Rated R for language, adult (SLASH) themes. F/K, F/V past tense closeted premise. Heavy angst. No sex/romance.

Summary: Ray and Ray talk in a post-COTW, post-fixit universe brought to its logical conclusion, taken to its logical extreme.

Warning: If you like both Rays, you might like this story. If you believe Fraser could love both Rays, you might like this story. You will not like this story if you believe one Ray is better than the other, or that one Ray deserves Fraser more than the other. You will not like this if you believe Fraser could/would/should dump one Ray in favor of the other. Lastly, this story portrays men who are closeted from their jobs and families, who work in the often homophobic atmosphere of law enforcement, and who sometimes feel guilty about their sexual preference. If any of that offends or disturbs you, don't read this.

Bottomless thanks to Anagi and Cheryl Barnes for their beta-ing and support. It would not be what it is without you!

--Surfgirl

Both Of Us

I'm chasing a lead down on some South Chicago scumbag. A connection to our known petty gangsters on the west side. Going to meet some snitch of my new partner Byrne's while he's in court today. I don't think Byrne'll ever stop being "my new partner", even if he's my partner for the next ten years. But that's okay. I don't want anyone to become "my partner". They might be my partner, on the outside -- to other people. But inside, I know who "my partner" is. Was. Benny...

So I go to this lousy bar. In this neighborhood that's just starting to rise slowly from high-crime working class to lower-crime working class... Just getting ready for the developers to start movin' in and making the taxes and the rents go high and eventually get to a point where only yuppies can afford to live here -- and way beyond their means anyway -- while the people who lived here for two, three generations have to move because they can't afford to live where they've always lived anymore.

There's a shiny black car outside the bar -- like, right in front -- that is annoyingly like Kowalski's GTO. But it couldn't possibly be his. He lives west of the Loop now, and I'm practically in Indiana here. Actually, he lives west of the Gold Coast. In that area that was slowly developed over the past ten years and is now overrun with yuppies. Not that far from where Cabrini used to be.

I know what the snitch is supposed to look like. Long black hair, fresh scorpion tattoo on his left forearm, outlined only -- not colored. I open the door to the bar and step in. I scan the room and I don't see my partner's snitch. But I see a strangely familiar profile at the bar. Blond. Thin. It's dim in here, so I squint to get a better look, and then the guy lazily turns to see who walked in the bar.

Ah, Christ.

It's Kowalski.

He's seen me, too. Now I can't leave without saying something. I mean, I could, but that would be really cowardly. He'd smirk the whole way home, thinking I'm afraid to talk to him or something.

My feet feel like lead... sticky like I've been in some cheap bargain theater... as I move towards the bar. Don't want to, but I do. I guess Kowalski is pretty much the only connection to Fraser I got left. Even though he probably hasn't heard a thing in over six months himself.

~~~

I couldn't be farther away from our old stomping grounds unless I was in Indiana, as I'm sitting in this dive bar on the far southeast side, by 98th and South Shore Drive. Right by Calumet Park on the lake. If I threw myself in the lake and actually managed to "bloom and close" out far enough, I would be in Indiana. Assuming I didn't drown.

If nothing else I can thank Fraser for that, for teaching me to swim. "Bloom, close, kick as though you were interviewing a suspect". If nothing else... Ah, stop. Don't go there. It wasn't "nothing else". It was something else and then some. And it's over and it's been over and I just gotta accept that. Which I probably could... if I didn't think about it all the time.

So who walks into this dive bar where I am killing the early part of my evening after spending a long, boring day watching employees at this small manufacturing plant to make sure they're not stealing from the owner, now that I am a private detective now, now that I am no longer on the force, no longer at the 27th, no longer anywhere.

Who? Only the man who ruined my life. Him and his shiny bald head.

He sits down two bar stools away.

We don't shake hands.

That trench coat's probably like silk or somethin'. Drapes oh-so-perfectly on him, like he thinks he's freakin' Agent Mulder.

He looks over at me. Those green eyes. Cat-like. They're kinda, kinda weird, like you can't help looking at them and noticing how green and perfect they are. Like cats do when they stare you down.

"How's it going, Kowalski?" he asks, all casual, neutral. I'm surprised. No sneer, no smugness.

"S'all right, Vecchio," I say. Now I wish I was drunk, instead of the way I been sittin' here nursing my beers slow, not wanting to be buzzed for the drive home. It's a long freakin' way back to my house.

I s'pose if I lived in the old neighborhood where I grew up, it wouldn't be as far. Half the distance I've been drivin' every day. And the stink is long gone from there anyway. But moving back there would be like... failure. Like I failed and wound up right back where I started. An' I can't do that. It'd kill me.

It'd be worse than staying in the apartment where Benton used to come all the time. Where slob-like me cleaned the entire place, top to bottom, three times in less than a year -- where before, I didn't even clean it once in the two years I lived there without Stella. I was just lookin' for something he might have left behind.

But he didn't. He never had much, I guess, anyway. Not enough clothes or anything to be leavin' stuff all over the place. Hardly any possessions. Well, whatever he had was probably burned in his apartment building, when "Greta Garbo" had targeted us. He was livin' at the Canadian consulate, fer cryin' out loud. He's kind of a portable guy, I guess. I shoulda figured that out early on.

But... well, nah, I can't say that. He's not really "the portable guy". He only left because he felt he had to. Because I made him feel like he had to. Because of me. And this jerk here.

"So. How's the, uh, private detective business doing?" he asks me.

"It's pretty dull, Vecchio, I gotta tell ya. Not that we didn't have our share of boring cases on The Job, ya know?" He nods. I continue. Can't have those empty pauses. "But, I mean, really boring. Like watching some guy's employees to make sure they're not stealin'. Nine hours on a deafening plant floor. It's not the same, ya know?"

"Yeah, well, it's a cushier job, at least. 'Least you're not chasing criminals through streets and alleys, getting shot at and ruining your clothes," he says. The bartender finally comes over from his newspaper. "Miller," Vecchio says.

How ironic. That we'd be drinking the same beer.

~~~

"Yeah, but you know what?" he says to me, as I'm sipping the cold beer. The Cubs are losing on the TV even though Sammy just hit a home run. Nothing new there. And Kowalski's chewing on a toothpick while he talks. Well, keeping it between his cheek and gum. He's not being a schmuck like I expected him to be. Just matter-of-fact.

"What," I ask. Just moving the conversation along.

"It might be cushier, but if I wasn't with an agency, I wouldn't have any jobs. You gotta really pursue shit, y'know? Ya know, like networking. Schmoozing. You gotta always be schmoozing people to hire you, give 'em reasons why hiring a private detective would be a good idea for the problem they're having. I got no trouble with doin' a job, and doin' it right, y'know? But I never was good at that talking, schmoozing, smooth stuff." He shrugs. "So I signed up with the agency, an' they assign me the jobs... some of 'em real boring, like the one I'm doin' now." He shrugs again.

Neither one of us says anything about the one guy we both knew who was good at all that talking stuff. But even though he sure could speak well, I don't think Benny could have schmoozed if his life depended on it. Though... there were a couple times I thought he was being unbelievably naive, and now I wonder... if he wasn't just pulling my leg to get me to do something for him. Probably. He knows me so well.

Knew me so well.

"Think they might have an opening?" I joke lamely. Kowalski looks over at me, his blond spikes quivering. What I wouldn't give to have a full head of hair like that. 'Course, I wouldn't wear my hair that way.

"Why, you interested?" It's the first time we've actually looked each other in the face during this conversation. "They might have somethin' open. The Job getting to you?" His blue eyes pierce me. Because it's dim in here, his normally pale blue eyes are darker blue... like Benny's.

"Well, it's kinda... wearing thin."

I don't say it's wearing thin because after all that time away, after all the time thinking about what it would be like to come back, come home, I came back, and this slick blond bastard had taken my place. And I never really got my place back... Even though I still work at the 27th, I'm Ray Vecchio again, and I got my old desk back and, for a very short, insane time, I had Benny back.

"Nah, it's just... the bureacracy, the paperwork. How the hell we supposed to get 'em off the streets, when the paperwork favors them, capisce?" I finish.

He nods, his Benny-blue eyes cutting away from me. Sips his beer. Clears his throat. "Yeah, but... you got paperwork and administrivia everywhere, Vecchio. My job too. There's no escape."

"Yeah," I agree. He's probably right.

It's funny, looking at the side of his face, now that it's all behind me now... I can sometimes see what Benny must've seen in him. Or maybe what anyone would see in Kowalski. He's got a tough guy look but it's totally ruined by this boyish thing. So he's kinda like a tough boy. The one that got beat up all the time on the playground, but never stopped fighting. And all the girls liked and wanted to protect.

I can't help thinking about the first time I saw them together. And I just knew. All Fraser did was just murmur something into Kowalski's ear. And just the way their heads were together... I knew.

And things weren't right between Benny and me. I shoulda explained why I was going. I shoulda told him ahead of time... not done it while he was on vacation. God, I'm such a chicken. And I never thought the Langostini thing would last that long. I just had to get away.

Had to clear my head, get a grip on what was going on. You're in love with your partner. You're having sex with your partner. He's loving you back. He already loved you. Was in love with you. You just didn't know it.

And then you were so terrified when you found out. And you avoided being alone with him for days. And you thought you better get another partner. Not because you were disgusted. Not because you thought of him different now. Not because it's unnatural and a sin.

But because you knew you wanted him back. Because you saw flashes of  yourself doing things with him, because they kept coming up between your eyes and whatever you were looking at.

And your whole picture of yourself melted like a plastic trophy in a burning apartment.

~~~

He's not sayin' anything. I don't wanna look too close at him -- he'll probably get pissed and wanna pop me. And even though I'da loved the opportunity to kick him in the head a year ago or so... I don't feel like that anymore.

Oh, I get these flashes of anger. Him and his superslick, "check me out" style of dressing. Just rubs me the wrong way sometimes, because I look at him and go, what am I lookin' at? Check you out? You should be checkin' me out. Though actually, he usually looks really good. The way he dresses is well put together... unlike me. Which is probably why it irritates me.

But I glance over and his eyes are far away, real freakin' far away. Like he's looking through the beer bottle, through the bar it's sitting on, through the shabby linoleum flooring, through the foundation of the building, through the ground under it, like he's looking through the entire world all the way to China, like you always said you'd dig to when you were a kid...

And he ain't seein' no Great Wall. He's seeing only one thing.

Fraser.

I sigh and look away.

We're the two biggest idiots. Me and this clown here. I hadda prove somethin'. He hadda reclaim somethin'. And the only person either one of us cared about was ripped apart by both of us. Us fighting like dogs over a bone. And with Benton bein' pulled one way and then the other, like a Ray-Ray tango. Couldn't say no to me. Couldn't say no to Vecchio.

Every dirty trick in the book I used on him. To make him mine. To make him stay. To make him not go back to Vecchio. Every manipulation anyone ever used on me... everything.  Don't be mad. I didn't mean it. If you would just... then I wouldn't... You know I love you more than him. You know you love me more than you love him. I'll pick you up. Let's go out. Come here, I got a present for you. Look what I bought you. Look what you made me do. I can't help it. It's killing me. Then show me. Show me how much you love me.

Oh, yeah. It ain't too pretty and I ain't too proud.

'Least I know I wasn't the only one doin' it. Vecchio was the green-eyed monster himself. Can I help it if he was stupid enough to walk away from the best thing that ever happened to both of us?

~~~

He clears his throat and I realize I'm looking at a spot on the bar that long ago disappeared and became a gray point that swelled into a little screen where I'm playing back my memories. Benny...

I shoulda known it could happen while I was gone. I mean, come on, right? Every woman that ever met him -- Frannie included -- threw herself at him. Why not guys too? But I thought it was just us. I thought it was because it was me, not because it was just guys for him.

Oh, that's a lie. I know it wasn't just guys. I know it was me. And I knew it was him for me. And, you know, at first I pretended I was just walking on the wild side. That it didn't mean that much to me; that I could take or leave it. That we could go back to being plain old partners the next day and I wouldn't give it a second thought.

But at night in bed I would know that was pretend and that I missed him and he shoulda been in bed with me. Only there was no way in hell I'd be in my bed, in Ma's house, having sex with another man. Or even not having sex, just being in bed with him. No way. Can't happen. Anywhere but there.

And so it was anywhere but there... mainly at Fraser's. But that was tricky too. God, I was so paranoid. But the communal bathroom, that whole thing... I didn't want the neighbors knowing. I knew it'd get back to the precinct, I just knew it. Sooner or later. He had no phone, for Pete's sake. Always using Mr. Mustafi's.

And there's only so many stake-outs you can say you're doing when you're really working on a fraud case where the action all happens during a normal business day. So then it was the car. Like he was a cheap, easy date or something. God, I can't believe the things I did. At the time it all seemed normal. Like, okay, can't do that... so let's do this instead. No big deal.

And he wasn't any help! It's not like he ever said, Ray, I feel you are not honoring the depth of emotion between us by having sex with me in your Riv, and I would like to be treated decently, and made love to in a leisurely, relaxed way, where you're not always trying to shush me because you're afraid the neighbors will hear us and worrying what they will think.

He never protested a thing. 'Course, what would he have known about it? I mean, it's not like either one of us knew what we were doing. You couldn't find anyone more clueless than him about relationships. And even if I mighta been more experienced that way -- I was all over the place. Happier than I'd ever been. Terrified everyone would find out. Angry that we had to keep it a secret. Freaked out about myself. Totally alone -- no one I could ask for advice. All I knew was I was falling, hard and fast, and falling I didn't know where. And it was getting pretty scary, because the more of him I got, the more I wanted. And it was nothing like it was with Ange. It was like, So this is what it was supposed to feel like...

And he never said no. Even when he was terrified we'd be found out by vice cops when we parked, he never said No, Ray, I'm not in the mood, or, Ray, this isn't appropriate right now, or, Ray, this is probably not a good location... Or when we went to some motel in the middle of the far north side, me totally paranoid, thinking, It's a big city but it's not big enough... someone who knows me, knows my family, is gonna see us, I just know it. Or when we went far south by Midway airport, to these sleazy four hour nap places... Because I wasn't really having sex with a man, I wasn't really having a relationship with another man... I wasn't loving my partner... if I wasn't spending the night with him.

I thought I was gonna explode. Something was gonna break... and it was gonna be me.

"Earth to Vecchio," he says in this monotone. Like he doesn't even care if I stop staring off through my beer.

But then I look up and the look of compassion and sympathy on his face make my chest squeeze painfully. It's all I can do to shrug.

"Just thinking," I say, taking another sip of the beer. Wondering if he really has heard from Benny. Wondering why Benny won't call me. Tell me where he is.

"Uh-huh," he agrees. "Me too. Just thinkin'." Now he's staring into his beer, but he shakes it off and looks up at the TV. Sammy's hit another home run, but it won't matter. The Cubs'll still lose.

I hesitate. I don't want to, I really don't want to ask him. But I can't stop myself. It's already on the tip of my tongue...

~~~

"You haven't--" he begins, but I know exactly what he's asking, even with only two words out.

"No," I say shortly. "Haven't heard anything."

Please, Vecchio. Don't do this. Don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to me...

But I don't actually ask him that.

"Just wondered if maybe..." he adds quietly.

"Yeah, well, no." I can't help being curt with him.

"Look," he hesitates, "Not trying to get on your nerves with this. I'm just..."

"Worried. Yeah. I know. Me too." I didn't want to say that. I don't want to feel sorry for him! It's his fault!

But I can't help feeling sorry for him. Because I feel sorry for me. And we're in the same boat. For the same reason.

It's all so clear, now. You know, like how they always say hindsight is twenty-twenty. And if it's his fault, then it's my fault too.

I knew there'd been something between them. I mean, no one told me. But the way Fraser was acting when we first met, I knew there was something else about his partnership with Vecchio. He was like... well, he seemed like me. Lost. Kinda thrown for a loop by Life. Well, and obviously, thrown for a loop by me being there, and not Vecchio.

First I thought, it was just a getting-used-to period. Then I realized, it wasn't just that.

He was really lonely. Like me.

And, you know, I never thought any of that stuff about a guy before. But this big, gorgeous guy comes walking up to me and he's supposed to be my best buddy in all the world. What am I gonna do, argue?

I still don't know why it seemed to matter so much what he thought of me. Especially now. Now when he probably thinks the absolute worst of me. With good reason.

"You think he's okay?" Vecchio's voice comes softly again.

I'm not lookin'. I'm not gonna look at him. I know what he's gonna look like. Like I look. Lost. Unsure. A big freakin' hole in his heart.

"What's not to be okay?" I ask, but not with much feeling. "He's up in them Yukon Territories, where he was born an' bred... he should be fine."

"Northwest Territories," he corrects me.

That makes me look over at him for a glare, but it's not a glare when I see his eyes shining.

Oh, God, stop it, please. I can't take this if he keeps it up!

Quick look at the TV. The Cubs are losing. Still. Again. A heartbreakin' team for a heartbroken city with no Bulls dream team no more, lousy Bears, hopeless White Sox, the forever losin' Cubs -- and no Fraser. And a couple heartbroken stiffs like me an' Vecchio here.

"Well, we had some good times, huh?" Vecchio says, real quiet. Like he tried for sarcasm, but didn't quite make it.

And I know exactly what he's talking about. The time we had after we'd got Muldoon. And before he took his transfer and my ex-wife. When the three of us were this crime-fighting trio.

"Oh, sure, Vecchio, yeah. We had some "good times". More fun than a barrel of mandrill baboons."

He laughs at that. But bitterly. He knows what I mean.

~~~

A barrel of mandrill baboons. Yeah, I guess that's pretty accurate.

Welsh partners me and Kowalski up. Despite major protest from both of us. We've got one clueless Mountie, trying to pretend that he's not doing anything with either of us when we're all three together. And me and Kowalski jockeying for position. It was the most childish thing and yet I couldn't help myself. And Kowalski couldn't help doing it either.

And all three of us pretending that we're all getting along fine, when you could cut the air in the car with a knife when the three of us are in there. And me and Kowalski never arrived anywhere together, if we didn't have the Mountie with us. It was like, the minute he was around, we were both sure to stick around, keeping an eye on things. Trying to make the other one look stupid.

And the minute he was gone, we were at completely different locations. Because the only way we were gonna get along was working alone. And discussing things carefully in Frannie's earshot and just outside Welsh's office. When we discussed things at all.

If it hadn't been for Benny, we never woulda solved one of those cases. There was no communication between us. None.

Or, I should say, there was no verbal communication between us. The other communication -- non-verbal, body language -- was loud and clear.

I hate your guts. He's mine. Let him go. He was mine first. Well, you blew it and left, so back off. I can get him back. You just go and try.

Yeah, we didn't have to say one word to each other. All we had to do was just look at each other.

I couldn't sleep at night. When he wasn't there, I couldn't sleep. When he was there, I still couldn't sleep. Waking him up from a dead sleep to ask him if he loved me. Would love me always. Loved me more than anyone else.

And why wasn't I paying attention to him? To Benny? Why didn't I see what I was doing to him? How miserable and stressed I was making him?

Because I just wanted what I wanted. I wanted him. Back. And mine only. Not with anyone else. I wanted to be the only person he loved. Forever.

If I'd known then what I know now, I'd never have done it the way I did it. Maybe I never would have done anything. Just let it go the way it was going and let the chips fall where they would.

But, no, I had to force it.

And so did Kowalski.

What a pair we are.

~~~

"What a pair we are," he says, some time after my last comment.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Well..." I shrug for lack of something better to say. It's all over and done with. It was something beautiful and special and all that hokey-sounding stuff that we had. I guess each of us had it with him. And it was like sharing some kind of expensive, fragile thing, and playing tug of war with it in a muddy back yard. What were we thinking?

I mean, it should have been so obvious to me -- and to him. I read the case file on Victoria -- I hadda read all Vecchio's case files. I was shocked that Dudley Do-Right woulda hooked up with a known criminal, after everything I'd heard about him. But you don't gotta read too much between the lines to know what was going on. Not if you know Fraser. Real, real smart, walking encyclopedia -- but clueless when it comes to the deeper stuff. Hell, he could barely tell Frannie he liked her, and he really only meant like.

But, jeeze, Vecchio was there for the Victoria thing! He shoulda known better than me. If Fraser could be twisted that much by love, by feeling that he owed that chick something... Well, we shoulda known after what happened with her, that Fraser was not gonna betray or turn away anyone he loved.

Okay, so he happened to love both of us.

And here's each of us trying to get him to betray the other. Great. What were we thinking?

I know what I was thinking. I sure the hell wasn't thinking of Fraser. I was thinking of myself. Me only.

I mean, no one ever made me feel like he did. Never before. Stella didn't.

We had our differences, but Fraser got to know me for what I was. Didn't try to change me. He got to accepting me for who I was inside. No one ever did that before. It was always the outside things that mattered.

But not with Benton. I mean, I'm sure some outside things mattered. That I was a good cop, not dirty, no use of excessive force. I talk a good talk, but I don't really like roughing people up unless they really deserve it.

What the hell were we thinking?

~~~

"We weren't. Or if we were, we sure weren't thinking of Benny," I say quietly. That much is clear.

Then I realize Kowalski's looking at me with this funny look, like I read his mind. He doesn't realize he said what he said.

"Huh?"

"You, uh, you said, 'what were we thinking?' and, uh, I answered your question. Even though it, uh, was one of those--"

"Questions not looking for an answer." He swivels his gaze away. Back to the TV.

"Rhetorical," I say.

"Fraser... he... rhetorical. Yeah." Kowalski looks sick. But I doubt it's from the beer. He looks down, away from me, away from the TV. Puts his hand over his mouth.

I look away. Why am I torturing myself? Torturing him? I want to believe I could have stopped him from going.

It's not like I don't know I could have stopped him from leaving. I could have.

Or at least his leaving could have been prevented. If me or Kowalski or both of us had just quit with the scenes, quit with the drama, quit with the you-belong-to-me.

But we didn't. No, we sure weren't thinking. Of love. Or Fraser.

"No. We were only thinking of ourselves," Kowalski says miserably. He puts his head down on the bar right in front of him. Like he's had a few too many.

I didn't realize I'd said anything. Looks like we're both saying what we think too much.

~~~

Why'd he have to say that? I know I wasn't thinking of love. Or Fraser. I mean, I know that now.

Yeah, I was only thinking of myself. I thought it was driven by love. But... I guess it was just driven by selfishness. Me, my, mine. You belong to me. You're my lover. You're mine.

Not thinking, I'm hurting him, I'm killing him, I'm forcing his hand, I'm makin' him make a choice he don't wanna make.

'Course that's so obvious now.

But even that last scene just made things worse. I was livid. Vecchio was enraged.

Fraser was... well, Fraser. A beaten down, torn up, tired, hurting Fraser.

If only Turnbull hadn't tried to throw a little going-away party for Fraser. It woulda been better that way. No scenes, no fights. Benton woulda just slipped away quietly, on his leave of absence, back to the Great White North, with us none the wiser. We'da had a lot of thinkin' to do once we realized he was gone.

Not that I haven't had plenty of time for that since he left.

But Turnbull didn't know that Fraser didn't tell either of us he was leaving. I get this phone call from him, his usual cheery and clueless Mountie self, asking when would be a good day for me to attend a little surprise soiree he's gonna throw for Fraser's going-away. Just a little thing. Just a few people. The Ice Queen. Me. Vecchio. Maybe Welsh. Francesca. Huey and Dewey.

I'm just going completely numb, holding the phone, like I can't talk because I just got the wind knocked outta me.

He hadda be leavin' with Vecchio, right? Cuz I didn't even know he was going.

'Course, I was totally wrong. He was leavin' both of us. For his own good. Probably before we made him lose his mind from makin' him feel so bad for bein' dumb enough to love two stupid, selfish bastards like the two of us.

But at the time, I was sure he was leavin' with Vecchio. And then, you know, it came to me: it must be me. I'm not good enough. What did I do? What did I say that pushed him away and into Vecchio's arms? I just wanted to crawl under a rock somewhere and die. It was like, Well, Kowalski, you did it again. For the second time in less than five years, you got the one person you loved more than anything else in the world to leave you. What a shmuck. You suck.

And then after a few days of being sick inside, sick like I wanted to die, it wasn't just that I was a total loser. It was that Fraser was a two-faced bastard and Vecchio stole him from me. Then my mind started to go down that track... and I wanted to go find the both of them, go hunt 'em down, go out prowling around and follow them and see what they were up to and where they were going. All the things I had wanted to do before, when I found out about them, but held myself back from doing, because I was trying to act with some dignity... trying not to act like a nutcase.

Well, those things started to sound like the right thing to do. I didn't do any of 'em -- but just barely. Because I knew it would be a very, very bad idea. Because by then it was no longer "I suck", it was "They suck -- and they're gonna pay." But it was like, if I can't have you, no one can. Least of all this slick Italian bastard -- who already left you once before! What made Fraser think Vecchio wouldn't leave him again?

So it went back and forth like that. From I suck to Vecchio deserves to die to Benton, how could you do this to me? At the time, it seemed like most of the time it was I suck. But, lookin' back, it was probably evenly split between I suck, hating Vecchio, and loving and hating Fraser. It's just that loving and hating Fraser and knowing (at least, I thought I knew) he was leaving with Vecchio automatically led right back into I suck. Cuz he wouldn't leave me unless I deserved it, right?

And if Vecchio left him once, and Fraser was still goin' with him, then he musta known Vecchio well enough to be sure he wouldn't leave him again, right? That was all I could figure. Which still led right back into I suck, because if he could prefer that to bein' with me...

Well, he knew Vecchio. I guess like he knew me. Knew we'd never leave... and knew we'd never stop.

Thank God no one drew their gun at the party. I look back at it now, and it seems almost funny. In a real sick and twisted way, but it does. Like some movie melodrama. It was ridiculous. If it wasn't me it happened to, I probably would have laughed my ass off if I heard about it.

But it was me it happened to.

'Course, all three of us completely blew it in front of Thatcher, Welsh, Turnbull, Francesca, Huey and Dewey. I wonder how that's affected Vecchio since then. It's gotta be rough. I went off, on my own, left the precinct, left The Job. No one at the Burns Agency knew me from Adam. Didn't know I'd been sucking my partner's cock for the better part of a year.

But cops. They ain't too nice when it comes to homosexuals. An' if you're a cop, even a cop who was with... Stella... that don't matter. Once they know you sucked dick, even if you never did it before, you're a homosexual. Just like those perverts, child molesters, scumbags they pick up in Vice.

~~~

"They, uh, they give you a hard time? After?" he asks me, his voice real quiet.

"Nah," I lie. "I got some weird looks, but not too much crap."

Which is mostly true. But it was more the "freeze 'em out" kind of crap I got. Did I get harassed? No. Did people pick fights with me? No.

No, they just all of a sudden didn't wanna be anywhere near me. Like, oh my God, he was suckin' Fraser's cock... maybe he wants to suck mine!

Not in a millions years. But they didn't know that.

"Really?" he asks. Kind of surprised.

"Nah, I just got... left out of a lot of stuff. Kinda the cold shoulder," I say.

"That sucks," he says softly, lookin' over. His eyes are kinda red-rimmed now.

Probably mine are too. I shrug.

"It wasn't so bad. Welsh was still the same. Eventually people got around to bein' normal around me again."

Not really. Mostly. But not really. They don't joke around with me much any more. Huey, Dewey. Keep their distances. Real nice and polite, of course. Welsh probably makin' sure they do nothing that would qualify as harassment or discrimination. Out of kindness? Out of sympathy? Or out of just trying to cover his butt? I don't know. I want to think it's out of kindness.

But I don't know.

I do know Welsh knew I was in bad shape. He must have seen how I was unraveling over the week leading up to that stupid party: roughing up suspects, excessive force... I mean, I saw how I was unraveling. Every morning I looked worse to myself in the mirror. You would think that would have made me wake up, but... no.

I'm studyin' Kowalski's hands, that bracelet thing he always wears, his fingers. They're almost delicate but kinda delicate-tough, like they could play the piano or something. And I'm thinking, Those hands were on Fraser. Those hands were doing the same things to Fraser that mine were doing.

But it doesn't make me angry any more. Just sad. Sad and depressed.

One of those hands comes up to scratch and stroke his stubble. There's gray in that stubble now. I wonder if it was there before.

But the hand stays there, over his mouth.

"That's cool. I mean, about Welsh," he says, his voice muffled a bit by his hand. "That he didn't treat you different."

"That's Welsh."

"Yup. That's Welsh. Good guy. I know I got... on his last nerve sometimes. But he was always fair."

"Yeah."

"But you stayed," he says. Kind of a question and a statement at the same time.

'Course I stayed. What else was I gonna do?

Fraser was gone. The Job was all I really had left.

~~~

It musta been bad. I mean, it musta really sucked. I'm such a coward. I knew I couldn't take that. Not on top of everything else. I knew if I didn't start over new, somewhere else, I was gonna swallow the end of my gun sooner or later, and as much as it seemed like a good idea at the time, I guess some part of me wanted to survive.

Not that I've done much with that survival. But. I'm still here. Physically, anyway.

"The Job was..."

"The only thing left. I know," I tell him. "I just... You got guts. I'll say that. I coulda never stayed. Not on top of everything else. I could never have put up with that cold, smug, you're-not-one-of-us-anymore crap. Dewey. I'da popped him in the head sooner or later. I know it."

"Don't think I didn't want to," he says, kind of a weak smile on his face.

The only humor we've really had in this whole conversation.

"Yeah, he does deserve it, don't he?" I say, kind of returning his smile. "Just for bein' Dewey."

He smiles bigger then. It fades quick, but it was there.

Somehow, just making him smile for a nanosecond makes me feel a bit better.

Somethin's pulling it all outta me. I ain't talked to no one about it. I dunno if Vecchio got referred to the cops' shrink or not. But I sure as hell didn't. I was gone before they could refer me.

But all this time. All this time. It's all been inside me. Hell, the only person I ever really talked to was Fraser. 'Cept for Stella, before... only there was no way I could talk to her about this. I woulda talked about it with my mom, but... there was no way I could do that to my mom. And bring all the rest of that crap down on my head. No way.

And when Fraser left, the only person I could really open up to left.

Not that I coulda exactly talked to the person I drove away from me about how stupid I was for drivin' him away. Even if he had stayed. Even if he hadn't left.

But it all... it was too much, sometimes. Just sooooo much. I felt like I weighed a million pounds. Like I was on Pluto or something like Fraser said that one time about the pound of nails. Like all of a sudden I was transported to Pluto, and my body was suddenly ten times heavier.

Like that song. That came out around that time. "Can't Let Go." Lucinda Williams. Never heard 'a her. But I bought the whole CD right after I first heard it on the radio. It was like she was singing it for me. To me. About me.

"I gotta big chain around my neck, and I'm broken down like a train wreck. Well, it's over, I know it, but I can't let go."

She was singing my song. My life. It was everything I felt inside.

And this... this... talk, with Vecchio... it's pullin' it all outta me. I don't want it to.

But too much beer is makin' it impossible to stop. Like I'm pointed down that path and it suddenly drops down steep. One wrong move, I'm just gonna lose my footing, and fall the rest of the way down, breakin' stuff and gettin' bruised. Oh, well. Wouldn't be the first time I shoulda kept my mouth shut. Maybe Vecchio'll kick me in the head. Kick some sense into me.

But, hey, too much beer is makin' me need to piss right now, too. Think I'll just slide off this stool and head over to the...

"Whoa, whoa, Kowalski. How many you had?" he asks me, steadying me on my feet.

Oh, it's not the beer, I wanna say. Or, it's not just the beer. It's everythin' else. It's hittin' me hard, all over again. Seein' you is bringin' it all back.

His hand's on my chest, cuz I was swaying. Like, this is a total invasion of my personal space, by the guy I wanted most in the world to kill... and I'm not doin' nothin'.

"Not that many," I say. "Didn't eat supper."

'Sides, I don't feel like fighting. There's nothing to fight over anymore, anyway.

Those green eyes. They ain't just green, they're like, green and all these other things thrown in. Specks of gold. Brown. Technically I suppose they're hazel. They're on me, watchful. Concerned. I can see how they might look sexy... maybe. Sometimes. They're so green. Hazel. Whatever.

"Well, maybe you should," he says, getting this concerned look. "Maybe ol' Joe here will let us order a pizza."

"Well, okay," I say. I am slurring my words a bit, I guess. Well, I dunno how long I been sitting here. I don't even know how many I had with Vecchio. Two? I think it was more. Four?

"So order us a pizza, Vecchio," I shrug.

I weave over to the bathroom, thinking how good it's gonna feel to let everything out. And, hey, the jukebox is right by the bathroom. Maybe there's something I can play. It's too quiet in here.

~~~

He's pretty drunk, I think. Ah, well, even if he wasn't planning on getting drunk, he probably wanted to as soon as he saw me. I'm starting to want to join him.

Except I don't need the alcohol to be on his wavelength. I'm already there.

He comes outta the bathroom, bracing his hands on both door jambs. For a second, he gets this careless look of nothing bothering him, his arms up on either side of him. And I realize how really handsome he is. In this lean, lion-like way. No wonder Fraser couldn't resist.

But then he's slouching over to the jukebox. Please don't play any country music, I think.

He feeds it a dollar bill. Punches in a bunch of numbers.

Something twangy starts playing. It's just on the edge of being country music. But it's too fast. And then it's too bluesy to be totally country.

"He won't take me back, when I come around, says he's sorry, then he puts me out, I gotta big chain around my neck, and I'm broken down like a train wreck, well, it's over, I know it, but I can't let go..."

Well, the words are like a country song. Damn it.

Kowalski is weaving back to me. Thank God this jukebox isn't too loud. So you can hear the Cubs game. Barely.

He slides up onto the barstool. Singing along. Her voice is better. But he knows the words. By heart, obviously.

He takes a big swallow of his beer. Oh, this is not good. I wave the bartender over.

"You don't like to see me standin' around, feel like I been shot, 'n didn't fall down, well, it's over, I know it, but I can't let go..."

"Hey, can we order some food here?" I ask him as he strolls up to us. He reaches under the bar for something. Hands me a bunch of take-out menus. Walks back to the other end of the bar.

"I think I'll stand," Kowalski says. He slides off the bar stool and stands. Well, stands would be putting it loosely. More like, weaves without moving his feet.

"Kowalski, let's get some food, okay?" I ask him. Thank God he's not a mean drunk or we'd be in big trouble. Doesn't seem to be a sloppy drunk either.

"Okay," he agrees. Compliant. The kinda drunk person a cop likes. Doesn't start fights. Doesn't do things that make other people pick fights with them. 'Course, he's not feeling cornered right now. Like he did that day.

"Turn off the trouble like you turn off a light, went off and left me, it just ain't right. Well it's over, I know it, but I can't let go."

I swear, if I have to listen to this song one more time...

"Want pizza?"

"Sure," he agrees.

"Whaddaya want on it?"

"Around every corner, somethin' I see, brings me right back, how it used to be. Well, it's over, I know it, but I can't let go."

"Cheese," he says seriously. "Sausage."

"Anything else?" I ask him. I was hoping for onion.

"Whaddayou want on it?" he asks me.

"Onion."

"No problemo," he says, and raises his glass to me. Chugs the whole beer.

This is not good, I think. But then I stop that. What difference does it make? Okay, it's a week night. But for all I know, Kowalski's been doing this every night for... a long time. Maybe it's just what he does.

"Okay, I'm gonna order it," I tell him. "Thick or thin crust?"

"Thin," he says. How un-Chicagoan of him.

I walk down to where the ol' man bartender is sitting, ask him if I can use the phone to order a pizza. He pulls it out from under and behind the bar, sets it on the bar. I hand him back all the menus except for Paterno Pizza's, with the phone number I need.

The song ends. Oh, thank God, I think.

Then it starts again. How many songs to a dollar these days? Three? Jeeze. I gotta listen to it two more times.

~~~

I know I'm drunk. I mean, I'm obviously drunk. Vecchio, he's a good guy. Even though he ruined my life, he's a good guy. He's tryin'ta make sure I sober up. I bet after the pizza has soaked up the beer in me, he's gonna suggest a pot of coffee.

Right. Okay. What difference does it make. I didn't mean to get drunk, but I did. I haven't really done this in a while, which is probably why it happened so fast. But I ain't hurtin' nobody, like that one song goes. I ain't hurtin' no one.

'Cept maybe myself. Not like I don't deserve that, though.

"How about a Coke, instead, Kowalski?" he asks me, comin' back over from the end of the bar.

"Why?"

"Why not?" he counters. Okay, fair enough.

"Long as you're buying, Vecchio," I shrug. Can't help smiling though. Yeah, like I'm gonna break the bank drinking Coke after Coke in a dive bar on the South Side, waiting for a pizza.

"I'll buy," he says, waving the bartender over.

"Whatta guy," I tell the bartender when he gets over by us. "He's gonna buy me Cokes until I sober up."

The bartender's bored stare looks first at me, then at Vecchio.

"Give him a Coke. The biggest one you got," Vecchio says, looking sternly over at me.

The bartender fills a glass with ice. I know for a fact he's not supposed to do it by scooping the ice up with the beer glass, because it's against food safety regulations. He's supposed to use a little scoop to scoop the ice into the glass. Because of the danger of the glass breaking while he's scooping it with the glass, and gettin' glass into all the ice.

But no one does that. Except when the food safety and sanitation inspection guys come through.

The Coke gets set in front of me. And one for Vecchio too. They're so fizzy, I bet I could hear the fizz, if that song wasn't playing.

I couldn't help it. Didn't expect to see it on the juke box. But there it was. So I played it. Three times.

"Cheers," I say to Vecchio, and our glasses knock together. I almost spill mine. But not quite. Turn away and drink. Hey, that was good. I could stand another one right now.

"Kowalski," he begins. I look over at him. "Why did you have to play this damn song twice?"

"Three times," I correct him.

He turns away, looking pissed.

"I usedta listen to it all the time, Vecchio," I say. Uh-oh. Here it comes. It's like the saliva that gathers in your mouth before you spew. I'm gettin' that verbally. I'm gettin' ready to spew. I know it, and I can't stop it. It's like it just has to come out. Something occurs to me.

"Hey, Vecchio. They send you to the cop shrink? After everything?"

He turns back to me, looking angry. "Why?"

I put my hands up, a no-biggie sign, an it's-all-right-didn't-mean-nothin'-by-it gesture. "Just wondered. If you had anyone to talk to about it. About everything."

His face slackens. He looks away. "No," his voice comes, dry and hoarse. "They sent me -- Welsh had to -- that one 'excessive force' -- I lost it. High profile case, unfortunately. Chief didn't like it. Welsh had to. But I... I only talked about The Job. Not..."

"Me neither. How about that," I babble stupidly. "An' here you are. An' if anyone could understand, you could. Even if you're the... the..." No finger pointing, I think, catching myself. It's your fault too, Kowalski. You did it together. "You're the one person in the world who should hate me the most. And I should hate you."

"I don't hate you." He says it, sullen-like. But weary.

"I don't hate you, neither. I did. Big time. You know, we're like, on them nature shows. I seen enough of 'em with Fraser. Natural enemies. We're like the lions and the hyenas. Competing for the same food."

"He wasn't food to me!"

I shake my head. Why won't this diarrhea of the mouth stop? I dunno.

"I didn't mean he was food. I just meant, he was the one thing we had in common... the one thing we both needed. So we're, like, natural enemies."

"We're not natural enemies."

"'Course we are, Vecchio. Don't kid yerself. We're supposedta be natural enemies. How could we not be? He was yours, right? Then you left."

He swivels a look over to me. Them green eyes are gettin' slitted. Just like a cat.

"I mean-- I mean, you hadda go. Whatever. I didn't know. I mean, I knew there had been someone else. He was, he was, he was kinda like me. Kinda lost. Kinda broke up. Pretty lonely. I don't think he knew when -- or if -- you were comin' back. He told me he was getting over someone. That's pretty funny. Considering the person he was getting over was you. And here I was, pretending to be you." My babble stops for a minute.

"Yeah, Kowalski, that's pretty funny," he says grimly.

"Now that I think about it," I suddenly realize, "It's like it was some big cosmic joke. Like I was the surrogate 'til you got back. Maybe that's my fate."

"Fate has nothing to do with it," Vecchio says harshly. He don't sound too convinced.

"Irregardless... I tell him, I can help him get over that someone. That I know what that's like--"

"Don't," he interrupts, swinging towards me. Now he's all up in my face. "Don't describe it, don't tell me, I don't want to know!" his voice is shaking. Those green eyes are maybe a foot from mine... maybe less.

Gotta admit, I'm scared. Because I know how strong and violent you can be, even if you're scrawny like me, when you got emotion motivating you.

He backs away, shrugging his shoulders, like he didn't just get all emotional. Like he didn't want to just strangle me.

What the hell am I doing? Trying to get him to strangle me? I don't know.

But it's funny, ya know? I mean, he should be my natural enemy.

But he's also the only other person who can understand what it means to lose Benton.

~~~

"You're the only one, ya know," he tells me. The only one what? I'm thinking. I don't need this little stringbean lovetoy of Fraser's telling me the deep dark secrets of their relationship. I don't wanna hear it. The only one what? But before I can lay into him, that he better shut up, he goes on.

"The only one who can really understand," he says, turning back to his near-empty Coke. "What it feels like. For him to be gone." His voice has turned husky and quivery and it makes my eyes water.

God damn it, but this blond spitfire bastard is tearing me to pieces. I should hate his guts. But he keeps making me feel sorry for him.

And making me feel sorry for myself... like I don't already. Making me miss Benny...

Saying the things I say to myself. The things I'm thinking. I've been thinking. And couldn't tell a soul.

"I should hate you. I mean, I should, right? My natural enemy. In competition for a common resource. The best freakin' love I have ever known."

His voice is coming to me slowly. Like I'm catching up from a delayed reaction. And me? I can't even speak. There's a knot in my throat so big I can't hardly breathe around it.

"But I don't. Don't hate you, Vecchio. I mean, I did. Believe me, I did. But now? Now?"

He lets it hang in the air for a while. Then sighs and sucks down the rest of his soda.

"I only hate myself," he finishes. His voice dropping again, into that husky, quavering, weak sound. He puts his head on the bar, on his folded forearms.

"Don't, Kowalski, just don't," I tell him. The lump I'm talking around makes me sound like I have cotton shoved down my throat. And my voice is trembling too. And I hate it.

"I can't help it, Vecchio. I can't. I can't talk about it with anyone. I never talked to anyone like I did ...with him. And now he ain't here to talk to. An' even if he was, would he want to hear it? No way. He hates me now. I know it. He must hate me."

That possibility -- that he hates me -- has been on my mind since he left. Even though he said he had to leave because he loved me. Loved us both. And just hearing that he loved us both made me more enraged at him than I ever would have thought possible. Enraged enough for violence. Almost.

"If he hates you," I say thickly, "he hates me too. He'd have to hate both of us. Because both of us did it. And I don't hate you either. I only hate myself."

"What the fuck did I do? I mean, why? It seems so crystal clear now. I shouldn't 'a hounded him. Drove him nuts. Drove him away. Everything I did drove him away. Demands. Ultimatums. Forcing him to choose. When he couldn't," Kowalski whispers, and I hear his voice break. "Begging..." he trails off. His shoulders start to shake, in tiny, almost imperceptable movements.

God. Please. Not here. Not now. I can hardly hold myself together. There's no way I can keep him together too.

"Get ahold of yourself," I hiss, because I can't even speak normal myself. I grab his nearest shoulder and squeeze it hard. It's wiry and moving under my hand. "Stop," I plead with him desperately. Because everything he's doing on the outside, I'm doing on the inside, and more. And if he doesn't stop, I'm not gonna be able to keep it together myself.

He straightens up, clearing his throat. With the heel of his hand, he wipes his eyes, while he sniffles. And for that moment, he's so like a lost little boy that I could cry for the both of us.

"Ow," he says, shrugging off the grip of my hand. I don't realize how hard I was holding his shoulder until I feel the blood returning to my fingers.

We don't say anything for a minute. Then he says,

"Sorry. Didn't mean to lose it like that."

He's apologizing now. God, I can't take this! I have got to get out of here.

But I don't.

"I know. It's just... remember where you are, Kowalski. Okay?" Me. Usually kinda hotheaded. But trying to be cool and careful now. "We're in a bar... on the South Side... by shut-down steel mills."

"Right." He sniffles once more, swallows. I hear him take a deep breath... and he doesn't exhale for a while.

Then he lets it go.

The door to the bar opens. It's dark out now. The pizza guy looks around. We're the only two guys in the bar, except for two old men whose alcohol intake is probably the only thing keeping them alive. They're down at the other end of the bar by the bartender. Talking horses.

Kowalski seems to wake up all over, and he turns and waves the pizza guy toward us. Getting his wallet out at the same time.

I dig mine out too. It's almost twenty bucks. We each give him ten, then Kowalski fishes out a couple more singles for the tip.

We open the pizza box and put it on the bar in front of us, folding the top of the box under it to save space.

The bartender looks over, and I wave him down.

"How about a pitcher?" I ask him.

"Of beer?"

"No," I say impatiently, nodding at Kowalski. "Of Coke."

He shrugs. Turns around to a cabinet behind him and gets out a plastic pitcher, the clear plastic so beaten up by use that it's not clear anymore, it's gray.

He scoops some ice outta the ice machine under the bar with the pitcher, and begins filling it. Yawning. Looks up at the Cubs game.

They lost. Despite Sammy Sosa's home runs. Like they usually do.

Kowalski grabs a piece first, as the bartender sets the pitcher down in front of us. But he drops the piece of pizza real fast, cursing because it's so hot.

The bartender has a roll of paper towels under the counter. He hands us about five of 'em, all torn off in one piece.

I split them with Kowalski. Two for him, two for me. One tucked under the pizza box.

We dig in. Don't say anything. It's hot, and cheesy, and with the first bite, I know I'm gonna have a burn blister on the roof of my mouth tomorrow. But I don't care. It's hot food, it's comfort. It's filling me up, temporarily. 'Til I wake up at two o'clock in the morning and realize nothing can really fill me again.

He sucks down one glass of Coke in several chugs and pours another. Looks over at me, gesturing with the pitcher, but I'm okay with half a glass yet.

In ten minutes, three quarters of the pizza is gone. He burps quietly next to me, trying to stifle it under a paper towel crumpled from removing the grease from his hands. I realize I've always thought he was some rude, impolite shmuck with no manners. And that I was wrong and he's not really like that.

"He didn't want to, at first," he starts again. Oh, God. Here we go again. And am I gonna leave? Am I gonna slap some sense into this guy, and get the hell out of here?

No. I'm gonna listen. Because it's my story too. We're like opposite sides of the same coin. Only I'm the one that can't talk about it. And he's talking for both of us.

"I feel I should tell you that," he says, half turning toward me, but not looking at me. Looking down at the bar.

With those eyes that probably blinked a slow, sensual, heavy-lidded come-hither at Fraser, who could only say No for so long, because I left him alone, so completely alone... he told me I was his best friend, his only friend...

But now those eyes are just heavy-lidded with sorrow. And embarrassment. And weariness.

"Tell me what," I say without realizing I'm talking.

"That he didn't want to. Get involved. And, you know him... if he wasn't going to get involved, he wasn't going to do anything else, either. I was like, Okay fine, no hard feelin's.. We'll just pretend this didn't happen. I was kinda relieved. I never wanted another guy before in my life," he says, sounding surprised. Then he amends it, "Well, not one I never did nothin' about."

"I know," I breathe, thinking how true that was of myself. Not 'til Benny did I do something about. Because I just knew he was one of those once-in-a-lifetime people. And I never knew anyone like him. All I knew was that he was different. Better. He was special.

"And then one night he turns up at my apartment, no phone call, no nothin'. I wasn't expecting him." Kowalski continues, hesitating. His eyes shift upward a little, for a guilty glance at me -- and then furtively slip away.

"He said he was getting over someone. That he didn't understand what had happened, that it seemed like it was over, but he wasn't sure. That he couldn't in good conscience get involved with me, because it would be wrong, since he didn't really know whether he was free to do what he wanted, or supposed to be waiting for..." He pauses to clear his throat, then continues.

"He said he was sorry. That he really wanted to. That he cared about me. Very much. That I was a good friend to him. But that he had cared about someone else first and it wouldn't be fair to him. Meaning you, but I didn't know that at the time.

"I, I, I got a little mad. I said, If you're getting over someone, and you're sorry, then what are you doing at my apartment? Fine. Go away. We'll pretend this never happened too." He swallows. "And he, he -- I hoped he would go. I didn't need the complications. I tried to make it real clear I didn't need him." Kowalski swallows. "But he didn't go away. He was... so alone. I guess... guess he needed me... needed someone...."

His eyes shift over to me, and it's only when I see the worried look in them that I realize I have just gulped aloud.

"I'll shut up," he says hurriedly. "I can shut up now..."

"It's okay," I croak.

Because as much as it hurts, I need to hear it. I needed to hear that he wasn't sure. That he didn't forget. That it wasn't like he hopped right into bed with Kowalski, as cute as he might be, and as seductive as I'm sure he can be. That he was troubled about it. That he hesitated, was unsure, thought about whether he could really say he was unattached.

Even though I hate to hear how it hurt him that I left. And even though I never gave him any sign that he wasn't really alone again. I mean, one postcard... that didn't really say anything. God, I hate myself sometimes.

"He... we... we didn't talk about it, any more than that, you know? Somethin' about it being unchivalrous. It wasn't until you got back. And you guys were so awkward. And then I realized. I realized everything. An' I, I-- I was sure I was gonna lose him." He swallows. "To you. That he'd go back to you. Figured I was the substitute Ray until his real Ray came back. Ya know that Who song? Substitute, me for him. An' after seeing you two together... well, I figured I'd just be shoved aside, with a Thanks for your help, Ray and that would be that."

"That's not Benny," I blurt quietly, before I can stop myself. "He wouldn't do that. He could never do that."

"I know. I mean, I know that now. But I didn't know it then. I mean, that's what I wanted to believe. That he'd never leave. Now matter how bad things got. Ya know? But you can believe that about someone, and know in your heart of hearts that you're wrong. So wrong."

He swallows, looking away. And I don't bring up Stella and he doesn't either, even though I'm pretty sure that's who he meant and that's who we're both thinking about.

"There was something he used to say, in the beginning," Kowalski continues. "He said it happy-like. This wasn't supposed to happen, he'd say. Like he was amazed and, well... happy." He stops, his throat working a minute. I have to look away.

"So I knew that was what I wanted to believe. I wanted to believe he wouldn't leave... wouldn't go back to you and just dump me like yesterday's toy.

"And then, later, after you were back, a couple times, he said the same thing -- this wasn't supposed to happen. Only he wasn't saying it happy-like anymore. He said it miserable. Times after I'd been begging, pleading, raging." I can hear him swallow.

"I really wanted to believe he'd never go, but-- but-- I-- I-- ain't too secure with that stuff," he says, his voice getting shaky with a sad laugh. "Most of the time, I expect the worst."

"I know what you mean," I reply hoarsely. "But look... if you think it was easy..."

I can't finish this. Can I?

~~~

I'm trying to not gush everything out, in some insane babble. I don't even know why I'm doing this. I must be nuts. I mean, spilling my guts to the one guy who probably most wants to kill me? After Fraser, that is?

"But look," he says, "if you think it was easy..."

He trails off, and I don't nod, I don't wave him to continue, I don't do nothin'. Because I'm not sure how much I want to hear what he's got to say. It's all been me getting it all off my chest, getting it all out. Spewing like a fool.

But now he's started talking. And this could be bad. But I had my turn. He should get his. So I don't do nothin'.

I just stand there and brace myself.

~~~

"It wasn't easy for him. I mean, it was hard, so hard that... well, you know what happened. He couldn't choose. I kept telling him, it was you or me. Take it or leave it. Make a decision. Make a choice, for God's sake. 'Hurry up and let him down easy'." My voice trembles, remembering the fights we had.

"But he couldn't. He told me. He said the same thing he told you: This wasn't supposed to happen. He said--" Oh, God, I don't think I can admit this-- "He said he couldn't just leave you. That he knew he loved me but that he loved you too. And that there was no way he was going to hurt you that way. No way he was just going to just leave you. He couldn't 'let you down easy'. There was nothing easy about it, for him."

There. It's out. I said it.

"That's pretty much what he said about you, too," Kowalski says, his voice husky. "That he loved you. Still loved you. Never stopped. Which really infuriated me. Even though he kept saying he loved me too. I felt second best."

We're both looking down at the dirty paper towels, the unfinished pizza.

And then we both look up at each other at the same time. Inadvertently. Just for an instant.

And it's a raw, searing look of pain. If Kowalski looks half as twisted up inside as I do, I must look pretty bad. His eyes are practically holes in his head.

We look away from each other.

"Me too," I whisper. "I felt second best, too."

It is all I can get out before my throat knots up again. Second best for the second time. Because when I found out Benny had secretly planned to leave -- after Victoria, I knew better than anyone, I thought -- I knew he'd leave with Kowalski. I was sure. Not even thinking he might've learned anything from that night on the train platform... No. I didn't think that then. I figured he was just gonna finish what he'd started right before my bullet hit him in the back.

And, by that time, a secret part of me felt like I deserved it, in a way. Because in a way, I didn't just leave because I couldn't deal with things between us. I left him before he could leave me. Like I was testing him. Like I was punishing him for what he almost did: "I should be with her."

I should have understood. I mean, I thought I did understand. She blind-sided him. Coulda happened to anyone... especially someone as naive and trusting as him. And, in a strange way, what she did brought us together. I don't think we would ever have come together the way we did if she hadn't tried to rip him apart.

But I didn't really face how it felt for me, deep down inside, when he made it clear on that platform that he would have left me behind, left me holding the bag, and gone with her. It wasn't until I went undercover, and the weeks stretched into months, and I had a lot of time to think -- my only escape from Langostini -- and I realized what I'd done. Why I left him.

"I don't think you were 'second best'," Kowalski starts up again hesitantly. "He, he tried to explain it to me once. Not that I wanted to hear it. But I could understand a little. It wasn't like I was completely cold to Stella..."

"But, anyway," he continues hurriedly. "Anyway, he tried to explain. That he didn't love you more or me more. That there wasn't some kind of weight or scale in his mind. That we were totally different, night and day. And he loved us different, but with the same intensity," he finishes, his voice getting quieter and shakier.

Kowalski shakes his head, moving the paper towel around on the bar, as if wiping up little grease spatters. He inhales sharply, in a way that makes all my muscles tense up. But after a few seconds, all that comes out is a big, heavy sigh. The lump in my throat subsides.

"I know," I manage to add when I'm able to speak again. "He tried to explain it to me too. Pretty much the same way you described. I just couldn't hear it. Couldn't get it through my thick, bald head."

I must sound terrible, because for some odd reason he reaches sideways, without looking at me, and grabs my forearm. Just grabs it, holds it for a few... then lets it go and picks up the pitcher of Coke to pour himself another soda.

After a quick swig of half the glass, he sets it down. Like now he's able to talk.

"Couldn't wrap my head around it, neither."

"If only..." I begin, before my throat closes again.

"Don't, Vecchio. What's done is done. You can't go back. All you can do is retrace your steps and figure out how you got where you are now. Trust me. I know. I done it. Ain't fun. But once you figure that out, ain't no reason to keep going over and over it in yer mind."

He sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince me.

"What if..." I say raggedly, when I can talk. "What if you can't stop going over and over it in your mind?"

He looks at me then, full in the face, and the look of pity and sympathy mingles with a pinched look of pain for himself.

"I dunno," he says miserably, finally breaking his too-blue gaze from mine. "I keep asking myself that too."

At least we know, now. What exactly went on. While Benny was trying to convince each of us that he didn't love the other one more. When we were each trying to take him from the other. I don't want the details... I know what I did again and again, to try to prove my love, to make up for leaving, to try to make him stay with me. I'm sure Kowalski was doing the same kinds of things. I don't think I want any other details... this is plenty. At least I know that even starting up with Kowalski was something he had to think hard about. Even if it was my stupid fault he got no sign that I still thought of us as together... after I left him, as far as he knew.

It feels like we're winding down, now. The two of us. Breathing normal again. Kowalski stretches his arms up over his head, then settles back onto a bar stool. I realize that he's been standing all this time.

"You want the left-over pizza?" he asks, trying to return to more casual subjects.

"Nah," I say.

He looks like he's gonna say something, but he doesn't. I know we're both thinking about the wolf now, but I don't say anything about Dief, and neither does Kowalski.

"I'll take it for lunch tomorrow," he says, but he doesn't start closing up the box or anything.

Suddenly, it's all I can do to stay there one more minute. I shoulda gone back to the precinct more than an hour ago. I can say I was waiting for the snitch who never showed.

"I gotta, uh," I begin.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, nodding. Sliding off the bar stool. He picks up the pizza box, starts to close it. Shrugs his shoulders in this 'no big deal' kind of way. "Me too."

I gotta go-- I really just have to get out of here now... I got plenty to think about, to digest. Somehow, though, I feel better. I was sure I would feel worse after talking to him. Sure that the only reason to stop and talk to him at all was so he wouldn't think I was afraid to. Wouldn't think I couldn't face him.

He's got the pizza box closed up, the napkins crumpled up and stuffed in his empty soda glass. He picks up the pitcher and holds it over my glass.

"One more for the road?" he asks, in this wry tone of voice, with a weary, but calmer expression on his face.

"Sure, why not," I say, suddenly able to take a couple more minutes to sit with him -- really, a couple more minutes before I have to be alone with my thoughts. He pours the last of the pitcher into my glass and I drink it all down. Coca-Cola. Goes with pizza, but it makes your teeth feel fuzzy later.

He sets the empty pitcher down. Tucks the pizza box under his left arm, leaning against the bar.

I put my glass down too.

"You, uh, gonna be all right?" I ask him. I mean, I am talking about him being drunk. But it's more than that, too.

"Yeah. You?" he asks seriously. He meets my eyes, but not for long.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Glance at him, nod, like, yeah, I'll be fine. Don't look too long or too hard.

He puts out his hand, not really looking at me. I surprise myself by grasping it. His hand is thin but strong and wiry and firm. Our handshake is like some strange connection because we both speak at the same time.

"He was--"

"Fraser's--"

We both stop and look at each other, still grasping each other's hands.

"He was ...a great guy." Kowalski murmurs, his eyes shiny again.

"Yeah. Really... a good man," I say, controlling my voice, which wants to tremble.

With one last squeeze of my hand, he lets it go, nods at me, and walks off. Just like that. Squaring those wiry shoulders just before he opens the door. It makes me wonder what I must look like. Hardening myself up every day when I walk outta Ma's.

I watch him go, and the door shuts. I listen to that gleaming black thing rumble and then roar. But he doesn't peel away from the curb like I'm expecting to hear. The roar dies down to a quiet rumble again.

As I open the door, I see him setting the pizza box in the back seat of his GTO. He sees me standing in the doorway. He nods, once. I expect him to peel away from the curb now.

But he doesn't. He just pulls away quietly, engine purring, and takes off north on South Shore Drive.

I watch his tail lights, moving away, and watch them until they're gone around a curve. Then I walk to the unmarked precinct car I've got and get in.

I don't know how long it is that I sit there, before I finally start the car.














end










Notes:
"Can't Let Go" is a Lucinda Williams song. It's on her Car Wheels On A Gravel Road CD.

"Substitute, me for him" is from the song "Substitute" by The Who. It's on Live At Leeds and a few compilations.

"I ain't hurtin' nobody... I ain't hurtin' no one" is a line from a song called "Ain't Hurtin' Nobody" by John Prine. It's on his Lost Dogs And Mixed Blessings CD.

"More fun than a barrel of mandrill baboons" is a line from a "Life In Hell" cartoon by Matt Groening. I think it was the cartoon titled "The 9 Types of Relationships", which is in the "Love Is Hell" compilation of "Life In Hell" cartoons. I might be wrong about which cartoon, but it's definitely from one of the cartoons in the "Love Is Hell" compilation book.