Disclaimer: Character owned by Alliance/Paul Haggis/Paul Gross.

Author's Notes: Unbeta'd. Lyrics to *What You Wanted* by Verve Pipe, 'Pop Smear', 1993.

Story Notes: Again, I have this thing about RayK and the divorce.

The place was properly dark and he took off the sunglasses, putting them into a pocket in his leather jacket. The bar was one of the old types with a padded leather rim that let you lean your back against it when you turned to look the room over. He ordered a draft and did just that.

He'd never been in this place before and acknowledged ruefully that he was becoming familiar with a lot of new bars lately. The rest of the room was on a lower level than the bar, lower than the stage area that took up about a fifth of the room in the far corner. There were several other people in the place, a couple at the bar, a few at tables. Most were wandering around the stage setting up instruments and checking sound levels. He wondered briefly what sort of music the group played and then stopped wondering when he realized he didn't give a damn anyhow.

Next week he'd meet his unofficial official partner for the first time when the guy returned from his vacation. A Mountie? He had driven past the Consulate and saw a poor schmuck standing out in front wearing a red uniform. When he had taken this assignment he had known it would be different from anything he had done before, but a Mountie? Oh well, that was part of the reason he taken the assignment. To start over.

How many weeks now? He could start counting in months the time since she had asked for a divorce. Shit. It still felt like yesterday.

"It's not going to work. You know that as well as I. We should just . . . ."

"Just what? What, Stell? Throw away fifteen years as if they never happened?" He cringed when he remembered the harshness in his voice, causing her to close up. What the hell had he expected? What the hell had she expected? He would agree and walk out like it was any other day? He noticed a guy sit down on the stage edge with a guitar. He seemed to be checking it's tuning.

"Ray, I can't have any children now. I can't spare the time and energy. It wouldn't be fair . . . ."

"Fair to who? The kid or you? I'm here, I can take care of a kid. Or have you left me out of the equation?" Jesus, he really knew how to convince someone, didn't he? The guy had stood up now and was standing in front of a microphone, still holding the guitar. He thumped the bulbous head of the device and looked over at a woman in front of a huge board, waiting for her nod. He began to pick out a tune.

"Christ, Ray, I don't have time to go to some stupid party at your precinct. I have to get these case files ready for the trial on Monday."

"Sorry, Stell, we were just going to celebrate my getting that citation."

"Ray, I already went to the ceremony with you. I'm proud of you. But I don't have the time for a drunken . . . ."

"Don't bother. And don't wait up. I may not bother coming home."

"Ray!"

"I don't want you to be embarrassed by my low-life friends, Stell. Just don't bother."

Yeah, she hadn't bothered, all right. And he hadn't come home that night. The first of many. The picking had settled into a tune. Nothing he recognized.

The man's voice was gentle, the music soaring, but the words seared.

'through the remains i have been sorting seeking refuge underneath fluorescent skies an apocalypse of pity
i know she is safe and building her disguise

bracing for the scavengers
who reign upon my humble domain
fills my face with anger
into permanent distortion

i'm ugly getting over you
it's what you wanted
you're gorgeous running out of me
it's what you wanted
i'm ugly getting over you
i know that you're more beautiful by now

every day's survival lesson
brings another scarring session to sustain i anticipate a lesion
it's a chemical reaction to my pain

7,000 weathered faces
hide my beautiful and buried smile
sleeping seems to be the greatest medication

i'm switching channels, silly sitcoms are a metronome
one beat about a half an hour
i will shun the radio
because i hear my life in every song

brushing off the bottle
i become a connoisseur for a night
rake the dead grass from the bitter green that's growing wild'

No one noticed him sitting at the bar, in the dark, with tears running down his face. Not the singer, not the bartender, not the other customers. God. Someone, somehow, in some strange way had seen inside his soul and pulled out the greatest pain in his life and set it to music. God.

He sat for several minutes, getting back into control. Finished his beer. Walked toward the door. Then turned around and asked the name of the song and who performed it. He bought a copy of the CD on the way home.

End Set it to Music by Ashlan: Ashland40@yahoo.com

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