Love and Hate

Category: drama, humour, romance
Warning: m/m
Rating: NC-17
Synopsis: Fraser and Ray try to help out two friends, and end up surprising even themselves with the results.

Love and Hate

by Lucy Hale

"Why, hello, Detective Vecchio. Welcome once again to Canada. Would this visit be business or personal?"

Ray Kowalski hid a grin at the overly cheerful greeting he never failed to get from Constable Renfield Turnbull. "Just personal, Turnbull. You can, ya know, stand at ease."

"Of course. Would you like me to fetch Constable Fraser for you? Or do you have time to maybe sit and watch some of the CBC's broadcast of the championship curl--"

"I can get Fraser myself. You go on back and watch TV." Ray hadn't missed the upcoming reference to curling, and he wondered why Turnbull was always trying to convert him to being a fan, when they always got into fights over it.

Of course, if he wasn't spending so much time at the Consulate, they wouldn't have had the chance to fight so much. But he wasn't about to stop coming around.

A red-clad form appeared in the doorway, and Ray was reminded exactly why he spent so much time here.

Benton Fraser nodded to his coworker. "Thank you, Turnbull."

"Ah, Constable. I'll just leave you two to it, shall I?"

Ray glanced over at Fraser, not missing the twinkle in Turnbull's eye.

Fraser almost blushed, but nodded again once, professionally. "Thank you."

Turnbull smiled brightly and headed down the hall.

"It's good to see you, Ray."

Ray grinned. "Yeah, you too. Now whaddaya say we blow this joint and go somewhere where we can get some alone time in?"

His lover flushed even more darkly, but his eyes lit with pleasure. "Sounds good to me. Let me go get Diefenbaker."

Ray followed him when he went back towards his office. They passed the room with the television blazing and the sounds of cheering, and Ray was hit with a sudden thought. "Hey, Frase?"

"Yes?" Fraser opened the door to his office and let out a rather grouchy-looking wolf.

"How come Turnbull's still here? Yer not makin' him stay late so you can go with me, are ya?"

"Of course not. I couldn't do that. Turnbull's been requesting to stay longer than his shifts the last few days. I imagine his own television doesn't pick up the CBC's broadcasts."

"Aha. Gotta get his curling fix, huh?" Ray passed the opened door again with a glance to the enraptured Constable. "That's sad."

Fraser smiled, but, consistent with his nature, had to argue. "I hardly think spending a little extra time to catch up on the events in his home country is sad, Ray."

"You don't gotta do it."

Fraser shrugged as they headed out the door into the cool, musty Chicago air. "Turnbull is a little more obsessed with the sport than I am. Besides, he gives me a very lively play-by-play summation of the game if I ask. It's quite entertaining, Ray. You should--"

"Don't even say it, Frase." Ray unlocked the passenger door of the GTO and let Fraser and Diefenbaker inside, then headed around to the driver's side. He got in, gunned the engine, and turned to Fraser. "If I can think of one thing more boring than sitting through a curling game, it's sitting through Turnbull talking about a curling game." He grinned suddenly. "Besides, we got more interesting things to do with our time." He wagged his eyebrows with a complete lack of subtlety, and was rewarded by a blush lighting Fraser's features again.

He grinned and pulled the car out onto the street. He loved doing that. Fraser had never been much of a blusher before. Maybe the occasional Frannie come-on would make him turn a little pink, but that was it.

Since they had taken the step to becoming lovers, once Ray had discovered the madman his Mountie could be in the sack, the complete abandon Fraser would allow himself, he just had to remind Fraser of it at any other time, and the man turned the color of his uniform.

Not that he was complaining. About any of it. In fact, he had high hopes than by the time tonight was over with, he'd have some all-new material to make the Mountie blush over.

The telephone rang in the middle of the fourth quarter.

Turnbull glanced over at it, but the Mountie in him wouldn't let it go unanswered, even though the Consulate was closed for business for the day.

He picked up the phone, a smile appearing automatically. His pride in himself and his job came through in his tone. "Thank you for calling the Consulate of Canada. I am Constable Turnbull of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. What can I do for you this evening?"

A voice started in his ear, and he listened for a long moment. During that time his smile dropped, the light drained out of his eyes, and he sagged.

Finally he hung up. Turning a longing eye to the television, he reluctantly shut it off and went to the door.

A moment later he was locking the Consulate and on his way home.

Fraser lay still, his eyes shut, fighting to catch his breath and hang on to the little amount of sanity he had left.

A breathy laugh sounded from beside him. "Damn. You coulda warned a person."

His head turned on the pillow, taking in the flushed, semi-conscious form of his lover. He grinned faintly. "Are you looking for an apology?"

Ray curled up beside him, resting his head on Fraser's broad chest. "Maybe you could apologize in the morning, when I'm walking funny."

Fraser laughed quietly, and a large hand came up to run down Ray's arm.

Ray's breath hit his chest, and Fraser could tell he was already asleep. He couldn't help a fond smile down at the spiked blond hair.

He loved Ray. And Ray loved him. It was still unbelievable to him, after the months they had been together. His experience had been so limited. Victoria, of course, but there was nothing to compare Victoria to Ray. Absolutely nothing. Before her, there had been a few. He wasn't nearly as experienced as a lot of men he knew, but women had been throwing themselves at him since he was old enough to respond. He couldn't help giving in a couple of times, but none of them ever led to anything.

He had Ray now. The fact that he had nothing in his past to prepare him for the relationship didn't bother him. He didn't have much in his past he wanted to be reliving. No, what he had now was all he had ever wanted and more.

Ray was open, emotional, affectionate, and Fraser sincerely doubted there was anything about his lover he didn't know. Ray respected that Fraser was somewhat more private than he was, and he didn't push him. When Fraser did get around to talking about himself and his past, Ray acted as though Fraser was giving him a gift by trusting him with it.

It was more rewarding than anything he had ever known.

He only wished everyone in the world could have what they had. He had a feeling even Chicago would clean up if everyone could be this happy.

The crash sounded outside his door, and Fraser sat for a moment, debating whether or not he really wanted to know what Turnbull had just broken.

The loud voice of Inspector Thatcher sounded from the hall.

Fraser winced and stood. Thatcher had been in quite a mood the last few days. She had been lying in wait for something to explode about, and Fraser had a feeling Turnbull had just given it to her.

He glanced out into the hall and saw Turnbull on his knees, quickly picking up shards of glass as the Inspector's words rained down on him.

"--to know how you ever passed the requirements to get into that uniform in the first place! I want to know what I did to deserve you of any candidate being sent down here to work! Who did I anger? Can you tell me that?"

"Excuse me, Inspector?"

Her eyes blazed over to Fraser.

He was taken aback by the anger in her face. He thought fast. "Can I speak with you in private for a moment, sir?" He was walking as he said it, brushing past Turnbull to enter her office.

She followed a moment later, reluctant. "What is it, Fraser?"

"I was wondering if I could perhaps have this weekend off, sir."

Her eyes reflected her surprise, and she forgot about Turnbull. "You're asking for time off?"

"Yes, sir. If it isn't too much trouble."

"No, Constable, that's just great. An entire weekend with just that idiot on the floor out there. Wonderful idea."

Fraser grimaced -- he hadn't thought that through after all. "Of course, sir. I withdraw the request. Excuse me." He ducked out of her office before she could reply.

Turnbull was still on the floor, cleaning up the remaining glass. Fraser knelt to help him, and saw a spot of red on the carpet. His eyes went to Turnbull's hand, and saw the cut in his hand. "Turnbull, you've cut yourself. Let's get you cleaned up."

Turnbull looked at his own hand in surprise. "Oh dear. Excuse me for one moment, Constable." He stood and took off down the hall.

Fraser's eyes narrowed and he stood, following him. "Turnbull? Are you all right?"

Turnbull was in the Consulate kitchen, rinsing his hand out in the sink. "Quite all right, sir. I'm afraid the Inspector isn't that happy with me right now, though." He kept his back to Fraser.

Fraser went to the counter, not sure why he was so concerned about his coworker, but not able to repress the feeling that something was wrong. "Renfield..."

Turnbull shot a quick glance over at him. "Sir?" The surprise was obvious in his tone. Fraser never called him by his first name.

Fraser's eyes caught on something, and he grabbed Turnbull's arm and turned him to face him. "What happened?"

Turnbull's face was blank. "I stumbled, sir. The vase I was carrying fell, and--"

"Turnbull." Fraser cut him off, looking directly at the large black eye the other Mountie had been trying to keep from his sight. Turnbull's normally wide blue eyes were heavy, and the bruised eye could only open halfway. "What happened?" he asked again.

Turnbull didn't pretend to misunderstand. He shrugged, turning back to the counter. "I'm afraid my clumsiness doesn't restrict itself to the consulate."

Fraser's lips tightened. "You did that to yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see."

Turnbull smiled. "Thank you for your concern, sir. I'd better clean the rest of that glass up before someone steps on it."

Fraser watched him go, his expression thoughtful.

"Vecchio."

"Afternoon, Ray."

Ray grinned and relaxed, slumping in his chair. "Hey, Frase. How come you ain't here yet?"

"I'm leaving in a few more minutes. I was waiting for the Inspector to finish her work."

"You gotta hang around when the Ice Queen's there? Since when?"

"Oh, no, I just didn't want to leave until she was gone. I'm afraid it's been a rather tense day here at the Consulate."

"Huh. Well, hurry up and get yer ass over here. We got plans tonight, remember?"

"Certainly."

Ray glanced around to make sure no one in the bullpen was sparing him another look. "Love you, Ben."

Fraser sounded like he was smiling. "And I love you, Ray."

"See ya soon." Ray hung up with a grin. Damn, he loved that guy. Just talking to Fraser these days was enough to bring the biggest shit-eating grins to his face.

His eyes moved inexplicably to the office of Harding Welsh. His Lieutenant was a good guy -- the best he'd ever worked for. He took care of his detectives. He took care of Kowalski from the day he started there in Vecchio's place. He gave Ray enough leeway to solve his cases. He did a lot more for Ray than most bosses would do.

He stood by his men. And Ray loved the guy for it, almost like a dad. Or maybe...maybe like that protective older brother who would fight bullies for him. Either way, he was close to Welsh.

Welsh was one guy who needed a little bit of love in his life. Ray would never have said that out loud to anyone but Frase, but he knew how miserable a guy's life was when he got home from this dirty job to an empty place and no one greeting him at the door. Welsh dealt with the crap from the streets same as his men, and he had to deal with the crap from the Chief, from the Mayor, from the DA. He had to fight to protect his detectives, just like he had to fight for the ordinary people walking around the streets of Chicago.

If anyone needed a nice lady to go home to, it was Welsh. Ray'd found himself thinking that a lot over the last few weeks. He talked it over with Fraser, but his lover told him in no uncertain terms that he should mind his own business.

But still. Welsh was there when he showed up in the morning, and still there when he left at night. He needed something to go home to, and Ray wasn't gonna forget about the man who'd stood by him until Welsh was as happy as he and Frase were.

Fraser was ready to go, grabbing his jacket, when he heard voices out in the lobby.

Surprised, he went out the door. Turnbull was still here -- he was staying late yet again, for some reason. Thatcher was practically out the door. So who was talking?

A man stood in the lobby, glaring at Thatcher, who was glaring right back.

Fraser moved to them automatically. "Could I be of some assistance?"

"Yes, Constable. Could you please remove this man from Canadian property?"

Surprised, Fraser nodded. "Of course. Sir, would you be so kind as to come with me?"

The stranger glared at the two of them. "I didn't do anything, god dammit. I just want to see--"

"Constable Fraser, this man has pushed me and insulted me. Please remove him. Now."

Fraser took the man's arm firmly, easily feeling the hardness of strong muscle under his grasp. "Sir, please."

The man yanked his arm away. "I don't know who you fucking people think you are."

"Is something wrong out..."

Fraser glanced back to see Turnbull standing in the hall, his eyes going to the man.

"There you are. Are you coming?" The man's glare didn't fade.

To Fraser's surprise, Turnbull immediately nodded and came forward. "Of course. I'm sorry. I--"

"Let's just get the hell out of here." The man wheeled and headed for the door.

Turnbull followed close behind him, but Fraser grabbed his arm as he passed. "Turnbull?" His eyes drilled into the younger Mountie, silently asking what was going on.

Turnbull pulled his arm back. "I'm sorry if he caused a problem," he said quietly. A moment later he was out the door, going after the stranger without another word.

Fraser glanced over at Thatcher, and was surprised to see actual concern on her face.

"Fraser, do you know who that was?"

"I've never seen him before, sir."

She frowned, her eyes going to the door for a moment. Finally she shrugged. "I'll see you in the morning, Constable."

"--you listening to me, or am I conversing with the wall here, Frase?"

Fraser blinked, looking over at Ray. "I'm sorry. What were you saying, Ray?"

Ray's eyes narrowed, studying him carefully. "You been in outer space all night. What's wrong?"

"Nothing that I'm certain of. I'm sorry I haven't been paying attention."

"No big deal, just want to know if something's wrong."

"I...I couldn't say."

"Frase..."

Fraser reached out suddenly and, for no reason at all that he could think of, he pulled Ray close in a tight hug. "I'm very glad I found you, Ray. I don't tell you that enough."

Ray relaxed in his grasp. "Yeah, me too."

"I love you." Fraser pulled back far enough to meet his lover's eyes. "I'm happy. For the first time I can remember, I really am happy."

Ray's face took on an expression Fraser always loved being able to cause -- shy, pleased, almost bashful. "Same here. I never been this happy."

"What about..." Fraser hesitated.

"With Stella?" Ray shrugged. "I loved her, but we always had stuff...you know, in between us. I think from the day we first started going out, I had to fight to hold on to her. I don't have to fight with you, Frase."

"No, you don't." Fraser smiled, at ease again.

Ray grinned. "Now I gotta do something to make sure your mind doesn't go drifting off into space again, huh?" His eyes took on a familiar gleam.

"I'll try to keep myself in the here and now, Ray."

"Let me rephrase that." Ray darted his hand over and resting it on the warm crotch of Fraser's jeans.

Fraser sucked in a breath. "Oh."

"Yeah. You want to talk some more, or you want--"

Fraser cut him off by closing the inches between them and seizing Ray's mouth in a fierce kiss.

Ray practically melted into his arms, returning the kiss with passionate energy as his hand started moving in caressing motions over the bulge in Fraser's jeans.

Fraser held the slender body tight, and all wandering thoughts vanished in a flood of heat and pleasure.

"You think I enjoyed that?"

Renfield Turnbull swallowed, recognizing the low, flat tone as the dangerous one.

"You think I liked looking like a fucking idiot in front of your little Mountie buddies? You think I don't know you're all gonna have a good laugh over it tomorrow?"

Turnbull shook his head, knowing it wouldn't help. "No. Of course not. I--"

His arm moved faster than Turnbull could follow, and a sharp pain in his cheek registered the hit striking home. Turnbull stumbled back a step, his hand going to his face. "William, please. I didn't mean for you to--"

"I told you." His voice was still calm, dangerously low. "I told you that if you were late again, I'd come find you. Didn't I?"

"Yes, but--"

"Shut up."

Turnbull's mouth closed obediently. His hand dropped to his side, and he steeled himself for whatever was going to come.

Fraser had to half-carry Ray to the bed.

Ray struggled as much as he could to make it difficult for him. His hands were everywhere, stroking all the sensitive spots he knew on his lover's body.

Fraser almost buckled, but through sheer determination made it to Ray's bedroom, dropping his squirming, eager lover on his back on the mattress. Without a pause, he climbed on top of him, getting his revenge by taking control. He moved his lips and tongue over Ray's body in exactly the ways he'd learned drove the blond detective crazy, and after just a minute he had Ray reduced to a begging puddle of goo beneath him.

He raised up to look Ray in the eye, a smile lighting his face at the sight of the expressive man lost in his arousal.

Before he rolled them over to get down to the serious part, he found himself wishing again that everyone could have something like the two of them had.

Groans and whispered curses and unintelligible words rained down on him, and Turnbull shut his eyes, burying his face in the pillow as tears threatened.

The body on top of his didn't slow down. Thrust after thrust pounded into him as he lay quietly. The pain threatened to make him cry out, but he squeezed his lips together and knew he would stay silent, as he did every other time.

He wasn't hard at all. Not even the physical stimulation made him hard anymore. Not that William made any attempt to ensure he got some kind of pleasure out of it, but at one point he used to respond.

That was a long time ago, though.

With one last grunt, one last hard shove into his body, William came. Turnbull could feel the fluids filling him, seeping out as William pulled out of his body.

As he did every other night, William got up almost right away. Turnbull didn't even look up -- he knew the routine. William would get dressed, and he'd leave. That was it. The next day he'd be back, of course.

So Turnbull lay there quietly, not looking even when William's footsteps brought him close to the bed.

"Look at me."

Surprised, Turnbull obeyed right away, opening his eyes and raising his head to take in the face of the man he was sure, at one point, he had loved.

William studied him impassively. "You gonna be on time tomorrow?"

Turnbull just nodded, not trusting his voice enough to respond out loud.

That obviously angered William. "Get up."

Turnbull hesitated, and William's eyes narrowed dangerously. The Mountie dragged his aching body to his feet and faced him.

William looked up at him, and a smirk appeared on his face. Turnbull was a good five inches taller than he was, and had a few pounds on him, and that always made William laugh. "I don't think I like how slow you're taking tonight, Renny. You want to convince me you really learned your lesson?"

Turnbull's eyes reflected his sudden despair, but he let nothing else show his feelings. He knew the night wasn't over. William was feeling too hostile. He should have known it would happen.

Lost in his thoughts, when William took a swing at him, his hand came up. He blocked the hit reflexively, and then realized in horror what he had just done.

William stared at the offending hand for a shocked moment, and a gleam appeared in his eyes.

Turnbull shut his eyes as the first hits came.

"Turnbull called in sick."

Ray blinked into the phone. "Okay. So?"

Fraser sounded worried, but Ray had no idea why. "Turnbull hasn't called in sick a day since he started work at the Consulate."

"Hell, Frase, everyone's human. Maybe he's actually sick."

"Ray, Turnbull has come in to the Consulate with a light case of pneumonia before."

"Huh. So what's the point here, Frase? Why don't you call him?"

"I tried. There's no answer at his apartment."

"Whaddaya want me to do about it? You making this an official missing persons report, or what?"

"Well, technically I can't do that, since I saw him less than twenty-four hours ago. But I was hoping if you had a few free minutes, you could perhaps go to his apartment."

"You want me to pop in on Turnbull and see how he's feeling?"

"Exactly."

"Frase...I don't know him all that well, I've never even been to his place before."

"It should only take a minute. I would go myself, but with Turnbull gone I have to stay here at the Consulate and complete--"

"All right, all right. If it'll make you happy, I'll go check in on the guy."

"Thank you, Ray. I appreciate it more than I can say."

"Wow, this's got you really worried, huh?"

"I admit, it does. Something about the last few days has bothered me."

"Okay, just make sure you save up all that appreciation yer feeling for when we get home tonight, huh?" He grinned into the phone.

Fraser's voice had a smile in it again. "I'll definitely do that."

Ray was practically pounding on the door by the time it opened a crack. No one had answered the first few times, and despite himself, a little of Fraser's concern was rubbing off on him.

"Turnbull? It's Ray."

"Detective Vecchio. What a surprise." His voice was quiet, and he didn't open the door any further than a crack, but Turnbull seemed to be up and alive and everything.

"You okay? Frase was kinda worried about you missing work."

"Oh, I didn't mean for anyone to be concerned. As I told the Inspector, I'm just not feeling quite up to snuff today."

Ray hesitated, then shrugged mentally. Fraser wanted him to make sure Turnbull was all right and alive and stuff, and he had. No big deal. "Okay. You gonna be at work tomorrow?"

Turnbull hesitated. "I...I don't think so."

Ray frowned. Turnbull was acting nice and casual, but he wouldn't open the door enough to let Ray see inside. The cop in him was telling something was wrong here. "Hey, you think I can come in fer some water? It's kinda tiring climbing all those stairs."

Hehe. See if that Mountie politeness wouldn't work to his advantage once.

But to Ray's surprise, Turnbull's door stayed firmly shut. "I'm sorry, detective. I'm afraid I may be...contagious. I wouldn't want you getting sick as well."

"Oh, a little bug never bothers me." Ray moved fast, pushing the door open before Turnbull could react. "Besides, I just..." He stopped, gaping.

Turnbull seemed to sag in on himself. "I'll get you a glass of water." He turned and headed for the kitchen slowly.

Ray followed, still gaping. Turnbull looked like hell. He wasn't sick -- someone had beat the hell out of him. Ray could only see the bruises on his face, but by the way he was moving, Ray guessed he had a couple of cracked ribs, at least. "Turnbull, what the hell happened to you?"

"Why, nothing."

Turnbull held out a glass of water, which Ray ignored. "Nothing? Come on. Does Fraser know about this?"

"No! No, and there's nothing to know about. I just had..."

"What? An accident?" Ray's thoughts were confirmed now. This hadn't been some random mugging on the street. This was something more serious. There was no shame in admitting you were robbed and beaten, not in this neighborhood. But Turnbull looked ashamed now. "Who did that to you?"

"No one. It doesn't matter. Please, detective. Just drink your water and go."

Ray's eyebrows flew up. That was almost rude. Not what he was used to from the young Mountie at all.

This was fucked up. There were so many emotions running off Turnbull that Ray could practically feel them too. Shame, fear...

Ray hated that feeling. He came across ordinary, innocent citizens who were trapped by their own fear too often in his line of work. The most clear example he could remember was the thing with Warfield, but there were lots of other times. Prostitutes who couldn't get off the streets out of fear of their pimps, crack-heads that refused offers of help out of fear of their neighborhood dealers. Abused spouses who wouldn't file charges against their husbands...

His thoughts trailed off. There it was. That was what Turnbull was acting like. An abused wife.

Maybe Fraser knew a little more about this than he was saying. Maybe that was why he was so worried.

Ray ignored the water. "All right, I can take a hint. I'll get out of yer hair." He turned and started for the door.

Turnbull followed slowly. "I do appreciate you stopping in," he said in a completely normal tone of voice, as though he wasn't walking like David Duke after a visit to Harlem.

Ray hesitated, then went through the door. "I'll tell Frase...I'll tell him you won't be in tomorrow."

Bruised, red-tinged eyes met his in a silent plea.

Ray was tempted to cross his fingers. Lying was definitely not the worst sin he'd committed lately. "That's all I'll tell him."

Turnbull sagged against the door. "Thank you, detective."

"Yeah." Ray started down the hall, moving fast. He had to get to Fraser, and they had to figure out what the hell was going on before whoever put those bruises on Turnbull came back for another round.

The phone rang maybe five minutes after Ray had left his apartment.

Tired, sore, aching, Turnbull got to his feet and shuffled over. If it was Fraser, and he didn't answer, it may actually make him so concerned he'd come here himself.

In a way it was nice to know that Fraser was so worried he sent Ray to check on him. With the derision he seemed to get from the older Mountie, Turnbull never thought Fraser liked him much.

"Hello?"

"Who's your friend, Renny?"

A shudder swept over his body, unbidden. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, who's the cop that just left your place? Friend of yours? I know you haven't broken our agreement and gone to the police, have you."

"No! Ray is just a...he's a friend."

"And what did your friend want?"

Turnbull sank down on his chair, knowing there was no way to answer this question. He was in trouble the minute William had seen Ray. He couldn't do anything to make it better.

William had taken to watching him, calling him at odd hours and asking him intimate details about what he was doing. Turnbull recognized it as just a tactic to keep him in line, but that didn't make it any less effective.

"Come over. One hour." William's voice was angry, obviously upset Renny hadn't answered him.

The click sounded in his ear, and Turnbull hung up the phone, his hand shaking slightly.

How could he do this? Even as he got up and prepared to leave the apartment, he asked himself over and over why he was going. Why was he an active participant in this? He knew better. He had known the moment the relationship started going sour that he had to get away somehow.

But by then William had known him. He knew that as large as Renny was, he abhorred violence. The idea of using his strength against someone was unthinkable. Even in self-defense. William knew that, and took advantage.

Fight back , a voice in his head screamed even as he moved slowly to the door and let himself out.

He wouldn't. He would meet William, and hopefully whatever happened tonight, he'd be able to go back to work in two days.

Fraser drew his head back from the door. "He's not there."

"You mean really not there? Or faking not there?"

"Really. I don't hear a single noise from inside the apartment."

Ray opened his mouth, but shut it again without argument. He knew Fraser's ears by now -- they were never wrong. "Dammit. You shoulda seen him, Frase. He could hardly walk. What woulda made him leave? He couldn't have gotten better in just a few hours, could he?"

"If you were right about him having cracked or broken ribs, I doubt it." Fraser's eyes and voice were laced with concern as he turned away from the door.

Ray hesitated, but followed him as he started towards the stairwell. "Who do you think did it to him?"

Fraser glanced back at him, thinking. It truly was Turnbull's business, but if Fraser was right, Ray's position as an officer of the law just might come in handy. "A man showed up at the Consulate yesterday. He was violent and angry, and Turnbull left with him. This was the last person to be seen with him, and I have no doubt that that man was capable of inflicting those wounds."

"But Turnbull left with him? Why would he do that?"

"I think...perhaps they are involved in some sort of relationship."

"Like us? You think? But why would he..." Ray trailed off. His suspicions earlier that day had told him the same thing -- Turnbull was acting like an abused wife.

He had seen it before, and he knew there was no one good answer to the question 'why would he put up with it?'

All he knew was that if Fraser was right, Turnbull needed help, and fast. Some of those wives who were too scared to press charges ended up on one of Mort's slabs.

Harding Welsh groaned as he got to his feet. Another long day of keeping his detectives in line and kissing his bosses asses to hang on to his job that much longer. Unparalleled fun.

He flipped the case folder on Huey and Dewey's latest arrest shut, allowing a small smile of pride. Vecchio and Fraser were his two best, he knew that. Their solve rate was almost one hundred percent. But Huey and Dewey were close. Despite the idiocy in their conversations whenever they were together, they were a good team. This case had been a tough one, too.

And of course Assistant DA Kowalski had come in, bitching about how they might have to let the perp go because of unlawful search and seizure. He slipped Dewey a hint about probably cause, and he and Huey managed to concoct some story on the spot about smelling smoke in the apartment they had been walking past coincidentally on their way to lunch.

Welsh grinned as he moved out of his office. His detectives were good men, all of them. They were unconventional, and odd, most of them, and that led to a lot of work on Welsh's part trying to clean up their tracks, but he didn't mind it. One hundred percent, all the way, he would stand by his men.

He was walking through the dark office when the ring of a phone stopped him. He glanced over. Vecchio's phone. No telling who it might be.

He hesitated, but the cop in him wouldn't let it go unanswered. He strolled over. "Vecchio's desk."

"Detective..."

Welsh frowned, his instincts flaring. That voice was weak, and familiar. Obviously out of it if he could mistake Welsh's voice for Ray's. "Who is this?"

"It's...Turnbull. I'm s-sorry to be...be bothering you...b-but..."

"Constable?" Welsh's voice rose when there was nothing but silence. "Constable, where are you?"

"Pay phone. First Avenue...I think. I...I--"

"Never mind that. I'll be there in five minutes." Welsh hung up fast, heading for the door in a hurry. He didn't know Turnbull all that well, but he could tell the Mountie was in serious pain.

He grabbed his cell phone as he went through the building towards the exit. He dialed Ray's number from memory.

His machine picked up.

Welsh cursed, but listened through the message. "This is Welsh. Call me as soon as you here this. My cell number is 534-3960. It's urgent, Kowalski." The name was used on purpose, so Ray would have no doubt how serious this was.

He pressed Ray's cell phone number, just in case, and got a recording. Not answering or out of range. Great.

He climbed into his car and drove like a lunatic, racing to search every pay phone off First Avenue, even if it took him hours.

He almost passed by the closed gas station off Bleeker and First. Almost.

But he'd spotted the pay phone in the shadows, and his intuition flared.

Welsh slammed his brakes on, wheeling into the parking area, and his headlights illuminated a dark, huddled figure near the phone.

He jumped out and raced over. "Constable?"

Renfield Turnbull uncurled himself painfully from the bench he was wrapped up on, and he looked at Welsh in surprise. "Leftenant."

Welsh could hear the pain in his voice. "Turnbull, let's get you to the hospital."

"Where...?"

"I'm the one that answered the phone, Constable." Welsh helped him move carefully.

"Oh." Turnbull's eyes reflected a mild surprise, as though there was nothing unusual about this meeting except Welsh being there instead of Ray.

Welsh leaned him up against the car and moved to open the passenger door. "You want to tell me what the hell happened to you?" It wasn't possible to make out much detail in the darkness. Turnbull's face looked discolored to him, but it was hard to tell for sure.

Turnbull flinched as he sat slowly down and moved his legs inside the car. "I'm sorry, Leftenant. I didn't mean to...I didn't mean for you to get involved."

"Uh huh." Welsh shut the door and moved to the driver's side. "Well, if you don't want to tell me, you gotta tell the doctors."

"No!" Suddenly wide, frightened blue eyes flashed his way. "No doctors! No hospital!" He stopped then, as though remembering who he was talking to. "Sir, please. Could you take me to my apart..." He trailed off, his eyes shutting as a small tremor flashed through him.

"You go some kind of fear of hospitals, Constable? Because you sure sound like you need one."

"I don't, sir. You caught me at a...a bad time."

Welsh turned a dubious gaze his way, and had to fight to hide his shock. The streetlights down First Avenue were casting light into the car, and Turnbull's condition was a little clearer.

Discolored wasn't the word for that face. It was almost one big bruise. The clothes he was wearing were torn and ripped in conspicuous places -- the buttons of his shirt he was holding together with his hands. From the shallow breaths, Welsh knew the young Mountie had been hurt badly.

So what the hell was he supposed to do about it? "You got a first aid kit at your apartment?"

"Yes, sir," Turnbull said quietly.

The short response went against what little Welsh knew about Turnbull, and it bothered him. "The person that did this to you...he know where you live?"

Turnbull's huge eyes flashed to him again, and Welsh knew he'd scored in one. This wasn't a mugging, it was personal. "Yes, sir," the Mountie whispered finally.

"All right, we'll go to my place. At least," he said quickly, interrupting Turnbull's automatic protest, "until we can get in touch with Ray."

"Sir, I--"

"Can it, Constable. Save your strength."

Turnbull returned his gaze for a moment, but there had been just enough command in Welsh's tone to make it impossible to argue. Finally he faced the front again, sitting back and shutting his eyes heavily through the remainder of the car ride.

"This is Welsh. Call me as soon as you here this. My cell number is 534-3960. It's urgent, Kowalski."

Ray cursed and picked up the phone, dialing even before looking up to meet Fraser's eyes. "Sorry, Frase. I got to check in. He wouldn'ta used my real name unless--"

"It's all right, Ray, I understand."

And Ray knew that he did, so he turned back to the phone, listening to it ring.

"Welsh."

"Hey, Lieu, it's me."

"Ray, where the hell have you been?"

"I was out, sir. Helping Frase with--"

"All right, forget it. Fraser with you right now?"

"Yessir."

"Good. Tell him I picked up Turnbull. We're back at my place, just walked in the door. The kid's in real bad shape, and he won't go to a hospital."

"We're on our way," Ray said automatically. He hung the phone up. "Welsh found Turnbull, says he's pretty rough."

Fraser's tension increased with that, and the two men were off without another word.

Welsh hung up and turned thoughtfully to the large mass draped over his couch. "Constable?"

Turnbull's eyes opened automatically, though his carefully hidden wince told Welsh how much it hurt. "Yes, sir?"

Welsh moved towards him slowly. "If you won't go to a doctor, you gotta at least tell me what's wrong."

"Sir, I can't--"

"Turnbull, it's not my custom to pick up Mounties in distress and bring them to my apartment so they can drop dead on me. Now talk."

"Leften--"

"Don't give me that Leftenant bullshit. You tell me, or I'll look myself, and I don't want to have to do that."

A flash of...something...went through those blue eyes, and Turnbull shuddered. "Yes, sir." His voice was quiet now, despondent.

Welsh cursed to himself. That wasn't the response he'd been going for. He seemed to be making the kid feel worse. Turnbull had already looked like a light breeze would shatter him into a thousand pieces, and now he was looking to Welsh as the source of that breeze.

That look bothered the cop more than he could reasonably explain.

"I don't believe I'm in any danger of dying, sir," Turnbull said softly. "I believe I have one or two cracked ribs. That's all."

"That's all?" Welsh's eyes moved over the younger man's face, his eyebrows going up. Even from what little he could see, he knew that wasn't all.

Turnbull flushed and looked down, caught in his own attempt to lie. "Everything else is superficial."

"This has happened to you before," Welsh stated with sudden, instant certainty.

Shame on his face, Turnbull nodded without meeting his eyes. "It's not always this bad, sir."

"Not always this..." Welsh ground his teeth together and moved to the couch. "Constable, you need to press charges against the son of a bitch that's doing this to you."

"No, sir." Turnbull's response was soft, but firm.

Welsh shook his head and readied an automatic argument, but another thought occurred to him suddenly. He could see the bruising around Turnbull's mouth much clearer in the light of his living room. He could see the tear in loose jeans, and the almost tattered remains of the front of his shirt. He could remember the way the Mountie had flinched when sitting in his car.

His mind put it together with the cool certainty of decades of police work. Rape. This man had been raped.

And from the way he was acting, it was nothing new.

"Constable...Turnbull, look." His voice was gentle when he spoke again. "I know it's got to be hard for you, but if you let this keep going, you'll end up hurt even worse, or dead. I've been a cop for a long time, I've seen it happen way too often."

Turnbull's face came up, and from the despair in his eyes Welsh knew that Turnbull had heard his discovery in his voice. "I can't, sir."

"Why not?" Welsh kept his voice level with difficulty. "What could you have to lose at this point?"

"My job might be in jeopardy," the young Mountie answered.

Welsh almost laughed, but instinct kept him quiet. He just gaped down at Turnbull, and realized with jarring effect that he was absolutely serious.

So this hadn't been going on for maybe a few weeks. This was long term. This...whatever he called it...relationship...had gone on long enough to make Turnbull honestly fear more about losing his job than losing his life.

"I could talk to Thatcher." Welsh almost didn't recognize his own voice, it was so mild all of the sudden.

Turnbull's eyes came up, more frightened than they had been before. "Please, sir, don't."

That look drove into Welsh. Turnbull was so completely scared that he must have thought this all through before. Or maybe the man who had caused all this damage had drilled it into him to insure he'd keep his mouth shut. Either way, it was Welsh who had Turnbull completely scared now, and that brought a rush of anger and grief into the older man. Protectiveness surged up inside him as he looked down into wide, innocent blue eyes set in a ravaged face and body.

He wouldn't tell Thatcher. He wouldn't do anything to earn that look from Turnbull again.

What he would do is conduct his own little investigation. He would find out who had caused all this damage, and he would see them face to face, if it was the last thing he did.

Ray and Fraser showed up fast, and Welsh had barely had time to tell Turnbull they were coming before there was a knock on the door.

Turnbull didn't respond well. He got up off of the couch faster than he should have been able to, hurt the way he was, and shot Welsh an almost betrayed look as the Lieutenant went to the door.

Welsh ignored that look, knowing in the long run it was better they get this out into the open.

Fraser brushed past him the moment he opened the door, almost rudely. "Renfield?"

Turnbull faced him squarely, almost at attention. "Sir, I'm sorry you had to come all this way. I'm perfectly all right, I assure you."

"You're lying," Fraser replied calmly.

Turnbull straightened. "Sir, I know I must not look very well, but there was no need for you to come pick me up."

Ray and Welsh stood by the door, watching the Mounties square off. Ray shot a look at his superior officer, and noted that Welsh's full attention was on Turnbull.

"Constable, how long are you going to let this go on?"

Turnbull flinched. "Let what go on, sir?"

"That man that came into the Consulate. He did this to you. How long will you cover for him by pretending everything's fine?"

Several different emotions crossed that wide, expressive face, and the one that was left when he started talking was almost anger. "Constable Fraser, with all due respect, this has nothing to do with you. I will miss work tomorrow, and I'm sorry about that, but I believe that you have missed many more days in your partnership with Detective Vecchio. There is no reason for you to involve yourself in anything."

Fraser's eyebrows lifted, surprised at the tone in the younger, normally affable Mountie's voice. "Turnbull--"

Turnbull hesitated, his eyes going to the ground and then to Fraser again. "I mean nothing personal by this, sir, but mind your own business."

Fraser blinked at him, surprised, and then nodded once tersely. "Ray, we should probably go."

"Go? Hang on a sec. Turnbull, what's wrong with you? Why are you letting some guy beat up on you? You don't gotta stand for that, you know?"

Turnbull's eyes went to the blond detective, and then over to Welsh. "Thank you for picking me up, Leftenant, but I think I should be going now." He started across the room, moving slowly, limping, trying to hold himself straight and keep his face free of the pain he must have been feeling.

"Constable, where are you going?"

"Home. I don't wish to put you out any longer."

Welsh shot Fraser and Ray a questioning gaze.

Fraser intercepted his coworker easily. "Don't be silly, Turnbull. We can give you a ride."

"No thank you," the younger man answered quietly.

"Turnbull, don't be--"

"Ray." Fraser cut off his partner with a touch of his hand.

Ray glanced at him, and the look on Fraser's face shut his mouth instantly.

Welsh's eyes stayed on Turnbull as he watched the other two men, and the look of pain that crossed his expressive face brought understanding to Welsh's face.

He spoke up quickly. "Constable, let me give you a ride. I'm the one that brought you here, it's the least I can do."

Turnbull turned to him, surprised. "You hardly owe me anything, Leftenant. If anything, I owe you for coming to--"

"Let me give you a ride, Turnbull. You really want to walk home like this?"

Turnbull glanced down at himself ruefully. "I suppose not."

"Good. Settled. Fraser, Ray, you guys get home and get some rest. Ray, don't be late tomorrow." He grabbed his keys, practically pushing Fraser and Ray out the door before they could say anything else. He went out with them, shutting the door almost completely behind them all.

Fraser turned to him once they were out on the porch. "Sir--"

Welsh held up a hand. "Look, I don't know what's going on any more than you do. I think you're both right, and some asshole is beating the shit out of him. But if he doesn't want us to interfere, there's not much we can do. Ray, you've handled this kind of case before. We can't do anything unless he decided he wants us to."

"Yeah, but this is different. We know him. Can't we talk him into it or something?" Ray glanced between Fraser and Welsh, two men he trusted more than most anyone else in his life.

"I'm afraid the Leftenant is right, Ray. If Turnbull doesn't want to press charges, there's little we can do."

"Son of a bitch," Ray said quietly.

"Yeah." Welsh glanced back to the door. "All right, you guys get out of here."

"Sir, would you mind--"

He cut off Fraser again. "I'll look at him before I leave him alone. If he needs to see a doctor, I'll take him."

"Thank you, sir."

"Meantime, maybe since you've met this guy you can stop by the station tomorrow and go through some mugshots, just in case. A guy this violent probably has some kind of record."

The ride to Turnbull's small apartment building was spent mostly in silence, aside from a few muttered directions.

Welsh didn't try to engage him in conversation. He knew better than to try to talk about it more tonight. Turnbull wouldn't be changing his mind. Not this soon.

But hopefully things would change. Turnbull couldn't have been hurt this badly before, not if he had never missed work before. Hopefully the Mountie was beginning to realize that he had to get himself out of this situation.

And hopefully Turnbull knew enough to turn to Fraser and Vecchio for help if he needed it.

He waited until they were parked outside the apartments to say anything. "Constable..."

Turnbull had been reaching for the handle to the car door. He stopped instantly, turning his attention to Welsh. His expression was resigned, as though he wouldn't dare not listen to what Welsh had to say after everything the older man had done for him that day. "Yes, sir?"

Welsh fished a card out of his coat pocket. "Use this if you need it, Turnbull," he said simply, handing the card over.

Turnbull took it reflexively, and blinked up at Welsh. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yeah. You need some help getting upstairs?"

"No thank you." Turnbull met his eyes, gratitude flashing in his expression.

Welsh waved him off before he could trip over his tongue saying thanks. "Don't mention it, Constable. Just remember there are people around who don't like seeing you get hurt."

Turnbull looked away, opening the door. "Yes, sir." He climbed out awkwardly and started the slow shuffle to his building's front door.

Two Days Later...

"Vecchio." Ray kept one eye and half of his brain on the report he was scribbling away at.

"Ray?"

The familiar voice in his ear grabbed the rest of his attention, and Ray shifted his eyes from the report. "Hiya, Frase. You're still comin' fer lunch, right?"

"I...Ray, there's..."

Ray frowned. "What's wrong?" Fraser wasn't one to stumble over words.

"I'm not really sure I should be making this call. It does threaten to go against his wishes, but I wanted to get your opinion about something."

"What's up?"

"Well..." Fraser hesitated, then sighed into the phone. "Constable Turnbull came in late this morning. From the way he's moving, I'd say he has fresh injuries."

"Son of a bitch! He's still letting this creep pound into him?"

"It appears so. I know there's nothing you can do, but--"

"Bet yer ass there is." Ray grimaced into the air, thoughtful. "I just dunno what it is, yet. Let me talk it over with Welsh. Meantime, keep Turnbull around you, huh?"

"Certainly, Ray. Tell the Leftenant how grateful I am for his assistance."

"Sure thing. I'll call ya back." Ray hung up and strode towards Welsh's office.

Welsh looked up when he knocked. "Come in."

Ray came in and dropped down on the couch against the wall. "Need your advice, Lieu."

"Yeah?" Welsh turned his attention away from the piles of papers on his desk. "What's up?"

"Fraser just called. Turnbull got beat up again."

Welsh sat bolt upright in his chair. "What?"

"He came in late, and Frase says he's moving like he's hurt. I dunno. There's got to be something we can do, sir. We could stake out his place and wait for this guy to show up, maybe. Something."

Welsh stood, only half-listening. "Yeah. Maybe." He grabbed his coat and headed for the door to his office.

Ray watched him in surprise. "Uh. Sir?"

Welsh barely looked back. "You coming or not?"

"Yes, sir." Ray was up and out a moment later.

Ray and Welsh pulled up to the Consulate to see Turnbull standing guard duty outside. Both men hesitated, but brushed past the Constable without a word, going in.

Ray went to Fraser's office in the back, but Welsh turned and knocked on Thatcher's door.

"Yes?" The Inspector's throaty voice rang out.

Welsh opened the door and came in.

She looked up and saw her guest in surprise. "Leftenant."

"Inspector. I think we should talk for a minute."

"Come in." Her eyes registered her confusion. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you aware of what's going on with Turnbull?"

Thatcher blinked. "I assume he's outside on guard duty. Was he not?"

Welsh frowned and took a seat in front of her desk. "I'm talking about his personal life, Inspector."

Her eyebrows shot up. "I make a point not to pry into my Constables' personal lives."

"This time, you may want to. Otherwise he may not be around much longer."

Thatcher's faint, puzzled smile vanished. "I assume you're going to explain that."

"Look, he's not about to say anything to you, 'cause he thinks it'll be endangering his job, but he's in trouble. He's getting hurt."

Thatcher leaned forward in her chair, her brow knitting. "Hurt? Turnbull?"

"Look, Inspector, you gotta promise me that anything I tell you isn't gonna affect his position here. I'm not sure about the RCMP's policies on...things like this, but he's worried, and that's putting him in even more danger."

"Leftenant, despite how I come across to some people, I do care about the men working for me. I can promise you that I'll make every attempt to keep Turnbull under my command here, like I'll do whatever I can to get him out of this trouble he's in. Now would you like to tell me what's going on?"

Welsh heaved a sigh, glancing towards the door, hoping Turnbull wouldn't find out about this. Hoping he wasn't about to screw things up for the young Mountie more than ever. He couldn't stand to see that look of hurt and betrayal on the expressive face again. "All right, here's the deal. Turns out Turnbull has a thing for guys."

Thatcher waited, but Welsh was through with the first bombshell. She nodded slightly. "Surprising, but probably only because I had never really thought about Turnbull's...personal...life at all."

"Well, he's worried it'll get him canned."

"If I've kept Fraser's secret, I can do no less for Turnbull."

Welsh's eyebrows shot up. "You know about Fraser and Ray?"

She looked equally surprised. "You do too?"

They broke into matching smiles a minute later. "Like Ray could hide it from anyone. He's about as subtle as a twenty-car pileup."

"Indeed. I hadn't thought American police officers were very understanding about that sort of thing."

Welsh raised an eyebrow. "I could say the same thing about you. Not everyone at the station knows about Vecchio. Me myself, I like the kid. He's a good cop. One of the best I've ever had, especially with Fraser there helping him. It's his own business what they do after hours."

"My thoughts exactly." Thatcher smiled, but it faded after a minute. "You were saying about Turnbull?"

"Yeah. He's got this guy he's..." Welsh scratched his cheek absently. "Uh. The guy he's seeing is beating the crap out of him, on what looks like a regular basis."

Thatcher inhaled sharply. "Turnbull?"

"Yeah. We came by today 'cause Fraser called. The other night he was really bad. He called Ray's number at work, needing someone to come get him, and I answered. He didn't want to go to a doctor, but he was bad. That's why he missed two days of work. Fraser said today that he's got a few new injuries."

"Who is this man?" Thatcher's voice was dark.

Welsh shrugged. "Fraser said he came in here once, that's all we know. Turnbull isn't exactly being cooperative about helping himself out, so we don't have a name or anything else."

"Came here?" Her eyes widened. "That man who..." She trailed off, thoughtful and angry.

"Look, you know there's not much we can do without Turnbull's cooperation. Maybe you could talk to him, tell him he won't lose his job if he comes clean and presses charges."

"Of course. Tell me, what do you--" She stopped suddenly, standing up and going to her door. "Fraser?"

The shout brought Fraser to her door in less than ten seconds. "Yes, Inspector?"

"Please tell Turnbull to come inside. I think we need to talk."

Fraser nodded and left, keeping any surprise at that to himself.

Welsh frowned when she turned back to him. "That may not be a great idea, Inspector. He's really worried right now, I don't think it'll help to confront him about it."

"I know that. You said he could use assurance, so I'll give it to him."

A few moments later, the two Mounties appeared at the door to the office.

"Did you need to see me, Inspector?" Turnbull's usual smile was in place, even as his eyes snuck over to where Welsh sat. The muscles of his throat working as he swallowed was the only sign he was anything but sunny.

"Both of you, come in. And Fraser, get that detective in here, too."

Welsh just sat quietly as Turnbull shuffled in. Thatcher's eyes followed him as he took the few steps inside, and Welsh could see a flash of pain in her face as she saw for the first time how pained and slow his movements were.

Fraser came in, followed by Ray, and Thatcher shut the door behind them, even though there was no one left in the Consulate.

She crossed behind her desk and sat, eyeing the group in front of her without acknowledging Welsh. "Something has come to my attention that I think we all need to get out into the open. Something that might very well involve all of us. As you may or may not know, the RCMP has somewhat loose guidelines about the practice of homosexuality in its ranks. As does the Chicago police department. But the Leftenant and I have discussed it, and we feel there's no reason, given our opinion of the matter, to keep this secret. Constable Fraser, Detective Vecchio, whether you realize or not, both of us are well aware of your relationship."

Ray and Fraser glanced at each other, shocked. "Sir?" Fraser got out, his face rapidly turning red.

"Don't deny it. There's no point. We simply want to express to you that what you do on your own time is your business. As your superiors, we only ask that you don't bring it in to work with you. If there comes a point where your personal life interferes with your job, or your ability to do your job..." She deliberately glanced over at Turnbull. "At that point, we may have a problem. But until then, you have our full approval."

Ray couldn't help a grin as he glanced over at Welsh.

The Lieutenant smiled back faintly. He hadn't known this would go down, but he approved. It did get some things out into the open, and at the same time it reassured Turnbull that he wouldn't be thrown out of the Consulate or the RCMP just for being a homosexual.

He just hoped that would do some good.

Thatcher nodded at them once, tersely. "That's all. You may go."

They all turned to leave. Turnbull, still moving slowly, was the last to the door.

"Constable Turnbull?"

He turned, his face a rather sickly shade of gray. "Yes, sir?"

"You don't seem to have your usual energy. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, sir," he said instantly, pasting another smile to his face. "I expect you want me back at my post, sir?"

"Actually..." She studied him for a moment. "I don't like my Constables at less than their peak. Why don't you go home for the rest of the day and gather your energy. I'll see you tomorrow bright and early."

He hesitated, puzzled. "But, sir--"

"That's all, Constable. Dismissed." She turned her attention to Welsh.

Turnbull left a moment later, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Thatcher relaxed once the door was shut, but her frown didn't go away. "Do you have some idea of what to do about this?"

"Right now? We're winging it. Does the kid have a car?"

"Turnbull? Lord, no."

Welsh stood. "I think I'm gonna offer him a lift. Thanks, Inspector. Nice seeing you again."

"And you, Leftenant."

"Could you make sure Vecchio gets back to work sometime soon? His lunch only lasts an hour."

Thatcher nodded smartly, and Welsh left the office.

Turnbull was just going out the door when Welsh came out, his steps slow, his energy already zapped by the guard duty he'd been pulling.

"Constable?"

He turned. "Yes, sir?"

"You need a lift?"

Turnbull's relief was hidden poorly under his normal blank face. "Do you not have to go right back to the station, sir?"

"Nah. They can make it for a while without me. Come on." Welsh started to the car, not waiting for a refusal.

Turnbull followed dutifully and got into the car when Welsh unlocked the door. "Thank you, sir."

"No problem." Welsh pulled out onto the road, just to insure Turnbull couldn't go anywhere. "Thatcher was right. You're moving a little slow."

Turnbull glanced over, knowing full well that Welsh knew what was going on.

Welsh paused, but the younger man couldn't quite work up the appropriate response. "What happened this time?"

There was a pause, but amazingly enough Turnbull decided to answer honestly. "I'm not really sure, sir. I think...I think he was angry about something when he arrived last night."

Welsh hid his relief at the candid answer. "And last time?"

That first answer seemed to have opened a well. Or maybe Turnbull had just waited too long to talk to someone about it. For whatever reason, he decided to give another complete, honest response. "The day before I called you, he had come to the Consulate to get me. I was staying late for too many nights, and it angered him. The Inspector almost had Fraser eject him, and it made him mad." Turnbull shrugged. "This happens when he gets mad. I missed work the next day, resting, but when I went to him that night, I still wasn't in good enough condition to...to..." He trailed off, glancing at Welsh and then away again. "I made him mad again," he settled on finally. "And he...eventually he threw me out. I didn't think I could make it home by myself, so I tried to call Detective Vecchio, and you know the rest."

Welsh's jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes on the road to help Turnbull feel more comfortable. "And last night he just came in and started in on you for no reason?"

"I...I'm sure there was something..."

"Constable..." Welsh stopped at a red light, and turned to face the other man. "You have to get out of this."

Turnbull couldn't meet his eyes, but nodded slowly. "I'm beginning to realize that, sir. But..."

"You don't know how. I know. Look, there are people who can help you. Fraser, Vecchio, me. Anyone you want. We can put a stop to this guy. You just have to give the word."

"I...I don't want to get him into trouble. I just want him to leave." The young man's voice was quiet.

"Yeah, well. It may not be that easy."

Turnbull sat up suddenly, as they neared the block his apartment building sat on. "Sir, do you think you could let me out here?"

"Here? You wanna walk?"

Turnbull nodded. "Please. If it's no trouble."

Welsh pulled into a gas station parking lot, but didn't turn off the engine. "Will he be there?"

"I'm not sure. Sometimes he watches. He knows if I come home early." Turnbull was speaking barely above a whisper, his eyes on the dashboard in front of him.

Welsh studied his profile. "He gonna come over?"

"Probably."

"Do you want to see him?"

Turnbull was silent for a long time. His fingers fidgeted absently in his lap, and he released a quiet sigh. "No, sir."

Welsh put the car back into park, and pulled out onto the road, heading away from the apartments.

Turnbull glanced at him. "Sir?"

"None of us like what's happening to you, Turnbull. You don't want it anymore, so we're gonna help. You can stay at my place. I have a spare room, everything you could need. I'll drop you off, and you can tell me what to go get at your place."

"I...sir, I couldn't--"

Welsh glanced over, his expression set. "I'm a cop, Turnbull. I help people, whether they want me to or not. Don't refuse my hospitality."

Turnbull opened his mouth, then shut it again, shocked into silence.

Welsh's mouth twitched into the faintest smile, and he shocked Turnbull even more. "And if we're gonna be roommates, you can call me Harding."

Turnbull gaped over at him, and didn't say another word for the rest of the ride.

Welsh was smiling on the ride back to Turnbull's apartment. He had the radio on, and for some reason found himself humming along to the music.

He felt pretty damn good, actually. The Mountie was finally gonna do something about this asshole he was seeing, and he'd be right there, one room over, if he needed any help.

And Welsh could still see his face as he handed him the short, neat list of things to get from his apartment. He could still hear the quiet, shy voice. "You...you could call me Renfield. If you'd like, sir."

Welsh grinned, remembering the timidity all over the younger man's body.

How the hell could someone hurt him? That's what Welsh didn't get. And not because Turnbull was so freaking big, although he did wonder what kind of muscleman this boyfriend must be. It was just that Turnbull...Renfield...was so damned nice. He was an innocent, and half the time seemed to be in his own little world. He was someone that should bring out the protective instincts in people. He sure as hell did in Welsh, that was for sure.

One thing the Lieutenant knew for sure -- he was gonna come face to face with this guy eventually, and he was gonna find out what fucking screw was loose in his head.

He pulled up to the apartment building and jumped out, seeing the apartment number printed in large, efficient instructions on the paper he grasped. Despite the fact that he'd been there days ago.

Welsh grinned. He was probably being a true glutton for punishment, taking in a Mountie. He'd be as nutty as Ray was in no time.

He found the door and pulled out the key Ren had given him. He had it only half in the lock when the door was pushed open and a red-faced man appeared. "Where the hell--"

Welsh stood calmly, folding his arms and gazing at the man.

The stranger stopped, surprised. "Who are you?"

"Lieutenant Harding Welsh, Chicago Police. You mind telling me what you're doing in the Mountie's apartment?"

"None of your business. What are you doing here? He's not here."

"I know. Excuse me." Welsh moved past the man and went in, glancing around.

"Look, I don't know what's going on here, but if..."

Behind him, the angry voice droned on, but Welsh ignored him, his jaw tight as he took in the apartment.

Ren was usually neat, he could tell. The kitchenette was almost spotless, with potholders hung up and canisters lined up neatly.

The living room was a wreck. There were cushions everywhere, a chair on its side, a couple of piles of broken shards that were probably nice little decorations once. On the wall was a picture of the Canadian flag that had been half ripped off.

He turned slowly, his eyes going back to the man behind him. "You must be William."

The man's rant cut off, and his eyes narrowed. "Renny send you here?"

"Actually he did. I'm getting a few things for him."

"Things? What kind of things?"

"It's none of your goddamned business. In fact, I'm gonna give you a message, for your own good. Renfield is no longer going to have anything to do with you. And you're gonna stay the hell away from him. Because if you don't, I swear to God I'll find a way to arrest your ass and shut you in a cell with some big prison queens who'll be happy to treat you the way you been treating him. You hear me?"

William glared at him with full-out rage, but seemed to realize that facing down a cop was a lot more dangerous than beating on a man who wouldn't fight back. "I hear you," he said through gritted teeth.

Welsh nodded once. "Good. Now I suggest you get the hell out of here. And be grateful I'm a cop. If I didn't wear this badge, there's no way in hell I'd let you out of here without a few bruises, you son of a bitch."

The younger man with the hard face was frozen for a minute, his throat muscles working. Finally he turned and went for the door.

"If I ever see you again..." Welsh let the threat trail off, and the door slammed a moment later, leaving him alone.

He stood for a long moment, looking at the door. William wasn't what he'd been expecting. His eyes were cold and heartless, his face hard, and Welsh knew that man was fully capable of beating the shit out of someone else.

But he was shorter than Welsh was, and nowhere near as broad as Ren. He just didn't look like he could take a man like Ren and do such damage.

Unless Ren did absolutely nothing to defend himself.

Welsh's grim smile faded as he thought about that, turning and absently going towards the bedroom to fill the list. No, actually, Ren didn't seem to be the type to be violent, over anything. But how could he just sit by and let himself be hurt so badly, when he had the strength to fight back?

Now that he had Ren at a close distance, he was gonna have to talk to him about a few things.

He opened the door to an unfamiliar sensation.

It took him a minute, but he realized -- there was food cooking somewhere. The kitchen. He could smell it.

Welsh hesitated, then shut the door and headed in, dropping the bag of Ren's things down on his sofa. He moved to the door to the kitchen and stopped in surprise.

Ren looked back and almost jumped when he saw Welsh there. "Sir! I didn't hear you come in."

"Hey. What's going on?"

"Dinner. I thought I should make myself useful while you were gone. Do you mind? I could...I mean..."

"Relax." Welsh smiled faintly as he came in. "Smells good. What is it?"

"I found some chicken in your freezer, and some canned vegetables in the cabinet. With a bit of added spice and a lot of rinsing, I think they may be good."

"Yeah, I guess I don't cook a whole lot." Welsh's smile grew as Ren turned to the oven and opened it slightly to peek in. The smells drifted out even stronger, and he inhaled deeply. "God, you know how long it's been since I came home to a hot meal?"

Ren turned to him in genuine curiosity. "No, sir."

Welsh almost laughed. "A long time. And stop with the sir."

"Excuse me. Harding." A small smile touched Ren's features. "It will be a few more minutes. In the meantime--"

"In the meantime, we should talk."

"Of course." Turnbull dropped whatever he'd been about to say and faced Welsh obediently.

"All right, first of all. This isn't necessary." He gestured at the oven and the pots on the stove. "I want you to know that right now. I know you Mounties get off on being polite, but you're a guest here. You don't have to cook or clean or anything else. Not that I mind, 'cause I'm sure as hell bad about doing it, but it isn't part of the deal."

Turnbull nodded slowly.

"Second, when we're in these walls, I don't want to hear any 'sirs' or 'Lieutenants' or anything else. I don't want you acting like I'm a superior officer. Do it all you want outside, but this is home. There's a difference. Can you manage that?"

Ren nodded again, still silent. As if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"All right. I'll drop your stuff on the bed in your room, and I gotta make a few phone calls, so I'll be out of your hair for a while. You can shout when that's ready. And thanks. I wasn't expecting a meal. It's kinda nice." He flashed a smile, then headed out to grab the bag, leaving a surprised, thoughtful Turnbull behind.

They ate in silence, for the most part. Welsh devoured his food like a vacuum, but refused when Ren offered more. He had to watch the waist line. Besides, he could take some for lunch the next day. Be a damned sight better than the fast food he usually grabbed.

Ren flashed a shy smile when he said that, and Welsh got up to clean off the table.

"I could do that, if you'd like." Turnbull climbed out of his chair.

"What did I say before? You don't have to do this, Ren. You cooked, I'll clean." He flashed an appraising look at the tall Mountie. "Besides, you need some rest. You're still moving kinda slow."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep."

Ren smiled. "All right then, I guess I'll go to my room."

"Thanks for dinner."

"Thank you." He stopped in the doorway, looking back. "Really, thank you, sir."

Welsh grinned back at him easily. "Anytime, Constable."

Turnbull smiled back then disappeared into the hall.

Welsh turned to the sink, feeling pretty damned good. All in all it had been a good day. He hadn't told Ren about William being at the apartment, and he supposed he'd better before they left the house in the morning. But aside from that, he was feeling good about what was happening.

He was feeling good about someone being in the house with him for a change. About eating a real meal with someone else there, even if they hadn't exactly had an in-depth conversation.

He found himself hoping that this thing took a little while to get settled. The young Mountie was growing on him faster than anyone had in a long, long time.

Welsh was awakened by a loud crash.

He jerked up, grabbing for the gun he kept in the drawer by his bed, and was almost out the door before the events of the day before came flooding back.

Ren. He had a houseguest now.

He hesitated, dropping the gun on the bed, and grabbed a robe, wrapping it around himself.

Ren was in the kitchen, on his knees in spilt orange juice, cleaning broken glass.

"Morning," Welsh said with a crooked smile.

Ren looked up, and his face went pale. He got to his feet immediately. "Sir! I'm sorry! Please, I'll clean it up, you won't even know anything happened. Please, go back to sleep. I can buy another glass. I was...I was just...my hand slipped. I'm sorry."

Welsh's grin had faded the moment he started talking. The look on Ren's face was sheer fear. "Whoa. Hang on."

"I'm sorry," His face bowed miserably. "I can go, sir. I'll leave today. I just...I'm sorry."

Welsh came into the kitchen completely. "Ren. Relax."

He fell silent, his eyes on the ground, tense.

Welsh almost wanted to laugh at the overreaction, but the way Ren was acting, there had to be a reason for it. And that reason couldn't be good. "Hey, Ren. Look at me."

Wide blue eyes looked up finally, meeting Welsh's gaze.

"It was just a glass. It's all right. Happens sometimes. You're not going anywhere, you got me?"

His expression registered surprise. "Yes, sir. I'll buy you another one. You won't--"

"Buy me another one? Ren, it was a glass. I have dozens of them, and there are only two of us living here. I hardly need another glass, all right? Relax. And stop calling me sir. I told you about that." He smiled and moved to the refrigerator. "You want another glass of juice?"

Ren was quiet.

He pulled out the juice and turned around. "Ren?"

The younger man swallowed, his eyes huge. "I'm sorry," he said again, looking almost confused.

"Would you stop it? It was an accident. Sit down, I'll make some breakfast."

Turnbull obeyed, without a protest or offer to help. Which showed Welsh how serious this really was.

He kept quiet for a few minutes, scrambling some eggs and making some toast, but once he was sitting, watching Ren play with his food, he spoke up. "You want to talk about this?" He kept his voice quiet.

Ren glanced over, and then back at the plate. "I've always been a little clumsy. I suppose my hands are too large for my body."

"Yeah?" Welsh met his eyes. "That's not what I'm talking about."

Ren nodded slightly, looking back down at his plate. "William gets angry a lot. My clumsiness only makes it worse."

Welsh grimaced into his plate. "So William would smack you around for dropping things?"

Ren hesitated, then glanced up. "It was my own fault. Some of the things I dropped were his. He was right to be mad."

Welsh looked at him long enough to judge that he was completely serious, and then frowned back at his eggs.

He should have knocked that asshole out when he had the chance. He had him right there, in Ren's apartment, and let him off with a warning. Damn it all.

Memories of the day before made him grimace. He'd have to tell Ren what happened, before this guy called him at the Consulate or something and told him himself. "Uh, Ren. I guess I should tell you something."

Ren immediately tensed, his fork going to the table. "Yes?"

"William was there when I got to your place yesterday."

Turnbull hesitated, surprised. "What happened?"

"I told him never to bother you again. I told him you didn't want anything to do with him."

Ren swallowed, his tension increasing.

"Look, I know that's gotta scare you, and I don't blame you. The guy's obviously got a screw loose. But you were serious about ending it, and it has to start somewhere." Welsh met the younger man's eyes seriously. "If he bothers you at the Consulate, Fraser and Thatcher will be around. You'll come here at night. He won't be able to get to you."

Ren frowned, his wide, expressive face troubled. "I couldn't stay here forever."

"I suppose not. But you can't hide yourself forever. Look, hopefully the guy will take the hint and get lost. If it takes days, or weeks, fine. You've got a place here. If you want to leave sooner or later, you'll have to face up to the fact that he might be around."

"Yes, I...I know."

Welsh heaved a sigh, studying the younger man. "You know, Ren, I think you've got to talk about this to somebody. My line of work, I've seen this kind of thing a lot. You're gonna have to face up to some things. If you want to talk to me, that's great. I'm gonna be around anyway. If you don't, fine too. But there's help for you, and you should take it."

Ren paused thoughtfully. "It's strange. I myself have talked to a few people in similar situations. I suppose most law enforcement officers have. But..."

"But it's different when it happens to you. I'll buy that."

Ren glanced over, and nodded. He gave the faintest hint of a smile. "I'm grateful you understand, sir. Harding. Maybe I will take you up on your offer, if you really feel like listening."

Welsh grinned. "Good. Let's get to work, and we can talk tonight."

Ren stood, echoing the smile faintly. "All right. Thank you for breakfast. And thank you for..."

"For what? Reacting like a normal human being instead of an abusive asshole over one broken glass? No problem."

Fraser looked up when the door opened, and gave a small smile. "Constable Turnbull, good morning."

Turnbull smiled back easily. "Good morning, sir. How was your night?"

"Very nice. And yours?"

"Nice as well."

Fraser raised his eyebrows. "Constable. It isn't usually my practice to get involved in others' personal lives if they don't ask for my help, but...I'm concerned."

Turnbull smiled. "Thank you, sir. I do appreciate the concern. I'm doing well, though. Lieutenant Welsh has taken me in. He'll be helping me with this problem you're so concerned about."

Fraser's mouth dropped open, but he recovered quickly. "That's...surprising."

"Yes, sir. The Leftenant is a very surprising person, I'm finding."

Fraser glanced towards his office. Suddenly he had to get Ray on the phone and gossip like Francesca Vecchio.

"What?" Ray dropped the report he was filling out.

"As I said, Ray. The Leftenant has invited Turnbull to move in with him."

"Holy shit. He didn't say nothing to me about it." Ray glanced towards Welsh's office. The lieutenant was busy yelling at Huey and Dewey. Business as usual. "That's weird."

"It did strike me as being odd, but I admit that I don't know the Leftenant that well as a person."

"That's the point, Frase. He's not a person, he's my boss."

"Now Ray, that's a very narrow--"

"Yeah yeah. You know what I mean, though."

"No, actually I don't. I have no trouble with Inspector Thatcher having a personal life of her own."

"Yeah, that's 'cause before ya hooked up with me, ya wanted to be a part of that personal life."

"Ray!"

He laughed, his eyes still on Welsh through the opened door. "Admit it, Ben. Ya wanted ta get in her jodhpurs."

"Now, really."

Ray sat back, lowering his voice slightly. "Bet yer red as yer uniform right now, huh?"

Fraser sputtered in his ear for a moment. "That really wasn't nice, Ray."

"Yeah, so make me pay for it. Later." Ray grinned into the phone, keeping his eye out for snoopy cops.

"I most certainly will." Fraser's voice was smiling. "Perhaps I should put you on a few days of forced celibacy. Maybe that would calm you down enough to stop any comments about me and my superior officer."

"Uh. Celibacy. Hey, Frase, that's not funny."

"It wasn't intended as a joke, Ray."

"Yeah. No. Stop it. Not funny."

"Obviously, none of my other methods of extracting payment work with you. In fact, you usually end up asking for more. That sets a bad precedent."

"Come on, Frase." Ray couldn't hide a grin. He loved it when his stoic Mountie did a little teasing. "Can I help that?"

"No, but I can. I think maybe a cold shower tonight in lieu of our normal activities would be just what--"

"Hey, you really gonna be that way? Cause ya know, it looks like Turnbull's single again, and I could go from one Mountie to another, no problem."

There was a brief pause, and a muffled voice. Fraser came back on after a moment. "Ray, I'm sorry to say that Turnbull isn't interested."

Ray's mouth dropped open. "No way in hell you just told Turnbull what I said."

"Why wouldn't I? It seemed like a good way to halt your argument in its tracks."

"You are one smug son of a bitch, ya know that."

"Language, dear."

"Dear?" Ray shook his head, his grin reappearing. "You know something, Benton Fraser? You've changed."

"Have I?"

"Yeah. All this teasing, and openness, and pet names. Yer turning into, like, a real person."

Fraser gasped into the phone. "Lord. We certainly can't have that. Maybe I should take a small vacation and return to Canada."

"No! I like you as a real person! I want a real person, I don't want a Canadian."

Fraser laughed into the phone. "Remind me later to be offended by that. For now, I'm afraid I have to go."

"Yeah, guess I should, too. See ya at lunch?"

"Certainly."

Ray glanced around, lowering his voice. "Love you, Ben."

"You too, Ray." Fraser's voice was warm and sincere.

Ray hung the phone up with a contented smile.

His eyes went to Welsh's office, and the smile went crooked. He stood and went over just as the door opened to let Huey and Dewey out.

"--so it was Andrew Jackson, not Abraham Lincoln. Christ, Jack, everybody knows that."

"Hey, I'm just saying it shouldn't count. The guy was a lunatic."

"He was not! And it should count, because we're talking about a man who fought off guns by whacking the guy with his cane, and that's just cool."

Huey stopped in front of Ray, thinking it over. He barely glanced at the blond as he and his partner passed. "All right, all right. But what about Sam Byck?"

"What about Sam Byck? When did we start on Nixon?"

The two men carried their conversation out into the bullpen. Ray watched them briefly, wondering for a minute what it must be like inside those guys' heads, before heading through the cracked door. "Hey, Lieu. What's this about you playing babysitter to a wayward Mountie?"

Welsh barely glanced up. "What's the problem? Turnbull needed to get away from this guy, so I helped him."

"Yeah but..."

"Don't you have work, detective?"

Ray shook his head with a sigh and left the office.

"Ray?"

He glanced over to Dewey, who was sitting with his partner, with Frannie hovering over him. "What?"

"Pretend you're a tire salesman," Dewey started out.

Frannie cut him off. "Ray, would you please just tell these clowns that dive-bombing the White House doesn't count as an assassination attempt if you never get the plane off the ground?"

Ray blinked at her, then looked over at Huey and Dewey, who were waiting expectantly. He shook his head and turned, heading back to his desk. "Freaks."

Just another day at the station.

Welsh sat down at the table, happier than he would have thought at seeing Ren with a little more color in his face, with a smile that seemed to come out easier than it had yesterday. Or that morning.

He assumed William hadn't made any phone calls. He wasn't sure whether to be happy or nervous.

"How was work, Harding?"

The sound of first name actually made his smile broader. That didn't happen a lot. At this point in his life, the only people who called him Harding were his brother and his father, and wasn't all too thrilled about talking to either one of them. Everyone else called him Lieutenant or Welsh. He encouraged that. He still had unpleasant memories of growing up with a name like Harding.

For some reason, he liked it when Ren said it. "Actually, not bad. Pretty quiet for once, which is good. How 'bout you, Ren?"

"Routine, much like always." Ren smiled easily and started on his food.

A comfortable silence followed as the two men ate, and it wasn't until dinner was over and they were tackling the dishes that Welsh spoke up.

"Ren? You want to talk?"

Drying the dishes, Ren hesitated only briefly before shrugging. "I said I would, and I suppose I ought to. I don't know if it will ever be a matter of wanting to, though."

"Understandable." Welsh glanced over, handing him a plate. "Tell me one thing. Why the hell did you stay with this guy after he started smacking you around?"

Ren was quiet for a minute, thoughtful. "I've asked myself that a few times lately. It's nothing I could say plainly. The very first time he hit me, he said it was an accident. He apologized. I accepted that. The next few times, he got less apologetic, and it became less important that I accept his apologies. Soon after that, he stopped apologizing. I think..." He hesitated, using the plate as an excuse to not look at his host. "If I had said something that first time, if I had stopped it right there...I think he would have left. I think that was the only real chance I had, but I didn't say anything then."

Welsh glanced over.

Ren was blushing slightly, the same look of shame in his eyes that he'd had that night Welsh had picked him up from a pay phone. "It just got harder to leave every time. At first he only hit me when I did something wrong. Which is painfully frequent, I'm sorry to say. I suppose he made me feel like I deserved it."

Welsh looked at him sharply. Ren's voice was way too casual. He was probably speaking the absolute truth, but Welsh could hear full well that Ren himself didn't take it that seriously. He seemed too removed. "No one deserves that, Ren."

"No, I suppose not." Ren shrugged.

"So...lately. Why were you so afraid to tell people what was going on? You were scared of losing your job?"

"Partially, I was. But..."

"But what?" Welsh stopped what he was doing, wiping his hands on a dishrag and facing the younger man squarely.

Ren hesitated, but returned his gaze after a moment. "Do you really think anyone would believe me? That a large man like me would let him hurt me that way? They would call me a liar. William would, and they would agree."

The way he said it sounded too rehearsed. Drilled into him. Welsh had no doubt who it was that convinced Ren that it was true. "We believe you, Ren. I believe you. I don't understand it, though. Why would you let him hurt you like that?"

"I...I don't know. I couldn't. I can't fight back, and I don't know why." Ren turned away from him, putting the plate in the cabinet where it belonged.

"There's got to be some kind of reason. A big guy like you? There has to be something--"

"Please, Harding. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Welsh hesitated, but nodded finally and turned back to the sink. He had no desire to force Ren into anything, even conversation.

They were quiet for a few minutes, until the dinner dishes were clean and dry and put away.

Welsh finished drying his hands and headed for the door, pretty certain Ren was done talking for the night.

"Harding?"

He turned back in the doorway. "Yeah?"

Ren had the dishrag in his hands, and he was twisting it around nervously. "I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful for everything you've done for me."

Welsh's brow furrowed. "I don't. Why would I think that?"

Ren shrugged. "I don't usually make it a point to refuse a request from my host."

He thought about that for a minute. "You're saying I should think you're ungrateful 'cause you don't want to talk anymore?"

Ren looked down at the ground.

Welsh shook his head, sighing. "Ren, listen to me. You may be a guest here, but you're a human being. If you don't want to talk, you don't have to talk. Simple as that. You don't owe me anything. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to make it clear that I'm grateful."

Welsh took a few steps in and met the wide blue eyes. "Ren, stop it. Stop being grateful and stop thanking me. Far as I'm concerned, you live here now, as long as you want. You want to bitch at me for leaving the milk out, do it. You don't have to live in gratitude, all right?"

A new look appeared on the expressive face as Ren stared at him in wonder. A light flashed in those eyes that Welsh wasn't sure he completely recognized. "Thank you, Harding. I'll keep that in mind." He kept his voice quiet.

Welsh smiled. "No problem. Now I gotta get some sleep. See ya in the morning."

"Good night, Harding." Ren flashed a different kind of smile to the older man before he left.

Welsh went back to his bedroom, shutting himself in, a grin on his face. Finally, he'd gotten through to the guy a little bit.

He thought back on that last smile, and wondered if it was just him, or it had seemed a little sunnier, a little more genuine than normal.

He hoped so. And that was just after one conversation. With time, Ren could become a happy guy again. And Welsh was ready to help with that as far as he could.

Which was weird, but not overly so. Ren was a friend, right? He was perfectly natural wanting to help him. It was nothing less than he'd do for Ray or Fraser, or even Huey or Dewey, maybe even Frannie, if they needed it. It was the act of a concerned and caring boss, and that was all.

Of course, Ren didn't work for him.

Hell, it was too late at night to be trying to figure shit like this out.

Welsh gave up, going to bed and seeing a pair of happy blue eyes in his mind until he fell asleep.

Ren was smiling when he entered the Consulate the morning. He listened to the sound of Harding's car pulling away from the Consulate towards the police station, and he almost stayed hovered in the doorway to listen until the sound was lost with the other traffic.

He would have, if Fraser hadn't looked up from the front desk as he entered. "Constable Turnbull. Good morning."

Turnbull came in, letting the door shut, flashing a wide smile. "It is, sir. A very good morning."

Fraser nodded with approval at the genuine happiness on Turnbull's face. It struck him as odd how the younger, emotional Mountie could have been suffering for so long, and he not notice at all. Surely Turnbull must have been acting differently while that man was abusing him.

He couldn't help thinking about it. He prided himself on his ability to read people, and his instinct about trouble. He detected where his help was needed, and he offered it. He could detect distress in total strangers, but he hadn't in his coworker. That bothered him.

He wanted to ask Turnbull how long this had been going on, but he didn't want to bring it up again. The young Mountie seemed to be happy, and the last thing he should do is put a damper on that.

"--to go back to Toronto."

Fraser shook his thoughts out. "Pardon me, Constable?"

Turnbull glanced over from where he was brushing some dust off the frame holding the queen's picture. "I was just thinking out loud, sir. Since it seems I will no longer have plans for my vacation time next month, I thought perhaps I would go back home."

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Constable."

Turnbull nodded. "I'll have to ask the Inspector, of course, but I should imagine it would be all right." He wandered absently over to the closet, grabbing a duster and setting out to make sure the lobby was spotless before the Consulate opened to the public. "And you, sir? You haven't taken much vacation time since I started here. Are you not interested in going back home?"

Fraser grimaced slightly. "I'm afraid I used most of my vacation time trying to get to my father's cabin after my recovery from being shot."

"Ahh, yes. I remember that." Turnbull kept dusting, still smiling. "Tell me, sir, what do you do in the city for fun?"

Fraser hesitated. Turnbull was positively chatty that morning. "I usually let Detective Vecchio decide our plans. He knows the area much better than I do."

"I'd imagine." Turnbull glanced back at him. "I'm not sure if this is open for discussion between us, sir, but I was happy to learn of you and Detective Vecchio's relationship. He does make you happy, and I'm glad you've found someone in this city."

Fraser looked up from his paperwork, surprised. "Thank you, Constable. And what about you?"

Turnbull's smile faded as he dusted.

Fraser winced at the insensitivity of that. "I mean, what do you do for fun?"

"Ah. Of course." Turnbull's smile didn't come back. "I'm afraid like you I let my partner choose what we were going to do."

Like he gave you much choice, Fraser found himself thinking, seeing that the mere mention of that man had drained every ounce of joy from Turnbull's expression.

A moment later, Turnbull glanced over and saw Fraser watching him. In a flash, his smile reappeared and his dusting renewed.

Fraser watched in surprise. This was the Turnbull that had been at the Consulate for the last weeks. Months? The smile was there, and very convincing, but it didn't touch his eyes, and it was obviously insincere.

Fraser only recognized it as a disguise now that he had seen a true smile on the younger man's face. It was surprising, to say the least.

Turnbull stopped filling the silence was conversation, and for the life of him, Fraser couldn't think of anything else to say.

The lobby was silent until the doors opened an hour later, and Thatcher came in to start issuing her orders.

The phone rang around noon, as Turnbull was getting ready to go out for his afternoon meal. He picked it up and smiled a little more genuinely than he had most of the morning. "Thank you for calling the Canadian Consulate. My name is Constable Renfield Turnbull, and I'm a liaison from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, here in Chicago to serve as a representative of the Canadian Government. How can I help you this morning?"

"Renny, Jesus Christ. You even talk to much at work, huh?"

The smile faded, and the light left his eyes. "H-hello, William."

"Yeah, right. You want to tell me where the hell you've been the last couple of days?"

Turnbull swallowed, glancing around at the empty lobby. "I...I can't do that. I..."

"What do you mean, you can't? Renny, I'm your god damned boyfriend, you don't think I have a right to know? And what the fuck was with you sending a cop to your place the other night?"

"William, I..." He took a deep breath, remembering Harding's words. This has to end sometime, and he had to face up to William sooner or later. Now was as good a time as any. "I can't see you anymore. I'm staying with a friend for now, until you move your things out of my apartment."

There was a dangerous pause. "You fucking around here, Renny?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Please..." He swallowed. "Please remove your belongings from my home. And...and don't ever call back here." He didn't listen to the sputtering response. He hung up.

His heart was racing, and instead of feeling better, he had the distinctly bad feeling that he had just made things a little bit worse.

That night, Ren ate a little more than usual and spoke a little less.

And that spark was out of his smile.

Welsh watched him closely, putting a stop to the dinner conversation as soon as he realized it was distinctly one-sided.

The look in Ren's eyes, which Welsh was learning to read surprisingly quickly, was almost haunted, and finally Welsh spoke up, taking a guess. "You talked to him today."

Ren looked up, surprised. He swallowed. "Yes. He called the Consulate."

Welsh nodded. "I had a feeling he would, sooner or later. What'd he say?"

"He wanted to know where I had been. I...I told him to get his things out of my apartment, and not to call me back."

Welsh grinned. "Good for you!"

"I suppose." Ren looked down at his plate, no longer shoveling food.

The grin faded. "Look, I know you're worried about what this guy might do, but you don't have to. Someone will be with you most of the time. I'm here at night, and he won't try anything at the Consulate."

Ren grimaced, speaking his thoughts before he could stop himself. "I think that's exactly the problem. I didn't go to lunch today. The call came right before I was going to leave, and after I hung up, I just couldn't. I couldn't go out on my own, I couldn't walk the two blocks to the nearest restaurant." He looked up at Welsh, his eyes no longer masked in false happiness. "I take too much comfort knowing someone will be with me at almost all times. I should be able to go out by myself."

Welsh frowned in sympathy. He still couldn't understand how a guy as big as Ren could be so afraid, or why he wouldn't fight back. But it wasn't important that he understood. It was important that he helped his guest out as much as he could. "This guy has gotten to you, Ren. It happens sometimes. It's all right to be afraid, especially considering how he's hurt you. It's a commendable thing not to want to fight if you don't have to, no matter what some people may say."

"What if you do have to?" Ren's eyes were troubled. "There were times when I thought he would kill me. I still didn't fight back, even then."

Welsh hesitated. "There has to be a reason for that, right? There's got to be some reason why you never defended yourself." He paused, hoping this didn't come out wrong. "You know, Ren, maybe you should try to...you know. Talk to someone."

Ren glanced up, meeting his eyes. "You mean a psychologist?"

Welsh shrugged. "Might help."

"Perhaps." He looked down at his plate again.

That night, the dishes were washed in silence. And when Welsh went to bed, it wasn't with the same grin he'd had last night. His mind was too busy thinking about ways to help Ren out of this damned mess that asshole William was putting him in.

At noon the next day, right on time, the phone rang ago.

Ren had gotten up from the desk, and was almost to the door. But the phone stopped him. He turned back slowly, wishing his sense of duty was weak enough to allow him to let it go unanswered.

He went over, of course. "Canadian Consulate, can I help you?" He gave a rather restrained greeting, knowing who it was.

But he was surprised. "Hey, Ren. I was thinking of going down to that little sandwich place on Third. It's close to the Consulate. Wanna keep me company?"

Relief poured over him in such a strong wave that he almost forgot to reply. "Certainly, Harding. I would be happy to."

"Great. Be there in a few."

He hung up, and a smile rose up uncontrollably. A smile that was caused by more than just a friendly voice over the phone, instead of the angry, cold one he'd been expecting.

Lunch with Harding. A pleasing prospect. A nice, relaxed, safe meal with a man who genuinely seemed to care what happened to him. A man who, for some reason, would work to keep him safe.

He wasn't sure how he knew that. Because Harding was a police officer who took his job very seriously? Perhaps. Or because he was by all appearances truly angry over what had happened to Ren?

Maybe it was just the way the older man acted. He seemed to be the type who would never let down anyone who depended on him. Like if he promised you something, you could be certain that he would move heaven and earth to make it happen.

It was strange to have a man like that devoting his energy and help towards Ren, but the Mountie wasn't about to complain.

In fact, he found himself quickly getting used to the treatment. He was getting used to going somewhere at night where he felt safe, even after the few days he'd been there. He was getting used to eating dinners with Harding, and he was getting to like it more than was good for him.

The Lincoln pulled up a couple of minutes later, and Welsh grinned over at him as he came out the door of the Consulate and got into the car. "How ya doing, kid?"

Kid? Turnbull smiled. "Very well, Harding. You?"

He rolled his eyes as he pulled out onto the street. "Tired already. You know, I don't see why Fraser hangs out with Vecchio so much. I gotta deal with these guys every day, and it's making me old before my time."

"I wouldn't say that," Ren replied easily.

Welsh glanced over and smiled faintly.

"As for Constable Fraser, it's my experience that he loves hard luck cases."

Welsh laughed. "That's Ray all right. He's a great cop, I'm the first to admit it. But the guy just has a habit of going out of his way to piss off everyone around him."

Ren paused thoughtfully. "You know, I think they have that in common."

"Fraser? Are you kidding?"

"Not at all. I can safely say my fellow Mountie isn't quite as naïve as he pretends to be. At times there are advantages to people thinking you are less sharp than you are. They tend to give more away. Fraser uses that to his advantage, but at times he uses it just to get a reaction. Mostly from Ray, of course, but I've seen him do it with others."

"Uh huh. I'll buy that." Welsh glanced over. "You speaking just about Fraser here?"

Ren met his eyes for a moment, then smiled broadly, surprising himself. "Not entirely."

Welsh laughed. "I knew it. I knew you were pulling an act some times."

"Really? I must be losing my touch."

Welsh shook his head with a grin. "There was just one time..."

Ren twisted in his seat, facing him further. "Do tell."

"Hang on." Welsh pulled into the deli parking lot and stopped the engine. "Let's continue this over lunch, huh?"

They got out and went into the small restaurant.

A few minutes later they were seated, munching, and Ren found himself marveling at how comfortable it felt, being there with the American officer. "You were saying?"

Welsh grinned, swallowed, and studied his tablemate. "This one time, when Fraser and Ray were off on one of their insane little cases. You and Thatcher were at the station helping out, and they managed to contact us with four numbers. She sent you to call every phone number in the book with those numbers in it."

Ren grimaced at the memory. "I remember."

"You snapped at her. I was very impressed. Didn't know ya had it in you." Welsh grinned. "I also realized you couldn't be the good little Canadian you pretended to be. Not quite, anyway."

"There are times even good little Canadians' patience are tried," Ren admitted with a smile.

"I'll bet." Welsh sat back, happy to see the relaxation of the man across from him. He had hoped calling to ask Ren to lunch would be a good idea. There was a chance Ren would think he was just catering to this desire he had not to be alone, and he'd be offended. But that hadn't happened, and it wasn't what Welsh intended, so he was happy.

They chatted about nothing much else as they ate, enjoying the other's company.

When Welsh dropped Ren back off at the Consulate, he said a warm later to the young man and sat idling outside, watching the tall, red-clad form go up the stairs and stop in the doorway to wave before disappearing inside.

He sat there for another minute, almost hoping Ren would pop his head back out again. But that was stupid, so he finally put the car into drive and headed back to the station.

He couldn't really define why he was so relaxed all of the sudden. He couldn't define why seeing Ren happy made him happy. Maybe it was just his good deed for the day, bringing a smile to the face of someone else. Hell, he saw enough misery doing his job every day, it was nice having someone who was separate from that, someone who smiled when he saw Welsh coming. Someone he could make feel better.

And there was just something about Ren. Something that made him want to go out of his way to make the Mountie happy.

Go figure.

He couldn't figure it out, but truthfully it didn't bother him all that much. He'd just enjoy feeling good as long as it lasted.

Turnbull was sitting, staring into space, his chin in his hand as he gazed at the wall.

Thatcher almost snapped at the younger man, but for some reason she couldn't work herself up to it. That annoyed her, but it was probably a natural reaction to finding out that her officer had been getting hurt off duty, and she had never even noticed. It would go away in a few days.

For now, she was kind of glad to see the smile on the Mountie's face, even though the vacant stare annoyed her.

She hovered in her doorway for a moment, trying to decide whether to tell the young Mountie to get back to work, when the phone at the desk rang.

She watched, unnoticed, at the automatic change in Turnbull.

He snapped into awareness, and the smile faded, replaced by wariness. He lifted the phone slowly. "Thank you for calling the Consulate of Canada. Constable Turnbull speaking. May I help you?"

She watched the color leave his face, and every sign of happiness vanished as though it had never been there. His head bowed and his voice lowered as he replied to whoever it was.

She hesitated, then went into her office and shut the door quietly. Wondering what the hell she was thinking, she went to her phone, picked it up, and slowly pressed the lit button.

"--the fuck you're thinking. You can't just tell me it's over, just like that. You're mine, you fucking know that."

Thatcher's hackles rose at that. First that the son of a bitch would call her man during business hours at work, second that he would talk to one of her officers that way.

Turnbull seemed cowed but determined when he answered. "I meant what I said, William. Please, get out of my apartment. And stop calling here. This is my job."

"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Dammit, Renny, when I get my fucking hands on you, you're going to--"

She hung up at that, rose from her desk, and stalked outside to the lobby.

Turnbull was hunched over the phone, his eyes shut, not even hearing her approach.

She reached out and wrenched the phone out of his hand, surprising the young man. She cut off the voice ranting in the earpiece. "Excuse me, sir. Do you have a problem you'd like to speak to me about?"

The voice cut off, then came back, confused. "Who is this?"

"This is Inspector Meg Thatcher. I couldn't help but overhear the way you were talking to my junior officer. I assume, since you're calling the Consulate, you must have some complaint about his work here. If that's the case, you should tell it to me personally."

There was another pause. "I got no complaints about his work, okay, lady? Just put him back on the--"

"Is this a personal call, sir?"

"Yeah, it is. Now--"

She smiled grimly. "In that case, I'd thank you not to call my officer at work. As a matter of fact, if you do it again, and I overhear you speaking to him in that tone of voice, I will file a complaint with the Chicago police department. This is Canadian soil, and, as far as I'm concerned, a Canadian phone line. Tie it up again and I'll have you arrested."

"You can't--"

"We look after our own here, sir." Her voice lowered, and she surprised herself with what she said next. "If you screw with one of my officers, you screw with me, too. With everyone in this building. I'd recommend you don't do that."

There was a pause, and then a click.

She pulled the phone away, grimly thanking Ray Vecchio in her mind for teaching her the value of crude talk when dealing with unreasonable Americans.

She glanced down at Turnbull. He was pale, staring at her with his mouth gaping open. She handed the phone to him. "Sorry to interrupt your call in that manner, Constable."

He took the phone and hung it up slowly. "Perfectly all right, Inspector." His voice was numb.

She gave him a supporting smile. "Americans, eh?"

Something like a smile touched his face, and he nodded. "Indeed."

Satisfied, actually rather pleased with herself, she turned and went back into her office.

The Lincoln pulled up that evening just as Ren stepped out the door. He saw Harding waving him over in surprise. "Harding, what are you doing here?"

"I got out a little early, believe it or not. I figured you'd get off around this time. At the risk of sounding too domestic, we gotta do a little food shopping. I figure if you're cooking half the meals, you might want some stuff. You up for it?"

"Of course." Ren got into the car without hesitation.

Welsh had the radio going, and was mumbling along with the song under his breath. Ren saw his smile with a grin of his own. He had never thought of the Lieutenant as being a particularly happy person before he had moved in with him. Of course, his only dealings with the older American had been on an official level, and he supposed like Thatcher Welsh had to be a bit more stern than normal when dealing with his officers.

Still, it surprised him how much Welsh smiled when he wasn't at the station. Actually, if he thought about it, it surprised him how much he himself smiled when he was with Welsh.

He found himself actually wanting to tell Harding about the phone call earlier, and Thatcher's dealing with it. So he did, and surprised himself by being able to laugh out loud along with Harding as he recounted her words to William.

Respect and approval lit Harding's face as he listened to the story. "That Inspector of yours, she's a good lady. I didn't think much of her at first, but she really does look after her officers."

Ren glanced over, hearing the note in his voice, and suddenly his own smile was forced.

Welsh was interested in the Inspector? It seemed possible. They had much in common, being in positions of authority in their respective jobs. And they had actually worked together well during the case with the Henry Allen.

They were both adults, and both without domestic partners. They could probably make each other very happy if they were interested.

But instead of making him happy, the thought drove the smile from Ren's face, and he turned to stare out the window.

What was wrong with him? He had developed a great deal of affection for Harding over the last week, and he should be happy for him if he was right about this.

But he wasn't anywhere close to being happy, and that disturbed him. As he puzzled out the reason, it disturbed him even more. The feelings eating away at him were familiar. They were the same feelings he got when he watched Fraser and Ray together. They were probably the happiest couple he knew of, despite their little arguments and constant teasing of the other. They were happy, and would probably stick it out. When he thought of them, he got a little jealous.

And that was how he was feeling now. Jealous. And not of Harding. Of the fact that the Inspector could make him smile. That he and Thatcher had a lot in common, were closer in age. That Thatcher was a woman, and Welsh was a typical heterosexual police lieutenant.

Ren shut his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window as Harding drove. This was just what he needed. Just the thing that could ruin the little happiness he was starting to find lately. He had, against every ounce of reason and common sense, developed feelings for the older, gruff American cop.

Great.

Welsh glanced over for the tenth time as he pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Ren was troubled, and he wasn't making any attempt to hide it.

But why? What the hell had he said that was so wrong? Had Ren suddenly had some kind of flashback to William or something? What the hell was up?

His own happiness was gone. In fact, he noticed with puzzlement that his level of happiness these days seemed to be directly related to Ren's.

Strange. Had he been so alone for so long that he was so empathetic towards another person's feelings when they got a little close to him?

He didn't know. He did know he wanted Ren to smile again. He wanted to be able to smile himself.

But he didn't say anything as they got out of the car and went into the store. He grabbed a cart and pushed it in front of them as they walked side by side towards the first aisle.

Domestic, he'd said. It was funny how domestic this felt. Shopping for food together. Pushing a grocery cart down an aisle, scanning labels and boxes and things.

A sudden flash came over him, and he remembered the last time he had gone to the grocery store with someone else.

He almost stumbled over his feet, pulling to a stop to catch his breath as a wave of old, familiar pain came over him. Jesus, how long had it been since he'd thought about her?

Too long.

Ren glanced over, seeing he'd stopped. He waited, and Welsh gathered himself, pulling a box at random and dropping it into the cart to justify his stopping.

Ren glanced down at the box. Cous cous mix?

He didn't say anything, just kept walking.

Welsh was lost now, not even paying attention. Neither of them seemed to be, and they had reached maybe the third aisle before he snapped back to reality, glancing down to see the one box and nothing else in the cart.

He frowned. Cous cous? The hell?

He glanced over at Ren, who seemed to be in his own world as they walked.

Forcing his thoughts to change direction, he smiled. "I think we should try this again."

Ren stopped and glanced back. He looked around him in surprise. "Oh. Yes, I'd guess we'd better."

Feeling a little sheepish, they headed back for the first aisle, and without saying anything, Ren grabbed the box in the cart and put it back on the shelf as they passed.

Welsh glanced over, and their eyes met. They both smiled.

Just like that, his bad mood was gone. So it had been a long time since he had thought about his wife. That was what happened, right? Years passed, memories faded. It was sad, but life had to go on.

She had wanted his life to go on.

He stopped that train of thought fast, before he sunk back into a bad mood.

This time around, they actually took a look around and grabbed the food they needed, making small talk about their choices.

Domestic. Not bad.

Until they got around to the meat section, and Ren decided he wanted to make a special dish that night. A dish that involved him getting into a conversation with the butcher behind the counter.

Welsh stayed back, listening to the random talk about slicing meat and thickness and fat content, wondering why Canadians had to be picky about every little thing.

He was tuning out the conversation, but Ren and the butcher laughed about something suddenly. He tuned in again, and couldn't help but notice that the butcher was a young guy, blond and what would be called conventionally handsome. He was leaning in close to Ren as the Mountie pointed out the slices he wanted in the steaks he held. And they were both smiling. About meat.

Welsh felt a sudden jerk inside of him. A strange, insane, irrational little anger. All of the sudden he wished they were vegetarians.

He watched the two talk, and then the young butcher finally left to go to the back.

Ren turned a smile to Welsh. "I must remember this place. I find most stores hire employees that know very little about the jobs they're supposed to be doing."

"Yeah." Welsh kept his eyes on the rows of meat, scanning like he was looking something. "Nice guy, huh?"

"Actually, yes."

And young. And good looking.

Welsh stopped dead, his eyes on a wrapped package of chicken breasts. What the hell? Was he jealous of the kid behind the meat counter?

Why would he be jealous? Because the guy was young? That was stupid. There were a lot of young people in the world. He wasn't jealous of Ren because he was still a young man.

But there it was. He was pissed at the meat guy because he was young, like Ren.

Welsh tensed suddenly. If Ren was saying something, he didn't hear it. He was suddenly trapped in his own mind, a shock filling him as he realized what he'd just thought.

Young like Ren. Holy shit, was that it? Was he jealous 'cause he was so much older than Ren? Was that it? Why the hell would...

He knew it was right, though. There was a tiny devil voice in his head telling him that that was exactly what it was. The guy was young and handsome, and Ren was gay, and young, and handsome. And why the hell would Ren look at a guy like him if there were cute meat guys around for him to...

Ho-ly shit. What the holy fuck was he thinking? First he takes in this guy, then he gets himself so involved in the guy's life that he's only happy when Ren is, and now he's fucking jealous of the first young guy who holds a conversation with him.

Christ on a crutch.

He couldn't meet Ren's eyes when he finally stopped being hypnotized by dead chicken parts. "We done here?"

"In a moment." Ren's eyes were on him, he could feel them.

He couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle a searching look like that, knowing how perceptive the Mountie was, knowing what he now knew about his own fucked-up feelings. "Uh. I'll just go on ahead. I got some...you know. Cereal. I should get cereal." He pushed the cart on, not bothering to wait for a response.

Ren watched him go, his brow furrowed. What was wrong now? Something was troubling the older man, yet again. Something he did?

For the life of him, he couldn't think of what.

The butcher, James, returned with the wrapped cuts of meat he had ordered. "Here you go. I think they'll be good enough for you."

He smiled politely, distracted, and took the meat. "Thank you." He started after Welsh, his steps slow. If he was bothering the American, maybe he should keep his distance.

"Renny."

His blood went cold. For a moment, he hoped he'd imagined the voice. But goose bumps appeared on him, and he could feel the cold gaze behind him.

Harding was nowhere in sight.

He turned slowly, clutching the white paper-wrapped bundle.

William didn't have a thing in his hands. He wasn't even pretended to have been shopping. "Well? We're here, face to face. You want to tell me what the fuck you're trying to pull?"

He was frozen. He couldn't move. His throat was suddenly dry. "William."

"Yeah, great, you're not fucking blind. Speak up, Renny. Who the fuck is this guy you're with? Tell me it isn't that same cop you sent to your place to harass me." His eyes were hard as he came forward, careful to keep his voice low to avoid onlookers. He was very good at not attracting attention. "You're coming back home with me. Right now. I've had enough of this bullshit."

He reached out, grabbing Ren's arm.

He felt the hard grasp, and as always when William touched him, his defenses shut down, and he found himself going where William led him without even hesitating.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

The voice behind him washed a very different feeling over him. Relief. All of the sudden, at the sound of Harding's voice, he could dig his feet into the ground and stop William.

Harding marched into view, the cart left somewhere behind him. "You son of a bitch, I told you I never wanted to see you again."

William let go of Ren, but faced the new threat dead on. "I don't see where this is any business of yours. This is between me and Renny."

"'Renny' has already told you to get lost. What about that do you not get?"

William stepped up, right into the Lieutenant's face. "I said," he spoke through gritted teeth, "this is none of your business."

"I'm making it my business." Welsh glared right back. "You get the hell away from him. If we have to get a restraining order, we will, and I swear to God I'll arrest you the first chance I get."

"Renny?" William turned to his former punching bag, his eyes flashing fire. "You want to speak up, here?" His voice was forceful, exactly the tone of voice that Ren had never been able to disobey before.

Wide blue eyes went from William to Harding, and Ren swallowed. "You heard him, William. Go away."

A dangerous look appeared in those cold gray eyes, and William's hand came up.

Welsh didn't wait to see if he was going to hit him, or if he was just going to scratch his nose. He shoved William back with both hands, causing the man to stumble into a display of Pepsi cans. "Go. Away." He moved in front of Ren, his arms crossing in front of his chest, daring the man to say or do anything else.

William straightened, his hands clenched into fists. "This isn't over."

Welsh gave a grim smile. "I hope not. I'm looking forward to seeing you in jail."

William glared, but backed away. A moment later he turned and stalked down an aisle.

Welsh watched long enough to make sure he was gone, and then turned to Ren. "You okay?" The anger was gone, replaced by concern.

Ren nodded faintly, swallowing hard. "He was following us." He spoke quietly.

Welsh nodded, glaring back the way William had gone. "I figured that." He hesitated, then rested a hand on Ren's arm lightly. "Come on. Help me pick out some veggies."

Ren moved when he led him, his heart still racing.

Welsh seemed to realize he was still shocked by the entire encounter, and he took the lead, filling the air between them with inane conversation about cucumbers and whether cheese did or didn't belong in a salad.

Ren relaxed gradually, his eyes losing the dazed look, eventually able to meet Harding's gaze and answer his question.

And the look in his eyes as he looked at Harding changed, slowly. From automatic politeness, blue eyes softened with affection and gratitude. From there, they changed even further, until he was sure that every ounce of feelings he was developing towards the American was blatant on his face.

If they were, Welsh didn't seem to notice. He kept up the talk, letting Ren pick out some fresh vegetables for whatever he was planning to make that night, watching in amusement as Ren probed and shook and examined every inch of the items he put into the cart.

For Welsh, the amusement he felt turned quickly to wistfulness. He was going to miss this when it was gone. It was their first time shopping together, but he found himself wanting to make it a weekly event. He wanted the quirky young Canadian there with him, whatever he was doing.

Christ, a few minutes ago he'd been nuts with jealousy. A minute ago he had been ready to get into a fight in the middle of the meat section to protect Ren. And now he wanted nothing more than to find a way to keep Ren there in his life this way.

He was fucked up. He was losing his mind. He was acting like a twenty-year-old with a crush. Hell, he should be making an appointment with a shrink. He wasn't gay. He'd been married, and after Heather died, he'd had no interest in a relationship with anyone else. Ever.

Now this.

It was nuts, and it wasn't going to happen. If he had anything at all to offer the young Mountie, it wasn't enough.

Ren stood over the stove, checking the bubbling pots over and over again.

This had to be perfect. It had to be special. It had to be enough to express his gratitude and his thanks, without saying the words. Harding didn't want to hear him say it, so he had to make it clear some other way.

He checked the table again quickly, straightening the napkins and silverware for the fifth time, making sure it was perfect.

He debated setting up some candles, but shook the thought of with a faint smile. As much as he wished it, this couldn't come across as some kind of romantic meal. No, Harding didn't need to be bothered with his confused emotions and misplaced affection. He deserved a nice meal.

Ren sighed happily. He could do this. He could fight off his wishful dreams, and just enjoy being a part of the older man's life as long as he could.

He would miss it, when it was over.

But he wouldn't think about that now.

There was a knock on the kitchen door, which for once was shut. "You almost done in there?"

"Almost. Be patient."

Harding sighed loud enough to be heard through the door. "Smells great, anyway."

"Why, thank you. Now go watch television or something, and stop hovering."

"All right, all right. Pushy Mounties."

Ren grinned, turning back to the stove. He tilted the door open and looked inside.

Perfect.

With a wider smile, he shut off the heat and set about filling the plate for his...his host.

The expression on Harding's face when he came in made every second of work justified. "Wow. Went all out, huh?"

Ren shrugged, trying for casual. "I get into moods like this sometimes. Sit."

Welsh obeyed, taking a seat and inhaling loudly. "Jesus, I could get used to this."

The words hit them both at the same time, and Welsh glanced up at Ren.

There was a pause, and Ren broke it by turning and going to the refrigerator. "What would you like to drink?"

"Uh. I dunno. Is there something special that goes with a meal like this?"

"Well, we don't have any wine, so I suppose soda would work." He pulled out a couple of cans of coke and two glasses.

Welsh grinned and accepted the offered glass. "Thanks."

Ren sat down across from him finally, and tried to avoid staring as Welsh dug into the food.

The older man chewed and swallowed, and sighed happily. "Now this is a meal."

Ren beamed and took a bite of his own.

"There some occasion I don't know about?" Welsh asked suddenly, a few minutes later.

"Not that I'm aware of. Although..." He hesitated, hoping this wouldn't ruin their mood. "Although I'm grateful to you for what you did."

Welsh glanced up and met his eyes across the table. A sudden intensity lit his eyes. "Ren, I saw the way you reacted to him. I don't know why, but you don't seem to think it's worth fighting back. You wanted to, but you couldn't. I don't know how to convince you of it, but you're worth it. You gotta hear this. No one has the right to push you around. I mean, nobody deserves being treated like that, but especially not you."

Ren met his eyes, surprised.

Welsh almost flushed, as if he'd said more than he meant to. He looked down at his plate.

"Thank you," Ren replied finally. "That means a lot, coming from you."

There was a brief silence, suddenly awkward. Both men went back to their food, lost in their own thoughts.

It wasn't a strange thing, being woken up in the middle of the night. Mama Harding's little boy was a cop through and through, and if there was a noise, or he imagined a noise, he woke up.

But to his surprise, the noise actually repeated itself. A faint sound, like a voice.

Ren.

He got up in a flash, grabbing his robe and putting it on as he left the room.

He cracked Ren's door without knocking, and glanced in to see the young man lying frozen, tense, his eyes shut tightly. He voiced another soft cry, and Welsh went to his side hurriedly.

"Ren?" He perched on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch the young man's arm lightly. "Ren, wake up."

He had had his share of nightmares, and he knew gentle worked best when pulling someone out of a bad dream. He kept his touch light, his voice soft. "Ren, it's a dream. Wake up. It's okay."

The expressive blue eyes opened abruptly, and Ren drew away from the touch before he realized where he was. He looked around the dark room, and saw Welsh sitting over him.

For a moment, he couldn't react, still half-trapped in the dream. He sat himself slowly, his hands coming up to his face.

"Bad one, huh?" Welsh kept his voice quiet.

Ren nodded shakily. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I'm not," Welsh replied easily. "Nightmares are tougher if ya face 'em alone."

Ren blinked up at him, awkward. "I...it--"

"--was William. Yeah, I figured. It's okay, you know. You don't have to be ashamed of it."

Surprised he'd been read so well, Ren met his eyes searchingly. "You have nightmares?"

Welsh shrugged. "I've been a cop for a long time. And..." He stopped, shrugging again. "Happens."

"And what?" Ren asked quietly.

Welsh hesitated. Hell, he owed it to the kid to be honest, after forcing him to talk so much about his own life. "I used to be married. She was killed in a car accident. I used to see her a lot at night, ya know?"

Ren nodded slowly. "I didn't know that. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well. Long time ago."

The younger man shuddered slightly, his eyes drifting over to the wall. "I think I'll be okay now. Thank you for coming in."

"No problem." Harding hesitated, then stood. "You sure you'll be okay by yourself?"

Ren hesitated, then glanced over, his expression almost guilty. "No."

Welsh smiled back easily. "Good. I don't really feel like going to sleep again anyway. How about some tea?"

Ren nodded. "That would be good."

"Great. I'll go start it, you take a minute and get yourself together." His eyes were full of understanding as he headed out of the room.

Ren looked after him, his eyes once again going sad. Everything was so much easier to handle when Harding was there. He only wished there was a way to tell him that without losing him completely.

When the Mountie drifted out of his room, Harding had the tea brewing. He had a faint smile on his face, remembering Ren's surprise the first time he'd seen tea in the American's cabinet. Welsh had been quick to inform him that not all Americans hated the stuff. Truthfully, it was the only thing he could drink at night that would settle him down enough to sleep.

Ren sat down at the table, looking even younger than he was with his hair ruffled and those loose pajamas hanging off of his tall frame.

Welsh couldn't help a slight twinge at the sight. It was hard to remember sometimes that Ren was in his early thirties. He wasn't much of a kid at all. He looked and acted younger most of the time, but he wasn't a baby.

Welsh sat down, handing a mug to Ren. "You wanna talk about it?"

Ren hesitated, then shrugged. "I probably should, but there isn't much to say. It was William. He was..."

Welsh nodded, taking a sip of the hot liquid.

But Ren surprised him by going on, and by being completely candid with him. "I don't even know what to call it," he said faintly, his eyes on the cup he clutched with both hands. "It wasn't rape, since I didn't protest."

Welsh breathed in sharply, his eyes locking onto Ren's.

"But it...it felt like it." Ren set the cup down, his hands trembling. "I should have fought back. I don't know why I never fought back." His eyes were starting to water, and he blinked the wetness away quickly, shame spreading over his entire bearing. "He was good at...at making me feel...like I deserved it. Like it was all I d-deserved."

Welsh couldn't help standing up and moving to the chair beside the stricken man. He couldn't help reaching out and touching Ren's hand, his heart hurting for Ren. "He's a sadistic bastard, and no one deserves that. You deserve more than he could have ever given you, Ren. You deserve someone who will take care of you."

Ren looked down at his hand for a moment, then blinked up at him. "What about you?"

For a moment, Welsh almost thought he was proposing something. He swallowed. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you deserve the same thing?" Ren's eyes were searching.

His shoulders sagged, and he looked away. "I..."

"You shouldn't be alone here, Harding. You have so much to...to offer someone. I'm sorry to hear about your wife, but it was long ago. You shouldn't be alone."

Harding took a deep breath, then met Ren's eyes. "I'm not alone. Not anymore."

Ren searched his gaze, a pained look on his face.

"I...oh, shit." Welsh heaved another breath. "I could take care of you, Ren."

Ren sat up straighter, his eyes huge. "I...I think..." He swallowed, unable to breathe all of the sudden. "I'd like that."

Harding's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Really?"

"Yes. If...yes."

"Oh. Well..." He hadn't felt this tongue-tied in years. "That's good."

Ren dared a small smile, his expression tentatively hopeful, as though Harding might take it all back at any moment. "Yes."

Welsh saw the smile and returned it, edgy. "Okay. So that's settled."

It didn't feel settled. It felt like they were both tiptoeing around each other, only half-sure that they were on the same page.

"Uh. So. Back to bed?"

Ren stiffened, his eyes going dark.

Welsh hesitated. "Maybe...you know. Maybe I can help you sleep. Keep the nightmares away." That look of understanding was still in his eyes.

The younger man relaxed, nodding. Harding stood, holding out his hand. Ren took it, and stood beside him. "Harding..."

"Something wrong?"

Ren shook his head slowly, deliberately keeping his hand in the older man's grip. He had to be sure they were talking about the same thing. Slowly, almost petrified of a negative response, he leaned over and touched his lips to Harding's, very gently. He pulled back, dropping his head and waiting for a response.

By Harding's voice, he was smiling. "Yeah. So that's settled. Come on, you need your sleep."

He looked up, hope shining in his eyes.

Harding smiled gently and tugged on his hand, not releasing it as they left the kitchen.

Relief crashed over him like a wave, followed by a slow, growing, intense happiness.

He slept that night, his head resting on Harding's chest, and if he even dreamed at all, he didn't remember it in the morning.

Ray couldn't help but notice that something was wrong with Welsh.

His suspicion started when the Lieutenant came out for a cup of coffee, and passed by Ray. He reached out and clapped Ray on the back. "Morning, Vecchio."

Taken by surprise, Ray squinted at his boss, making sure he wasn't imagining that the man was actually smiling. "Uh. Morning."

That unusual smile grew, and Welsh kept moving, nodding to his other detectives.

Ray just watched him, moving slowly to his desk.

The next sign of trouble came when Welsh called him in over a report that was late. He asked him -- asked him -- where the report was.

"It's...you know, it's coming. I was waiting fer Frase to...uh...fine-tune it. I know you hate those little spelling mistakes."

Welsh raised his eyebrows. "You're not getting Constable Fraser to do your paperwork again, are you, detective?" His voice was strangely mild.

Ray swallowed, waiting for the sky to fall in. "You know my eyes, sir. Thought it was better he take a look."

Welsh sighed. "All right. Just get it to me by the end of the day."

Ray blinked, shocked. "Yeah, sure." He moved to the door, keeping his eyes on Welsh, half-expecting him to spontaneously combust or something.

Welsh looked amused by his behavior, letting out what sounded like a small chuckle.

Ray darted out of the office, shutting the door behind him and standing there for a long moment, confused.

"Ray."

He looked up to see Fraser coming towards him. His normal blinding grin of welcome was muted. "Frase, are yer feet cold?"

Fraser's brow furrowed. "My feet? Why, no, Ray. Why do you--"

"Huh. Mine aren't either. So hell hasn't frozen over. Guess he must be sick or something."

"Whatever are you talking about?"

"Welsh. He's acting funny."

"Really?" Fraser followed Ray as he headed back to the desk. "How so? Is there cause for concern?"

"I'd say. The guy's scaring me."

"Excuse me, Ray. Do you mean the Leftenant is attempting to frighten you, or that his behavior is--"

"The second one." Ray watched Welsh's door open, and nudged his partner and lover in the arm. "Here. Watch."

"Huey? Dewey?" Welsh's voice was almost conversational. "Would you mind coming in here for a minute?"

The two summoned detectives exchanged looks, the same surprised fear on their face that Ray had had on his.

"See? Did you see that?" Ray's eyes were wide. "Maybe he's on drugs."

Fraser laughed. "I find that highly unlikely, Ray. As a matter of fact, I see nothing wrong with the way the Leftenant is acting."

"No. No, you wouldn't. Cause he's being polite. Christ, Frase, he's practically happy." His eyes grew and Ray sat up suddenly. "Turnbull!"

Fraser shook his head, wondering why Ray made every attempt to baffle him. "What about Turn--"

"He's living with Turnbull! God, could that politeness really rub off that fast? Damn. Frase, I love ya, but I think I like you staying at the Consulate."

"Really, Ray, although I've heard it said that nice breeds nice, I find it hard to believe that..." He trailed off, thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, Turnbull was also in a very good mood this morning."

Ray glanced at him. "Whaddaya mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Constable Turnbull seemed happier than he usually is."

Ray glanced from him to the closed office door, then back to him. His eyes lit up suddenly. "Holy shit! You don't think...oh Christ! Oh my God! I did not need that thought in my head this early in the day!"

Fraser glanced at his watch. "It's late afternoon, Ray. And what thought would--"

"No! Stop! I don't need to be thinking of my boss like that! Get yer mind out of the gutter, Frase."

Fraser gave up questioning him and puzzled over the words, taking the extra moment to interpret the various expressions he had learned from Ray, before he figured out what Ray meant. His eyes grew as wide as Ray's. "You think...you don't think...Turnbull and Leftenant Welsh--"

"Agh! Stop it! Dammit, Frase!" Ray shot out of his seat, glaring at his partner. "You're such a damned pervert!" He stalked away, heading for the break room.

Fraser watched him go, and saw every single eye in the bullpen on him suddenly. He flushed, his hand going to his collar to loosen it slightly. He nodded at the watching eyes. "Good afternoon."

Two Days Later...

Welsh lied awake, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the light breathing beside him. His arm was curled around Ren's shoulder, moving slowly up and down the back of the pajama shirt.

Sleeping together was a comfort. They both slept better than they could remember, and no dreams plagued their sleep.

All they did was sleep, of course. At this point, Ren was nowhere near being ready for anything more, and Harding had gone without for so long that he had no trouble with it. Still, the last three days had been better than he could remember in a long time.

Neither of them had spoken it out loud, but the fact that their relationship was suddenly romantic made everything much different. Much better.

He didn't worry about when Ren was going to go back to his apartment. Over the last two days they had made two trips to the apartment, bringing a lot of Turnbull's possessions to the house. It remained unspoken, but this was his and Ren's house now, plain and simple.

Their conversations were a little freer, and they greeted each other with light kisses and more open smiles every time they saw each other. In private, anyway.

It was surprisingly satisfying, but.

But he was letting his doubts get the better of him. He was thinking too much. Losing himself in his what-ifs and whys.

Why was Ren with him? What could the young, handsome, lively man possibly see in someone two decades older?

When he figured out the answer, it didn't help: he had taken Ren out of that 'relationship' he had been in, he had given him a home, and actively protected him from William. He'd caught the young man on the rebound from an abusive relationship, and it was as easy as that.

Ren liked him because he could protect him. He liked him because he had shown the younger man kindness in a time when he really needed it.

A few weeks would pass, and Ren would recover from William's influence. He would listen to Harding's words, and learn to believe them. And he would suddenly realize that he was saddled with an old cop with an ulcer and twenty more years of baggage than Ren.

And that would be that. Welsh just hoped that after Ren made that realization, he wouldn't stay with him out of some sort of obligation. He'd rather be alone than be pitied, or begrudged.

He lay awake, thinking his dark thoughts, and reflected on how much he loved just lying here near the warmth and comfort of Ren's body.

It was strange how easily he accepted the presence of another man in his bed. At his age, he'd learned to accept a lot of things without raising an eyebrow, but this should have at least been a little awkward. It wasn't, and that was impressed on him every night, and every morning.

For the last two mornings, he had drifted into consciousness to see that expressive face smiling down at him, watching him. Ren would lean over and kiss him softly, and give him a quiet 'good morning'. And Welsh would be happy that day.

That's how it was working so far.

He wondered what it would be like, waking up that morning after Ren had come to his senses. Would the younger man's face be pensive instead of happy? Would Welsh see a flash of...of disgust before Ren covered it with that fake smile he was so good at? Would Ren kiss him that morning, or just get out of bed?

Interrupting his thoughts, Ren moved against him gently, shifting his head down slightly.

Welsh couldn't help a smile, even through his cloudy thoughts. He could barely make out the sandy hair in the darkness, and his hand kept stroking the clothed back gently.

He felt his body getting the better of him, and his eyes shut finally, interrupting his thoughts by blessedly drifting him into darkness.

Ray couldn't avoid it anymore. Something was going on with Welsh.

He had to agree with Fraser. It had to be about Turnbull living with him. It had to be the two of them.

He didn't think about it for long. He accepted it, strange as it was, and over the next couple of days he learned to stop freaking out when Welsh greeted him with a smile.

And then, the third day after his reluctant realization, Welsh didn't smile at anyone. He actually seemed a bit more snippy than usual. His eyes had circles under them, and Ray found himself getting worried all over again.

Okay, so even if he didn't like thinking about why, it was nice to see his boss happy. Hell, Welsh was the greatest guy he'd ever worked for. They were in sync most of the time, and Welsh had stepped out on quite a few limbs for him since he'd arrived. Beth Botrelle came to his mind.

And it wasn't like Ray hadn't been thinking about trying to set the boss up with some nice lady a couple weeks ago. He knew his boss was lonely, so it was good that he wasn't anymore. The fact that Welsh turned out to be fruity was strange, but hey. If it could happen to Ray Kowalski, it could happen to anyone. The fact that it was Turnbull was odd, but he guessed they'd probably be good together. And the Mountie deserved a little happiness too, God knew.

Okay, so he had talked to himself, and decided there wasn't a problem here. He wasn't gonna let himself think about the details too much, so he could be happy for them both.

And now. No smile. Problem.

Problem bad. Ray watched Welsh shut himself in his office after snapping at Dewey for some tasteless joke he told on the station's time, or something dumb like that, and he reached for the phone.

"Canadian Consulate. Constable Fraser speaking."

"Hey, Frase."

"Ray!" His Mountie's voice lit up, and he loved it.

"How's everything going?"

"Very smoothly. And you?"

"Not so good." Ray hesitated, wondering when he had become a busybody. "Turnbull okay?"

Fraser paused. "Happy as ever, Ray. Why do you ask?"

"Welsh is down. He's back to his old self all the sudden."

"Oh dear. You think something may be wrong?"

"Yeah. You sure Turnbull ain't just acting again?"

"I don't think so. Now that I realize what he was doing, I've become rather good at determining his true mood. He's fine."

"Huh." Ray's eyes drifted to Welsh's office. "I guess it's kind of nosy, getting involved like this, but..." He shrugged, forgetting Fraser couldn't see him.

"I understand, Ray. I certainly hope there's nothing wrong."

"You think I should talk to him?"

"It would be awkward to do so if you don't want him to know we suspect he and Turnbull are a couple."

"Yeah. Maybe I should tell him, huh? He knows about us, after all. He gave his approval, maybe I should do the same for him. Could be his problem, ya know. It's not easy keeping something like that quiet."

Fraser's voice softened with affection. "No, it isn't. I can see where a man like Welsh would have trouble hiding his emotions. I think you should talk to him."

"Yeah." Ray sat up, suddenly determined. "Yeah, I will. I'll see ya in a couple hours, Frase."

"Goodbye, love," Fraser said, barely audible.

Ray grinned. "Frase, everyone at the Consulate knows about us. What're you whispering for?"

"Well..."

"Uh huh. Love you, too." Ray hung up with a smile. He stood, facing Welsh's office. Straightening, he headed over, determined to be some help to his boss if he possibly could.

He knocked, then marched in. Seeing the office was empty of anyone else, and that Welsh wasn't occupied on the phone, he went straight to the desk. "You and Turnbull got something going on?"

Welsh started, surprised. "What?"

"Me and Frase got this theory."

"Oh." For a moment, Welsh's frown remained in place for a moment, as though he was going to tell Ray to mind his own business.

"Hey, you know about Frase and me." It wasn't much of a defense.

But it worked. "Yeah. Hell. Is it that obvious?"

Ray grinned and dropped into a chair. "Nah. Just to us, 'cause we know you guys pretty well. You and Turnbull were suddenly smiling a lot more at exactly the same time, and considering that yer roomies right now, it wasn't hard to figure out."

"Oh." Welsh smiled faintly. "Well, keep your mouth shut about it, Vecchio."

"No problem. You got something on me too, remember?"

Welsh nodded, then glanced back at his desk, his smile fading. "That all, detective?"

"Nope. What's wrong?"

Welsh was surprised again. "Wrong?"

"Yeah. You're down again. You guys have a fight or something?"

"No. Nothing's wrong."

"Uh huh." Ray crossed his arms, peering at his boss. "Say it again with feeling."

Welsh's face twisted into a glare. "Listen, detective. When I decide my personal life is your business, I'll give you updates."

Undaunted, Ray nodded. "See? Last coupla days you never woulda said something like that. Honeymoon can't be over that fast."

Welsh's jaw tightened.

"Look, Lieu, I know how hard it is, ya know? If ya got a problem with him, there's no one you can talk to, 'cause no one else knows about ya. It can be tough."

Welsh studied him, his face softening. "Yeah. I guess. You and Fraser have problems?"

"Us? Hell, no. Well, he gets on my nerves, but I didn't expect that to change just 'cause we were fu--" He stopped, flushing. "Uh. A couple."

Welsh held in a laugh at that. "I see."

"So what's wrong? He do something?"

"No."

Ray heaved a sigh, sitting up. "Come on, boss. Don't make me have to pry this out of you word by word."

Welsh hesitated, then shrugged. "I'm going to lose him. I don't like thinking about it."

Ray's brow furrowed. "He say something about leaving? Already?" Maybe they weren't as good together as he had imagined.

"No," Welsh corrected quietly. "He wouldn't."

"So what's the deal?"

The larger man shrugged, sitting back, suddenly tired. "I guess it's inevitable."

"Why would ya say that?"

His eyebrows shot up. "You don't see anything strange about us, Vecchio?"

"Besides the fact that I didn't know you played for the home team? What's strange?"

"He's twenty years younger than me, for one."

"Uh huh?"

"You don't see something odd in that?"

"Should I?" Ray grinned. "Way I see it, if I can fall fer a guy, than the outer package just can't matter that much. Hell, maybe the more perfect ya seem outside, the less perfect ya really are together. Me and Stell are a great example of that."

Welsh studied him thoughtfully.

"You got any other gripes? Or is it just more of this self-conscious BS?"

They were both surprised at his tone. Ray was talking to him candidly, no deference at all. Like two friends.

Welsh hesitated, then answered in turn. "I've got a feeling I kinda took advantage of him."

"Why? 'Cause of that asshole that was beating on him?"

There was a pause. "Ray, I have to hand it to you. You're more perceptive than you let on."

"Yeah, I'm amazing. Now answer."

"Yeah, because of that guy. I got him on the rebound."

"Ya think?"

"Don't see it that way?" Welsh leaned forward, almost hopeful.

Ray shrugged. "Nah. Rebound would mean he was involved in a real relationship, and that sure as hell ain't what I'd call it. To get someone on the rebound, they gotta be sad and upset 'cause of splitting up, and he didn't seem like he'd miss the guy too much. In fact, if I was Turnbull, and some guy had been slapping me around the whole time we were dating, I'd seriously think twice before getting involved again so soon. Gotta be a good sign he trusts you enough, right?"

Welsh seemed amazed by that interpretation. His eyes shifted to the wall, thoughtful.

Ray grinned. Shoot and score. Sometimes it was good being a busybody. "So you think about it, and stop glaring at everyone. Ya got reason to be happy, so be happy." He stood, loping towards the door.

"Ray?"

He glanced back. "Yeah?"

Welsh shook his head slightly, smiling. "Thanks."

Ray grinned back. "Anytime, sir."

Harding came into the house with a huge grin on his face. "Ren?"

The younger man came out from the back hall, beaming. "Good evening, Harding." He came right to the older man and pressed a warm kiss to his lips. "How was work?"

"Good. Really good. You?"

"The Inspector was on a warpath, but Fraser managed to get her calmed down."

"Yikes. Hey, you wanna go out tonight? You haven't started cooking anything, have ya?"

"Not yet. I was going to ask what you--"

"Great. Let's go somewhere nice, huh?"

Ren's eyebrows flew up, but he smiled. "That sounds good. Any occasion in particular?"

"Nah. Just a nice dinner."

"Should I change?"

Welsh took in the serge thoughtfully. "I don't know. I like the idea of going out with a stop sign."

Ren flushed. "I can change."

Harding laughed. "I was kidding. You look great, as always. Let's get out of here."

Ren hesitated. "Are you sure? I would only be a minute."

Harding rolled his eyes and hauled him close for another kiss. "I'm sure."

That didn't help with the flushing, but Ren smiled again. "All right."

They were out the door a minute later.

A familiar form stood on the walkway.

Welsh froze, unconsciously moving in front of Renny. "What the hell are you doing at our house?"

"'Our' house?" William's voice dripped with disgust.

Welsh tromped down the steps, his face going red. How dare this son of a bitch keep haunting them? "Yeah. Our house. Our property. Remove yourself from it."

William looked over his shoulder to where Ren stood frozen on the porch. "I want you to come home with me, Renny. I'm not going to leave here without you."

Welsh stepped in the way of his view. "What's wrong? Can't afford a real punching bag?"

William's eyes narrowed to slits. "You'd best watch your mouth, old man."

Ren answered that before Welsh could snap at the guy. "William, get out of here. I've been as clear as I can about this. I don't want to see you anymore. Ever." He left the porch, coming down to stand slightly behind Harding.

William glared. "You're making a mistake."

"You were my only mistake," Ren answered firmly.

Harding shot him a look, pride shining in his eyes that Ren was finally speaking up, defending himself.

Ren watched as, the moment his face was turned, William went into motion. The Mountie couldn't see his hand, but he watched the motion of his arm as he made contact with Harding the moment he was distracted.

Harding's head jerked back to William, and he stumbled under the force of the blow.

Ren froze, his body locking. He cursed himself for it, for the way he became paralyzed the moment there was violence. His eyes grew wide, and he was helpless to assist his new love as he stumbled onto the grass.

Then his eyes went to William, and he saw that there was blood on his hand.

Harding stumbled again, inadvertently facing Ren.

The young man went pale, a dark horror sweeping over him.

He hadn't seen it, but William's hand hadn't been empty. He had brought a knife.

A knife that was now buried in Harding's side.

Wide blue eyes went from the blood slowly pumping out around the blade to the look of pale shock on Harding's face.

And then he looked over at William, and saw a kind of shocked smugness on his face. Like he couldn't believe he'd actually done it, but wasn't regretting it in the slightest.

Some strange emotion bubbled up in Ren as his eyes moved helplessly back to Harding.

The older man was breathing in gasps, and suddenly he fell to his knees, swaying.

"Shit." William spoke up finally, a strange mix of fright and excitement. "Shit. Renny, let's get the hell out of here." He grabbed Ren's arm and headed quickly down the walk, his eyes scanning the street.

Ren's eyes stayed on Harding, and the older man looked up at him, his eyes glazing. He saw Ren not protesting as he was dragged away, and a strange, wrenching despair filled his eyes.

Ren stopped.

William's arm wrenched as the man he was leading suddenly became immovable. He turned with a glare. "What the hell are you doing? Someone's gonna call the cops in a minute. What--"

Ren turned to face him, and William stopped dead. Affable blue eyes looked slate gray in the darkness, and the wide face was set in an expression he had never seen on Renny before.

He tugged again almost absently. "We gotta get out of here," he said weakly.

One moment Ren was in his grasp, the next his arm was both free from William's hand and flying towards his face.

The large fist slammed into William's jaw, and the muscular form staggered, falling to his knees.

Ren turned instantly, darting to Harding's side just as he started to fall. He caught the older man before he could land on the knife, and turned him on his back. He reached in to Harding's coat, grabbing his cell phone. "I'm calling an ambulance. Hang on, Harding. Oh my God, hang on."

There was a faint sound behind him, and Ren turned to see William rising to his feet and staggering towards him.

That strange emotion boiled over, and Ren realized that it was rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. He got to his feet and stalked over to William. "Sit down and wait for the police," he ordered in a grim, flat voice.

William smirked, his confidence back. "Yeah, ri--"

Ren flashed his arm out, hitting him in the stomach.

William doubled over, and Ren swung another fist at his jaw. "I said," he spoke loudly, grabbing a mob of hair and jerking William's head up. "Sit down and wait for the police."

William sank down.

"Are you going to move?" he asked quietly.

William forced his eyes up to meet Ren's and he shivered at whatever he saw there. He shook his head and dropped to the lawn.

Ren was back by Harding in a flash, dialing the phone quickly.

He managed to stay calm long enough to answer the dispatcher's questions. He gave the address, the nature of the injury, and stayed on the line as she gave instructions.

He began losing focus while still on the line with the woman, and slowly the phone lowered away from his ear without him even realizing it.

He hunched down over the pale form, his eyes dripping tears uncontrollably. "Harding? Harding, please, the ambulance is coming. Please don't leave me. Please come back. You're going to be okay, you have to be okay." He was shuddering.

"Shhh."

The response was faint, but he heard it. His head came up, and he saw the open blue-gray eyes looking at him. He gasped and grabbed Harding's hand, squeezing tightly. "Don't leave me. Please, please don't."

Harding smiled painfully. "Don't worry," he breathed out. "Just a...a scratch."

"I'm sorry." Ren couldn't stop his tears. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't...I let him...oh my God, I'm sorry. Don't leave me."

"Hey." Harding squeezed his hands gently. "Can it. I'll be fine." He shuddered slightly, but kept that smile on his face. "Ren?"

Tear-clogged eyes met pained blues, and Ren bent down and kissed his love gently. "Yes?"

"Proud of you," Harding choked out, his eyes shutting slowly.

Ren opened his mouth to answer, but couldn't find the words. He sank down, clutching the limp hand to him tightly.

Ray went flying into the hospital, his eyes wild. "Where is he?"

Catching up, Fraser grabbed his shoulder. "Ray! Calm down and ask a nurse."

"What the hell?" A voice rang out behind them, and they turned to see Huey and Dewey coming in right behind them. "We heard over the radio. Where's Welsh?"

"I don't know!" Ray spun back towards the desk, and saw a Fraser over by a nurse. He bolted to the side of his lover. "Well, lady?"

The nurse turned to him, shocked. "Sir, I--"

"Where is he? Look, lady, this is our boss. Speak up!"

"Ray!" Fraser's voice was sharp. "Yelling won't accomplish anything. This young lady just gave me the name of the doctor assigned to the Leftenant, so if you--"

"Fraser! Jesus, stop talking and just take us up there!"

Fraser's eyebrows flew up, but he could see the panic on Ray's face and silently headed for the elevator. He knew Ray and Leftenant Welsh were close, and Ray had a great deal of loyalty towards his boss.

By the strangely solemn looks on Huey and Dewey's faces, the feeling wasn't restricted to just Ray.

Dewey broke the silence in the elevator. "What happened, anyway? We heard it was a stabbing."

"That's what we heard." Ray was practically twitching in the small space. "He'd better not be dead. They'd better have the son of a bitch that did it. I swear to God, someone's gonna--"

Fraser rested a hand on the tense arm. "Ray, you're going to exhaust yourself. We'll know soon enough."

Ray glanced over, his mouth opened and ready to snap. But he knew his lover, and the look in Fraser's eyes told Ray that his stoic partner was just as worried, but restraining it under a forced calm.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Sorry. I just...he's always been there fer us, ya know? I hate that this happened to him."

"I know, Ray. It's all right."

Ray glanced back at Huey and Dewey, but both men were grimly silent.

When the elevator doors opened, the four men left in a hurry, and Fraser led the charge to the desk. "Doctor Anderson?"

The nurse glanced down, flipping through the sheets on her desk.

Ray's new calm vanished in a hurry. "Come on, lady! Our boss may be--"

"Sir?"

Fraser spun to see a pale, bloody Turnbull standing near the chairs of the waiting area. He left the desk and went over to his friend's side. "Renfield. What happened?"

"My...William. He...he stabbed Harding. He...they said it wasn't as bad as it looked, but they don't know what...how..."

"All right," Fraser shushed the trembling younger man. "I'm sure it's going to be all right. Sit down, Renfield. I'll check and see if they know anything else."

Fraser moved back towards Ray, who was still harassing the nurse. "Ray?"

Surprisingly enough, Ray heard him the first time he said his name. He turned. "What? Is Turnbull okay? What'd he say?"

"It was that man William. He stabbed the Leftenant. He doesn't know any more."

"William? Who the hell is William?" Huey glanced towards the stunned, red-stained Mountie, his brow furrowed.

"Long story. Not important. Did they catch him?"

"I didn't ask. I'm afraid he's a little upset."

"Excuse me?"

They wheeled towards the nurse.

She blinked under the sudden attention, then pointed. "Doctor Anderson."

They spun as a group towards the man striding in, and Ray was by the white-coated doctor in a flash. "Harding Welsh. How is he?"

If the doctor was surprised at the group, he didn't show it. "You work for him?"

"Yes! How is he?"

Anderson smiled. "You must be Detective Vecchio. He warned me about you."

"Listen, you...he warned you? You mean--"

"Your Lieutenant is going to be fine. We had to do a little repair work, but the ambulance got there fast enough that he didn't lose too much blood. He'll have to stay here for a few days to give his body a chance to heal, but he'll be back at work next week."

Ray beamed, his animosity gone. "That's great! Thanks, doc."

"Can we see him?" Fraser asked beside him.

"For a few minutes. He should still be awake."

"Great!" Ray started down the hall.

Fraser shook his head slightly at his impatient lover. "What room, please, doctor?"

"827."

Fraser nodded his thanks and turned, going to the side of his fellow Mountie. "Renfield?"

Dazed blue eyes found his slowly. "Constable Fraser."

"Renfield, the doctor is out here. He says the Leftenant is going to be fine."

Uncomprehending, Ren blinked. "What?"

"He's going to be fine. He's awake now, if you'd like to see him."

Ren darted to his feet so fast it surprised Fraser. "Where?"

"Room 827. I'll hold the detectives away for a few minutes, but I can't promise much."

Ren nodded his understanding. "Thank you," he said sincerely before darting down the hall.

Ray was back a minute later. "Okay, I give. Which room is he in?"

Fraser took his arm, leading him to where Huey and Dewey stood frowning. "We'll go see him in a minute."

"A minute? Frase--"

Fraser tugged his arm sharply, nodding over to the waiting area chairs.

Ray glanced over, and saw the empty spot Turnbull had been occupying. "Oh. Yeah. Okay."

Huey and Dewey glanced at each other, wondering if Fraser and Ray thought they were completely blind. "Okay, we'll give the lovebirds a minute, but that's it."

Ray and Fraser blinked over at them, and Dewey grinned and shook his head. "Subtle as a neon sign."

Ren burst into the room, insanely half-convinced Harding wouldn't be there.

But he was. He looked up with a smile. He was pale, but his eyes were clear. "There you are. I was worried."

"About me?" Ren laughed in relief, approaching him quickly. "My God! I thought..."

"It's okay. I told ya I was all right."

"Yes, you did." Ren dropped down on the side of the bed, his grin fading. "Harding. I'm sorry."

"About what?" Harding's eyes were shining. "You fought him. You managed to take him on, and from what I saw you did a pretty damned good job."

"But...he...if I had done it sooner..."

"I see you and Fraser have a lot more in common than I thought. Thinking everything that happens revolves around you." Harding shook his head slightly. "Wasn't your fault, Ren. I should have seen it coming. I shouldn't have turned my eyes away from the bastard. He in jail?"

"I assume. I turned him over to the first officers on the scene."

"Would you smile, for Christ's sake? God, I'm proud of you." Harding grinned, but as Turnbull remained solemn, the smile faded. "Look, Ren...I'm the one that should be sorry."

Ren's brow furrowed. "What in the world are you sorry about?"

A strange look crossed the pale face. "I didn't take care of you. If you hadn't taken him down, he might have hurt you next. I guess I'm not as good at this protection thing as I thought I'd be. Hope you're not disappointed."

Shock crossed his features. "You did stand up for me! You did more than anyone ever has for me. I could never be disappointed in you!" He reached for Harding's hand, a smile finally appearing. "Besides, I don't live with you just to have a permanent bodyguard."

"You don't, huh?" Harding's tone was light, but the emotion didn't reach his eyes.

"Of course not. I...well, I suppose I love you."

A grin appeared instantly. "Damn. You mean that, Ren?"

Ren's smile grew. "Yes, I do. You've made me feel happier than I ever thought I could be, even in the short weeks we've been together."

"Yeah." Harding met his eyes happily. "Same here. I guess I love you, too, huh?"

Ren's eyes glowed.

There was a knock on the door, interrupting them. A spiked blond head of hair appeared. "You decent?"

Ren blushed, and Harding laughed faintly. "Come on in, detective."

Ray appeared fully, his eyes locked onto his boss's face. "You okay, Lieu?"

"Me? Shit, it'll take a hell of a lot more than some bruiser with an ego trip to bring me down."

Ray beamed, and the door behind him opened to allow Fraser, followed quickly by Huey, Dewey, and a newly arrived Frannie Vecchio.

Harding took in the crowd in surprise. "Uh."

"Hiya, Harding. You kinda scared us." Frannie went right up to her boss and punched him on the shoulder lightly. "How you feeling?"

"I'm good. Doc says I'll be back at the station in a week."

"A whole week?" Frannie's eyes lit up. "You know, I think, having worked so closely with you the last few months, I've got a real good handle on how you do things. You want me to be in charge while you're recovering, sir?"

A muffled noise made her turn, and they saw Ray's automatic response to that being muffled by a quick-moving Fraser's hand.

She glared at her 'brother'. "I think I could do a good job. What do you think, sir?"

Harding grinned. "You know, if it was up to me, I'd say yes in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, we got rules about this kind of thing. I'm sure they'll send a nice, understanding Captain to baby sit you guys for the next week."

"Oh shit! You can't do this to us, Lieu! With our luck they'd send us someone who, like, enforces the rules! We need you, sir."

Welsh's eyebrows flew up. "You know, Vecchio, I think this is just what you guys need. A real hard-case substitute who'll make you realize how much you take me for granted. Actually, I have some vacation time coming, maybe I should go ahead and take that now, while I'm recuperating. A week in the hospital, two more on a beach somewhere..." He grinned, resting his head on the pillow. "Sounds like heaven to me."

After spending an hour insuring himself that Welsh was kidding, Ray finally let Fraser drag him out of the hospital and back home.

They went in to the apartment, and Ray flopped down on the sofa, exhausted by all the energy he'd been expelling all night. "What a frigging day."

"It was tiring, I admit." Fraser moved to the kitchen area. "Would you like some tea, Ray?"

Ray grinned at the empty air around him, raising his voice. "Fraser, in all the time we known each other, you've asked me that question at least twice a week. Every single time, I tell you I hate tea. You think I'm lying? You think I'm trying to psyche you out? Get it straight, Mr. Intelligent Canadian: I hate tea. I will never, ever want tea. There isn't enough sugar in the world to improve the taste of tea." He folded his arms behind his head. "I'll take some coffee."

Fraser stuck his head out. "You're out of coffee. I put that on the list, but as usual you seem to have left the list at home when you went to--"

"Yeah yeah." Ray frowned. "No coffee. Great."

Fraser came out a minute later bearing two steaming mugs. "Here you are, Ray."

"What is it?"

"Tea."

"Oh. Thanks." Ray took it and swallowed half the mug in one swallow. "So, Fraser, you think Huey and Dewey know about us, too?"

"I haven't really thought about it. Would it matter to you? They seemed to accept Turnbull and the Leftenant easily enough."

"Yeah. You know, it's kinda strange that they were together when they came in. Their shift ends same time as mine."

"Maybe they were putting in overtime."

"But they aren't really working on anything big right now." Ray grinned, sitting up and turning to Fraser. "You think maybe..."

Fraser looked at him in disapproval. "Really, Ray, have you got nothing better to do than speculate on the sex lives of your fellow officers?"

"Frase! You just said sex! I'm so proud! But still, I think it could be. Ya know, they say cops get closer to their partners than they do to their wives. And it ain't like Tom or Jack got any lady friends on the side. Wouldn't that be funny? What's the chance, in a city big as Chicago, there'd be four of us cops stationed together, all raging fairies?"

Fraser allowed a smile at that. "I won't continue with his line of conversation. Although I will say one thing: I know you and Leftenant Welsh well. I'd like to count Detectives Huey and Dewey as my friends. And whether they are homosexual or not, one thing none of you are, are fairies."

Ray laughed. "Ya got a point there. It would kinda hurt with that whole intimidating-cop-voice-of-authority thing." He got up suddenly, setting his cup on the coffee table. "How bout it, Frase? You think I'm intimidating?"

Fraser's eyebrows rose, and he smiled. "At times."

"Oh? Is that a challenge?" Ray pulled out his handcuffs and twirled them around his hand.

Fraser's smile grew as Ray approached.

Ren sat up for a long time that night, looking down at the body on the small hospital bed fondly. Love. He did love this man, as surprising as it was. And Harding loved him back.

This wouldn't be the kind of love he had known before. Harding may well be a temperamental man, but Ren absolutely trusted that the older man would never raise a hand to hurt him.

Things would be so much better now. He surprised himself with how easy that knowledge was accepted. It would be strange -- Ren had never known the kind of love he had seen from the American officer, and it would be...well, it would be wonderful finding out what that kind of love was like.

He would still need time, he knew. There were times when a stranger brushing against him on the street brought William's face leering into his mind. But Harding would be as patient as he needed. That was another thing he was sure of.

One thing William had taught him, that he had taken as true for a long time, was that what they said was true -- there was a thin line between love and hate. For William, that line had been practically nonexistent.

But Harding gave him another truth: any love that led to that kind of hate, it wasn't love. Maybe lust, maybe possession, but not love. Love was what he had now, with this older, gruff, American police officer.

Strange thing, that.

Ren sat back, feeling sleep coming on him slowly. He found himself reflecting on Ray and Fraser. Quite a pair. He would have to remember to thank them. They had been good friends during the last few weeks, in spite of his attempts to keep them at a distance.

Thinking of the two men as he fell asleep, Ren had a smile on his face when he drifted off, thanks to one realization:

For the first time in months, Ren had thought of Ray and Fraser, and hadn't felt even the slightest twinge of jealousy for what they had.

"Hey, where's my twenty bucks?"

"What?"

"Twenty bucks, man."

"For what imagined reason do I owe you twenty bucks?"

"Hospital. Earlier. Remember? I seem to recall someone telling a certain someone else, 'If Harding Welsh is grinning like that over a man, I'll buy you lunch for a week.' Considering how cheap you are, I figure twenty bucks would cover it."

"Shit."

"Uh huh. Sucker bet, I told you. If you had half a brain like certain partners of yours, you would have--"

"Hey, you're right, okay?"

"You admit it?"

"Yes. You're absolutely right. You do have half a brain."

"Screw you, Jack."

"Your place or mine?"

"Uh. I think all my sheets are dirty. Better take it to yours."

"No problem. But I think you should start paying me rent, as much as you sleep over."

"Rent?"

"Sure. Twenty bucks should cover it."

"Give me a break. Cough the money up, you cheap bastard."

"Bitch."

"Fairy."

"You are so lucky I love you, Tom."

The End