Author's website: http://www.ravenswing.com/bas/

Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: This story is posted in commemoration of my one-year anniversary as a DS writer!
Thanks to Cara Chapel and especially Jacquez H. Valentine, who's been staring at this story for months.

Story Notes:

This story is a sequel to: Chopsticks and Curling

Today and Tomorrow.

the sequel to "Chopsticks and Curling."

*

"It was my husband. I know it was."

Valerie Morrow's face was red, but later it was going to be black and blue. One of her eyes was swollen shut; her arm was broken and several of her ribs were busted. She was bruised all over.

"Are you sure?" Ray asked.

"Yes!"

"I've just, I've gotta ask. You said he was in a mask so you couldn't see his face." The guy had come out of an alley and beaten the bejesus out of her on her way home from work. Didn't steal her purse, nothing, just beat her up.

"It was him. I'd know my own husband. It's the way he moves--and besides. I bought him that coat." She closed her eye and sighed. "It was him."

"Okay." Ray closed his notebook. "We'll get right on it."

"Wait." She opened her eye again. "When you find him, ask him for me. Ask him why he did this to me. Because I sure as hell don't know."

"Me neither, ma'am," Ray said. His heart felt heavy.

*

Well, at least it wasn't snowing.

Oh wait, it was. Ray turned on the windshield wipers.

All the way to Oswego and they hadn't found the guy. Sometimes Ray wished he still drank or smoked or something; this case was putting him on edge. He fiddled with the toothpick between his teeth instead.

Dief was chasing donuts in his sleep in the back seat and Fraser was beside him freaking out. He'd been freaking out for about fifteen minutes. "I do respect her as an officer and my superior, and I'm sure she does her best in everything that she does--and has succeeded in the past quite spectacularly, with our own rescue from the Henry Allen and with the rescue of the Mountie Train from the terrorists, to name just two of her many instances of bravery and leadership skills--"

Okay, that was enough. "Conclusion, Fraser! Reach a conclusion or form a question."

Fraser sighed. "My uncle Tiberius was a monk for seven years. I'm beginning to see the appeal."

Ray shook his head. "Freak."

They were quiet for a long while. Ray pulled onto the highway.

"Are you happy with Turnbull, Ray?"

Ray glanced over, but Fraser just seemed curious. "We're good." A memory struck him and he grinned. "He likes me in his hat." He'd stolen Turnbull's hat during the department Christmas party. Turnbull had pulled him into the supply closet, stuck mistletoe under the crown and kissed him breathless. Later, Ray had worn the hat while he went down on Turnbull. It was a good memory. A fun memory.

"The uniform suits you, Ray."

"The guy inside suits me too."

Fraser frowned. "He's very strange."

"I like strange. I've done normal, I did it for a long time. I'm ready for strange."

"I see."

Ray looked at the street names on the exit ramps. "We're almost home."

*

When they walked into the Consulate, Ray could hear humming. He grinned and followed it back to the kitchen, where Turnbull was standing in bright red flannel long johns and hiking boots, stirring a sauce pan and reading a book. He looked up and smiled when Ray entered the room. Ray slipped under his book arm and hugged him.

"So what are you up to?" Ray asked, leaning into Turnbull's warm body. Turnbull's arm circled his shoulders and the book was propped open on his shoulder.

"After a long day of toil at the consulate, I was planning to relax with some warm milk and 'Speak, Memory,' the autobiography of Vladimir Nabokov."

"That's relaxing, huh?"

"Oh, yes. Did you know that he had originally planned to title the book 'Speak, Mnemosyne,' but was dissuaded by his publishers because the title would be too difficult to pronounce?"

"Smart guy."

"And a fascinating individual." Turnbull shifted. "Good evening, sir!"

"Good evening, Turnbull." Ray could hear Fraser opening the fridge.

He kept his face pressed against Turnbull's shoulder as Turnbull spoke, just because it felt good. He could feel the movements of Turnbull's joints and muscles and the reverberation of his voice. The fabric was soft and warm. "Would you care for some warm milk before bed?"

Fraser closed the fridge. "Thank you. That sounds like just the thing."

Turnbull's arm tightened. "Ray?"

"No. Definitely not."

Turnbull set down the book, took two mugs from the cupboard and carefully poured the warm milk. "Sir?" He handed Fraser one of the mugs.

Ray rubbed his cheek on Turnbull's shoulder. "I have to go," he said reluctantly.

"I was just heading to bed. You could tuck me in."

Ray looked up and grinned. "Sure."

"Goodnight, sir!"

"Goodnight, Turnbull."

Ray walked Turnbull across the hall to his room, his arm around Turnbull's waist. He leaned up and kissed Turnbull as soon as they closed the door.

"Love the long johns, Turnbull, love them." He slid his hands into the butt flap and cupped Turnbull's ass. "Love the access too. Mind if I warm my hands?"

"Ray." Turnbull was smiling.

"I know, I know, you need your beauty rest. No hanky-panky." He patted Turnbull's butt and slid his hands back out. "Going to sleep over tomorrow night?"

"That would be delightful, Ray."

"Okay." He smooched Turnbull again. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Ray."

Ray headed back across the hall. He grabbed a kitchen chair, turned it backward and straddled it. "Where's Dief?"

Fraser glanced up from Turnbull's book. "He went to bed. You know, it's been years since I read this book. I may ask to borrow it."

Ray nodded. "Tomorrow we check the suspect's mother's place. So we both better get some rest."

"Ray? When did you realize that you were homosexual?" Fraser closed the book and looked at Ray expectantly.

Anger flashed through him, just for a second. He expected better from Fraser. "Bisexual. My marriage wasn't a fake."

"Bisexual, then."

Ray rubbed his lip and made himself stop being pissed. "I figured it out when I was in high school. Didn't do anything about it until college, though, when I went a little crazy."

Fraser rubbed his chin. "I see. How did you know?"

"Know? I don't know, Fraser, you just kinda feel it."

"But is there some test? Some way to be sure?" Fraser had a worried little wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"Think of Tom Cruise naked and see if it floats your boat? I don't know, Fraser." Ray frowned. "Is this some freaky way of coming on to me? Because you missed your shot. I'm a one-man man."

"No! Goodness, no. I'm simply--well--I--" Fraser stopped and closed his eyes. "I'm not coming on to you and I don't believe I'm attracted to men. However, there are certain questions of human existence that I am attempting to reconcile in my own mind."

Ray stood up. "Okay. I have no idea what you're saying, so I'm gonna say goodnight, Fraser." Ray flipped his car keys out of his pocket. "Goodnight, Fraser."

Fraser sighed. "Goodnight, Ray."

*

Ray beat his fist on the top of the car. His cheek hurt from the perfume bottle and his shirt reeked of Shalimar. "This is not okay, Fraser! This is not okay! A guy does not beat his wife half to death with a golf club and then get away!"

"Of course it's not okay," Fraser snapped. "Why would I think it was okay?"

"Well then help me out. Where would he be? We checked his place. We checked his mom's place. He ain't got any friends."

"Well, where does he work? Perhaps there are answers there."

"He works as a plumber--no, wait--a, what do you call them, handyman. Handyman! At that place on Division--" Ray jumped in the car and Fraser quickly followed. "Maybe they have some empty apartments."

"I think you're on to something there, Ray."

"Yeah. Ow." Ray pressed his hand to his head. "Tell me why I'm a cop, again?"

"Because you love justice?"

"Oh. I thought it was because I had no other job skills." Ray looked back at the house. "I still think I should run her in for assaulting a police officer."

"Ray! She's sixty-eight years old!"

"Didn't hurt her arm none." But Ray got in the car and Fraser followed. "We're going back to my place first so I can change."

"Excellent idea." Fraser held his nose and rolled down the passenger window.

*

Ray slipped his glasses on, drew his gun and pushed Fraser back against the wall. He knocked on the door with his left hand.

After a brief pause, the door was opened and a man looked out.

Ray stuck his foot in the door, counting on his steel-toed boots, and pointed to his badge. "Chicago PD--are you Anton Morrow?"

The guy sagged. His hands were empty. "Yeah."

Ray pushed the door open, holstered his gun, shoved him face first into the wall and got out his handcuffs. "You're under arrest for aggravated assault. You have the right to remain silent. If you say anything we can use it against you in court. You have the right to a lawyer, and if you can't afford one we'll provide one for free. Fraser, did I forget anything?"

"No, Ray."

"You got that, Anton Morrow?"

"Yeah." Morrow sounded like he was going to cry. Ray liked those kind; they were a nice change from the ones that tried to bite his ear off. He handed Morrow to Fraser and took a legally allowable look around the apartment. Didn't see anything, not even furniture. Morrow was sleeping on a blanket on the floor of the empty apartment.

Ray came back out and looked at Morrow. "So why'd you do it?"

Morrow looked back with huge puppy eyes. "Because--because I love her. I love my wife," he said. "Because I don't know why she does the things she does to me, but I love her. I love her so much...."

"Sure." He hauled the bastard down to the car.

*

Morrow was blubbering all over the table. Some guy. He could bash his wife's head in, but a few hard looks and he melted like butter in August.

Ray left the interrogation room for a breath of fresh air and found Fraser standing outside, looking earnest and concerned. He hated that look. It usually meant something irritating was going to happen.

"You know, Ray, there's something troubling me about this case."

Ray grabbed Fraser arm and shoved a finger into his chest. "Do not tell me that there is something hinky about this case, do not tell me you don't think the guy did it, because I do not want to hear it. He did it and we can prove it."

Morrow's lawyer pushed past them. "Excuse me, gentlemen." Ray glared at him and pulled Fraser down the hall.

"I wasn't questioning your police work or the facts of the case, Ray, I completely agree. He's guilty as sin."

"Oh. So what's braising your beef?"

"How can someone who professes to love his wife do something like that to her?" Fraser was looking out the window over Ray's shoulder. His face was tired and sad. He had lines around his eyes and mouth, and they weren't all from smiling.

Ray shook his head. "I don't know. I wish I did."

*

Knock on the door. Ray answered.

"--now don't be rude," Fraser was telling Dief. Dief had his ears laid back and was looking mightily annoyed.

"Hey, Fraser. Come on in, we were just watching a movie." Ray waved him in.

Turnbull was seated at one end of the couch with his knitting basket, clacking away. He smiled at Fraser. "Good evening, sir!"

Fraser settled in the easy chair. Dief flounced in and crawled under the coffee table. "Good evening, Turnbull."

"Want something to drink?" Ray headed into the kitchen and opened the fridge. "Filter water, Coke, apple juice? There's hot chocolate too." Also whiskey, but he knew better than to offer Fraser that. 'Stiff apples' his Aunt Ludmilla.

"Apple juice would be delightful, Ray. Thank you kindly." Dief barked and bounced up from beneath the table, giving Fraser the stink-eye.

Ray handed him a glass of juice. "What's up with Dief?" He sat on the couch with his sock feet up against Turnbull's thigh. Cozylike. Turnbull's elbow would brush his shins every so often and the scarf would slowly pile up on his toes.

Fraser blinked. "Thank you, Ray. I believe Turnbull's knitting is unnerving him." He turned Dief's gaze toward him so that the wolf could read his lips. "Just because a person is knitting does not mean there is a tam o' shanter in your future."

Dief whined. Fraser stroked his ears and the wolf settled against his legs.

Turnbull shook his head. "Please assure Diefenbaker I am quite aware that wolves have no need of clothing. I am making this scarf for Ray." Ray beamed.

"I wasn't aware you knitted, Turnbull."

Turnbull smiled, looking like contentment itself. "Oh yes, sir. I am skilled at a great many crafts."

He painted, he drew, he cooked, he knew all about butterflies. He had a bug collection at his mom's house. He cleaned every frigging thing. He sewed--Ray couldn't stop him from darning his t-shirts and replacing buttons. He knitted and crocheted. Turnbull said there was a difference, but it all looked like stuff with needles and yarn to Ray. Turnbull was, in point of fact, girlier than Stella by a mile. By ten miles. Stella hadn't done any of those things except cook--sometimes.

But Turnbull could also ride a horse and trap a rabbit and haul a caribou and shoot nearly as straight as Ray with his glasses on, and he could throw a wicked punch and wrestle Ray to the ground and tackle effectively in American football, although he preferred soccer, and he knew how to watch hockey and baseball and--ugh--curling.

Girly then butch. Butch then girly. It was fun finding out how Turnbull would react to things...

Ray grabbed the remote and turned the VCR on. "The movie's Canadian. You'll like it."

"What's it about?" Fraser asked.

"The end of the world."

"I see."

*

Ray dried his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist. He padded back into the bedroom and found Turnbull bent over making the bed. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and an untucked t-shirt. The shirt was probably one of Ray's, since it wasn't quite long enough; it rode up, showing spine and the fact that Turnbull was going commando.

Well. Heh.

He dropped the towel, took Turnbull gently by the waist and pressed his hips to Turnbull's butt.

"I'm making the bed, Ray."

"Why? It's just going to get messy again." He rocked against Turnbull's fine ass. "It's Saturday. Nothing else to do."

"*Principle,* Ray." Turnbull grabbed Ray's hands and pushed him firmly backwards. Ray watched as he smoothed the blankets and turned down the sheet. He straightened up and surveyed the bed, then gave Ray a big smile. "There. Isn't that better?"

"Oh, much." Ray pushed Turnbull backwards onto the bed and climbed on top of him. "Are you wearing one of my shirts?" he asked between kisses.

"Yes. Do you mind?" Turnbull actually looked worried.

"No. Hell no. It looks great." He slid both hands under the hem and pushed it up to Turnbull's armpits so that he could kiss his belly. "You look great. You taste great. You're great all over!" Turnbull tasted salty and smelled like French toast. He sucked on Turnbull's fingers, hunting for maple syrup.

He unbuttoned Turnbull's jeans and gave his cock a little good morning pet. Turnbull groaned. He wanted more of that, definitely more. Ray knelt up and tugged off his jeans. Turnbull shucked the shirt himself and looked at him with glassy eyes.

Yeah. This was good.

He kissed Turnbull's thigh, rubbing his stubble against the fine hair. He licked the base of Turnbull's cock--and he loved that, loved sucking upstanding Canadian dick, but they had time for complicated today, so he went for his second favorite method.

Condoms were in a box under the bed. Turnbull licked his ear like Dief while he hunted for it. There it was. He knocked it over onto the floor and grabbed a condom and the Astroglide.

Turnbull hummed when Ray put the condom on him. He was spacing out already, his eyes closed and a big happy grin on his face. Ray straddled him, eased down on his dick and the guy was on Cloud Nine.

It was so easy to make Turnbull happy. It made Ray feel like a million bucks.

He planted his hands on Turnbull's chest, ran his thumbs over Turnbull's nipples to make him whimper, then started rocking. Turnbull covered Ray's hands with his own. His head went back, showing off his long throat.

He could do this forever. He could do this forever and die happy.

Ray rocked harder, sliding up and down on Turnbull's cock, and Turnbull started whispering, murmuring little snippets of things, some stuff in French, some bits of the Mountie handbook, just little pieces of things strung together in Turnbull's head and pouring out his mouth.

Ray rocked and listened, and rocked and watched, and Turnbull murmured and clasped his hands and pressed his thighs to Ray's butt and rocked with him, in rhythm. Always in rhythm.

Turnbull tossed his head and bucked his hips, murmuring. "...faithfully, diligently and impartially...truly obey and perform all lawful orders and instructions..." He gasped as Ray sped up. "Ray...Ray...Ray!"

Ray bent down and kissed him and rocked, rocked until they both came.

Ray rested his forehead on Turnbull's heaving chest and pulled off the condom, tossing it into the trash under the nightstand. He wrapped his arms around Turnbull and relaxed.

"Saturday," Ray muttered. "What d'you want to do?"

"Nothing," Turnbull sighed.

Ray smiled into Turnbull's chest. "Okay."

*

Fraser hit #1 on the speed dial of his office phone as he carefully tested the heat of the iron.

"Yeah?"

"Good morning, Ray. I was calling to see if you had any plans for the pursuit of justice today." Saturday stretched out empty before him. He had already cleaned his office, brushed Dief, polished his buttons, and seen to the squeaky hinge on Inspector Thatcher's office door. Apart from that, nothing was expected of him. Nobody was expecting him. There was nobody to talk to or to see.

It was--unsettling.

"Nah. Nothing's pressing. We're staying in," Ray said. Fraser held the phone in the crook of his shoulder as he ran the iron around the brim of his spare hat. "We haven't had a whole day to ourselves in, I don't know, forever."

"I suppose this wouldn't be a good day to track down that maple syrup smuggling ring, then." Fraser held up the hat, examining the line of the brim. It wasn't quite true. He set it down to iron some more.

"Fraser, was that a joke? Because if that wasn't a joke I'm going to drive over and pop you one."

Fraser resisted the urge to play dumb and see if Ray would, in fact, drive over. "Rest assured, that was a joke."

"You're a funny guy."

"I do try." Fraser smiled.

"Not often."

"Every once in a while." He examined the brim again and nodded in satisfaction. He moved on to his boxers.

There was a knock on the door. "Just a minute," he said into the phone as the door opened.

"Fraser?" Inspector Thatcher entered the room. She stopped and stared at his ironing board. "What in God's name are you doing?"

"I am starching and ironing my undergarments, sir."

She was speechless. Fraser waited for her to speak again.

"That explains so many things about you, Fraser." Her brow creased.

"Sir? Do you require something of me?"

She shook her head slowly. "No. Nothing. Carry on." She turned and left the room. Her heels clacked down the hall.

Well then. Fraser lifted the phone to his ear once again. On the other end, Ray was consumed in laughter. Perhaps Turnbull had told him a joke.

"What do you think of the Morrow case, Ray?"

"Huh?" Ray collected himself. "Um, I think it's solid. Witness, confession. It's in the bag. Tomorrow I want to scope out that church--the Vess case, right? I wanna see who goes in and out. Up for it?"

"Always, Ray." He smiled. No chase today, but a chase tomorrow. That would have to do.

"See you then."

The line went dead.

*

Normally Mondays at the Consulate were busy, but this one was quite exceptionally dull. Turnbull spent most of the day at the reception desk, amusing himself.

Thatcher halted in the foyer. "Turnbull, what are you doing?"

"Acting as receptionist, sir."

"I mean what are you doing with the yarn?"

"Knitting, sir." He counted stitches carefully.

She stared at him for a long moment. He returned her gaze.

"Don't you have anything better to do?"

"No, sir. I have completed the day's work and am currently acting as receptionist."

"And knitting."

"Yes, sir."

Thatcher sighed. "Carry on."

"Yes, sir."

Thatcher walked past him to her office. Turnbull counted stitches peacefully.

A few minutes before closing time, Fraser and Ray entered the Consulate. Inspector Thatcher emerged from her office, frowned and made her way toward them just as the Consulate phone rang. Fraser dived for the phone and answered. "Canadian Consulate, Constable Benton Fraser speaking. How may I assist you?"

Thatcher glared at all three of them. Turnbull counted stitches, Fraser dropped his eyes to Turnbull's knitting, and Ray glared directly back at her.

"No, ma'am, Canadians are not Communists," Fraser said.

Thatcher leaned down onto the desk and hissed at Turnbull. "I ask very little of you, Constable. I do not ask that you be mentally competent, skilled, or well-hinged. I do not ask that you confine your bizarre hobbies to your off-duty hours. I simply ask that you perform a few very simple tasks, such as answering the phone when it rings. Are you incapable even of that?"

Her eyes were steely. Turnbull was unsure of how to answer. "I am not incapable of those tasks, sir," he said finally.

"Then I suggest that you demonstrate that in the future." Thatcher straightened up. She looked at Fraser, but Fraser was still on the telephone. "I'm going home now. Be sure to lock the doors when you leave."

"Yes sir."

Ray glared at Thatcher as she left. As soon as the door closed behind her he threw several punches into the air, finishing with a roundhouse punch that sent him staggering off-balance. He spun as he regained his balance and ended up facing Turnbull. "Ice Queen on the rampage. You know, I'm really getting tired of her."

"Yes, we do share a border," Fraser said. "And animals cross the border regularly, including many birds. No, it is not a plot--excuse me, ma'am?"

Turnbull blinked. "Tired of her, Ray?"

"Yeah." Ray folded his arms. "You okay?"

"I'm in very good health, Ray. Look! Your scarf is nearly complete." He unrolled the length of the scarf across the desk. Ray beamed.

Fraser cleared his throat. "Well, I'm glad I could be of assistance, ma'am. Ah, no, I'm quite sure we will not be invading. Yes." He sighed and hung up the phone. "Oh dear."

"Got a nut case?"

"I'm not really qualified to speculate, Ray." Fraser sighed. "Turnbull, I am very sorry that Inspector Thatcher reprimanded you as a result of my actions. It was quite selfish of me."

"Sir?"

"I answered the phone because I did not wish to speak to her." Fraser bowed his head. Ray watched Fraser, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

"No harm done, sir."

"There is always harm in letting another bear the burden of my mistakes." Fraser closed his eyes.

"Knock it off, Fraser," Ray said. "Okay. I'm taking both you guys for dinner."

"Ray, you don't have to--"

"Shut it! I want to."

Fraser raised his hands and nodded. Turnbull counted stitches. "Okay. Fraser, go lock up or something, okay?"

"Ray?"

"Turn your back." Fraser sighed and obliged. Ray walked around the reception desk, lifted Turnbull's elbow and climbed into his lap. "Hey, Ren."

"Good evening, Ray."

"You off duty yet?"

"Yes, I--" He was cut off as Ray threw his arms around his neck and kissed him. He dropped his knitting on the desk and embraced Ray, returning the kiss.

Oddly, Fraser seemed to be whispering behind him. "This really isn't the time...no, I'm not being foolish...Dad!" Fraser spun and marched into the conference room.

"Mmm." Ray broke the kiss, breathing heavily. "Chinese sound good?"

"Sounds wonderful, Ray." Turnbull smiled and held him. "I should change my clothes now that work is over."

"Okay. I gotta talk to Fraser." Ray dropped a kiss on the end of Turnbull's nose and stood up.

Turnbull switched the telephone system over to voice mail, locked the reception desk drawers and retreated to his office to change clothes.

He stripped quickly down to his boxers and undershirt, hanging up his uniform carefully. When he turned around to fetch jeans and a sweater from his clothing chest, he was quite startled to find his father standing in front of the door.

"Father?"

He looked much as he had in life, tall and thin and stork-like. He wore his favorite smoking jacket and carried his pipe. "Renfield! Delightful to see you again, my son." He retrieved his glasses from his breast pocket and put them on, dislodging a moth wing from behind his ear. "My goodness! You've grown." He blinked and smiled.

"Yes, Father, another three centimeters."

His father nodded. "How old are you now? No calendars in the afterlife! No butterflies either, which is tragic, I tell you, simply tragic. There ought to be great clouds of them." He gestured with his pipe.

"I am twenty-nine years old. I wasn't aware that there were no butterflies in the afterlife." He wondered if he were hallucinating.

"Not a one, not a one." He shook his head sadly. "Tell me, son, did I catch that Papilio machaon? The little beast was awfully rare in those parts."

Turnbull and his mother had discovered his father in the garden, face down with a large, beautiful butterfly in his net. Turnbull had released the insect with a prayer for his father's soul. "Yes, Father, you caught it."

"Oh, good. Don't like to think my last task in this lifetime went unfulfilled, eh?" He smiled. "Are you married yet, son?"

Turnbull bent down and retrieved his jeans and favorite red sweater. "If you'll recall, Father, I am a homosexual."

"Oh! That's right, that's right. Seeing anyone then?"

"Yes, Father, a detective."

His father peered at him, his brows. "A Canadian?"

"No, sir, an American."

"Pshaw!" He made a shooing gesture with his pipe. "You need to find yourself a Canadian, son. Those Yanks aren't any good for you. You'll be watching baseball before you know it."

Turnbull ducked his head. He had watched the tape of Ray's home run several times, and with great enjoyment. "He's a very nice man, for an American."

"Americans aren't ever as nice as Canadians."

"I'm sure you'd like him if you met him."

There was a knock on the door. "Turnbull! You get caught in your zipper?"

"I'll be out in a moment, Ray!" He fastened his jeans and pulled the sweater over his head.

"That doesn't sound very nice to me," his father grumbled. "It only takes an extra minute to be polite."

Turnbull sat on his cot and pulled on hiking socks and boots. "I'm afraid I must be off, Father. I would invite you to join us for dinner, but you're dead."

His father turned sharp-edged. "Don't tell me you're turning into a bigot. Being dead doesn't make me any less a person, young man."

Turnbull aligned his laces and tied his boots. "Actually, sir, some would argue that a disembodied soul, i.e. a ghost, is not a person in the absence of a body, but something else altogether; that it requires body and soul both to be complete."

"You're forgetting your Blake, son. 'Man has no Body distinct from his Soul; for that call'd Body is a portion of the Soul discern'd by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.' The body is contained within the soul."

Turnbull stood and quoted Descartes. "'I was a substance whose whole essence or nature is solely to think, and which does not require any place, or depend on any material thing, in order to exist. Accordingly this "I"--that is, the soul by which I am what I am - is entirely distinct from the body, and indeed is easier to know than the body, and would not fail to be whatever it is, even if the body did not exist.'"

"Well even if body and soul are distinct, which I am not yielding, does the personhood of the soul depend on the presence of a body?"

"You have no substance, sir, I can see through you, and I daresay I can put my hand through you as well." Turnbull swept his hand through his father's torso. The air felt cold, but insubstantial. "And as the realm that I reside in is the material realm, one is required to have substance in order to be a part of it, and you logically are not a person here with the rights incumbent upon that."

His father tilted his pipe. "I'm not looking for citizenship, just acknowledgment of my selfhood. Many people are disenfranchised without their status as people coming into question."

"I would argue that your selfhood is a separate issue from your ability to join us for dinner. Eating is, despite many startling leaps forward in the field of medicine, still an act that requires a body to perform."

His father laughed. "Go eat, you daft boy, I'll be here later." He made shooing motions.

Turnbull picked up his jacket. "It's good to see you again, Father." He courteously walked around the patch of air his father occupied.

As Turnbull opened the door he heard his father speak behind him, quoting Voltaire. "'When one has had a good argument about spirit and matter, one always finishes by not understanding each other. No philosopher has been able with his own strength to lift this veil stretched by nature over all the first principles of things.' Have a good time, Renfield."

Turnbull smiled and joined Ray in the foyer.

*

The table was laden with lemon chicken, beef with broccoli, and simple stir-fried vegetables upon Fraser and Turnbull's insistence. Ray had a distressing tendency to subsist on the least healthy food possible.

Fraser was pouring more tea for all three of them when he noticed his father stroll down the aisle. Oh, dear.

His father waved to him, stopping to sniff a plate of General Tso's Chicken. "There's nothing like the scent of hot red pepper, son. Stirs the blood."

Fraser glanced at Turnbull and Ray, thinking desperately of how to answer without confusing them. He hadn't come up with a satisfactory answer when his father made a half turn and glared at the air. "You look strangely familiar," he said.

Fraser looked carefully at the air, but saw nothing.

"I see. That cow-eyed look must run in the family," his father continued. Fraser looked back at his plate and ate a piece of chicken.

Ray poked his arm. "You okay, Fraser?" Turnbull just looked preoccupied; he was gazing into the air, doubtless thinking of some arcane trivia.

Fraser's father sniffed. "Huh. Well, I don't suppose you're a Mountie as well?"

Fraser felt a little desperate. "Yes, Ray, I'm fine."

His father leaned forward to shake hands with the air. "Bob Fraser. That's my son there. You gotten any grandchildren out of yours yet?"

Oh, dear. This was going to be one of those situations.

"That's children for you," his father continued. "My boy's got women dripping all over him, but can he be bothered to father me a grandchild or two? Of course not."

Turnbull seemed, in fact, to be looking at the same spot of air as Fraser's father was. Perhaps--

"No excuses."

--Turnbull was seeing his father as well?

Fraser's father looked agitated. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

Fraser caught Turnbull's eye. Turnbull had a familiar, near-panicked expression. How strange, and yet, how wonderful.

Fraser's father stalked back down the aisle muttering. Fraser ate his dinner.

*

Turnbull was in the middle of a delightful supper with Ray and Constable Fraser when he noticed his father walking down the aisle of the restaurant.

His father waved. "Hello, son! I found out how to walk about." He peered into a low-hanging lamp shade, looking for interesting insects as always. It appeared as if Turnbull's interactions with his father post-mortem wouldn't be terribly different from their interactions pre-mortem; his father had always been an irregular and eccentric conversationalist.

Hopefully he wouldn't start checking the greens for insects. That was always rather awkward.

His father looked up at the aisle. "Oh, hello there. I see you're dead too." He waved. Turnbull looked to see what he was waving at, but nothing seemed apparent. "Well, Renfield here is my son," his father continued, smiling broadly.

Ray leaned over to nudge Fraser. "You okay, Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray, I'm fine," Fraser replied.

"Eh? No cows as far as I know." His father sucked on his pipe genially.

Cows? Turnbull supposed it made sense--if there were no butterflies in the afterlife, there would be no cows either.

"No, sir, a lepidopterist! Harker Turnbull by name." His father leaned forward and shook hands with the air.

Turnbull picked up his teacup, fumbling it and spilling slightly. Ray reached over and cupped his hand from underneath, steadying him. Ray smiled and Turnbull's heart beat faster. Now, either the spices in the food were having a stimulating effect on his circulation--or he was in love. He smiled back at Ray.

"No, not a one. He delivers a mean stone, though."

Ah, curling. His father had always been proud of his exploits on the curling rink. Even when Turnbull was at his clumsiest part of adolescence, his aim was strong and true. He looked at his father and remembered short, happy days on the frozen creek.

"Ah, well, mine's homosexual."

Oh, dear.

"No use trying to turn an Actias luna into a Parnassius clodius. It just frustrates you and annoys the Actias."

Fraser was staring at him. He looked at Fraser in great confusion, then down at the cup in his hands.

"My Renfield's a good boy." His father peered with great interest into the hanging light.

Turnbull ate his dinner and thought about his childhood.

*

Turnbull looked up from his curling magazine as the door opened. Ray walked into the room with his eyes closed, shut and locked the door, dropped his coat on the floor, then opened one eye to hang up his holster and cross the room to the couch. Ray curled up on the couch with his head in Turnbull's lap and sighed. "I am so tired," he mumbled.

"Hello, Ray."

"Hey, baby." Ray nestled his head against Turnbull's hip and slid his hand between Turnbull's thighs. Turnbull rubbed his back and Ray sighed again. "We brought in the guy that shot Vess... Fraser was wrong and I was right."

"Ray!"

"S'true. Mmm, that feels good."

Turnbull rubbed gently until Ray relaxed. "Ray, would you mind if I phoned Canada?" He was not allowed to make personal calls from the Consulate. The phone logs were carefully monitored by Inspector Thatcher.

"Sure, go ahead."

"Thank you kindly." He picked up the phone and dialed his mother's number. It rang four times before she answered.

"Hello?"

"Mum?"

"Renfield!"

"Happy birthday, Mum."

"Thank you, dear." She laughed and he could hear the clatter of brushes in the background. "How are you getting on? Are you still posted in the States?"

"Yes, Mother. Things are going quite well. I've met somebody, Mother."

"Oh! How delightful! Is he handsome?"

"Yes, quite."

"Is he a lover of the arts?"

Turnbull hesitated; Ray wasn't. "In his own way, Mother."

"Renfield. What on earth does that mean?"

"He dances very well. He enjoys music."

"But can he recite poetry, Renfield? Does he read the classics? Does he have an appreciation of fine oils?"

"No, Mother."

"Then I certainly don't know what we'll have to talk about, I really don't. It is so difficult having a Mountie for a son. You never bring home boys I can talk to, Renfield." She sighed. "But you will bring him home, won't you dear?"

"I will try, Mother. Our schedules are not conducive to personal travel."

"Whatever does he do, dear?"

"He is a detective with the Chicago police department."

"Like you. How romantic."

Not like him at all, but he was reluctant to explain the details of his effective demotion to his mother. "How is your painting, Mother?"

"I've been doing still-lifes from your father's butterfly collection, isn't that delightful?"

"Yes, Mother." He remembered the spotless wooden cabinets filled with pinned-out butterflies. His father had assigned him to keep the cabinets clean, since his rapidly-growing fingers were too clumsy for the delicate work of pinning the insects. He had fond memories of hours spent dusting and polishing as his father told him about the moths and butterflies of the area, pointing out specimen after specimen to illustrate the differences.

"I shall have to send you one. Do you have the space for it?"

"I can make the space, Mother."

"Wonderful...well, my dear boy, I must be off."

"I love you, Mother."

"And I love you dearly, Renfield. Good night!"

Turnbull hung up the phone and stroked Ray's face.

"S'midnight," Ray mumbled. "Isn't it kind of late for moms?"

"She lives in British Columbia, Ray. It's only ten there, and she keeps late hours."

"Oh." He turned onto his back and looked muzzily up at Turnbull. "Did you just come out?"

"Well, I didn't come out as such, as my parents have known of my homosexuality since I was seventeen years old. But I told her abut you, yes."

"She like me?" Ray smiled.

"She will." But Ray was already asleep. He stroked Ray's chest and read his magazine.

*

Ray couldn't help comparing this to the time that he taught his boyfriend Jimmy how to fuck a man, way the hell back in his one year at college.

"Okay, now you've got to watch where we're both going, because I can't see."

The teaching was clumsy and awkward and sometimes left bruises, but the results were utterly worth it.

He'd kind of figured that Mounties all got dance lessons in Mountie school--even Fraser could ballroom dance, and he had the rhythm of a cardboard box. But then, he had also figured that a guy three years older than him would know how to fuck, and he'd been wrong about that too.

Looked like Ray was a natural born teacher.

"Okay. Remember the steps?"

"I think so."

"Just walk though and don't worry about frolicking or anything." Ray started humming. Turnbull looked down at his feet in consternation, but moved through the steps with decent agility.

Ray kept humming and let Turnbull step him through until he started to actually dance. "Hey, you've got rhythm."

"Do I?" Turnbull smiled and kept dancing.

"Think you're ready for music?"

"Oh--I can try."

"Okay." Ray patted Turnbull's chest and went to put in a nice slow CD.

"My mother used to listen to this," Turnbull said. "I like it."

"Yeah?" Ray took Turnbull's hands again. "So maybe me and your mother got something in common, eh?"

Turnbull brightened like someone had put a spotlight on him. "That's true! I was worried that you two wouldn't have anything to talk about."

"Hey, I can talk, I can talk about anything."

"I'm sure you can, Ray." His expression was open and earnest.

"You really want me to meet your mom?"

"Oh yes, Ray."

Ray swayed his hips, letting Turnbull lead him through the dance. "You ever think about coming out? What might happen?"

"I would prefer not to, Ray, if that's all right."

"Really? Isn't it legally okay or something in Canada?"

Turnbull looked solemn and sad. "Canada is quite progressive in the area of civil rights. However, popular opinion does not always align with official law. I was driven from my last post by rumor."

"Oh."

"There was no overt hostility, but it became increasingly obvious that my fellow officers did not wish to interact or be seen with me. I frequently overheard derogatory comments about my person and habits. When my dress uniform was defaced, I requested a transfer."

"Don't mess with the uniform, eh?" Ray tried to smile.

"I feel very strongly about the uniform, as you know." Turnbull leaned forward and kissed him without breaking step. "I felt that my continued presence created a tension in my fellow officers that was debilitating to the function of the RCMP. As such, it was incumbent upon me to leave."

Ray scowled. "That really sucks. That really, really sucks."

"I do not wish to go through that again. I have endeavored to keep my personal life private during this posting."

"Shit. I didn't even ask before jumping you in the Consulate. Why didn't you kick me in the head?"

"Constable Fraser is a sympathetic soul. I am primarily concerned with Inspector Thatcher and the other officers that are occasionally stationed here."

"Okay. That makes sense."

Turnbull smiled. "And I enjoy keeping secrets, Ray."

"Yeah?"

"When I was a young boy I read Sir Ian Fleming's James Bond novels, and the effect has lasted my entire life. I doubt that I will ever be called upon to keep the secrets of the Queen, but maintaining a secret love is nearly as romantic."

Ray laughed. "You're nutty, Ren, you know that?"

"Perhaps." Turnbull stopped dancing and slipped his tongue into Ray's mouth. Hey, it was early yet...

*

Fraser was doing something with a magnifying glass on the hall floor, but Ray couldn't tell what, so he headed back to talk to the witnesses of the robbery.

He checked his notes--okay, two witnesses. Jason Newbury, the bookkeeper, was in the emergency room right now because he'd been smacked over the head in the robbery. The other one was James Pearson, the owner of the restaurant. They'd been going over the accounts when two guys busted in.

It didn't make sense. Two in the afternoon was a stupid time for a robbery--there wasn't any money in the place except for a hundred bucks in small bills and change. That wasn't worth smacking a guy. Assault turned a petty theft into a major crime.

Pearson was around forty, round and friendly-looking with a beard. He was sitting at one of the tables with a cup of coffee. A uniform stood over him.

"Hey, Deb. I've got it from here." She nodded and headed out. Ray sat down with Pearson. "Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD. I'm going to be working your case."

Pearson was looking at him funny, but he nodded.

"So can you tell me what happened?"

Pearson took a sip of coffee. "We were back in the office adding up yesterday's receipts--"

"You and Jason Newbury?"

"Yes. Is he going to be all right?"

Ray checked his notes. "I think so. They didn't say he was in any danger when I got the call."

Pearson nodded, shutting his eyes for a minute. Suddenly his head snapped up. "Ray?"

"Uh, yeah, my name's Ray."

Pearson was shaking his head and smiling. "No, I mean--it's Jimmy Pearson, do you remember?"

No--wait--oh, wow. His dorm room plus Jimmy's magazine collection plus his own ability to buy KY without blushing. Teaching Jimmy how to fuck. Jesus. Of course he remembered. "Jimmy. You changed."

Jimmy at twenty-one was skinny and cheerful with a never-ending supply of weed. They'd had a lot of fun in that room, a whole lot. Jimmy at forty was round--but still cheerful, so maybe he hadn't changed that much. Hopefully the supply of weed had dried up. He hated busting friends.

Pearson laughed. "I got older, Ray. But look at you--you haven't changed a bit." He reached over and touched Ray's hair by his ear, letting his fingertips brush over his stubble.

"I changed. I mean, I'm a cop now, right?"

"But that fits, Sugar Ray. You always had a keen interest in fair play."

"Oh, jeez." Ray rubbed his forehead and laughed. "I haven't heard that nickname in years. Lots of years." His old boxing nickname, the one he chose when he decided he was going to be a mean guy who beat people up instead of a shy guy who got beat up. He'd moved from "Stanley" to "Ray" and never looked back.

"I liked it. So what have you been up to?"

Ray shrugged. "You know how I always said I was going to marry Stella?"

"Yeah."

Ray grinned. "I married Stella. We got divorced a little while ago, though."

"That's too bad. You were cute together." Pearson frowned. "Did you introduce yourself as Ray Vecchio, or am I hearing things?"

"Uh, yeah. Uh, keep it under your hat, okay? There's some complicated stuff going on there." He leaned forward and patted Pearson's knee. "You ever find yourself?" Jimmy was always going on about finding his true self through meditation and introspection. Ray always wondered how a guy could not know who he was. You were yourself, right? Who else could you be?

"I suppose I did. I'm not doing so bad. I've got the restaurant; I've got Jason." He face clouded again. "We've been together for eight years. Can you find out if he's really okay?"

"Yeah. Just a sec." Ray pulled out his cell phone and called the hospital.

*

They left Jimmy at the hospital with Jason after chatting a little and taking their statements. They were a real nice couple.

"I knew Jimmy back when I was eighteen, see, and that was pretty much my peak. I was going to school and boxing and I was still kinda cute and I could get laid whenever I wanted." Ray shook his head, remembering back. "Man. You could just walk up to a guy and say 'hey, you wanna do it?' and they'd say 'yeah'. It's not like that any more. Not for me."

"Why not?" Fraser was eyeing him with curiosity rather than embarrassment. "You're not unattractive."

"But I'm almost forty. That's a kid's game." Ray thought about threesomes and alley sex and back-room sex and bathroom sex and decided, in the end, he didn't miss it. He'd tried a little bit of that right after they signed the divorce papers, but it didn't feel the same. He had changed. He'd grown up. "I have Turnbull. And that's not wild but it is solid, and solid is real appealing right about now."

Fraser nodded. He rubbed the brim of his hat back and forth between his fingers.

"Do you know Turnbull's never been punched? He's done hand-to-hand combat training but he's never been socked in the face."

"Well, this is only his second posting. He hasn't seen a great deal of action."

"I was punched in the face the first time when I was eight."

Fraser's head snapped up. He was wide-eyed with horror. "Eight?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't get off the monkey bars when the big kid told me to, so he pulled me down and punched me. But I got him back. I bit his hand so bad he needed stitches." Ray laughed. "Baby teeth are sharp. Mom was mad as hell. I thought she was going to punch that kid's mom herself--they both saw the whole thing, see?"

"That's terrible!"

"That's normal, Fraser, at least in my neighborhood. Lord only knows what they do in Seal Spit, Yukon. I got into fights almost every day right up through high school. And actually that's how I met Welsh. I got into a fight with the wrong guy, and the next day some of his friends tied me to the side of the school building four stories up." The biggest guy called him a faggot. He couldn't let that go; neither could the guy's friends.

"Good lord! Tied you with what?"

"Jump rope from the gym. They tied my hands, and then wound one end around my ankles and tied the other end to the bars of the window. It was pretty secure so I wasn't scared." He had been tranquil, totally at peace, looking at the upside-down version of the neighborhood as the blood flowed to his head and his feet went dead. It was kind of cool. "A teacher saw me and called the cops to get me down. Where Welsh comes in is that they called it in as assault and attempted murder. Welsh was a detective in Major Crimes at the time and he got the case."

Welsh looked pretty much the same twenty years ago as he did today, just with less gray in his hair and less lines on his face. Ray had stonewalled completely--he wasn't some wuss that needed the cops to fight for him, right?

"I wouldn't talk. Finally Welsh gave up and told me that if I was determined to be a brawler, I might was well learn to do it better, and he told me about this buddy of his who trained boxers. And it sounded great so I went." Ray grinned. "I was terrible. But I got better." His last year of high school was grand. He bought flowers for Stella with other kids' lunch money.

"That sounds like a very hard childhood, Ray."

Ray squinted at Fraser. "What are you talking about? All kids do that."

"I didn't do that."

"You never got in a fight? I don't believe you."

"Well, ah." Fraser tugged at his collar. His fidgeting was so predictable. "There was one incident with a dead otter in Tuktoyaktuk."

"Dead otter? They make you touch it? You make someone eat it? What?"

"Someone hit me with it. It was frozen."

"See? Hijinks. Schoolyard fun."

Fraser frowned. "It wasn't exactly my idea of fun, Ray, it was actually rather traumatic. I still dream about it at night."

"Really?" Ray barely even thought about the jump-rope stunt.

"Those teeth coming at me. Horrible."

Ray grinned. "Hijinks, Fraser. Kid stuff."

"Attempted murder is kid stuff?"

"It wasn't a crime, it was a prank, like the time we dared Lonnie Silverman to eat that pickled pig's heart and he puked in his locker. The teacher just freaked out. She was new. Come on, Fraser, you're a guy. You must have had some wild times when you were a kid."

"No!" Fraser gave a nervous little laugh and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not, I've always been rather dull."

Even Fraser wasn't that dull. "Not even on long winter nights where there's nothing to do but spin yarns and get laid and play pranks on your buddies?"

Fraser coughed. "On long winter nights I was generally alone with only my dogs for company."

"Fraser! That is too much information." His old jerk-off fantasy featuring Fraser and a tent and snow was now including dogs and he couldn't make it stop.

"Too much information? There is no such thing, Ray. But as I was about to say, that's why I started talking to Diefenbaker." Dief grumbled when he saw his name spoken. Fraser looked innocently at Ray.

"What about giving me a mouth full of window putty? That's a prank."

"That was a scientific investigation."

"Felt like a prank to me."

"Well, it wasn't."

"Well, okay." Ray winked and drove.

"Really, though--I don't understand bullies. I don't know where that lust for power comes from. Do you have any theories?"

"Um." Ray shifted in his seat. "You've got nothing, the other kid has something. Kid ain't sharing and you've got no other way to get it, so you take it."

"That doesn't account for all bullying behavior, though."

"That accounts for my bullying behavior." They'd been poor. Really poor. So Ray evened up with the other kids via his fists.

"Oh." Fraser touched his mouth.

"There are kids who are bullies because they can be. I was a bully because I wanted what everyone else had, and it was either be a jerk or be the guy who everyone laughed at." Ray shrugged. "I'm not proud of that, but it happened."

"I understand, actually. The drive to be like everyone else is a powerful one." Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. "When I was twelve, I ran away from home to hunt the caribou. That was when I met Quinn."

"You get it?"

Fraser nodded, looking out the window. "Oh yes, I hunted it and I found it and I killed it. And as I watched it fall, I realized that I could never eat so much meat in one sitting and I had no way to transport it. I couldn't even carry the antlers, nor would my grandparents have allowed me to display them if I had. In short, I had killed another living creature for no other reason than my own vanity. And I never hunted for sport again."

Ray didn't respond. Didn't know how to.

"Why do people do such terrible things, Ray? What drives us to it?"

"I don't know," Ray answered.

*

Turnbull was recopying his daily 10989-B report when Ray and Constable Fraser burst through the consulate doors. "Ah, welcome back sir, Detective Vecchio."

"Turnbull! We need a favor. Stall the guys who are about to come through that door."

"Stall them?"

"Don't let them come back until we come out." Ray rushed by, patting his shoulder in passing. Fraser tipped his hat and followed with equal haste.

Turnbull raised his eyebrows and continued recopying.

The door opened again. Turnbull raised his head and smiled. "Welcome to Canada, gentlemen!"

The two men wore matching suits and scowls. "We're looking for a Mountie," the first said.

"A Mountie and a cop," the second said.

Turnbull stood. "Well, I am a Mountie. My name is Constable Turnbull."

"A Mountie and a cop who came through those doors."

"I come through those doors every day. Why, seven times today already!"

"We aren't looking for you!" the second snapped.

"Are you quite sure?"

"We're looking for a Mountie and a cop that came through those doors just a second ago and aren't you," the first said.

"Ah! That sounds like a charming way to spend the afternoon." Turnbull sat back down at his desk and returned his attention to his report.

"So did you see them?"

"See who?"

"The Mountie and the cop!"

Turnbull cupped his hand around his mouth. "I don't want to spoil the game," he whispered.

"Look, wise guy--" The first man ran around the desk and pulled Turnbull up by his Sam Browne.

Turnbull straightened to his full height, some four inches taller than the man, and looked down in puzzlement. "Is there some assistance you require of me?"

"We wanna know who came into the building and where they went!"

"Unfortunately, since I am confined to the reception desk I have no knowledge of the movements of our visitors beyond my field of vision. Perhaps if we had a larger staff we could follow our visitors and catalogue their movements once they leave the building."

The second man struck the desk with his fist. "Are you a fucking moron or are you just stupid?"

In the hallway behind Turnbull, Fraser cleared his throat. "That's quite enough. Thank you, Turnbull." Fraser stepped forward and held up a document that had been shredded and taped back together. "The jig is up, Smith."

The man clutching Turnbull's lanyard scowled and moved to draw his gun. Turnbull quickly twisted his arm and pinned him against the desk. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but firearms are not permitted on Consulate grounds without special permission."

Fraser held the other man's arms behind his back and nodded at Turnbull approvingly. "Excellent work, Constable."

"Thank you, sir."

"Okay!" Ray emerged from Fraser's office as well. "You guys are both under arrest--"

"Oh, I'm afraid you can't arrest them in here, Detective Vecchio," Turnbull said. "You have no jurisdiction in Canada."

Fraser nodded. "We'll have to take them outside."

"Fucking Canadians," Smith grumbled.

*

Ray sat on the hood of the car and leaned back on the windshield. Turnbull sat beside him, holding his hand. Big sky tonight, lots of stars. The headlights of cars passed behind them on the highway as Ray explained the latest case.

"But the fake money wasn't supposed to actually go into circulation, right? So the robbery was just an excuse to grab it."

"I see."

"After that it was just paper trail taking us back to those two Feds. You held them off like a champ, Ren. If you hadn't've stalled them they would have grabbed the shreds before we could piece them together and see what the paper said." Ray leaned over and kissed Turnbull's cheek. Turnbull smiled.

"I'm very glad to be of service, Ray." He sounded kind of wistful.

"But?"

"But what?"

"You sound a little down."

Turnbull sighed. "I miss police work. I realize that my work at the Consulate is important, but it's a little..."

"Boring."

"Yes."

"And Thatcher doesn't give you any respect."

"Yes."

"And Fraser doesn't get you."

"Yes."

Ray squeezed Turnbull's hand. "I get you. I respect you."

"I know." Turnbull smiled. He turned and kissed Ray.

A train rushed by. Ray made an excited noise and sat up straight, watching it go. He cheered when the last car passed and ran over to the tracks. "We used to do this all the time when I was a kid. But with pennies." Ray picked up the flattened loonie gingerly and showed it to Turnbull. "Isn't that keen?"

"It feels a little like desecration, Ray." Turnbull frowned and tried to remember the clauses of the Currency Act.

"But it's keen."

"It's illegal in Canada under the Currency Act, section eleven. 'No person shall, except in accordance with a license granted by the Minister, melt down, break up or use otherwise than as currency any coin that is current and legal tender in Canada.' Were we in Canada, I would be forced to arrest you."

"Ren."

"Yes?"

"You're nuts."

"I am an officer of the law."

Ray shook his head and put the defaced coin in his pocket. "I'll keep it, then, to remind me that I love you anyway."

"Oh..." Turnbull had to smile. "I love you too, Ray."

*

Ray grabbed the break room newspaper, slurping at a nice relaxing cup of sweet coffee. He turned to the sports page just as Huey and Dewey came in.

"Hey Vecchio! I heard that Pearson guy was an old friend," Dewey said.

Ray looked up. "Yeah."

"Nice catch on the robbers, by the way," Huey said. "I guess the bit with the microfibers and the onyx was Fraser?"

"Yeah, but the ju-jitsu with the pickup truck was ME, R-A-Y, got it?" Ray jabbed his thumb back toward his chest.

Huey grinned. "Easy, Vecchio."

"But that Pearson guy, the bookkeeper was his boyfriend, right?" Dewey obviously had a bug up his butt about something, and Ray didn't like where it was taking him.

"What is this? You're getting on my case for having a gay friend? You got some kind of problem, Dewey?" Ray slammed down the paper and stood up, glaring at Dewey.

"No. Me? I got no problem." Dewey backed up, grinning.

"If you got a problem, you just say it!" Ray stepped forward. Huey planted a hand on him and Dewey both, pushing them apart.

"I'm cool. Have all the gay friends you want, Vecchio." Ray desperately wanted to punch the smirk off Dewey's face, but didn't. Instead, he sat back down with the paper, shoved his chair back and rested his feet on the table.

Overreaction. He knew that. He knew that, and he did it anyway.

He didn't want his queerness spread around the station for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which was that he was playing Vecchio, not just being himself. He'd be falling down on the job if he let rumors spread about Vecchio that were really about him.

Damn. Dewey was a tactless gossip. He shouldn't have blown up at him. Now he had to make nice, or at least make normal.

"Me and Darla went to the lot the other night, did I tell you? I'm looking at the truck," Dewey said, "and she's looking at the super-mini-compact things."

"Don't give in," Huey said. "You'll never be able to stretch your legs again."

"She really hated the truck. I don't know why--it's a great truck."

"Women are biologically opposed to trucks," Huey said sagely, and got a Snickers bar.

Okay. Jump in, be normal. Ray looked up. "Women like useful cars. What the hell are you going to do with a truck in Chicago?"

Dewey frowned. "What if I have to move?"

"Rent a U-Haul?"

Huey leaned back against the candy machine. "And your GTO is useful?"

"My GTO is style, baby, one hundred percent style." Ray folded his paper with a snap. Francesca appeared out of nowhere and took it from him.

"Ew, sports. Where the real paper?" Francesca lifted Ray's legs and retrieved the rest of the paper.

Dewey frowned harder. "The truck has lots of style!"

"Trucks are just an extension of your manhood," Francesca said. She looked like she was sucking on lemons. "It's really sad."

Ray grinned at her. "A man's car is a reflection of his penis, Frannie, not an extension."

Huey raised his eyebrows. "So yours is big and black?" Dewey cracked up, slapping Huey on the back.

"It's stylish, well shaped, and has a lot of power under the hood." He folded his hands behind his head. Francesca whacked him with the folded newspaper.

"That is totally disgusting, Ray! And you are so wrong, I mean, look at Fraser." She pointed at Fraser, who stopped dead in the break room door looking puzzled. "He doesn't have a car."

Ray leaned the chair back and looked at Fraser upside down. "No, he's got Dief."

Fraser looked at Dief. Francesca looked at Dief. Huey and Dewey looked at Dief. Dief looked at Francesca and wagged his tail hopefully.

"He's cute, he's white, and random women like to come up and pet him." Ray smiled at Francesca.

Her eyes went round. "Ray! You are such a pig!" He oinked at her and she hit him with the newspaper. She stormed out of the break room making gestures of general disgust with her hands. Dief followed her, wagging his tail. "I'm never riding in your car again!" she shouted from the squad room.

Huey and Dewey were looking at Fraser, who just looked perplexed. "Her reaction seemed rather out of proportion, Ray; was there something I missed?"

"Don't worry about it." Ray turned back to the sports page and looked for last night's scores.

"I think I definitely want the truck," Dewey said, and he and Huey went back to work.

Fraser coughed. "Ray, there's someone I'd like you to meet." Ray leaned back and looked at Fraser again, and standing next to him was a gorgeous blond chick in Mountie reds.

Ray fell flat on his back. Bisexual, not homosexual, and hummina.

Fraser helped him up.

*

Maggie Mackenzie used beeswax on her lips. How did she stay looking so good?

Fraser turned around and eyed Ray. "Does Turnbull know you've been kissing other Mounties?"

"Shush." Ray headed for his car. Naturally, Fraser followed.

"I won't shush."

"You never shush." Ray opened the door and slid inside.

Fraser opened the passenger door and held the seat down for Dief. "I don't see why I should shush when I'm right."

"Oh yeah, and you're always right, which is why you never shush." Ray batted Dief's nose away from his ear.

Fraser put the seat up and climbed in. "Precisely."

Ray started the car. "I only kissed one other Mountie. And if Turnbull's been kissing other cops I'm okay with that, unless it's Dewey."

"He hasn't been." Fraser was using his earnest look.

"Quit making me feel guilty!" Ray peeled out of the parking lot.

More innocent looks. "Me?"

"What are you, my mom?"

"No."

"Why are you so interested in my thing with Turnbull?" Ray hit the brakes hard at a stop sign.

"He is a good officer and I don't want to see him any more depressed and discouraged than he already is."

Oh. Heh. Hell must have frozen over--Fraser was sympathizing with Turnbull. Ray proceeded through the intersection at a more sedate pace. "You saw through him, huh."

"Yes."

"He needs to get out of here."

"Yes."

"I don't know what I'm going to do when he goes."

"You just have to make the most of the time you have. You never truly know how long that will be." Fraser looked down. "I learned that the hard way with my father."

"Yeah, I guess so." Ray thought for a minute. "You think he likes Thai? I want to take him out to dinner."

"He prefers Korean."

"Never had Korean." He looked at Fraser. Fraser looked back. "I guess I'm going to try Korean."

"That's the spirit," Fraser said.

*

"What is this?"

Turnbull looked over. "You'll like it."

"But what is it?"

"Crab soup."

"There's a whole entire crab in here." Ray poke at it with his spoon to make sure it wasn't still moving.

"Well, yes."

Ray looked up at Turnbull and remembered he was supposed to behave. "Okay. Crab soup." He tried the broth, which was pretty good.

Turnbull was happily eating whatever the hell was on his plate. Ray stopped thinking about it and just ate.

"We had a terribly exciting day today," Turnbull said. "An entire tour bus was robbed! They all required new paperwork."

"Yeah? Who's handling the robbery?"

"Detective Langcow from the 24th Precinct."

Ray nodded. "She's good. Worked with her before."

"Ray, is something troubling you?"

Ray set down his spoon and rubbed his eyebrow. So that's why Fraser did it. "I'm sorry. I kissed Maggie."

"I see."

"It was supposed to be a friendly thing, but then it kind of wasn't."

"I see."

"Plus I guess I was macking on her."

"Ah."

"That's all."

Turnbull rested his chin on his hand. "I forgive you, Ray."

Ray blinked. "That's it? You're not going to throw water on me?"

"I can, if you like." Turnbull picked up his water glass.

"No! No, that's fine."

"I spent much of the day admiring the posterior of one of the young gentlemen I was assisting." Turnbull grinned. "I quite understand."

"Oh. Okay. Cool." Ray slurped his soup.

He would have expected more drama. Stella would have skinned him, that's for sure--in fact, she nearly did skin him for flirting with his chick partner when he was back in the 24th, and that never got to the kissing stage.

But Turnbull wasn't Stella. Never was, never would be. And that was cool.

*

Ray leaned on the sink, holding a wet paper towel against his eyes. Someone leaned against the sink next to him. "Hey, Ray."

"Hey, Huey."

"You appear to be in pain."

"Too much paperwork. Giving me a headache."

"I see." Huey didn't move.

"You want something?" Ray ran more cold water over the towel and held it to his eyes again.

"I heard an amusing story today, and I thought I would pass it on."

"Do you have to?"

"I think you'll be interested. It concerns a GTO remarkably similar to yours."

Ray stiffened a little, holding onto the edge of the sink. "A GTO, huh?"

"Yes. Only this couldn't possibly have been your GTO, since in this GTO, there were two men in intimate embrace."

He clutched the sink so hard the bones of his fingers grated. "Heh. That's funny, Jack."

"I thought so too. You see, I know it couldn't have been your GTO, because I know a smart guy like you, were he in fact involved with someone of the masculine persuasion, would never be so careless as to embrace his lover in a public area where they might be seen by prying eyes."

His mouth was dry. "Nah, of course not."

"I just thought that I should tell you that story, especially since the car in question was not spotted by me, but by someone not smart enough to know that it couldn't have been you."

Ray crumpled the paper towel in his hand and straightened up slowly, bracing himself against the sink. Huey was leaning against the next sink, his arms crossed. He looked sympathetic.

"Thanks for letting me know."

"No problem, Ray." Huey thumped his shoulder and left the bathroom.

Ray lingered a moment before he left to pick up Fraser from the reservoir, staring into the mirror until he looked halfway normal.

Fuck. What the fuck was he gonna do?

*
Turnbull and Fraser sat across from each other in the Consulate meeting room, addressing invitations. They both had impeccable handwriting, although Turnbull was more given to flourish.

"Son, what on earth are you doing?"

"My job," Fraser whispered, hoping that Turnbull wasn't paying attention.

His father leaned over his shoulder and scoffed at the cards. "This is no sort of job! Where are the criminals? Where is the action?"

"This is my job for the past three years. The action is at the police station."

Turnbull looked up. "Sir?"

"Nothing, Turnbull."

Turnbull's father leaned over his shoulder. "Excellent penmanship!"

"Why thank you, sir," Turnbull replied, glowing slightly from the compliment.

"If the criminals don't come to you, then you should go to the criminals," Fraser's father said.

"Dad! I do not have the option of going to the criminals when there is work to be done here!" Fraser snapped.

Turnbull's father drifted up to the lamp shades, looking for bugs. "Son? Aren't you a policeman of some sort?"

"I am a Mountie," Turnbull said, "as you can see by my red uniform."

"Oh! How marvelous. Why are you addressing invitations?" Turnbull's father found the ghost of a fly and examined it.

"Mounties have many useful positions," Turnbull said, no longer smiling.

"Mounties have many useful positions," Fraser echoed, glaring at his own father.

"Don't be ridiculous, son," Fraser's father said. "Being a secretary is no job for a man."

"Dad! That is sexist claptrap and I'll thank you to keep it to yourself!" Fraser tossed down his pen.

"I met a Mountie once," Turnbull's father said. "I was chasing a rather lovely viceroy butterfly and it flew right into his hat. He caught it for me--put his hat on his head with the butterfly inside, the helpful lad."

"Father! That was me!" Turnbull's forehead creased in consternation.

"Was it, then?" Turnbull's father touched his hand to his brow. "Goodness. My mind is slipping. Perhaps I should be off."

"Of course, son, you don't need me any more. You never did." Fraser's father straightened his tunic with a sharp tug. "I'll be off, then. Give my love to your mother."

"Give my love to your mother," Turnbull's father said, and faded.

Turnbull and Fraser were alone in the room again.

"My mother?" Fraser whispered.

"Sir?"

Fraser shook his head. "Nothing, Turnbull."

*

Ray was making tea to ease his headache, which probably meant that Canadian-ness was in fact catching, like an STD.

"So you really liked Maggie, eh?" Ray hovered over the kettle. "You've been pining for a couple of days now."

"Maggie? Yes. I'm pleased to have living family again..." Fraser rubbed the back of his neck. "I have been thinking about family a great deal lately."

Ray looked over his shoulder and grinned. "I meant in the non-sister way."

"Ah." Fraser pulled at his collar. "Yes. Yes, I did like her in--that way. Although that--" He looked for a second like he was thinking about jumping out the window. "Changed. It changed."

"Don't have a meltdown. I'm just making conversation."

Fraser sighed. "Maggie. Janet Morse."

"Looking for love, Benton buddy?" Ray laughed. The kettle whistled before Fraser could answer, and Ray started messing with the cups and the tea bags and the water.

Ray handed Fraser a mug of tea. Fraser interlaced his fingers, holding it between the palms of his hands. "I'm so terribly jealous of you and Turnbull, Ray."

Ray frowned. "You said you weren't bent that way."

"I'm not. It's your relationship. Having a relationship."

Ray remembered the feel of Fraser's thighs between his as he sat on Fraser's lap, just that once. "Lots of people would go for you, Fraser."

"Lots of people want to have sex with me. That isn't the same thing." And that hurt, that did, but Fraser's voice was still soft and he looked into the tea like it had some kind of answers for him. "I find that I want love. I want to belong with someone. I want forever. I'm not used to this feeling--I didn't think I had it within me."

"Everyone wants that."

Fraser looked up. "Not me." He shook his head slightly, staring directly at Ray, looking tranquil and full of truth. "I was at peace with myself. When I met--Victoria--the first time, I could let her go. I sent her away in peace because we had a connection in our souls," he said, gesturing in toward his chest with the mug. "And that was enough, just to know the connection was there."

"That's, um, kinda weird."

"Perhaps." He shrugged. "I was content. It's only when I came to the city that I learned to be lonely, and when Victoria found me again, she could use that loneliness--" Fraser clutched the mug to his chest, holding it there like he was warming his heart as well as his hands.

"Hey." Ray hugged Fraser's shoulders, wondering what was going on inside his head to make him spill like this. He'd been briefed, briefly, on the Victoria situation but Fraser had never spoken of it.

"It would have been kinder if she had smashed my face in with a golf club. That's what loneliness does," Fraser whispered. "When I lived North, I was simply alone."

Ray hugged him. "I'm not getting the difference, Benton buddy."

"You've never truly been alone." Fraser drank. He closed his eyes. "In the city, people are always there, everywhere around you. There is no place to go where people are not."

"That makes you more alone than out in Freezerland?"

"So many people and none of them are mine."

That feeling. That feeling sucked. That was the feeling of standing outside Stella's door, knowing he couldn't ever walk through like he belonged there again. No wonder Fraser was moping. "Can I help? You know, in a buddy way?"

"I don't think so, Ray." Fraser smiled. "But thank you kindly for the offer."

Ray blew on his tea, looking for words. He wasn't exactly full of advice at the moment. "What are you going to do?"

"About my unsettled heart? Nothing. About my longing for snow? Go fishing. It's lovely weather for ice fishing."

Ray laughed. "Ice fishing! You're unhinged."

Fraser beamed and gave him a manly pat on the shoulder.

*

Vecchio. Ray Vecchio. Suddenly there were two of them. The body in the ice led to arms dealers which led to the real Ray Vecchio and suddenly his whole fucking planet was crashing down.

"I hate him." Ray leaned with both hands on the desk, staring at Fraser.

"Ray." Fraser leaned and stared right back.

"I'm supposed to be him? I ain't him. I bet he's never been punched in the face."

"That's untrue. He's been punched in the face on more than one occasion."

"He gets my goat."

"Well perhaps you should put your goat in the barn then," Fraser said. There was a ragged edge to his voice that Ray hadn't heard before.

"Put my goat in the barn? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Fraser looked at Welsh's office, frowning. "We have work to do." Vecchio and the others were meeting up inside.

"Goat in the barn," Ray muttered, but he followed Fraser.

*

Ray made it halfway across the squad room before Welsh called him back. "Kowalski! I just thought of something." He marched back into Welsh's office, waiting for the hammer to fall.

"Shut the door." Ray shut the door, hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, and waited.

"We've known each other for a long time, right Ray?"

"Twenty years, that's long in my book."

Welsh nodded. "I would say that I know you fairly well."

"Ah, sure." Ray shifted his weight.

"Try not to be jealous of Vecchio and Fraser. They're good friends, but I have every confidence that Fraser will come back to you."

"Huh?"

Welsh steepled his fingers and gave Ray the laser beam look. "I know about your little thing, Detective. I've heard the scuttlebutt."

"My thing?"

"With Fraser."

"I do not have a thing with Fraser." Ray smiled a little, bouncing on his heels.

Welsh planted his hands on his desk and stood. "Come on, Ray, you can tell me. I've known you since you were in high school and you have not always been this discreet."

Wasn't that the truth. He'd been very nearly out at his last precinct. He was just lucky this issue hadn't bit him in the butt before. "Look, Welsh, if I had a thing with Fraser I would cop to it, but I don't, so I won't." He waved his hands in a nada-finito-done kind of way.

Welsh eyed him. "But you're, ah--"

"Queer."

"And Fraser is--"

"Straight."

"I see." He lifted his eyebrows. "So the individual in the GTO--"

"Turnbull."

"Turnbull?"

"Turnbull."

"TURNBULL?" Welsh sounded incredulous.

"Turnbull. Sir."

"I assume you must have some kind of reason for this."

"No sir. Love just kinda bites you in the ass, sir."

Welsh looked at him. "Are you sure it's love, Ray? Are you sure it's solid?"

Ray dropped his head. He looked at the desk lamp, he looked at the window. He thought about teaching Ren to dance; about the transcendent look on Ren's face when he talked about saffron or the Horse Guard or the Mountie dress uniform; about the soft look on Ren's face as he slept; about the line of his arm as he practiced shooting; about the way he consistently scrambled numbers in his head; about the edge in his voice when Ray dissed country music or curling; about his incredible patience with Ray's tape of his home run. "I'm not sure of a whole lot of things, Welsh, but I'm sure of this. I'm sure it's solid and I'm sure it's true."

Welsh nodded. "Then I'm glad for you, because this situation has the potential to become very uncomfortable. Rumors about your personal life are flying."

Ray shrugged. "I figured they would when Huey told me we'd been spotted."

"He told you? Good man." Welsh sat back down. "We'll talk about this later. Now we've got an arms dealer to catch."

*

Snow.

Lotsa snow.

Ray thought Chicago got a lot of snow in the winter, but it was nothing compared to this. Thirty feet, Fraser said. The tents and fires and everything were right on top of it, and they didn't make a dent.

Muldoon and the other prisoners were tied up under the watchful eye of the Paramounties. Weird guys, them. Weirder than Turnbull, or even Fraser.

Fraser was over having an intimate moment with Thatcher. He didn't look terribly enthusiastic, so Ray was keeping an eye on them.

Sure enough, Thatcher tried to kiss Fraser--but she made her move just as Fraser's attention was diverted by the howling dogs, and she clunked into the side of Fraser's skull, and that was that. Fraser pried himself away from Thatcher and sat back down next to Ray.

"She still won't leave you alone?"

"That was goodbye. She's being transferred out of Chicago." Fraser warmed his hands over the fire. "And, well. So am I. I'm going home."

Ray looked at the fire. Losing his position in the force--with the rumors about his sex life spreading, it was going to be hard to find another post as good as being Ray Vecchio. And losing Turnbull, because Turnbull surely wasn't going to miss this opportunity to do real police work again. And now losing Fraser...

Shit. He felt like he was losing everything he was. He felt like--who the fuck was he without his Mounties around? Was he going to be the same person if he didn't wake up to Turnbull's maple-sugar smell? Was he going to be a good cop if he didn't have Fraser watching every move?

He didn't know. He had no idea.

"Going home. That'll be good." It hurt to say it, but it was true. True for Fraser.

Fraser was silent for a little bit, long enough for Ray to get itchy. He hated being dumped the slow way. "I have some leave accumulated," Fraser said. "A great deal, in fact."

"Yeah?"

"So I thought--perhaps--we could go on an adventure."

Ray looked down at his hands and smiled. "Looking for the hand of Franklin, huh?"

"The reaching-out one."

"I'd have to square it with Turnbull." Ray wiggled his fingers.

"Of course." Fraser sighed. "You're so terribly lucky, Ray."

Ray shrugged. "There's lots of women around you, Benton buddy. Pick one and fall in love."

"It's not that easy." Fraser was going to rub that eyebrow off if he wasn't careful.

"Nah. It's not that easy." Ray stood up and patted Fraser on the shoulder. "But it's a start. See you later."

*

Turnbull hooked the kettle over the fire. He heard footsteps behind him, and then Ray sat on the log next to him.

"Good evening, Ray." Turnbull wished desperately that the campsite weren't so open. He longed to embrace his lover after the events of the past few days.

"Evening." Ray passed him some pemmican. "You know, this stuff isn't half bad."

"It's very healthy."

"You're pretty good at this wilderness stuff. When I was up there on the mountain, it, uh, it wasn't pretty." Ray's mouth twitched.

"Mounties go through extensive training. I got rather good at dogsledding at my first posting and, well, it's just like riding a bicycle."

"Yeah." Ray interlaced his fingers, looking pensive.

"Is something bothering you, Ray?"

"It's bugging me that I can't kiss you."

Turnbull looked at the kettle. "When the water boils, we can take our tea in the woods."

Ray sat up. "Water. Boil. Hey water, boil." He grinned.

Turnbull bit down on the glove and freed one hand. He reached over and touched Ray's reddened cheeks, feeling for frostbite. "Are you sure you're all right, Ray?"

"Yeah, actually--I feel good. I'm good." Ray's eyes were sparkling and his color high. Turnbull withdrew his hand and simply looked at Ray until the water boiled.

The water went into the teapot, the cups and a blanket were handed to Ray, and Turnbull carried the teapot into the trees. Ray barely let them get out of sight before he threw his arms around Turnbull and kissed him. Turnbull held up the tea carefully.

"We talked about going on an adventure," Ray said. "Me and Fraser."

"Ah, an adventure! What an exquisite idea, Ray." Turnbull found a rock flat enough to set the teapot on and spread out the blanket. "Is Constable Fraser returning to Chicago before taking his new post?"

"You knew about that?" Ray settled onto the blanket with Turnbull.

"Yes, Ray. I'm being transferred also." Turnbull watched Ray's face to see his reaction.

Ray looked thoughtful. "Where?"

"I've requested Toronto." Turnbull paused, wondering how hopeful he dared to be. "Do you think perhaps--you'd like to see it? After your adventure?"

"I've been there. It's clean."

"Yes, Ray."

"Clean, but nice."

"Yes, Ray." Turnbull felt a flutter in his belly.

"Big. Like Chicago."

"Yes, Ray!"

"I like big cities." Ray rested his head on Turnbull's shoulder. "I'd still root for the Hawks. Even if I lived there."

Oh, goodness. Sometimes hopes were well-founded. "I wouldn't have it any other way." Turnbull was laughing, Ray was laughing, and when they kissed Ray's nose was cold, his cheeks were red, and he was absolutely beautiful.

*

epilogue:

Ray eyed his beard in the rear-view mirror, wondering if he liked it. It was red. That didn't seem right.

Nothing he could do about it now... He parked the GTO in the police lot for the last time and strolled up to the squad room.

Frannie was the first to spot him. "RAY!" She ran over and flung her arms around him. "We thought you'd been eaten by a polar bear!"

"Hey, it takes more than that to keep me out of here." He hugged back.

"Ray." Huey and Dewey were standing around grinning like dopes. "Are you back for good now?"

Ray shook his head. "I'm just here to clear out. I'm moving to Toronto."

"Toronto?"

"Toronto? You're not going to be a Mountie, are you Ray?"

"Nah. I'm going to teach boxing. Or dancing. Maybe boxing and dancing."

Welsh's hand landed on his shoulder. "Same thing. Different forms."

"Yeah. Boxing and dancing and liaising with Turnbull. Gonna solve nutty Canadian crimes."

"Turnbull?"

"But Turnbull's an idiot."

Ray felt his temper flare up. "Turnbull ain't an idiot! He just played around to keep from being bored. You try working on passports and dealing with Thatcher all day."

Huey raised his hands and backed off. He elbowed Dewey and made him back off too. Welsh squeezed Ray's shoulder. "I have your stuff in my office."

Ray let out his breath. "Thanks." Ray followed Welsh back to his office. Welsh had his books and toys and things in a little box. Ray pulled out the rubber duck and squeaked it.

"So you're leaving for good?"

Ray shrugged. "I've already applied for Landed Immigrant Status; it should go through pretty soon. So, um, my badge, and I typed up a resignation letter to make it official." He pulled the envelope out of his pocket.

"Thank you." Welsh sat down but didn't open it. "End of an era, Kowalski. Tell me for my own curiosity--who tied you to that window?"

He had to think about that one. Twenty-odd years did a number on a guy's memory--the events remained but the names began to fade. "There were four of them. Sammy Pulaski, Leo Rogers, Little Joe Shoemaker, and, uh, what the hell was that rat fink's name--"

"Val Arntzen?"

"Yeah! That's it."

"I thought it was them. Little punks." Welsh rubbed his chin. "You come back and visit the neighborhood every now and then. It's important to remember where you came from."

"I do. I will." Ray fidgeted for a second, trying to figure out what to do, and then offered Welsh his hand. Welsh shook it, firm and strong, and then Ray walked out the door.

He waved to Francesca. "Frannie! I've got something for you."

"Oh yeah? Presents?"

"Kinda. Come on." He hugged her shoulders and walked her into the hall. He took them into the supply closet.

"Ray?"

"It's a present from Fraser. No prying eyes."

"Oh yeah? What is--" Her words were cut off when Ray took her face in his hands and kissed her.

It was a good kiss, lots of tongue and intent. He leaned into it and she leaned right back. when he pulled back she looked a little dazed. "Wow."

"I said I'd deliver it."

"That was my present from Fraser?"

"Jut the way he gave it to me."

"Ray!" She slapped his chest. "Pig."

"Yeah." He grinned. "Did you miss me?"

She hugged him again. "Sure I did," she said, before she backed up and poked him in the chest. "Where did you get this sweater? It's nice."

"Turnbull made it for me while I was running around with Fraser."

"Turnbull?"

"The reason I'm moving to Toronto."

"Wait a minute, Turnbull? I thought you had a thing with Fraser."

"Nope."

"So Fraser's still available."

Ray laughed. "Yeah, Fraser's available."

Frannie got that calculating look. Fraser didn't have a chance. "You think our babies would have blue eyes?"

"Maybe."

"It's worth a shot." Frannie grinned.

"It always is. You never know." Ray grinned. "The future, huh? It's crazy."

end.

End Today and Tomorrow by Basingstoke: bas@yosa.com

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