd taken a look at the show on his buddy Sandor's TV one night. He'd heard they were going to be doing a great documentary on Adlai Stevenson, and of course he just had to check that out.

Even in black and white, with tiny pulsing lines crisscrossing his face (Sandor's TV really blew), Fraser'd been gorgeous. Ray hadn't even noticed that Stella was on the show.

"I watch it every night," Frannie chimed in. "I think it's the duty of every American citizen to stay informed on world events."

Vecchio rolled his eyes. “My sister, Eleanor Roosevelt,” he muttered. Rising to his feet, he said, “Well, it’s been scintillating, folks, but I’m up in five minutes.” A nod to the table at large and he headed backstage.

Ray watched as Stella shot daggers at the side of Fraser’s head with her eyes, little stabbing stares that had to mean you promised we’d only have to spend a few minutes with these weirdos. But even though he’d looked pretty whipped when he first came through the door, Fraser was doing a bang-up job of ignoring her. When you added that to the old dead guy who’d been standing beside him earlier, Fraser was starting to reveal hidden depths.

Then Fraser looked at him, and shit, he’d been right, because the blue in Fraser’s eyes was dark like deep water. Dangerous ideas began gathering together in Ray’s brain.

No, he told himself firmly. Do not go there.

“So, you and Fraser, huh?" Ray said aloud, tearing his gaze away from Fraser's to try to regain his balance. "Guess it really is a small world."

"Positively claustrophobic," Stella said, taking another drag of her cigarette.

"I gotta hand it to you, though," Ray continued, unperturbed. "You always had good taste in guys."

"More than I can say for you," Stella muttered under her breath. Beside her, Fraser twitched like he'd just licked an electrical socket.

"Oh, I dunno," Ray drawled, treating the man across from him to a frank appraisal that made Fraser's ears turn pink. "I think maybe my taste is turning over a new leaf."

"I understand you and Stella went to school together?" Fraser bleated. Stella’s little daggers turned into machetes, but Fraser just went right on staring at Ray.

Ray bared his teeth. “Yeah, one year.” He paused. “Well, most of a year. I got expelled in April.”

Fraser’s eyes widened and he got all Canadian again. “Oh, I’m sorry to—”

Ray waved a hand. “Forget about it. I changed schools a lot in those days. Best thing that could’ve happened to me. I got to meet all kinds of people, from the South Side to the Golden Mile." He shot a special smile at Stella, who got even more pinched-looking.

"That was a really good year for him, though," Frannie said cheerfully. "Somebody wrote a poison pen letter to the principal about him. Said he'd been 'engaging in subversive activities that compromised the security of the school, the city of Chicago and possibly the nation.'" She beamed with pride in her brother's achievements, totally unaware that the author of the letter was sitting across the table from her. As for Ray, he had to admit that old Stella had a way with words. He wondered if she still wrote her own material.

"Dear Lord," Fraser said. "That's - ah, rather spectacular for an adolescent."

"I was an early bloomer," Ray said affably.

"Ray's a changeling," Frannie explained, still smiling like a loon. "That's why he's so talented."

"Ah," Fraser said, nodding. A little line formed between his brows.

"You don't gotta worry, Fraser," Ray said smoothly. "I don't go in for subversion much anymore. Too many people doin' it nowadays." He grinned, and the blush spread from Fraser's ears to his cheeks. Ray got a sudden image of Fraser's naked body spread out beneath him, its whole surface raw and angry with arousal.

Fraser's head jerked like a frightened horse, as if he'd seen the picture inside Ray's head, felt his desire. Ray frowned. He hadn't managed to project that strongly in a while. Better tone it down before the guy got embarrassed -

Then a slow, dreamy smile spread across Fraser's face, and Ray thought, Oh, shit.

"So how did you two end up together?" Frannie asked, oblivious to the little drama playing out beside her.

Fraser blinked stupidly, then darted a glance at Stella before answering. "I came to Chicago on the trail of my - ah, of my father's killers, and Stella was investigating related Mob activity at the time. She agreed to help me in my efforts."

"Must've made for quite a story," Ray said casually.

"I'll have to tell you about it sometime," Fraser said warmly, his eyes caressing Ray like a lover's hands. This time, Ray was the one who jerked. Man, he had to turn this off, it wasn't fair to the guy to do this to him.

"Well," Stella said frostily, "as much as I've enjoyed being here - "

Ray shot Stella a pointed look out of the corner of his eye, and her hands flew to her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Sorry, sweetheart. Trying to concentrate here.

Up on the stage, Vecchio and his band started up with a slow, romantic version of What Are You Doing New Year's Eve? Ray exchanged glances with Vecchio, who grinned and nodded at him. Sometimes, Ray had to admit, his brother wasn't a total asshole. But his timing in this particular instance really sucked.

Ray returned his attention to Fraser. Leaning forward, he murmured, "Go ahead and tell me now."

Ray blinked. Wait a minute. That hadn't been what he'd meant to say.

Fraser stared back at him, eyes glazed. "I'd like nothing better."

Across the table, Stella was making desperate little gurgling noises that were nearly drowned out by the music. She clutched at Fraser's arm with one clawlike hand, and Fraser started out of his reverie.

"Stella, are you all right? Are you choking?" Stella gurgled and clawed at him some more. "Have you lost your voice?"

Stella nodded frantically and jabbed an accusing finger in Ray's direction. Fraser frowned at her, then at Ray, then back at her. Ray noted he bore more than a passing resemblance to Ike when he was outwitted by one of the turtles.

"Well, perhaps we'd better get you home," he said, rising to his feet. He held out Stella's fur coat so that she could put her arms into it. "Thank you for the - ah - hospitality." That little crease appeared between Fraser's brows again; Ray wanted to lick it until it smoothed out under the pressure of his tongue.

Shit. Which one of them was enchanted here?

"'Bye," Frannie said, "talk to you soon." She glanced at Stella guiltily. "Or...not."

Ray watched as Fraser guided a still-flailing Stella out of the club. When they were out of earshot, Frannie snickered.

"What?" Ray snapped.

"You gonna give her her voice back in time for her to make her next broadcast?" Frannie asked archly.

Ray leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and let the sound of Vecchio's soft jazz wash over him. "I'll think about it," he murmured, his mind trying to process what had just happened. He hadn't lost control that badly in - well, since he was a kid. And that year in Evanston had been the worst; he'd felt out of place from the first day, and Stella had made sure that feeling had never gone away.

Now's your chance to pay her back, a voice inside him whispered. It would be so easy for you.

As Ray downed the last of his scotch, the waiter materialized beside him and deposited a fresh one on the table. He picked it up and started on it immediately. Maybe if he kept drinking, he'd drown out the demon inside him and the never-was memory of Fraser's bare skin.

Hell, maybe he'd bat a thousand and sleep through Christmas altogether.

Fraser wasn’t entirely sure why he was here. He only knew that he could be nowhere else.

Ray answered the door of his apartment in bare feet and a dark blue robe that seemed custom-fit, conforming to every line of his body in a way that was singularly distracting. While he wasn’t certain how much time had passed in contemplation of these sights, the sound of Ray discreetly clearing his throat informed him it had been much too long. When with a mighty effort Fraser willed his gaze upwards, he noticed that Ray was wearing black-rimmed spectacles. He also looked a little bleary-eyed.

Fraser glanced at his watch. Dear Lord. It was past two a.m.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“‘Salright,” Ray said muzzily. “I was—uh, reading.” He reached up and pulled the glasses from his face with a sheepish expression. The small concession to vanity stirred something unfamiliar in Fraser’s chest. He was unused to displays of vulnerability.

“May I come in?” he blurted, shocked at the question as soon as it left his mouth. Really, it was as though he had no control over—

“I don’t—” Ray began, then halted. His gaze slid away, and he shrugged. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe you’d better.”

Not sure what that meant and not particularly caring, Fraser stepped inside the shop when Ray stepped back. As soon as he did, a powerful feeling of rightness welled up in him. Yes, he thought. This is where I need to be.

He shook his head as if the strange thought could be so simply dislodged. It remained firm, only growing in strength as Ray led him to his apartment.

“You want that rain check now?” Ray asked, jerking a thumb at the bar.

“Please,” Fraser said. “A whiskey, if you have it.”

“Islay or lowland?”

Fraser’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Islay.”

Ray favored him with one of those lightning-quick grins and opened a cabinet door, revealing several glass bottles of varying sizes. “Thought so,” he murmured. He poured Fraser a generous shot and gave it to him neat. Fraser took it with a polite thank-you, stiffening his fingers so that Ray would not see they were shaking.

Ray stared at him for a long moment, then took a couple of steps backward, putting some distance between them. “Look, ah, Fraser, there’s something you gotta know.”

“You hated Stella in school,” Fraser said automatically. He knew this was not what Ray had been about to say, but somehow he was certain that he did not want to hear what Ray was about to say.

Ray frowned. “I didn’t hate her. I learned from her. I never hate people who teach me things, even if they don’t know they’re doing it.” He took a deep breath. “Uh, this is gonna sound pretty screwy to you, but I—”

“Stella and I are getting married tomorrow,” Fraser said, staring at the glass of amber liquid in his hands. “Well. Later today. We decided to drive to wherever it is you can do it, and just—do it.”

When this was greeted with nothing but silence, Fraser raised his head. Ray was standing near the fireplace, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah, that’s—uh—that’s good,” he murmured, his voice low and uneven. “That’s the way it should be, huh?”

“Is it?” Fraser set the glass on the table and rose on unsteady legs to his feet. His heart was pounding to such an extent that it was making him nauseous. He took one tentative step toward Ray, then another.

Ray shook his head, once. “Don’t. This isn’t anything you want to do.” The words were slow and measured, and Fraser felt a tug backward, as though he were being manipulated by an unseen puppet master.

“I can’t seem to—stop myself,” Fraser admitted, and as soon as the sentence was spoken he felt almost giddy with relief. There was no need for masks in front of this man, no need for Fraser to hide. It was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying, like stepping out into thin air.

But would Ray let him fall, let him crash to earth?

Fraser blinked. Ray was very close now, and his breath was warm and whiskey-scented and not at all unpleasant.

“Fraser—this isn’t where you should be,” Ray said, his voice edged with desperation. “Listen to me. You need to go home.”

Fraser watched as one of his own fingers traced over Ray’s slightly damp lower lip, watched as Ray’s eyes closed to slits like a cat’s.

“This is home,” Fraser murmured, right before his mouth took the place of his hand.

So much for his magical powers.

One of the most fundamental exercises in magic was being able to cover your tracks. Enough witches and warlocks had met a sticky end—usually on the end of a stick—because they didn’t have the sense or the talent to clean up after themselves. And one of the quickest ways to do that was to simply undo what you’d done. As for Ray, he’d been able to reverse his spells since he could fucking walk.

If that was true, then why couldn’t he manage to undo a basic infatuation hex, one he hadn’t even been concentrating on enough to realize he was doing? It wasn’t like there was even a potion involved, although most love potions sold nowadays were nothing but sugar and eucalyptus oil, expensive cough syrup that did absolutely zip to get you laid. Well, maybe you ended up with fresher breath, and that helped your chances—

Fraser chose that moment to lick Ray’s neck, and all of Ray’s already disjointed thoughts scattered and flew south for the winter. God, it had been way too long since anyone had done that to him—or that—or that—

“Ohhh, Jesus, Fraser, please, you gotta quit that—”

Fraser’s head jerked up, concerned blue eyes meeting his own. “You don’t like it?”

“Liking is not the problem here. The problem—ohhh, shit—” Ray trailed off into incoherence again, because as soon as he’d received that judgment Fraser went right back to his former activity with renewed enthusiasm. Ray registered the scrape of Fraser’s teeth and groaned, his cock hardening under his robe. It occurred to him that if Fraser got any more enthusiastic one of them was probably going to have a stroke.

Then the room seemed to be moving forward—oh, no, that wasn’t it, he was moving backward and Fraser was gently pushing him toward the back hallway with the determined pressure of his body. As they shuffled in an awkward dance, Ray nearly stumbled and Fraser caught him around the waist and pulled him close to steady him.

Ray sucked in a breath, because even under all that wool he could tell Fraser was as aroused as he was, and suddenly he wanted to strip every layer off this man until there was nothing but skin under his fingers.

The small but strong voice of his conscience was still telling him no, but the rest of him was sinking fast before the onslaught of Fraser’s quiet, desperate passion. Fraser was kissing him again now, kissing him like Ray was the answer to some kind of question he’d held inside himself for a long, long time, and, well hell, Ray had never been kissed like that before, and what, he was supposed to be a good boy and try to figure out a way to make it stop? Right now he couldn’t have cared if the whole fucking world ended around him, just so long as he could keep Fraser’s mouth on his, Fraser’s hands in his hair.

And that was something he’d never liked much, because usually when guys put hands in your hair it was a way of controlling you, to keep you pinned or to make you go deeper when you were blowing them. But for Fraser it seemed to be just another place to touch him, a place that felt really good to both of them, because Fraser’s fingers were gliding over his scalp, leaving crisscrossing trails that seemed to buzz with electricity, and as they moved Fraser hmmed into his mouth like that electricity was leaking out everywhere.

It was in this charged atmosphere that Ray found himself being gently but firmly shoved onto his bed, Fraser following him down, his lips never leaving Ray’s. Ray panicked then, summoned the last shred of his good intentions and broke away from Fraser, both of them panting as though they’d run six blocks instead of waltzed twenty feet to his bedroom.

“Fraser, you got to remember who you are,” Ray managed, gasping like a landed trout. “This isn’t you.”

Fraser blinked at that, and then his brows drew down, but not in the befuddled way of someone under the influence of a spell. No, this expression was angry, furious even, and until this moment Ray wasn’t sure Fraser had that in him, and boy, was this a bad time to be getting even more turned on.

“Who am I, then?” Fraser demanded through clenched teeth. “You tell me.”

Ray knew this was one of those reciprocal questions, but for some reason he found his mouth flapping to answer it. “You’re a nice guy who wears expensive yet tasteful suits and lives in a fancy yet tasteful apartment and has a nice, successful career.”

Fraser actually flinched at that. “Is that all I am?”

Since Ray wasn’t about to add you can also conjure your dead dad and you’re sexy as hell and you kiss like the Devil himself, he gentled his voice and answered, “No, that’s not all there is to you.” He took a breath. “I’m sure that Stella sees—”

Fraser met Ray’s gaze. “Nice guy, expensive suit, tasteful apartment, successful career,” he said bitterly. “That pretty much sums it up.”

This time it was Ray’s turn to flinch. So that answered the question of whether or not Stella had changed. Still, she’d have to be dumb as dirt not to see the good in this guy. “Fraser, you can’t mean—”

“I thought you—” Fraser blurted, his expression briefly raw and open, then closing up shop so quickly Ray wasn’t sure he’d seen what he’d seen. Fraser shook his head once, almost violently, then shoved himself off the bed. “Never mind.”

“Wait a minute!” Ray was on his feet before he knew what he was doing, and his hand had closed around Fraser’s wrist without any help from him. There was a heavy, charged silence as both of them stared at the place where Ray’s fingers dug into Fraser’s pale, pale skin.

They looked up at the same time.

“No more talking,” Fraser said. “Please.”

Ray could only nod, his breath stopping in his throat and making a harsh, rasping sound when it finally broke free. Fraser’s big hand gripped the belt of his robe and tugged, and the next thing Ray knew he was lying prone on the bed, as bare as the day he was born. Although judging by the glint in Fraser’s eye, this time would probably prove to be a lot more fun.

The voice in his head fell silent as he reached up and dragged an unresisting Fraser down to his level.

INT. RAY’S APARTMENT, MORNING

Ray was jolted into consciousness by the cold, wet press of Ike’s nose on his cheek, followed swiftly by an annoyed huff of fetid doggie breath.

“Jeez,” Ray groaned. “Give a guy a break, will you?”

Ike responded with a growly whine. Ray flopped over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“You’re right,” he said hollowly. “I don’t deserve one.”

INT. STELLA’S APARTMENT, MORNING

“You’re…jilting me?”

“I, ah,” Fraser stammered, looking down at his hands. This was proving to be more difficult than he’d thought. Then he summoned the memory of Ray staring up at him with huge, avid eyes as Fraser touched him, and everything seemed to settle into place.

“Yes,” Fraser said. “Yes, I am.”

“And what, exactly, am I supposed to do now?” Stella asked coldly.

“Well, you could always go back to Art Taylor, the fellow you jilted,” Fraser offered helpfully. He blinked as the cattiness of the words sank in. Dear Lord, what devil was possessing him? “I, ah—I’m sorry, that—”

Stella held up a hand and Fraser clapped his mouth shut. “You’re clearly insane,” she said lowly. “Though I did have my suspicions before this.”

Fraser rubbed at an eyebrow. “As for the show—I’ll go to Murray tomorrow morning and explain to him that I’m resigning—”

“You’re what?” Stella snarled, rounding on him.

Fraser actually took a step back. “Well, I thought it would be the least I could do. For you.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Stella walked over to the side table and took a cigarette from the enameled box that held them so stylishly. “Our professional relationship is still quite successful—for both of us. You can do whatever you like to me personally, but I’m not about to let you damage my career, darling.”

“But—” Fraser trailed off when he realized he had no rejoinder to this extraordinary statement. Stella had always had an unfathomable ability to blindside him.

“And speaking of appearances,” Stella said, stepping up to him and blowing smoke, “I don’t have to remind you that it would be quite damaging to your career if certain—tendencies—ever came to light.”

Fraser schooled his features to calm, knowing it was useless but unable to break the habit of decades. “Understood,” he told her stiffly.

“Good,” she murmured, almost soothingly. Patting his arm, Stella added, “Don’t worry, Ben. Your secret is safe with me. As long as you keep it quiet, you can have your fun.”

Something burst inside him then, and he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “It’s not—it’s more than that. I wouldn’t have done this to you for—fun.”

For a split second, Fraser thought he saw Stella’s features reveal one of her long-buried secrets. The implacable mask had reasserted itself by the time she spoke.

“That may be true,” she told him. “But that’s the only reason he did it.”

INT. RAY’S SHOP, EVENING

“There you go, guys,” Ray told the box turtles as they munched happily on their respective crickets. “Lots to go around.”

“Jesus, that’s disgusting.” Ray turned at the sound of his brother’s voice. Vecchio stood near the door in his faded leather bomber jacket, lip curled.

“Said by a man who worked in a store that sold dried frogs and bat’s eyes in brine,” Ray drawled.

“Yeah, well, it’s easier when they’re dead,” Vecchio shot back.

“So what brings you here?” Ray couldn’t help asking, when the silence stretched between them.

Vecchio shrugged. “Just haven’t seen a lot of you lately, brother mine. Frannie says you closed the shop yesterday.”

“I always close the shop on Mondays.”

“Yesterday was Thursday.”

Ray turned his attention to the python. “Oh. Right.”

“So, you been spending a lot of time with this guy, huh?”

Ray couldn’t help himself when his inner asshole rose to the bait. “Yeah, I been spending a lot of time with Fraser. Every now and then we even get out of the bedroom—”

Vecchio held up both his hands. “Yeah, okay, okay, I get it, and we don’t need to go into details. I just—we’re worried about you, is all. You know it doesn’t pay to mess with mundanes.”

“Yeah,” Ray agreed, setting down the box of crickets and rubbing at the back of his neck. “I know that. But he’s not—it’s not like that.”

“Then how is it? How come you don’t bring him round the End?”

This time it was Ray’s turn to shrug. “I mentioned it, but he never wants to go anywhere.”

“And why you think that is, huh?” Vecchio asked casually.

Ray grinned evilly. “Because I’m the best cocksucker in Chicago?”

Vecchio surprised him by not reacting. “Yeah. Well, you just keep telling yourself that. Meantime, I’m trying out a new set at the End tonight. It’d be nice if you could come.”

Ray’s grin faded; he felt gut-punched. “Yeah. I’ll, ah, try to make it.”

Vecchio nodded and let himself out, and Ray followed him and locked the door behind him. A few moments—or maybe a few hours—later, Ray registered Fraser’s voice calling his name softly. He sighed and headed toward his apartment.

Fraser was standing in his hallway, a clean white towel that looked like a snowdrift wrapped around his lean hips. “Was that your brother?”

“Yeah,” Ray said, trying to ignore the way the water still clung to Fraser’s chest and failing. “He, uh, asked us to stop by the End later. You want to go?”

Fraser’s eyes skittered away from him and something in Ray’s gut turned cold. “I’d like to, but I forgot to tell you that I had some work to do at the studio. Research for—ah, an interview.”

“Right,” Ray drawled. “Research.” Fraser’s head snapped up, blue gaze meeting Ray’s without flinching, but he said nothing.

“So,” Ray murmured, moving slowly toward Fraser, his eyes never straying, “it’s probably a good idea for us to take a night off, right?” He watched Fraser’s Adam’s apple bob as he stepped close enough to feel Fraser’s breath on his face. “Otherwise you might get bored with me.”

Fraser swallowed again and shook his head. “I won’t get bored with you.”

“No?” Ray cocked his head. “How do you know?”

Fraser’s answer was to touch his lips to Ray’s softly. Ray slid one hand up Fraser’s neck and buried it in Fraser’s wet hair, while the other went unerringly to the knot in his towel.

Fraser offered a surprised grunt as the towel dropped to the floor, then a groan as Ray sank to his knees in front of him.

“Believe me,” Fraser choked, as Ray’s tongue darted out for its first taste, “boredom is not going to be a problem.”

EXT. MR. LI’S HERB SHOP, DAY

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Vecchio didn’t even turn around to look at him, just kept fiddling with the lock. “Opening up the shop for the day,” he said blandly. “I’m working here again—though obviously you know that.”

Ray’s hands clenched into fists, then unclenched. “Yeah, I was talking to Andre last night—”

Vecchio snorted. “Good to know you’re still keeping in touch with some of the old gang—”

“—and he told me about you goin’ back to work for Mr. Li. He also told me who’s been hanging off your right arm for the past week.”

Vecchio jiggled the key in the lock and shoved at the door, but it remained stuck. “Ah, fuck it,” he muttered. Casting a glance at the street first, he stepped back and described a circle in the air with his left hand. This time, he jabbed at the huge oak door with one finger and it opened easily.

“Might as well stick with my strengths, huh? You comin’ in or you want to do this in the street?”

“Inside is fine,” Ray growled, pushing past his brother into the lushly-scented interior of the shop.

Before Ray could get himself going, Vecchio said, “Can we just skip the parts where you lecture me about getting involved with mundanes? Because we’re gonna get into this whole pot-kettle argument, and I don’t want to fall asleep from the boredom when I got an eight-hour day ahead of me.”

“Okay,” Ray gritted, taking a step toward him. “How about we get to the part where she’s Stella Dubois?”

Vecchio had the balls to shrug. Ray tried not to pop him one right there.

“Try to follow along here, willya?” Ray snapped. “Besides the fact she’s a well-known reporter who loves to stir up shit wherever she goes, she also happens to be the girl who got me expelled for practicing witchcraft in middle school. I don’t know if it’s such a hot idea to give her a gold key to the city, you know what I mean?”

Vecchio frowned. “I thought you told Ma they couldn’t prove anything.”

For a moment, Ray felt like he was a kid again. He hated that feeling. “She couldn’t. That’s not to say she didn’t try to.”

“Did she see you?”

Ray folded his arms in an attempt to make himself smaller. “Maybe.”

“Did she see you?”

“Yeah, okay? Yeah!” Ray spun away from Vecchio and started to pace. “I was thirteen, I was full of myself, and I was stupid. I nearly got caught for the sake of a dumb-ass stunt. You happy now?”

Vecchio didn’t answer that, only looked at him for a few moments, his expression vaguely sad. “Look, you don’t know how she really is,” he said softly. “I don’t think—”

“Yeah, you hit it right there,” Ray snarled. “You’re not thinkin’—or at least not with your brain.”

“We’re getting into that pot-kettle territory again,” Vecchio told him. Ray dimly noted the temperature of his voice had turned glacial, but he didn’t care. He closed the distance between them until his nose was inches from Vecchio’s.

“Get this straight, brother. I am not going to let you fuck up my life and expose us to the shitstorm Stella Dubois can call down on our heads with one phone call. If you want to get your rocks off, find some other way to do it.”

Vecchio looked at him with something approaching disgust. “Not all of us are looking for another notch on their bedposts. This is something you may not get, but I like her. She’s bitchy and tough and fucked up and I like her.”

Ray drew back at that; he knew that was the way it looked, the way he’d allowed it to look because it had never been any different. But it was different this time, so different that he could feel small pieces of himself falling away every time Fraser left him in the middle of the night to go back to his fancy apartment, every time he woke up in the morning and rolled over into the empty place where Fraser had been. He opened his mouth to explain, then gave up. It’d be like the boy who cried wolf, he thought, the irony of it slapping him upside the head.

Aloud, he said, “I don’t care if you’re just playing tiddlywinks with her. The point is, it’s got to stop. And if you don’t stop it—”

“You’ll stop it for me?” Vecchio drawled.

Ray nodded once. “You got it.”

“Well, go ahead; it’s not like I can go head to head with you. I never could. But if you do, you’d better be prepared for Fraser to get an earful about your activities, right down to the one that dragged him into your bed.”

“You threatening me?” Ray said, his bones turning to ice, freezing him from the inside.

Vecchio pointed at him, then turned the finger on himself. “Pot. Kettle.”

“Okay.” Ray actually relaxed at that; it was fair, after all. “Okay.” He could do this. He could let go. He’d done it a hundred times before. It wasn’t that different. He wouldn’t let it be.

Ray turned to leave.

“There’s something I still don’t get,” Vecchio said.

Ray stopped but didn’t turn back, and after a moment Vecchio kept talking.

“You wanted him, you got him, hooray for you. But if that’s all you’re going to use your gift for, what does it matter if we do end up on the six o’clock news?”

Ray didn’t know how long he stood there, his whole body so tense he could feel his bones creak. Then he walked out, his every step stiff and jerky like a marionette with one string cut.

INT. RAY’S BEDROOM, NIGHT

“Come on, come on,” Ray chanted, his body undulating and straining atop Fraser’s, hips snapping as he rode Fraser at a ruthless pace. The light from the hallway limned him like an eerie parody of a halo, and his lips were parted to reveal rows of sharp white teeth. It was a predator’s mouth, Fraser thought madly, his own pleasure ramping up and up with every thrust, and eventually he’d be devoured—

“Fuck me, come on and fuck me—” Ray’s fingers gripped Fraser’s shoulders, his ass swallowing and releasing Fraser’s cock in a desperate rhythm.

Grasping at the remaining shards of his shattered mind, Fraser reached for Ray’s hips, attempting to moderate their speed. “What’s—the rush—” he gasped.

Ray shook his head violently. After Fraser had given up on receiving a response, Ray panted, “Just—need it like this.” He tried to pick up the pace, then made a growling noise when Fraser’s hands impeded his movement.

“Why?” Fraser willed Ray to look at him, but his gaze was fixed on the wall above his head. When he got no answer, he added, “What’s wrong?”

Ray’s gaze lowered then, and Fraser’s breath caught at what he saw in it. No, not what he saw; rather, what he didn’t see. Ray’s eyes were like the windows of an abandoned building, empty and dark.

“Fraser,” Ray murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against Fraser’s. “Sometimes a guy just wants a good…hard…fuck. It doesn’t have to mean nothing.” His tongue darted out to tease Fraser’s lips; Fraser forced himself to remain still, to not turn his head away. “You think you can manage that?”

Fraser stared up at him. Please, he thought, don’t do this. Don’t leave. Everyone always leaves.

Aloud, he said, “Yes, I believe I can.” His hands tightened on Ray’s hips and held him fast as he flipped them over, his cock never leaving Ray’s body, his gaze never leaving Ray’s face. As Fraser hiked up Ray’s legs and draped them over his shoulders, he thought he caught a flicker of life behind those empty windows, a brief memory of the Ray who had stolen his heart with a single look.

He wondered if he would ever get either of them back, then decided it didn’t really matter.

Soon, his own hips were snapping furiously, forcing sharp, broken cries out of Ray with every savage, stabbing movement. “Is—this—what you want?” he demanded, his voice hollow and harsh.

Ray’s hands scrabbled frantically against the sheets, then rose to curl around the iron bars of the headboard. “Yeah,” he gritted, biceps flexing as he began to push into Fraser’s thrusts. “Yeah.”

EXT. LAKEFRONT, NIGHT

“You cold?”

Stella wrapped her arms tighter around herself as she gazed out at the lake. “A little.”

Hesitating for a moment, Ray pressed his hand to the small of her back. She jerked at the touch, then turned to look at him with confusion in her eyes.

“Better?”

“How did you—” Her expression darkened, then slowly cleared. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Stella’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer; Ray met it steadily until she turned away. They walked on in silence for a few minutes along the winding path beside a shallow inlet. Ray noticed that the edges of the lake here were frozen over, the ice thinning to open water about thirty feet out.

“You like to skate?” Ray asked, nodding his head at the lake.

“I haven’t done it in years,” Stella murmured.

“Why not? You fall down a lot?”

“I was the best figure skater on my team!” she protested, coming to a stop.

Ray looked down at her, grinning. “What team?” She mumbled something he couldn’t hear. “Come again?”

“The Chilly Millies,” Stella said, only slightly more clearly.

“The—” Ray burst out laughing, and she assumed a posture of righteous indignation.

“We went to competitions around Illinois when I was in high school.”

“You got any trophies?” Ray said, unable to resist bumping her gently with his shoulder.

She smiled. “I threw them out years ago.” Her voice was soft and a little sad and Ray wanted to kiss her.

Instead he said, “Too bad,” and resumed walking.

After a few more minutes she said, “If I put on a pair of skates now, I’d probably fall.”

“Not if you were with me,” Ray told her. “I wouldn’t let you.”

Stella’s gaze rose to his as they came to a stop again. Kowalski’s voice was in his head, yelling at him to smarten up.

“You’re—like him, aren’t you?” she asked. There was no fear or hatred in her tone, he noted, only curiosity. At least he hoped that was all he heard.

He shook his head. “Not like him. He can do all kinds of stuff I can’t. I can only manage the small things—opening doors, turning out lights.” He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “I can’t make someone fall in love with me. Just keep them warm. Keep them safe.”

She lifted her chin. “That’s more than most people can do.”

Figuring he wasn’t going to get a better chance in this lifetime, he closed the remaining distance between them, took her face in his hands and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly. She fisted her hands in his coat and gave it right back to him.

“So,” Ray murmured some time later, his lips against her ear, “you gonna tell on me to the principal?”

Stella drew back to look into his eyes.

“No,” she said softly. “I think I’ll keep this one just for me."

INT. RAY’S APARTMENT, NIGHT

For some reason—the most probable being that Ray had worn him out—Fraser didn’t leave as soon as they’d finished. Instead, he dropped instantly into a deep sleep, his arms wrapped possessively around Ray’s body.

Ray, on the other hand, stayed wide awake, his heart racing, his guts churning. He could still feel Fraser inside him, still feel the ruthless grip of Fraser’s hand around his cock, squeezing hard enough to pull his fucking soul out of him.

Maybe he did, Ray thought. Maybe he did.

Slowly, he edged his way out from under Fraser’s arm, then slid off the bed and reached for his robe. Fraser made a small, unhappy-sounding noise, but didn’t wake.

He walked into the living room, where Ike was curled up on the sofa. He raised his head when Ray entered.

“Do not start with me,” Ray told him. Ike’s head dropped onto his paws again, and Ray began rooting in his liquor cabinet. He didn’t need the good whiskey tonight, just something he could drink fast.

“Getting drunk isn’t the answer, son.”

Ray grabbed the bottle of JD that was buried at the back of the cabinet. “I told you—”

Wait a minute. He straightened abruptly and turned around to see an old guy in a black turtleneck standing in his living room. Or more appropriately, an old guy’s ghost standing in his living room. He looked vaguely familiar, though Ray already knew all the ghosts in this building and he wasn’t one of them.

“What the hell—”

“We weren’t formally introduced,” the ghost said. “My son has appalling manners since coming to this godforsaken country.”

That was it. “You were with Fraser on Christmas Eve. In the Scrabby End.”

“Good memory, son. Robert Fraser, CBC.”

“Ray Kowalski, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“You have an unfortunate tendency to foul language,” Fraser the Elder sniffed. “Stella was…milder.”

Ray reached for a glass and poured a generous shot of bourbon into it. “And Stella didn’t have a dick.”

The old guy made a face. “That, too.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to worry.” Ray downed the shot in one gulp, nearly choking as it blazed a path down his throat. “I’m gonna be returning him to the land of the straight and narrow pretty soon.” He waved a hand like a magician waving over a top hat. “Everything will be as it was before.”

“Will it?”

Ray poured another shot in lieu of an answer.

Fraser, Sr. crossed his arms. “What were your intentions when you started this?”

“Disreputable,” Ray shot back.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. Because I believe he’s in love with you.”

“He’s in love with what I can do for him,” Ray growled. “In. Bed.”

“Yes, well, let’s not, ah, get into gory details—”

“He never wants to go anywhere, do anything, be anywhere. Except. In. Bed.”

“Have you ever shown him any more of yourself than that?”

Ray blinked at him, then turned away and downed another drink. “There is no more than that.”

“You mean apart from the fact that you’re a warlock? There’s at least a few minutes’ conversation right there, I should think.”

Ray shrugged, tipped the bottle again.

“He’s becoming a public figure. An American public figure. Were you expecting to marry him and buy a little house in the suburbs?”

Ray snorted. “Public figures can do that up in Canada, huh?”

“Son, we had a Prime Minister who never married and conducted séances to speak to his dead dog. And he ruled the country for twenty-five years.”

“Hm,” Ray grunted.

“The point is, your problem isn’t with society. It’s with yourself. And you will have to resolve that struggle if you ever expect to be happy—or to make anyone else happy.”

Ray bared his teeth. “Wow, they got fortune cookies in the afterlife, too. Neat.”

Fraser, Sr. only shook his head sadly. “Try not to break his heart. I don’t know if there’s enough glue in the world to fix it this time.”

“Ray?”

Ray spun around to see a bleary-eyed Fraser peering at him from the doorway of his bedroom. “Are you—talking to someone?”

Ray spun back around, but apart from Ike he was now the only occupant of the living room. “Nope. Just talking to myself. Sorry I was so loud.”

Fraser shook his head. “That’s all right. It’s time I—” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling.

Ray felt the bourbon begin to burn a hole in his stomach lining. “Yeah. Guess you better.” It was on the tip of his tongue to beg Fraser to stay. He poured himself another shot instead.

Fraser looked from Ray’s face to the glass and back again, then turned and disappeared into the bedroom. The light flicked on as Fraser began searching for his clothes.

The bottle in one fist and the glass in the other, Ray sank onto the couch. Ike padded up to him and lay at his feet without a word.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ray murmured. “I love you too, buddy.”

INT. TV STUDIO, DAY

Fraser was astonished when Stella arrived at the studio twenty minutes late. Of course, twenty minutes late for Stella was still a half hour earlier than everyone else, but it was the first time he’d ever witnessed even that much of a lapse. More than that, her usually perfectly coiffed hair was loose, her cheeks were flushed, and…she was smiling. Smiling in a way she’d never smiled when they’d been together, not even at the start.

He tried his best to be happy for her, but could only manage a weakening of the powerful surge of envy that was filling up every available space in his brain.

“Ben!” She was approaching him now, looking genuinely pleased to see him. “How are you?”

He attempted a smile he knew would look inauthentic. “Fine. The editing on the mayoral piece is going well—perhaps you’d like to—”

But Stella was shaking her head. “No, not how is work. How are you?”

Fraser blinked, momentarily at a loss as to how to answer that. For Stella, work and life were inextricably linked. Or at least they had been. “I’m—why do you ask?”

To his further astonishment, Stella laughed softly. “Because I want to know. Is that so hard to believe?”

Fraser folded his arms. “Frankly, yes.”

“Ben, I…” Stella bit her lip in an uncharacteristic display of nervousness. Her voice dropped. “I know you may find this hard to believe, but…I want you to know I’m glad you did…what you did.”

Ben frowned. Surely she couldn’t mean—

“It never would have worked, you and me.”

Dear Lord. She could.

“I didn’t understand it at first,” Stella said, “but we’re too much alike. I mean, neither of us is terribly good at opening up.” Her eyes focused on something only she could see. “Having fun.”

That’s the understatement of the century, Fraser thought.

“We both needed people who would help us see things in a new light,” Stella added.

“And you’ve found that person?”

Stella’s smile returned; it was the smile, Fraser realized, of the young girl he didn’t believe she had ever allowed herself to be. “You’re going to think I’m crazy,” she murmured conspiratorially. “It’s Ray Vecchio. Your Ray’s brother.” She leaned in closer. “He’s one too, you know.”

Fraser’s mind reeled as it tried to assimilate the tide of new information. He’s one what? he wanted to ask. Homosexual? But thankfully he didn’t need to prompt her, because Stella was only too willing to expound further.

“What I did to Ray Kowalski when we were kids—it was wrong, I see that now. I’d been rotten to him for months, and he lashed out in the only way he knew how.” She waved a hand. “And he made the hair grow back the next day. When you see him, tell him I’m sorry, will you?”

Fraser nodded dumbly. That hadn’t helped him at all, really.

“Listen, I—I just want to say you don’t have to worry about my saying anything about you,” she said softly. “Right now, all I want is for you to be as happy as I am. You are happy?”

Fraser’s mouth opened. “Yes,” he heard himself say. “Deliriously so.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, patting his arm. And then he very nearly had a heart attack, because Stella Dubois, a journalist so tough she had once made Vice-President Richard Nixon cry, winked at him. “It’s amazing what a little magic can do, isn’t it?”

INT. RAY’S APARTMENT, NIGHT

Ray hung up the phone feeling as though he’d been hit by a Mack truck. He was so lost in his own head he didn’t notice the doorbell was ringing. It took a bark from Ike to clue him in.

“All right, all right already,” he muttered. Ike whuffed and headed for the living room.

He opened the door to find Fraser standing in his doorway. No, not standing; ‘fidgeting’ was more like it. “I just had the most peculiar day,” he said, without preamble.

Ray’s eyebrows rose. “Yeah, well, I just had the most peculiar phone call.” He jerked his head, and Fraser followed him inside. “Your ex just invited us to a dinner party with my sister and my brother. Says she wants to bury the hatchet. Question is, whose forehead is she gonna bury it in?”

Fraser pursed his lips. “I suspected she might do something like that.”

Ray glared at Ike, who was currently occupying most of the sofa. “I’ll give you two seconds,” he growled. Ike vacated the furniture with an aggrieved whine, and Ray reached for a cigarette before taking his place. “What’s up with her?”

“She’s either lost her mind,” Fraser said slowly, “or she’s in love.”

Ray snorted. “What’s the difference?” He struck a match against his thumbnail and lit up.

“She’s seeing your brother.”

“Yeah,” Ray said heavily. “Guess there’s no accounting for taste.” He waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it, Fraser. I predict that little romance isn’t going to last long. In fact, I can guarantee it won’t.”

“What will you do?” Fraser asked casually. “Cast a spell?”

Ray looked up at him, keeping his face as expressionless as he could manage. “What are you asking me?”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you that I believe you to be some sort of—well, shaman is the word with which I’m familiar, but you probably have another name for it. Witch, wizard, warlock. You have powers that can’t be explained by traditional science.”

“How did you figure all this out?” Ray drawled, flinging one arm over the back of the sofa.

“I’m an investigative journalist,” Fraser said. “And if it isn’t being too bold, I fancy myself a good one. I’ve spent the afternoon adding up the evidence. An overheard conversation with a man who's been dead for quite some time. Things Stella said this morning. The—when viewed objectively—highly irregular events of the past several weeks, beginning with the first night we…” He trailed off, looking away.

“Fucked?” Ray supplied helpfully.

“I was going to supply another word, but after the other night, perhaps that’s the best word. Yes. Fucked.”

Even delivered as it was in that cold voice, Ray couldn’t help the desire that spread through him at hearing Fraser say the word. “That’s what guys do with guys, Fraser,” he said quietly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No, that’s true,” Fraser agreed. “And I’m sorry if I led you to believe I felt that way. I wasn’t ashamed, though I was afraid, and that’s as bad. Perhaps it’s worse, in some ways. But I was hoping—at least at first—that there might be something more to it than just—fucking.”

Ray tapped his cigarette against the ashtray on the coffee table. Dammit, his hand was shaking.

“Ray, when we met—what was your first thought?”

Ray considered lying. “I wanted to dance with you,” he admitted.

“You—”

“I thought you were gorgeous,” Ray continued. “And I wanted you.”

“Was that all?”

No, Ray thought. “What else do you want to hear?”

“Did you want me because Stella and I were together?”

“I didn’t know you were with Stella until you showed up at the club.”

Fraser clenched his fists. “Don’t lie to me.”

Ray blinked. “I’m not lying.”

Fraser shook his head. “I don’t remember much about that night, but I remember sitting with you in the night club and suddenly having this—vivid—image of the two of us.” God, Fraser was blushing, he was blushing even after everything they’d done together. “And after that I couldn’t think of anything else; it invaded my brain. I couldn’t think of anything but having you, having you naked under my hands, gasping my name—” He turned away and Ray heard him suck in a ragged breath. “And later, even after I’d fucked you—” Ray flinched “—it wasn’t enough. It felt like I’d never have enough of you.” He paused, and this time his voice was barely a whisper. “It still feels that way.”

“Fraser—” Ray began, without a single idea of what he was going to say next.

“You did that to me, didn’t you?”

“It was an accident.” Ray squeezed his eyes shut as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Shit.

Fraser choked out a bitter laugh. “An accident?”

Ray sprang to his feet. “That’s not—oh, hell. Sometimes I don’t—do things deliberately, but it’s not like it was random. I wanted you, and it got out of control. When I figured out what had happened, I tried to reverse it.”

Fraser turned to face him again. “Tried?”

“It didn’t work,” Ray murmured. He took a deep breath and looked Fraser in the eye. “And yeah, I could’ve kept trying. But by then I didn’t want it to work.”

Fraser stared at him for a few moments, his whole demeanour as uptight as the first time they’d met. Ray still wanted to waltz him around the room, but it was too damned late for that, for everything.

“I only have one more question,” Fraser said stiffly. “Why did you make me fall in love with you?”

Ray felt like something was slowly carving him into tiny, bite-sized pieces; pretty soon he was going to fall to the floor in a heap of neat little cubes like they did in the cartoons. “I didn’t. I only made you want me. Those love potions they think we cook up, they’re just chemistry—manufactured lust. That’s all you’re feeling.”

Fraser’s face nearly crumpled before the old, familiar mask slammed into place. “Well,” he said roughly before he walked out the door, “it’s good to know at least something was real.”

Ray sat back down on the couch and stared at his cigarette as it burned away to nothing in the ashtray.