Title: When She Walks In The Room
Author: Wax Jism
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Rating: R
Summary: Ag, I can't summarize. Stuff happens. Angst ensues.
Disclaimer: Not exactly making money on this. The characters belong to
someone else, but really, I'm not gonna break them. Much.
Sycophantic gratitude: oh, thank you kindly to Barb and Rosa for beta.
I was a mess, the fic was a mess. It's not quite as bad now. 
Feedback: If there is something you, gentle reader, want to complain
about, feel free to do so to wax_jism@yahoo.com. Uh, if you want to actually,
you know, *praise* me, that's fine too. Really. 
The rest of my fic can be found at http://www.almightyinc.com/wax.jism/

~*~*~
When She Walks In The Room
By Wax Jism
~*~*~

~*~*~
They say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by a moon
Y'know I don't see you when she walks in the room

U2 - The Fly
~*~*~

Ray woke to the annoying electric retching of his long-suffering alarm,
and Fraser wasn't there. Dief looked stoically at him from his place
by Ray's feet, but there was no sign of the Mountie. Though the uniform
still hung in place by the door, the Sacred Stetson wasn't on the dresser
and the empty side of the bed was long cold.

Ray got up, grumbling to himself, and detoured into the living room to
turn on the stereo on his way to the coffee machine; morning music eased
his morning temper, something Fraser would appreciate; that is, if he
were here to appreciate it. 

Dief padded after him, close on his heels, whining softly. 

"Whazzat, boy?" Ray mumbled, scratching the wolf absently behind the
ears. "Mountie skip out on ya? Join the friggin' club."

Dief yipped urgently, and Ray, who wasn't as fluent in Wolf as Fraser
was, but was pretty good at guessing, sighed theatrically. "Just let
me get a cup of joe down first. So I get my eyes open, you know."

He had his coffee, walked Dief - for a good hour, too - and still not
a peep from Fraser. It was Saturday. It was Saturday, and Fraser had
the day off, and this wasn't like him. Sure, he ran off in hot pursuit
of some perp or other at the drop of a hat - 'crime doesn't take days
off, Ray' - but usually, and especially now, he left a note. Something.

Ray spent hours of dead time watching the Home Shopping Network with
the volume turned down and the stereo cranked to eleven. It was sort
of entertaining if you watched it with a soundtrack of Madonna's Like
A Virgin. "I made it through the wilderness," Madonna chirped. On TV,
someone grinned a wide, plastic Pepsodent grin and held up a tube of
something that apparently would both whiten and kill bacteria. "Didn't
know how lost I was until I found you," Ray snarled along with the Material
Girl, until he felt like an idiot and had to laugh out loud. Dief, very
selectively deaf, looked up at him and whined a complaint. Ray ignored
him and wondered if anyone had ever made a punk version of Like A Virgin,
and where he might get his hands on it if that was the case.

He got off the couch for maybe the fifteenth time to walk around the
room just because. He wasn't waiting for Fraser, wasn't pining. Uh-uh.
'That would be silly, Ray.'

Fraser got home at five pm. He walked right in like he'd never been away
(and it was only for the day, so stop clinging and get a life, Ray),
somehow making a plaid shirt and jeans pull off a pretty good impression
of a uniform just by wearing them. He looked like he'd spent the day
in a library or something exciting like that, but Ray was picking up
strange vibes. Yeah, a *hunch*, you see ("You know that's pretty much
all I ever get"). He couldn't say what it was - maybe Fraser's stance
was a little too studied, too stiff. Something like that. Dief offered
a few choice words, or whines, or yips, or whatever - he sure vented
them, anyway. Ray didn't get off the couch, refused to show just how
relieved he was.

"I explained everything to you, Dief," Fraser said calmly. "This is not
the time for this conversation."

"Not when you should be busy explainin' it to me, right?" Ray said, forcibly
casual, trying not to yell, trying not to sound like a desperate loser.
Just one day. Sheesh. Everything's fine, damnit, he told his hunch.

"I had some errands," Fraser said. He looked perfectly innocent, but
there really was something about him - something had changed. Ray didn't
feel any better.

"Yeah?" he said, but then there wasn't time to do any more interrogating
(which he wouldn't have done anyway, cause that's just not done, right,
that would be *desperate*), because Fraser was suddenly right in front
of him: soft flannel and rough denim and the promise of all the pleasures
in the world. 

"But I'm here now," Fraser said - no, actually that would be *purred*.
Ray's skin shivered into goosebumps, and it was a done deal, all she
wrote, Ray was gone. Fraser in a seductive mood always did him in. Desperation
forgotten, Ray pushed himself to his feet and into Fraser's embrace,
his mouth already closing on Fraser's, his hands seeking buttons to open,
zippers to unzip, skin to reveal inch by inch or all in one go.

Somehow they made it to the bedroom without bouncing off too many walls,
and it was hot and fast and Fraser seemed to have grown at least two
extra hands the way he seemed to be able to touch Ray everywhere at the
same time. Ray felt ravaged, soothed; bared, covered; pierced, surrounded
- his consciousness narrowed to a pin-point focus. It felt as sweet as
make-up sex even though they hadn't argued. Ray couldn't remember what
he had been feeling earlier - a hunch? what hunch? Fraser took him and
pushed him over the edge, and afterwards, as Ray was drifting into post-coital
slumber, after Ray'd flippantly said, "You're a real bobcat today, Frase,"
Fraser held him tight, tighter than he usually did, and whispered urgently
in his ear, "I love you, I love you." And that was good. Ray fell asleep.

The next morning, everything was as it should be. He awoke the way he
was supposed to: to the smell of coffee. The bed was still warm, and
Dief had been fed and walked. Fraser was waiting for him in the kitchen,
making pancakes. Fraser had this ongoing campaign to improve Ray's morning
habits. So far he wasn't making much progress. Ray would eat anything
Fraser put in front of him, but whenever he was alone, it was back to
coffee and chocolate and not much else.

They had breakfast together, not really talking much, but being together
the way they should. It was Sunday, and the Sunday routine (which was
stunningly similar to the Saturday routine, except that had been shot
to hell recently) was usually something like: eat, have sex, go to some
culturally and intellectually stimulating exhibit or possibly the park,
have sex, watch a game, have sex, eat, have sex, rent a movie and watch
it, have sex, sleep the sleep of the exhausted. 

Today, Ray didn't feel like going out. He wasn't about to let the Mountie
out of his sight. 

"I thought we could do with an extra helping of decadence today," he
told Fraser. Fraser just raised an eyebrow. "Bed. More bed. Then maybe
the couch. Maybe."

"What did you have in mind for the furniture, Ray?" Fraser asked. 

"Gee, I don't know, Frase. We could move them around some. I'm not sure
I like the way the arrangement and color/material choice of couch and
coffee table evokes an impression of late-nineties urban decay. I'd really
rather go for ... oh, come on." He rolled his eyes and stalked over to
Fraser, who had stopped eyeing him and was now pretending to be very
busy with the dishes. "Don't play oblivious Mountie today, Ben. I have
a mind for some sweaty, begging, slutty Mountie."

"You do? Well, I'm not sure where I put him, Ray. Just give me a minute
to pinpoint his location."

"Nah, I think he's right here. Lemme look," and he pushed Fraser against
the counter and kicked his legs apart, and proceeded to conduct a thorough
regulation patdown (with some extras, granted). And what do you know?
He found the slutty Mountie.

Once he had Fraser's feathers a little ruffled, Ray pulled him along
into the bedroom. Fraser had some sort of principally grounded objections
to kitchen frolics - something about hygiene or something; like he wasn't
the one who'd lick a dog turd if he thought it contained a clue - and
Ray didn't feel like arguing today. Today was going to be Sunday, his
fun day. Oh yeah. 

"So, how do you want it?" he drawled once he had them both in the bedroom,
backing off a bit to unbutton his jeans. Fraser's eyes stayed below-waist,
but he did answer,

"What do you recommend?"

Ray contorted his face into his version of stiff upper lip; the way the
corners of Fraser's mouth twitched, he figured the result was at least
entertaining. Then again, how many snooty, French waiters take their
clothes off on the job? "Well, zere's today's special, we call it Ze
Bruiser," he was done with the buttons and reached for the hem of his
tee, "because it izz hard and fast, wizz ze added bonus of dirty talk
la Kowalski. If you like a lighter fare, Monsieur, the kitchen recommends
The Love Boat; slow and eazy, mood music, ze soft lapping of waves -
ah, not waves, as such, but I'm sure we can come up wizz a satisfactory
substitute." Fraser was still not moving, but his eyes crawled upwards
to Ray's face. He wasn't smiling, but there was the promise of a positively
shit-eating grin lurking at the corners of his mouth. Ray kept his own
expression of professional attentiveness, although it was a hell of an
effort.

"If you do not find anyzing to your pleazure on the menu, it iz always
possible to mix and match, as zey say."

"Flexibility is always admirable in any enterprise," Fraser said slowly.

"Indeed, Monsieur," Ray agreed. "For example, you might choose ze mood
music in combination wizz a quick fuck up against the wall-"

That was as far as he got, because apparently, Fraser's patience had
a limit, and that limit had been reached and crossed. He found himself
caught between the proverbial rock and hard place - in this case a wall
and a Mountie, both hard as hell - and subjected to a record-fast stripdown
that would make a professional car thief go green at the edges.

"Ray," Fraser breathed in his ear, "be quiet."

"Yes, *sir*," Ray said, dropping the French accent - which even he knew
sounded about as French as Elvis - and let Fraser have his way.

Afterwards, the bed looked like the tattered survivor of an air strike,
but not even Fraser seemed to have the energy to do anything about it.
They lay like fallen soldiers on the rumpled, stained sheets, just breathing
and sweating and coming down. 

"I love you," Fraser said out of the blue, and to Ray it sounded - for
just a fleeting moment, before he shrugged it off and just enjoyed the
sentiment - as if Fraser was trying to convince himself of it.

After the hurricane that was Sunday, it wasn't hard to con himself into
forgetting about the Saturday - or maybe it was Fraser who did the conning,
after all - and he did forget about that strange day, until the next
time the Mountie went AWOL. Which was a week later. Saturday again; no
explanations offered. Great sex. Ray let Fraser get away with it again,
because, well, the sex really was great, and he just couldn't let himself
believe that Fraser was lying - *he's a Mountie and Mounties don't lie.*

But then came yet another Saturday, and Fraser still wasn't talking,
and when Ray asked straight out, Fraser looked constipated and told him
it was personal and he'd rather not say. 

Ray was angry, but the anger wouldn't come out and play. He wasn't used
to feeling bottled up. He wanted to smash something, but instead he felt
close to crying. Time to get out before he humiliated himself. He got
up and stomped to the door.

"Ray-" Fraser said, but he didn't move to stop him, and he didn't have
any magic words that would make things alright (what they would be, Ray
couldn't really say. Maybe 'I'm just helping streetkids through college
on my Saturdays off, Ray' might be the ticker), so Ray kept going. His
stomach clenched and his head pounded, but he wasn't sure if it was anger
or sorrow. He couldn't recognize the emotion, which was ridiculous. He
was an expert, a fucking *specialist* on bad vibes and negative emotions.
He'd gone through all the stages before. And he was familiar with the
place he was in with Fraser now (it was purgatory; it could go either
way - sour, like it had with Stella, or back to sweetness like he so
fervently wished); he just didn't know his own reaction at all.

He was back in the evening, of course; a little drunk and a lot more
mellow. Fraser was there, and they didn't talk about anything serious.
It was surprisingly easy to pretend nothing was wrong. There was an enormous
elephant in the middle of the living room (it was making it a real bitch
to watch TV), but somehow, the issue never came up. They could probably
go on for years like this. The sex didn't get any less mind-blowing;
the way they worked together didn't suffer. 

Ray suffered, though, and he thought Fraser did, as well. Someone would
have to do something soon.

Saturday morning again; oh-dark-thirty. Ray had stayed awake all night,
just to be sure he'd catch Fraser slipping out. Went to show Ray could
bluff with the big boys; Fraser never suspected he wasn't really asleep.
At five am sharp, it was like someone threw a switch - all Mounties out
of bed; hands off cocks and on with socks. Ray played possum, breathing
evenly and avoided overplaying it with ... with panache (spending quality
time with Benton Fraser did wonders for a guy's vocabulary, but it sure
played fast and hard with his street cred). 

When Fraser was dressed and out the door (after some quiet bitching with
Dief), Ray slunk out of bed, pulled on the clothes he'd laid out in preparation
last night, gave Dief an apologetic pat, and followed.

Fraser walked, of course; it looked like he was marching to a band only
he could hear. Ray took the GTO and kept his distance. Tailing a suspect
(suspect? Suspect? This is *Fraser*!) at five-thirty on a Saturday morning
was a man's job, but this was, after all, pretty much what Ray did for
a living. On the other hand, it was what Fraser did, as well, and the
damn Mountie had ears like a bat and eyes like a hawk (not to mention
that he was hung like a horse - but we're not talking about that; in
fact, we're not even going to *think* that), and Ray had to use all the
tricks in his books to stay on target without being made. His head hurt
and his eyes were tired - not a surprise after a sleepless night - but
isn't it funny how the proper motivation can make things like exhaustion
and pain seem like no big deal?

Fraser went to the park. He sat on a bench, straight-backed like he was
on guard duty. He sat there for an hour, for two hours. Ray got nervous,
got frustrated, got angry; wouldn't the damn Mountie ever *move*? Finally,
after exactly two hours and twenty-three minutes, Fraser got up as if
he'd just taken a short breather on that bench, and walked on. 

This time, he headed downtown. It took almost an hour, and by the time
he disappeared into a small diner, it was almost nine o'clock, and the
place was filling up with the breakfast crowd. Ray pulled the GTO into
an empty spot with a good view into the diner, and settled in to watch.

Fraser had chosen a table at the inner wall of the place, but Ray had
a pretty good view. He watched Fraser get a cup of tea; watched him nurse
it for half an hour. This was starting to seem like a waste of time,
staking out Fraser and watching him sit alone in a seedy diner on a Saturday
morning. But, damnit, there was something going on. Fraser was holding
something back, and anyway, it wasn't exactly normal to make such a big
deal about going for a walk in the park and a cup of tea. Something had
to happen, sooner or later.

Ray had let the binoculars sink for just a little while, and when he
lifted them again, Fraser wasn't alone anymore. A woman with short, dark
hair and a face that was attractive in an intense, scrawny way sat across
the table from him, staring at him with strange, dark eyes. She looked
familiar. Even considering the haircut and the fact that Ray had only
seen her face in grainy mugshots, he recognized her, and he knew he was
screwed. It hurt like a punch to the gut. 

A guy in the ugliest track suit Ray had ever seen walked right into his
line of sight and stayed there. Ray almost jumped out of the car to push
the guy out of the way, but the quick reality check it took to choke
the impulse suddenly made him aware of what he was doing, and to whom.

Incredible. Here he'd gone and thought he'd gotten better. Promised himself
he'd never pull any of that clingy shit again; only here he was, Mr.
Stalker Creep all over again. He was like a record stuck in a groove:
*get what you want, fuck it up, follow it around- rrrritsch. Get what
you want, fuck it up, follow it around- rrrritsch ...*

He ought to arrest himself. Book me a room in the Big House, boys, I've
got the stalking bug again.

Only, he'd have to make a couple more arrests while he was at it. Fraser
- Mr. Law and Duty Before All - was making cozy with the criminal element.
The world must be coming to an end. His world surely had.

~*~*~

I meet her in the same diner as before. She doesn't smile when she enters;
in fact, her face shows no reaction at all. She is darkly, dangerously
beautiful, and I only want to look at her. I don't want to touch her.
I think her skin would be cold under my fingers; my fingers so used now
to Ray's radiant heat. 

"Ben," she says.

"Victoria." Her name is a stone in my mouth, but the instant rush of
longing I feel every time our eyes meet is unmistakable. I need her as
much as I ever did, although I can never again allow myself to have anything
more of her than these brief, impersonal encounters. 

We don't talk, because there's nothing to say. I can't let her speak;
I've heard everything. We don't touch, save for a few times when her
hand grazes mine, and even at that casual touch, I pull away. But I can't
stay away; can't let her just vanish. She's pulled me in again - come
into my parlour said the spider to the fly - and she won't let me go
unless I make her, and I have found myself sadly lacking - again - both
the strength and the courage to do that. There's nothing in the world
that could change the circumstances after the fact, yet I cannot stay
away. Something as overpowering as instinct is drawing me back to her,
and I am helpless to resist. Thinking about Ray doesn't have the intended
effect; it only makes the hook in my flesh dig deeper. Incredible that
my love for him - and it is love; nothing but love can be torment and
sweetness in such balanced amounts - shouldn't be enough. I thought I'd
measured the depth of this flaw in me; I am realizing now that I underestimated
it.

"Come with me," she says as I prepare to leave. She says that every time
we meet, and I fear the day her lure will be stronger than my resolve.
I picture Ray's face. It doesn't help. He's shadowed, distant, fading.
I feel cold. 

"Victoria ..."

"I caught this morning morning's minion," she whispers. 

I shake my head sharply, although the words are already forming, already
spilling from my lips: "Kingdom of daylight's dauphin ..."  Nonsense;
Hopkin's poem has no meaning here. I might as well recite the phone book
from memory for all the impact the words have, but her presence is like
the bell in Pavlov's experiments; instead of saliva, I sprout line after
line of intricately alliterated and rhymed syllables.

Finally, I leave, tearing myself temporarily from her gravity. 

I know I will be back.

~*~*~

They weren't even talking. Fraser never opened his mouth for anything
but the tea; neither did she. They just sat there like statues. Statues
of star-crossed lovers, gazing longingly into each other's eyes across
that impenetrable barrier of the diner table and circumstance. 

Ray stared, too, until his eyes felt hot and raw, and his lungs burned
at every breath, like just looking at the scene behind the grubby window
had poisoned him.

Finally, he couldn't take a second more of that quiet communication,
that quiet *connection* that excluded him, and he lowered his binoculars
and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes hard, really screwing them
shut, but it didn't help, of course, so he just bit the bullet and settled
in to wait.

Fraser came out alone maybe half an hour later, once again looking starched
and unruffled, but Ray could see the cracks in the armor, sure he could.
He knew Fraser like no one else. Like no one else, except maybe-

When Fraser's eyes lit on Ray, both men froze; deer-in-the-headlights,
*tharn*, statues again. Fraser pushed the impression the farthest; his
face was so perfectly blank Ray had to wonder if this wasn't just a life-size
porcelain Mountie. Fraser blinked, twice, slowly, with china-doll impassivity.

"Not a word," Ray blurted, unnecessarily - Fraser didn't look like he
was about to speak. He didn't look like he had vocal cords anymore. Porcelain
through and through. "Get in the car."

The words were an order, but to Ray's own ears they sounded like a plea.
Anger roiled and churned inside him, somehow, impossibly, never finding
an outlet. On the surface was only the pain and something meek and helpless.

Fraser obeyed without comment. Dief whined and wagged his tail in the
back seat, but Fraser didn't greet him. Instead, he turned his porcelain
eyes to Ray, opened his porcelain mouth and said, "Ray."

"Not now, Fraser," Ray snapped, and concentrated on the well-known and
safe motions of driving. He drove too fast, and he even ran a couple
of stop signs, but the Mountie didn't bitch at all, not even when he
drove through a really old yellow. Taxi-green, his dad used to call it.

He pulled up in front of the consulate. He didn't look at Fraser, just
waited silently. 

"Ray ..." Fraser said. Ray raised a hand.

"No, no, no, no. I cannot have this conversation now. Not right now."

"Understood, Ray," Fraser said like a good boy, but he didn't leave the
car. Ray lasted fifteen awkward seconds.

"You lied to me," he said after suffering through those seconds, making
himself a liar. The conversation had apparently been booked for this
slot, no matter what he wanted. 

"I-"

"You *lied* to me. You told me you loved me."

"I do, Ray."

"You love *her*. How stupid do you think I am? I just never ... I'd never
have pegged you for someone to screw around, you know? I thought-"

"Ray, if you'd just listen - I wasn't-" For the first time since he'd
gotten in the car, Fraser was actually displaying emotion. The Mountie
mask was cracking. It didn't appease Ray.

"Shut *up*, Fraser! I am *this* close to smashing your lying mouth in.
I won't, cause I know it won't make me feel any better." The last sentence
came between clenched teeth, and he had to take a quick time-out; staring
hard at his own hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled
force. Deep breath. The clamoring urge to commit grievous bodily harm
receded to a murmur, and he could say, somewhat calmer, "It doesn't matter
if you were just holding hands with her or doing her doggy-style over
the Lieutenant's desk; this isn't about *sex*, Fraser."

"No, it isn't," Fraser said, and Ray was momentarily taken aback by the
agreement. Fraser agreeing with him always made him lose his footing
in an argument. He was on a tear now, though, so it was only a question
of regrouping. 

"Who is she?" he asked, although he knew exactly who she was. What she
was. He just wanted to see a reaction; see what Fraser would do. "How
come I've never seen her before?"

"I can't-"

He saw that frightened glance. All it took. He interrupted, "No, you
can't tell me. She's the bank robber chick, isn't she? She's still got
you wrapped around her pinky. Don't argue! I will not be responsible
for my actions if you argue today. I am a thermonul- fuck it - a thermonuc-le-ar
device and you have pushed the big red button that says 'Don't Ever Use'."

No one could say that Fraser was stupid. Intentionally oblivious from
time to time, sure, but never stupid. He apparently got it, got that
Ray was serious as Old Man Trouble. He just said, "Understood," again,
and left the car. 

"I'll see you Monday, Fraser," Ray called after him. Fraser almost -
almost - spun around; it looked like he pulled something stopping himself.
He turned, instead, very slowly, and stared at Ray. Ray felt smug; damn
Mountie didn't see that one coming. "We've still got work to do, Fraser,"
he clarified, just to push home the point that Ray Kowalski was a professional,
a good policeman, and would not let personal matters screw with his duty.

Fraser just nodded. Ray didn't stick around.

~*~*~

It's not my heart, but my head. It is full, so full I think it might
split open any minute now, like an overripe fruit, laying bare all these
hateful, disgraceful thoughts and emotions for all the world to see.
All I can do is concentrate furiously on the mechanical task of filling
in forms and stamping envelopes. Occasionally, I can forget myself. Mostly,
I can't.

"What are you doing, son?" my father's voice asks out of thin air. I
look up to see him standing in front of my desk, ramrod straight and
frowning sternly. Well, that was all the day needed. Ever since my relationship
with Ray Kowalski developed into a romantic liaison, my father has been
conspicuous by his absence. On occasion, as I work here in my office,
I would feel something of a disapproving presence, but he would never
materialize, and I would never ask him to. I'd thought he'd given up
on me. Now here he comes, probably brimming with good advice I haven't
asked for and don't want.

"I am working, Dad, as you can well see."

"Not that!" he snaps, annoyed already. "The Yank. The woman. What the
hell are you playing at, son?"

"Ah," I say. I do not wish to discuss this. Not now, not ever. I know,
however, that if I were to have a match in sheer bloody-mindedness, it
would be my father.

"I don't say I approve of your ... relationship with the Yank, son,"
he starts, sounding almost ridiculously paternal, "but he doesn't deserve
this." 

"This is not something I want your advice on, Dad."

"I've talked to you about second chances-"

"At great length, as I recall." I keep my voice even and dry, but I am
getting increasingly vexed. He doesn't seem to notice, or perhaps he
does, but chooses to overlook my temper. He frequently does.

"It's a worthy subject, son."

"I'm not entirely sure your experiences with Buck Frobisher apply to
this case." 

"You're right," he says. "I never hopped into bed with him."

"Well, there you go, Dad. It doesn't apply. Now, as you can see, I have
duties to attend to." I make a great show of shuffling the forms around
my desk. He watches me impassively for a minute. I studiously ignore
his presence. 

"The Yank's a good man," he says finally. I try not to let my annoyance
show too much, but I know I sound rather snappish when I say,

"You said that, yes. Ray is a good man. He's done nothing to deserve
this. Now, if you'd excuse me ..."

When I look up again, he's gone. I lean my head in my hands and close
my eyes. He is right, of course. I know my duty - towards the law and
towards Ray. Yet I cannot bring myself to even contemplate bringing Victoria
in. I feel as if her pain - that twisted, kaleidoscope pain she surely
must feel at the life she and I have ruined together - is my own. I am
caught, and I cannot see a way out that would not utterly crush me.

~*~*~

This was his second chance - that fabled second chance that you don't
always get - and it was turning to shit right in front of him. He couldn't
talk to Fraser; Fraser wouldn't talk to him. They were caught in silence,
because if there was silence, at least no one would have to punch anyone,
no one would say anything that couldn't be taken back. Ray paced the
room and thought about Fraser. Fraser, this strange Fraser who lied and
cheated and sat in cheap diners with someone he ought to have been arresting.
Someone who was a fugitive; someone who was a murderer. Ray could understand
Fraser's obsession; Ray had been there done that got the T-shirt. It
didn't make things any less fucked up, any less shitty. 

He stopped pacing with a jerk, and before he even knew what he was doing
himself, he'd swiveled around and punched the wall with everything he
had. The pain came afterwards, and it was strangely satisfying to have
a physical pain to take his mind off the other one, the one that aspirin
or Tylenol or even morphine would never take away. 

"Fuck," he said eloquently to the empty room. "Shit." Well, that summed
it up pretty neatly. Shit, as in turning to it. Manure, excrement, waste,
dung, feces, compost. He almost popped the wall another one, but stopped
himself just in time. No need to break any bones here, and his hand already
hurt like a sonuvabitch. He made do with pointlessly flipping the finger
at the inoffensive architectural structure. There you go. Sit on it and
spin.

So. Shit. That was an established fact. What to do about it? Not the
faintest. Gotta have a plan, be a man, get a plan.

"I am such a dick," he mumbled, and went to sit on the couch again. Flipped
on the TV. 'Bullitt' - but he couldn't watch Steve McQueen when he was
in a jealous rage over his Mountie boyfriend getting frisky with a bankrobbing,
murdering bitch. That would be, whatsit, sacrilege, at least. "Dick,"
he repeated and turned off the TV and just sat staring at the blank screen
for a while. He tried to think. It wasn't easy, but he might just manage
to-

Ah-ha. A dick with a plan. Well, well, well. Seeing as he was in a jealous
rage and all, he might as well do something jealously raging. First,
he'd do some detectoring, yeah, and then - bring on the jealous rage,
pal.

Finding her wasn't hard, but executing his plan took some time. Ample
time for a guy to think hard about what he's about to do. Ray did - think
hard, that was - but come evening, he was still the same dork with the
same plan. 

He watched the diner until Fraser showed up again; apparently, the fact
that Ray knew - that Fraser knew Ray knew - didn't put the guy off seeing
his piece on the side. The woman, little old Tricky Vic herself, came
in around ten thirty, and the toothsome twosome sat quietly over untouched
cups of tea, looking at each other. Ray didn't get them; what kind of
an affair was that? What was Fraser doing, stepping out on Ray just to
sit and stare at the woman like he was afraid to touch her? It was like
something out of one of those Jane Austen-type chick flicks. Victorian
melodrama, hardy-har. He gave an anemic chuckle at his own weak pun.

"I'm such a dick," he said out loud, for about the ninety-seventh time.
Well, it was true. Still, he was going through with this, dick or not.

She almost gave him the slip. He was busy making cow-eyes at Fraser,
and suddenly, she was just gone. Lucky for him, he caught a glimpse of
her when he was rolling down the street, swearing to himself. By random,
dumb accident he saw her turn down a side street, and the chase was on.

It was a short chase, and not much in way of entertainment, either, if
car chases were what you did for entertainment. Her apartment wasn't
far away, on the fifth floor in a run-down building with no elevator.
It gave Ray a cheap satisfaction to see how wealthy and comfortable she
wasn't. Looked like crime didn't pay, after all.

Well, now he knew where the snake had her lair. He stood in the dingy
hallway outside her door, smelling piss and boiled cabbage and mold,
puzzling over how to best get this thing over and done with. Then he
heard her behind the door, heard the lock turn, and had to beat a hasty
retreat. 

Well, he thought, looking after her walking down the hall, looks like
another stakeout. He watched her through the staircase window, watched
as she dodged puddles and pulled her coat tighter around her. He laughed
a little maliciously, because it had been raining all morning, a dogged,
wind-beaten rain that made the world grey and dull and damp, and she
didn't have an umbrella. 

"Hope it fucks up your 'do," he muttered morosely and turned back to
the hallway. There was no one around, which worked fine by him. The building
was old and cheap and didn't look like it had been renovated in the last
millennium or so. The doors were just as worn and rickety as the rest
of it, and the lock on hers yielded to his little card trick without
giving him trouble. 

It was a studio, empty and bare and unfurnished, save for a small kitchen
table with two matching chairs in the stylish seventies Formica kitchenette
(Ray thought that particular shade of orange had been outlawed sometimes
around 1982), and a camp bed in a corner. A single, thick candle stood
next to it. A suitcase had been pushed under the bed.

Ray snooped around a little, trying to get some sort of grip on the woman
that had turned Fraser's head worse than anyone had ever turned Ray's.
Well, she was a neat freak, a bit like Fraser there; the place was creeping
Ray out with its pristine tidiness. He couldn't find a speck of dust
anywhere, like she'd spent hours dusting and polishing every surface,
and he was willing to make a small wager ('not money, of course, but
a wager, nevertheless-' Shut up, Fraser!) that a forensic investigation
would turn up jack shit in the way of fingerprints. He remembered reading
about that in Victoria Metcalf's file - three days she spent in Fraser's
apartment, and not so much as a partial.

She was supposed to be some sort of evil genius - after all, she'd escaped
right in front of Vecchio's nose, hadn't she, almost managed to frame
Fraser for murder, too. So, all things considered, it was probably a
good idea not to let her get the drop on him. Which went to say, hurry
the fuck up, Kowalski. 

The suitcase turned out to be outrageously uninteresting. It contained
- surprise, surprise - clothes. And nothing else. A couple of shirts,
a pair of jeans he couldn't for his life imagine her wearing, some underwear
(boring cotton underwear; nothing like the fancy silk stuff Stella liked
and Ray liked as well - on Stella, off Stella, why was he thinking about
Stella?), and a long, black skirt. 

In the bathroom, he found the usual suspects; shampoo, conditioner, shower
gel, a toothbrush and toothpaste, hairbrush, perfume (L'ncome's Trsor
- how original), and an extra-large bottle of aspirin, generic brand.

Well, time to face the music and admit that this lady had left nothing,
nothing at all of interest for him to find. Either she was the most boring
person on the face of the planet, or she was the most suspicious one.
Faced with the evidence, he'd have to go with door number two. He settled
down to wait.

And he waited, and waited, and waited some more, perfectly still in his
place behind the door for longer than he'd thought he was capable of,
and when she finally, finally, after two and a half hours that almost
killed him, stepped through the door, she never had time to do anything.
He had his gun against her head neat as pie, and said, in his best shake,
bad guy, shake voice, "Don't move. Do not move."

She didn't, just stood quietly and waiting. He took the time to check
her out some. She was bird-boned and skinny - and she was a real looker,
Ray noticed now that he was really seeing her, not just staring through
the back of her head at Fraser. There was something hard and ungiving
around her eyes, though, something that made his mouth go dry. 

He patted her down gingerly, finding a small .38 in her purse. He emptied
the gun on the floor, one-handed. The rounds tinkled and skittered across
the hardwood like gleaming, metallic insects.

"Detective," she said suddenly, sharply, and he almost pulled the trigger
in surprise. Jittery, Ray, jittery - cool it down.

"What?" he snapped. "No, don't talk to me. I'm gonna do the talking."

"Really?" she said, and he was sure she was grinning like a loon under
that cooler-than-thou mask.

"Really. Look, I've got a deal for you, okay? It's a one-off; you go
back on it just once, and I'm all over you like a dirty blanket." He
pushed her a little with the gun, nodded towards the kitchenette. She
walked ahead of him, still cool as a very cool cat, and sat down on one
of the chairs. He parked in the other, right across the table, and kept
the gun steady and pointed at her. 

"So, Detective. You call yourself Vecchio, don't you? What is your real
name?" He resisted the urge to smack her across the face for that, and
just shrugged. 

"I go by Vecchio. All you need to know." She didn't insist. "I want you
to leave. This town. This state. In fact, I want you to leave this country.
Go anywhere - Timbuktu would be fine. I hear the fishing's great there
this time of year." She didn't answer. Her eyes were creeping him out,
but he held her gaze. "Just don't go to Canada. I think you've lost your
Canadian privileges permanently."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. Listen, lady, I am not in the mood, all right?
You're wanted for murder. I could book you right now, and you'd never
see daylight again. But I won't. I just want you to go away and stay
away. I'm giving you a good deal, a better deal than you deserve. I'm
doing it for the Mountie." 

"He'll come with me," she said, and boy, did she sound sure of herself.
Ray narrowed his eyes and glared at her, but she didn't even blink. 

"You think he'll come with you? You think that? How come he hasn't already?
He had his chance three years ago, didn't he?"

"The real Detective Vecchio shot him."

That pissed him off even more - 'the real detective Vecchio', and that
superior, why-do-I-even-bother tone of voice. Focus, Ray. Focus. "Maybe
he just didn't want to go with you. He's not going now, that's for sure."

"How do you know?" She smiled at him, but it didn't change her eyes at
all; they remained cold. "He's going to stay with you? He'll go with
you?"

"He already *is* with me," Ray snapped, knowing that he was letting her
get to him; not caring. "Get that through your scumbag head. He won't
be yours, not now, not ever. Just get the hell outta Dodge before I sic
the wolves on your ass."

"How delicately put," she said sarcastically, but something flashed in
her eyes, something hot and glowing. And there it was; just a glimmer
of hurt, but Ray caught it. Oh God, she loved Fraser, she really did.
He could believe it now - he hadn't before; he'd thought she just wanted
something again. She loved him, but she couldn't love him right. There
had to be something wrong with her, with the way she was wired, or something
- like maybe she couldn't do that give-and- take thing that was needed
in a relationship; could only take and demand more, take and demand more
- but it was love. He saw it, and he recognized it - the desperation.

He faltered, felt his mouth fall open, and in that brief moment of distraction
- indecision, sympathy - she lunged across the table and went for his
gun. 

"No!" he yelled, and it was close again - he almost blew her head off
in the scuffle. But through some kind of minor act of god, he held on
to his piece without pulling the trigger. 

She was like a rabid polecat, scratching at his eyes and snarling in
rage. He tried to push her off him, but the chair teetered backwards
and fell, and he ended up flat on the floor with her on top of him, and
she caught her breath faster than he did, and punched him straight in
the nose. It wasn't a girlie punch, either; his head filled with the
sharp crackle of bone and cartilage twisting and breaking. Christ, she
was fast and strong, and it was time to do something about this situation.

"Don't make me kill you, you stupid fucking bitch," he growled, blinking
through the dark flowers blossoming all over his field of vision. His
head spun, but he could take a beating; a good one in the face wasn't
enough to take him down. She didn't stop trying to claw out his eyes,
so he hit her back, hard, southpaw. She fell off him, and he rolled and
pounced and got the gun on her again, jammed hard against her chin. He
crouched over her, ignoring the clamoring pain in his nose. Her eyes
were like chips of coal in her pale face. There was a little blood on
her mouth.

"Don't think I won't," he whispered at her, digging the gun in a little
tighter. She was feeling him, hell yeah. "Now listen up, and listen hard.
You ever - and I mean that literally and symbolically and any -ally there
is - ever set your foot in this town again, I will hunt you down and
blow your brains out. Got that? I'm letting you go this time, for Fraser.
But just this once. You hear me? Am I making myself clear? Huh?"

He backed off to let her up, and looked hard at her. There it was again,
that flicker of pain - her face softened and her eyes misted over just
barely. She didn't look scared, or even angry, just sad. Like she was
thinking about never seeing Fraser again and it was hurting her. Well,
Ray could sympathize, but it was still a moment of intense triumph when
she slowly got up and left without looking back. He resisted the impulse
to shout "Don't let the door hit ya in the ass on the way out" after
her. This was probably not the time to gloat. 

He got up himself, made a big, completely unnecessary fuss out of brushing
non- existent dust off his clothes, just trying to regain some sort of
balance. He winced as his nose got his attention again. His throat was
filling with that familiar metallic-sweet taste, and when he touched
his face, the hand came away bloody. Damn. It was probably broken. That
meant going to the ER. Not what he had in mind for the rest of the day.

~*~*~

It is late, and the consulate is dark. I should by all rights be in bed,
but my narrow cot seems more uninviting every night. I've become soft,
sleeping in Ray's large, comfortable bed, caught safe and sound in the
guarded circle of shared heat, shared breath, shared dreams. Pressed
against Ray's easy warmth, I would sometimes stay awake to listen to
him sleep. He's a restless sleeper, a bundle of twitches and sighs. He
wraps himself around me, snuggles closer, his breath tickling my skin
softly. I feel protective towards him; I want to fold him into my arms
and make sure he never gets hurt again-

I snap out of my reverie. I have hurt him. He's somewhere out there,
alone and hurt by my actions. Another walking wounded by my hand. 

My incipient wallow in self-recrimination is interrupted by Dief's soft
whuff. Then I hear it myself; light footsteps in the hallway. There's
only one person who'd break into the consulate in the thick of night
and then walk around as bold as can be.

He comes in and stops right inside my door. I only have my desk light
burning, and he's standing almost completely in shadow, but I can quite
clearly make out his swollen, butterfly-bandaged nose and the stitches
in the gash on his upper lip. 

"Ray." I don't know what else to say. He's returned to me. He has the
control. I am the offending party - the bad guy, as he would put it -
in this situation. I will listen to what he has to say.

"She's gone," he blurts, and my heart seizes in my chest. The mangled
state of his face seems suddenly sinister to me. He can't mean- "I told
her to take a hike, make like a boxer, split, get the fuck outta my face."

"Ray, what-" He didn't- he hadn't. The fear sinks back to a more bearable
level. 

"I let her go, Frase," he says softly, looking, at some apparently fascinating
spot somewhere to the left of my desk. "She's okay, she's just ... gone.
Couldn't let her fuck you up any more. I'm sorry." He straightens suddenly,
and his posture becomes almost defiant. "Fuck it. I'm *not* sorry. She
loves you, Frase, I'll give you that, but she's poison. I know, I'm not
exactly a catch, but I'd never ... I'd never ..." He trails off; he's
run out of steam. The defiance leaks out of him, and he is left looking
tired and ill-used. I'm still horrified at what he has done - and the
way he's injured has me speculating wildly as to Victoria's condition
- but he has put himself in danger for me; he's fought for my flawed
affection. He's offering ... something. 

"Ray," I say again, helplessly. It seems all I can manage today is his
name, like a parrot with a one-word vocabulary. He's walking towards
me, his eyes still shadowed, but I see intent. I see a challenge. I see
Ray, who's apparently going to jump right back into the fray. For me.

~*~*~

Ray backed Fraser up against the desk. Fraser wasn't saying anything;
it didn't look as if he was able to. His eyes looked huge and black in
the murky light, and Ray thought he could see both fear and relief in
them. He might be wrong, of course - Fraser wasn't easy to read at the
best of moments, and this sure wasn't one - but he chose to believe what
he saw. 

Fraser was wearing his uniform, so Ray turned his concentration to getting
it off, but he'd had some practice, after all - it wasn't the major task
it used to be. He didn't move to kiss Fraser, and Fraser didn't move
at all, but they were both breathing a little heavier by the time he
pushed Fraser's boxers down and dropped to his knees. 

He gave Fraser his mouth with its sore, cracked lips. He was good at
it; sucking dick was something he had a talent for - he knew exactly
how much, how long, how hard to use lips and tongue and teeth, how to
make Fraser pant helplessly and shiver and whimper. In five seconds flat,
he got the first moan out of him, then a harsh groan, and finally, a
cry - "Ray!". Yeah, Ray though, that's it - remember who you're with,
tell me you know who's doing this to you. 

He wanted to say that out loud - *say my name, damnit, Frase* - but his
mouth was full and busy, so he just gave everything he had, put his soul
and his pain and his longing into that blowjob, and Fraser repeated his
name over and over again until he choked on the short syllable, but that
was forgiven, because just then he jerked and shuddered and filled Ray's
mouth with bitter-sweet, blood- warm slickness. He swallowed with some
effort, and then Fraser's hands were pulling him up, and there was a
kiss, a kiss that was a question and an invitation. He let Fraser touch
him. There was his answer.

*We're not okay. We'll probably never be okay again. But I take what
I can get.* 

They lay tangled and sweaty in Fraser's narrow and uncomfortable so-called
bed. Fraser wasn't asleep, but he was pretending to be. Ray didn't mind.
He sure didn't want to talk.

He twisted and turned himself toward Fraser, pushing his body closer
against that familiar furnace heat. He's mine, he thought, there's no
way he can't be mine.

"Can I keep you until she comes back?" Ray's treacherous mouth asked
before he could zip it shut, and even though he'd meant it to be funny
- when the thought was just a thought - he realized he meant it sincerely
by the time the words made their getaway. Fraser heard that too, it looked
like, cause he flinched like somebody smacked him a good one with a dead
fish or something. 

"Ray-"

Ray squirmed and held up a hand, both hands, and Fraser bit down on his
protest. 

"I've sunk pretty low here, Fraser. I'm not above begging, but please
don't make me, okay?"

"Ray, I-"

Ray talked right over Fraser's protest. "You love me, I know. Just not
enough, I guess."

"It's not-" Fraser tried again. Ray didn't let him finish. There was
nothing Fraser could say now that would change anything. Maybe later.
Maybe never. 

"It's not me, it's you, yeah, yeah - that's old hat. You know what, Fraser,
old buddy? I'm gonna go ahead and pretend none of this ever happened,
okay? I'm pretty good at that, the old pulling the wool over your own
eyes deal. I can do it. Just ... just never remind me, okay?"

"Ray-"

"Promise me." He twisted around again so he could catch Fraser's eyes.
It was getting lighter; the night was over.

"Yes, Ray. I promise."

~*~*~

the end