Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: No notes. The rest is silence.

Story Notes: Written for the Due South Flashfiction "Makeup" Challenge.

The Silent Treatment

I don't have any more time to sulk or be pissed off, because Vic Delahanty makes his move and gets out of his car calm as can be and starts across the grass towards the public restroom and the snitch leaning against the wall. Vic's hand is fiddling around inside his coat, so I drop the pointy thing I've been stabbing garbage with and set out at a jog after him. My gun's stuck inside the stupid Parks Department jacket and I swear at it, which doesn't actually make it easier to get at, but makes me feel more like myself and not like some dopey grunt poking garbage.

Over on the left Dewey's too busy being in character as a bum to notice what's going on. Have no fucking idea where Jack Huey is; last time I saw him he was somewhere over by the pond -- yeah, you got it right, a Duck Boy feeding ducks -- so he's probably too busy "communing with nature," as Fraser calls it, to --

Fraser.

Welcome back, Sulky Ray. The freakin' Mountie has me pissed off royally. Has the nerve to act like it was my fault what happened yesterday, and like an idiot I spent all morning trying to get him to stop acting like a clam and talk to me. He talks such bullshit all the time: "blah blah, Eskimo blubber," "blah blah, when Ray Vecchio and I," "blah blah blah, oh, no, you're WRONG, Ray--" You'd think I'd want him to shut up. Instead it drives me up the wall when he gives me the silent treatment like this. Stella did that. I hate it.

But it's gonna take at least two of us to bring in all 6'6" and 300 lbs. of Vic Delahanty. I glance around, looking for red, and then I remember, Duh, Fraser's undercover, so I look for black and white, and yeah, there he is, surrounded by a bunch of people. I try to catch his eye, but Delahanty's closing in on the bait, and his hand is coming out of his coat. I see a glint of metal, and I still can't get my freaking gun out, and then I'm shouting "Chicago PD!" and launching myself at him.

There's a flash of light, and I hit Delahanty like the wall he is, but there's another blur, mostly white, with black, silent, so it must be Fraser, and dammit, he's still not talking, but between us we've got Vic pinned and then cuffed. I'm getting to my feet, panting hard, and my shoulder hurts from where I slammed into him, but suddenly I'm grabbed and pushed into the wall and Fraser's face, big and white, is really close. He's frowning, and his eyes are stabbing at me, like I'm -- Shit. Am I his piece of garbage?

I can't stand his silence. "Look, Fraser, I'm sorry about yesterday. My fault." I know, I know, I was pissed at him, but I want this silence over between us. "Fraser." I search his face. "Come on. Talk to me. Please!" I can't stop the pleading sound in my voice. Too tired to try.

Fraser's eyes are trying to tell me something, and they slide sideways to my arm, and I look too, and damn, I didn't even know I was hit. No wonder I feel dizzy. Then his eyes are back on my face, and they're fierce, and they're terrified, but then his mouth is smushing against mine, slick and waxy, and he's kissing me, fiercely, and like that witch in the movie, I'm melting, melting.

I hear Welsh calling. Damned if I know how I'll explain this white stuff all over my face. Don't care. Fraser's talking again, even if he's still in character, even if he's not saying a word.

Though. . .

. . .Whoever thought the gabbiest man on earth should go undercover as a mime had a sick sense of humor.

End The Silent Treatment by Shay Sheridan: RedChance@aol.com

Author and story notes above.