Freaks & Geeks (To Say Nothing of the Goat) by Stars

You can never do a tango with an Eskimo

No, no, no - oh dear no
If you do, you'll get the breeze up

And you'll end up with a freeze up

You must never do a tango with an Eskimo

Harding Welsh certainly never expected to set foot in the Canadian consulate again, especially once Constable Fraser had returned to the great white north.  He isn't entirely certain why he's come.

Scratch that - he knows exactly why he's standing on Canada's doorstep, giving the stink-eye to some baby-faced Mountie he doesn't recognize.  His bullpen is up to its eyeballs in circus freaks (performers, he can hear Frannie Vecchio's voice in his head, you can only call them freaks if they're part of the sideshow) and between Dewey hitting on the bearded lady and Kowalski threatening to kick thirteen clowns in the head, an invitation to tea hand-delivered from the Consulate General Du Canada provided a welcome alternative.  He'll get a few hours away from the chaos, hopefully Frannie and Jack Huey will rein in Kowalski and Dewey, and any violation of civil rights or a sexual harassment suit will be averted.  Best of all, with a bit of luck, by the time Welsh gets back all of the miscreants will have been charged and processed and shifted out of his department. 

The irony of such thoughts as he knocks wood - beefy knuckles drumming a tattoo against solid mahogany - pleases him.

Turnbull nearly bounces with glee as he fervently welcomes Welsh to Canada, first in English and then French.  He eyes the junior Mountie on sentry duty with a dour eye before closing the door firmly and ushering Welsh into the sitting room.  "The Inspector will be with you in just a moment, Lieutenant, and then I'll bring in the refreshments.  Would you prefer tea, or coffee?" 

Welsh is momentarily startled by the offer of coffee; tea had nearly always been Constable Fraser's drink of choice.  Harding just can't picture the cop-house black sludge he's accustomed to being served in the fine porcelain he knows Turnbull keeps for the Queen's service.  "Uh, thank you, Constable.  I'll take coffee, if it's strong and black." 

Turnbull's eyes bulge slightly, and Welsh won't swear to it but it sure as hell sounds like someone giggles, and then Turnbull nods and scampers off to the kitchen as only an unusually tall and gawky, accident-prone Mountie can.

"Ah, Lieutenant Welsh.  Bienvenue au Canada - I'm so pleased you could visit."  The new Inspector welcomes him warmly, pumping a vigorous handshake.  Leftenant.  Welsh remembers that Fraser pronounced it exactly the same way. 

The Inspector is small and rotund with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, his exuberance a stark contrast to Fraser's stoically polite reserve.  "I'm John Major."  He solicitously indicates an armchair for Welsh's use, hovering nearby until he is seated.     

Welsh shifts his bulk more comfortably in the overstuffed chair.    "Uh, likewise.  Pleased to meet you."  He's still not entirely sure why he's in Canada; more specifically, why he received a phone call from the commissioner's office strongly suggesting he accept the invitation.  "So... What can I do for you, Inspector Major?" 

Major beams.  "Oh, it is I who am at your disposal, Lieutenant."  There is a clatter of crockery in the hall; Major falls silent, laying a finger alongside his nose with great significance.   

When February rolls around I'll roll my eyes

Turn a cold shoulder to these even colder skies
And by the fire, my heart, it heaves a sigh

For the green grass waiting on the other side

Benton isn't cowardly.  Dief knows this; there's not much that either of them fears.  Oh, Dief has a healthy respect for wolverines, and crackling thin ice, but he's not afraid of them.  He knows Benton is the same; otherwise, he wouldn't be alpha.   

Wolves are by nature territorial.  Benton's territory is vast, sprawling for a pack of their size; never-ending expanses of snow and ice and follow-the-caribou-herds tundra.  Together, they have traversed it from one end to very nearly the other, in all seasons and weather.  The land is familiar and comforting and home. 

But Dief is no longer a pup, and neither is Benton.  They've been a long time away from the home of their youth.  They've made a place for themselves in another territory, one that is hard as stone and merciless as ice, but also as fragrant as woodlands, as colorful as an alpine meadow and just as full of life.  They work just as hard there, face as many hazards.  Some dangers are of a different kind, but most are the same, because man has always been his own most brutal predator. 

Dief feels at ease, at home in both places.  For every sneakily snapped-up Chicago style hot dog, there follows a foot chase through the streets as harrowing as the pursuit of a wounded sow bear with cubs; every stealthily stolen slice of pepperoni pizza comes with a never-ending stakeout filled with boredom as tedious as waiting for a three-day blizzard to blow over. 

Wherever he goes, Dief has companionship, independence and excitement.  If he lacks a pack-mate, a lupine bitch of his own - well.  He isn't the pack leader, to shoulder those responsibilities. 

Benton is.  Benton should.   

It has been many months now, cycle after cycle of the moon, since they last saw the pack-Rays, smooth-Ray and spiky-Ray, or soft-Frannie, or grumpy-Welsh.  They have walked and walked their territory, staying a short time here, a longer time there in village after town, sleeping rough or in barracks; once Dief had to impress upon a not-pack subordinate that a wool blanket on the floor was not acceptable for a decorated wolf of his service.  (Blame for resulting fracas could hardly be set at his paws, even if a cherished feather pillow had been not-so-accidentally rent asunder; but they'd moved on once again the very next morning.) 

The endless wearisome journeying has taken its toll.  Benton is different, now.  Once he might have sung as they traveled along, companionably bumping knee-against-shoulder, wool against fur.  A swipe of Dief's wet tongue on Benton's hand might have earned a brief rub, a lick to the chin or forehead rewarded with a rough scratch behind his ears.  Dief remembers when such tactics could incite a wrestling match, when a flush-cheeked Benton would tease and chase Dief, who would bark and yip and dodge in return. 

Now Benton remains largely silent, distracted and turned inward, caught up in thoughts he will not share.  With each hour, day, month that passes, Benton grows increasingly quiet.  He volunteers little in the way of conversation - not even to criticize Dief's diet or grooming habits - and responds stiffly to the various superior officers to whom he reports.  Dief mutters his own comments, which he knows Benton can hear because the tips of his ears turn red; but even his most provocative snark cannot provoke Benton to speak about anything of consequence. 

I've been watching your world from afar

I've been trying to be where you are
And I've been secretly falling apart, unseen

Lately, Fraser wonders if he is one of those people who is destined to always remain unsatisfied.  He can't explain himself - his thoughts, his actions, his lack of action - any other way. 

He'd felt it acutely when he had been banished to Chicago for having the temerity to pursue his father's killers, to track them and capture them and demand they be brought to justice.  For exposing corruption within the RCMP, collusion at the highest levels, to the unsavory eye of the general public instead of allowing high command to clean up after itself; for denying them the chance to whitewash over his father's spilled blood. 

Benton Fraser loves his homeland - the place of his birth and his ancestors, the wild and untamed beauty of its natural world - with more than just his heart.  He is devoted to it with every fiber of his being.  He should be overjoyed to return to it, honor and dignity restored with a hero's welcome, a prodigal son's homecoming... and for a little while, for a few minutes or perhaps even the span of a few hours, he had been.  He stood in the snow and tasted the wind, listened to the icy whisper of snowflakes as they fell through the air, back where he'd longed to be for months, years.

But. 

Everything had happened so fast.  Just as Gerard's bullet snuffed out his father's life in an instant, as Muldoon's shotgun blast had cut down his mother, Fraser's life was turned topsy-turvy, upside down and spun around for good measure.  Ray Vecchio, his dear partner and friend - restored to him, then critically wounded before his eyes.  His mother; god, his mother!  He'd seen her ghost, felt the fleeting cold touch of her fingers on his cheek, and then she had simply faded.  His father by her side, gone too.  Nothing's permanent, son.

Ray Kowalski, quirky and loyal; Ray who survived free-fall from an airplane, who persevered through blizzard and hypothermia and falling into an ice crevasse, because Fraser had asked it of him.  Because Fraser had needed him.   

Are we still partners? 

If you'll have me. 

Everything had happened so fast. 

Sometimes, in a dream or when he first wakes up, or when he sees someone else who reminds him, Fraser recalls Ray's exuberant grin, his amiable  we're in this undercover thing together, gimme a chance here, okay?  hug.  His genuinely friendly pat on Fraser's back; the facade Ray put on for Fraser and the world to safeguard Ray Vecchio's life.  Fraser knew what could be found under the surface:  self-doubt and heartache, the awkward uncertainty and painful self-consciousness that were part and parcel of the real Ray.

Ray Kowalski, his partner, who had trusted Fraser enough to show his true face, to share a true friendship.  Ray hadn't been taken away - no.  Fraser had abandoned him, had walked away with Buck Frobisher's hand weighing heavy on his shoulder and Inspector Thatcher chattering excitedly at his elbow, leaving Ray behind to return to Chicago alone.         

The book of love is long and boring

No one can lift the damn thing

It's full of charts and facts and figures

And instructions for dancing

It's not Chicago's fault that Ray's been a grouchy bastard for the past year and a half.  Chicago isn't so bad, even if it has a lot less Fraser in it.  All the things Ray loves about Chicago are still the same - hockey, hot dogs, pizza; belugas at the Shedd Aquarium and polar bears at the Lincoln Park Zoo - but all of those things suck without Fraser. 

On the nights that Ray lies awake in his bed, he listens to the hustle-bustle of city noises that never go away, never die down into the silent frozen calm of an arctic winter's night.  Light pollution seeps through the window blinds, unnatural illumination that blocks any glimpse of millions of stars glowing in a fathomless black sky.   

Chicago used to suit him.  It's a busy city, always something happening, and Ray's a busy guy.  When he's not chasing down perps or shredding his paperwork or hanging at the gym, he mutters and fidgets, bounces his knee and chews on a toothpick.  He's always been that way, even as a kid.  It's just the way he is - never, ever still.

Except. 

Up there, in Fraser's northern areas - he hadn't had a choice, sometimes.  He was either strapped in a dogsled or strapped to Fraser's back or cocooned against some mountain, or pinned in an ice crevasse, or so bone-weary it was all he could do not to fall asleep on his feet.  It came down to the choice of be still or be dead, and Ray'd been kind of hoping he had a lot more living to do, so.

He hadn't realized until later that he'd just assumed he'd be living a life with Fraser in it.  Ray never did losing well (proof: Stella), and going cold turkey with his Fraser habit hurt worse than being shot that first day they'd met. 

So he can't help it if he's always in a bad mood.  Like a bear with a toothache Frannie says, which makes no sense to Ray but it's Frannie so that's hardly surprising.  He mostly ignores her, because if he lets her get to him he'll yell and she'll cry and not only will he feel guilty, and be subjected to big brown hurt puppy-dog eyes, but Welsh will haul him into his office and lecture him until Ray's brains leak out of his ears, and that's still nowhere near the reaming he'll get from Ma Vecchio when she finds out.

Some days, though, he just can't win.  Like today, when he's got a troupe of maybe-murderous clowns to contend with, one of whom kicked him in the shins (she couldn't reach any higher, fortunately for him).  Dewey's hit it off with the bearded lady and mockingly offers to see if she's got a sister for Ray to date; then Welsh comes back from some confab at the Canadian consulate and suddenly saddles Ray with a brand-new partner. 

"Aww, Lieu, come on.  Why me?"

"You worked with Constable Fraser for two years.  That makes you our resident expert in US-Canadian relations."  Welsh leans back in his desk chair, which creaks and groans ominously.  "And, need I remind you, there was the incident with the clown car." 

Ray flings himself down on Welsh's shabby sofa and throws his hands up in disbelief.  "I was moving it!  It was double-parked!" 

"You confiscated it.  And then took it for a joyride." 

"It's potential evidence in my murder investigation!  How else was I supposed to get it to the impound yard?" 

Welsh waves a disinterested hand.  "Take the rest of the afternoon - you have to get to the airport.  The new Canadian liaison arrives at four." 

Ray shoves himself up, fuming.  He doesn't quite dare kick Welsh's sofa, but he wants to.  "What if I say no?  What if... What if I wanna go back to undercover?"  He glares at Welsh defiantly.  

"I'd say you're out of luck, Detective.  This comes down from the Commissioner's office."  

***

Ray's stomping his way out of the bullpen, scowling so hard his hair hurts, when Jack Huey blocks his path.  "Kowalski, your witness from the circus murders is here." 

He shoves a leather strap into Ray's hand, shakes his head regretfully, and wisely heads for cover. 

"What the fuck... !?!?"

The book of love has music in it

In fact, that's where music comes from

Some of it is just transcendental

Some of it is just really dumb, but

I... I love it when you sing to me, and

You... you can sing me anything

"What the fuck," Ray says again, staring in jaw-dropping disbelief at his new RCMP partner, who stands patiently waiting by the curb with a sizable duffle bag at his feet.  Has to be him.  Tall, broad shoulders, stop-sign-red uniform jacket, goofy pants, boots and Stetson - everything about him screams Canadian.  Screams politely, of course.

"Hello, Ray," Fraser says. 

"Jesus.  Fraser," Ray says shakily.  "What're you doing here?"      

"I've been assigned to the consulate as Canadian-American liaison for matters pertaining to law enforcement."  Fraser smiles hesitantly.  "It's - it's very good to see you again, Ray."    

"Yeah.  Likewise, I mean.  Wow."  Ray chokes out a little laugh.  "I gotta say, outta all the Mounties in all the airports in Chicago, I did not expect you."  Not that he's gonna second-guess his luck.  Nope, no way is Ray gonna ask what crazy stunt Fraser pulled, why Canada kicked her hero to the curb again - because it really doesn't matter why Fraser's here.  The only thing that matters is that Fraser is here.   

Fraser's brow furrows slightly.  "Well, Ray, I shouldn't think there would be very many..." 

"Yeah, you can tell me all about the mathematical whatsis in a minute," Ray promises, grabbing Fraser's arm and practically dragging him over to the GTO.  "Get in the car and we'll go pick up Dief." 

He pauses, hauling Fraser up short.  "You did bring Dief, right?  Everything's okay with fur face?"

"He's here, and he's fine," Fraser assures him, peering in the passenger side window.  "Ray, there's a goat in your backseat." 

"I know," Ray says, throwing Fraser's duffle in the trunk before jumping in the car and sliding over to pop the lock on Fraser's side. 

Fraser buckles his seatbelt places his Stetson on the dashboard, then looks over his shoulder thoughtfully.  "May I inquire why you have what appears to be a white Angora goat in your backseat, Ray?" 

"Part of a circus sideshow," Ray says, pulling out into traffic.  "Horny the wonder goat back there's a murder witness."  Wait for it...    

"I see."  One, two, three - and there it is, Fraser rubs at his eyebrow.  "I take it we have a case, then." 

Ray grins fiercely.  "You know it." 

***

After some growling and head-butting, Dief and the goat come to a mutually agreeable division of backseat territory.  Ray drives them all home to his apartment, because there is no way he's letting Fraser even think about living in the consulate again.  Welsh told him about the new Inspector's evil cat and Dief doesn't need that grief.    

Ray ties the goat up in the kitchen with some carrots to nibble, calls Tony and orders a large pizza with pineapple and a small meat lover's combo.  Fraser pretends not to see him wink at Dief. 

Fraser greets Turtle, sets up his bedroll in the least-used corner of Ray's apartment, hangs his spare uniform on the empty side of Ray's closet, and goes into the kitchen to brew a pot of tea while they wait for the pizza to arrive.  They eat on the sofa, watch the Hawks spank the Leafs in a shutout, and turn in at a reasonable hour.    

Ray lies awake in his bed.  He can hear Dief's rumbling snores, the restless pawing of goat-feet on linoleum and a quiet meh-eh-eh.  Fraser shushes the goat and starts to sing softly. 

To seek a Northwest Passage at the call of many men

To find there but the road back home again.

The wind would calm and the sun would shine

I'd go outside and I'd squint my eyes
But for now I will simply just withdraw

Sit here and wish for this world to thaw

Turtle lounges in his glass-walled terrarium as the Human - who he's pragmatically dubbed FB, for 'food-bringer' - stomps back and forth, muttering.  FB paces too quickly and irregularly for Turtle to follow; it is December, after all, and though Turtle's heat rock radiates comforting warmth, he's always indulged any inclinations toward sloth.  No need to crane his neck back and forth and around again when he can just settle on his rock in a lazy sprawl, getting in a good look each time FB passes by.

FB is Turtle's favorite Human.  They've been together a long time now, and even with the memory of his species, Turtle can barely remember his previous homes.  But there is a thickened spot on his carapace where he'd once landed hard on his back (dropped by rough, careless hands) and he'd been sickening from an improper diet when FB first came along.  FB had been much smaller then; just a boy, and jumpy enough to make Turtle flinch in anticipation of more clumsy handling.  But his little fingers had held Turtle carefully, securely, and he'd tucked Turtle safely into his shirt pocket for the bumpy bike ride home. 

FB always seems to know when Turtle craves the gushy creaminess of a wriggly worm, or crickets to snap-crunch-and-chew, or a satisfying bite of hard-boiled egg, or a refreshing nibble of watermelon.  Turtle's water is always fresh and clean, the temperature of his swim-water just right.  When cold weather comes, he can climb his rock or doze under the heat lamp in one corner of his terrarium; when the days and nights warm up, cool air blows over his bedding and through his hollow log, rustling the plants overhead.

FB takes meticulous care of Turtle, and now his companion, Red-Shirt (Turtle hasn't quite decided a suitable name for him just yet; he is interesting and requires further study) has begun looking after Turtle as well.  Just little things - putting down fresh moss, changing Turtle's water or dropping a slice of strawberry into his dish; but in all the years FB's mate had lived with them, she'd never done any of it.  Turtle thinks this sharing-of-himself might be significant, but there's no reason to rush to judgment.

"Do you think he looks a bit peaked, Ray?" drifts down through the mesh tank-cover one winter evening as Turtle contemplates rousing himself enough to lumber over and check out the contents of his food bowl.  Maybe... maybe not.  Maybe he'll  *yyyaaawwwnnn*  and nap a little longer.

Red-Shirt has a melodic voice, low and rumbly, deeper than FB's but it sounds just as concerned as they huddle next to the glass and discuss Turtle's condition, whether he might prefer to partially hibernate (he would, if it means they leave him to sleep in peace) or if subtle adjustments to his living arrangements and diet might promote increased activity (unlikely, unless they find him a suitable partner of the female persuasion, or let him loose to wreak vengeance on the wolf for intercepting a baby carrot that had clearly been meant for Turtle, three weeks prior). 

Turtle is touched by the degree of affection-by-proxy that Red-Shirt displays, not only for the tidbits of gastronomic delight that have graced his breakfast and supper since Red-Shirt came to stay with them, but because FB's steadfast devotion deserves to be repaid in kind, by his own kind.  Red-Shirt shows a promising propensity to look after FB in that manner, if FB will allow it.  Turtle thinks FB might.

With another yawn - significantly more disgruntled - Turtle reflects that if the pair of them don't wake up and start to read the body language, he might have to declare a temporary truce with the wolf and set the Humans on the proper path himself.

Later.  Once FB stops pacing and muttering and dragging his hands through his hair.  Much later - after Turtle's nap.   

"I can't believe it.  The goat, the knife-thrower guy actually used Horny the wonder goat -"

"Skippy the unicorn goat, Ray." 

"Horny, Skippy, Dopey, Sneezy - I don't care what you call the goat, Fraser, you cannot seriously be telling me that the goat is a murder witness and the murder weapon."     

"But that's exactly what I am telling you, Ray.  Mort confirmed that the residue on Skippy's horn was adhesive, most likely from duct tape.  The groove worn in his horn matches the handle of a blade belonging to Fergus the Knife-Thrower, and it was coated with a similar residue.  Fergus believed that his co-star was, hmm, seeing the ringmaster behind his back, shall we say.  So there is a clear motive.  And Fergus was well aware of Skippy's goatish tendencies." 

"He trained it to head-butt people on command, and then he duct-taped a knife to its horn and ambushed his ex-girlfriend with an assassin goat." 

"It would appear so, Ray." 

"You're gonna be the one who tells Welsh."

"Understood." 

The mountains said I could find you here

They whispered the snow and the leaves in my ear

I traced my finger along your trails

Your body was a map; I was lost in it

Floating over your rocky spine

The glaciers made you, and now you're mine

Ray pounces on Fraser as soon as the door closes.  Actually, Ray pounces on Fraser, shoves him up against the door and that's why it closes.  "Been waiting for this all day," Ray whispers hotly, lips on Fraser's neck as his fingers busily unbuckle, unsnap, unlace. 

Dief grumbles and heads for the fire escape.  Skippy the goat, the newest addition to their odd pack, wanders over to Turtle's tank in (vain) hope of an overlooked scrap of melon or lettuce.  Ray pushes Fraser in the direction of the bedroom, gropes Fraser's ass and nearly trips himself kicking off his boots.

Fraser strips out of his jacket and henley, falls back onto the quilt and braces one foot on Ray's thigh.  He licks his lips, gets them glossy and red while Ray feverishly works the laces loose enough to pull off each boot, one at a time. 

"You're lucky I'm such a patient guy, Fraser," Ray says, husky-voiced because he's turned on beyond belief.  "One of these days I might just fuck you with your boots on." 

Fraser's eyes glaze over and he groans faintly. 

"Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?"  Ray continues casually, as if he isn't iron-hard in his jeans and shaking with the urge to rip off Fraser's pants. 

Fraser stares right into his eyes.  "I'd like anything you do to me, Ray." 

Boots thunk to the floor.  "Get naked," Ray demands, pulling his shirt hastily over his head and kicking off his jeans to follow suit.     

Then Fraser is naked, gloriously naked, stretched the length of Ray's bed all hard and flushed and needy.  His cock - a gorgeous, beautiful cock that Ray's come to know and deeply appreciate, a cock for which Ray harbors vast amounts of affection - twitches against his belly, leaking a little at the tip.  Ray leans over and licks the thin sticky thread of come, sets his hands on Fraser's hips and presses him firmly into the mattress. 

Fraser gasps as Ray's mouth engulfs him.  His hands clench and unclench in the sheets; his low, fervent moans thank Ray and encourage Ray, beg him to continue the mind-blowing pleasure.  "Love you, Ray," Fraser pants, untangling one hand to brush the spikes of Ray's hair.  "Love you, love this, love it..." 

Ray gently strokes Fraser's hip with the tip of a finger.  He sucks Fraser hard, and soft, licks up the underside of his cock and swirls his tongue around the fat rosy cockhead until Fraser's toes curl.  He's close to coming, and Ray can't see straight anymore.

"Roll over," he whispers throatily, mouthing a kiss near Fraser's belly button.  Fraser turns over and pushes up to his knees, ass in the air, shoulders braced against the mattress and face half-buried in his pillow.  He whimpers when Ray smears his hole with lube, bites back little cries as Ray's fingers brush the sensitive skin in relentless circles.  Ray growls under his breath, nips at Fraser's asscheek and watches the pucker spasm in reflex. 

"Please, Ray," Fraser urges; he wants Ray to rim him but Ray won't last.  Later. 

"Too close," Ray says regretfully, holding himself tightly as he rolls the condom on.  "You need more?" 

"Just you," Fraser demands.  "Now, Ray, now, please, now..."

Ray pushes, Fraser stills and pushes back - a moment when the physics of sex hangs suspended.  Then Ray's cock slips through and in and Fraser exhales in a long, keening whine as their bodies adjust.  Ray reaches around and strokes Fraser's neglected cock, slowly rocking his hips to match the rhythm set by his hand. 

After they've come, and lie beside each other recovering their breath, Ray marvels again how they've created this amazing thing with each other, formed this unlikely partnership - on the job, as friends, now lovers - when for awhile it looked as if he and Fraser might never see each other again.  Eighteen months alone had been enough for both of them; after that, the cautious redux of Do you find me attractive...? proved to be a snap.   

Fraser rolls into Ray's side, sated and sleepy.  Ray runs gentle fingers through his hair.  "Hey, I think I found a place for us to look at." 

"Mmm?" 

Ray pokes Fraser in the ribs.  "Don't fall asleep on me.  How do you feel about living in Poland?"

Fraser opens one blue eye to blink in confusion.  "Did you say Poland, Ray?" 

Ray yawns.  "Uh huh.  Who knew Poland's got a consulate in Chicago?  It's not very big, and it's kinda old-fashioned, but it's on Lake Shore and they're renting out the whole fourth floor.  It's got a separate entrance and everything." 

"How do they feel about wolves and goats and turtles?" 

"No problem," Ray says, untangling the quilt from under their feet and pulling it up to cover them both.  "Old guy in charge there, his name is Josef, he says Skippy'd be a natural lawnmower.  Help save on gardening expenses."

"Better for the environment, as well." 

"Yup," Ray agrees around another jaw-cracking yawn.  "So we should go check it out." 

Fraser hums an affirmative, preoccupied for a moment by the logistics of paperwork that would be necessitated by a member of the RCMP living in Poland while working in the United States... and then he yawns himself, kisses Ray sleepily, and closes his eyes. 

***

Lyric credits: 

Never Do a Tango With an Eskimo, Alma Cogan

In Like a Lion (Always Winter), Relient K

Strange and Beautiful, Aqualung

The Book of Love, The Magnetic Fields

Northwest Passage, Stan Rogers

Your Rocky Spine, Great Lake Swimmers