***
As soon as the door shut between Escher and the two of them, Kowalski broke into a victory dance, pumping his fist and ... well, the word 'shimmying' seemed to fit. Ray grinned at him and leaned back against the wall to give him space. Because, yeah, they had Escher sewn up and that was worth celebrating. They just needed to pick up his buddies to tie off the loose ends, and the case would be ready for the DA. Frannie tried to slip past them, rolling her eyes at Kowalski's antics. Kowalski snagged one of her hands to dance her around the narrow hall. No sooner had he reeled her in than he turned from vaguely ridiculous to ... not ridiculous at all. Graceful. Poised, maybe.
The grin slipped just as Kowalski turned back around to face him. Whatever expression was left in its wake made Kowalski pause, just enough for Frannie to tug free. She smacked Kowalski lightly on the arm.
"Some of us are working
here," she informed him pertly.
Kowalski was still looking at Ray. Ray looked away first.
The next morning, before they'd even said hello, Kowalski announced, "We need to talk to McDonald again."
McDonald? 'Again' implied they'd talked to him already, so Ray racked his brain for any McDonald they'd talked to once. "You mean McDougall?"
"Yeah, whatever, the farmer in the Geertz case. We got to talk to him"
"Okay, why?"
"It's the wrong season for sheep shearing."
Ray
stared at him for a long minute. He'd have sworn that the closest
Kowalski had ever come to a farm was the exhibit in Science and
Industry. Ray hadn't even thought to wonder if sheep shearing had
a season -- he'd figured it was like dog grooming, something you did
when they looked ratty or woolly or whatever. Kowalski put on a
belligerent expression, and Ray decided not to even ask.
***
Ray
knew the time was fast approaching five o'clock. He didn't even need to
check his watch, because his new partner was such an obvious
clockwatcher. Kowalski had been out the door on time almost every day
their first week together, and the one day their investigations
dictated otherwise, he'd disappeared around a corner for a minute, cell
phone to his ear.
Ray would almost think that Kowalski had
someone waiting at home, except his mood turned sour around four
o'clock. Quick(er) to anger and subject to slumps -- not the attitude
of a man looking forward to getting home. It was a mystery.
Good thing he was a detective.
"Hey, Kowalski," he said, careful not to appear to be paying any attention. "Nice catch with the brother-in-law."
"Huh?" Kowalski dragged his attention away from the clock. "Oh, that. Thanks."
"Buy
you a beer?" he offered and glanced up in time to catch Kowalski's
smile. He hadn't seen the full wattage version before -- you could
light up Wrigley on fireworks night with a smile like that. Ray smiled
back even as he realized he was in trouble. He'd always liked a good
smile.
But just as quickly, the smile was gone. "Nah, I can't. I've got this thing."
"This thing have a name?"
"It's not like that."
And
then Kowalski was gone, too, a whole fifteen minutes early. Dief yipped
indignantly and scrambled up from his preferred spot half-under Ray's
desk to chase after. Ray leaned back in his chair until the bearings
creaked and thought about following him.
Then he thought about
Benny. Benny tended to take a direct approach -- if he wanted to know
something, most of the time, he simply asked. Ray was amazed how often
it worked.
Direct. He could do direct.
Or he could detect.
Ray sat back up, and the chair screeched a complaint. It was past time to call Canada.
***
Ray
had put in a long night, but he still made sure to be back at his desk
before his partner in the morning. When Kowalski came in, Dief once
more in tow, Ray followed him to his desk and leaned against the edge.
"So,"
he said in a particular quiet, even tone of voice which had been known
to make people who'd known the Bookman find reasons to leave the room
-- but of course Kowalski wouldn't know that. "Have you heard from
Benny lately?"
To give the man credit, he had a decent poker face. "Yeah, he's good. Still treading paperwork up north. Why?"
"Well, I haven't heard from him in awhile, and I'm getting worried."
Kowalski shrugged. "You know how he gets."
"Yeah,
I know." He leaned down into Kowalski's space, and the hand he laid on
the back of Kowalski's chair cornered him between chair and desk. "But
I also know that the consulate hasn't heard from him either. They think
he's still in Canada." Kowalski shifted, and Ray froze him with a look.
"Frobisher says he came back with you. And I can't find anyone up north
that says different."
Kowalski's eyes went wide.
Ray nodded in grim satisfaction. "You've got one chance to tell me what happened."
Kowalski opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he couldn't choose the words. "There's no way you'll believe me. I
wouldn't believe me." He drummed his fingers against the arm of the
chair for a moment. "Come back to my place, and I'll show you."
Ray raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Right. Is that the last thing Fraser ever heard?"
Kowalski
rolled his eyes in a very put-upon and utterly unthreatened way. Then
he leaned back in his chair and shouted around Ray, "Frannie, tell your
brother I'm not a serial killer!"
"They say it's always the
quiet ones," she replied absently, attention on her computer. Then she
looked over and gave Kowalski a deliberate once over. "So he's probably
okay."
Kowalski made a face at her, then turned an almost
hopeful expression on Ray. "Come on, do you think Dief would stay with
me if I'd hurt Fraser?"
"Depends on how many donuts you have."
Dief growled.
He glanced down. "What, like you wouldn't throw either of us over for a pizza." Dief looked away.
Ray sighed and gave up on intimidating Kowalski. If he was talking to the dog, the mood was broken, and he didn't really
think he'd done anything to Fraser. He was just worried and low on
sleep and maybe still a little too used to dealing with scum. "Fine.
Let's go back to your hovel so you can show me why Fraser's
disappeared."
"Hovel my ass. You're just jealous I don't live at home."
***
Outside
the apartment building, in Ray's car (which was very much not the Riv
he'd left behind when he went to Vegas), Kowalski bounced his leg and
didn't reach for the door handle. "So, it happened out on the Quest."
"The Quest," Ray repeated, deadpan.
"Yeah, searching for Franklin's hand."
"Wait, whose what?" He was utterly lost.
"There's
a song; it's a whole metaphor thing," Kowalski said, waving his own
hands around in lieu of explanation. "Anyway. We're out there, in the
middle of godforsaken snow-where, and Fraser is just... happy, like
I've never seen him. Me, I'm not so happy, but I'm doing all right.
He's teaching me how to set up camp, how to pack the sled and run the
dogs, and I'm slowly becoming better than extra luggage, though still
not as useful as the dogs."
Kowalski opened the door and
half-threw himself out of the car, practically shutting the door on
Dief's tail. Ray followed them into the building, and he started
talking again on the stairs. "Fraser-- he just. He made a mistake. A
small one, except this is Fraser, and -- well, you know his luck. So
because of this tiny mistake, I'm scrambling to set up camp -- tent,
fire, get him dry and warm, and -- " He cut himself off, shaking his
head.
Ray waited, but Kowalski didn't go on. They left the stairwell. "And?"
Kowalski
shook his head as he unlocked the door. Then he actually looked at Ray
and took in the worried expression. "He's fine," he reassured. "He just
scared me." He sighed and opened the door. "Look, I'm telling this
badly. So, uh. Fraser?"
"Ray?" Benny's voice was strong and
sure, and after Kowalski's wind up, an utter relief. Ray sagged against
the door frame. Diefenbaker sidled past. There was a curl of bluish
smoke threading through the apartment, and that was weird. He hadn't
thought Kowalski smoked, though it wouldn't have surprised him much,
but he couldn't imagine Benny putting up with it. Then Benny appeared
out of the smoke, and only the door held Ray on his feet. The smoke
wasn't that thick -- he'd just appeared out of nowhere.
Benny
looked straight at him. "Ray," he said hoarsely, like him seeing Ray
was as much of a shock as Ray seeing him materialize out of thin
air, then shot a rather pissy look at Kowalski.
Kowalski held
his hands up, placating. "I know you didn't want me telling anyone, but
Vecchio's been looking for you, and it was either bring him in or let
him go on thinking you were buried out in the tundra somewhere." Ray
remembered how Pa's ghost sometimes stepped out of nowhere and wondered
if that wasn't exactly what had happened. Just because he could see
Benny, it didn't mean he was here and breathing.
Benny's hand
went to his collar and tugged. Since he seemed to be wearing one of his
raggedy cable knit sweaters, Ray figured it didn't really needed
loosening. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh. I told you people would miss you."
Ray found his voice. "So, you're a ghost now?"
"What?
No!" Kowalski wheeled around. "Jeez, come in and sit down before you
fall down." He shoved Ray into the nearest seat, a soft white sofa, and
knelt beside him. "Take a breath. Frase, the door?"
Ray heard the door shut behind them, but Benny was still standing before them. He shivered.
"Very helpful, thanks," Kowalski shot sarcastically at Benny.
He glared and looked ready to retort, but Ray interrupted. "You didn't answer the question."
His
attention drawn back to Ray, Benny had the grace to look contrite. "My
apologies. No, I'm not a ghost. Though it's interesting you jumped to
that particular --"
"Saw one once." More than once, because Pa
was pushy even in death, but he was not being led astray by the king of
sidetracks. He shrugged it aside. "If you're not a ghost, what's going
on?"
Kowalski answered for him. "Fraser's a genie."
He sighed. "It's pronounced 'djinn,' not genie. And only half."
"Whatever."
Benny visibly changed his mind about rising to Kowalski's dismissive response and turned back to Ray.
"Okay, so you're --"
"Half-djinn."
"But
that doesn't explain --" Ray cut himself off, flashing on time after
time when reality reshaped itself to fit Fraser's expectations. The
loans repaid to him against all logic, the dumpster dives he emerged
from spotless, the honest answers from suspects offered up after little
more than a disappointed look. Ray had always known better. Actually,
it explained a lot.
"And this is new?" he asked instead. Ray was
proud of that; it sounded much better than 'why didn't you tell me' or
worse 'why did you tell him first?'
"Of course not. My mother was djinn, though she chose to live and ultimately die as a human. It's part of who I am."
"Then why are you hiding out in Kowalski's apartment?"
Another
sharp look was sent Kowalski's way. "I'm not 'hiding out' in Ray's
apartment so much as trapped in it." Kowalski flinched, and Fraser
added, "Ray wished me into a bottle."
"I did not."
Kowalski stood, bristling. "You keep saying that, and I did not do
that. Did I say, 'Fraser, my friend, I would like to hold you captive
in a bottle?' No, I did not."
"You were fairly nonspecific,"
Benny agreed. Ray couldn't remember seeing Benny so openly irritated
with anyone but Turnbull. He supposed Kowalski got under everyone's
skin, one way or another. "That probably accounts for the rather
nontraditional canteen."
Kowalski threw his hands up and stalked out of the room.
Ray
frowned. "Back up. You told him you're part-genie --" he ignored
Benny's put-upon sigh "-- and, what, he made a genie in a bottle joke
or ...?"
"Ah, no. Not as such."
"Are you saying he did it on purpose?" Ray couldn't quite make that fit with what he knew of the guy.
"I didn't tell him. Not in so many words."
"Benny, this is exactly the kind of thing you have to say in so many words. It's not something you can imply."
"I
know." He sat -- practically dropped -- into the facing armchair. He
was angled towards Ray, but head down, resting his elbows on his knees.
Ray reached over and briefly clasped his shoulder, solid and the very
opposite of ghostly.
"What changed?"
His head came up,
concern and maybe hurt on his face, and that wasn't what Ray was asking
at all. "I mean, with the genie thing. I know I made wishes around you
before without any dramatic side-effects."
Benny's face took on a
faraway look, and he brushed his hand against his forehead. It was
different from his usual tics of discomfort -- softer, less abrupt. "It
was after we'd-- I'd subdued Muldoon, down in that old mine. I saw my
mother, just for the briefest moment. She touched me, here." He brushed
his hand across his forehead again, a remembered touch. "I felt
something change. I thought -- well, at the time, I thought it was
closure. A purely psychological phenomenon." He smiled, but without
much cheer. "It took Ray accidentally catching me to realize that I was
wrong. That my early memories of my mother and her abilities weren't a
child's confabulations of fairy story and memory, but literal truth.
And that the change I'd felt was my mother undoing whatever she'd used
to contain my powers as a child."
He sighed. "It was an accident, and I'm being unfair to him, I know."
"Then why?"
"Because it's so confining!" The words burst free. "I was home,
out on the ice, surrounded by the sky, and a few careless words later,
I was trapped in that canteen -- which wasn't empty at the time, which
just made it more unpleasant. Ray figured out how to let me out, but
even now I'm bound to it. I can't travel more than 50 meters from it indoors."
"How far outdoors?" Ray asked, curious about the qualification.
"One hundred and six meters."
Ray's eyebrows went up. "That's very specific."
Benny shrugged.
"Apparently,
genie have more rules than Mounties even," Kowalski said, coming back
into the room with a pair of pop bottles and a glass of milk that he
set before Fraser. "Of course, he won't tell you about them in advance."
"Well, as you say there are quite a few. And some are more... arcane than others."
"O-kay. You want to give me an example here?"
"'You
aren't allowed to wish harm on a badger,'" Kowalski said in a voice
that really sounded nothing like Benny. As an impressionist, he made a
good cop.
"Why would you wish harm on a badger?"
Kowalski looked at him. "Why wouldn't you? Those suckers are mean."
Ray
had no response to that, so he drank his pop in silence. It wasn't
entirely uncomfortable, though he wondered if Kowalski and Benny would
agree.
"So!" Benny said in his utterly false hale and hearty
voice. "I suppose you two had better get back to work. Crimes to solve,
people to help..."
Ray blinked. Yeah, it was still morning on a
workday, and they should get back to it before Welsh asked them to
account for their time. He stood up. "Yeah, you're right." He glanced
at Kowalski and back at Fraser. "You could come with -- I mean, if
Kowalski brought your canteen, right?"
Kowalski and Fraser shared a look. "We talked about that, but..."
"If my 'bottle' falls into another person's hands, he or she could gain control over me."
Kowalski shrugged. "Too risky at work."
Ray nodded and rubbed his temples. "Yeah. I don't want to imagine what Frannie might wish for."
Benny looked perturbed. "I'd been thinking more about the criminals."
"Nah, they just want money. Frannie wants it all."
***
Ray
and Kowalski were ensconced in Ray's car, watching Hofstadter's 'completely
on the up-and-up, really' place of business before Ray broached the
topic of Benny's... predicament.
"So, what exactly did you wish?"
Kowalski sighed and sank down in the passenger seat. "I said I wished I could keep him safe."
"And that was it?"
"Yeah."
"That's
stupid." Kowalski glared at him. "Not you -- I mean, this isn't what
you meant, is it? 'Keep safe' doesn't the same thing as 'keep.' And I
take it you can't just unwish him from the bottle."
Kowalski frowned at the guys unloading wooden crates from the back of a small truck. "No. Against the rules."
"Could I? I mean, if I had the bottle- canteen."
Kowalski
shot him a searching look, and it was his turn to look deeply
interested in the proper handling of probably-legal cargo. "Don't know.
We can try to get a straight answer out of Fraser tonight."
We? "Tonight?"
"Yeah,
you're coming over, right?" Kowalski fidgeted in his seat and turned
his attention back to the loading dock. "I mean, now that you know,
there's no reason not to. I could order a pizza. Unless you don't want
to."
"No fish and no fruit," Ray replied before he'd actually decided to accept the invitation.
"No anchovies, pineapple on half."
"Deal."
He stared at the now empty truck. "Do you think they're going to load
it with boxes clearly labeled 'stolen goods' any time soon?"
"No. Do you want to tell Welsh we ended surveillance early?"
"No."
They sighed.
"So how'd you know McDougall was lying about his sheep?"
"Fraser."
"Thought so."
***
Kowalski's
pizza guy met them at the door. Kowalski shoved the box into Ray's arms
while he settled the bill and argued with the guy over whether or not
pineapple ruined a pizza's artistic integrity. Dief met them just
inside the door with a great deal more enthusiasm. Benny took one look
at the box in Ray's hands and shook his head in evident despair. "I'm
beginning to wonder why you have a kitchen, Ray."
"You don't cook?" Ray asked, setting the box down on the counter.
"Too busy," Kowalski muttered.
Benny's
eyebrows drew in, and he looked ready to argue -- for Kowalski's own
good, of course. He stepped into the breach. "I could make dinner
tomorrow."
"You can cook?"
"Yeah." He shrugged. "It's
nothing to write home about, but yeah. I would invite you guys over for
dinner at Ma's, but..." He thought of one of the nephews getting a hold
of his own personal genie, and shuddered.
Benny and Kowalski looked equally disturbed.
"Plates?" he asked, and Kowalski shook it off.
Over
dinner, they discussed their current cases and told stories about past
ones. Ray and Benny were passing a convoluted story back and forth
between themselves, but Kowalski seemed to be having fun anyway. He had
to have heard most of it before -- if not from Benny, then from the
case files he'd been given -- but he didn't seem to mind. Ray caught
his eye as he was describing 'Ms' Fraser cutting a rug with him at the
school dance and got another bright smile, which had him tripping over
his words before Benny took back over the telling. His eyes lingered on
Ray, and his smile widened, before he turned his attention to Benny
earnestly explaining how difficult the wig was to manage.
Ray watched Kowalski.
After
dinner had been cleared away, plates washed and dried and put away,
there was little left to do to procrastinate. They gathered back in
Kowalski's living room again.
"Kowalski says he can't undo his own wish."
Benny nodded. "Even wishes have to have consequences."
"What about somebody else?" He cleared his throat. "Like me, maybe."
Benny
opened his mouth to reply, then tipped his head and frowned. "Actually,
I'm not sure." A bit of smoke wafted from the shelf on the far wall,
and a moment later, Benny was holding a book bigger than the phone
book. He started paging back and forth, muttering to himself under his
breath.
Ray shot a questioning look at Kowalski.
"There's enough rules that he hasn't got them memorized yet. I think it bothers him."
Benny
gave them something resembling a dirty look. Ray settled quietly back
on the sofa. The springs were starting to go; it'd be easy to tip
sideways into Kowalski. He leaned further back into the cushions.
Benny closed the book with a clap, and it dissipated back into smoke. "I can't say," he said.
Ray frowned. "The rules don't say?"
"Well, I admit there's a bit of ambiguity. But I meant I can't say."
Ray and Kowalski shared a look. Kowalski turned back to Benny and asked, "So should we try it?"
"I can't say," Benny replied.
"Most annoying man in the world," Ray muttered. Kowalski snorted in what sounded like agreement.
"I think we should try," Ray said.
Kowalski
hesitated and looked at Benny, whose face gave away nothing. He nodded
once, jerkily, then went to the shelf and brought back a canteen. Just
an ordinary looking camping item. He stood in front of Ray for a
moment, looking at it, then glanced at Ray. Ray waited him out.
"Okay,"
he said and thrust the metal container into Ray's hands. There was a
strange sensation, not painful but uncomfortable, like a sustained
static shock, followed by the full, nearly physical weight of Benny's
attention. He waited for the feeling to settle down, but it didn't. He
shook his head and tried to ignore it. No wonder Kowalski had been so
irritable about going home, if this feeling was lying in wait for him.
"Benny?" He'd only thought
he'd had his attention before. To be the center of all that focus was
intimidating, to say the least. He swallowed and kept going with the
wish he'd been turning over since the afternoon. "I wish you could keep
yourself safe."
There was a pause, long enough for Ray to worry
about the room he'd left for misinterpretation. Then the canteen jerked
and crumpled in his hand.
"Did it work?" Kowalski demanded.
He tossed the canteen to Kowalski. "Feels like it."
Kowalski
turned the canteen over in his hands and looked at Benny. Benny smiled,
broad and happy. "Yes, I believe it did, Ray." He got a far away look
for a minute, then refocused on Ray, though it didn't have the same
weird weight behind it. "And I don't think it could happen again,
though I am, of course, loathe to test it." He turned to Dief. "Are you
coming?"
Dief snorted and laid down.
"Alright."
"Whoa, wait, you're leaving?"
Benny's hand went to his ear. "I'm sorry, Ray," he said. And then he vanished.
Kowalski
sat down hard on the sofa. After a moment, still staring at the spot
Benny had been, he asked, "Do you think he's okay?"
"It's Benny; he'll be fine," Ray replied, hoping he was right. "He just needs time."
Kowalski
nodded, looking less than completely convinced. Ray sighed and stood.
As he let himself out, he saw Dief climbing onto the sofa to curl
beside Kowalski.
***
"Hey, Kowalski, did --" Ray glanced up and realized he was talking to himself. Again. If Kowalski called in sick for a second day, Ray was going to get a reputation.
It wasn't too surprising that Kowalski had taken the day off. He'd obviously been upset when Benny took off like that, without even a real good-bye. Actually, judging by the way they'd left things at the hospital, that was getting to be a habit with Benny. Ray hoped he hadn't picked it up from his own vague and inadequate phone call, but what else could he have done?
He started to ask Kowalski's opinion on it, then snapped his mouth shut again. Right, no Kowalski today.
Weird how quickly he'd gotten used to having an full-time partner again. Working with Benny had been great, but even if looking out for him sometimes felt like a full-time gig, Benny'd had an official job that could draw him away at anytime. So while he'd been used to seeing a ridiculous hat on his dashboard and a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, he'd also been used to carrying on in his absence. Cases had to be closed regardless of whether Benny was ready with the Inuit story for the occasion. Though he did seem to have one for every occasion.
And he'd had no one to inflict them on but Kowalski for weeks. Jeez, Kowalski must have them memorized by now.
Ray rubbed his eyes and slapped the file closed. He was so distracted by Kowalski's absence, he couldn't have even said what the case it was. Kowalski had better come back tomorrow.
Ray glanced at the clock. Screw it; he wasn't getting anything done anyway, and if he left now, he might beat the after five rush on the grocery store. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
***
Ray shifted the bag of groceries to
the other arm and knocked again. "I'm not leaving, so you might as well
answer," he muttered.
"Vecchio?"
He spun around. Kowalski
had just come out of the stairs behind him. Dief sat down beside him,
mouth open and tongue lolling. "I brought dinner," he said holding out
the bag like it was Exhibit A.
Kowalski stared at him like he was completely insane for a moment. Then he smiled."Guess you better come in."
Cliché I: The Interruption
Certain acts have long been considered unbecoming of an RCMP official: falling off your horse during the Musical Ride, truly believing that you can find Prince Albert in a can, and not being able to locate Great Britain on a map were all things that consistently made the list. Most people would add using your office as a private location to engage in flirtatious acts with your subordinate. Meg Thatcher, however, would have to respectfully disagree for a variety of reasons, most notably because her office was used for that exact purpose on any and all days that her lunch break coincided with Constable Fraser's.
Which was, admittedly, every day they worked together.
Most days they were able to go about their business uninterrupted. Meg had a strict do not disturb policy in place for her lunch break, one which Constable Turnbull was usually quite good at following. Still, she and Benton had decided on a set of pre-determined code words, ranked according to potential imminent danger, just in case. But they had yet to need them, and were fairly certain they would not ever have to.
It was with this confidence that they let their lunches sit forgotten on Meg's desk while they made better use of their precious time making out in her office, mere inches away from the framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II. Benton was leaning against the wall, using both it and the strength of his legs to hold both of them upright while Meg, in turn, leaned her weight against him. They were both still fully dressed, unfortunately, though he did have one hand slipped underneath the back of her dress shirt. His tongue tangled in her mouth while his fingers traced complimentary patterns on her skin, and Meg had her legs wrapped around his thighs and her hands tangled in his dark, messy hair, holding herself in position while she writhed against him.
Her Majesty would have been scandalized.
Somehow, despite the delicate genius of Benton's tongue in her mouth, Meg was able to keep enough of her senses to listen out for signs of a disturbance. It was this, her naturally superior hearing that was heightened by extensive RCMP training, that gave her enough forewarning to the fact that the knob on her office door was being opened.
Abruptly, she tore herself out of Benton's arms. "Timbits," she told him seriously, scrambling to seat herself behind her desk before the door finished opening, while Benton made a mad dash for the nearest closet.
He was surprisingly good at hiding himself away in one of those, Meg thought idly. He'd even managed to take his hat with him. She didn't have time to contemplate why, however, as her office door was all the way open now, and Constable Turnbull was cheerfully letting himself into her office.
"Ah, there you are, Inspector!" he greeted her warmly. "I've been looking all over for you-"
"Where else would I be, Turnbull?" Meg cut in irritably. She did her very best to glare threateningly while discreetly wiping her thumb across her bottom lip - just in case her lipstick was smeared.
That was certainly the wrong thing to say. Turnbull paused, tapping one finger against his chin thoughtfully. "Well, sir, that is a most excellent question," he began, and Meg groaned loudly, not bothering to hide her annoyance. It wasn't as if Turnbull would notice. "I suppose you could be at the hair salon, or out wining and dining visiting dignitaries. Oooh, or you could be undercover, with the mob, wouldn't that be exciting? Thrills and espionage and oh, just think of all the high-tech gadgetry you could be in possession of-"
"Constable!" Meg snapped. "Control yourself."
"Yes, sir," he replied meekly, schooling his face into an expression of serious concentration, and Meg was pleased to note that the Constable at least had the decency to look properly admonished for his unnecessary rambling.
"The reason you interrupted my lunch break, Constable?" she prompted.
"Ah! Yes, most exciting news, sir!" Turnbull was back to his exuberant cheerfulness in under two seconds. Naturally. "I've just collected the mail" - Turnbull had taken it upon himself to begin screening all of Meg's mail, in a roped off area of the Consulate while wearing a HAZMAT suit, after taking a required RCMP course about the sudden increase of mail bombings - "and it seems that you have been invited to attend A Good Proof is Proven: Why America is Wrong, a one night only event being held at the Chemically Imbalanced Theater on Irving Park Road next Friday night. The invitation describes the play as an evening dedicated to shattering the American perception of Canada, performed in the style of Jean Chrétien. Doesn't that sound thrilling, Inspector?"
"I can hardly contain myself, Constable," Meg replied dryly. Truth be told, she thought the play sounded like a right bore, but she had learned by now that disagreeing with Turnbull only made him even more passionate. And, considering the fact that he was already in the middle of his dramatic retelling of Jean Chrétien's rise to power, that really was saying a lot.
She managed to interrupt him with a blunt you're excused, Constable somewhere between the Kitchen Accord and Chrétien's original retirement in 1984, though it took another three and a half minutes for him to actually leave her office. It was obvious Turnbull had been fishing for an invitation to attend the show as her escort, but of course that was out of the question. Meg had no intentions of actually attending the play, and even if she were to suddenly decide to go, she would already have a date - the man hiding in her supply closet, waiting for the all clear code word.
"Zamboni."
Cliché II: The Surprise Guest Appearance
Somehow, Benton had convinced her to attend the play.
Meg wasn't entirely sure how he had done it, though she knew Benton could be a damn tease when he put his mind to it, so it was most likely something she had agreed to in the heat of the moment that he was of course holding her to because she had, in fact, agreed. He really was the most frustrating man on the planet.
She had asked him numerous times why he wanted to attend, but the only answer she had received was a vague "I've heard interesting things about the director's work". He wouldn't say anything more than that, so Meg had taken it upon herself to research the man. She hadn't learned much outside of the fact that he was indeed Canadian, and that not only was he directing the play, he was the writer and sole performer of the piece as well. An admirable feat, certainly, but Meg still had her doubts - his credentials were mediocre at best, a few plays in New Burbage that received mostly negative reviews. Reviews that included words like pretentious and illogical and contains flying zoo animals - but in the end she sighed and told Fraser to pick her up at six-thirty the night of the play. ("And for God's sake, Fraser, the dress code is black tie. Leave the flannel at home.")
She still wasn't overly enthused about attending, but Meg was pleased to see that Fraser had indeed worn a proper suit to the event, and their seats were in the front row, slightly off to the right side of the low-rise stage. They had arrived a few minutes early, so she studied the set critically while Benton told the other theatre patrons his life story in one hundred words or less.
The set consisted of one wooden bar stool and a milk crate full of items with no discernible connection that she could think of: hockey stick, yo-yo, Bedazzler, wooden train whistle, a small scale replica of the Mona Lisa, and a feather boa. Before she could even begin to wrap her head around all of that, the house lights fell and a tall, skinny man with thick glasses and erratic hair walked onto the stage. He was dressed in a black catsuit, with a Hawaiian grass skirt around his chest and a pair of red devil horns placed delicately atop his head. On his feet were a pair of jelly shoes.
Despite his haphazard appearance, the play was not all that interesting, and Meg found her attention wandering to the things she was going to have Benton do to her to make up for this monstrosity of a date. She had amassed quite the list (fifty-six items) by mid-way through Act VI of the play, when her interest was finally piqued enough for her to pay attention to the performance. It was at this point that all the lights in the theatre shut off and the man on stage took out a flashlight, then began shining it on unsuspecting members of the front row and theorizing on which King of Kensington character they were most like, proclaiming each and every one of them to be Gladys.
He did this repeatedly until he shone his light on Benton, which was when all hell broke loose. The man took one look at him and let out a high-pitched screech, then launched into a hysterical rant about audience planting and how the fragile state of the human psyche is only capable of so handling much stress. This was followed by five rapid-fire soliloquies from Hamlet and what appeared to be an Irish jig. The man then screamed and stormed off the stage in what could only be described as a snit.
The entire ordeal was met with stunned silence by the audience, most of whom initially thought it was all part of the play itself. Meg was included in that group; she'd been enthralled for the first time all night and hadn't realized the charade wasn't scripted until the man had pointed at Benton and shouted crazed swan fetishist!
"Is there something you forgot to mention?" Meg asked Benton warily as one set of the theatre lights flickered on again. She twisted around in her seat, glancing around the room at the crowd, all whom were now buzzing with theories about that wacky Canadian. ("It's the snow," she heard one old man say knowingly. "Makes them all crazy-like in the head.")
Benton shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the theatre director taking the stage. The man looked very frazzled, Meg noticed, his thin, wispy hair mussed out of his distinctive comb over. In the background, a very off-key rendition of Corey Hart's "Never Surrender" was being performed, presumably by the director.
"Good evening," the theatre director announced loudly, attempting to be heard over the racket. "I regret to inform you all that Mr Nichols is rather suddenly not feeling well -"
Suddenly, the singing came to an abrupt end. "Not feeling well? Oh, that is rich! I am going through an existential crisis, and you make it sound like the common cold! Blithering American fool."
The theatre director cleared his throat awkwardly. "Right. Well. All tickets will be fully refunded at the box office" - it did look like saying those words hurt the man to the very core - "and my sincere apologies for the... inconvenience. Thank you, and good night."
The man scurried off stage as the house lights came back on in full force. Meg turned to Benton and found him staring at the now-empty stage with a look of utter confusion upon his face. "Did I-?" he started, then abruptly stopped and shook his head. "That was certainly odd. Wasn't it?"
"Very odd," Meg agreed as she got to her feet. "That's what America does to people, Benton. It makes them crazy."
Cliché III: The Happy Ending
When Meg awoke the next morning, it was to find herself alone and the other side of the bed empty and cold. She frowned as she sat up, blinking sleep out of her eyes and pushing off the heavy blankets. The apartment was eerily silent, almost as though she were home alone, but she'd told Benton repeatedly that he didn't have to leave first thing -
Halfway through that thought she noticed his suit was draped carefully over the back of her armchair, something he must have done after he'd woken up because Meg had certainly not been that careful with it the night before. Which meant that he was still here, as even Benton wasn't one to walk around outdoors stark naked unless it was an absolute emergency. Besides that, now that she was beginning to wake up, she could hear two voices outside her bedroom, one of which distinctly belonged to Benton.
Curious now, Meg slipped into her red silk robe, haphazardly tying the band around her middle, then quietly made her way out of the bedroom. The voices got louder the farther down the hallway she walked, but she still couldn't place the second voice. In fact, she was certain she'd never heard it before in her life, so what on Earth was some stranger doing in her apartment?
As she rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, she could see that Benton was standing at the door in his boxer shorts, talking to someone in the hallway, and that he was highly agitated by whomever it was - she was guessing a delivery boy of some sort, as she could see he was waving around a clipboard.
"But it's not even for you, pal," the delivery man was explaining, his voice laden with frustration. Meg could sympathize; Benton did tend to have that affect on a lot of people, herself included. "Look, can you just sign for this? I got a lot of deliveries to make, you know?"
Benton shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I simply cannot-"
"Gentlemen," Meg interrupted smoothly, coming up behind him and settling one hand on his back. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes, actually, this man-"
"Look, lady, I got a delivery that I'm assuming is for you," the delivery man - his shirt was embroidered with the name Phil - interrupted. "'Cause it's addressed to the gorgeous brunette who attends plays with irrational, overrated hacks, and I'm just guessin', but I think irrational is a fitting name for your boyfriend here." Meg blinked in surprise, and Benton tensed irritably next to her. "Can you just sign for it? Please?"
"Certainly," Meg replied, accepting the clipboard from Phil, who looked so relieved she was almost convinced he might cry tears of joy. She signed her name in the designated area, then traded the clipboard for the package and shut the door behind Phil, who had already made a run for the elevators. The parcel was light, and it was indeed addressed just the way he had said. In the from section, the name Darren Nichols was scrawled in messy penmanship.
She tore the paper off quickly, barely paying any mind to Benton's protests that the gift was inappropriate and potentially dangerous.
"First rule of being a woman, Benton," Meg explained as she tore the lid off of the box. "Never turn down a gift, not even one from a deranged actor-slash-director."
"I thought the first rule of being a woman was we can do whatever men can do," he replied, his brow furrowing in confusion. Whether it was from her statement, the fact that what she pulled out of the box was the feather boa from the play's prop box, or some combination of both, she really wasn't sure.
Meg rolled her eyes in exasperation. The fact that Benton was a noble and honest man was one of the many things that attracted her to him, but it also happened to be the thing that drove her the craziest as well. "Yes, well, that too," she agreed absently. "But all girls like presents. Especially ones that are both pretty and useful."
"Useful, really? Meg, it's a feather boa for crying out loud! I'm quite certain the only time those are useful is when one is performing in Las Vegas."
"Don't be judgmental," she admonished him, then let a devious smile spread across her face. She was pleased to see Benton swallow hard, looking simultaneously aroused and nervous by that. "This boa happens to fit perfectly with item number forty-seven on my list."
His eyes went wide. "List?"
"The one we started on last night," she reminded him, tossing the box aside and wrapping the boa around her neck. "The list of ways you are going to make up for that disastrous theatre performance."
"Ah, yes, that," he replied, stepping closer to her without seeming to notice he was doing it. "As I seem to recall, we got through a number of those things last night..." His voice trailed off and his breathing became shallow as Meg brought her hands down to rest on the tie holding her robe together, deftly untying the knot without taking her eyes off of Benton's face.
He was standing directly in front of her now, and she could feel her own arousal flaring up as his scent and his presence overwhelmed her. Yet somehow she managed to keep her voice calm and steady when she replied, "It's a long list, Benton. Luckily, we have all day." Without another word, she spun around on her heel and started walking back down the hall towards her bedroom, letting her robe fall to the ground about halfway there.
She didn't have to turn around to know that he was following right behind her.
]]>
There he goes again. Frannie props her chin in her hand, watching him. He's helping an old lady with her bags, honest to God helping a little old lady. His shiny black hair is perfectly combed, his movie-star face is kind and open, and his jeans and Henley are so crisp and neat, Frannie doesn't even care that they're boring. He's perfect. He's like a dream come true.
Or he would be if he knew she was alive.
Every day he comes in, looking beautiful and dashing, sometimes in jeans and plaid shirts, usually in a bright red uniform that makes him look like a shiny toy soldier. He often stops to help people--giving directions, carrying bags, escorting older people. It's not like it's his job or anything, it's just what he does. Then he buys a token, tips his hat if he's wearing it, and steps onto a train and back out of Frannie's life.
But it doesn't matter. He's her Prince Charming, and someday, she just knows that he will look up from his tokens, meet her eyes and fall deeply in love with her, and marry her and take her to Florence.
Doesn't look like that will be today, though. His smile is congenial but impersonal as he goes up to Frannie's booth and buys two tokens. Their hands don't touch as they exchange his money for her tokens, but Frannie likes to pretend they might have. Likes to pretend his good-natured smile is something special, just for her, not something he gives away thoughtlessly all day long to anyone he sees.
"Thank you kindly," he says, walking away with the tokens. He gives one to the little old lady, who beams up at him and pats his hand in gratitude.
"I love you," Frannie says softly, watching him.
The next person in line, an impatient executive type bedecked in suit, tie and overcoat, looks at her like she's nuts.
"Uh, I love... you... having exact change!" Frannie says, switching the man's bills for tokens as coolly and professionally as possible.
The man shakes his head as he leaves.
***
Frannie's Ma used to say, "You never know how life is going to turn out," and that was for sure. Frannie never would have pictured herself working at the train station on Christmas, the only one without a family to share the holiday with. It just ended up that way.
Then again, she never would have imagined her Prince Charming would show up on Christmas Day, give her that dazzling smile of his with the sweet little twisted tooth--the only crack in his otherwise complete perfection--and wish her a merry Christmas.
The station is practically empty--Frannie can pretend it's just the two of them and it's finally the right time for her to gather up her courage and tell him... tell him everything. Nice hat; Have a good trip; Oh, do you come here often?; You were really nice to that group of nuns and orphans; I love you; Will you marry me?
She's not sure yet which is the best way to go, but she's working on it.
But he just comes right up to her booth, trades his money for her tokens, wishes her a Merry Christmas and walks away before Frannie can pull herself together.
She's kicking herself and trying to calm down by picturing something soothing, like the color yellow, when she looks up and sees some punks hassling an old man over by the train tracks. Prince Charming steps in, but the punks just get more aggressive. One of them pushes him and he falls over the edge onto the tracks.
Frannie rushes out of her booth, passing the fleeing punks in her haste.
"Hey, Mister?" she yells, peering over onto the tracks. "Sir? Can you get up? Somebody help me!"
"I'll get some help!" the old man goes, but Frannie barely notices, because Prince Charming doesn't stir. He's just lying there, broken like a doll in the middle of the tracks. She panics.
"Hey Mister? Sir!! Sir, you have to get up now, please!" she calls.
He doesn't move, and she climbs down onto the track with him, trying to get him to wake up. She shakes him, pats his face--his skin is so soft!, calls to him, looks up and really panics--there's a train coming right at them.
"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Sir, please, you have to wake up now! There's a train coming, and it's fast! It's an express, and--oh!!" Gritting her teeth, Frannie grabs onto his lapels and rolls with all her might. They tumble over and over, out of the way of the oncoming train, and they end up safely on the side of the tracks. Frannie tries to keep from hyperventilating--was that the bravest thing she's ever done, or the stupidest?
He stirs, opens his eyes--blue just like the princes in the storybooks--and looks up at her for an instant before he blacks out again.
Maybe it was the most romantic.
***
Frannie gets to the hospital as soon as she can, but he's already being taken to surgery and she doesn't know his name. The doctor insists it's family only, and Frannie looks through the glass doors as the terribly still form of her prince is wheeled away.
"I was going to marry him," she whispers.
A nurse finally lets her into his room after he's settled into the intensive care unit, hooked up to a frightening amount of tubes and machines. "Let him hear your voice," she says kindly, so Frannie talks.
"Hey," she says, sitting by his bed. "You're going to be fine, I just know it. And, uh, when you wake up, there's this little Italian place--um. This is probably the wrong time. I'll ask you later, okay?"
She's working through her pretty extensive repertoire of "everything is going to be okay" variations when a cop comes in.
"Excuse me, miss," he says. "I need to ask you a few questions, if that's all right."
"Oh, sure," she says, standing up.
She's just getting through her mostly useless description of the punks that knocked her prince over while the doctor bustles around with the machines, when there's a commotion outside the room, and a bunch of people come bursting in, followed by the nurse that first let Frannie in the room.
What happens next is hard to keep track of. There are cries of "Ben!" and "Take it easy, Dad," and "What happened?"
"Who are you people?" asks the doctor.
"This is my son!" says a gray-haired man in winter gear. "How is he?"
"He'll be all right, won't he?" asks a woman with a neat blond braid.
"He's in a coma," the doctor explains.
"A coma!" exclaims an older man with a heavy accent. "On Christmas Day!"
"His vital signs are strong, his brainwaves are good--I think he's going to get through this."
"He's so pale!" says a matronly-looking woman as she pets Prince Charming's hair. "Oh, Benton. Oh, my boy!"
"Ray is gonna flip out." A young blonde guy in a smart suit runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "How did this happen?"
"Um, he was pushed from the platform at the train station," Frannie says.
Six pairs of eyes swing Frannie's way.
"Who's she?" the father asks.
"She's his fiancée," the nurse says, and Frannie's too stunned to say a word.
"His fiancée?"
"Ben's engaged?"
Frannie shakes her head frantically, but no one's even looking at her anymore.
"Maybe he was busy?"
"Too busy to tell his own family he's getting married?"
"Damien, don't yell at him!"
"I'm not yelling at him! If only Ray were here."
The older man sits heavily.
"Is he all right?" asks the doctor.
"It's his heart," says the young man in the suit. "Grandpa Mort's had three attacks already."
"They weren't attacks," Mort says airily. "They were episodes."
"Excuse me," the younger doctor who'd first kicked Frannie out comes in. "She's not supposed to be here!"
"Hey, buddy, she saved his life!" says the cop.
"Saved his life?" the mother looks up at Frannie with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"I thought he was pushed from a train platform?" says Damien.
"She jumped onto the tracks!"
"She jumped onto the tracks?"
Frannie nods sheepishly. Still not entirely decided where it falls on the brave/stupid/romantic spectrum, but hey, nobody got squashed so it all worked out okay, right?
"It's family only!" the young doctor insists.
Prince Charming's father straightens, pushing the doctor away. "She is family," he declares, and for one wild, crazy moment where the roomful of people is looking at her like she's somebody, Frannie almost feels like it could be true.
"Benton's so reserved about these things, so we didn't know," says the mother, walking up to Frannie. "But I always hoped he'd find a nice girl. I'm so glad he found you!" She hugs Frannie tearfully, and as Frannie feels two more people join in the hug her voice--and her good sense--desert her completely.
***
Frannie chases down the nurse afterwards. "Why did you tell them that?"
The nurse blinks. "Tell them what?"
"That I'm engaged! I've never even talked to that guy!"
"But you said you were going to marry him!"
"What, when they brought him in? Geez, I was worried, he looked pale; I was just talking to myself! Like, wishful thinking, that's all."
"Yeah, well next time you talk to yourself, just tell yourself you're single and end the conversation."
"But I--"
"Excuse me, nurse?" the young man in the suit comes by, hands in his pockets. "Is there a pharmacy in the hospital? My grandpa needs a refill on his heart medication."
"Of course! Just off the lobby," the nurse says.
"Thanks. Upsets like this are hell on his ticker. We were just sitting down around the tree when the hospital called about Ben and, well, Grandpa Mort's heart ain't what it used to be." He nods at Frannie. "Sorry, I don't think I introduced myself with all the fuss. I'm Brando Kowalski."
"Brandon?"
"Brando."
"Oh, that's... different."
"My many elementary school ass-kickings would agree with you. The whole thing is actually Marlon Brando Kowalski," he rolls his eyes. "My dad was a fan. But hey, it could be worse. My brother's name is Stanley Kowalski."
"I'm not sure that is worse," Frannie muses.
"Yeah, you might be right about that," Brando shrugs.
He heads off to the drugstore with a nod. Frannie turns back to the nurse, but she wisely slunk away before Frannie could finish with her. Nice.
***
She goes back to the hospital late that night. The family had wanted to know everything--how she and Benton met, if she'd stolen him from his former girlfriend (luckily, no one seemed to like that one), how Frannie had known he was the one--and somehow, the answers just seemed to roll out. Mort looked so sweet, and they all seemed so comforted to have her there, and when Bob took her aside and told her in his own kind of confusing way that she had saved them all just by being there for Benton and the rest of them... she couldn't tell them the truth. She couldn't.
And maybe, just maybe, some tiny part of her didn't want to.
But after everyone's gone home for the night she comes back in, sits by Benton's bed and apologizes.
"So, hi. We never really got formally introduced, what with all the falling and screaming and, you know, paramedics. I'm Frannie, Frannie Vecchio. I think you should know that your family thinks we're engaged. I'm really sorry," she tells his peaceful, sleeping face. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. It's just, they were all--and then Mort's heart started acting up, and I--I couldn't. I just couldn't do it. Um, you look good! I mean, you always look good, but..." she leans closer, confidentially. "Do you believe in love at first sight? You probably think it's silly, huh? Well, pretend you do for a second. You don't even know what you mean to people, walking around, looking so perfect, helping anyone in need, tipping your hat and just--you don't even know. I didn't think men like you existed anymore, if they ever really did outside of storybooks and romance novels."
Benton is just lying there, pale and still, but Frannie feels heard in a way she hasn't in a long time.
"It's not like I don't get offers, you know? 'Cause believe me, I get plenty of offers. But not from anyone like you. And, okay, maybe not that many. But mostly, I just... I just want somebody to laugh with, you know? Somebody to love besides my cat. I want to... I wanna make somebody's day just by walking into the room."
Benton just keeps sleeping, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, but Frannie sits there anyway, keeping him company. For an instant she thinks she hears a rustling sound outside the door, but no one's there.
***
Life goes on, sort of. The next day Frannie still has work and her apartment and her cat, but somehow it all just seems extra empty now that she's got Benton's family to compare it to.
She's staring at her frozen dinner--also known as Haagen Daz--cat hiding smugly under the couch, when she finally gives in.
Picking up a bottle of wine and some poinsettias, she goes to the post-Christmas Christmas celebration Benton's family had invited her to. Barbara welcomes her in with a warm hug, and Frannie closes her eyes and pretends it's her own Ma for a long, wonderful moment. Maggie takes her coat, Mort pats her hand, Damien claps her on the shoulder and calls her a good girl, Brando nods warmly and Bob--Bob just sort of smiles at her, a little sadly. There is a large, furry white dog in the living room who stares at her suspiciously.
"Dief's so upset about Ben," Maggie says, ruffling the dog's fur. "We can't even bring him to the hospital to see him because of their rules about dogs in the ICU."
Oh, he's Prince Charming's dog, Frannie realizes. She waits for the family to be distracted by the presents, sneaks a Santa cookie from a decorated platter and approaches the dog cautiously.
"Hey," she says quietly. "I kinda saved Benton's life, so, you know. We're on the same team. I'm just saying."
Dief looks at her sadly for a long moment, then takes the cookie she's offering. Frannie hopes that means it's a done deal and dares to scratch his ears. His fur is thick and soft.
"So we're friends now, right? There's more cookies where that came from."
Dief gives a quiet whuff and eats his cookie, and Frannie figures that will have to do. She sneaks him an extra cookie just in case.
"Do you have any family in the area, dear?" Barbara asks as Frannie's helping her in the kitchen.
"Not really," Frannie says. "My mom passed away last year. She'd been sick for a long time. My sister's brother got a job in California when I was just a kid, so I don't know them very well, and my brother has this undercover mission someplace they wouldn't even tell us about, so..." She shrugs. "I've got a cat."
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," Barbara says, pulling her into another one of those hugs Frannie didn't even know she'd missed so much. "But you have us now."
She doesn't really, but Frannie feels lighter just hearing it.
***
Dinner is nonstop talking. They all take turns telling stories about Benton, how Barbara and his mother, Caroline, had been best friends as schoolgirls, how they'd kept in touch even when Barbara married Damien and moved to Chicago, how Bob had charmed Caroline into marrying him and moving to the Northwest Areas.
It all sounds like a fairy tale, until the part where Benton's mother died when he was six and he had to go live with his grandparents.
"Ben was thirteen when his grandfather got sick," Barbara says, serving Frannie more pierogi. "And that's when I was finally able to talk Bob here into letting Ben come live with us. It was the least I could do for Caroline, and Ben was such a sweet boy. He became a son to me and Damien both."
"Good influence on our little brats," Damien tops up his water glass.
"Hey!" Brando pats his tie, grinning. "Ray and I were perfect little angels, weren't we, Mum?"
"That's right, dear," Barbara smiles, patting his hand. "Deep, deep inside your hearts you were."
"On the outside you were a couple of little hellions," Damien jokes.
"Thank goodness our Maggie turned up here in Chicago a few years ago," Barbara smiles. "I always thought it would be nice to have another girl around the house."
"Take in one Fraser, you might as well adopt them all," Maggie agrees. "My own mother passed away a few years ago back home in Canada, and Barbara has been so kind. Dad and always I come visit Ben and the Kowalskis for the holidays."
Frannie smiles and nods and listens as the Frasers and Kowalskis bicker and tease and laugh, and she feels like she never wants to leave.
***
Frannie ends up spending the night on the couch, but she hears someone at the door in the wee hours.
"Ray!" Maggie calls out softly on her way back from the kitchen. "Did you solve the case?"
"Hey, Maggie," Ray hugs her. "Yeah, finally. Really coulda used Ben on that one, but we got the guy. Hey, who's that on the couch?"
"Oh, that's Frannie, Ben's fiancée. She's great."
"That's not Ben's fiancée," Ray says with certainty, and Frannie gets a sinking feeling.
"Sure she is. Wait 'till you meet her in the morning; you'll love her."
"Yeah," Ray says. "You know, I think I'm gonna spend the night."
"Yeah, well, I'm already in Brando's room, so you're bunking with Dad," Maggie says. "He snores."
"The snoring doesn't worry me, it's the caribou stories," Ray says as they walk up the stairs together. "Even in his sleep he tells 'em."
Maggie laughs.
Frannie waits until they're gone to open her eyes, but she totally, absolutely does not panic.
Much.
***
She's almost home free, sneaking out the door to wait for the cab she's called bright and early the next morning, when someone clears his throat behind her.
"Oh! You scared me," Frannie says. Her heart is going a mile a minute. "Good morning, Ray."
"Morning," he says. He's sipping a cup of coffee on the landing of the stairs as he leafs through the newspaper. "Coffee?"
Frannie shakes her head. "Oh, thanks, but I should really get going. I mean, I have work and stuff, and--"
A horn honks outside, and Frannie tries not to let the relief show in her face. She was once told she has very good stage presence. Maybe it's paying off?
"Frannie?" Ray stands.
She whips around. "Look, I know this is all--"
"Welcome to the family." Ray is smiling a little bit, and the soft morning light brings out the gold in his hair.
"Oh," Frannie blinks. "Thank you."
She dashes out the door, sending up a little prayer of thanks. Maybe she got a Christmas reprieve.
***
The Kowalski-Fraser clan is just leaving the hospital that afternoon, cheered by the doctor's reports that Benton seems to be improving, when she stops by to give blood like the hospital staff had asked.
She promises to come over for some cider later on and is just about to go to Ben's room when she realizes someone's still there.
Ray is pacing, but he stops by Benton's bed, looking down at him for a long moment. "Hey, Benton-buddy. I, uh. I just, y'know, stopped by. To say hello. Dief's okay, I took him home to Mum." Ray scrubs his hands through his hair just like his brother Brando, leaving it even more on end that usual. "I don't know what you're doing here. You're just--you make me so crazy sometimes, with the stunts you pull, and then you--well, you're gonna be okay. The doctors say you're gonna be fine, you're not--Anyway."
Ray sighs and drops into the chair beside Fraser's bed, then pops back up again to pace some more.
"So, uh, you're getting married, huh? You never told me that. You know you could have told me that, right? You could have told me. I always listen, don't I? Don't I always got your back?"
He stops at Fraser's side, adjusts his blanket, smoothes it over the still, quiet form.
"Known you my whole life, and sometimes it's like I don't know you at all. You're a mystery, Benton-buddy. A real, uh, enigma." He brushes his hand gently across Fraser's pale forehead, his temple and the dark curls of his hair.
Frannie shifts guiltily. She shouldn't be intruding like this. She's about to walk away when Ray turns, looking at her almost belligerently.
"What, a guy can't talk to a guy in a coma?"
"Oh! Well, sure. I mean, I've done it myself a lot lately, so..."
Ray sinks into the chair, deflated. "It's just so hard to see him like this. He's usually raring to go all the time, full of this crazy energy and good cheer."
"Yeah, he is," Frannie smiles. "And he keeps stopping to help and John, Dick and Harry who needs it."
"Even if they don't," Ray grins ruefully. "So what was it about him that caught your eye? Besides, you know, everything."
Frannie laughs. "Well, the everything is a lot. But I guess it was his smile."
"Yeah. That, uh, that's a good one."
"With the little--"
"Twisty tooth?" Ray grins. His own teeth are perfectly straight and even, Frannie notices. She looks back down at Benton.
"Yeah," she says. "I think it's kinda sweet."
"Yeah, well, don't ever tell him that, okay? Word to the wise." Ray frowns a little. "Don't know how you ever got him to go out with you in the first place, let alone propose. Ben's real shy around the ladies, usually, and, uh, you're not exactly his type."
Frannie draws herself up to her full, not-so-imposing height. "What's wrong with my type?"
"Nothing!" Ray says hastily. "Nothing, just... Ben usually goes for darker types."
"But I'm Italian!" Frannie tosses her, hello, dark hair.
"No--well, yeah, sure. But, you know. Dark. It's a thing." Ray shrugs. "Someday you'll tell me all about that, huh, buddy?"
Benton just lies there, silent. Frannie wonders if he can really hear them.
"I should probably go," she says. "I just stopped by to give blood, so. It was nice to see you, Ray."
"Likewise," Ray smiles a little, then nods and sits back down by Fraser. "Brought some cards, buddy," he says, pulling out a pack. "Thought maybe a poker rematch. I gotta say, I think your odds are low this time around."
***
"Ah, Francesca," Bob says as she's heading down the hall. He's wearing his usual heavy winter gear, complete with boots, parka and a fur hat. "I was hoping to have a word with you." He sets down a box full of mysterious objects and beckons her to sit by him in the waiting room.
"Oh, um. Okay." Frannie sits cautiously. "Brought some stuff?" she gestures at the box.
"Oh, yes," Bob says heartily. "The eagle feathers were the hardest part, of course, but luckily I always keep a sextant handy. Good whalebone is so difficult to find in Chicago, isn't it?"
"Tell me about it." She peeks in the box. "Nice rocks."
"River stones, actually, straight from the MacKenzie. I've got just about everything we need rounded up now, so, it's important to ask your intentions regarding my son."
Frannie blinks. "My intentions?"
"Yes, of course! I need to know if I should put in a good word for you." Bob leans closer. "Benton has been led astray in the past, in affairs of the heart. They're not really his strong suit, I'm afraid."
"Oh. Well, I..."
"Francesca," Bob puts a strong, work-worn hand on hers. "I should probably tell you I was here at the hospital that first night. I heard you talking to my son. I know you're not really engaged."
Frannie pales. "I'm so sorry! I'll tell everyone right away, it's just, Mort's heart, and Barbara kept crying, and--"
"Don't breathe a word of it," Bob says firmly. "You may well be the best thing that's ever happened to my son, even if he doesn't know it yet. After all, it's not just anyone who'll jump onto train tracks to save a man."
"Well, I couldn't just let him die!" Frannie exclaims. "Even if he wasn't perfect. I mean, that's like a civil duty."
Bob smiles, a little sadly. "I'm afraid I haven't been a very good father to either of my children," he confesses. "I didn't even know about Maggie until a few years ago, and when Benton's mother died, I just... passed him along like so much baggage. But I'm not going to let him down now. Do you think there might be any slightly more comfortable chairs in this place?"
***
"Hey," Ray says, awkwardly. "Good morning."
Frannie rubs her eyes, opening her door a little wider. "Timeizit?"
"Um, early. I have an engagement present from my folks for you and Ben, and I just wanted to drop it off. Sorry I woke you."
"Oh, I couldn't take anything!" She really couldn't.
"Sure you could," Ray says. "You don't even know what it is yet."
"Well, let's take it to Ben's place. I mean, anything would look better at Ben's place. I'm just gonna--" She jerks a thumb back towards her cluttered apartment. "I'll be right out."
Slamming the door in Ray's face, Frannie runs to her bedroom to throw on some clothes, washes her face, slaps on some makeup and turbos through her hair styling routine. She dashes out the door in record time.
Ray is outside, waiting by a U-Haul truck.
"Oh, wow! You got us a moving truck?"
"Yeah," Ray smirks. "Congratulations. Hop in, wise guy. You can see the goods at Ben's place."
Stifling a smile, Frannie climbs into the passenger seat.
***
Prince Charming's place isn't really the palace she'd imagined. It's a tiny apartment in a dodgy part of town, almost bare of furnishings but neat and tidy. Benton has a trunk, a plain kitchen table with one chair, and a twin sized bed. There's not much else. There are no plants, nothing living, no touch of personality anywhere.
It isn't the home of a prince; not even just the home of someone who doesn't think he is a prince. Part of her wonders if it's the home of someone who's punishing himself for something he thinks he did wrong.
Frannie stands in the doorway, wide-eyed.
Ray looks at her oddly. "You've been here before, right?"
"Oh, sure! Lots of times. It just... seems bigger with him in it, you know?"
He narrows his eyes.
"And, I mean, we usually hang out at my place," she adds. "It has... stuff in it."
Ray cracks a smile, and Frannie stifles a sigh of relief.
"Not really the kind of digs you bring the ladies to, I guess." Ray shoves his hand through his hair in that gesture he shares with his brother. "Fraser was never really one for having a lot of stuff, you know? And after his old place burned down in that fire, he went in for stuff even less. It was hard enough getting him to move into a new place at all. Took the whole family to force him to stop squatting in his office."
"So I guess he really does need a U-Haul worth of stuff?"
"Well, we all pitched in. Mum's been looking for an excuse to do this for years. Brando had to wrestle the credit card away from her at one point. It got ugly."
Frannie grins.
"Brando will help me bring in the new bed later," Ray says, gesturing at the forlorn, narrow little bed. "You can't tell me you and Ben ever spent the whole night on that thing."
"No," Frannie says truthfully. "No, we never have."
Together, they move the things into the little apartment, and suddenly it all begins to look more like a home. They argue over where to put every single piece, stub their toes on furniture, straighten each other's crooked paintings and laugh their guts out. By the time they're done, they're exhausted, sweaty and buzzed.
"Hey, you wanna grab something to eat?" Frannie asks. "I know a great Italian place."
"Sure," Ray looks surprised. "That sounds real good."
They end up talking till dawn, trading stories and laughing. Frannie hasn't laughed this much in a long time.
***
They end up getting together a few more times, after that. They run into each other in the hospital or at the Kowalski house and Frannie even helps Ray pick out a belated Christmas present for his ex-wife, who still comes over for Sunday dinner once a month--talk about a challenge.
Suddenly it's New Year's, and it seems a like a hell of a lot more than one week has gone by since Frannie temporarily lost her senses and did the bravest, stupidest, most romantic or possibly just best thing she's ever done in her life, jumping onto those train tracks to save the man of her dreams.
She rings in the new year with the Kowalski and Fraser clan, stuffed full of food and good will and Mort's killer hot toddies. Bob takes off shortly before midnight, muttering about the phases of the moon and the skins between worlds or something. Frannie wonders if he's just drunk, but the family assures him he talks that way sober, too.
Just before the countdown to midnight, she feels a sudden surge of elation, a subtle buzz of expectation that comes seemingly out of nowhere. She wonders if she should blame the hot toddies.
Frannie steps out onto the porch to get some air, hears the whole neighborhood begin to chant the last seconds of the old year. It was a kind of crappy year, she thinks. She's not sad to see it go. Things are looking up already, though, even if she feels a little like she's living on borrowed time, waiting for Benton to wake up and denounce her for the liar she's become, all because she can't seem to give up this family like any sane, normal person would have done long before.
But the new year--the new year is still fresh and untapped, just waiting for Frannie to make of it what she will. For the first time in a long time, she feels like she can.
Midnight, and the whole street explodes into whoops and cheers, the rattle of noisemakers, the toot of horns, the rapid pop of firecrackers and even the loud din of fireworks up above with their vivid explosions of sparks. When she turns around, the family has come out too. They are all laughing, hugging and kissing, and when Ray walks up to her, a question in his eyes she didn't even know she had the answer to, he gently sets his warm hands on her shoulders and kisses her.
It only lasts a second, but when they part Frannie feels flushed and short of breath and confused, and Ray's face reads exactly the same as hers has to.
The family swoops in then, and Frannie is kissed and hugged and patted on the back by Brando, Maggie, Barbara, Damien and Mort in quick succession while Dief dances around them, and she's a little dizzy and breathless but it's the best she's felt in years.
***
The next morning everyone is slow to get out of bed. Frannie shuffles into the kitchen to see Ray sitting there, hunched over a mug of coffee at the long wooden table, Dief curled at his feet. When she comes in he looks up at her and his whole face lights up for a moment.
"Good morning," he says.
"Good morning Ray," Frannie answers, and the moment disappears like a puff of smoke as Maggie and Brando troop into the kitchen, closely followed by Mort.
"And now you will be welcomed to an old Kowalski tradition, my dear," Mort pats Frannie's shoulder, smiling in perfect good cheer. "On New Year's Day we have breakfast, and this breakfast we make entirely without the help of dear Barbara, who cooks so much for us all year. So," he claps his hands together. "To work!"
Dief goes to keep Barbara company in the living room, and the family falls into a smooth rhythm, everyone moving to apparently pre-assigned duties.
Frannie claims sole control of the coffe-making process. "Excuse me," she says, "Is anyone else here Italian? No? Then I should probably handle this myself, okay?"
Damien and Brando are soon manning the waffle iron like pros, Mort sets the table and cuts some gratefruit to broil with brown sugar on top, and Ray does something experimental involving fresh strawberries and maple syrup.
Maggie is thoughtfully composing a fruit salad while Ray has moved on to squeezing fresh orange juice when the phone rings. They let Barbara answer it as they all put the finishing touches on their respective tasks.
Suddenly a jubilant whoop comes from the living room.
"He's awake!" Barbara rushes into the kitchen, flushed with joy, Dief barking happily at her heels. "The hospital says Benton's awake!"
The kitchen erupts into happy chaos. Damien and Brando start turning off burners and covering food while everyone else rushes out to grab their coats. Frannie is helplessly swept up in the tide before she can think of a way to get out of it.
"I know, I know," Ray tells Dief, ruffling his fur. "But you already know you can't come to the hospital. I promise I'll bring him right back, okay?"
Dief whines piteously, but stays back.
The family all jam into Brando's SUV, with only Ray and Frannie unable to fit.
"I should probably just--"
"Don't be silly," Barbara says. "You go with Ray in the GTO. We'll meet you there. Go!"
Frannie goes, but she looks longingly out the window as they pass train stations, taxicabs--any potential means of escape. This is it. This is when her house of cards comes tumbling down, and there's nothing she can do to stop it.
She sneaks a sideways look at Ray, whose knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "Listen, Ray..."
Ray stills.
"After today, things are gonna be different, you know? With Ben being awake and everything."
"Yeah," he says softly. "I know."
"But whatever happens, I just want you to know--you've become a really good friend."
Ray smiles, but he still won't meet her eyes. "You, too," he says.
"You let me become a part of your family, and I haven't had that for a long time."
"Frannie, what are you doing?" Ray sounds tense.
"Nothing," Frannie says. "I just... wanted to say thanks."
"Yeah, well, it sounds more like goodbye."
"I don't want it to be," Frannie says, miserably, but they're already pulling up to the hospital, just behind Brando's car.
Everyone jumps out and Frannie is again swept up in the mad dash as they rush all the way to Benton's room.
He's sitting up in bed, eyes alert, hair neatly combed and healthy color in his cheeks. Beside him sits Bob, looking tired but triumphant.
"Benton!" Barbara rushes over to hug and kiss him. "My son. Oh, my little boy."
Ben's color deepens, and he smiles happily. Maggie is next, then Brando and Ray, until they've all piled on, Ben's still form barely visible under them all.
"It's good to see you, son," Damien says.
"Does an old man's heart good," says Mort. "The holidays have not been the same without you."
Frannie just stands there on the outskirts, longingly eyeing the exit sign, when the family finally pulls back a little and Ben looks at her. Those clear blue eyes are just as perfect as she remembers, and even in his flimsy hospital gown he looks dashing. Her prince.
"Frannie," he says, and Frannie's jaw drops open. "You're here."
Barbara smiles broadly and pats Ben's shoulder. "Of course she's here. Frannie's been a rock through all this. I don't think we could have made it without her there, giving us hope you'd come back."
"Yes," Ben says thoughtfully. "So I've heard."
Bob carefully looks away.
"So, about our engagement..." Ben says, and Frannie feels the pit of her stomach drop like a two-ton rock. "We should probably set a date, don't you think?"
"Great idea!" Damien says, and everyone starts chattering about churches and color schemes and catering, and Frannie feels like she has just stepped right into the Twilight Area or something.
"You... you want to set a date?" she asks, just to be sure. "To marry me? Me, Francesca Vecchio?"
Bob laughs. "Such a kidder, this girl!"
"Shouldn't I?" Benton asks.
Ray's face is pale, but the set of his mouth is determined. "No, you should," he says. "Frannie'd be good for you, Benton-buddy. You deserve the best."
"You'd make each other happy," Maggie says softly. "That's a gift too large to squander--mine slipped through my fingers."
"Yes, just so. It has been... brought to my attention," Benton says, "that I may have been avoiding certain aspects of my life. I've had a lot of time to think, lately."
"You were in a coma," Frannie says.
"As you say," Ben nods. "I don't remember all of it, of course, but lovely weather."
Bob nods. "Crisp, clean, solid snow. Could sled for miles on that, with a good team of dogs."
"What?" Frannie asks, dazed.
"Will you marry me, Francesca Vecchio?" Benton asks.
"Oh, my God."
***
The ceremony is set to be pretty simple; Ben isn't the kind to go in for a lot of fuss, and Frannie... well, she used to dream of a big church wedding when she was a little girl, but that was a long time ago.
Barbara gives Frannie her antique gold watch to wear, Maggie runs to the gift shop to buy her a new floral arrangement for her hair, Brando lends her a blue pocket square from his suit jacket and the nurse who first accidentally outed Frannie's imaginary engagement, after recovering from her shock, borrows a white dress that's close to Frannie's size from the head of cardiology, who always keeps spare dress clothes in her office in case of emergencies.
Frannie bets she never counted on a wedding emergency.
She paces nervously out in the hall for a few minutes before she squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and walks down the aisle of the little chapel. The family is there, waiting for her, and Frannie bites her lip as she passes them by.
Benton is there too, standing at the altar, still hooked up to an IV drip but with Brando's suit jacket draped over his broad shoulders. He looks unreal; magical. Perfect.
Frannie stops.
"Everyone, I--I object!" she cries.
They all look at her, startled.
"You object?" asks the chaplain.
"Yeah, I... listen," she says. "I'm not who you think I am. I mean, I am who you think I am, but I'm not what you think I am."
"What?" asks Mort, confused.
"Hey, Mort, did you take your heart medication today? How are you feeling? You feeling good?"
Mort nods, so Frannie takes a deep breath and carries on.
"I'm sorry, but I can't marry you," she tells Benton.
"Frannie!" Barbara gasps.
"I'm really sorry," Frannie tells her. "About you most of all, but I--I'm in love with your son."
"Well, good!" Barbara says. "So what are you waiting for?"
"Not that one!" Frannie points at her Prince Charming. "That one."
Ray's face lights up like it did when she walked into the room that morning, and Frannie feels an answering burst of love in her chest.
"And we..." she turns back to Benton, who is simply standing there, expressionless. "I really was in love with you. Maybe I still am. But you were a fairy tale. I made you up because it was safer to love you and never speak to you than to meet someone real and try to make it work and--and I'm so sorry."
She turns back to the family, sitting wide-eyed.
"I never meant to lie to you. There was just a mix-up in the hospital that first day, and I wasn't quick enough to set things straight, and then I fell in love with you. All of you. I went from being all alone to being a daughter again, and a sister, a granddaughter, a fiancée and a friend. And I just couldn't let that go. But it was all a lie, because I'm--I was never engaged to you, Benton. I've never even talked to you before today."
There is a long, shocked silence in the chapel.
"I know that, Frannie," Benton says simply. "It's all right."
"I knew that, too," Bob says. "That's no reason not to marry the boy!"
"Me, too," Maggie says.
"And me," adds Ray.
"What? Wait, you--you all knew?" Frannie says.
"We're all cops, Frannie," Maggie points out. "It's kind of our job. But we figured you would be happy this way. You'd both make each other happy, and my brother hasn't let himself have that for so long."
"This is the craziest wedding I have ever been to," says the chaplain. "And I used to work in Vegas!"
"I'm really sorry," Frannie says, backing away from the altar. "I'm just... so sorry."
She walks away, and the family bursts into agitated chatter behind her.
***
Frannie takes a few days off work; visits her mother's grave and tells her the whole crazy tale, calls her sister in California, talks to a travel agent, takes down the little Christmas tree in her apartment. The season's over now. She turns off her answering machine.
She's back at work the next Monday, trading money for tokens, and it seems like years have gone by but it was barely over a week in reality.
Someone taps on the window of her booth, and she looks up from her token-dazed contemplation of the trip she's finally going to take to Florence next month.
The Kowalskis and Frasers are there, smiling widely. Diefenbaker jumps up, paws on the narrow ledge, so he can look up into the booth with a doggy grin.
Ray steps forward. "Hey," he says. "Would you maybe like to go out with us sometime? We could... see what happens."
Frannie gapes.
Ray smiles a little bit. "I used to believe in fairy tales, too," he says. He trades a smile with Benton and looks back at her. "So, what do you say?"
Ray, Benton, Barbara, Damien, Bob, Mort, Maggie, Brando and Dief are all looking at her expectantly, and Frannie can hardly speak through the knot in her throat.
"Yes," she says.
Author's Note: I adore "While You Were Sleeping," and this is my own little Due South spin on it. Hope you enjoyed!
]]>defenestrate (dee-FEN-uh-strayt) verb
To throw someone or something out of a window.
From the Latin de- (out of) + fenestra (window).
kerfuffle (kuhr-FUHF-uhl) noun
A commotion.
Of uncertain origin, perhaps from Scots curfuffle, from fuffle (to disorder).
infatuation (in-fach-oo-EY-shuhn) noun
A foolish or all-absorbing passion.
From the Latin infatuatus (make a fool of).
excoriate (ik-SKOHR-ee-eyt) verb
To denounce or berate severely; flay verbally.
From the Latin excoriatus (to strip, to skin).
bellicose (BEL-i-kohs) adjective
Inclined or eager to fight; aggressively hostile; belligerent; pugnacious.
From the Latin bellicosus (pertaining to war).
accoutrement (uh-KOO-ter-muhnnt) noun
An accessory item of equipment or dress.
From the French accoutrement, earlier also accoustrement. See accounter.
catalyst (KAT-l-ist) noun
A person or thing that precipitates an event or change.
Formed in English (an analogy of analyst) from Greek kata (down) + -lysis (a loosening).
competent (KOM-pi-tuhnt) adjective
Having suitable or sufficient skill, knowledge, experience, etc., for some purpose; properly qualified.
From the Latin competere (to be suitable).
]]>
Fraser lowered the eyeglass, and said one word to Dief. "Go! "
Dief
tore off, skating over the deep drifts which the man below them had to
plough through. By the time Fraser caught up in the thinner snow on the
steepening slope, Dief had him cornered, but he was still trying to
edge backwards and away.
"Easy there!" Fraser slowed. "I don't think you want to do that."
"Huh? I been running from you for five hundred miles, and you think I should stop now?"
He held out his hand placatingly. "Son, there's something I want you to consider. My father gave me one piece of advice. He said always ... no, he said never ... Well, actually he gave me two pieces of advice, and the first one is, never chase a man over a cliff."
The man frowned. "Yeah?"
"Obviously your father didn't give you the other piece of advice; so let me. You should never let a man chase you over a cliff, either."
The man looked behind him. "Oh..."
Fraser caught him as he toppled in a faint, one foot from the edge.
Two days later he steered the sled into Dawson City, grateful to see the flags flying over the RCMP outpost, but also somewhat regretful. His position as CO at Fort McPherson had sadly constrained him from the sort of endeavour he'd just undertaken: it was hard to reconcile the regular deskwork of a commander with a headlong chase through the wilderness, tracking down a malfeasant. Luckily, he'd already had a chance to fully brief his successor, Corporal Postlethwaite, before setting off in pursuit. It had only taken three weeks to catch up with the poacher: time he had to spare, since his posting to Beaver Creek would not come into effect until the beginning of the new year.
The young constable on the desk was rather surprised, he suspected, to have him stagger in with a man slung over his shoulders.
"Corp - Sergeant Fraser! They've been looking all over for you! Search and rescue and all the rest!"
By
the time he'd put the dogs in the kennels behind the station and gotten
the prisoner booked and in the holding cell, Constable Deane (or Evelyn
as her friends called her - Fraser spotted her name on the Christmas
cards decorating her desk) had recovered enough to hand him a stack of
telephone messages. "Constable Tetlichi sent these for you, Sir. In
case you made it this far." He could almost hear the unspoken addendum,
alive.
The first few were congratulations
from a variety of colleagues on his promotion. He tucked Buck
Frobisher's securely in his breast pocket, where he kept Ray Vecchio's
last few letters. The later messages, though, were a series from Ray
Kowalski, each bearing an increasingly pointed variation on the same
theme. The last one read, Get your tail over here!
He tapped the paper thoughtfully with his fingers. "Would you be so kind as to find out for me, Constable, if there are any more flights to Fairbanks this evening?"
At his knee, Diefenbaker grumbled. Absently Fraser fondled his ears.
"Stop fretting: you won't have to go into quarantine for Christmas. I took the precaution of packing the permit Ray got for you in with our things before we set off."
"Yes, it's highly likely that you are the only canine in Canada with an American visa. But that's no reason to brag."
"No, having a visa does not entitle you to a share in the Christmas pudding."
With a wuff of protest, Diefenbaker pointedly turned his back, so Fraser looked out the window again.
From
the tiny cockpit, the ground below was lush with forest in comparison
to the tundra around Tuktoyaktok, though Fraser suspected a Chicagoan
unused to the north would view it as a stunningly barren wasteland. On
the higher elevations, the fir trees gave way to rock, all blanketed in
snow. The lakes were frozen into ice; the solitary road was
indistinguishable from the creeks running between the trees.
The border itself was an irrelevance: there was no sign of man's artificial separation of one territory from another.
There
was a smell of pine and woodsmoke. The hallway was unlit, but a door
was ajar and light spilled into the darkened sitting room, along with
the murmur of voices in quiet conversation. He recognised Ray's voice
easily, yet it took him a second to realise that the other man was Ray
Vecchio. He had not heard Ray's voice for nearly two years. Fraser
stopped by the doorway, unwilling to interrupt what must be a private
discussion.
Dief, however, had no such inhibitions: he pushed through the door. It swung wide open.
Fraser stood, incapable of not staring.
The bed was wide ("big as a boxing ring," Ray had told him, waggling his eyebrows as if to suggest other ways they could spar, making Fraser laugh). In it the two men lay, bared to the waist, the sheets pulled down around them. One dark head against the pillows, one light. Ray Vecchio's hand lay loosely on Ray Kowalski's arm; they were turned toward each other, and there was such an intimacy to their postures, such absorption in one another, that Fraser's breath caught.
Then
Dief threw himself onto the bed, barking excitedly, and the tableau
dissolved. Kowalski jerked upright. "Dief! Dief! Down, you stupid wolf!
Fraser? Where - ?" A moment later he was flinging his arms around
Fraser, still stark naked, his embrace strong. "You coulda called, you
freak! Don't they got phones in Canada no more?" He forestalled any
answer by putting his mouth squarely over Fraser's and pushing his
tongue in. Out of the corner of his eye Fraser caught the movement of
Ray Vecchio getting up; but Kowalski was insistent, claiming back his
attention with lips and teeth and hands. There was a taste on him, one
Fraser knew from the times Ray had swallowed his semen and then come
back up to kiss him with it smeared on his lips; yet this was
intriguingly, subtly different. The taste, the smell - both made
Fraser's head swim.
It seemed like minutes before Ray pulled back. "Bet Dief's hungry," there was the expected yip of agreement for that, "so lemme feed him and stick this away." Quick fingers had already stripped Fraser's coat from his grasp. "Vecchio, say hello to the guy while I'm gone."
Fraser
straightened his spine and turned to face Ray. The things that struck
him immediately were how much Ray had changed - hairline receding, a
beard dotted with grey -
- but, even so, how much he remained the same. His eyes, so familiar, so dear. "Hello, Ray."
Ray had belted a dressing gown around himself while Kowalski kept Fraser occupied, and was hunched into it now, weariness, wariness and mortification in his bent shoulders: everything that Fraser himself would have felt in a similar situation. And yet...Fraser could have sworn there was an eagerness to him, laced into the apprehension. "Hey, Benny. It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too."
"Yeah?" Ray scrubbed a hand over his beard. "This is not... we tried to get ahold of you, Benny, honest to God."
"I know, Ray," Fraser said gently.
"And with Kowalski - It got out of hand so fast, you know?"
At that Fraser had to smile. "Things often do, with him."
"Knew you two would hit it off." Kowalski sauntered back in. "Hey, Fraser, I got a Christmas present for you. Wanna unwrap it? But you got to be real careful - treat it nice. It's kinda fragile still." He leaned forward and took a kiss from Vecchio, very fast, and then when Vecchio's mouth had dropped open in shock, he took another, long and slow and deliberate. When he pulled back, Fraser was breathing quickly; he supposed by the stunned look on Vecchio's face that he had lost his breath entirely. "Nice, huh?"
"Ray - " Fraser twisted a finger in his collar, still unused to how quickly arousal could come upon him.
With a wicked grin, Ray pushed Vecchio between the shoulderblades so he stumbled forward, stopping just shy of Fraser's chest. "I got him special for you."
Fraser could not let that go unchallenged. "Ray, I rather think Ray - Ray Vecchio, that is to say - might have his own ideas on the matter. People cannot be given as presents, like snowmobile parts."
At that Ray Vecchio seemed to recover his breath, for he held up his hands and said, "Hey! Wait a minute," spinning towards Ray Kowalski, "and yeah, that means you." When he turned back to Fraser, he looked deadly serious. "Yeah, he can't give me away. But he's just telling you what I shoulda told you years ago, if I'd had the sense to work it out myself. So I'm offering, alright?" Fraser watched Ray swallow, pupils almost obscuring the green of his eyes. "If you want it - if he wants it - it's yours." He pulled on the belt of the bathrobe, and let it swing open. Like a page disrobing his master, Ray Kowalski slipped it from his shoulders, and bared him to Fraser's gaze.
"Ray..." And now it was Fraser who had to swallow. He reached an unsteady hand up to stroke Ray's temple.
"Score one for me on choosing presents," Ray Kowalski said with quiet satisfaction.
Fraser was on his side in the center of the bed. Beneath his hip
there was a patch of damp: he'd rubbed a thumb over it climbing in, and
now the scent of it was on his fingers, and under his nose.
Kowalski had asked Vecchio, "You or me?" and Vecchio had said, voice quavering a little, "Better be you. I still don't know half of what I'm doing here," and then Kowalski had gotten into the bed behind Fraser and spooned up to him.
Fraser knew what was to follow. He was trembling already.
The bedsheets rustled, Ray Vecchio sliding tentatively in. "Hey, Benny."
"Hey, Ray."
Behind them Ray Kowalski chuckled. "Aren't you guys done with that already?"
But it was a re-establishment of contact that Fraser was much in need of, for he'd never - well, alright, he'd rarely - considered himself in this position, about to have sex with one man in the presence of another. The very thought of exposing himself so to a stranger was anathema. When that man was Ray, the thought made his stomach curl in unfettered excitement.
A prompt from Ray behind him, and he swung his leg forward, hesitating for a moment before resting his calf on Ray Vecchio's thigh. The fine hairs on their legs clung, tickling. Greatly daring, Fraser let his fingers follow, to skirt over thigh and hip and finally groin, Ray Vecchio watching him all the while with wonder in his eyes. Ray Vecchio's pubic hair was rougher than Ray Kowalski's: yet another difference to savour.
Ray Kowalski's long fingers began to work, and Fraser sighed.
He was being breached. Fraser's hands were curled into fists, his eyes screwed shut; he was aware of Ray Vecchio's fingers stroking delicately over his sex, and the contrast between the gentle, considerate touch in front and the sharp burn behind was more than Fraser could easily absorb. He groaned, pushing against Ray's hand.
"Kowalski." There was an undercurrent of anxiety in Ray's voice. "Take it easy. You're hurting him."
Ray gasped in at the end of his stroke. "Nah. Likes it this way. Specially if it's been a while." He pulled out, pushed back in hard. "Says he - wants to feel - where I was - inside." Fraser was helpless to stop his own whimper.
That was what fucking was. To show
yourself in your true colours: your perversions, your lack of control,
your overwhelming greed. It was disturbing that Ray Kowalski already
knew these things about him; distressing, that they were on such open
display to Ray Vecchio; worst, that the thought of both these things
made his heart pound faster, brought his orgasm closer.
"Christ, Fraser." Ray Vecchio placed his mouth on Fraser's, tongue licking in. "What you do... "
Fraser started to come. "Oh, Christ, yes," Vecchio whispered against his skin.
Long before dawn Fraser woke Ray Vecchio with his
tongue on Ray's penis, indulging himself in the soft sensation of it
growing to fullness in his mouth. Ray Kowalski was usually too sleepy
to allow him this pleasure so early in the day. Ray Vecchio sighed and
whispered drowsy encouragement, then curled up back to sleep against
Kowalski's warmth when Fraser was finished with him.
He took Dief for a walk in the fresh, sharp air and came back two hours later, bearing doughnuts and hot buns.
"I think I would like to join the Canadian section of your task force," he said, eyeing the excess grease on his bun (he had made the error of allowing Kowalski free rein with the butter knife).
"Huh,"
Ray Kowalski said. "You mean, instead of the posting to Beaver Creek?"
He looked like a little boy, with suger sprinkled on his chin.
"We need all the good guys we can get," Ray Vecchio said. "But you gotta have someone to vouch for you, Benny. The RCMP get a little touchy if we try and tell them who to send from their team."
Fraser felt his ears turn a little pink. "I think Buck Frobisher might recommend me. And it's just possible," he said carefully, "that my... recent escapade might have convinced them I'd be better off in another position. Something with a little more scope for - "
"Freaky weirdness?"
"Seriously strange goings-on?"
"Bizarro partnerships?"
"Wildly dangerous ways?"
"All out insanity?"
He put down the bun and wiped his fingers. "For creative policing," he said, and primly shook his napkin free of crumbs.
Fraser's wearing the serge, of course, and Vecchio bought a new suit for the occasion. Ray doesn't have to give a speech, but he wants to show that he means business. So he's dug out his dark blue suit - the one Vecchio says makes him look like a mobster, and Fraser says compliments his eyes. He's gelled his hair extra stiff, he's wearing his blue flip ups over his glasses, and he's standing to the right of the podium like a bodyguard, hands folded and legs wide apart.
Good thing he went for the flip ups. The glare of the morning sun on all those Mountie uniforms could give a man a serious headache.
Fraser's up first, on behalf of Canada. He doesn't use notes, but his briefing on the organisation of the new task force, how it fits in with the IBET mission and what section of the border it's gonna cover, is so clear half the guys in the audience are nodding their heads in agreement before he's half done. When he starts in with an Inuit thing, though, Vecchio coughs into his hand until Fraser gives up the mike. Vecchio's speech coulda gone on for hours, except Ray threw the notes for it into the fireplace this morning 'by accident', because he's heard Vecchio reciting it for the last month and it gets more wooden every time. Vecchio yelled at him and Fraser said Oh, Ray! a lot, but he figures the rest of the audience have more to thank him for than they will ever know. Vecchio's charming when he's operating on nerves and fear.
They have to schmooze afterwards, the part Ray
really hates. It's late afternoon before the fleet of fifteen-seaters
from Fairbanks land on Beaver Creek's tiny runway, and half the guys
vanish. The RCMP crowd disperses more randomly, some in buses for the
five hour drive down to Whitehorse, some in light planes up to Inuvik
or Tuk or Norman Wells.
A few poor suckers are staying overnight in Beaver Creek before facing the eight-hour drive across the border into Alaska, up to Tetlin Junction, then over the border again at Boundary on to Dawson City. Ray doesn't quite get how Fraser persuaded the IBET guys to authorise that ("A thorough inspection and reconsideration of the immigration post at Border is long overdue, Ray,") but he's sure Mrs Martin at the Beaver Creek Inn is grateful for the traffic this early in the season.
In fact, she smuggles Dief a few cookies as a thankyou. Ray filches one too.
Then the work is done, done, done, and they can go about their own business.
First
off, they wander into the hangar by the airstrip, where Bill Hutton has
his old Cessna 172. "How much is he asking, again?" Vecchio asks, while
Fraser peers into the engine compartment and Dief pees on the starboard
wheel.
"$45,000," Ray says, "US."
"That's
a thousand bucks for every year it's been around!" Vecchio says
indignantly. "What's he gonna do when it hits the hundred? Pay off his
mortgage?"
Fraser dusts his hands on his jeans, having changed out of the serge at the Inn. "The mileage isn't too bad for an aircraft this age, Ray, but the O-300A engines do need more frequent overhauls than the Lycoming O-320's they fitted a decade later. You'll spend a fair bit of time under the hood."
Ray and Vecchio look at each other. "No problem," they chorus. It's like being offered a great big Erector set.
By the time they climb back in the Jeep they've agreed that they'll offer Hutton $40,000 if he throws in a bunch of spares he has behind the hangar, and that Vecchio will do the bargaining. To each man according to his strengths.
It takes them three quarters of an
hour to reach the Alcan border, twenty miles north along Highway 1,
because Fraser insists on stopping to check in with the Corporal at the
RCMP post. The sun is low on the horizon now, and the temperature's
busy dropping down to zero.
Fahrenheit.
Fraser turns off up a dirt track that edges along the border for a mile, and then pulls in. To the west, the land flattens slightly, with a wide, bare patch where a rocky outcrop has been smooched by a passing glacier. Beyond that there are trees again, and once they turn off the engine Ray can hear the trickle of water.
Dief takes off when they get out, chasing the long shadows of a pair of circling eagles. "So where's the border?" Vecchio asks, hands deep in his pockets.
Fraser takes a stick and scratches a line on the ice coating the rock. "Roughly here, Ray. To within sixty centimeters."
"We can stick a windmill up there," Ray offers, pointing up to the ridgeline above them. "A shed for a hangar there," he gestures east, "and the cabin in the trees."
"Lots of timber," Vecchio notes. "No shortage of stuff to build with. How much of this would be ours?"
While they've been looking around, Ray realises, Fraser's been watching both of them, showing all the signs of being on edge. Now he tugs at his sweater neck and rubs his eyebrow, his usual tells. "Fourteen acres on the Alaskan side, Ray, and one hundred hectares on the Canadian."
"Huh." Ray's getting better at kilo-thingies and centi-thingies, but he still ain't so good on the squares. "That's what? Another ten acres?"
Fraser's getting real uncomfortable now, rubbing his eyebrow harder. "A hectare is two point four seven acres, so one hundred of them is about twentyfive acres - " Vecchio gives a low whistle, being not so geographically challenged as Ray, " - or about half a square mile."
Ray wants to sit down suddenly. But he doesn't, because the rock is hard and the ice is cold and his ass will get wet. "Half of a square mile. We could own half - three-quarters of a square mile, all in all."
"It's a great extravagance," Fraser says earnestly, "far more than we need. But it's the first pair of lots I've found stradding the border, much less this close to the highway; and the owner refuses to break up the parcel. We could afford both it and the plane if we took out a small mortgage. Given the size - it's quite reasonably priced, Ray, Ray." He looks from one to the other of them, like one of Dief's puppies begging for a turn in the harness.
And hey, that's all it takes; because Fraser never asks for himself and neither of them can ever refuse him.
Vecchio exchanges a secret nod with Ray, then they both look up to where the sun is dipping behind a distant, snowy peak. "Yeah, Frase. It sounds just grand."
"Fraser," he said to the desk, "I'm exhausted. I do not have the energy to be interpreting Mountie sighs. What's your problem?"
"I can't find my hat."
"That's tragic. Really tragic. How about I help
you look for it after I take a quick nap?" He settled in again. Come hell
or highly annoying Mountie, he was determined to catch some Zs before the Lieu
showed up demanding results on the homicide he'd caught yesterday.
"Understood," replied Fraser, but he
followed it up with another, even more heart-rending sigh. Lessons from Turnbull,
no doubt.
"That's great. Just great," Ray said,
lifting his head from the desk. "Are you sure you were even wearing the
hat today--uh, yesterday? I don't remember you wearing the hat."
"You haven't slept since yesterday. You don't
even remember where your desk is."
"Hardy-har-har. My desk is right here," he
said, pointing, "where my head should be." He started lowering his
head back onto said desk. Fraser was perfectly capable of finding his own damn
hat.
"Actually, you're seated at Detective Dewey's
desk. I find it an odd choice, considering how often you complain of his
personal hygiene."
Ray jumped up and started brushing Dewey germs off
himself. "Aw, dammit, Fraser. You knew I was touching that disease
factory, and you didn't tell me? That is not buddies. Goddammit--I put my face
on it. I'm probably going to get face Ebola."
"It's very unlikely Detective Dewey has
contracted Ebola. I spoke with him for several minutes earlier. He wasn't
exhibiting any observable symptoms. I suppose he could still be in the
incubation period, or perhaps, he's just being unusually stoic about the
initial symptoms which are much like the common flu. If he begins vomiting
excessively or exhibits a maculopapular rash--"
"OK! Aright! I'll help you find the damn
hat."
"Thank you, Ray." Fraser smiled his most
benign, Canadian smile, but Ray wasn't fooled.
"Damn, passive-aggressive..."
"What was that?" asked Fraser, innocently.
Ray made a face. "I said, 'You're welcome. Can't
wait to assist you in this noble endeavor.'" He smiled meanly, then went
back to scowling. "Where's the last place you saw it? Allegedly."
"There. On your desk," said Fraser. He
looked at Ray pointedly. Then back at the desk. Then back to Ray.
"What? I didn't take it."
Fraser said nothing in reply, merely raising an eyebrow.
Ray crossed his arms and glared back at him. Two could play that
game.
"Perhaps
you moved it while looking for something? Your desk is somewhat...organizationally
challenged."
"I
didn't move your hat. I didn't touch your hat. I didn't see your hat."
"I left it on your desk."
"I didn't steal your hat, crazy Mountie."
"I didn't say you stole it, Ray. But perhaps as
one of your funny American jokes--"
"You got me, Frase. I was keeling over exhausted
from investigating Mrs. Thelma O'Grady's murder for most of the day and
interrogating her scumbag son-in-law half the night and then, on my way to
la-la-land, I decided 'hey, I'll play a quick game of Stash the Stetson before
I pass out on Dewey's desk.'" He stuck his hands out. "Cuff me. Take
me away. I confess!" Maybe he could sleep in his cell.
Fraser blinked. "You need sleep, Ray."
"Ya think?"
"I do indeed." Fraser stepped forward and
placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "As soon as we find my hat, you can
take a nap."
"You're a real pal."
"Thank you, Ray. I consider you to be a 'pal' as
well. Now, I think it's best if we begin our investigation by retracing my
steps..."
* *
"While you were guiding Mr. Hayden through
booking," said Fraser, "I was logging in the knife we recovered from his
toaster."
"Uh-huh," said Ray absently. Before
following Fraser into the evidence lock-up, he stopped to shake himself awake
and straighten his hair. Officer Pineda was on duty. She had long, curly, red
hair that she pulled back in a sexy Librarian bun when she was at work, and
best of all, Ray had smiled at her twice
since she was transferred to the 27 and hadn't gotten the stink-eye in return.
Ray strolled into the room, real casual-like and gave
Pineda his
best I'm-a-competent-professional-and-a-sexy-bad-boy-action-hero-detective
smile. She smiled back, and he did an internal victory dance. Now he just had
to make it to her desk and ask her out without making an idiot of himself. Or
Fraser making an idiot of him. He glanced over at Fraser...who was on his hands
and knees in the corner, sniffing the floor.
Ray rushed over and yanked him up. "Fraser," he
hissed, "Don't embarrass me in front of the pretty lady."
"Can I embarrass you in front of women you don't find
attractive?" whispered Fraser.
"Yes!" he whispered back, "Just act normal for the
next five minutes until I get Pineda to agree to go out with me, then you can
sniff garbage, lick dirty floors and talk to the air--and Dief--all you want.
Cross my heart."
Fraser shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't in good
conscience accept your offer."
"Why not?" Ray thought it was a pretty good bargain.
"I'm not entirely clear on what you consider normal," answered
Fraser.
Behind them, Pineda burst out laughing. They both
whipped around.
"Uh. Hehe. I guess sound travels in this... small room,"
said Ray, "And you're not deaf, and that's good--not that I got anything against
the deaf." Shit! He couldn't stop talking! "I love the deaf--I mean I like them
just fine. I like them the amount it's normal to like them. I mean--
"I believe Detective Vecchio is trying to say he finds
you very attractive and intelligent, as well as a fine officer, and
he would be honored if you would agree to accompany him to dinner and dancing
at your earliest convenience," said Fraser.
"Uh. Yeah. What he said." Ray tipped his head toward
Fraser.
"Dinner and
dancing? I could hardly turn down such an opportunity," Pineda said, still
grinning. "How about this Friday? Say,
"It's a date," said Ray. "And I swear I'll have my
mouth working again by then. Probably."
"I hope so," she replied and gave Ray a look that he
was kind of embarrassed and kind of proud to know Fraser was also seeing. They stared at each other a
few more moments, until Fraser, who Ray noticed was looking a little red in the
face, killed the moment.
"Have--have you seen my hat? I may have inadvertently
set it down in here approximately ten-twenty-two yesterday evening while you
were helping me log in the evidence from case 98-004792. It's a size 7, 1/8
official RCMP Stetson. Light tan, flat-brimmed, 100% felt with--"
"Fraser, she knows what your hat looks like. Everyone
knows what your hat looks like."
"Sorry, Constable. I haven't seen it." She smiled
again. Ray really liked her smile. He'd like to see it in a more intimate-type
setting.
"Are you quite certain? Perhaps it was mistaken for
evidence and logged in."
Ray snapped out of his daydream. "Fraser, no one
mistook your hat for evidence."
"How can you be sure of that?" replied Fraser.
Ray opened his mouth, then closed it and threw up his
hands. Sometimes,
it was best to accept the inevitable with Fraser. It usually saved him a
lecture on proper procedure or an Eskimo story, sometimes both.
And so he waited twenty minutes, leaning against the
wall, trying to sleep standing up, while Pineda very patiently checked all
twenty-six evidence boxes that had been logged in since Fraser's visit.
Fraser's hat wasn't in any of them--of
course--and when she emerged from the back room with Fraser, Pineda's
formerly brilliant smile was showing signs of strain.
"Hey...so...
"Thank you, Officer," said Fraser. "I'm impressed with
your dedication to duty. I feel confident it's safe to depart for the next
destination on our agenda." The last words were shouted in Pineda's general direction from the
hallway.
"Which is?" Ray sighed.
"The men's rest room."
"The bathroom?"
"Yes, after logging in the evidence, I heeded a
call of nature."
Ray followed him down the hallway, rolling his eyes.
"You mean you had to take a piss."
"One needn't be crude."
"This one needn't be awake," Ray
reminded him.
"Understood."
* *
"Maybe she just likes cats." Jack Huey's voice wafted
out from one of the stalls, as Ray followed Fraser into the men's room.
Ray really hoped Fraser wasn't going to crawl around
on the bathroom floor. He may not be the hygiene king, but Ray had some standards. Besides, his stomach was
already churning from too much coffee and too little food. If Fraser licked anything in
the bathroom, Ray would not responsible for any barfing that might occur.
"No, that's what I'm telling you," Dewey replied
from the other stall. "She has three dogs. No cats."
"That doesn't mean she doesn't like cats," said
Jack.
"If
she liked cats, she'd have cats! She's a dog woman. And that purse is
obviously--"
"Maybe it was a gift. From a beloved aunt."
Ray wondered what they were arguing about this time.
No, strike that--he didn't care. "Hey, duckheads, you seen Fraser's hat?"
"What, in here?" asked Dewey. Ray
kicked the door to his stall.
"What's your problem, Vecchio?"
"You." Duh.
"Hey, Ray," said Jack, emerging from his stall. "Our
vic's girlfriend is carrying around a purse with a bunch of cats embroidered on
it. Tell my idiot partner it's a purse, not a clue."
"But the dogs!" shouted Dewey. Ray kicked his door
again.
"Does the artwork on the purse depict cartoon cats or
real cats?" asked Fraser. Everyone turned to look at him.
"Uh...real, I guess?" replied Jack. "It kind of looks
like a Normal Rockwell painting. Except with cats. They're sitting at a booth,
eating ice creams and sipping sodas in one of those old-fashioned diners."
"Hmm," said Fraser.
"Ha! I was right," yelled Dewey. He flew out of
the stall, still zipping his pants up. "It's a clue. She did it!"
"You really think it's something?" Jack asked
Fraser. He got his notebook out.
Fraser looked thoughtful. "No, but it reminds me
of the handbag Turnbull purchased for his mother's birthday. Hideous. She
apparently agreed. Turnbull was quite devastated."
Jack sighed and put his notebook away. "Thanks a
lot, Fraser."
"Oh, anytime. Have either of you seen my hat?
I--or someone--" He looked at Ray. Ray glared back. "--seems to have...misplaced
it."
Neither Jack nor Dewey had seen Fraser's hat, and they
left the bathroom still debating whether or not the cat purse was important.
Ray noticed Dewey didn't wash his hands. He further realized he hadn't washed
his own hands or his face since his
up-close-and-person encounter with Dewey's stink. He made a beeline for the
sink while Fraser examined every nook and cranny of the bathroom.
Ray finished up only to discover Fraser trying to look
inside the paper towel dispenser. Ray stared, wondering how long it had been
since Fraser'd gotten any sleep.
Maybe he needed one of his little power naps.
"Fraser. Your hat ain't that small and the
bathroom ain't that big. Where to next?"
"I suppose you're right. Let's see...I finished
my ablutions--"
"In the bathroom? Gross."
"--and then went in search of you." Fraser
left the bathroom, with Ray in not-so-hot pursuit. "I thought you'd still
be at Central Booking, so I headed in that direction, but then I heard you
taunting the suspect and deduced you had progressed to the holding cell."
"Hey! I was not taunting him. I was prepping him. For
the interrogation."
"You were making fun of his pants."
"They're plaid. Who wears plaid pants? That is
just not right. Not even on a golf course."
"Mr. Hayden plays golf?"
"No."
Fraser frowned slightly, the Canadian version of
'you're very annoying.'
"I know the feeling," said Ray.
* *
"Hey! I want a lawyer! I'm not staying in here
another minute!"
Ray reached through the bars of the holding cell and
grabbed Glenn Hayden by the shirt. He slammed him against the bars.
"Listen, scumbag. We found a trail of blood leading to a bloody knife in
your toaster the same day your mother-in-law was stabbed to death. You'll get
your public defender when he or she gets here, but in the meantime and even
after that, you ain't going nowhere. So unless you changed your mind and want
to confess, shut the fuck up!" Ray let him go, then stalked off to the far
corner of the room. Damn, he was exhausted.
"Ray, there's no need to curse at the young
man," Fraser admonished him. "I'm sure he's sorry for what he's
done."
"Yeah," said Hayden, "I'm sorry--Hey! I'm not sorry! I haven't done
anything to be sorry for. I wasn't
even home when she was killed."
"That's great, dipshit," said Ray
"'Cause she wasn't killed at your
house."
"I wasn't at her house either!"
"Nor was she killed at her house," said
Fraser.
"You--You--both of you--stop trying to confuse me! I
know how this works! You're trying to trick me into saying I killed that bitch!
Well, I didn't! I thought about it a
million times, and I'll shake the hand of whoever finally did in that meddling
old crone, but it wasn't me. I'm not going down for it!" He stalked to the
back of the cell and slammed down onto the rickety cot.
Ray watched the outburst from his corner. A night in
jail was finally loosening Hayden's tongue. He'd interrogated Hayden
for two hours, and this was the first time Hayden even admitted to disliking
his mother-in-law--like most everyone else in her life--much less wanting to kill
her. But he still wasn't saying what Ray wanted to hear--a confession--and worst
of all, Ray had a hunch that Hayden wasn't the perp. The guy was definitely a
scumbag--Ray's scumbag-ometer was redlining. Unfortunately, his lie-ometer was
barely flickering. Hayden was probably telling the truth--at least about not
killing his mother-in-law.
Problem was, he was their only viable suspect so far. The
violence of the crime, the multiple stab wounds, and the very personal slashing
of the vic's face, indicated the killer was someone who knew the vic, Thelma
O'Grady, and was seriously pissed at her. Ray couldn't imagine anyone being
that pissed at a little old lady--until he'd met her daughter. She was a
first-class bitch with a serious case of the Better-Than-Yous. If the mother
was anything like the daughter but with twenty-five more years of self-centered
sourness added on, she'd be the kind of little old lady that even Fraser would
be tempted to throw under a bus rather than help across the street.
Ray had seen Fraser twitching with the desire to
lecture the daughter, Mrs. Ingrid Estelle O'Grady Hayden--'You may call me Mrs. Hayden, Officer.'-when
she'd gone on a tear, reaming the maid out right in front of them for spilling
some tea. They'd just finished delivering the bad news about her mom, when Mrs.
Hayden suddenly picked up a giant bell on the table next to her and rang it
loud enough to hear in
It turned out to be something of a lucky break. Fraser
was able to get some background info on the vic from the maid who, when
separated from her boss, was able to stop shaking long enough to answer a few
questions. Incredibly, she'd made excuses for Mrs. Hayden--Fraser'd said it was like
she was an abused women making excuses for her abuser. Fraser had listened
patiently then, no doubt politely, questioned the maid about her other boss's--Mrs.
O'Grady's--friends and enemies. Apparently, no one liked her, but it was
doubtful anyone hated her enough to kill her; it was easier to just ignore her.
The maid painted a picture of a mean old women who had long ago alienated
everyone and so lived a lonely, bitter life. It became slightly less lonely when
her daughter moved in after separating from her husband.
Ray, meanwhile, had continued trying to get info out
of the 'grieving' daughter; she turned out to be a lot more interested in how
soon mommy dearest's estate could be settled than in who killed her. Ray had
immediately inquired where Mrs. Hayden herself had been when her mother was
killed. She had informed him that she didn't appreciate his insinuation or his tone. He'd replied that she'd
like being arrested for obstruction even less. She'd then gleefully informed him
of her ironclad alibi, all but sticking her tongue out at him. She'd apparently
then realized it was a great opportunity to harass her (soon to be ex-) husband
and casually mentioned that he'd been "in trouble with the law" and
that he "despised mother."
A phone call to Frannie later, and they had the full
scoop on Mr. Glenn Hayden. Mr. Hayden's troubles with the law included nearly a
dozen arrests for assault, aggravated assault and assault with a deadly weapon.
Ray and Fraser had booked it over to Hayden's house, Ray intent on dragging him
to the station and interrogating him despite Fraser's reminder that Hayden had never
been convicted of anything. It was a moot point when they'd arrived to find a
trail of blood leading from his front door to the bloody knife in the kitchen.
Now it was the following morning. Hayden was safely
ensconced in a jail cell and finally talking after keeping mum for most of the
two-hour interrogation the night before. Ray frowned. A perfectly good scumbag,
and he turns out to be innocent. Probably.
"If it wasn't you, who was it?" Ray finally
replied. "Why don't you think about that while you wait for your lawyer."
Hayden gave him the finger. Ray returned the favor.
"C'mon, Fraser, the hat ain't in here. Let's go."
"We haven't checked the holding cell
thoroughly," said Fraser.
"The cell has bars," Ray explained. "We
can see through the bars. The hat
ain't in there."
"We can't see under the cot," Fraser said.
"Your hat is not--" Ray stopped. Accept the
inevitable, sleep sooner. He turned back to Hayden. "Hey, plaidboy,"
he said. "Get your butt off that cot and lift it up, so we can see under
it."
"Make me."
Ray rushed toward the cell, but Fraser grabbed him and
pulled him away.
"I suggest you do as my partner requests unless
you'd like him to kick you in the head. He has a fondness for threatening to do
so, and I am confident that one day he actually will." Ray nodded in
agreement. Damn straight he'd actually do it one day.
"I'm not afraid of your little sidekick!"
sneered Hayden.
"Sidekick!?" yelled Ray. "Let me at
him, Frase. I'm going to make him eat those pants."
Ray waited in the hallway, while Fraser finished
persuading Hayden to move the stupid cot. He paced back and forth, getting more
and more pissed.
He was nobody's sidekick. If anything, Fraser was his sidekick. Yeah. Ray was the main guy, the hometown hero. The badass
The truth was, he'd felt like a sidekick--just a
bit--since the first day he started working with Fraser. The stories about him
being some kind of Canadian Superman were practically true. Ray'd always
thought he was a pretty good cop, smart--well, street smart--and reasonably brave.
But when it came to working with Fraser, he was always a day late and five dollars
short. He was always chasing after Fraser, trying to keep up. Always one step
behind. Physically and mentally. It
sucked. Fraser was a great guy with a heart of gold, but he was also really
frigging annoying. Mostly because Fraser would never tell him what the hell was
going on. He would figure things out and keep them to himself, half the time. It
wasn't buddies.
When Fraser finally stepped into the hallway, Ray got
in his face.
"Let's get one thing straight, Fraser," snarled
Ray, I am not your sidekick."
Fraser looked at him blankly, hesitating before
finally saying, "Understood."
Ray narrowed his eyes. "What? Is that how you think of
me? Your little American sidekick?"
Fraser looked stricken. Hurt flashed across his face. Ray
instantly felt guilty. "Ray! Of course not. We're a team. A duet, remember? For
heaven's sake, why are you letting this particular miscreant's choice of
pejoratives get to you?"
"Aw, jeez, Fraser," said Ray. He blew out a
breath, letting the fight wash out of him. "I'm real sorry, buddy. I'm just tired, and he..."
Ray shrugged. "Button." A big, honking 'Ray is incompetent button,' that
Fraser was always pushing. It wasn't his fault though. Mostly.
Fraser looked down at his tunic buttons.
"Not those kind of buttons." Ray laughed. "Forget it.
We're cool. Temporary meltdown due to lack of sleep. Let's just find the hat.
Hey--why don't you just ask Dief to sniff it out? He already go home?"
Fraser tugged at his collar. "Ah. No. I believe he's
napping under your desk. I...haven't spoke with him for a few hours."
Ray smiled. This was going to be good. He looked at
Fraser, patiently waiting for the rest of the story.
Fraser quickly gave in. "Oh, alright," he said,
slouching ever so slightly in defeat. "He's not speaking to me. I put him
on a diet. A very healthy, nutritionally sound and tasty diet, I might add. Well, tasty to a wolf--a normal wolf."
"Dief ain't normal."
"Indeed. He claims he's experiencing delirium
tremens--the 'DTs'--due to donut withdrawal. He fakes a seizure whenever I try to
talk to him."
"Maybe I could talk to him," Ray said in
between bouts of laughter. "I could medit--medie--be your go between."
"No, thank you. Even if he agreed, I hardly think being indebted to him for finding my hat will improve his attitude. Let's just continue our search." He clasped his hands together and turned. "Now, after leaving Mr. Hayden in the holding cell, we briefed Lieutenant Welsh."
* *
"Detective!" barked Lieutenant Welsh.
Ray jumped up off the Lieu's sofa where he'd been
dozing. He looked around for Fraser, intending to glare at him for letting Ray
get caught sleeping in the boss's office while looking for his hat. Fraser was nowhere to be found, however, and the
Lieutenant's glowering face was demanding an explanation pronto.
"Uh. Yes, sir. Just waiting on your arrival, sir. So's
I could update you on the O'Grady case. Sir." He glanced at his watch, trying
to remember what time they'd gone into Welsh's office, the next stop on their
hat-seeking adventure. Ray couldn't have been sleeping that long. Where the
hell had Fraser gone? Maybe he was heeding nature's call again.
Welsh sighed irritably. "Well, get on with--Fraser! What are you doing under my
desk?"
Fraser popped up from behind Welsh's desk. "Good
morning, Lieutenant. I trust you slept well."
"I didn't get home until after
Ray slumped back onto the sofa and banged his head
against the wall a few times. The Lieutenant had only just got there, and he
was already in a worse mood then the time Frannie made him switch to fat-free
cream cheese.
"Indeed," answered Fraser. "I'm in search of my hat,
which is, as you may or may not know, an official part of my uniform, meaning
if I am unable to locate it--"
Ray could see Welsh was about to boil over, so he cut
Fraser off. "I clocked out at six. I was going to get some rest before getting
back on it, when Fraser shanghaied me into looking for his hat. Dief's not
talking to him, and he's convinced I hid it."
"The dog thinks you hid the Constable's hat?"
"Wolf," said Fraser.
"No," said Ray, "Fraser thinks--"
"Forget it," growled Welsh, "Upon reflection, I find I
don't care. Just give me your progress report and get out." He shooed
Fraser away from his desk. Fraser looked at him blankly before finally stepping
around the desk and standing at attention.
"Yes, sir," said Ray. "I questioned Hayden--"
"The vic's son-in-law?"
"Yeah. On his way to ex- son-in-law. He's
separated from the daughter for almost a year now--I sweated him for almost two
hours, but he didn't break. Said he didn't know how the knife got there, it
wasn't there before, I was asleep, I don't know nothing, blah blah bah, 'til he
finally wised up and lawyered up--public defender--but he ain't here yet.
He's--Hayden's still in holding. While we were on the great hat hunt of 1998,"
he continued, throwing a dirty look at Fraser, "we passed by him, and he
must've been rattled by the night in jail. He admitted spontaneous-like that he
hated dear old mommy-in-law and fantasized about killing her, but--" Ray
shrugged and shook his head.
"But, what, detective? I'm not a mime-reader."
"That's
very funny, sir."
"Thank
you, Constable."
Ray refrained from rolling his eyes at Welsh's comedic
stylings. "I don't think Hayden did it."
"Why not?"
Ray shrugged again. "I can't say yet. Just a feeling."
"Unless you've got some hard evidence that points to
someone else," Welsh said, his voice rising in irritation, "Hayden's history of
assault, admitted disdain for the deceased, and the bloody knife you found in
his kitchen trump your feeling."
Ray just nodded. No since poking the bear.
"What about you?" said Welsh, looking to
Fraser. "You concur with his 'feeling'?"
"I...don't disagree with the conclusions to which
Ray's feeling has led him." Ray translated in his head; Fraser was
agreeing with him.
"English, Constable." Welsh wasn't fluent in
Canadian.
"He means," said Ray, "he doesn't think
Hayden did it either, but he's got some fancy logical reason for it."
"Well, let's hear it." Welsh gestured
impatiently.
"Mr. Hayden clearly has a motive," Fraser
began, "and the knife is compelling evidence. I'm confident it is, in
fact, the murder weapon. However, why would Mr. Hayden kill Mrs. O'Grady in the
park then bring the murder weapon home? There are numerous locations in the
park itself--most noticeably the lake--as well as on the route from the park to
his home at which he could have easily and very likely permanently disposed of
the knife."
"That's it? That's all you got?" said Ray.
"Maybe he kept the knife for sentimental reasons. Maybe he's just stupid."
Fraser
frowned at him. "I would also question why Mr. Hayden
would leave such a glaringly obvious blood trail in his own home. From the
front door directly to the murder weapon." Fraser scoffed. "It's
absurd. No, I believe Mr. Hayden is being framed. You'll recall he was asleep
when we arrived. Someone made illicit ingress to his home and planted the
knife. We need to determine who."
"Anyone can fake being asleep," protested
Ray. "And the blood trail wasn't all that obvious. I didn't see it. You didn't see it. Dief was the one
pointed it out. And there was no sign of a break-in. You checked the doors and
windows yourself."
Ray flushed. "I know. I'm just being thorough, playing
devil's what's-it. Advocate."
Welsh stared for a few more moments, then shook his
and huffed out a breath. "You get prelim labs on the knife yet?" he
asked. "Are his prints on it?"
"We were just in the evidence lock-up," replied
Fraser. "The analyst hadn't yet picked up the knife."
"Great, so we don't even know if it's the same blood
type as the vic? I'll call Marie and light a fire under her department's ass.
What's his alibi?"
"Uh--he wasn't too clear on that, sir," said Ray. "Kind
of squirrelly about the whole thing. I think he was doing something he
shouldn't, just not killing his mother-in-law."
"Hmmph. Go talk to his boss, his friends, the wife
again if you have to. Figure out where he was. If you're right, and he's not
our guy, I want to know yesterday.
I'll have Ms. Vecchio call you when the labs come in."
Ray considered mentioning his lack of sleep, thought
better of it, and just nodded. "Aye-aye, sir."
"Lieutenant, if I may, Ray is in dire need of--"
"Coffee," interrupted Ray, glaring at Fraser. As
if Fraser didn't need sleep too. "I'll
grab some on the way."
Fraser made his 'but,
Ray' face. Ray glared harder and shook his head.
Fraser rolled his eyes - 'you're being childish, Ray.' Ray responded by sticking out his
tongue. 'I'll show you childish.'
"As entertaining as this isn't," interrupted
Welsh. "I'd like to hear what the Constable has to say."
"Ah," said Fraser. "Indeed." Ray gave him a
warning look. "Ray is in dire need of...my assistance on this case, so I
shall--ah, assist him."
"That's wonderful news. Thank you for your generosity," Welsh said, eyes
narrowed. "The Chicago Police Department is fortunate to have someone such
as yourself to assist us with our dire needs," he added. Ray closed his
eyes.
"Think nothing of it," Fraser replied,
"That reminds me--I have some home-made antacid that I think would be very
effective in liberating you from your digestive distress. It's made from ginger
and ground Walrus' kidneys. It also helps clogged sinuses, and if applied
topically, it can be quite effective in alleviating muscle soreness."
Ray
covered his face.
Welsh yelled, "FRANCESCA!"
Frannie popped her head in. "You
bellowed?"
"Get me Marie Baclao on the line."
She saluted Welsh sarcastically, then turned to
Fraser, stepping in close. "Good morning, Fraser."
Fraser tugged on his collar and took a small step
backwards, but Frannie just followed him, getting even closer. "Ah. Good
morning, Francesca." She smiled up at him.
"Ray," said Fraser, looking at Ray desperately. "I
believe you wanted to depart immediately in order to speak with Mrs. Hayden again
before she leaves for work?"
Mrs. Hayden's work, according to the maid, consisted of
schmoozing with her country club pals most of the day and the occasional spot
of charity work, and Ray doubted she got up before
Frannie scowled at him. "You look terrible," she
said, "and you smell like a locker room."
"Gee, thanks, sis.
Good morning to you, too. I hope you enjoyed your nice, warm bed last night. I
was here all night, making the city a
safer place for kittens and babies."
"Lighten
up. I was just kidding. Except for the part about smelling. And looking
terrible."
"That's
all the parts!"
"Children!"
hollered Welsh, "No fighting in my office." He frowned at Ray.
"She's right. Go home, get some sleep. I'll put Ortiz and Baker on the
alibi. They're not doing anything useful. I want you back here at
Frannie smiled at Welsh, and Ray could have sworn he
blushed, which was weird and kind of scary. "Nah, I'm fine. Raring to go." He punched
the air a couple of times, sparring with an invisible boxing partner and
showing Welsh he was ready to fight crime another day. Then he tripped over his
own feet and crashed onto the sofa.
"
"Jeez," Frannie said on her way out, "someone woke up on the right
side of the bed."
"It's 'the wrong side,'" said Ray.
"Duh, that's why he's so grumpy."
* *
Ray tried to slip out the door to go home and sleep
like his boss told him to, but Fraser
gave him the big, sad Mountie eyes, and Ray found himself following Fraser to
the interrogation room. He headed straight for one of the two chairs in the
room and collapsed on it.
There couldn't possibly be that many more places to
look for the damn hat. After dumping Hayden in a holding cell, he and Fraser'd
been joined at the hip, working the case the whole night. The farthest Fraser
had gotten from him was the other side of the two-way mirror separating the
room he was currently in from the viewing room next door.
He glanced around, his eyes itchy with fatigue. There
was nothing in the room except a table and two chairs. It was obvious--to him--that
Fraser's hat wasn't there. "Fraser, you really need my help to search two
pretty much empty rooms?"
"I'm aware of that," replied Fraser. He was
glaring at the corner behind where Ray was seated. Or
maybe he was glaring at Ray. It was hard to tell with Fraser. Maybe
it was a Canadian thing. Don't glare
directly at the person you're pissed at. Except Ray'd been glared at
directly by Fraser plenty of times and anyway, he was pretty sure he hadn't
done anything glare-worthy recently. Well, there was that little tiff in the
hallway, but Fraser'd seemed more hurt than angry.
"You pissed at me?"
Fraser looked confused. "No."
"Then why--never mind. What are you aware of?"
"Pardon me?"
"What are you aware of? You just said, 'I'm aware of that.'
So, of what are you aware?"
"Ah, I am aware that the interrogation and
viewing rooms are essentially empty."
"O...kay," said Ray. He was way too tired to deal
with Fraser's brand of weirdness today. "So you're just dragging my exhausted
ass around to torture me?"
"Not now," hissed Fraser.
"Fine," said Ray, jumping up and knocking
the chair to the floor. He'd had just about enough of this. "I'm outta
here." Fraser
could find his own stupid hat without Ray.
Fraser moved fast, getting himself between Ray and the
door. "No--my
apologies, Ray. I was talking to myself--'Not now! Now is a very bad time
to lose your hat!' Hehe." Fraser said, ending with a completely fake
laugh.
"Why's now such a bad time?" he asked.
"Ah...well... I have to be on duty...soon...and
it wouldn't do for me to be out of uniform."
"Don't you have a spare hat?"
"...Yes."
"Then what the heck is your problem? Are you
trying to drive me crazy? Are you trying to kill me with sleep deprivation? I know you ain't on duty again
until tomorrow morning, and since you sleep in your office, I'm pretty sure
you'll have time to grab your spare hat before going to work. Why are you being
such a freakazoid? Do you really think I hid your hat? I didn't hide your damn
hat!"
"I know," admitted Fraser.
"Aghhhhhh!" yelled Ray. He kicked the wall a
few times, then leaned against it, and slowly slid to the floor. He leaned
back, head resting against the wall and closed his eyes. It sure was quiet in
the interrogation room when no one was being interrogated. He started to drift
off, when Fraser finally spoke up again.
"My apologies," he said. "You're right.
I'm being--silly. You go home and get some rest. I will complete the search
alone and then seek my own slumber." He smiled, but Ray could see he was
faking again. He drifted off towards the viewing room, with an obvious and very
unMountie-like slump to his shoulders. Ray watched him go, feeling guilty again. Fraser helped him get a date
and he repays the favor by flipping out on him and making next to no effort to
help him find his hat, which given, Fraser was acting kind of nutty about.
"Aw, jeez, Fraser," he called out, "I'll
help you find the hat." He gazed longingly at the floor, amazed at how
comfy it looked, before hoisting himself up. "We only got a couple places
left, right? Just tell me why you're being a freak about it first."
"I'm not--"
Ray crossed his arms and stood there, making it clear
that the hat quest wasn't continuing until Fraser came clean.
"Alright. I confess to being a bit...insufferable
about my hat. It's just..."
Ray made a beckoning gesture. "Out with it."
Fraser looked away. His ears were turning red.
"My spare hat doesn't fit right. It's the exact same make and model, and
I've treated it exactly the same. There's no logical reason for it to be so--it
itches! And it squeezes my head, giving me rather unpleasant headaches, and
yet, it has the most
infuriating habit of falling off. It
fell off of my head once while I was standing guard duty. I wasn't even
moving!"
Ray tried
not to laugh.
* *
The vending machines were taunting Ray. He felt around
in his pockets for change, but in addition to exhausted and starving, he was
unfortunately, at the moment, broke.
"Fraser, you got any money? I'm starving."
"I gave you all the American money I carry last
time we were in here." At long last, they had reached the final stop in
their quest to find Fraser's hat. The break room.
"Oh, yeah. Thanks." Ray remembered the four
bags of Doritos longingly.
Now that he could see food, dozens of packages of it,
he was suddenly lightheaded from hunger. A package of potato chips caught his
eye; they were sticking out a bit more than most of the junk in there. He
banged on the machine, then grabbed the sides and shook it a few times, trying
to dislodge the chips. Nothing. Ray sighed. He was going to starve to death.
"Ray," Fraser tsked from behind him,
"that would be stealing. I'd have to report you."
"You wouldn't. And it's not stealing if you're
going to die without it. It's self-defense. I'm starving here, Fraser. I need food."
Fraser snorted, though he'd probably deny it. "Nothing
in that machine could be called food. There's isn't a modicum of nutrition to
be found in there."
"Yeah, well, it all looks good to me. A bucket of
corn syrup and a couple packages of empty calories would be just the thing to
help a starving Detective remember where he put his partner's hat."
Ray watched Fraser whip around, eyes narrowed
suspiciously.
"I'm kidding. I'm kidding. I didn't do anything
to your hat. Jeez."
Fraser studied him for a few moments before shaking
his head. "Indeed," he said. He packed a whole lot of disappointment
and disapproval into that one word. "Since you're right there, why don't
you search for said hat under the vending machines, while I check the seating
area."
"Sure," said Ray. He glanced under the first
machine. The hat wasn't there, of course. Just a thick layer of dust that
reminded Ray of his own house. While looking for the remote a couple nights
ago, he'd found an Oreo under the couch with a layer of dust on it thicker than
the layer of cream--and it had been a DoubleStuf. He was far from a clean-freak,
but that had disgusted even him. He decided then and there to hire a maid,
someone to come by a couple times a month and do some light cleaning. Just
enough to keep him out of sty-territory.
The next vending machine yielded more dust and two
quarters. Five more cents, and he could buy some Twinkies. When he'd mentioned
his big maid decision to Fraser, he'd gotten a lecture about the merits of
cleaning up one's own messes followed by a sermon on the virtues of not making
a mess in the first place, and he'd ended up forgetting the whole thing. He
wondered now if what's-her-name, O'Grady's maid, could recommend someone.
The last vending machine yielded another score: two
dimes. Ray whooped in triumph.
"You found it?" Fraser was at his side in a
moment. He looked so hopeful, Ray felt a twinge of guilt.
"No, sorry. But I found enough change to get me some
nutritionally lacking sustenance."
"Congratulations."
"Your day will come too, my friend. Hey, remember
how I was thinking of hiring a maid? You think what's-her-name, the vic's maid,
could recommend someone? I was thinking of asking her when we go back. There
isn't some kind of maid, uh--what do you call that? Like they got in
"Levels of people?" Fraser repeatedly
blankly. He looked up at Ray--from beneath the table he was currently crawling
around under--like Ray was the one
that was unhinged.
"Don't be looking at me like I'm the crazy one in
this partnership. You know what I mean. The different levels of people. Who can
talk to who and have what kind of job and marry certain people and
whatnot."
Fraser made a face, like he was engaging his own
translator. Ray to English. "...caste system?" he finally supplied.
"Yeah! There ain't some kind of maid caste system
is there? She's not gonna have some kind of nervous breakdown if I ask her
about cop-type maids when she's a high-society-type maid? She looked ready to
faint if someone said 'boo' to her. Poor kid. Why's she even working for that
bi--uh, woman. Someone treated me like that, I'd quit. And kick 'em in the
head."
"I believe Cecelia is a very troubled young
woman. I suspect her mother--"
"Who's Cecelia?"
Fraser sighed. "The maid."
"Oh, yeah. Nice name. Go on--Celia's mom...?"
"Cecelia.
I suspect Cecelia's mother was abusive and controlling. She shows all the
classic signs. She seems to have recreated that relationship with Mrs. Hayden. She loves her and seeks her
approval, desperately trying to please her, at same time she--"
"Fraser.
I am way too tired for a lecture on Psychology. Can you just answer my question?"
"I don't know what a 'cop-type' maid is."
"It's a maid that a cop can afford. Who only
works a couple times a month instead of living with the boss like Cecily."
"Cecelia."
"That's what I said."
Fraser sighed again,
then resumed his search of the break room. Ray took that to mean it was safe to
ask Cecelia--hehe, Fraser was so easy--about
his maid situation.
He turned back to his own search. He was ostensibly
looking for Fraser's hat in the cupboards, but really he was hoping to find
where Frannie had hid Welsh's fig newton stash. No luck so far, and Ray was
still starving. The Twinkies he'd purchased with the dust-covered coins were a
distant, chemical aftertaste.
The break room was the only room he and Fraser had
been in while looking for the hat that actually had a decent number of places
to hide a hat--if someone had hidden it, but Ray really didn't think anyone had.
Fraser must not have thought so either, or he wouldn't be restricting them to
just rooms that he'd been in.
Then again, maybe this was just the starting point.
Ray froze. Shit. When tracing Fraser's steps didn't pan out, he was planning to
expand the search. He'd insist on searching the entire station and then expand
outward block by block until Ray found himself trawling
"Fraser. I am not searching
"Of course not, Ray. You're not a trained police
diver."
* *
They completed their search of the break room, then
returned to the bullpen sans hat. Despite the dejected slope of Fraser's
shoulders, Ray knew he hadn't given up. Ray, however, had already mourned,
eulogized and buried the hat. The hat was dead to him. It was time to take care
of the living. Ray. So that he could get some sleep and take care of the dead.
Mrs. O'Grady--not the hat.
"Sorry, Frase. I have got to get a few hours of
shut-eye. I'm sure the hat will turn up." He gave Fraser a consoling pat
on the back.
"I understand," said Fraser. His shoulders
drooped even lower. "You go home and get some rest. I'm going to try
self-hypnosis. The key to finding my hat is very likely--"
Ray tuned him out. Something he'd said rang a faint
bell. The key. "The key!" he shouted. "The fucking key!"
"Are you having a seizure?"
Dief yipped from under Ray's desk. Ray snorted. Deaf, my ass. "No--you said someone
snuck into Hayden's house and planted the knife. If it wasn't a break-in--and
your super Mountie senses are saying no--then it had to be someone with a key,
right?"
"I suppose. Are you suggesting Mrs. Hayden is the
perpetrator? Her alibi seemed quite solid."
"Yeah, no, not her. The maid."
"Cecelia." Fraser looked doubtful.
"Yeah. You said that she said she'd known the vic
for years, ever since she started working for Mrs. Hayden. Not Mrs. O'Grady--she
was the daughter's maid. But the daughter lived with her husband, until they
separated a year ago. She would've worked at his house. Known him. Known all
about his arrests. And she'd have keys to his house. Or at least access to Mrs.
Hayden's keys."
Fraser nodded thoughtfully. "But what motive
would she have?"
"Other than the vic being a dried-up old biddy
who probably treated her like crap, same as the daughter? You said it
yourself--she wanted to please Mrs. Hayden. Nothing would please her as much as
getting her hand's on mom's money and sticking it to her ex." Ray could
feel it in his bones. He was right.
"Hmm," said Fraser. "Someone that
psychologically damaged is essentially a time-bomb waiting to go off. The
combination of Mrs. Hayden & Mrs. O'Grady together may have finally been
too much."
"Yeah! And remember how she was scared to death
when we were there? I thought it was just the way she always was--who wouldn't
be jumpy with that stuck-up cow always barking at them? But if she was always
spilling tea and making mistakes, no way Mrs. Hayden wouldn't have fired her by
now."
"Indeed. She struck me as neither forgiving nor
compassionate. It's a compelling theory...logical even."
"Logical my ass. That was all intuition." Ray did a little 'I figured
it out and you didn't dance.
Fraser wasn't impressed. "I'm afraid a judge
won't accept your intuition as cause to issue an arrest warrant."
"They won't accept your logic either."
"Granted. We need evidence. Perhaps the lab will
find hair or fibers that we can trace back to her. Chemical cleaning agents. And
we still have the problem of--"
"Was Mrs. Hayden in on it?"
"No, the problem of where my hat is."
"Fraser! Forget the damn hat. We've looked
everywhere you were at. Someone must've taken it in which case it's gone and
you gotta start the mourning process or else you just misplaced it, and it'll
turn up."
"I suppose..." Fraser trailed off. He looked
around the bullpen one last time, before sitting down and staring at the wall dejectedly.
Ray, on the other hand, was feeling energized now by
his brilliant theory of the crime. Forget sleep. He was ready to go have a
little talk with Cecelia the maid. He went to his desk to grab his jacket. Dief's
tail was sticking out from under the desk, wagging merrily. Ray looked back at
Fraser, communing with the wall. Damn. Ray was going to have the bribe the
wolf. It was his only chance of diverting Fraser from sulking about his hat
when he should be concentrating on solving this case.
"Dief," he called. "Yo, fur-ball. Why don't you cut
Fraser some slack and sniff out the hat for him, huh?"
"He can't hear you," muttered Fraser.
Ray didn't believe that for a moment. Of course he
also didn't believe Dief could understand him and yet here he was, trying to
reason with the wolf.
"Dief." Ray got down on the floor and stuck his head
under the desk in order to talk to him face-to-furface. Dief's furry face,
however, was mostly obscured by Fraser's hat, sitting atop his wolfy head at a
jaunty angle. Only Dief's snout was visible and even Ray couldn't deny he was
smirking.
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
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
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
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
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
Wolves are by nature territorial.
But Dief is no longer a pup, and neither is
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.
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.
Now
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
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
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.
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
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 menTo 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
"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
Fraser opens one blue eye to blink in confusion. "Did you say
Ray yawns. "Uh
huh. Who knew
"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
***
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
"Oh, you wanna pull my hair again,
huh?" Ray holds Angelina up so she can grab onto his hair with
her fat little fists. She gurgles happily. Clearly she knows a good
thing when she sees it. "You're lucky you're the prettiest girl
in the world or you would not be getting away with this."
"Stop
giving her bad habits, Kowalski," Frannie says, appearing in the
doorway. "Soon she's going to be able to pull a lot harder and
we'll all be really sorry."
Ray grins at her around
Angelina's stomach, which is currently blocking most of his line of
sight. "That's the beauty of just being the babysitter."
"Very
funny." Frannie comes closer. "I need to ask you for a
favor."
She sounds serious. Ray tugs his head away from
Angelina. Sometimes it doesn't work, but today she lets go without a
fuss and he settles her on his hip. "Tell me what it is first,"
he says suspiciously.
"You're the soul of chivalry,
Kowalski," she says, fussing with the cuff of her blouse. "Look,
I need a date to my fifteen-year high school reunion."
Ray
double-takes. "You're asking me on a date?"
Frannie
glares at him. "No, I'm not asking you on a date. Well.
I'm asking you on an imaginary date. I can't go by myself. I'll look
pathetic."
Ray gets that. He went to his ten-year reunion
with Stella. He's never going to another one. "What's in it for
me?"
Frannie crosses her arms. "I don't tell the
precinct you've read my entire collection of romance novels."
"I
just read those for the sex," Ray mutters.
***
"Sorry,
angel, not tonight," he tells Angelina, bouncing her up and down
in apology as she waves her hands indignantly in the direction of his
hair. "I'm taking your mom out on the town and I gotta look my
best." She grabs at the lapels of his suit, wrinkling them, but
hey, Fraser notwithstanding, there's no such thing as
perfection.
"All right, hand her over, Kowalski,"
Vecchio says.
As always, Ray feels a little pang when
Angelina's warm, small weight leaves his arms. "You and Fraser
all set?"
Vecchio rolls his eyes. "Are you kidding?
Benny's been planning for this all day."
"Proper
preparation prevents poor performance."
"Yeah,"
Vecchio says. "That, and he's got baby envy. This is just Phase
One of his master plan to talk me into adopting. He thinks he's
subtle, but I'm onto him."
"You want kids,
Vecchio?"
Vecchio shrugs. "I'm resigned to my fate."
But his voice is warm. "Oh, what are you looking at?"
he asks his niece, who giggles and squeezes the end of his nose.
Ray
suddenly feels like punching something. But Vecchio's holding the
baby, and Ray can't muss up his suit, and anyway Fraser would kill
him if he punched Vecchio. So instead of punching anything, he just
doesn't go talk to Fraser like he normally would. He hits the front
hall just as Frannie's coming down the stairs.
Holy fuck.
She's in a skintight, bright blue number with two big holes
on either side of her waist, right where he'd put his hands if they
were dancing. Two round gleaming circles of olive skin, just taunting
him. The dress stops at her knees, and blue glittery heels make her
legs in their black pantyhose go on forever. Blue glittery jewelry
dangles from her ears.
"I, uh. Hi," he says
brilliantly.
"Hi," she says uncertainly. "How
do I look?"
He coughs. "Great. You look
great."
"I'm up here," she says, pointing at
her face, but she doesn't sound too pissed. "You look good too.
Ready to go?"
"Yeah." The door slips out of his
hand while he's holding it open for her and almost smacks her in the
face.
***
"We should get our story straight,"
he says when they're parked in the high school parking lot. "How
long have we been dating, how serious is it, dumb nicknames, all
that."
"Oh. Okay. Um. Six months, very serious. I
don't like nicknames. That reminds me, call me Francesca while we're
there. Nobody but Ray calls me Frannie. I mean, I let you, because
you were Ray, but--"
"You don't like
'Frannie'?"
"Not a lot, no."
That makes
Ray feel worse than he would have thought it would. "Okay.
Francesca." It sounds weird. Weird and--kinda sexy. Like the two
of them are in a Sophia Loren movie.
Frannie--Francesca--blushes.
She takes a deep breath. "Once more onto the beach," she
says, and opens the car door. She should have waited for him to open
it for her. If she's not careful, she'll blow their cover.
"It's
'once more onto the breach.'"
"No it's not.
It's a D-Day thing."
He blinks. "No way."
She
grabs her purse and gets out of the car. "Are you
coming?"
***
As undercover gigs go, this one is
pretty painless. It's more like visiting Stella's family than
anything else. He always pretended that was undercover work, too,
that he was trying to fit in with these people so he could infiltrate
them. It helped him stay alert and charming and not start any fights.
"Angel's a great kid," he tells Connie, Francesca's
one-time best friend in the whole world, and her husband Gio. "You
wanna see a picture?" He pulls out his wallet and shows her a
shot of Angelina glaring at the camera. He stole it out of Frannie's
purse on the way into the building. The devil's in the
details.
Connie laughs. "She's a Vecchio all right."
He
grins. "Yeah."
"So how did you two
meet?"
Frannie laughs nervously. He can tell she's about
to go into some elaborate story that will sound totally fake. Rookie.
"That's classified," he says, winking at Connie. "But
then we ended up working together."
Connie's eyes glow.
"Ooh, an office romance!"
"Well, not anymore,"
Francesca says. "He's at a different precinct now. I might apply
there when I'm done with night school, though."
Ray puts
an arm around her. Frannie shivers when his fingers close on bare
skin, and he swallows. "One of our parole officers is retiring
next year," he explains to Connie. The two women keep talking
about Frannie's career change and Connie and her husband's deli over
in Detroit and the economy and blah blah blah, but Ray's having
trouble focusing. "Atlantic City" starts playing. He
remembers when that song came out. He'd just graduated from the
Academy, and the mob trials were just starting in New York. It was
an exciting time to train for undercover.
Well they blew
up the Chicken Man in Philly last night
Yeah, they blew up his
house too
"Hey Fran--cesca, you wanna
dance?"
Francesca rolls her eyes at Connie. "This is
his idea of a slow song." But she lets Ray lead her onto the
dance floor. He puts his hands on her waist--on her skin--and she
links her arms behind his neck. He and Stella used to do the two-step
to this song, back in the day. Frannie's not Stella, so they're
closer to classic high-school-dance swaying. But her hips move like a
perfectly tuned engine, and on every fourth beat she grinds against
him a little. "You're good at this," she says.
"I
took lessons."
She laughs. "Not dancing. Being a,
you know, fake boyfriend. You should do this professionally."
He
frowns, puzzled. "I do do this professionally." Undercover
is undercover.
She laughs again, her dark eyes crinkling at
the corners, and he pulls her closer. Her breasts are even bigger
than they were when he met her--she's still nursing Angelina--and he
can't believe how perfect and soft they feel against his chest. "Do
you do happy endings?" she asks.
"What?"
"That's
what they call it, right? Like, when you want to know if an escort
will really--"
He chokes. "I, uh--" He turns
them around on the harmonica solo and she freezes, looking at
something over his shoulder. "What is it?"
"My
ex-husband," she says grimly.
He gets his game face on.
This is what she brought him for, right? "You wanna make him
jealous?"
But she says, "Just--let's just get out of
here," and drags him out of the gym and down the hallway to a
bright fluorescent-lit stairwell. On the landing she stops, leans
against the wall. Her face is tight.
Ray is suddenly furious.
"You're afraid of that scumsucker? What did he do to you?"
He should know. Why the hell doesn't he know? Was it in the file, and
he just didn't pay attention because Frannie wasn't that
important?
She waves a hand. "I'm not afraid of him. I
mean, yeah, he hit me--"
"I'm gonna kick him in the
head." Ray's feet stutter back and forth. "It's in
character, right? If I were your boyfriend I would kick him in the
head."
"If you were my boyfriend, Kowalski,"
she snaps, "you would listen to what I'm saying."
"How
about I listen after I kill him?"
"He hit me twice,"
she says. "And then I got a restraining order and a
divorce."
"Two times too many."
"You
sound like Ray." She grimaces, and rubs at her arms. Ray doesn't
know what to do. He takes his jacket off and hands it to her, and she
smiles at him and drapes it across her shoulders. "He isn't the
point. I'm the point. I just--I told myself I'd never, ever, go out
with anyone like Pop. And Johnny seemed like such a sweet guy and
then as soon as the ring was on my finger it was like they were
twins. It's like whatchamacallit, Freud. I'm doomed. I might as well
resign myself to dying alone right now, because any guy I pick is
going to be an asshole."
Ray frowns. "What about
Fraser? I mean, he's with your brother, so uh, out of bounds now. But
you picked him."
She gives him a incredulous look.
"Fraser is so not my type."
"Wh--what?"
Did he just imagine that year at the 2-7? Did he imagine the midriff
sweater and the makeup and the soulful looks and the lying across the
top of her desk? If so, he's got a good imagination.
She waves
her hands and then grabs at his jacket so it doesn't slip off her
shoulders. "Oh, please. I mean, you said it yourself, right?
He's a nice guy. And I thought--I thought he'd be nice to me. Nice to
my kids. Besides, it's like in that self-help book Maria loaned me,
unattainable goals are comforting because they preserve the status
quo. Which in this case is being single. Let's face it, I don't like
nice guys and nice guys don't like me. You know the last person who
really wanted to go out with me, Kowalski? The dead guy in the wall!
And Turnbull, but I didn't want Turnbull, because he's nice!"
Ray's
suspected for a while that Turnbull might be Angelina's dad. So he
feels good about his detective skills, and Frannie looks like she
might cry, or punch something. That makes him feel brave, for a
second. He coughs. "I, uh. False."
She blinks at
him. "What?"
"I mean, I'm not a nice guy.
But."
"You mean--you?" She laughs.
"Yeah, right. Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but I
had to blackmail you into coming tonight, remember?"
He
shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the floor.
"Yeah,
that's what I thought."
"I just," he mutters.
"You were off-limits. You were Vecchio's sister. I couldn't
break cover. I--look, if you don't believe me, ask Fraser. Ask him
what I said when you started working at the 2-7." It's a reason
that should have stopped being a reason a long time ago, but the
Vecchio gig's been a hard job to surface from. Too much stuff from
that year is still around. Is still the most important stuff in his
life.
There's a long, long silence. Ray starts to feel sick.
Yeah, he wanted to make Francesca feel better, but. He never fucking
thinks things through. "Don't--if it's weird now--don't make me
stop babysitting, okay?"
"It's not weird," she
says. "Okay, it's a little weird."
"You want me
to drive you home?"
Her shoulders shrug inside his
jacket. "I don't know what I want. I thought I wanted to make
Johnny jealous, and it turns out I just never want to see the donkey
fedora again. But I haven't seen Connie and Jenny and Lucia in years.
And now I've told them a bunch of dumb lies." She sighs.
"I don't want to be rose-spleened."
He has to think
about that one. "You mean yellow-livered."
"I
mean a coward, Kowalski," she says flatly.
"You are
not a coward," he insists. "You're one of the toughest
girls I know. We'll just stay here a little longer, and then you can
decide what you want. I'll--if you want to blow the popsicle stand, I
will drive you to Detroit to visit Connie. Next weekend. If you
want."
Her mouth twists consideringly. "I think
maybe I want you to kiss me." It twists the other way. "Well,
I know I want you to kiss me, but I think I might actually
want you to kiss me."
"What?" He should
probably just kiss her. That part seems unambiguous enough. But
he--well, he wants to be a nice guy. He wants to listen to what she's
saying.
"If we want to pretend it never happened later,
we can just pretend it was part of the pantomime."
The
thing about Frannie is that the details are never clear, but the gist
is usually crystal. He slides his hands inside his jacket and settles
them on the bare skin of her waist, and it's like he's floating. Like
they're in slow motion, and he dips his head. She comes into brief,
beautiful, perfect focus, her lips parted, and then she's fuzzy
again.
Then his eyes are closed and he's kissing her. She's
kissing him. She smells like way too much flowery perfume, mostly,
but underneath there's--okay, underneath there's baby powder. He
shifts his hands, brushing his thumbs over the edge of her stomach,
and she moans. "Francesca."
"Ray,"
she breathes, and pulls him back down for another kiss.
He
loves kissing her. He loves touching her. He wants--he can't keep his
mind on the kiss because he knows what he wants and he doesn't know
if she wants it. "Are we, uh--is this part of the
pantomime?"
Her eyes open. "I don't know yet,
Kowalski."
She called him Kowalski. He thinks that's a
good sign. "I, uh, I do happy endings."
"I
don't think I believe in happy endings."
"It's a
euphoria."
"A euphemism?"
"Yeah,
that. It means going down on you in the back of the GTO."
Her
eyes darken. "Oh. I, uh, I guess that's okay then."
"'Proper Use of Investigation and Arrest Statistics,' my ass. More like, sleep-inducing use of statistics and legal mumbo-jumbo to create a total snooze-fest." He yawned and downed the dregs of his coffee, then crushed the paper cup in his hand. "Maybe you didn't hear other guys snoring, Fraser, but I did."
"As you yourself did, Ray. Perhaps the two donuts and as many cheese danishes resulted in sudden, severe hypoglycemia, and a pseudo-narcoleptic episode," Fraser replied mildly. They moved slowly towards the banquet room exit with the rest of the crowd of local, county, state, and federal law enforcement officers.
Ray pointed a threatening finger. "It was your idea to attend the opening speaker and breakfast buffet. I was only there for the snacks, and you can't call that breakfast. They feed us better at CPR class." He shook his head as they followed the crowd out into the hotel lobby. "Well, they feed us about the same, I guess. But CPD doesn't pay as much per officer for CPR classes."
"Well, Ray, there was fruit--"
"Right," Ray smiled, but it was more of a grimace. "But where was the bacon, Fraser? The eggs? The toast and hash browns? Some buffet. I knew we shoulda gotten real food." He reached for a toothpick in his inside jacket pocket, and glanced at Fraser. "I suppose you had some goose jerky."
"Moose. Wild goose is unbelievably tough, nearly inedible. And, no, I had pemmican, made from dried bison pounded into a powder with tallow and berries such as--"
"Moose, goose, whatever," Ray interrupted, grumbling. "I want eggs and bacon."
The crowd thinned as they passed the reception desk and many headed for the revolving doors to go outside and smoke. Fraser liked the gas fireplace with fake logs in the lobby, so he and Ray headed in that direction.
"Ray, I'm sure that--" Fraser stopped.
The same lithe figure. The same sharp smile. The same fine nose and cheekbones. The multitude of curls were shorter and shades lighter now... not black against blinding, blizzard white...
He tried to swallow, but his throat froze. The sudden piercing pain in his heart made Fraser's head throb blindingly. He fell to one knee, clutching his chest. His vision narrowed into a tunnel, with her at the end of it.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa -- Fraser! What's wrong?" Ray knelt at his side, concerned.
"I'm fine, Ray," he gasped through the pain. He could not take his eyes off her, though he struggled to breathe.
"You're not fine, if you..." Ray began worriedly, then trailed off.
He followed Fraser's gaze, his eyes darting from person to person until they lit on a cool, slim brunette.
"What're you -- wait--" Ray stuttered. "--that's not -- is that -- her?" Ray growled.
"Yes," Fraser croaked.
Fraser sensed Ray's agitation, his physical urge to jump across the hotel lobby and tackle the woman they both stared at. The arm that wrapped around his shoulder, however, was firm and resolute.
"Can you make it to that chair?" Ray asked, helping Fraser up.
"Yes, of course." Fraser managed not to stumble through sheer force of will.
"Acting like she belongs here," Ray muttered. "The nerve." He sat Fraser down, then turned.
"Ray... don't."
Ray whirled back. "Why not?" he demanded fiercely. "The woman who -- and since her, you -- and I can't -- and you don't --"
"She's coming," Fraser whispered, the breath sucked from his lungs. He doubled over in the chair, the needle sharp pain in his chest twisting.
"She -- what?" Ray turned back to her as she arrived.
"I'm sorry," she began. "Is your friend all--"
"He's fine," Ray snapped and stood between them.
"I was going to ask if he's -- "
"Ray, wait." The pain in Fraser's chest began to subside.
"--Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Victoria's doppelganger finished.
"You know he is," Ray barked at her.
"Ray, it's not her." Fraser straightened up in the chair as his breath came more easily.
"What? Yes, it is. She--" Ray paused, noticing her badge.
"No, Ray." He swallowed the terrible lump in his throat, as she looked quizzically from one to the other. "The voice is different. It's not her."
"Her, who?" she asked, wary.
"You sure?" Ray asked, still on guard.
"Yes, I am," Fraser told the woman. "Yes, Ray," he said, struggling to his feet. "RCMP, that is," he added to her.
"Just who did you think I was?" she asked cautiously.
"It's not important." Fraser shook his head. "A felon."
"You thought I was a felon?" she said, incredulous and slightly offended.
"Only superficially, and from a distance," Fraser assured her. "As soon as I heard your voice, when you were near, I realized you weren't her." He straightened his posture and inclined his head. "I am Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, as you've deduced. And you are...?"
In his peripheral vision, Fraser saw Ray's shoulders sag.
After a slight hesitation, she responded. "Detective Stella Bonasera, NYPD." She extended her hand.
Fraser shook it. "This is Detective Ray Kowalski, Chicago PD," he nodded towards Ray. He dropped her hand and wiped his brow.
Detective Bonasera glanced at Ray. The corners of his lips briefly twisted up before returning to a flat, unforgiving line. He chewed the toothpick in his mouth and said nothing. A fine vertical line appeared between her brows as she looked at Ray. The rest of her expression remained suspiciously neutral.
She turned back to Fraser. His pulse quickened despite regaining his composure. Her resemblance to Victoria was unnerving.
"I saw your RCMP uniform," Detective Bonasera explained. "I came over to ask if you would be attending the Inter-agency Cooperation seminar. You know -- FBI, RCMP, DEA, Interpol, cross-jurisdictional task forces."
"Yes, we will be attending, thank you." Fraser gave her a strained smile. "Right, Ray?"
"Right," Ray muttered.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"Well, I guess I'll see you there tomorrow, then," she said awkwardly.
"Of course," Fraser agreed. "We'll see you there."
She hesitated, glanced quickly at Ray, and then nodded to Fraser before she strode off.
There was a barely audible, "Perfect," from Ray as he turned away. "Stella," he added even more quietly, to himself, but Fraser heard it. "Figures."
Fraser sat back down, drained.
Ray sat in the chair next to him. "You all right now?" he asked.
"Yes, Ray, I'm all right now," Fraser replied.
"Good," Ray answered shortly. He wiped his hands over his face.
"For a moment, I thought I was having a heart attack." Fraser hesitated. "As with an inner ear imbalance, it would have been preferable to what it really was," he added quietly.
"Inner -- what are you talking about?" Ray asked, but he didn't look at Fraser.
"Never mind." His sigh was long and tired, but he didn't elaborate, and Ray didn't question further.
They said nothing for a few moments, Ray fidgeting with the seam of his pants leg. He restlessly shifted in his seat. "I would've called 911 for you."
"I know."
"I just didn't want her to get away," Ray added.
"I know."
"I wanted -- justice. For you. I would've come right back for you."
"I understand, Ray."
Another uncomfortable silence settled between the two men.
Finally, Fraser turned to look at Ray. "What did you mean, 'since her'? I don't what? And you can't what?"
Ray flushed to the roots of his blond-brown spikes of hair. "Nothing," he mumbled, avoiding Fraser's gaze.
"Since her, I don't what?" Fraser insisted gently.
"Nothing. Forget it." Ray shook his head.
"Ray?"
Ray sat stock still, looking resolutely away. "Fraser. Not here. Not now."
He gestured feebly at all the sheriffs, detectives, and feds mingling in small groups in the lobby, paper and plastic cups of coffee in their hands. Here and there women were scattered among the largely masculine crowd. Detective Stella Bonasera had been one of them.
"Later, then?" Fraser asked. He felt his cheeks heat as he added, "Back in our room?"
The strangely wistful look Ray gave him was his only answer. Then Ray looked away again.
"I need some more coffee." He stood abruptly and crossed the lobby to the coffee bar without Fraser.
Somehow, from then on, in each breakout session and seminar they'd registered to take and at lunch, Ray found a third party to wedge into their 'duet.' Occasionally, he found other pairs of partners. He managed not to be alone with Fraser for virtually the entire rest of the day.
~ ~ ~
They left the dining room and parted ways with the two other cops Ray brought to dine with them, partners from Detroit with street-savvy stories similar to Ray's own. Ray then mumbled something about needing a couple drinks in the hotel bar. Fraser took it to mean Ray still wished to avoid him, and would come back to their room after he thought Fraser was asleep.
Fraser felt a sudden, inexplicable compulsion to be as cold as possible. He went back to their room alone, stripped off the serge, and frantically freed himself from his boots, his jodhpurs, and everything else. He turned the faucet in the shower all the way to cold and stepped into it.
He stood there so long, he lost track of time. Every bitterly cold memory -- there were so many -- passed through his mind while he stood there, but the ones that lingered were all about her. Not all of them were cold. But they all ached.
For so long, he had pushed all memories of Victoria down. He'd kept a tight grip on himself, controlling his conscious, waking thoughts. He'd buried them under a tombstone of fear, humiliation, doubt, and regret. The warmth and wonder of Ray Vecchio had helped keep them at bay. Then the appearance of Ray Kowalski had kindled a tiny spark, one Fraser could neither expose nor extinguish.
But seeing Stella Bonasera of the NYPD had loosened Fraser's self-control and his memories of Victoria washed over him now. Despite the frigid water and her ultimately cruel ends, memories of the heat and urgency of being inside her, their tireless lovemaking, thawed the ice that encased his sensual core.
But that was dangerous, Fraser knew. He hadn't yet reconciled his intellectual side with his animal self, and feared he never would. Hibernating, it was safe. Awakened, starvation made it primitive. Recklessly single-minded in pursuit of its desire, it left damage in its wake. Despite the bitter taste of so many memories, arousal was mournfully tempting.
He couldn't turn the faucet any farther to the cold side. He held his erection under the shower's icy water, but it didn't soften, nor did his thoughts cool.
He didn't masturbate. As cold as the water got, his teeth never chattered.
He left the shower in only a towel and put the air conditioning unit on the coldest temperature and the highest output. Still wet, he sat on the carpeted floor, his back against the cool wall.
His arousal ebbed as the air conditioner roared and the temperature dropped. The room darkened as night fell.
Fraser didn't know how long he sat there before a line of light along the floor widened into a wedge at the door. It was Ray returning.
"Fraser? Christ, it's freezing in here --"
Over the sound of the air conditioner, Fraser heard Ray slap the light switch.
The overhead light and the lamps above the beds came on. It was blinding and frigid. That was too much like Fortitude Pass after the blizzard, and Fraser's laugh was short and almost hysterical.
A few strides brought Ray to him. Fraser squinted up at his partner. The smell of bourbon wafted down.
Ray knelt. "You're shivering," he said softly. He reached out, and Fraser's heart leaped--
Ray turned off the air conditioner.
The sudden silence was deafening.
"Please turn off the lights," Fraser asked.
Ray searched his face. "Okay."
He stood and strode away, and then the lights went out again. Fraser's eyes saw bright afterimage spots in the dark. He heard Ray take off his suit jacket and hang it on the back of a chair, and then cautiously cross the room to sit beside him.
His shirt sleeve brushed repeatedly against Fraser's arm as Fraser began to shiver violently. The smell of bourbon was strong and strangely comforting.
"You want a blanket?" Ray asked Fraser, after a beat.
"No," Fraser whispered. He groped for Ray's hand and found it: warm, solid, real.
"Jesus," Ray murmured. "You're freezing." He turned to face Fraser, but the room was quite dark, and Fraser's eyes hadn't adjusted yet. He couldn't see Ray. But he could feel Ray's hand in his. He gripped it.
Fraser brought that hand to his cheek, and then hesitated. There was no resistance, but also no encouragement. Ray was as still as stone. Fraser opened his mouth and his breath hitched. Ray didn't pull back.
He took the first two fingers of Ray's left hand, those elegant, expressive hands, and put them in his mouth. Ray's other hand slowly pulled the back of Fraser's neck until their foreheads pressed together. Fraser shivered and held Ray's fingers in his mouth. The hand on the back of his neck became a wiry arm that slid down his back. It pulled him into an awkward embrace and they sank to the floor together.
The towel he'd wrapped around his waist fell away. Fraser curled against Ray's warmth, and Ray held him. He sucked on Ray's fingers. Feeling Ray's growing arousal calmed him, and slowly, Fraser stopped shivering. When he finally let Ray's fingers slide from his lips, the hand he'd freed stroked his cheek.
"What was that?" Ray whispered tenderly.
Fraser said nothing. He couldn't answer. Erasure, he thought. Ray took his hand and he trembled, not from the cold, now. When he didn't pull his hand or himself away, Ray slowly sucked Fraser's fingers into the warmth and wetness of his mouth.
Fraser became fully erect and shuddered with excitement and trepidation. Before he realized it, he was rhythmically thrusting against Ray's hip, helpless to stop. Ray withdrew Fraser's fingers from his mouth and half sat up. Fraser felt Ray pull away.
But Ray was only unbuttoning his shirt. He yanked it out of his pants and off, throwing it heedlessly aside. The swish of his T-shirt over his head quelled Fraser's momentary dismay. Ray lay down next to him and wrapped his arms around him again, pulling him close, holding him tight. The naked skin of his chest against Fraser's was warm and comforting.
It emboldened Fraser. He moved in Ray's arms until he felt breath on his face. He leaned in but Ray held him off, and they panted, and Fraser couldn't think. His only thought was, Why? He struggled against the firm grip holding him away, bewildered.
"Fraser," Ray said softly, the word a puff of air on Fraser's moistened lips.
"What?" He stopped struggling, confused.
"Let's just be clear about this." Ray's breath was whiskey-dark.
"Clear?" Fraser's thoughts cooled and settled. He doesn't want to.
"I've wanted to do this forever," Ray whispered. "But I -- I don't think you have. I get that seeing her was like a punch in the gut. I get that you need someone to make that go away. I get that we're friends, partners, you trust me. I trust you, too. But this means different things to you than to me. Because we're not doing it for the same reasons."
"We are," Fraser croaked, the news that Ray had wanted to forever thickening his voice.
"I know you think we are, but we're not. And I'm not blaming you. Okay? And I'm not saying 'no,' either. I'm just saying, this is gonna change things for us. For me. And once we cross this line, I don't think I can go back."
"We are, Ray," Fraser said urgently, voice rising. "It is -- the same reasons. I've wanted to -- that's why I asked earlier what you meant when you said I don't, and you can't -- I don't what? And you can't what? This, Ray. It's this, isn't it? It has been. For some time."
He clutched Ray too tightly, and tried to loosen his fingers.
"Yeah, on my side," Ray admitted. "But I don't know about y--"
"Yes," Fraser interrupted. "Yes, my side, too. It has been. Ray, it has. I have wanted this."
"Okay, okay," Ray's acquiescence was both amused and rueful. "Just giving you fair warning. You see me outside your window, you find me following you like a puppy, don't say I didn't warn you."
Fraser paused. "You're humouring me, aren't you."
"'Course. I'm not stupid enough to let this opportunity slip by. I'll take what I can get."
Fraser heard the self-deprecation in Ray's voice, felt Ray's breath on his lips and cheek, and faltered, frustrated.
"That's not what this is, Ray," he insisted.
"I'm not saying 'no,' Fraser," Ray murmured.
The desire in his voice gave Fraser goosebumps. The grip holding Fraser off eased, and he sank down on Ray.
"Oh, Ray," he breathed, undone and yearning.
He inhaled Ray's breath, felt Ray beneath him, hot in his arms. He pressed his mouth deliberately against Ray's, and slipped a thigh between his legs, feeling Ray's erection under his own hip.
The kiss, clumsy and inexpert as Fraser began it, quickly became fierce and passionate. In moments, Ray pulled Fraser tightly down on him, thrusting aggressively up against him, kissing Fraser, tasting him.
Fraser's few sexual experiences and memories converged into a maelstrom of wordless need as he responded. Physically, theoretically, he had control, being on top. But Ray drove the action. In their moving and rubbing against each other, they soon rolled over on the floor and Ray gained the upper hand.
"Christ, Fraser," Ray panted, when they could tear their mouths apart. "The carpet's giving me rug burns. Let's get on the bed."
"All right," Fraser agreed, but before he even finished replying, Ray had a strong hand on his upper arm. As he urged Fraser up from the floor and onto the nearest bed, he quickly toed off his shoes.
They'd gotten a room with two queen beds, courtesy of the CPD and early registration. Ray had not turned down the bed linens. There was an ocean of slippery nylon comforter beneath them. Fraser had never been in such a large bed before. Ray fell upon him.
They kissed roughly, teeth knocking as they rocked against one another, pressing their erections against each others hips, legs entwined. Fraser's mouth slid off Ray's to his neck. His lips on Ray's shoulder became a bite as he thrust against him, eyes shut tight, mind unfocused and simply wanting. One of his hands slid down to grasp Ray's hip. It insinuated itself between them, cupping Ray's hardness, stroking him. Ray groaned but slid a hand down to catch Fraser's wrist and stop him.
"Fraser--"
"Ray--" he gasped into Ray's shoulder.
"Another time--" Ray panted.
"Wha..?"
"It's too much..." Ray groaned, and yanked both their hands out from between them. He rolled completely over on Fraser and pinned down Fraser's wrist. Then he humped Fraser's hip wildly until he came in his pants, his mouth rough on Fraser's neck. He released Fraser and rolled onto his back, panting. In a few seconds, however, he dragged Fraser back on top of him. He cupped Fraser's buttocks, urging Fraser's thrusts against him. Fraser felt the wet spot as he rubbed his own erection against the warm folds of Ray's pants.
"I'm not wearing pants--" he fretted.
"Come on me," Ray whispered. "I want you to."
Fraser moved more frantically against Ray, but it wasn't enough. He instinctively pulled back and flipped the unresisting Ray onto his stomach beneath him.
"Yeah," Ray breathed. "Yes."
Fraser settled back down on Ray, his erection in the clothed cleft of Ray's buttocks. He slid his arms around Ray, gripping him tightly around the waist and chest for leverage. Ray grasped handfuls of nylon comforter on either side of their heads.
Thrusting and rocking into the warm, covered cleft of Ray's buttocks, Fraser finally let go. He shuddered and gasped over Ray's shoulder. The tight, hot spurts shut out all thoughts of everyone and everything else except Ray beneath him, murmuring encouragement:
"Yeah, Fraser. Come for me. Come on me. Give it to me. Good. Want it. Yeah. Come. "
When he stopped shaking, Fraser relaxed on Ray. Small aftershocks made his whole body twitch. His cheek and ear were pressed just above Ray's shoulder blade, and he heard the soothing rhythm of Ray's heartbeat. When he realized he was a dead weight on Ray, he slid off. Ray's right hand reached out and groped for him sleepily. He threw a possessive leg over Ray and pulled him into his arms. Wrapped around him, Fraser's breathing slowly synchronized with Ray's, and they drifted into slumber.
~ ~ ~
At about four AM, Fraser woke to the sound of Ray in the bathroom. He felt a chill and sat up only long enough to get fully under the covers of the large bed. He saw Ray's silhouette in the light at the bathroom doorway. When the light clicked off, he murmured,
"Come here."
Ray came and lay down beside him. Fraser threw an arm and a leg over him, but found clothing in his way.
"Take off your pants," he demanded sleepily. "I want to feel your skin against mine."
"Oh." Fraser gave him room, and Ray quickly removed his pants and dropped them over the side of the bed.
"Good," Fraser murmured, pulling Ray back to him, throwing an arm and a leg over him again. He pressed his nose into the hair at the back of Ray's head and inhaled deeply. The scents of skin and Ray's day old hair gel mingled into a comforting melange of home.
Ray turned in his grasp until he lay on his side, spooned by Fraser. Then they both dozed off again.
~ ~ ~
Fraser woke to the warm, slow movement of Ray in his arms. He blinked in the dim room, and turned his head. Cracks of light were visible around the light-blocking drapes. He looked back at the bedside table. The alarm clock-radio said it was 6:15AM. They'd overslept seventy-five minutes. Had they not set the alarm? Had they set it and slept through it? The former, he guiltily concluded.
Ray moved again and burrowed closer to Fraser's warmth.
Fraser stiffened; something about this felt uncomfortable, but familiar.
Ray turned again in his arms until he was lying on his back, with Fraser's arm across his chest, and his leg across his thighs. Fraser's mouth was by Ray's ear. He realized that both he and Ray were aroused again.
Ray yawned luxuriously and stretched beneath Fraser, opening his eyes. He turned to look at the bedside table before he looked at Fraser. Fraser held his breath, uncertain. But Ray broke into a sheepish smile.
"Slept in a little, huh," he murmured.
"Seventy five minutes," Fraser replied cautiously.
"Says you," Ray replied, yawning again. "It's only fifteen minutes for me."
"I have to get up early for Diefenbaker," Fraser quietly justified his five AM inner alarm clock.
" 'Cept he's back at the Consulate in Chicago with Turnbull and the Ice Queen."
"You're saying...?"
"I'm saying the crappy breakfast buffet, with another boring-ass speech by some super-duper paper-pushing law-enforcement big-wig, is in two hours and fifteen minutes. And the actual first seminars don't begin for, like, three hours."
Fraser blinked.
"Meaning, we got time." Ray slid a warm hand down Fraser's chest. "Why so stiff? Pull a muscle?" The libidinous tone he used made Fraser suddenly picture him as a pirate.
"You don't want the continental breakfast?" he prevaricated.
"Do you?"
"Well..." he hesitated.
"Fraser, we can order better breakfast than they're going to give us. We can order better coffee."
"True," Fraser smiled.
"Sorry for the morning breath," Ray said, and then kissed him hard. He rubbed his rough morning stubble against Fraser's.
"It's nothing."
"So whaddaya say, fool around and then order room service? Or order room service, then fool around? Either way, I want eggs. And, pretty soon, to use the can."
"I..." Fraser blushed. "Ray..." He tightened his grasp on his warm, expressive partner.
Ray let Fraser hold him in place. Then he turned and pushed his buttocks back against Fraser's erection distractingly. "You're kinda 'take charge'-ish when you wanna be. Actually, whenever I'm not. Shouldn't be surprised, I guess."
Fraser felt his heart throb and a strange sensation of warmth and expansion in his chest.
"I..." he began, and fell silent.
Ray slipped a hand up and gently grasped Fraser's forearm. He said nothing, and didn't move.
"I..." Fraser started again. "Ray, I -- this isn't what you thought last night. Yes, seeing Victoria -- I thought -- was a, a shock for me. It was extremely painful," he admitted.
"But," he added stubbornly, "I did ask you what you meant when you said, Since her, you don't, and I can't -- I did ask you that, Ray. I asked because I truly wanted to know. I've -- perhaps you've noticed, in the time we've been partners, that I don't -- 'stick my neck out' as you do. Romantically, I mean.
"But I -- I don't know how to do it," he admitted. "I don't even know how to do this, now. I want to stay in bed, but it seems wrong to stay in bed, naked, s-s-sensual, when we should be getting ready, to go to the breakfast address."
Ray snorted. "That's optional."
"Is it?"
"Fraser, you may be a morning person. But a lotta cops work the night shift their whole lives until they became detectives, and the day shift is a big adjustment. Those guys consider the breakfast address optional. Sure, you gotta be at the seminars and breakout sessions your department paid for... but the continental breakfast, tasty as all the donuts and danishes are, not really."
Fraser hesitated. "So it's okay to miss the breakfast address?"
"Absolutely. The first real seminar is at nine or nine thirty, I gotta check. And now we've been babbling for fifteen minutes so we only have two hours left to fool around. And if you'd really rather go to the breakfast address, this is gonna be your first lesson in Hedonism According to Ray, starting with Ray Ties Fraser To The Bed, Blows Him, and Won't Let Him Come For A Really Long Time."
Fraser smiled and nuzzled the back of Ray's neck. "Don't you have to use the facilities?"
"If I do, my morning wood will go down."
"I can remedy that."
Ray laughed. "Fraser, you dog."
Fraser felt his face heat.
Ray turned to face him. "I like it, it's a whole new side of you, but I bet it was there all along. I bet you know a lot more than you're letting on. You learn a lot from books, right?" Ray nuzzled him and tucked his face into Fraser's neck. He slipped his hands down between them to cup and stroke Fraser's erection. "And I learn by doing. So we're pretty well set."
"Ray--" Fraser grabbed Ray's wrists and held them for a moment. "This isn't just a reaction to seeing -- her. It's real. Like you, I've wanted to, forever, too."
Ray drew his face out from the nook between Fraser's neck and shoulder, and looked at him soberly.
"I get it. I didn't really believe it last night, though."
"I know."
"I believe you now," Ray added, his eyes searching Fraser's in the lightening room. He still held Fraser's cock loosely, but didn't move his hands, obeying Fraser's grasp. "Besides, if you ever did pursue anyone, it wouldn't be as crass as me. Didn't expect it to be invisible, though. Well, maybe not invisible. That buddy-breathing thing -- that was pretty obvious."
Fraser's cheeks warmed again. "You're not crass, Ray. You're courageous."
"I don't know about that. But you can't get in the game if you don't get off the bench."
"Very true," Fraser replied, releasing Ray's wrists.
Ray slowly stroked him and they looked at each other. Fraser felt much more than naked: intimately exposed, terribly aroused.
"Damn, you're rock hard," Ray murmured. He held Fraser's erection tightly at the base with one hand, and pulled slowly with the other, from base to tip. Then he did it again. And again.
"It's been--" Fraser gasped -- "a v-very, very long time."
"It was just last night," Ray teased quietly. He tightened his hand and increased his speed. Fraser's excitement grew with Ray's caresses.
"Before then," Fraser groaned.
"You must wanna play a lot, since you been benched so long."
Ray's strokes were swifter, and now he didn't just pull. He moved one hand loosely up and down, masturbating Fraser, and cupped his balls with the other. It drew Fraser into an addictive rhythm; he thrust into Ray's snug grip.
This state of sexual arousal wasn't unfamiliar, a far away, detached part of Fraser's mind reflected. He masturbated daily, having long ago read that regular sexual function correlated with a lower risk of male reproductive disorders and cancers. But that was perfunctory, rarely indulgent.
This, the touch of another, urging him on, was deliriously rare. The intense thrill of someone else's -- someone else's! -- hands on him, skin to skin, freed his senses. His pleasure spiked, aching, then recoiled into a tense, but endurable, ecstasy. Snaked around the core of him, laying in wait, it felt unpredictable and precarious, as if it might suddenly flare, and his control would slip -- or as if he could go on like this for hours. The thin line between the two narrowed with every move of Ray's hands, and drew Fraser's focus down to a smaller and smaller point: Ray's ardent touch, and his own fervent response.
"I should like to p-play as often as p-possible," Fraser stammered. "But only on one t-team."
Ray leaned close and paused.
"Mine," he breathed, and then devoured Fraser's mouth.
Then he slid down in bed. Fraser clutched his shoulders, unsure what to expect. By the time it dawned on him, in a delayed reaction, what Ray meant to do, the tip of his erection was sucked into the hot velvet of Ray's mouth. Hot velvet became tight, wet suction, became sweet friction. The burst of sensation and the stunning thought Ray's mouth pushed Fraser over the edge.
His senses spilled from lucidity into wordless bliss, beyond control. He bucked helplessly, rapture jerking out of him into Ray's yielding mouth; he soared, untethered, a split second, a timeless moment. The distant, staccato rhythm of his ejaculation was a cold, clear stream joyfully crashing over a rocky precipice. Then he fell back into himself, snapped back from the end of a hedonistic leash.
Sweat trickled from his hairline; his chest heaved. Colourful sparks behind his eyelids swelled, fragments of his soul radiating towards Ray. His mouth was dry from panting, the head of his penis hypersensitive from Ray's convulsive swallows. Tight in the flesh of Ray's shoulders, his fingers' feral grasp drew the reality of Ray into Fraser's private, protected world.
Dazed, he felt movement. Skin slid against his thighs, his stomach, his chest. Ray's luscious mouth, and the faint, slightly bitter, aftertaste of himself in it, made him tremble anew. He felt equal parts apprehensive, exultant, conquered, and moved. Fraser savoured morning-sex-semen-Ray and inhaled their mingled scent -- especially Ray's new, intimate, animal scent -- the better to fix this moment forever in him, as only taste and scent could.
]]>~~*~~
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Ray stopped at the side of the lake when he finally ran out of steam. It was a good place for him, mostly because it reminded him of one of the smaller parks back in Chicago, the one he used to skate at when he was a kid. Back then, it didn't much matter when the street lights came on, because in the dead of winter, Ray had a ten o'clock curfew. Him and a bunch of the guys would head out straight after dinner to get to the ice before the kids from three blocks over and to the north showed up, because everyone knew that whoever got to the ice first had home team advantage. Everyone claimed it was a big race to get there, but the way it ended up, they usually switched off every week, because where was the fun in always having the advantage?
His breathing slowed down a little, which was good, because what kind of stupid fuck went running after sunset in the subarctic? Other than himself, he didn't think too many people were at that level of idiot. Of course, he didn't used to think he was that dumb either, but the last couple of days had been a real eye-opener for him, and he realized at last that yes, he could in fact be that stupid. He just hoped Fraser wouldn't tell Vecchio, because he probably wouldn't live that shit down anytime soon.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
Diefenbaker woofed once, his bark soft in the dark, and Ray said, "Yeah, I know. But thanks for coming out."
He woofed again, and Ray said, "Yeah. Got it. Two donuts when we get back."
The nice thing was that because of his recent stupidity, Dief was hanging around more often instead of heading off to look for someplace to die on his own, which was bullshit as far as Ray was concerned, and he didn't hesitate to tell Dief that. Fraser kept saying that's what wolves liked to do, go off alone when it was time, and Ray always countered that with the fact that Dief was only half wolf, so he could damn well do them the courtesy of hanging around to die, so they wouldn't always wonder. Dief usually chimed in at that point with something about the mystique of wolves, but Ray always waved off that stupidity, because yeah, it was stupid.
Wolves -- and people, for that matter -- shouldn't go off alone to die. Almost everyone had family waiting for them, so it was only right to let that family say goodbye at the right time. No matter what.
"Damn it," Ray said, kicking at a patch of snow and ending up flat on his ass as a result. The Northern Lights flared overhead, and Ray shouted, "God DAMN it!"
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's
the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
Dief nosed at him and woofed again, and Ray put his arm around his neck. "Yeah. I'm fine, buddy. How about you? You okay?"
In response, Dief started licking Ray's ear, which, yeah, just as gross as it always was, and Ray knew from gross. When he was a kid, he'd had this cockapoo named McQueen. He was the sweetest dog ever, but he had breath that could make a corpse wake up long enough to run away, and he liked to get right in Ray's face to lick him all over. Vet never could figure out why his breath was so bad. His teeth were good, and nothing else was wrong, so they chalked it up to "Who knows?"
In the end, it didn't matter. Ray loved that dog like crazy, no matter how bad his breath was, and McQueen lived to the ripe old age of thirteen before -- damn it -- wandering off one night to die alone.
Goddamn dog.
"You," Ray said, grabbing Dief by the ear so he'd look at Ray's face, "you don't get to go off to die alone. You hear me?"
After a moment, Dief sagged a little and gave a quiet woof.
"Good. You know how bad that is, never knowing what happened? It sucks."
"I'm sure it does," said Fraser, scaring the shit out of Ray, who could have sworn Fraser wasn't due back for another day.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Ray scrambled to his feet and started brushing the snow off his ass. "What are you doing out here?"
Fraser cocked his head and said, "Looking for you, of course."
"Oh. Yeah. Well, uh, me and Dief, we went for a run."
"After sunset on the coldest night of the year?"
"Shut up," Ray muttered. He didn't want to know why Fraser had followed him out, didn't even want to think about it. He couldn't.
"Mum called," Fraser said, killing Ray's last chance to pretend nothing was wrong.
"Oh?" He bit his lip and asked, "So, uh --"
"Dad came out of surgery and will be in intensive care for a day or two before going to the general care ward." Fraser came close enough to put his arms around Ray. "The doctors think he'll be fine. He won't be home for Christmas, but he might be there by New Year's Day."
"Really?"
"Yes, Ray, really."
And that was when Ray finally lost it a little, because the last two days had been sheer hell, and he couldn't take another thing in. Fraser, bless him, just held on and let Ray cry himself out.
A while later, Fraser said, "I've made plane reservations for the day after tomorrow. No guarantees that we'll get there for Christmas --"
"Wait," Ray said. "'We?' I thought you couldn't get time off."
"The RCMP always makes every effort to accommodate requests for leave to deal with family emergencies," Fraser said gently. "I think Dad's hospitalization counts, don't you?"
"Yeah," Ray said with a shaky laugh. "Yeah. I guess it does. What about Dief?"
"I've spoken with Hildy Two Feathers, and she's agreed to board him until we return." Fraser looked down at Dief and said, "I trust you'll wait until then as well?"
Dief woofed once, and Fraser nodded in satisfaction. "Excellent. And now, Ray, I think it's time to return to the cabin, don't you?"
"Yeah," he said. "My feet aren't too happy with me."
"Neither am I," said Fraser, "but we can deal with that another time. Shall we?"
~~*~~
The poem is Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost.
Ray was doing pretty well at the whole con-job thing until Fraser found the feather.
It was just a little feather, a little white feather with a dusting of gold at the very tip, and downy around the quill where it had come out.
It wasn't something you'd think anyone normal would notice, not even most detectives, and once they figured out that the feather didn't really have anything to do with any crime-type activity, eventually they'd drop it, or at worst stick the feather in their pencil cup and forget all about it.
But Fraser? Fraser was not normal.
Fraser was abnormal--or maybe super-normal was a better word. Even though Ray usually tried to throw people off the scent of Fraser's not-normalness by telling them "he's Canadian," as though it meant something like "he was raised by wolves and musk ox," that wasn't the half of it. Fact was, most Canadians were actually pretty normal. Most Canadians didn't lick evidence to find out what it was--and they wouldn't get anywhere with that method even if they did. Most Canadians didn't leap out of moving vehicles or do gymnastics off the tops of tenement buildings, either.
Ray might complain a lot about Fraser's freakishness, but actually he kind of liked that in a guy. It sure made working with him interesting. And it made them friends, because, yeah, Ray was kind of offbeat himself.
But sometimes, Fraser's freakish set of talents proved downright inconvenient.
Like now. Fraser wouldn't let the feather issue go.
"It's a most unusual feather, Ray," Fraser said in his hyper-reasonable voice, the one that was exactly weighted and calculated to drive Ray batshit in twenty seconds flat. He was holding the feather up in his gloved fingers and squinting at the morning sunlight coming through it. The light sort of made the edges glow a little.
Ray squinted, too, trying to see if the light looked otherworldly at all. He didn't think so, but maybe he didn't know enough to judge.
Eventually the sunlight made him sneeze, and he yawned for good measure. "It's just a feather, Fraser. A feather which does not have anything to do with who took potshots at Father Adamczyk on the steps of St. Stephen's at 7:30 on a Monday morning."
Fraser stared at him like he'd just said Lincoln Town Cars were cooler than GTOs, or something about that level of ridiculous. "We don't know that for certain," Fraser said. "I don't think it's from a local bird, Ray."
"It doesn't matter what kind of bird it was, Fraser, because birds do not shoot people."
"Well, that's true, Ray, but you as a detective should know that any evidence found at the scene of a crime can be material."
"Can be. Might not be, Fraser. Detective at the scene has to make that call." That detective was Ray, of course, but Fraser was his partner, and unofficial or no, that was good enough for Ray. If Fraser wanted the thing in evidence it was going in evidence, or Fraser would get to wondering why Ray was making such a big deal out of it.
Ray hadn't decided what to do about that yet.
"Are you saying you're not willing even to consider it?" Fraser asked.
"I'm considering it. I'm just not seeing any connection."
"I'm not sure there is one, Ray, but the presence of this feather is extremely peculiar. We have not one but two anomalies this morning at St. Stephen's--the shooting, and this very unusual feather, which isn't a feather from any bird we would expect to see in Chicago."
"We got zoos here in Chicago, Fraser. It's a big city. We got people who have exotic pets."
Fraser shook his head. "It's not a feather from one of those birds, Ray." Total conviction, as though he knew, which he couldn't have known.
"You cannot know that, Fraser. You know a million freakish things, I admit, but even you cannot know every feather from every bird that is or could possibly be in Chicago. Anyway, what could any feather have to do with the crime? Tell me that. So far what we got is, we got the shooting of a priest puttering around the steps of the church in the morning, changing the, um, the marquee there to the current week's message." Father Adamczyk had spelled out: Not one sparrow falls without the Father knowing it.
"A bird-related quotation," Fraser mused.
Ray blew out a breath. "That's your reasoning? The quote was bird related, so the feather is a clue?" He whacked the side of his head like he was clearing water out of his ears.
"Oh, that? No, that's merely an interesting coincidence."
Ray gritted his teeth and counted to sixteen to keep a lid on his temper. "Back to the actual case, okay? So far we got the priest, who's grazed on the arm and shook up, but okay, and we got his report of the guy with the gun. Probably a nutcase," he added, "because really, who's up at 7:30 who doesn't have to be?"
Fraser shot him a look.
"I mean except Mounties," Ray said. "It's practically a Mountie's duty to get up at crazy o'clock AM. Anyway, so far we don't got anybody else at the scene. So since we're here already, we go knock on some doors and try to flush out an eyewitness, and then after lunch we talk to Father A again, see if there's anything more coherent he can tell us."
"All right," Fraser said, looking thoughtfully over towards the crime-scene crew, who were measuring and taping the sidewalks and digging bullets out of the church door behind where the priest had been standing. "Nevertheless, I think it's worth cataloguing the feather with the rest of the evidence."
"Knock yourself out." Ray shrugged and watched Fraser bag and tag the feather. Ray could make the feather disappear out of Evidence Lockup just like that, but he had a feeling that would only make Fraser more determined than ever to puzzle it out. So he figured he'd better just get on with solving the crime and hope that Fraser would forget the thing eventually.
But it looked like "eventually" was going to be some time in coming. Fraser brought up the feather no less than seven times while they pounded the pavement. Ray figured Fraser might even want to ask Father A about it later, and he couldn't think of a good reason to ask Fraser not to.
The priest had been kind of incoherent when they first tried to talk to him; and a couple of burly EMTs had been strapping him onto a gurney and loading him into an ambulance at the time, anyway. The guy was gesticulating with his good arm and smiling like he'd just been told the Pope was coming to Chicago and had chosen St. Stephen's for a visit, or maybe like he'd...well, Ray didn't know what could make a priest smile like that, but it had to be something queer. And okay, Ray didn't understand priests at all, never had, but who smiled when they got shot? Did the old guy actually look forward to meeting his boss that quick?
Ray's Polish wasn't good enough to understand what the priest was going on about, and for once Fraser couldn't actually translate a random foreign language on the spot. Hell of a time for Fraser's encyclopedic knowledge to take a siesta.
On the other hand, maybe that wasn't a bad thing. It depended what the priest was actually saying.
They knocked on a lot of doors in a one-block radius around St. Stephen's in an attempt to find eyewitnesses, but came up empty.
"Perhaps no one saw," Fraser said quietly, intently, when they finally got back into the GTO and headed out for lunch. "It was quite early in the morning, yet not so early that a lot of people wouldn't have left for work already. It's possible Father Adamczyk was the only one on the block who was up and around at that moment."
"Nah, this is Chicago; someone's always around," Ray said. "We already know about two: the priest and the guy who fired at him."
"Three," Fraser said quietly.
"Three?" Ray stared at him. How the hell did Fraser do it?
"Someone else was present," Fraser said. "Think, Ray. The assailant missed. That is, he missed Father Adamczyk. He fired where he was aiming, though."
"Huh?"
"Did you have a chance to see the pattern of the bullets in the door? Several of them went right through the place where Father Adamczyk must have been standing in order to place the letters on the marquee. In fact, since he dropped the last letter, the physical evidence corroborates his report."
Father A had at least been able to point out the spot where he'd been standing, even though he couldn't get out a whole sentence in English at the time.
"Did you see how many holes?" Fraser persisted.
Ray scratched his head, visualized the big wooden door of the church. "Uh. Eight?"
"Yes. Where's the ninth bullet?" Fraser said. "I'm fairly sure the bullets were fired from a gun very like yours, Ray. Which fires nine rounds. Not your gun, of course," Fraser added.
"Duh."
"And I'd recognize the markings on any bullet from your gun."
Ray almost hit a hydrant. He swerved away just in time. Gripped the wheel tighter, drove steadier, and tried to breathe calmly. "Sorry. I don't know why the information that you can identify the bullets from my gun on sight should surprise me, considering you also know every bird that is or should be in Chicago. You're a freak."
"I suppose so." Out of the corner of his eye, Ray saw Fraser's chin drop down to touch his chest.
"Hey," Ray said. "Maybe I like freaks."
Fraser's head came up. "I hope so, Ray."
Ray shot him a smile, but there wasn't time to do more than catch Fraser's eye for a second, because he had to watch the road. Fire hydrants were everywhere, and so were innocent pedestrians.
"So how do we know he emptied the gun?" Ray said.
"Well, we don't, but he certainly seemed quite thorough and determined."
"Maybe the missing one is the one that hit the priest?" Ray suggested. "Grazing his arm could have altered the tra--the traj--you know."
"The trajectory. Yes, I suppose so, but that bullet was found. I believe it carried some fibers from Father Adamczyk's sleeve with it."
"How the hell could you see that?"
Fraser patted the pouch on his belt. "Magnifying glass. At any rate, considering the angle, that has to have been the bullet that grazed the victim."
Ray sighed. Partners, he reminded himself. Fraser had freakish superpowers, and Ray was just going to have to deal.
He spun a finger in the air. "So where were we? How does the number of bullets tell you there was a witness?"
"Did I say 'witness'?" Fraser said, probably knowing full well he hadn't. "I should have said there was a third participant."
"An accomplice?"
"Oh, no," Fraser said. "A hero."
The only reason a hydrant didn't buy it right there was that Ray was stopped at a light at the moment, and about a hundred fifty people were crossing the street. He swallowed hard and met Fraser's eyes. He had no idea what Fraser was seeing on his face. "Hero?"
"Someone," Fraser said, "stepped in the way of the ninth bullet, Ray. The one that would have gone through Father Adamczyk's heart."
Ray recovered enough to point a couple of fingers in Fraser's direction, stabbing the air like it could prove his point. "See, this is what I'm talking about, Fraser. You cannot know that. Nobody can possibly know a thing like that."
Fraser's shoulders lifted very slightly, probably as much of a shrug as the red serge straitjacket would allow. "Well, I can, Ray."
"I do not get that, Fraser. I do not get how you can make a claim like that."
"The bullet pattern," Fraser said. "Doesn't it remind you of something, Ray?"
"Yeah, that crazy people and guns do not mix."
"Besides that," Fraser said. "Have you ever seen a knife-throwing performance? At a circus, for instance?"
"I hate the circus," Ray said. Then he sighed. "Okay, so. I see what you're saying." Bullets had hit on both sides of where the priest had been standing. If you squinted, they maybe drew a little outline around his head and shoulders. An even number, four on each side, and the only one that was slightly off the neat outline was the one Fraser said had grazed the priest's shoulder. Which, the priest had probably moved at the last second, and that was why it hit him at all, because it was pretty clear that the gunman who fired all the other shots wouldn't have been that sloppy.
So where would the ninth bullet have gone, if the shooter was that neat and precise? The heart, yeah. If you believed Fraser's entire airy-fairy reconstruction here, it would have been the heart.
And airy-fairy didn't mean it wasn't true, after all. Loony Tunes, yeah, but also true.
"Unless Father Adamczyk somehow got out of the way in time," Fraser said. "Which in itself would have been remarkable, considering the assailant was only ten paces away and Father Adamczyk is not terribly spry anymore."
Understatement. The guy was small and birdlike himself, and when they'd seen him in the ambulance, he looked almost as white as the sheet, which made a weird contrast with that big freakish smile on his face.
"Except the only place to go would have been straight toward the gunman, or otherwise we'd have the ninth bullet in the door somewhere," Fraser said.
"Okay," Ray said finally. "Okay, suppose I go with you on this. You stacked up like four hypotheticals in there, but I am going with you on this because you are my partner. So where do you think we'll find our witness guy or hero guy or whoever? Because we have no footprints, we have no blood, we have no physical evidence between Father A and the shooter."
"We have the feather," Fraser said. "It was found approximately 16 inches in front of the place where Father Adamczyk was standing."
And, yeah, okay. He really, really wasn't going to let the feather go.
"So a bird got in the way?"
"Not a bird's feather, Ray."
"You are making my head hurt," Ray said. "It has been three hours since I had any coffee, and now I am so hungry I could eat your big hat. And thank God, we are here." And there was even a parking space, just a few doors down from the Icarus diner.
Ray had the souvlaki and about fourteen little diner-sized cups of coffee. Fraser had tomato soup and grilled cheese, which made Ray smile and took his mind off heavier stuff for a while.
After lunch, they checked on Father Adamczyk at Cook County Hospital. He was small and frail, really old, with a deeply lined face and kind eyes that had once been blue but now were faded as pale as water. His smile was a lot more normal now, and he seemed a lot calmer, and Ray realized he was an okay guy, which of course he had to be. Had to be better than an okay guy, considering.
It wasn't fair that the gunman had chosen that poor old guy to hassle, and apparently somebody else thought so, too, because, like Fraser said, there was no way the gunman would have missed.
Father A had a real thick accent, but his English had improved a lot by the time they sat down at his bedside to talk to him at the hospital. The doctors were keeping him overnight for observation even though the wound wasn't serious, because of how incoherent he'd been when he came in. Ray figured they wanted to make sure the priest hadn't had some kind of heart attack or stroke or demented thing, because he maybe had said some stuff that doctors would have a hard time believing.
By the time Ray and Fraser sat down next to him and asked him some more questions, he'd apparently figured out what stuff was okay to say and what stuff had a fair chance of getting him an all-expenses-paid vacation in the hotel with the rubber walls.
"Of course someone else was there," he said when Fraser asked about his mystery third person. "The Lord is always with us. The Lord protected me. Put your trust in the Lord, my son."
"But the Lord didn't get hit by a bullet," Fraser said.
"Well of course not," the priest said, giving Fraser a funny look like maybe he wondered whether Fraser was all there.
"And you don't remember seeing anybody else?" Fraser said gently. "No one at all?"
Father Adamczyk gave him another long look, like he was calculating how much he could say. He glanced at Ray, too, with a kind of thoughtful expression, then he looked back at Fraser. "Wings," he whispered finally. "Something very bright. I think it was an angel of the Lord."
Fraser swallowed very hard. "It does sound like it," he said. And instead of looking relieved, like he would if a mystery was solved, or happy, like if he believed in angels and had discovered one really did save a nice old priest guy, he looked...some other way. Ray couldn't decide whether he looked sad or scared or maybe a little of both.
And that made Ray's throat hurt, and he had to look away.
Father Adamczyk raised one bony little hand and patted the edge of Fraser's sleeve. "Don't worry, son. Whatever it is, you can bring your troubles to the Lord."
"Ah," Fraser said. "Thank you, Father. Er...could you tell us more about the shooter?"
Pretty obvious way to change the subject, Ray thought, but actually it worked, and the priest remembered some stuff. He managed to give them a description, for one thing. White guy, medium height and skinny, with long dark hair, dark eyes, thin face, kind of wild looking. Taking careful aim, bang-bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang-bang, just like Fraser said, and then taking aim one more time, point-blank at Father A's heart, and shouting something like "I am Jesus Christ." The priest crossed himself when he said that. "A troubled soul," he added. "You'll find him, but you'll have to take him to a hospital instead of a jail."
"Yeah, sounds like it," Ray said. He tried to bring the investigation back down to Earth. "But that was some pretty precise shooting, which seems kind of odd for a junkie or something. So you don't know of anybody who'd want you...out of the way, or whatever? You've had no run-ins with mob guys or nothing?"
Father A shook his head. "Nothing like that." He paused and looked kind of intently at Ray. "The Lord gives us all our challenges. Perhaps that young man also needed to see an angel this morning."
Ray sighed. Apparently he was just not getting off the hook here, with anyone. "So you believe the shooter saw it, too, then?"
"Oh, yes. In fact, he fell to his knees. He dropped the gun. But then he recovered, picked it up, and ran."
"And the angel?" Fraser said.
The priest shook his head. "I don't know. I was slightly injured, as you see. And the angel...was gone, and I got inside the church, into the sacristy, and phoned for help."
That was all the priest could tell them, so they left, but not before he'd put his frail hand up toward both of them and said a blessing. Ray looked back over his shoulder and smiled at him just before going out the door, because really that was kind of cool of the guy, considering Fraser wasn't Catholic and Ray pretty much stayed away from churches except on official business.
Father A smiled back at him, almost like he knew, which Ray was pretty sure he didn't, but it probably didn't matter either way. It wasn't like he'd be believed by anybody who could make any trouble about it.
Fraser, though, Fraser was not smiling. Outside the
hospital, at the exit to the parking garage, Fraser was holding his hat in his hand and looking kind of lost. People were shouldering past him, and he didn't seem to notice them, like they weren't even there. The
guy who could carve a sextant out of whale bone and find his way across a
barren tundra by the position of the stars was looking lost.
Maybe abandoned was a better word.
That tore a hole in Ray's heart faster than any bullet could have. "Look, Frase," he started to say, but Fraser stopped him by whipping his head up and staring at him hard, his eyes brimming.
"What haven't you told me, Ray?" he said in a ragged voice that hurt Ray's ears to hear. "I thought partners meant sharing."
Ray actually staggered back two steps, because how the hell did Fraser do it?
He swallowed hard. "Uh, Frase. There's stuff that can be shared and there's stuff that can't."
"You mean you won't."
Ray shook his head, feeling desperate. "I mean can't. Partners does mean sharing, Fraser. You know how I feel about that."
"When it comes to my sharing things, I do."
Ray put his face in his hand for a minute, then slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand, trying to clear his head. Give me a sign, he pleaded silently. Please, tell me how to solve this. Because he couldn't help Fraser if they weren't together on this. They were a duet.
"Why were you so adamant that I ignore the feather?" Fraser said.
Ray put his hand over the pit of his stomach, trying to feel for an answer. He had to go on his gut pretty much all the time, and this was important. This was crucial. Because he didn't know who he would be without Fraser, and Fraser might walk when he heard everything.
Ray didn't even know whether he was going to be allowed to tell everything, or whether he'd just...he didn't know, dissolve in a shower of sparkles or something. Maybe something much worse.
But he could read the look in Fraser's eyes, feel his anger--no, worse, his despair. Fraser was ready to have it out here and now, and if what he heard spooked him or worse, made him not trust Ray, then that really would be the end.
So they had to talk now; okay, Ray got that. But not in the hospital parking garage. He grabbed Fraser's hand. "Not here," he said. "I'll tell you everything I can, but not here."
Fraser looked down pointedly at Ray's hand gripping his. Ray held on anyway. "Come on, Fraser, it never bothered you before."
Fraser sighed, lifted an eyebrow, and looked at his feet.
"You are not having an attack of 'straighter than thou' at this moment, Fraser, tell me it's not that."
Fraser made a sound that wasn't exactly a chuckle, but that was maybe acknowledging there was a joke in there somewhere and he got it. "Never that, Ray," he said in a wry voice, and that was good, that was something. That was something they'd never really talked about before, but that had always been there in potential, and Ray hadn't felt he had the right to make a move, considering. He didn't know whether he had extra influence or whether it was all right to speak first.
He wasn't really sure whether he'd just done that, but his gut never steered him wrong, and it was telling him Fraser was with him in this, at least. Probably always had been.
Ray laced his fingers together with Fraser's and looked him in the eye. Fraser's hand squeezed his briefly.
Someone nearby made what sounded like a polite cough, which wasn't in the least polite at all, seeing as it was a freaking comment on what Ray was doing. Ray would have glared at them, except he didn't fucking care what they thought. He was having a moment, here. Maybe the last one he'd have with Fraser, if Fraser didn't like the explanation he was about to try to give him.
Ray swallowed. "Uh, there's people around. And I ain't in the least ashamed, Fraser, but we are working, and..."
"Yes," Fraser said. "And we are police partners."
"I ain't saying it can't happen. Just can't happen here, not if I want to keep my job."
"Yes, of course."
Ray let go Fraser's hand, reluctantly, and looked at his watch. "I can clock out now," he said. "I'll call in and let Welsh know. He'll be happy, actually. I put in a 12-hour shift the other day, and he don't want to have to pay me overtime. You?"
"I'm at your disposal," Fraser said. "I had the day off."
Which was just more evidence of how not-normal Fraser was, but Ray was grateful. Fraser could be doing anything he wanted today, and he was spending it being partners with Ray.
Ray felt hope uncurl in his gut like wings unfolding.
So Ray called the station and clocked out, and they got in the car and drove to Ray's apartment. Fraser sat next to him silently, his hat in his hand, but he didn't seem too uncomfortable, and halfway there he put his free hand on Ray's leg and left it there. Ray put his hand down on top of Fraser's and squeezed briefly to tell him it was okay, it was good, and then he moved his hand back to the steering wheel, because Fraser's hand was distracting enough.
When they got to the apartment, Ray tossed down his keys and locked the door, and asked Fraser if he wanted a glass of water or something. Fraser shook his head.
"Okay," Ray said, and he shrugged out of his jacket and flung it on a chair. Then he took off his shirt and sent it sailing after the jacket.
Fraser blinked, surprised.
Ray undid his belt.
"Er, Ray. I didn't mean. Well, actually I did, but I thought we might, er. Ah, don't you think we should take this a bit more...?"
Ray held up a hand. "Sorry. It's not what you think. That we will take slow, okay? This, this is just the answer to your questions. I think I'm gonna be allowed to show you. So just, um, kind of hold on to your hat, there, and don't, uh, faint or nothing."
"All right," Fraser said. He didn't look the least bit faint. Ray figured there were some advantages to being a freak.
He took a deep breath and unbuttoned his jeans, kicked off his boots, and shucked everything off--jeans, underwear, socks--and then he was naked.
Fraser looked startled and maybe even a little pink, but Ray figured it didn't matter; he'd be clothed in light in a moment.
He closed his eyes and concentrated.
He felt it happen. It was like an electrical tingling all over, except it was pleasant, not like real electricity, but soft and vibrant and life-giving. He opened his eyes. The inside of his apartment had a kind of glow about it now, and so did everything in it, including Fraser. Ray knew it was coming from him, that he was kind of shining on everything around him. He tried to tone it down a little, but he didn't spend much time in this state, so he didn't have a lot of practice. Maybe now that Fraser knew, Ray'd have more of a chance to work on some technique.
Ray took another big breath of air and felt the strength come into him, strength that he needed, because, yeah, there it was, the extra weight on his shoulders, the extra muscles and the movement, all of it. He rolled his shoulders a little, cracked his neck, and then stretched his wings out carefully, making some little gusts of air around him.
He couldn't get them fully extended in here, of course, or he'd risk doing to his own breakables what he'd done to his mom's favorite antique lamp twenty years ago.
He saw Fraser's hair ruffle a little in the breeze from his wings. "Uh, sorry."
Fraser wasn't half paying attention to what he said. His eyes were wide and blue. But he stood his ground, which was something. That was something.
"Oh, my goodness," Fraser finally said. "Ray."
Then his face just sort of...closed and his jaw clenched, and a wave of sadness passed over his face.
Ray's wings drooped immediately. He took two steps toward Fraser and then he
stopped short, because he didn't want to spook him. Instead he held out his
arms, offering. "Frase, don't be sad."
"How can I not? I'm losing my partner."
Ray shook his head so hard his brains rattled. "No! I promise you you're not. Not unless you reject me."
"Is that permitted?" Fraser asked in a choked-off voice. "Isn't there only one acceptable answer to an angel of the Lord?"
"No!" Ray said. "You got free will, Fraser. So do I. You do not have to be my partner or stay my partner. That is a matter of choice, and there's no strings either way. I might have a preference, but it's totally your choice."
"And yours?"
"Yes!"
"And your preference is?"
"I love you, Fraser. I have from Day One. I want us to continue to be partners, to be a duet, to be...more. But you've got to want it too, or it's no good."
"Yet you've been hiding this from me," Fraser said.
"I'm sorry. It wasn't my choice. I told you I was a con job; I told you. I couldn't say any more than that. We're not usually allowed to tell anybody at all. You're, um...it looks like you got some kind of special dispens--you know."
"Dispensation?" Fraser said.
"Yeah, that's it."
Fraser looked thoughtful. "You still have trouble with words, even as an angel?"
Ray nodded. "Yeah. Sorry. I realize I'm not what the stories teach people to expect. I still need my glasses to see good, except, you know, at moments when I got a job, like the job this morning at St. Stephen's."
Fraser started, and took a halting step toward Ray. He lifted his hand. "Er. May I--?"
"Sure," Ray said.
Fraser moved around to look at Ray's left wing. He reached out and touched it very, very lightly.
Ray flinched, and Fraser pulled his hand away like he'd been stung.
"No, it's okay," Ray said. "It just tickles when you do it that light. Go ahead. Touch it harder." Then he heard himself, and he kind of blushed.
Fraser looked up, and he blushed, too. "Oh, dear."
Ray laughed softly. "We will get to that. If you want to."
"Can we?"
"Would I be making the offer if we couldn't?"
"How do angels...?"
"Just like other people, except the wings are optional. Jeez, is there a question you don't have?"
"Probably not," Fraser said. "Why do you swear?"
"Because I'm me," Ray said. "I'm the Ray you know. You didn't know a few things about me, but...come on, you knew there were things you didn't know. You know?"
Fraser scrunched up his face a little at that, and Ray didn't blame him.
"Look, you didn't know for sure that I'd want to, uh..." He waved his hand. "Get with you. The way I want to get with you." He was kind of pink. Which, considering he was standing there naked and with wings, it was pretty funny that he'd be feeling pink about what he just said.
"About that, I at least had an inkling. And a lot of hope."
That made Ray smile. "Yeah?"
"Oh, yes, Ray. I love you also. As you well know."
That made Ray glow, which, since he was all feathered out at the moment, was literal. He saw Fraser squint, and he tried to tone it down more. "Sorry, I don't got perfect control of any of this stuff except for those special moments when I get called to do something specific like save Father Adamczyk. The rest of the time I have to, uh, wing it."
Fraser smiled at that. He looked back at Ray's left wing. "Speaking of which, I was trying to see where the bullet hit you. Where the feather came out."
"Oh," Ray said. "Yeah, it's there. He spread his primaries, showed Fraser the wound.
"Does it hurt?"
"Nah," Ray said. "It did when it happened, but my angel body heals fast. I keep trying to teach that trick to my regular body. That would come in handy."
Fraser counted the primaries softly. "I knew it wasn't from a bird," he said. "See, you have eleven. Birds have ten." He looked back up at Ray. "Do you need the missing feather back?"
"Nah, a new one'll grow."
"And the one in Evidence?"
"Will accidentally disappear," Ray said. "It's not part of the case, anyway."
"It most certainly is," Fraser said.
"Not the case I'm building," Ray said.
"So angels lie?" Fraser said.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Frase," Ray said. "It's not that cut and dried. There's some things that people get to know and there's some things they're not ready for. If we don't tell little kids the gory details of some things, like sex and violence, for instance, are we lying to them?"
"Oh," Fraser said. "Are we children, then?"
Ray shrugged. "Not you, Fraser. You are a freak like me." He smiled. "Which must be why I got permission to tell you all this stuff."
Fraser let go of his wing. "I suppose I should admit to feeling a sense of irony at the revelation that the person who calls me a freak most regularly is in fact a supernatural being."
"I like freaks, Fraser."
"So you've said. Now I see why."
"Nah," Ray said. "This is pretty showy, I admit, but most of the time I'm just a regular guy."
"Regular guy." Fraser snorted.
"What's that, what is that? Is that sarcasm, Fraser?"
"Ah," Fraser said. "Possibly. It's just...you're asking me to believe two mutually exclusive things. One, that you're an angel--which at the moment appears rather inescapable, unless I have totally misplaced my entire bag of marbles. And two, that you're an ordinary person."
"Yeah, so?"
"Who happens to be an angel."
"Look, I am--I was, anyway. I just got...deputized," Ray said, mumbling a little.
"Deputized? Is the Almighty a sheriff?" Fraser had his mocking, incredulous voice going strong. It went up a whole register when he did that, and it didn't even sound foolish like other guys did when that happened.
"I don't think so!" Ray snapped back. Then he sighed hard and slapped his palms against his thighs. "Look, most of the time I really am a regular guy. I don't always know when the angel stuff is going to kick in."
"That's very odd."
"Really? You know a lot of angels, Fraser?"
"Well, no. At least I don't think I do."
"I got deputized," Ray said. "I don't know how else to explain it. I was ten. I heard my name called. There was this light..."
"Oh," Fraser said. "Your 'alien abduction'?"
Ray nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that was it. How does a ten-year-old explain what he's doing in the middle of the lawn in his footie pajamas at 3 AM? I didn't even know. So I told my parents it was maybe aliens. What did they know? None of us knew nothing. They just thought I made something up so I wouldn't get in trouble. My dad almost thrashed me, but...something stopped him."
"Hm," Fraser said thoughtfully.
"Yeah, maybe someone like me, I don't know. I didn't see anyone. Anyway, something was different after that. I was different."
"Is that when you changed your name?" Fraser asked quietly.
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"People often do it when they feel they've undergone a significant transformation. In some cultures, it's quite customary to have several different names over a lifetime."
"Huh," Ray said. "Yeah, maybe that's it. I just knew I didn't feel like a Stanley anymore, and the next morning, I told my parents to call me Ray instead. My dad gave me kind of a funny look, like he knew there was more to it, but then he was the one who...you know, who maybe got stopped by an angel from hitting me. He never called me Stanley again, even though the name was his idea. Never hit me again, either.
"My mom, she never hit me. She don't always remember to call me Ray. I think she kind of wants to hold on to her baby, if that makes any sense."
"Perfect sense, Ray," Fraser said, just as calm as before, but something had gone all dark and wounded in his eyes.
And Ray understood: Fraser didn't usually get to hold on to the people he wanted to hold on to.
Ray gripped his arm. "No, Fraser. Don't go there. Do not go there."
"How do you know what I--is that because you're...?"
"No," Ray said. "It is because I am your partner and your friend and I know you. And you need to understand: people and angels and whoever else, we don't understand why everything happens the way it does. It might've just been your dad's time."
"I don't think so," Fraser said. "I've never felt closure."
"Even though you got the killers?"
Fraser sighed. "There are still things I don't understand, don't remember. Such as how my mother died."
"Look, Fraser. I don't know why their angels didn't stop what happened to them. I'm not told that kind of thing unless I need to know. But I can tell you this: wherever they were, whatever was happening, they weren't alone."
Fraser was thumbing his eyebrow
really hard at that point, and when Ray glanced over, he saw that Fraser had his face turned away from Ray.
He held on to Fraser's arm and gave him a minute.
"I'd like to believe that," Fraser said finally.
"Well, you can. That part I'm sure about."
"What are you not sure about?"
"Lots of stuff. Maybe most stuff. I told you, I can't control this thing, and I don't always know when it's gonna kick in. If you throw me off a building, Fraser, I don't know if the wings are gonna come out and save me or not. So maybe you could be a little careful when you throw me off of things, okay?"
"But aren't you immortal?"
"I don't think so," Ray said. "Not like you mean. I think I'll die. Uh. Hopefully not soon."
"Hopefully not," Fraser said, and he sounded like he was gritting his teeth a little, like it hurt him to talk about the subject of Ray dying.
"I'm doing my best to stay alive and well here, Frase. Your cooperation would be, uh, would be appreciated."
"Of course Ray. I'd rather die myself than allow you to come to--"
Ray pressed a finger over Fraser's lips. "I know, but don't say it. I'll do the jumping in front of bullets in this partnership. But only when I get the call."
"Is that what happened when you jumped in front of Greta Garbo's bullet? Fraser asked. "Did you get the call then?"
"Nah, but I had a vest."
"It only covered part of you, Ray."
"Yeah, well. You had no vest at all. I had better odds."
"So you did actually risk your life then."
"Yeah."
"And you risked it for Father Adamczyk today, too." Fraser stroked the feathers closest to the bullet scar where the missing feather had come out. It tickled a little.
"Maybe," Ray said. "I don't really know. Better odds, though, like with the vest. I got a lot of wing area, I folded them around my body, and luckily the bullet went in and struck bone and stopped. Losing the feather was just careless. I was a little freaked out."
"I can imagine." Fraser stroked Ray's wing again. Delicious shivers went up Ray's spine, and his eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
"Odd that a little hollow bone like this could stop a bullet," Fraser murmured, and Ray opened his eyes, because wow, Fraser just could not let anything go, could he? He had to dot the Is and cross the Ts or he was just never satisfied.
"Maybe it's special bone, like you said the feather was different from bird feathers. Me, I don't really know the difference, I just feel the difference. You want to, you can go over my angel body with your magnifying glass or whatever."
"Really, Ray?"
"Sure. They're letting me tell you this much, then I got nothing more to hide. We're a duet."
"Oh, Ray." Fraser had a half-hopeful, half-sad look on his face.
Ray shrugged. "If you gotta look me over now, Frase, then do it. Whatever you need."
Fraser sighed. "If you're kind enough to assuage my curiosity about your wings, I'd be happy to look them over at another time, and thank you. For now, I just...there's something I don't understand, and I want to ask, but I don't want to intrude, except..."
"Except how you kind of do?" Ray smiled. "It's okay. I said I got nothing to hide, and I meant it. Shoot."
"How do you explain Stella?"
"Huh? What's to explain?"
"Your issues with her. Your life with her, your separation from her."
Ray shrugged. "She didn't know about this; I wasn't allowed to tell her. I loved her. I made mistakes."
"I didn't know angels made them."
Ray stared at him for a moment. "What's the most important angel moment in history?"
Fraser blinked. "You mean in the Christian mythology?"
"Sure. Any mythology you like. Pick the one you know best."
"Michael, driving the humans out of paradise?" Fraser suggested.
"Yeah, you would think that. But, no."
"The angel staying Abraham's hand from sacrificing his son?"
"Uh-uh."
"Gabriel, informing Mary that she will conceive..."
"Nope."
"All right then. What is it?"
"Sheesh, Frase, you can quote that Milton thing, but I gotta wonder if you ever heard the words. It's Lucifer. You know--" he pointed up, swooped his finger down. "Guy made some big mistakes. Biggest ever."
Fraser had the queerest reaction then. He blushed. He swallowed hard and hung his head and his face was really hot, red like his uniform.
"Hey, it's okay. It's amazing you can quote one page of that stuff, much less the whole thing. Nobody's expecting you to have the memory of a computer."
Fraser looked up, his face starting to clear. "Oh, it's not that. It's...ah, I, uh. The Fall from Grace is a...it's a painful story, Ray." Ray could see instantly that it wasn't just a story to Fraser. Ray couldn't see the particulars, but he could sort of feel the pain in Fraser's vibe. This was personal to him, real personal.
Then Ray flashed on something else, a set of images, one
after the other, quick, but almost painfully clear: A dark-haired woman with a
chilling smile. Fraser on a train platform in the snow, Ray Vecchio and some
other officers leaning over him. Fraser in a confessional, asking absolution of
a priest. Ray Vecchio in a church. Ray Vecchio in his bedroom at the house on
Octavia, on his knees next to his bed, the sheets turned down, his watch and
one phone number on his nightstand. No bag packed, because he was taking
nothing with him. Vecchio, about to go undercover. On his knees. Praying,
praying. Please take care of Fraser. Don't leave him alone.
It was like Ray could see Vecchio's thoughts: Vecchio'd never had a brother, but after Fraser came along it was like he did. A younger brother, a trouble magnet in a big red target of a suit.
And Ray understood why this had been shown to him now.
Realized why he'd been Awakened and assigned to
Fraser. And to Vecchio's family, Vecchio's job, but that was temporary. Fraser
felt...permanent. If Ray could hack it. If Ray had strong enough shoulders.
He put his hand on Fraser's shoulder, real gently. "Everybody makes mistakes," he said. "Not like, you know, Lucifer did, but...we all fall down sometime. You can't expect perfection."
"Not even in an angel?"
"Nah, least of all angels." Ray smiled, and then dared to put his hand up to touch Fraser's cheek. "Not humans, either. Not even you, Benton Fraser."
"Oh, I know. That I know." Fraser put his hand on Ray's cheek, too, then, feeling the stubble that was still there, brushing his fingertips wonderingly over it. "You're still Ray," Fraser said, like he was saying it to himself.
"Uh-huh, like I keep telling you. Ray with wings, but still Ray. Still the same damaged but not-stupid guy you know. And I'm still crazy about you, Frase. Want to be your partner. Want to be your partner. You want that?" The question of the ages, right there.
"I do, yes," Fraser said, and it sounded like a promise,
like a vow.
"Then I'm yours," Ray said. His heart felt like it had expanded, and everything in the room was shining back at him, and he couldn't tone it down. "'Cause I want that, too."
"May I kiss you now, Ray?"
"Oh, yeah."
Fraser reached for him, and Ray reeled him in close and wrapped his arms and then his wings around him. Fraser put his mouth on Ray's, and his lips were incredibly soft, and sweeter than Ray had imagined. He'd done a lot of imagining, but the reality was so much better.
They kissed for a real long time, Fraser's mouth opening hot and wet under Ray's. Fraser's tongue was strong and capable, and the thought of Fraser's tongue on other parts of his body, either the regular or the angel version, made Ray's knees weak.
It made other parts of him stand up firm, though. He pulled back, blushing, when his dick poked Fraser's belly and left a wet smear on the serge.
"Oh, dear," Fraser said. "The uniform."
"Sorry." Ray made the problem disappear.
Fraser blinked, looking down at where his uniform looked perfectly clean again. "That's efficient. Can you do that any time?"
"When I'm angeled out, yeah. Not normally. Normally that would be a dry-cleaning bill." He smiled kind of sheepishly. "Although If I hadn't Changed for you, I would still have my clothes on and it would be my dry-cleaning bill."
"Er." Fraser got a thumb up to ruffle his eyebrow. "I realize we said we'd take this slowly, but...er. Are you uncomfortable?" He nodded in the general direction of Ray's hard dick, which was now an inch away from the red serge, since Ray had angled his hips away a bit.
"Yeah, but I'll survive. You?" Because even though Fraser still had all his clothes on, Ray had a feeling he was in a similar state.
"Likewise."
"You want to take it slow...later?" Ray said. "Faster now?"
"Yes," Fraser said. "If it's permitted."
Ray grinned. "Sure is. You, partner, are my partner. It's totally up to us."
Fraser licked his lips.
Ray was feeling a little dry-mouthed himself, his breath catching in his throat.
"Bedroom?" Fraser said.
"Yeah." So he tugged Fraser along behind him, and Fraser followed pretty quickly, considering he was suddenly getting the full back view of Ray's wings, which Ray knew from craning his head around and looking in the mirror was pretty damn impressive.
Fraser got out of his red serge even faster than that time
when he'd had Ray's files hidden in his jodhpurs, and that was a pretty amazing
transformation all by itself. When Fraser had everything off, he lost no time
lying back on the bed and pulling Ray down on top of him, so Ray barely got a
glimpse of his creamy soft skin, pink nipples, and handsome, thick cock. His face and chest were flushed darker with arousal, too.
Ray was afraid he'd be too heavy on Fraser, so he flapped his wings just a little bit, keeping them half closed and moving them just enough to lift some of his weight off.
Fraser looked troubled then, and he grabbed Ray by the shoulders and then reached for the shoulder joints of his wings, too, like he was trying to hold them closed.
"No, Frase, let me move them, I'm trying not to be so heavy on you," Ray said.
"Oh, Ray. Don't fly away on me. I need..."
And Ray saw something then, he flashed on it quick--everyone that Fraser loved, leaving him. And he got it, saw what Fraser didn't understand. "Nah, I'm here for the long haul," Ray said. "Look I got an idea." He braced himself on his knees and grabbed Fraser's shoulders and tugged, and flipped them both over so he was on the bottom, his wings folded under him. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but his wings were so much stronger than the rest of him; he couldn't injure them this way. Love would never, ever hurt them.
He flung his arms out above his wing-shoulders and pulled one of Fraser's hands down to encircle his wrist, nodding for him to imprison the other as well.
"Oh," Fraser said. "Oh, you don't have to.... Oh, Ray."
"Yeah," Ray said. "I think I do. You hold me down as hard as you need to, okay?"
"Ray!
"Do it. Hold me tight."
Fraser tightened his grip, and lay down on Ray carefully, pressing his cock down next to Ray's, rubbing them together gently, then a little firmer, then firmer still, and it was all so beautiful.
Ray was delirious at the feeling. At some point his wings freed themselves from under him and they flapped some, but Fraser was holding him down hard, and rubbing down against him so perfectly, and if his wings made a breeze around them, neither one of them minded much.
Ray would take Fraser flying some time, because Fraser would love it, but here and now they were doing a different kind of flying together, and it didn't need anything more to make it perfect--just him and Fraser together, him staying right where Fraser wanted him, needed him. Their cocks rubbing together, Fraser's mouth on his, his tongue on Ray's neck, on Ray's nipples. Ray wrapped his legs around Fraser's hips, holding Fraser to him even more firmly. Fraser thrust down on him, his hard cock sliding wetly in the hollow of Ray's hip, his hard belly rubbing Ray's cock in the same rhythm. They were together in this, completely in sync, and when Ray lost control and jetted warm fluid up against Fraser's belly, Fraser spurted down onto Ray at the same moment, and they soared headlong into pleasure together.
Eventually, Fraser's hands went slack on Ray's wrists, but Ray didn't move his hands right away. He stayed there as long as he could, and then when he had to move, he rolled over carefully so he was on top of Fraser, and he curled himself around Fraser, his wings making a shelter over both of them. And as he drifted off to sleep next to him, his wings stretched and flapped a little and lifted them up together, just a little, before settling them back on the soft bed.
Heaven, Ray thought as he drifted off. This was heaven, and he didn't need to hear any stories about the realms of light, because he had his light right here. A guy like Fraser, a guy so beautiful in spirit that a pure soul had prayed for him even in his darkest hours, and Ray had been sent. Human, angelic, damaged, imperfect Ray, and his partner, Ben, equally imperfect, equally human, and plenty angelic himself. A perfect match.
******
Ray woke in his normal body, still cuddled against Fraser. Fraser woke up kind of slow, but Ray figured he was entitled. He'd had kind of a shock, after all, and even an extraordinary Mountie might need some time to absorb it.
But Fraser was a pretty quick study as usual. His eyes fluttered open and he smiled into Ray's immediately. "Aren't you an angel?"
"What?" said Ray, feigning surprise. "Strange dream you had there, Mountie."
Fraser skimmed his hand over Ray's shoulder, stroked Ray's tattoo with his fingertips. Ray twitched his arm just like he'd twitched his wing when Fraser tickled it.
"Beautiful dream," Fraser said. "It doesn't have to be that way every time, does it? I mean with your wings?"
Ray smiled. "Nah. Benton Fraser, I can make love to you any way I am. Wings, no wings, it don't matter. Like I said, I'm still the me you know."
"Always will be?"
"Yup. That okay?"
"It's more than okay," Fraser said. "It's perfect."
"Okay," Ray said. "So, like I been telling you all along, I ain't Superman. I can fly sometimes, I admit, but right now I got to have some coffee or I'm going to be a sorry excuse for a police officer, let alone any kind of angel."
"I believe I remember how to work your coffeemaker," Fraser said.
"Good," Ray said. "Since hopefully you're going to be waking up here a lot, that's a skill that's going to come in handy."
"I'm glad," Fraser said, and, boy, Ray'd seen some angelic smiles in his short lifetime, but he'd never seen one as beautiful as Benton Fraser's at that moment.
*****
In the morning, they went into the station, and Ray got busy pulling up mugshots to take over to Father Adamczyk. A quick phone call had confirmed that the priest had been released from the hospital and was back at the church.
"Wouldn't you recognize the shooter as well?" Fraser asked.
"Maybe, maybe not," Ray said. "Sometimes I'm kind of fuzzy on that stuff later. My angel job ain't like the cop job. Justice isn't part of my angel thing. I'm strictly a guardian. Anyway, how could I testify?"
"I see what you mean."
"So this kind of thing I gotta do as a cop without help from any angel stuff," Ray said. "Mountie magic, though, that I can use. So do your licking evidence thing and your magnifying glass thing and your logic thing all you want, and let's get this one solved. Deal?"
Fraser smiled back at him. "Deal."
"So what's your gut say about the perp--career bad guy, nutcase, or both?"
"Fallen sparrow," Fraser said.
Ray looked at him for a long moment. "Yeah, I get that. I don't want him getting away with it, though."
"Whether he's mentally ill or whether he's fit to stand trial, he won't get away with it. As you well know, ultimately no one gets away with anything."
Ray sighed. "Yeah. Okay." Because Fraser was right. Not one sparrow falls, and all that.
"I don't understand why you had to get hurt into the bargain," Fraser said as they got into the GTO to head down to St. Stephen's.
"What, that little scratch? One feather? It don't hurt. It's nothing."
"It's clearly an injury," Fraser said.
"Well, it'll heal up, don't worry. Me, I think it was a gift."
"How so?"
"Because without it you might've believed I was something...untouchable," Ray said. "You'd have believed the immortality myth or that angels could be, I don't know, some kind of perfect that don't exist."
Fraser caught his breath. "I imagine perfection is overrated."
"Yeah," Ray laughed. "You come pretty damn close, Fraser, so I can see where that would bother you, but, yeah. It's overrated."
"Oh, I don't think I'm anywhere near perfect," Fraser said. "Nor ever have been."
Ray touched his face, his beautiful, imperfect, perfectly Fraser face. "Well, good, 'cause I don't want that and never did. I just want you, and what I always wanted was just...love. To love somebody, to be loved."
"Oh, you are, Ray. And you do."
*****
Later that evening, back at his apartment, Ray made the feather disappear from Evidence Lockup, and then he did something he'd never managed before, but which was a really neat trick--he made it appear again, in his hand, and he handed it to Fraser.
Fraser got up on Ray's bed and tied it to the dreamcatcher next to the eagle feather, which looked kind of sad and shabby next to an angel's feather, but there was no help for it. A bird wasn't an angel and an angel wasn't a bird.
Which Fraser helpfully pointed out, dotting his Is and crossing his Ts. For a change, that didn't bother Ray a bit.
"Benny!"
"Ray!"
"Benny!"
"Ray!"
"Damn it, Benny, where the hell are you?"
"Here I am!"
Ray turned around -- and boggled. There was no other word for what he was seeing, and right now, he really wished he had one, because boggled didn't begin to cover it. "What? What are you supposed to be?"
"Father Christmas!"
"In that get-up? Get outta here."
"Ray --"
"No. Absolutely not. I'm serious. Get outta here. You'll scare the kids looking like that."
"But --"
"Do you, or do you not remember what Santa Claus looks like?" Times like this, Ray wished he smoked. And drank a lot more than he usually did, because he could really use the help right now. Damn it.
Benny's face fell a little in response to Ray's determination, which made Ray feel like shit. On the other hand, he didn't feel as bad as he would if he let Benny wander around looking like -- like --
"Seriously, what the hell were you thinking when you put together that outfit?"
"The history of Father Christmas isn't restricted to America and the marketing department of Coca Cola," he said, kind of stiff-like. "There are many variations of the story, and --"
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Around here, we stick with the red suit and white beard," Ray said. And if he sounded a little testy, who could blame him? Those goddamn elf tights itched like a son of a bitch, and there was no way in hell he was gonna let Benny get out of wearing the tried and true. Not if Ray looked like an idiot, so -- "Put on what I gave you."
"Ray --"
"I mean it." Benny started to get his back up, which was the last goddamn thing Ray needed -- or wanted -- so he took a step forward and put his hand on Benny's arm, squeezed it nice and gentle. "Come on. It's for the kids. They're expecting a guy with a white beard wearing a red suit. You don't wanna disappoint them, do you?"
"Well. No. But --"
"I promise I'll make it worth your while," he said.
"As I recall, you've already promised me that once -- when you convinced me to help out this evening."
"Yeah, I did, didn't I?" Ray said with a smile. "Tell you what -- I'll make it worth your while a couple of times. That sound good?"
"Well --"
If Ray had his way, he'd be making lots of things worth Benny's while, because seriously, the guy was pretty much made for it, even if he didn't exactly agree. No matter. At the moment, Benny was pinned against the inside of his door, and Ray was doing the pinning, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that in Ray's world. Not a damn thing, especially with Benny making those moaning noises like he was gonna die or something. Christ. Ray hadn't even gotten his hand inside Benny's jeans yet, and he already sounded like he was gonna blow any minute.
That was enough to convince Ray to drop to his knees in nothing flat, because honestly, it wouldn't be the first time Benny had gone off before Ray even had a chance to get a taste in. Wasn't a big deal, because the guy was usually ready to go in nothing flat, but Ray liked the taste of Benny fresh out of his pants, whichever pants they might be, and Jesus -- Ray got a good long whiff of Benny, and the musk nearly made Ray come in his pants. He wrapped his lips around the head of Benny's dick and waited for --
"Christ, Ray!"
Oh yeah. Nothing better than getting the Mountie to swear like that. Ray kept a little tally in his head to track the number of times it happened. He could always get there with sex, so it wasn't much of a challenge, but it was impossible any other time, so Ray took what he could get. He swallowed Benny down until his dick hit the back of his throat and got --
"Fuck!"
Ray groaned in response and had to clamp down tight on his own dick, just to be sure he didn't end too soon, because unlike Benny, Ray was only good for a second round after a couple, three hours passed by. He kind of hated that, but hell, not everyone could be Benton Fraser, RCMP, and honestly, Ray didn't want to be. The uniform itched even worse than those goddamn elf tights.
He sucked Benny down again, and while he was doing that, he shoved Benny's jeans down, down, down to the floor and managed to get organized enough to get Benny's shoes, jeans and underwear off completely. It was almost enough of a miracle to get Ray wondering if maybe he had some outside help with it, but then he lost track of that thought when Benny grabbed his hand and shoved a finger into Ray's mouth. Ray, not being stupid no matter what Frannie thought, got not one, but two fingers wet, then nudged his hand between Benny's legs.
Benny started moaning even louder, and Ray spared a thought for the neighbors, but it wasn't enough to make him stop circling around Benny's hole and nudging first one, then two fingers up into that tight heat. Right on schedule, Benny bucked his hips, and Ray was ready, swallowing just as Benny's dick hit the back of his throat.
And bingo! he thought, We have a winner!!!
Benny came the way he usually did, with lots of moans followed by a bunch of French he never bothered explaining to Ray, even on pain of whatever embarrassment Ray could think to dish out (and he could usually think of pretty good stuff, but Benny never budged). Didn't matter, though, because Ray got his first treat, and as soon as he could get Benny over to the bed, he'd be getting his second treat.
Ray rested his head against Benny's hip for a minute, catching his breath, because some things should never be rushed, but somehow, giving Benny a blow job never managed to end up on that list. Didn't matter. One of these days, it would, and when it did, Ray would spend a couple of hours giving Benny the longest, dirtiest blow job he could think of. Hell, he might even stick his tongue where no Vecchio tongue had ever gone before.
Or maybe not. But he could stick his tongue plenty of other places, and there was nothing wrong with that.