Author's Website: http://www.finnatics.com/otsoko.htm

Disclaimer: Alliance owns them all, except what Estopa owns.

Author's Notes: thanks to Aukestrel for beta-ing above and beyond the call. And to Te, who audienced this for me (te quiero, sabes?).

Story Notes: Pre-Slash. Serious Angst.

Unloaded Gun
by otsoko

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, but it did. For me. Not for her, obviously. Maybe it was just the optimist in me that didn't want to believe it was really coming. Maybe there was a part of me that couldn't let go, that wanted to believe that she really wanted to talk when she called and said she wanted to talk. Maybe I thought the place she suggested we meet had a . . . significance.

And maybe it did; just not the same significance for her as it had for me.

It was planned, well thought out, calculated, scheduled in her leather appointment book. The one I gave her when she passed the bar. The one she had pointed out to me at the fancy Italian leather store on Michigan Avenue. The one I had blown almost a week's take-home on.

I could see the page in my mind:

'12:30 pick up dry cleaning, 2:00 arraignment in superior court, 4:15 meet with State's Attorney, 6:30 tell husband about divorce, 7:30 drinks with Muffy and Daphne at the Club.'

I stood on the steps in front of the Art Institute as the November rain fell. I stood a step below her, trench coat cinched, collar up against the rain and the cold. It had been pretty warm that morning, so I had just thrown on a jacket over a tee-shirt, just something to hide the shoulder holster. I was still carrying the pistol. And usually there was a feeling of power that came with packing a gun, a feeling that you knew you could handle almost any situation.

But it wasn't making me feel like that today, especially since I had unloaded it before I left the station.

She came down the steps, umbrella in one hand, briefcase in the other. She came over to me, not meeting my eyes.

"Hello, Ray."

"Hey, Stella."

I tried to give her my best smile. The smile she gave in return was as cold as the wind off the lake, a smile that sent a chill down my spine, a smile that told me that this wasn't going to go the way I had thought, or had hoped. She held the umbrella over both of us. Then her eyes went somewhere else, and she stepped back slightly, moving away from me, and the rain ran off the edge of her umbrella onto my face, but I didn't bother to move when I realized it.

"It's over, Ray. We both know it. We've both known it for a while. It's time we just let it go."

I should have known this was coming. I couldn't blame her. I couldn't put any of the blame on her. I had committed the one unforgivable sin, the one thing the Stella couldn't forgive: being made a fool of. And in her eyes I had done just that. I had hoped against hope that she could see her way past it. See beyond it, see that I loved her. Hoped that if I gave her enough time and space she would see that.

I really thought I had a chance as long as there was no one else, and I knew there wasn't anyone else. I knew Stella well enough to know that. Besides if there had been, my mum would have sussed it out. Mum was always good at that. She would have warned me, or at least given me a hint.

But nothing. Not from Mum, not from Stella. But I hadn't told my mum what I'd told Stella. And Stella would never tell my mum that.

And maybe it was never going to have worked out. The day I dropped out of university to join the police academy, something changed. Stella was all supportive on the surface, but I could see it in her eyes, trying to figure out how she was going to tell her parents and her Gold Coast friends that her husband wasn't going to be a lawyer or an ad man or a junior executive with an office in the Loop, working for the day when it was an office with a lake view.

No, her husband was going to be a cop. Not a fact you wanted to mention over cocktails at the Club (Stella always capitalized it when she spoke of the club that she and her parents and her grandparents had belonged to.) That's where we met our friends, or rather her friends. Somehow we never met my friends from the neighbourhood for beer and pool, and I had lost touch with most of them. Pretty much all of them, in fact.

I was her husband. At the club, to her friends, to everyone we socialized with. And that had been fine with me. More than fine with me. I worked at that one, worked to become the Stella's husband.

And I was proud of it. Happy to let her make the social arrangements. She wasn't comfortable with my old friends, so, hey, anything for the Stella, we didn't hang out with them, I never invited them over. And if that meant that after a few years I had drifted apart from them, never saw them, never spoke to them, that was fine. Maybe I couldn't afford not to let her have her way. Maybe I needed to.

I looked up at her but she wouldn't meet my eyes. 'But . . . I love you,' I wanted to say. Maybe that was enough for me. But it wasn't enough for the Stella. Not any more. Maybe it had never been enough for her. I knew how pathetic it would sound, how pathetic I would sound, how pathetic I felt.

'But, I love you,' I didn't say, and I didn't say it over and over again as I looked at her, and she didn't look at me.

"It's over, Ray," she repeated. "We may as well make it official."

I'd seen her work this one before. It was one of the ways that Stella had moved up the ranks so quickly, using that sweet ruthlessness. She was letting me down the way she let down some junior associate she was firing. It was all thought-out, well rehearsed, the lines perfectly delivered. She was good. But then, she had always been good. It was one of the things I had always loved about her.

I followed her eyes down to the street. To the three taxis lined up at the cab stand. I could see her mind working, knowing how her mind worked. She was figuring that getting a taxi during a cold rainy Chicago rush hour wasn't easy, and that maybe she'd better grab one now while the grabbing was good.

Yeah right! I knew how well her mind worked that I didn't even see this coming. But I did know that if I let her head down the steps and get in that cab, it was over. There would be no turning back for Stella. Or me.

"I'll drop the papers off at the station." She managed a sad look.

Yeah, Stella. You pretend not to be happy about this and I'll pretend I'm not being thrown out like yesterday's garbage.

I had seen her do this to opposing counsel in plea bargaining sessions, give them that sad look, telling them there was nothing more she could do, even though she really wished she could. I'd admired her for that, for how she could almost always make the other side cave in. I had never dreamed that the day would come when she would use it on me.

Yeah, Stella. Dot it, file it, stick it in a box marked 'done'. Just drop my CDs off when you get the chance. But keep the one we always danced to. Keep the Lhasa. Remember something good about me.

She suddenly noticed the water pouring off the edge of her umbrella onto my head. She moved the umbrella over, and kept moving, putting her arms around me in a hug that was designed to show that she didn't hate me, that she still wanted to be friends or something. She stepped back half a step and met my eyes for just a brief moment.

"Take care of yourself, Ray."

I nodded. I closed my eyes for a second against the rain hitting my face again. Yeah it's getting colder by the minute, Stella, and you got places to be.

"Listen, Stella . . ." I began.

But there was no one there to hear me. I opened my eyes and looked towards the street as she half-walked half-ran the rest of the way to the first taxi and got in, only folding the umbrella once she was inside, and then pulling the umbrella in and shutting the door. The taxi pulled out into traffic and headed north.

It was only then that it really hit me: It was over. Not just the marriage: my whole life was over. I had the job, OK, as long as Stella kept her mouth shut, but all the rest was gone. The home, the friends, the places where I hung out, they were all gone. They belonged to this other guy, Stella's husband. And that wasn't me any more.

I was left only with the sudden realization that I had no idea who I was.

I should have known it was inevitable. Since that day.

There had been nothing to say to her. I couldn't lie to her. Almost figured out, except for the way I felt about her. That wasn't a lie, had never been a lie.

The day she found it. A stupid impulse purchase while she had been down state for a few days arguing for a change in venue. And I had used it and then hidden it away, carefully, where Stella was sure never to look, and where Maria was unlikely to ever clean.

But she found it.

And she left it in the middle of the coffee table, so it would be the first thing I saw when I got home. I saw it and the first words out of my mouth were "Oh Shit!"

"Yeah," She taunted, "Oh shit!"

"Stella, it's just a magazine."

"Right, you bought it for the articles." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Maria tried to throw it away without me seeing it. I fired her."

"Stella!" I stared at her, unbelieving. Maria had worked for her, for us, for six years. Stella had always left the cold-blooded Assistant State's Attorney at work before. "How could you fire Maria?"

She gave me a look that was filled with hatred. "I won't have the help helping you make a fool of me."

Her look knocked all the air out of me. She couldn't believe that I would ever cheat on her. I collapsed into the chair opposite her. "Stella!"

"How long have you been lying to me?" she demanded, with no attempt to keep the anger out of her voice.

"Never. I never lied to you. I love you." I protested softly, my voice quavering as I feared the worst, my eyes pleading for her to believe me, believe the truth.

"Right!" she scoffed. "And that isn't a lie? This marriage isn't a lie? It's not a cover for you?"

"There's never been anyone else, never! Not since we got married. Never!"

"But you wanted there to be," she said accusingly, and she sounded like the Assistant State's Attorney again, like someone who was an expert in cross-examination, someone who knew how to get the story she wanted out of the witness, out of the accused.

I had looked down at the carpet of the condo. I couldn't answer that one. No one in particular. Some, maybe a lot of . . . people in general. OK, a lot of guys in general.

And then she said it. Called me the name. Flung it in my face, hit me with it. Backhanded me with it. With all the venom she could muster.

"I should have known." She gave me a bitter laugh. I had never known that she could sound like that. "You would always rather dance with me than make love to me. I can't believe how stupid I was. I used to feel so complimented that you never so much as looked at another woman. Well, now I know why. You really played me for a fool, didn't you? "

"No! I never . . . "

"Never?" Her voiced dripped sarcasm, disbelief, and above all, cruelty.

"Not since the day we got married."

"How about the night before? Did you go to Halsted Street for one last fling, Ray?"

She had me. She knew me. She now knew everything about me.

She stood up and headed for the bedroom. She stopped at the door. "I don't know you. I don't know who you are. Tell me, Ray, who were you thinking of when you were making love to me?"

I jerked back like she'd slapped me. "Stella!" I pleaded.

"No. Don't tell me. And don't even think about coming in here. Ever."

The bedroom door slammed with finality.

And the next morning was worse. No screaming, no fighting, no talking, except for a cold 'Good morning, Ray,' in response to my 'Good morning'. She took one look at the breakfast I had made her, and informed me that she would grab something on the way in.

She walked out the door, and I shoved all the food -- her favourite foods -- I had cooked down the drain into the disposal, and let the sound of the machine and the running water drown out all my thoughts.

I grabbed my shoulder holster, pulled it on, shoved the gun in, and pulled on my jacket and went to work. I knew better than to call her at the office. We would talk when we got home, like we always did.

But when I came home from work that day, most of her clothes were gone, and there was a scrawled message by the phone that she was at her parents' place if anyone called for her. The subtext was clear: she didn't want me to call.

But I had to. I picked up the phone and dialed her parents' number. Her mother picked up, and at the sound of my voice, replied in that cold, correct and overly polite way that Gold Coast people have that Stella would not be taking my calls, and if there was nothing else I required, she would not waste any more of my time.

A classic Gold Coast 'Fuck off'.

No, nothing else. I held the phone until the dial tone switched to the annoying beeping that told you the phone was off the hook.

I slammed it back into place.

Good thing the phone company makes them sturdy.

Stella wouldn't say anything to anyone. She wouldn't betray me. She had her morals, her scruples . . . her own reputation to protect.

She wouldn't rat me out to my department. But she wanted the divorce with the least fuss possible. And she made it clear that everything her parents had given us was now hers. And that was most of the things anyone had given us.

That was fine. Because all I wanted was her.

Two days before I'd had everything. I was married to a woman I loved, a career that, even if she -- or my dad -- didn't respect, I was good at. I liked it. I loved it. A condo that was home. Stella's home. Stella and my home. And even if there were no kids, well, one day that would come. I had always been positive of that. She'd hear her biological clock one day.

And Stella had been it for me. She was the one. The one woman I could love. The one woman I wanted to be with. Share my life with. I knew you couldn't have that with . . . a guy. another guy. Especially that and be a cop.

I knew I couldn't stay in that condo. It was Stella's, not mine. She had picked out every stick of furniture, every swatch of fabric, every picture on the wall. There was nothing anywhere in the entire place that said Ray Kowalski. I couldn't find myself anywhere in what was supposed to be my home.

I would have to find a place and move out. Let her know it was safe to come back. Anything for her. Whatever she wanted.

I had to lose myself in my work. Lose myself in something, or I would lose myself completely. I spent all evening that first night without Stella staring at my gun, as it sat on the coffee table, calling me. I had a bitter thought that Stella would never forgive me if I got my brains all over her Roche Bobois couch.

Eat my pistol. It was tempting. I'd had my chance and I'd blown it. Fucked it up. But after an hour of staring, I knew I wasn't going to do it, not that night, anyway. I reached for my pistol and unloaded it. I started unloading my gun every day before I left work. Keeping it unloaded, keeping it safe. Like I was going to live my life from now on: Safe. Keep myself out of the way of temptation, no skin mags, no Halsted Street. I had to make sure that gun was kept unloaded, too.

Because that was a gun that could kill you. All it took was fellow officers hesitating just a minute before they backed you up. Because they didn't quite trust you. You weren't one of them any more. They couldn't be sure of you. And what wise guy or street punk was gonna be afraid of a fag cop -- or his partner? No one would partner with you, if they valued their effectiveness . . . or their life.

I knew I couldn't give up being a cop. I'd put too much on the line for it -- my dad, Stella, everyone. And I was good at it, damned good at it. Maybe one of the best detectives in the district, if not on the force. And for damned sure, one of the best at undercover. Good at that, good at being someone else.

All I knew was that right now I didn't like being Stanley Raymond Kowalski. Because he wasn't much of a person to be.

I wasn't the man Stella thought she had married. I wasn't the man I had pretended to be for years. I didn't know who I was. I prayed for someone to come and tell me who I should be, what I should do, how I should act.

When the guys at the station asked, I let slip that Stella and I had had a big fight. Let slip a hint that it had to do with two careers and me wanting kids, and let it go at that. Told anyone who asked further that I didn't wanna talk about it. Everyone understood. Lots of marital problems in cop households. Let it go, just let it go, and bury myself in the work.

I signed the divorce papers the second they arrived. I had the courier from the lawyer wait while I signed them so he could take them right back.

My arrest record went up. My Lieu was impressed. I did more undercover. Easier being someone else. Lots easier. I began to ask for more undercover.

I never looked at another guy. I never went back to Halsted Street: That was what had fucked up my marriage. Fucked up me and Stella. I wasn't gonna let it fuck up my career, too. Just stay back. Stay away. Figure out what to do. Maybe find another woman and try it again. Stay away from the skin mags. Try not to think about it. Keep the gun unloaded.

I got good at being someone else. Real good. Coming on to the ladies because that was how my 'character' would handle it, learning how to flirt all over again. Not all over again, for the first time. I never really flirted before, except with Stella.

And she had liked my shy bumbling attempts, meeting her in front of the Art Institute after school or on Saturdays. Me taking the el in, her walking over from her posh girls school. Not a Catholic school. A very proper school for young ladies. Gold Coast young ladies. Seeing her friends giggling from across Lakeshore as she bounded up the steps to greet me. And then into the Art Institute, courtesy of student IDs, and walking together, checking out the exhibits. Or rather, her checking out the exhibits, and me checking out the Stella.

And the first fumbling kiss in the corner of the Japanese Block Print exhibit. I looked across the condo at the Hirogashi block print Stella had bought for our first anniversary. It had cost a small fortune. But the smile that had crossed my face had been echoed in her face: we both got the allusion.

I suppose I could look at a calendar and figure out how long, how many weeks, how many months it was since that day. But I don't remember them. I remember nights alone in a series of beds in a series of cheap hotels and cheap furnished rooms. Taking the kidding from the guys at the station about me not having to pay alimony, or worse the jokes about her paying me alimony. Hardy ha ha. Yeah, rub it in my face.

And they did.

But eventually they stopped.

And then it came. The Lieutenant called me in. "Got an undercover assignment for you. I want you to think carefully about this one, Kowalski."

I nodded. I hadn't turned one down yet.

"Long term, Kowalski. Could be months, maybe years."

I looked at the Lieu. No undercover assignment lasts for years. Maybe the fibbies when they plant somebody. But not the CPD.

"Years?"

"Yeah. I can't tell ya any details, cause I got none. But basically, Stanley R. Kowalski disappears and you take over someone else's job. A detective in another precinct."

"Huh? I go undercover as a detective? That makes no sense. Unless this is IA . . ."

"It's not IA."

I shook my head. "I'm not doing IA."

"It's not IA," He repeated.

"It doesn't make sense then, Lieutenant."

He grinned. "You telling me 'no', Kowalski?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm telling you 'yes'. When do I start?"

"Today, now. You fuck this up, Kowalski, and a good cop may die."

"I won't fuck it up, Lieu." I might have fucked up my life and my marriage, but I wasn't going to fuck up my job.

"See that you don't. Clear out your desk. You don't come back here until this is over. Got that? I don't know you, nobody here knows you."

"Got it."

"You tell nobody you're doing this."

"I got no one to tell, Lieu."

He put an avuncular hand on my shoulder. "I know that, Ray, I know. It's one of the reasons I offered you this job."

I stood there for a moment, head bowed. "You can count on me, Lieutenant."

"Good man, Kowalski."

I turned and headed for the door. "Who am I this time?"

"A detective at the 2-7, a Raymond Vecchio."

"Vecchio? I'm supposed to be Italian?"

"You got a problem with that, Detective?" he asked, kinda gruff.

I had to grin. "No, Lieutenant Palermo, no problem."

"Grab your crap, take a cab to the 2-7. Get a receipt, they'll reimburse you. You signed the lease on your new place yet?"

"Not yet, I'm supposed to sign tomorrow."

"Sign as Ray Vecchio."

I nodded. Stanley Raymond Kowalski was about to disappear from the face of the earth, and with the possible exception of my mother -- and she was in Arizona -- no one was going to miss him in the least.

Least of all me.

I carried my cardboard box of stuff into the squad room at the 2-7 and found the lieutenant's office. The fibbies were there waiting, providing all the documentation that 'Ray Vecchio' would have, including a passport, good for another 9 years. I had to sign for everything, and hand over everything I had in the name of Stanley Raymond Kowalski. Everything was to be returned when the assignment was over. Whenever that happened.

My new lieutenant gave me a serious lecture about how we were doing this to protect the life of a very good cop.

I nodded.

"I've seen your file, you're a good cop, Kowalski."

"The name's Vecchio."

He grinned and nodded and shook my hand. "Welcome back to the 2-7, Vecchio."

"Thanks, Lieu." I returned his grin. "Who am I partnered with?"

Lieutenant Welsh sat back in his chair, put his hands behind his neck, and said, "Now that's an interesting question, Detective."

"Huh?"

He leaned over and opened a drawer and pulled out a file and slid it across the desk to me. "He's Canadian."

"Canadian? You have foreign detectives here?"

"OK, he's not really officially on the force. He's the RCMP liaison officer at the Canadian Consulate. But he and Vecchio have been working together for a couple of years. He's a good cop, if a little . . ." The lieutenant searched for the word.

"A little what?"

". . . Canadian. You'll see."

I opened up the file and took one look at the photo, dude in the red Dudley Do-Right uniform. One helluva good looking guy.

And if it was me that was going to be a partner to him, there might be a problem. But it wasn't going to be me, I was going to be one Raymond Vecchio. And if I fucked up, didn't keep that gun carefully unloaded, somebody could die.

Welsh caught me staring at the photo.

"Looks like a recruiting poster, doesn't he?"

"Yeah."

"He's no pretty boy though. Solid police work. And he gets his paper work in on time."

So he HAD seen my file.

"He's back up in Canada on vacation. He's due back in five days. Come on, let me introduce you around. You need to meet your sister."

"My sister?"

"Yeah, and God help you."

Frannie was kind of . . . intense. And just the slightest bit flaky. She called me 'bro' from the first, with a knowing wink.

She invited me over to the Vecchio house for dinner that night. Evidently Mamma Vecchio wanted to meet me. As soon as it came out that I was divorced, her first question was "Aren't you Catholic?"

I nodded. She shook her head, and Frannie blushed and looked down. I glanced over at Frannie and gave her a bit of a smile and a wink. We were in the same boat in Mamma Vecchio's eyes. The Pope said no divorce.

I didn't dare tell her that I had been married in a Gold Coast Episcopal church, not a Catholic one. She might snatch the plate from in front of me, and show the door then and there. Or maybe she would figure it hadn't been a real marriage, so the divorce didn't count either.

She stuffed me more than even my own mum would have done, and maybe she had had more than the one glass of wine that I saw, but as I left, she threw her arms around me and thanked me profusely in Italian and English for helping protect her son.

It was the only time that night that anyone had mentioned the real Ray Vecchio when she was in the room, and I saw why. Mrs. Vecchio was starting to cry. I understood that. Her son was undercover with the mob somewhere out west. No way to contact him, no way to get news from him. Although I saw an unsigned postcard from Vegas on the fridge, that just read "ti amo', and nothing more. If the wise guys suspected him for even a second, the real Ray Vecchio was going to be part of the foundation for the next big hotel-casino on the strip.

She cupped my cheek in her hand and softly repeated 'grazie, mille grazie.' And then kissed me on the cheek, and announced "This is your home now, Raimondo, ficchio mio."

"Thanks, Mrs. Vecchio."

She grinned at that, "Call me 'Mamma', in case anyone is listening. Capisce'?"

I used all my Italian, "Capisco, Mamma Vecchio."

That got grins from the whole table. "Ciao, Raimondo. Take care."

"Ciao, Mamma Vecchio."

That got me another kiss. And six Tupperware containers of leftovers. I figured if I came over for supper once a week, I would never have to cook for myself again. This assignment was turning out to have some up sides.

Frannie followed me out to the porch. She handed me a set of keys. She nodded at the green Riviera in the driveway. "It's Ray's car. It's yours now. Take care of it."

I nodded. "I will." She leaned over and gave me a sisterly kiss on the cheek, then brushed off the lipstick. "Take care of Fraser, too." She pronounced it 'Frasier', which surprised me. But I definitely got the impression that she was sweet on the Canuck.

"Ray never said much, but he would do anything for Fraser." She gave me a grin. "Loves him like a brother."

"What's the story on Ray and Fraser?"

She shrugged. Fraser showed up, Ray helped him find his dad's killers, and . . . they became friends. Well as much friends as Fraser can be with anyone. He's kind of closed and stiff and . . . "

"Canadian?" I completed. It's what everyone seemed to fall back on when describing the Mountie.

"Exactly." She nodded like I got it. What did I know from Canadians? They played hockey and made beer. And lived in igloos and had colder winters than Chicago. Oh yeah, they were polite. Like that's a good thing.

"So, Ray and Fraser hang out together?"

"Yeah. Eat together after work, they got all kinds of little things they do.

"Go for beers, like that?"

"Frase doesn't drink. But Ray is definitely his best friend in Chicago. They hang out a lot, or hung out a lot."

"You miss him, don't you?"

She nodded then seemed to catch herself. "He's a big pain in the posterior, but he's my big brother, ya know?"

I nodded back.

From the way the Vecchio clan had talked about their Ray, the dude was a real ladies man, dressed to the nines and put the moves on anything in a skirt. Flirted with every woman he came across. I could do that. Who knew, I might even get good at it.

And Frannie seemed sweet. In a completely flaky kind of way.

I sat in the Riv, and fired her up. I listened to the motor. Vecchio had taken good care of this baby. She sounded sweet.

The man knew how to take care of a car. I suddenly liked Vecchio a lot more. I looked around the interior. Perfectly restored. I grinned and checked. Sure enough, original cigarette lighter. Impressed, I slid it back in, knowing I'd never touch that again, it was impossible to replace.

I shifted into gear, glanced over my shoulder at the non-existent traffic and pulled out.

Being Ray Vecchio wouldn't be so bad. Nice family, good food, sweet if flaky kid sister, a nice ride, and a partner everyone seemed to be in awe of. I smiled, maybe for the first time I had smiled while alone since that day in the rain in front of the Art Institute.

I just had to make sure that I kept that gun unloaded.

end-note (well, end-rumba):

y simpre miro pa'arriba
para cargar la pistola
matar dos monstruos de un tiro
el primero es la agonia
y el segundo es el vacio donde me quedo to' los dias y el segundo es el vacio donde me quedo to' los putos dias

and I always look up
to load the pistol
to kill two monsters with one shot:
the first is the pain
and the second is the emptiness where I stay every day. and the second is the emptiness where I stay every fucking day.

from 'si la vida es la hostia' (roughly: if life is so fucking great) by estopa