Author's disclaimer:
        Although the story is mine, it is a work of fiction based on the character of Due South.All Characters portrayed here belong to Alliance. Please do not print/copy/download or send any part of this story to anyone else, other than for your personal enjoyment. Thank you.
        Ray Kowalski must learn to cope with the loss of his father. AU/H/C/ Angst PG-13 for some language

By Amethyst
 

         Ray replaced the receiver of his desk phone back onto it's cradle with infinite care and continued to stare at it. He paused another long, thoughtful moment before removing his hand from the instrument. His eyes slowly scanned the squad room, seeing nothing of its usual boisterous anarchy. His hands moved automatically to straighten his desk, gathering up the odd piece of paper, the scattered reports, pens, and assorted junk that usually collected there.
         Francesca Vecchio sauntered past, dropping a requested file on his desk and smirking at him. She watched him stare down at the file, perplexed.
         "Some of us around here work, bro," she taunted and waited for his stinging reply. She was concerned when none came. Instead, Ray carefully placed the file his tray and started wiping any additional dust or dirt from the desk top with his hands.   "Ray, are you okay?"
         Ray barely registered her voice and could not force a reply past the lump in his throat. He rose, sedately, and pulled his jacket from the back of his chair. He was unaware of Francesca's worried look, or of her further attempts to catch his attention.
        Reaching up with a less then steady hand, he signed out on the board and walked around his desk. Neatly avoiding the pretty Italian beside him, he headed for the stairs.
         "Vecchio," Welsh barked from his office, spotting the Detective's departure. He had told Ray to come see him before going out again. "Vecchio!" He was shocked when Ray's head did not jerk around at his command, as it usually did. The Detective just continued walking, until he had disappeared through the door. Francesca pensively chewed her lip as she came to stand beside the Lieutenant.
        "Something's really wrong, Sir," she commented, worried. "He acted like he didn't even hear me and I was standin' right next to him." Welsh frowned, wondering what could be bothering his best Detective.
         "Call the Mountie," he ordered and Francesca hurried to her desk to get Fraser on the phone.

        Ray settled his Mother in her bed, then quietly stepped out of the bedroom and partially closed the door. When he had arrived, about an hour ago, Barbara Kowalski had been half-hysterical and in tears. She'd come home from a day of shopping and found her husband face down in the kitchen. She'd tried to wake him but he wouldn't move. She had called for an ambulance but when they arrived they had pronounced him dead.
        Barbara then called her son at the precinct and started crying about his father's death. Ray had driven over and arrived just as they were removing Damien Kowalski's body out of the trailer. He paused before going inside and forced himself to pull the sheet back. His father had looked like he was merely sleeping, but Ray understood that he wasn't.
        Barbara ran out to him and he had folded her in his arms and hustled her back inside. He listened to her mournful sobbing and the tale of how she had found her husband dead on the floor. Ray listened silently, unable to force words past his lips. When she had finally worn herself out, he had picked her up and carried her to the bedroom.
        Now, he returned to the small living and kitchen area and paused in the spot where his father had been found. He wondered what Damien had been doing just before the heart attack hit. He wondered if his father had been in a lot of pain or had tried to get to the phone to call for help. He wondered why he never felt anything during his father's death. Shouldn't a son know when his own father is in pain or dying? Shouldn't Ray have felt the loss of losing him as it was happening?
        But Ray had felt nothing at all. He had been working on a report when the call had come in. He had been in reasonably good spirits all day and had not once gotten a strange feeling or premonition that his Father was in danger. Ray relied on his instincts; he could usually predict when something was about to happen, especially something bad. Yet, he had felt nothing to warn him of Damien's impending death. It seemed Ray had failed his father once again, and this time there was no way to make up for the mistake.
        He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Lieutenant Welsh's extension. Better to get this over with while he could still function reasonably.
        "Welsh," the Lieutenant barked
         "Sir, it's Vecchio," Ray greeted. "I...I've had an emergency come up and I'll need to take a few days off." There was a long pause before Welsh responded in a much kinder tone.
        "Can you tell me why, Detective?"
        "Yah, my father just died," Ray returned, quietly. Another long pause.
        "Sorry to hear that, Ray. You take all the time you need. Is dere anything I can do?"
        "No, I...I don't wanna compromise Vecchio's cover, so I'll just do what I have to do and den I'll be back to work."
        "Will you tell me when the funeral will be at least?" Welsh requested.
        "Don't know yet, couple of days maybe," Ray replied. "I'll call you." He glanced toward the door at the sound of someone knocking. "Gotta go." He ended the call and set the phone on the counter, before moving to answer the door.
        "Hello, Ray," Fraser greeted, worried. He was still in uniform, so Ray was sure he had rushed over straight from work. He must have tried the apartment before coming here. Ray wasn't surprised, the Mountie could find him anywhere, probably just by scent.
        "Hey, Fraser," Ray returned and stepped back to allow the Mountie and wolf to enter. "What are you doin' here?"
        "Leftenant Welsh called me, Ray," Fraser informed. "He was worried about you. Is anything wrong?" Ray shook his head and moved back into the kitchen, again his eyes going toward the floor. He shivered slightly and moved to the fridge.
        "Wanna drink?"
        "No thank you, Ray."
        "I think I'll have one," Ray decided. He looked in the fridge and pulled out a beer, but didn't open it. He stared down at it, rather then meet his partner's concerned gaze. "My Dad died, Fraser. The paramedics just took him away. Mum found him. He had a heart attack." Fraser's heart leapt into his throat as he gazed sympathetically toward his friend.
        "Oh, Ray. I'm so sorry." Ray shrugged.
        "So anyway, I'll be off work for a few days to straighten things out." He still had not turned to face the Mountie, just continued to stare at the beer in his hand. Finally, he set it on the counter and turned around. "Could you...would you mind hanging here fer a bit, Fraser? Look out fer Mum, she's asleep right now. She was real upset when I got here. I have to go run a couple of errands real quick."
        "Certainly, Ray," Fraser agreed immediately. "Are you all right, Ray?"
        "I'm fine, Fraser," Ray assured, grabbing his jacket and car keys. "Just have to sort of finish up a few things before I start on dis project, ya know?" Fraser stared at him. How could Ray look at his father's death as a project? "I won't be long." Fraser nodded and watched him leave.
 
 

         Ray drove through the city streets in a quiet daze. His usual energetic flare had been replaced by an almost obscene sedation. He had checked out the snitches that he had needed for the case he was working on, then returned to the precinct to finish his paperwork. He made a few calls to finalize what he had. Then, he left again without speaking to anyone and returned to his apartment to feed his turtle and throw a few clothes in an overnight bag.
         Now, without something to do, he found himself unable to go back to the trailer just yet. He pulled up to the spot he and Fraser had engaged in their first real fight and stared out at the lake they call Michigan. This was his thinking spot; or rather it had become his thinking spot since he made the mistake of actually hitting Fraser that one time. He could remember and realize his mistakes and learn from them, because of the past wrongs he had committed here.
        The gently rolling waves had a hypnotizing effect on him. He continued to stare intently at the water until his eyes grew moist. He raised a hand to his face and briefly registered that he was crying. It wasn't the sobbing grief that Fraser had witnessed that day after Ray had taken Beth Botrell home. It wasn't the angry, soul wrenching lamentation he had released when Stell divorced him. This time, there was no moaning, no accompanying hiccups or gasping cries, which shook his body to the core and left him breathless.
         These were just gentle, soulful tears, rolling ever so slowly down his granite features, in a silent, heartbreaking form of weeping. It needed no sounds, and no physical discomfort to convey the despair Ray was experiencing. The tragedy of it left Ray feeling numb and stupefied, where all he could express were these sad, mournful tears.
 

         "Stanley! Come here to me, boy," Damien Kowalski called and a ten-year-old Stanley Raymond Kowalski soon appeared from behind his father's recliner. The blond-headed youth pushed his thick, horn-rimmed glasses further up on his nose and peered at his father, dejectedly.
         "Yes, Sir," Stanley replied, proud when his voice shook only a little.
         "Yer Mother says you been fightin' again," Damien scowled, regarding his son's blackened eye and busted lip as obvious evidence.
         "Yes, Sir," Stanley confirmed. His voice grew quieter now, but he kept his gaze level with his father. A man did not look away from his mistakes, Damien had always told him, a man had to meet a someone eye to eye to garner any respect for himself.
         "Ya know yer Mother doesn't like dat, Son," Damien continued to frown and Ray tried very hard not to shift his weight. He clasped his hands behind him and stood a little straighter. He was ready to face his punishment like a man.
         "It was a matter of honor, Sir," he decided, boldly.
         "There is no honor in fighting, Stanley," Damien refused. "There is also no honor in scaring yer poor Mum half to death with a call from the school to come and get you."
         "No, Sir," Stanley agreed, contritely. "I...I didn't mean to worry Mum, honest I didn't but..."
         "But..." Damien pressed and Stanley swallowed, nervously.
         "It was Tommy Rogers, Dad," Stanley finally, blurted, unable to contain himself any longer, and began rapidly using his hands to emphasize his point. "He was sayin' awful things, Dad, about you and Mum, and I couldn't just let him get away with it! So you see, it was a matter of honor. I couldn't..."
         "Stanley," his father ordered. Ray halted all movement and paused in mid sentence. "I've heard it all before and so have you. They don't like dat we're Polish. They think it's funny dat yer old man works in a slaughterhouse and dat yer Mum takes in washing and sewing to do. They think dat's beggar's work, but I don't ever see any beggar workin' as hard as we do."
         "But, Dad..." Stanley protested and Damien raised a hand to silence him.
         "It's the way it is everywhere, Son," he insisted. "People are always gonna have somethin' ta say. What you gotta do is not respond to it, den it won't be as much fun fer dem to say such nasty things. Ya understand, Son?" Stanley nodded.
         "But, it's hard, Dad," he admitted, reluctantly.
         Damien nodded and pulled his son around front to face him. Stanley knew his parents wished he would grow taller and thicken up a bit, he was entirely too spindly. But, no matter how much they fed him, Stanley's weight rarely changed. His Mother claimed her son probably burned off the calories as fast as he made them with his inexhaustible energy.
         "I know it's hard, Son," he agreed, quietly, "but, livin' is hard, so get used to it. Now, dis Tommy feller, he's twice yer size ain't he?" Stanley nodded. His father pulled off his glasses and examined his son's black eye. "And what does he look like?"
         "Ugly and mean, like always," Stanley replied, honestly, with a slight smirk. "I got in a few good licks."
         "You mean before he pounded you into the ground?" Damien taunted and Stanley's smirk became a grin.
         "Actually it was the Dumpster at school," he supplied. "He said our family always smelled of dead meat and garbage, so I wanted him to make a com...copme...I wanted him to know what real garbage smelled like."
         "Comparison, Son," Damien sighed, a grin pulling at the corners of his lips.
         "Yah, one of those," Stanley concurred and Damien shook his head.
         "You know I gotta punish you," he confirmed and Stanley nodded, with only a flicker of apprehension in his blue green eyes.
         Stanley had no real friends to speak of and he preferred to play by himself or outside. Grounding him wouldn't do much good, and neither would suspending his television privileges. Stanley never really went anywhere special and he preferred to read rather than watch television. The threat of a physical punishment was always there, but he didn't think his father would use that with something as incidental as fighting. After all, boys will be boys, and Stanley was trying to protect their family's honor.
          Stanley knew then that there were two choices left and he silently prayed his father wasn't going to send him to his room. His room was small and Ray felt it confining when he was in there with the door shut, which Damien insisted upon so he could think about what he had done. Ray usually brought his toys to the basement or outside to play, because he didn't like to play in his room like most kids.
         "Trapper goes in our room for a week," Damien decided, finally. Stanley's eyes widened in horror and his lower lip trembled slightly, but he held himself together. It was better than the other punishment, but not by much.
         "F...Fer a whole week," Stanley managed to croak and Damien nodded, curtly. For the first time since their conversation started, Stanley lowered his eyes and hung his head remorsefully. "Yes, Sir." he murmured. "D...Do I do it now?" Damien nodded when Stanley had glanced up to see his father's response.
         Stanley returned with the small, hard-shelled turtle in his tiny hands. His father would probably move the aquarium to the other room later; the point was for Stanley to give up his most prized possession. He slept with Trapper, read him stories and played army men with him. The turtle was his best friend. With trembling hands, Stanley reluctantly handed his father his beloved pet, then ran from the room and retreated to his tree house in the back for a good cry.
 

         Ray lowered his eyes from the water and remembered, fondly, that first turtle. He remembered that his father had not kept his playmate for the entire week, but had relented and let Ray have him four days later. That was also the day Damien Kowalski had taught Ray the fundamentals of boxing, for defense only. He didn't want Ray coming home beat up anymore, without Ray giving back as good as he got.
         "Oh God," Ray whispered, forlornly. "Dad." He covered his face with his hands and continued to weep.
 

         "Fraser?" Ray inquired quietly, as he a stepped into the cozy setting of his parent's trailer home.  The Mountie rose from the recliner where he had been reading, and moved to greet his partner.
         "Your Mother is still sleeping, Ray," he offered, guessing his friend's first question. "She awoke for a little while, but I gave her some tea and settled her in bed."
        Ray tossed his keys on the small counter by the door and shrugged his bag into the closest chair.
         "Thanks, Fraser," he acknowledged wearily, and moved to extract a beer from the refrigerator in the small, corner kitchen. He offered a beer to Fraser, then lowered his eyes in disappointment when the Mountie refused. "Drink wit me, Frase, please." Fraser could not refuse the gentle plea, and he accepted the bottle Ray held out to him.
        Ray closed the fridge door and searched the drawers for an opener. His father preferred imported beer and few of them came with the twist off caps the American bottles often did. He became frustrated when, after looking through every drawer, he still couldn't find the damn thing. He didn't visit often enough to know where his Mother kept everything.
         Fraser pulled out his Swiss Army knife, which had a small bottle opener attached, and remedied the situation. Ray offered him a grateful smirk, took a long swig of his beer, then headed back to the living area. He dropped down on the brightly upholstered sofa in his usual slouched position and balanced the bottle on his right leg. He sighed and lay his head back against the cushions.
Fraser once again settled in the recliner, with Dief at his feet.
         He had not yet seen his friend cry over his father's death. Ray had been quiet and withdrawn, certainly, but that was to be expected. Damien Kowalski's fatal heart attack had taken them all by surprise and Ray was dealing the best way that he could. What worried Fraser is he knew how emotionally charged Ray usually was, and that his partner's attempts to keep all his emotions bottled up would soon backfire. Fraser intended to be there when it happened.
         So far, Ray had made no attempt to push the Mountie away and that was probably a good sign. It meant Ray was willing to accept some help to get through this tragedy. However, it was sometimes difficult to judge what the Detective was thinking or what his reaction might be to a given situation. Kowalski was constantly surprising Fraser in that regard, and definitely kept him on his toes. He hoped this time that he had judged correctly and Ray did want his help, or at least his company
         "Is there anything I can do, Ray?" he inquired and Ray glanced at him, startled.
         "About what, Fraser," he demanded, curiously. "Ya can't bring people back from the dead, can ya?"
         "Well, no," Fraser admitted. "I meant for you, Ray."
         "You don't have to do anything fer me, Buddy. I'm good."
         "Ray, you just lost your father. How can you be good?"
         "Dad's not lost, Fraser," Ray denied, in a tone so calm that it started to frighten the Mountie. "He's dead." Ray took a swig of his beer. "A big difference, Buddy. Huge. Gigantic difference dere, yep."
         "Ray, " Fraser began again, cautiously. "Perhaps if you talk about it..." Ray rose from his chair, setting his beer on the small coffee table.
         "I don't have anything to say, Fraser," he stated, quietly, and moved toward the door. "Except thanks fer stayin' here wit Mum, so I could get a few things done. I appreciate it." Fraser rose, understanding that he was being asked to leave. He gathered his coat and hat and paused beside his friend.
         "I am here if you need me, Ray," he offered kindly and Ray nodded and opened the door.
         "I know."
         "Will you let me know when the funeral is?"
         "Probably not a good idea fer you to come, Fraser," Ray protested. "Bein' Vecchio's partner and all, don't wanna blow our cover, now do we?"
         "I can still attend as your friend, Ray," Fraser insisted, firmly. "Unless...you don't want me to come." Ray hesitated before answering.
         "If you wanna come, dat's fine," he replied finally. "Dat would be fine. I better go check on, Mum." Fraser briefly registered that his partner was repeating himself. He recalled what Ray had once said about such an occurrence and this worried him more. He imagined the Detective was under considerable stress, but Fraser could not force him to talk if he did not want to. He donned his hat and nodded, before he and Dief stepped outside.
         "Take care, Ray," he requested and Ray nodded before closing the door.
 

         Ray rose from his seat beside his Mother in the front of the church and pulled on his black gloves. He did not wear his uniform. He knew his father had always hated the idea of him being a cop, so he had purchased a simple, nicely tailored black suit for the funeral. He wore a dark maroon shirt underneath with a matching black tie. His dark raglan he wore to guard against the December chill outside. It completed his ensemble and also reflected his mood.
         He took his place at the coffin with the other ushers. Three of the men were his cousins, whom he had not seen in a very long time. They had all come from out of town for the ceremony. The other two were Fraser and Welsh. Like Ray, they all wore dark suits for the occasion. He had not asked Fraser or Welsh to be in the procession, since he knew them through his undercover assignment and he had not wanted to compromise them or his cover as Ray Vecchio. However, both men had immediately offered their services when Ray called to say when the funeral would be.
        Ray probably said yes, sure, whatever. Something along that line, he didn't really remember. But they were here, so he must have agreed. He hoped having the Mountie there would not blow his cover, but he doubted anyone would look hard enough at his partner in a suit rather than his usual red serge. Fraser even left off wearing the Stetson, which was another dead give away.
         Ray couldn't remember much over the past couple of days; he was working strictly on auto pilot. All his energy was leveled to keep himself together and to take on the responsibilities his Mother was too distraught to perform. Barbara Kowalski, devastated by her husband's heart attack, was finding it difficult to cope with her loss.
         They moved slowly down the aisle of the church and Ray's gaze settled on Stella, who looked as devastated as his Mother. He had not spoken to her since he had informed her of his father's death. He didn't know what to say, what was appropriate, and he sensed she was in much the same dilemma.
         Stella had made it clear that their relationship was over and that she had moved on. Ray had tried to accept that, but he knew how deeply his ex-wife cared for Barbara and Damien Kowalski. Ray just didn't know the procedure for comforting someone who was so adamant about removing herself from his life. Yet, she had showed for the funeral and Barbara had insisted she sit with them in the front of the church. He also feared that any personal contact with her would make him lose it completely, and he couldn't handle that right now.
        They continued down the aisle and then to the hearse that was parked at the side of the building. They slid the coffin inside and Ray joined his Mother and Stella in the main car to follow. Welsh and Fraser drove Ray's GTO a few cars behind them in the procession.
         Barbara Kowalski sat rigidly in her seat, her eyes hidden by dark glasses, but Ray knew she wasn't really seeing anything anyway. He kept their hands joined on the seat between them and offered her a reassuring squeeze, glad when she squeezed him back. He slipped on his own dark glasses, to hide the redness of his eyes. Stella sat on the other side of her ex-Mother-in-law, sniffing suspiciously behind her dark glasses. His Mother had also insisted, during one of her lucid moments, that Stella ride with them and that had been fine with Ray, although he still couldn't bring himself to speak to her.
         At the cemetery they carried the coffin to the burial spot, where it sat on a raised alter until ready to be lowered. Everyone stood quietly, his or her heads bowed respectively, as the Minister read a prayer over the coffin. Barbara Kowalski had not reached for her son's hand once they were out of the vehicle, so Ray kept his hands tightly clasped in front of him in a military style pose.
         "Ashes to ashes," the Minster continued, "dust to dust." People stepped up to place flowers on the coffin in turn, then it began to lower into the ground.
         "Damien," Barbara suddenly cried, unable to stand it when she could only see the top of her husband's coffin. "Malzonek!"
         Ray barely caught her before she managed to dive in with the coffin. Her despair was apparent as she continued to cry out to her husband in their native tongue. Her flaying hands scattered the flowers atop the casket as someone stopped the lift. Her desperation made her strong, despite her smaller size and Ray had to wrap both his arms around her in a fierce bear hug. They ended up on their knees beside the gravesite, with the Minister and Fraser standing close by in case they were needed.
         "Mum," Ray rasped. His own voice cracked with emotion as she continued to struggle against him. "Mum stop! He's gone, Dad's gone. You can't go with him." Barbara started to sob, hysterically, and Ray pushed back his own tears. "It's okay, Mother, it's okay. Please don't fight. I know you want to be with him, but you can't. You can't leave me, too. I need you, Mum. You have to stay with me, okay?"
         His words finally registered and she looked up at her son's tormented features. She caressed his cheek with a shaky hand then fainted. Ray took the opportunity to wipe the moisture from his eyes that was hidden beneath his glasses, and slowly gathered the tiny form of his Mother closer into his arms.
         He glanced around at the sympathetic faces of their small audience, which were no doubt appalled by his Mother's scene. He stood, shakily, lifting Barbara as he rose. Fraser was beside him instantly, and his own eyes were suspiciously moist. He looked at the Mountie, frozen for a minute. What should he do? He didn't know what to do! Did he leave his father's funeral to take his Mother home, or did he let someone else take her and stay for the remainder of the service?
         "I'll take her home, Ray," Fraser offered kindly, making the decision for his partner. Ray nodded gratefully, and carefully placed Barbara into the capable hands of the Mountie.
         "Don't...don't drop her," he requested in such a soft, worried voice that it hardly sounded like himself at all.
         "I'll take care of her, Ray," Fraser promised and headed off toward the main car, where a driver was waiting.
        Diefenbaker moved in closer to Ray protectively, as the Detective started to retrieve the flowers his Mother had accidentally scattered. He was only slightly surprised when Welsh, Stella and the Minster stepped up to help place them back on the coffin. Stella and Ray's hands touched as they reached for the same flower simultaneously, and they paused to stare at each other. Ray removed his hand from under hers and reached for another rose to place atop the coffin.
          Ray 's hand remained a second longer on his father's casket, after the others had returned to their positions, then he rose again and returned to his place. After a quick shoulder and neck readjustment, he adjusted his glasses to ride higher on his nose and ignored the dirt and moisture that clung to parts of his suit. It didn't matter. He never intended to wear it again, and he would probably throw it out or burn it.
         Finally, the service was over and people offered their condolences to Ray, before heading off to their individual vehicles. Stella Kowalski had seemed torn between trying to comfort him and leaving him in solace. Finally she wandered off as well to catch a ride back to the church where her car was waiting. Ray remained beside the gravesite and continued to stare down at his father's casket, Diefenbaker sitting by his feet. A gentle mist had started to fall and the bright afternoon sky was turning gray with the oncoming storm.
 

         "Don't let go, Dad," Stanley cried as his father pushed him along the street, outside their home, for the first time on two wheels. "Don't let go!"
         "I've got ya, Son," Damien encouraged, chuckling as he pushed a little faster. "Use yer legs, pedal faster and you'll stay up just fine."
          Stanley's stubby, seven-year-old legs worked furiously on the petals as his father held onto the back of his small bicycle. He had been scared to ride it without his training wheels, but his father insisted it was even easier to ride it with two wheels then it was with four. His father was never wrong, he knew everything, and so Stanley had tried it. Now he was glad because he was riding like the big kids and going much faster than he ever could on four wheels.
         "I got it, Dad," he cried, joyously. "I can ride!"
         "You got 'er, Son," Damien agreed. His voice seemed to carry from far away.
         Stanley turned around and was aghast to see Damien Kowalski almost a half a block away from him. If his father was back there and Stanley was way up here...Who was holding up the bike! He looked forward again just in time to see the bushes, but not in time to avoid them. He and the bike crashed into the foliage, Stanley going one way the bike going the other.
         "Are ya okay, Stanley?" Damien was asking, worried, as he hauled his son from the shrubbery that had assaulted him.
         "Ya let go!" Stanley accused, gaping at him. "Why'd ya let go?"
         "Because, I knew you could ride on yer own, Son," Damien chuckled, and righted the small bike back on the sidewalk. He knelt beside Stanley, checking for injuries, and finding only a few little scraps on the boy's arms and legs from the stickers in the bushes. He put both hands around his son's tiny waist and smiled at him. "Ya did it, Stanley. You rode all by yerself. You didn't need me to hold ya up."
         "But..." Stanley began as his father released him and straightened.
         "The only person you should ever count on to hold ya up is you, Stanley," he advised, solemnly. "It's okay to get a push from someone else now and then," he winked, "but when it comes down to it, you depend on yerself, you hear me?" Stanley nodded; somewhat confused, but proud that he did indeed ride the bike by himself.
         "Okay, Dad," he agreed and glanced up at his father. "Does dat mean you won't help me with my models any more?" Damien chuckled and offered his hand to the boy. His father's bear-sized palm engulfed his Stanley's much smaller one
         "No, models and cars are different, Stanley," Damien acknowledged, as he picked the bike up with his other hand and they headed back home. "Those we'll always do together."
         "Always?" Stanley pressed.
         "Always, Son," Damien smiled and squeezed his son's hand a little. "Buildin' things should always be done together, with the people ya love." Stanley smiled and moved away to reach for his bike. Damien set it down for him and he climbed on.
         "I'll ride it home, Sir," He assured, boldly. "I'm a big boy now and can hold myself up."
 

         Ray, however, could no longer hold himself up, as his father had taught him so many years ago. Granting his trembling legs the release that craved, he dropped to his knees in the snow and hugged himself in despair. He rocked slightly, willing his body to stop betraying him.
         He took no notice as the mist turned to a gentle rain, nor of the darkening sky above him. He couldn't hear Dief's mournful whine beside him as the wolf scooted closer to his American friend. Ray felt only a deep, painful, emptiness that couldn't be filled. He wanted to do what his Mother had. He wanted to crawl into that casket beside his father. There was so much he never got to say and so many things his father needed to show him still.
        He never even got a chance to say goodbye, or tell his father how much he loved him. They hadn't had the chance to repair the damage that Ray's becoming a cop had caused, once his parents had returned to Chicago. Ray had been caught up in being Ray Vecchio and hadn't made the time to thank his father properly for giving him the GTO. Ray hadn't gotten the chance to prove to his father why his career choice had been a good one. Now, a handshake was all Ray had left of the man that had reared him, that and the comment his father had made about his hair looking good.
         What did he do now? He would have to take care of his Mother; she would need him. His brother was away on some safari in South Africa and apparently couldn't be reached; that was typical. Their father dies and that bastard is off killing some poor animal to add to his trophy collection.
         How would he take care of his Mum? She lived in a trailer and he had an apartment. He worked odd hours and was on an undercover assignment, so how would he work that around enough to take care of her? What did his Mother need? What did you do for someone who just lost their husband and sole support? Was it different than what you did for a son who just lost his father? Were their needs the same or different? How was he going to deal with this when all he had was questions and no answers?
         "Detective," a deep, familiar voice called beside him and Ray glanced up at the concerned face of Lieutenant Welsh. "Are you okay, son?" Ray blinked, furiously behind his glasses, pushing back the tears the unexpected endearment provoked. Ray nodded as Welsh offered him a hand up.
         "Yah, I'm good," he murmured, huskily. "I just need a push now and then." Welsh nodded, not quite understanding what the Detective meant, but then he rarely did understand Kowalski.
         "Give me a ride home, Detective," the older man requested gruffly, tossing Ray the keys to the GTO. Ray consented and together they walked to the car, Dief at their heels.
 
 

        Harding Welsh glanced across the small table at Kowalski forlornly. He had suggested they stop for a drink, before Ray drove him home, suspecting the Detective might not be ready to face the house full of visitors that might be awaiting him. He understood it was Ray's duty to be there to greet them, but Welsh was sure most people would probably just stop briefly at the trailer, since Mrs. Kowalski had been so distraught at the service. The Mountie would know the proper etiquette for the visitors and would deal with them and Mrs. Kowalski efficiently, as he did everything else. Despite Kowalski's attempts to hide his despair, Welsh knew the Detective was hanging by an emotional thread right now
        However, now that he had Kowalski here, Welsh didn't know what to do with him. All they had ever talked about was work and Fraser; they never saw each other socially. So far, they had briefly discussed a couple of the cases Ray had been working on, and how nice the service had been. Welsh really didn't want to delve any deeper about Ray's father, unless the Detective brought it up first. Unfortunately, Kowalski wasn't offering additional topics, but seemed to be unusually patient about Welsh's inadequacies at making small talk. The Lieutenant didn't know how to take that.
         "Do you need anything, Detective?" he inquired, as he raised his arm toward the waitress, indicating he needed a refill of his drink. Ray shrugged.
         "Dunno," he admitted, reaching for the small bowl of popcorn on the table between them. "Guess not." He tossed a few of the kernels into his mouth and glanced toward the door as two large men entered.
        Welsh mimicked his observation and smirked. Contrary to popular belief, a cop's awareness didn't shut down when they clocked out, they were always working. Kowalski reminded Welsh so much of himself not too many years ago.
         "Not much of a conversationalist are ya?" Welsh taunted, as the waitress arrived with his fresh drink. He watched her gaze at Ray with subtle interest, but the Detective's eyes were still on the two men settling at the bar. Sometimes the blond was as obtuse as his Canadian partner.
         "Sorry Lieu," he offered, quietly. He returned his attention to his commander. "Guess I'm used to Fraser, he usually does all the talkin'." Welsh chuckled.
         "Yah, I suppose," he agreed. "But we're two average guys, sharin' a drink. Surely we can find somethin' to talk about." He wanted to put Kowalski at ease somehow, whether it was by discussing what was bothering the younger man, or staying off the topic and pretending a little bit of normalcy for awhile.
         "I don't have much to say, Sir," Ray stated, softly. Welsh watched him pick at the label on his beer and hide his eyes beneath long, dark lashes. Welsh had gotten him to remove the damned dark glasses by choosing a pub that had very dim lighting and Ray couldn't see in there with the glasses on.
         "Fair enough," Welsh agreed. Either the alcohol was affecting him worse then he thought, or he was being decidedly maudlin. "Yer human, Ray. Every now and then, things even get to someone as rough and inflexible as you."
         "We're all human, Lieu," Ray replied with a sad smile. "Life sucks, you deal with it best ya can."
         "Yer right," Welsh agreed. "I don't usually let things get me down, either. I can't really afford to be emotionally drawn in to the crap we have to deal with. I won't be able to do my job right if I do." Ray nodded in agreement. "But sometimes, no matter how much you try, it happens and there's nothing you can do about it."
         "Just carry on," Ray murmured, quietly.
         Welsh nodded and tossed back his drink, swallowing half of it. Ray pushed the bowl of popcorn toward him discreetly. Welsh chuckled and accepted a handful, knowing the Detective was just trying to get something into his stomach other than alcohol, but not being pushy or judgmental. He understood that Kowalski respected their individual positions, in and outside work. He also knew the Detective was thick headed and it was going to take all of Welsh's ability to get the young man to open up and accept help.
         "Y' know, we're outside work, Ray," he insisted, suddenly. "Even the Duck Boys don't call me Sir outside work."
         "Sorry, Lieu," Ray offered, but that only seemed to annoy his superior further.
         "Dat's the same thing as sayin' Sir," he reminded, sourly. "I know I'm yer commanding officer, Detective, but dat doesn't mean we can't be, y'know, just a couple of regular Joes outside work."
         Ray stared at him, unsure what to say. He didn't feel right calling him Harding and he only called his superior Welsh when he was talking to someone else about him. Usually it was just Sir or Lieu, which was more of a nickname for the Lieutenant than anything.
         "Detective," Welsh began quietly, bringing Ray back from his own thoughts.
         "Yes, Sir?" he returned.
         "Is dat the same beer you had when we first got here?" Welsh demanded, suspiciously, and Ray nodded. "Dat won't do. When someone invites you out fer a drink, you have to match what he's drinkin'."
         Ray watched his Lieutenant signal the waitress and order a bottle of scotch this time and an extra glass. Ray started to refuse. He had never even tasted scotch before, and usually he stuck to whisky when he did drink. Even then, he diluted it with something; he never drank the hard stuff straight. Welsh brushed his protests aside and filled both of their glasses.
         "Drink up, Detective," Welsh ordered and Ray sighed. He knew the Lieutenant was trying to help, but Ray could never accept help easily; not when it was about something so personal.
          He set his half-empty beer on the table and picked up the glass. He'd started to sip it but from the way Welsh was watching him he figured he'd better drink it as his superior had. He cracked his neck in preparation, sniffed suspiciously, and tossed the drink back. He couldn't help wincing as the liquid fire burned his throat all the way down to his stomach. He almost dropped the glass, as he started coughing, uncontrollably. Welsh just smiled and poured him another drink.
         "It'll put hair on yer chest," the older man teased, when Ray finally caught his breath.
         "And take the paint of my car," he wheezed and Welsh laughed.
          Ray grinned sheepishly and wrapped his fingers around the glass again. He'd sip this one, regardless of the looks his superior was giving him. One of them needed to be able to drive. Welsh decided to sip his fresh drink as well
         "Yer a pretty good kid, Ray," he decided and Ray glanced up, startled, then quickly lowered his eyes again. He traced his left eyebrow and cheek with his thumbnail self-consciously, as Welsh continued. "It's funny. I always wanted a son, but Maureen couldn't have any kids. Dat was okay, I knew dat when I married her, but the desire was still there, y'know?"
         Ray nodded. He did know. He had felt that same desire with Stella, but his ex-wife had wanted a career not children. He was without children by her choice, not a medical condition. He knew his parents had wanted grandchildren, and Ray had disappointed them. Tim had kids, but they lived in California and rarely came to Chicago.
        He suspected that Welsh would have made a very cool father. Ray considered him to be a very admirable man. In some ways, Ray thought of him as a father figure, but when he realized that, he felt a knot growing inside his stomach. His father was dead and here he was looking for another, how sick was that? He was pulled from his thoughts once again by Welsh's sudden wistful chuckle.
         "What's worse is, I'm a wanna-be father without a son and your father had a son he didn't seem to want," he stated and Ray winced. He was sure the Lieutenant wasn't being so insensitive on purpose, it was probably the alcohol talking.
         "It's...It ain't like dat," Ray defended, quietly. "My dad just...I know he loves...loved me, he just...he got his hopes up about certain things and...I just kept disappointing him. It's wasn't his fault I ain't the greatest son." He was shocked to find himself admitting that to Welsh, but he was even more surprised by the older man's response.
         "Shut up."
         "Huh," Ray gaped at him and Welsh leaned more on the table and shook his finger at him, deliberately.
         "I never want to hear dat crap out of you again," he decided, firmly. "Yer father died and it's sad, Ray, but the real tragedy of all dis is your father was a fool."
         "Don't say dat," Ray demanded, meeting his superior's gaze, angrily. "My dad wasn't a fool, he just..." Welsh's words interrupted him.
        "I'm not trying to be disrespectful, Ray," he assured, "But yer father was a fool because he couldn't see just how great a son you are. Don't let his blindness screw up how you look at yerself. Yer a damn good cop and an even better human being, and don't you let anyone else tell ya different." Welsh tossed back the rest of his drink and continued. "If you were my son, I'd be takin out a freakin' ad in da newspapers declarin' my pride in ya."
         Ray continued to stare at him, dumfounded. He felt a warm glow settle around him at Welsh's words, or it could be the slight buzz he was receiving from the scotch. Either way, he was honored to have the older man's respect. What could he say to something like that? Anything he tried to say would probably come out wrong, it always did.
        His father had never said anything like that to him, never said the things Ray had been desperate to hear. Yet, here was a man that Ray respected and admired, and had only known a few months, offering him a respect and acceptance that Ray had spent most of his life craving. Why couldn't it have been this easy with Damien? Why couldn't Ray's father have accepted him for who and what he was, the way Welsh, a practical stranger, seemed willing to do? It was so unfair.
    "I don't mean to sound so preachy, Ray," Welsh offered, when the Detective still hadn't spoken. He was concerned he had crossed the line and offended the younger man. "My father's still alive and kickin' and you know we don't get along, either." He reached a large hand across and placed it over Ray's, where it rested on the table. "I'm just sayin', I know dere were things left unsaid between you and him and...and I understand how angry and confused yer feelin' right now."
        Ray shook his head and lowered his eyes again mournfully. He pulled his hand out from under Welsh's, momentarily uncomfortable with the physical contact. The golf ball sized lump in his throat had grown to the size of a baseball, and his Adam's Apple bobbed furiously in an attempt to dislodge it.
        "If you feel the need to talk, I'm here," Welsh continued, gruffly. "Not as yer boss, but as a friend, okay?" Unable to speak, Ray nodded and rose from the table.
        "I...I have to get home," he stated, in a half whisper and Welsh rose as well.     "I'll...I'll drop you."
        Welsh tossed some bills on the table and headed out to the GTO, where an anxious Diefenbaker was waiting in the back seat. The bar wouldn't allow the wolf inside, so he had been forced to wait in the car. Ray slid behind the wheel and revved the engine a little to warm it up against the cold outside. Welsh settled in the passenger seat and remained quiet during the drive. When they pulled up at his house a short time later, Ray reached across and laid a hand on the Lieutenant's arm, halting his exit.
        "T...thanks fer..." his hand dropped and he turned to stare out the windshield again. "Thanks." Welsh nodded, in gentle understanding and stepped out. Ray waited until the older man had made it up the slippery walk, before driving off again.
 
 

         Ray returned to the trailer about an hour later. A couple of people were there still, dropping off food, and he spoke with them briefly. Fraser mentioned that Stella had been there for quite awhile, but had to leave. As soon as everyone else was gone and he had checked on his Mother, who was still sleeping, Ray grabbed a beer from the fridge and offered Fraser a bottle of water.
         He wandered over to settle on the sofa and Fraser followed, settling back into the recliner. Ray hadn't spoken much, other than to say thank you to their visitors. He was still wearing his glasses and the Mountie wanted to suggest he take them off, but he sensed Ray was using them for protection. It had been heartbreaking to witness Barbara Kowalski's torment at the gravesite and Ray's attempt to calm her. Ray was not much better off and Fraser guessed his partner was very close to his own emotional breakdown.
         He sipped his water and glanced back at his partner, who still had made no attempt at conversation. Ray had not moved from his position, not even to take another drink of the beer in his hand. Fraser watched the gentle rise and fall of his partner's chest and grew suspicious. He rose quietly, set his drink on the coffee table, and carefully pulled Ray's glasses off.
         Sure enough, the Detective had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Fraser set his friend's glasses next to his own beer and gently removed the other bottle from Ray's hand, setting that on the table as well. He carefully pulled his partner forward into his arms and settled him sideways on the sofa, then propped Ray's legs up on the sofa. Slipping Ray's boots off, Fraser pulled the afghan from the back and draped it over his sleeping friend.
         Satisfied that Ray would probably stay asleep the remainder of the night, Fraser picked up both beers and moved to the kitchen to dump them in the sink. With nothing else to do, he started to rearrange the refrigerator and make room for the multitude of dishes that people had delivered after the funeral.
         "How's the yank, Son?" Robert Fraser inquired, startling his son into almost dropping the dish of tuna salad.,
         "Dad," he hissed, then quickly lowered his voice to avoid waking Ray. "I've asked you not to do that."
         "Do what, Son?" Robert Fraser volleyed, innocently.
         "Pop in and out like that without warning," Fraser growled and watched his father sigh. Today he was wearing his heavy winter coat, fur hat and mittens.
         "I can't control when I come and go, Son," he replied. "That's all your doing." Fraser grimaced. If it was his doing, why did his father always appear when Fraser least expected or wanted him to? Robert Fraser continued to speak, oblivious to his son's thoughts. "Now, how's the yank doing?"
         "Ray will be fine, Dad," Fraser sighed. Fraser Sr. moved to stare down at the Detective.
         "His color's bad, Son," he commented, grimly
         "Ray is naturally pale, Dad," Fraser explained, unconcerned. "As I am." It wouldn't do to explain Ray's pallor was more then likely do to not eating properly and lack of sleep the last few days. Fraser Sr. grunted.
         "But his breathing isn't right, Benton,look for yourself," he insisted.
         Fraser rose and joined his Father to inspect his partner more closely. Ray's breath was coming sounding rather harsh and his eyes moved with lightening speed beneath his shuttered eyelids.
         "He's probably just dreaming, Dad," Fraser stated softly. "He's been through a lot lately."
         "Maybe you should wake him up, then," his father suggested.
         "I will not wake him up, Dad," Fraser refused firmly. "Ray needs his sleep."
         "Better wake him, Son," Robert pressed. "It's not a good dream he's having." Fraser paused and looked down at his partner once again. Ray did look tormented and even a little scared. He walked around and knelt beside his friend to gently shake him awake, so as not to startle him any further.
         "Wha...? Ray bolted awake and took a moment before focusing on the Mountie positioned above him. "F...Fraser? What are you doin' here?"
         "I've been here since you arrived, Ray," Fraser explained, gently. "Remember?" Ray blinked a few times, then relaxed back against the cushions, tossing an arm over his eyes.
         "Oh, right," he muttered, not quite awake. "You can leave now if ya want. We're okay."
         "I'd like to stay if you don't mind, Ray," Fraser offered and Ray shrugged, already starting to drift off again.
         "Whatever," he murmured and a moment later he was asleep again.
         Fraser rose and noticed his father had disappeared again. He shook his head in exasperation and returned to the kitchen.
 

         Fraser looked up from the book he was reading at the sound of his partner's sudden whimpering. He set his book aside, carefully avoided stepping on the wolf at his feet, and moved to kneel beside the sofa. He watched as the tears that his friend had fought so hard to suppress while he was awake reigned free while Ray slept.
         "Oh, Ray," Fraser whispered, sympathetically. He understood his friend's torment all too well.
         He folded one of the Detective's hands inside his own and caught some of the tears with the tip of his finger. He understood the need to appear brave and resilient in front of others, but was relieved Ray could at least let go of some of his suffering in sleep. The blond made no sound, other then a few sharp, intakes of breath, as the tears crept silently down his cheeks forlorn and unchecked.
         The Mountie had only seen Ray cry once before and that was in the GTO, after they had brought Beth Botrell home from prison. His partner's heart-wrenching sobs had torn into Fraser's soul deeper than any knife ever could. Fraser could do nothing but place a hand on Ray's shoulder and listen to him cry. It wasn't in Fraser to do more, at that time, but working with and being around the emotionally charged Detective had helped loosen Fraser's own rigid behavior.
         However, this silent weeping was more difficult to witness than Ray's previous despair. The knowledge that the Detective seemed only to release such pain in his sleep was also very tragic. Fraser was determined to be here for his friend, to do whatever he needed to do, so Ray and his mother would get through this difficult time.
         The Mountie had the support of his grandparents when his Mother died, but the older couple was too much like their son, Robert. They were rigid and disciplined and against emotional displays. Fraser learned to deal with his grief by shutting down his feelings and burying the pain and anger way down deep, where it would never be released. His father was rarely there and could not be depended on for a shoulder to cry on.
         Then, as a teenager, Fraser lost both his guardians within six months of each other, and he went to stay with Buck Frobisher, his father's partner and best friend. Robert Fraser was still gone seven and eight months out of the year, only making it home for a few days at a time, before setting off again. Buck was very similar to Fraser's own father, but he was much more generous with his praise for a job well done. Buck's daughter Julie was also a wonderful source of support for Fraser, and Buck seemed to approve of their relationship.
         When Robert Fraser had been killed, Fraser thought he would not survive the intense grief that invaded him. It was almost the final nail in his coffin, and Fraser once again shut down emotionally. Like Ray, there had been so much left unsaid between them and had happened without warning. However, Robert Fraser still spoke to his son, and at least some of the guilt and injustice Fraser felt at his father's death had been relieved because of that small miracle. Fraser doubted Ray would get the same chance with Damien Kowalski. He suddenly felt guilty for having been so harsh with his father earlier and offered a silent apology to the spirit of Robert Fraser.

        Damien had stormed into the kitchen where Ray was helping his Mother prepare dinner. He stared at his son for a long time before approaching them. He spun Ray around and slapped him hard across the mouth, causing Barbara to gasp in horror.
         "Damien!" she exclaimed aghast, and moved toward her son, concerned. Damien gently pushed her back away from them.
         "Stay out of this, Barbara," he warned. Ray stared at his father, still holding a hand to his face in surprise.
         "What did I do?" he demanded, his voice filled with shocked confusion.
         "When were you planning on tellin' us you had dropped out of school, Raymond," Damien inquired furiously, and again his wife gasped.
        When Ray had met Stella, he had started going by his middle name, because she didn't like the name Stanley any more than Ray had. Damien Kowalski had abided the decision, but always used the formal version of his son's name.
Ray lowered his eyes and cursed silently. Oh well, it was out now, may as well get it over with.
         "Tonight, after dinner," he admitted, quietly.
         "Why Stanley?" Barbara implored, ignoring her husband's earlier order and cradling Ray's face between her tiny hands. "Are you having trouble in school? Are the courses too difficult? Is someone picking on you?"
         "No, Mum," he assured, gently. "Nothing like dat. I...I just don't want a degree in business."
         "Then pick something else, damnit, but you are going back to school," his father decreed and Ray glared at him.
         "I have picked something else, Dad," Ray defended, boldly. "I'm gonna be a cop." Silence. Suddenly Barbara started crying and Damien started cursing.
         "Like hell you are," he refused hotly. "Yer going back to school and use the education I worked hard to give you!"
         "No, Dad," Ray refused, adamantly. He hated upsetting his parents, but this was something he had to do. "School is no good for someone like me, it isn't what I'm about. I want to help people, protect you and Mum."
         "Then become a Doctor," his father howled. "I'll pay for the damn change of classes, but don't become a stinking cop!"
         "Oh, Stanley," Barbara sobbed. "A police officer is such a dangerous job, you could get hurt or killed or..."
         "I could also get hit by a bus crossin' the street tomorrow, Mum," Ray reminded, kindly.
         "Raymond," his father began, trying to reason with his son. "I slaved all those years in that Godforsaken plant, workin' twelve and fifteen hours a day and comin' home with the smell of blood and death on me, so you could go to school and find a better job. I don't want my son having to work as hard as I did. I want something better for you." Ray's gaze softened on his father.
         "I know that, Dad," Ray assured, "and I appreciate all you did, but it's not like I'm droppin' out to go work in the mills, or a slaughterhouse like you had to. I'm gonna make dis my career."
         "Being a cop is no different from being a butcher, Raymond," Damien protested. "You just come home with a different stink on you, the stink of scum bags and drunks and murderers. It's all the same, and it's no way to live."
         "I want to make a difference..." Ray began. Barbara tried to soothe him.
         "May...maybe you could be like your Dad said, become a Doctor, sweetheart."
         "I hate hospitals, Mum," he reminded. "I ain't too fond of dead bodies, either."
         "You think you won't end up seeing both as a cop, Raymond," his father pressed. "The streets are lined with them, and you'll be the one expected to pick up the pieces."
         "I'm gonna be a cop, not a mortician, Dad," Ray explained. "Sure I might see some, but on average I won't." He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "This is what I want, why can't you just understand dat and support me on it?"
         "I forbid you to do it, Raymond," Damien declared, watching his son's eyes narrow on him dangerously. "Yer Mother and I will have nothin' to do with dis nonsense. We don't want to get the call in the middle of the night telling us some drug pusher has killed our son because he was doin' his job. So if you do this, yer on yer own."
          Rarely did Raymond disobey or confront his parents; he had too much respect for them, but this time Damien had gone too far.
         "Fine," Ray decided and tuned out his Mother's cry of despair.
          Ray felt like crying himself. This wasn't how he wanted it to be. He loved both his parents and he didn't want them to be so upset with him, but this was his choice.
         "Den we're agreed," Damien replied, relieved, misunderstanding his son's acknowledgment. "We'll go to the Dean at your school on Monday and see if..."
         "I'm not goin' back to school, Dad," Ray vowed, softly, and Damien was startled by the dangerous edge in his son's voice. "I'll be starting the police academy on Monday."
         "Didn't you hear what I just said, Raymond?" Damien demanded, angrily. "We won't have anything to do with this nonsense. You'll be on yer own."
         "I said fine," Ray replied in a growling timber. "I didn't want it to be dis way, for either of you, I love you both very much, but I am gonna be a cop, with or without yer support."
         "Stanley, no," his Mother cried. She went to throw her arms around him, but Ray stepped back; he couldn't handle her comfort right now.
         He'd be lost if she showed him that affection that he always craved, to feel safe in her arms as he always had. He would have to get used to not being safe and not feeling loved. Still, it was his choice.
         "Stell and I are engaged," he continued, honestly. He had wanted to break that over dinner as well, but there was little point in that now. "We've set the date for the week after my graduation from the academy, which should be in about four months. You are invited to both."
         Ray turned from them and left the kitchen. He heading for his room in the basement as Barbara pleaded with her husband to go after him. Ray had always depended on his father for the important decisions, had always listened to his father's advice. Ray knew Damien didn't think his son knew anything about the real world, and wouldn't really go off and fend for himself.
         "Damien, if we lose him because of this, I swear I will never speak to you..." Barbara broke off as their son appeared with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "Stanley! Where are you going? You just got home!"
         "Dad's right, Mum," Ray stated, quietly. "I have to do this on my own, dat's the way he wants it, dat's how it will be done." He faced his father and pulled out an envelope, which he dropped on the counter. "I've been out of school almost two months, been working a couple of different jobs and stayin' with a friend." The fact that the friend was Stella seemed unimportant to mention at the time. "Dat's most of what you paid fer my tuition. I'll send you the rest when I get out of the Academy."
         Damien picked up the envelope and stared at the money inside with surprise and sadness.
         "I don't want yer money, Raymond," he insisted as his voice caught in his throat. "I want you to go back to school, to be somebody."
         "I am somebody, Dad," Ray returned. "I'm yer son, and soon I'll be Stella's husband. That's fer you and Mum and for Stell. Because I love and am loved, I'll always be somebody, Dad, but dis is fer me, just fer me. It's what I want to do. Maybe one day you'll understand dat." Damien could only shake his head in disappointment and Ray lowered his eyes before bending to kiss his Mother goodbye.
         "Don't do this, Stanley," she pleaded a final time. "Don't leave like this. Don't be like your brother." Ray smirked. His father and brother had not spoken in almost five years, but they always wanted him to be more like Timothy, until now.
         "I'm not him, Mum," he assured. "I'm still part of dis family and I love you both, regardless of anything else. I won't ever not speak or see you, yer my Mum."
         "Where will you go?" she demanded, chasing him to the door. "Where will you sleep tonight? Have you got enough money to eat? How...?"
         "I'll be fine," he assured and pulled open the front door. His gaze lifted over his Mother's worried face to meet his father's intent stare.
         "Don't do this, Raymond," he warned. There was a tremor in the older man's voice that Ray had never heard before. "We're yer parents and we know what is best fer you."
         "I have to do dis, Dad," Ray stated, regretfully, and stepped outside.
         He tied the bag to his motorcycle and pulled on his helmet and jacket. Damien came to stand beside his sobbing wife, who watched their son from the doorway of their home. Ray cast a glance with a wistful longing toward the tarp covered GTO that he and his father had been rebuilding for the past seven years. With a sigh, he pulled the strap of his helmet a little tighter and attempted to kick-start the bike.
         "Go to him," Ray heard his Mother urge Damien. "Tell him you were wrong, before he leaves us forever."
         "I'm not wrong," Damien refused. "He'll realize that soon enough. He'll understand why I had to put my foot down. He'll never make it as a policeman, Barbara, he hasn't the stamina or the drive fer it. He'll be back." The bike's engine soon drowned out any more words as Ray shifted into gear and rode off.
 

        Ray awoke with a start as he heard the clanging of pots from the kitchen. He was face down on the sofa, a blanket over him, but was unable to remember falling asleep. He ran his hands over his face tiredly, and started to swing his leg down. He brushed against something solid and glanced down at the Mountie on the floor beside the sofa. Fraser had retrieved one of the sofa cushions and was stretched out on his back asleep, with Dief curled beside him.
         Ray carefully pulled his legs up under him, in a kneeling position, then crawled over the back of the sofa so he wouldn't disturb his partner. He draped the afghan he had been using over Fraser and scratched Dief behind the ears when the animal raised his head to look at him. Then, Ray moved to the kitchen, where his mother was cooking breakfast. Still looking very pale and tired, she had changed into a brightly colored shirt and a pair of jeans. She smiled when she spotted him.
         "Stanley," she greeted and moved to cradle his face for a couple of quick kisses, before returning to the stove. "You're just in time for breakfast, honey."
         "You don't have to cook anything fer us, Mum," he protested, but she hushed him with a wave of her hand and placed two more pieces of bacon in the skillet.
         "Oh, nonsense," she scoffed lightly, turning to whip the bowl of eggs she had started. "If I didn't cook, who would feed you? Yer just like yer father, Stanley, you both need looking after." Ray didn't know what to say. Barbara saved him from responding by continuing. "Now, set the table like a good boy and call yer father. He's probably down by the lake, he likes to walk there early in the mornings."
         Ray felt his heart to drop into his stomach. Oh God! Was he going to have to keep reminding his Mother of her husband's death? He couldn't face a repeat performance of what happened at the cemetery. He shook his head remorsefully and watched her putter about the kitchen. He ran his hands through his hair in a vain attempt to squeeze the sudden headache from his temples.
         "Stanley," Barbara insisted, turning to find he had not moved. "Yer breakfast will get cold. Now go call yer father." Ray took a deep breath and opened his mouth to say the words, but nothing came out. He tried a few times, but could not force the tragic reminder past his lips.
         "Why don't we go fetch him together, Ray?" Fraser offered suddenly, from behind them. Ray was startled by the sound of his partner's voice. Although he was used to the Mountie's quiet movements, Fraser's stealth still managed scare him on occasion. "Okay," Ray croaked, as Barbara smiled at Fraser in delight.
         "I didn't know you were here, Benton," she beamed. "Don't worry, there's plenty for four." Dief woofed and she chuckled. "Maybe even five."
         "Thank you kindly, Mrs. Kowalski," Fraser offered and set his hand on Ray's shoulder to steer him toward the door.
         The moment they were outside, Ray moved from the Mountie's touch and stormed toward the water. He dropped down on the snow-covered bank and wrapped his arms around his knees, oblivious to the cold. Fraser settled beside him, watching Ray rock himself and staring out at the water.
         "I can't do dis, Fraser," the Detective whispered, tormented. "I can't keep remindin' her. I...I barely register it myself. I...I'm hangin' by a thread, Buddy-I don't know what to do."
         "You will do whatever you have to do to get through this, Ray," Fraser soothed. "Just as you always do. You always find a way to cope with difficulty, and you will this time as well."
         "I...I don't know how to help her, Frase," Ray confessed. "I don't know what to say to make it better." Fraser nodded. It was always difficult to judge the depth of someone else's grief.
         "Just be here for her, Ray," he offered, kindly. "As you have always been." Ray shrugged.
         "I'm just her son," he sniffed. "He was her husband."
         "He was also your father, Ray," Fraser reminded, firmly. "It's a great loss to you as well, never forget that. You have to let yourself grieve too, Ray." Ray shook his head.
         "I can't," he refused. "If...if I do dat, I'll never get back together again, Fraser."
         "I know it feels like that now, Ray," Fraser agreed, quietly. "It won't always. You can't heal if you don't attain closure, and the only way to do that is to express your grief." Ray rose angrily to his feet and Fraser followed.
         "I don't have time fer dat, Fraser," he exclaimed. Fraser understood Ray's anger was a product of his grief and not because of anything the Mountie had done. "I have to take care of my Mum! She keeps fergettin' Dad's...." Again the words caught in his throat and he swallowed, bitterly disgusted with his lack of courage.
         "Her sorrow is still fresh, Ray," Fraser insisted. "Many people go through denial or revert to the past to deal with a sudden loss. Your Mother will be fine, she just needs time."
         "So what do I do, Fraser?" Ray demanded. Fraser could see his friend was both frustrated and a little frightened. "Do I tell her he's gone on an extended trip to dat great Fishin' Hole in the sky? Maybe I should tell her he's developed a serum dat makes him invisible, is dat what I should do, Fraser? Is dat what yer Canadian logic dictates is the proper way to deal with someone dat is goin' off the deep end?"
         "Ray, calm down," Fraser suggested, concerned his friend was bordering on hysterical, but his words only provoked Ray's anger.
         "Calm down," he repeated affronted. "Is dat what I should do? I should calm down? Why the fuck don't you mind yer own business, Mountie? Tell me to calm down...I don't need to calm down, God Damnit, I'm perfectly calm. My life is a fuckin' dream! I couldn't be better. I have a Mother who is in denial of her dead husband and a bother that can't be bothered about his father's death. I'm living another man's life, so I have to pretend I don't care about any of dis, and you want me to calm down!"
         "Ray," Fraser began. His friend was practically screaming now and people in the surrounding trailers were starting to peer out their windows. "Ray, I understand this is hard..."
         "This isn't hard, Fraser," Ray refused, still in that semi hysterical tone. "Dis is a piece of cake. The hard part's done. Dad died, we gave him a proper funeral and he had a great turn out. We buried him under six feet of dirt, in half of the plot him and Mum picked out, wit a real nice headstone and all the trimmin's and now he's dere...in the cold and the dark wit the insects and the..." Ray's voice broke and he turned away.
         Fraser moved to embrace him from behind. Ray fought against the comfort for only a moment before allowing his legs to give way and they both fell to their knees in the snow. Fraser continued to hold his trembling partner in the comfort of his arms, allowing Ray to rock them slightly as he tried to console himself.
         "It's okay, Ray," Fraser soothed, blinking back his own tears at his friend's distress. It was not so long ago he was going through this same tragedy, but at least he still got to talk to his father. "It gets easier, it's okay. Your father will always be with you, Ray. You carry him in your thoughts and in your heart. He'll never be gone completely."
         "So much..." Ray muttered angrily. "There was so much we shoulda said, so much I wanted to tell him and...and so much I waited a lifetime to hear him say. Now I'll never get the chance to tell him and he'll never say those things to me, Frase."
         "I know," Fraser murmured, "some things are harder to say than others. But he loved you, Ray, and he knows you loved him very much."
         "I don't know what to do, Ben," Ray confessed in a nearly inaudible pitch. "Tell me what to do. Please God, tell me what to do."
         Fraser gathered him closer and continued to rock him, humming softly a tune his Mother used to sing to him. Ray's rigidly coiled form began to relax slightly and he leaned back against the Mounties's warm chest. They both cast their eyes upon the water and prayed for an absolution.
 

        Ray signed the final report and tossed it into his out tray, then leaned back in his chair and tried to work the kink out of his neck from sitting so long. His brother Timothy had finally arrived a few days before, almost a week after their father's funeral. He claimed he had been stuck on some safari that he and his wife had taken and couldn't be reached by conventional means. Both had visited with Barbara Kowalski for only a few hours yesterday, then showed up early that morning at the trailer.
        Vivian was the epitome of a supportive daughter-in law, and had immediately taken over the housework and cooking for Barbara. Stella Kowalski had taken time off work to also help get things in order for her ex-Mother in law, and was not impressed by Vivian's sudden attention. She shared Ray's opinion that the couple only showed up when they had to, and usually were looking for something in return.
        Although Ray and Stella barely spoke when they were together, the Detective usually made himself scarce once his ex-wife arrived on the scene. However, Tim and Vivian were family and his Mother had been so happy to see them, that Ray was forced to swallow his anger.
         He decided to give them some privacy and had headed into the station to finish up some paperwork on a few of his cases. Officially he was not yet back to duty, so he didn't need to stay beyond what he wanted. He rose and reached behind him to grab the coat hanging on his chair. He headed out, shrugging into the garment and slipping his shades on.
        "Ray," Francesca called as he started passed her desk. He paused to give her his attention. "C...Could I talk to ya fer a minute?"
        "What do you need, Frannie?" he demanded, quietly. "I'm on our way out."
        "It'll just take a minute," she assured. He sighed and followed the pretty Italian to the supply closet. He raised an eyebrow, suspiciously.
        "Is dis necessary?" he inquired when she opened the door and pulled him inside with her.
        "Yes," she insisted, closing the door and reaching for the light above. "We need privacy."
        "I don't know where Fraser is, Frannie," he began, assuming that was her dilemma; it almost always involved the Mountie. "He's doin' some kinda seminar thing with Thatcher. So, can I go?"
         Ray was startled when she started to put her arms around him and he stepped back warily. He had been refraining from physical contact ever since his father died, and his reaction was not lost on his pretend sister. Other than the episode with Fraser, he had not allowed or accepted physical comfort from anyone else. Francesca paused a moment, meeting his suspiciously bright eyes, and then moved closer. She slowly embraced him and Ray grew still, unwilling to return the embrace.
        "I care about you," she whispered in his ear. "We all do. Don't push us away. It's okay to show yer hurting, Ray."
        "I'll remember dat," he muttered and started to pull away. The sadness in her eyes gave him pause and he relented. He had intended to just briefly return the embrace, but she hung on tight once she had her arms locked around him. He tried to pull away and she hung on harder, demanding he take the comfort she was offering.
        "Please," she requested, softly. "Let me, Ray. Let me be yer sister, fer real. Just fer now?"
        "Don't, Frannie," he hissed, feeling his careful control starting to slip. "I'm not..."
        "Let me care, Ray," she whispered, ignoring his protests and capturing his face between her hands. "I do care, a lot. Please accept it?"
        "Frannie," he croaked, hating himself for letting her get past his defenses. He groaned in defeat as her lips touched his and he accepted the kiss, like a man starving. Francesca fed his hunger, easily, pulling him closer and caressing him with her hands that seemed everywhere at once. For the first time since his father's death, Ray's mind was occupied with an entirely different subject and he reveled in it.
        "Frannie!" he exclaimed, breathlessly, when they finally broke apart. "Why...why did you do dat?" That had been far removed from a sisterly response. She smiled and wiped her lipstick from his mouth.
        "Because, you let me," she replied, patting his cheek affectionately. "I've got really good shoulders too, if you wanna...use them sometime." Ray nodded in understanding and briefly hugged her again, before stepping back and dropping his arms to his sides.
        "Thanks, Frannie." She smiled sympathetically and opened the door of the closet. They stepped out as Ray's cell phone rang. He flipped it open. "Vecchio?"
        "Ray," Stella greeted, urgently. "I'm at Mum's. You need to get over here." Ray's heart leapt up into his throat, his body already moving for the door.
        "What's wrong?" he demanded, praying his Mother was okay.
        "It's Timothy, Ray," Stella insisted. "They're taking things out of the trailer and Mum's letting them. It isn't right, Ray. They're taking advantage of Mum's grief."
        "Don't let 'em leave, Stell," Ray ordered as he slid behind the wheel of the GTO. "I'll be dere in less than ten minutes."
        "Okay, Ray," Stella agreed and rung off. Ray slammed the gear into drive and peeled out of the precinct's back lot.
        He really did not want to deal with this right now, but when push came to shove, he knew he had to protect his Mother, even against his own brother. He pulled up to the trailer minutes later and leapt from the car. Vivian was placing a box of what looked like dishes in the back of their mini van. Ray walked over and grabbed the box from her.
        "What the hell do you think yer doing?" he demanded, angrily.
        "Now, Stanley..." she began as Timothy walked out of the trailer with another carton. "Mum doesn't need all of this stuff anymore. We're just helping her..."
        "Helpin' her out of house and home," Ray finished as Stella exited the trailer and hurried toward them. He handed her the box he had taken from his sister-in law and turned to face his brother. "Put it back."
        "Mum said it was okay, Stan," Timothy assured, arrogantly. "She's said she can't use this stuff anymore and..." Ray stepped up to him.
        "Mum is sick with grief," Ray growled. "She doesn't know what she's sayin'. Now put everything back." Timothy sneered at him.
        "You're not the man of the house just because Dad's gone, Stan," he stated. "I'm older than you and I'll decide what's best fer Mum." He placed the box inside the van and turned to smile at Ray smugly. "You're the screw up, remember? I've always been the better son, so don't start getting delusions of grandeur now. Mum doesn't need all this stuff anymore, so we'll get it out of her way."
        "The hell you will," Ray refused. "You'll be pickin' yer teeth up off da floor if ya try, Tim." Timothy smirked and shook his head.
        "You think I'm afraid of you and your hoodlum posture, Stan?" he challenged. "I'm not worried. I'm older, wiser, and stronger. You don't scare me, brother dear." Ray wiggled his head slightly, then suddenly pulled his badge. Vivian and Stella stared in shock, but Timothy only blinked.
        "Yer all of dat, Timmy boy," Ray agreed, menacingly. "But, I'm the one with the authority to arrest you fer theft."
        "We aren't stealing anything," Vivian protested. "Mom gave us permission..."
        "Mum is in a bereaved state of grief and can't be held accountable fer her words or action," Ray quoted. "Any decisions she makes under such emotional duress are void and invalid. Anyone benefitin' from such decisions will be under investigation fer fraud and conspiracy to commit fraud." His eyes narrowed, dangerously. "You wanna take dis downtown, Timmy, 'cause I'm good ta go."
        "You're bluffing," Timothy denied, warily. "You haven't got the balls to arrest me, your own brother." Ray pulled his cuffs from the loop in his belt and snapped them, effectively.
        "You have the right to remain silent," he began, spinning his older brother around and slamming him against the car, in a lightning quick movement. "You have the right to an attorney..."
        "Wait," Timothy demanded, panicking when he felt the hard metal click against his skin. "You're crazy! This is such bullshit!"
        "You can put the stuff back and I'll forget about it," Ray offered fiercely. "Or we go downtown. Yer choice." Timothy glanced at his wife, frustrated, then nodded. Ray removed the cuffs and stepped back. "Now, take everything back in and tell Mum you changed yer minds about her givin' anything away."
        "You think you can just take over, Stanley?" Timothy dared, as he picked up one of the boxes from the van. "You have no clue. We want what's best for Mum..."
        "You want what's best for you," Ray snarled. "Like always. Now move it back inside." Vivian grabbed a box, reluctantly, and hurried after her husband. Stella stepped up to Ray as he placed his cuffs back in their holder.
        "That was the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard come out of your mouth, Ray Kowalski," she informed as Ray took the carton from her. He lowered his eyes, chagrined, then started to smile when she added. "And also the most brilliant." He shrugged and they headed toward the trailer. "What would you have done if he had called your bluff?"
        "I would have given you my gun and my badge and den knocked da shit out of him," Ray admitted honestly. Stella chuckled and held the door of the trailer open for him, since his arms were full.
        "Always the diplomat, aren't you, dear," she teased and he smirked.
 

        Ray settled on the sofa, in his parents' trailer and started going through the various assortments of papers Barbara had retrieved from her husband's closet. Stella was in the small kitchen preparing a meal for supper.
         "Are you sure you wanna do dis now, Mum?" Ray cautioned. The idea of going through his father's things seemed an invasion of his privacy somehow.
         "We have to, Stanley," she insisted, bravely, as she settled beside him with her cup of tea. "I don't know where the insurance papers and titles to this trailer are and we need to find them." Ray cast her a suspicious look. He understood the need for his father's insurance papers, but couldn't comprehend why his Mother needed the deed to the trailer?
         "Why do we need to find the trailer papers?" he inquired and she lowered her eyes from his.
         "So we can sell it," she confirmed and he gasped.
         "Mum! Why do you want to sell it? Dis is yer home!"
         "Not without yer father it isn't," she decided sadly. "Just like when you kids left, the house on Briar wasn't home anymore. I can't stay here, Stanley, I just can't." She smiled and patted his knee. " Besides, if I sell, I can give you and yer brother some money, too." Ray tried to control his temper. So, that was Timothy's new game?
         "Mum, we don't need any money," he insisted, "and where will you live if you sell dis place?" Barbara started fidgeting with her cup again.
         "Vivian says her aunt lives in a very nice retirement complex. She has her own little room and there are people her age there with a medical staff around the clock for emergencies...." Ray bolted from his seat and stared down at her.
         "I am not putting you in a home, Mum!" he declared, appalled. As a cop he knew the horrors that senior citizens were often subjected to by the hands of so-called medical professionals. He was not about to have his Mother stay in a place like that.
         "I'm not asking you to, Stanley," she reiterated. "I'll go myself and..."
         "No," Ray refused adamantly. He tried to swallow the fury that was building inside him. How dare his brother stoop to such a thing! His eyes met Stella's, who was now watching them from the kitchen, concerned. He lowered his voice, knowing he was frightening his Mother by shouting, and knelt before her. "Mum, you don't have to go away. I...if you really want to sell dis place we will and..." He swallowed. "You'll move in with me." Both, Stella and Barbara's eyes widened in surprise.
         "Stanley!" she exclaimed. "Yer place is too small for both of us, and besides, you have yer own life. I don't want to intrude..."
         "I have no life, Mum," he assured grimly. He was careful not to look at his ex-wife this time. He didn't want her pity. "I'm livin' another man's life and I'm not sure I'll even be doin' dat fer much longer."
         "What do you mean, Stanley?" she demanded, sharply and he shook his head.
         "Never mind dat," he dismissed. "If I need to get a bigger apartment, den I will." He thought for a moment. "Maybe...maybe we'll buy a house. A small house with a garden dat you can putter around in and a swing on the porch. Doesn't dat sound nice, Mum? You an me, in our own little house?"
         "Stanley, you are a grown man, and you do not need yer Mother living with you," Barbara protested and Ray stood.
         "I'm not puttin' you in a home!" he exclaimed. "If you wanna sell dis place, fine, but you'll be movin' in with me if ya do, Mum."
         Barbara stared at her son for a long time, knowing there was no changing his mind. Stanley was so much like his father, she wondered if he realized how much. Perhaps that was why the two never got along as well; they were too much alike. She knew that both men loved the other dearly, but never could express it.
         "Whatever you say, Stanley," she sighed, setting her cup on the coffee table and rising to her feet. "I'm going to go lay down fer awhile." Ray was beside her instantly.
         "I'm sorry I yelled, Mum," he offered softly. She smiled and reached up to caress his cheek. "I...just don't think anymore about goin' to a home, Mum. It ain't right. Screw whatever Vivian told you, I've seen those places and I know what goes on in most of 'em. It isn't right. Yer my Mum and I'm not gonna send you away, not ever. You...you took care of us growin' up, now it's our turn. We'll..." he paused.     "I'll take care of you, Mum. Let me do dis okay?"
         "Okay, Stanley," she acknowledged, affectionately. "I just don't want to be a burden." She sighed again then headed off for her room.
Ray stared after her, forlornly.
        "Yer not a burden, yer my Mum," he corrected, quietly, and to no one in particular.
         He ran a hand through his hair and returned to the sofa, dropping down onto it dispiritedly. Stella walked over and handed him a cup of coffee. He hesitated only a moment before accepting it and watching her settle beside him. Ray took a sip of the brew, then set the cup on the table and started sorting through the papers again.
         "Ray?" Stella inquired quietly, and he glanced at her expectantly. She placed a hand on his shoulder, affectionately. "What did you mean about not being a cop any more?" Ray lowered his eyes and continued to glance through the forms in his hands.
         "Don't worry about it," he returned firmly, but Stella pressed forward.
         "Of course I'm worried about it, Ray," she insisted. "Being a cop is what you do, who you are. Why would you want to give it up?" He shrugged.
         "I gotta take care of Mum, now," he stated, softly. "I can't be here fer her if I'm out workin' cases all hours of the day or night. Besides, if somethin' happens to me, Mum will be alone, Stell. Tim can't be counted on to tie his shoes. He won't take care of her right."
        Stella was silent for a moment as she watched him continue to shuffle through the papers. She had been slightly hurt by his aloofness toward her since Damien's death, but she understood his reasons. Neither of them knew what they were feeling at the moment. They had both lost someone dear to them, yet because of their divorce, they were wary about how to comfort each other.
        She wanted him to let her help with Barbara, which he was, and she was grateful for his acceptance. However, every time she tried to do something just for him, Ray closed off and refused her assistance and Stella couldn't figure out why. She wanted to hold Ray and let him cry on her shoulder, or comfort him in any other way possible. She still loved him, but she knew that she had hurt him and his sudden withdrawal was evidence that he was not willing to endure further hurt; he had enough on his plate.
        "It's because of Dad, isn't it, Ray?" she challenged, and he glanced at her, startled.
        "What is?" he asked, confused.
        "You're going to give up your career because of Dad, aren't you?" she accused and again Ray looked away, uncomfortably. "Don't do it, Ray. I know your being a cop was always something the two of you couldn't seem to work through, but giving it up won't bring Dad back."
         "I know dat," Ray acknowledged softly. Stella frowned.
        "Then why are you doing it? Have you convinced yourself it will ease the guilt and pain you're feeling, Ray? It won't, you know, only time will do that." The pulse in Ray's jaw started twitching, but he still didn't turn to look at her.
        "Stella, don't go there okay? I don't want to talk about it with you, so just butt out." Stella frowned.
        "Ray, I know how you feel..."
         "You don't know shit about what I'm feeling, Stella!" he exclaimed, angrily. He quickly lowered his voice as he remembered his Mother was sleeping in the other room. "You never have. You've always tried to dissect and analyze me like I was one of yer cases, but I'm not." He tossed the papers back onto the table, then rose and moved toward one of the windows to peer at the snow falling outside. "I'm not dat complicated, Stell, I never was. I'm a man who loved his wife more than anything and lost her because of dat love. I'm a man who couldn't talk to his father about anything but cars and sports, but I cherished the ground he walked on. I'm a man who does and always will feel the need to protect and care fer his Mother. Dat's all dat I am, Stella-not hard to understand at all."
         "Ray I never meant..." Stella began, rising from her seat.
         "You never meant a lot of things, Stell," he finished, bitterly. "You never meant to fall in love with a skinny little Pollock like me, but you did. You never meant to compare me to yer ambitious, social climbing friends, but ya did." He turned to look at her, his eyes holding a depth of pain that left Stella breathless. "I couldn't be who ya wanted me to be and you never meant to hurt me, but you did, Stella. You hurt me. You shattered my dreams and my parent's dreams of our happy marriage and havin' grandchildren." He shook his head. "You had to do what was best fer you, I understand dat too. What I don't understand is why, Stella? Why do you have to be here? Why do you have to love my Mum and my Dad enough to be here fer dem, but you didn't love me enough to stay with me?"
         "Ray, we...it wasn't working," Stella managed, distraught. She didn't want to rehash this whole scenario again, but it seemed to be what Ray needed. "We were making each other miserable and..."
         "I'd rather be miserable with you than miserable without you, Stella," Ray admitted softly, and turned away again.
        They both stood silently for a long time. The words of Ray's painful confession stood between them and rendered them both speechless. Stella finally released the breath that she had been unaware she had been holding and moved to collect her purse and coat. For once, she could not find the strength to retaliate for the hurt he caused her, nor could she find the courage to comfort him as she wanted to. They were in limbo, each needing the other but afraid to take that first step that would heal the gaping wounds between them. Finally, Ray took a deep breath and slowly released it.
         "I'm sorry. I know you don't want to hear what I have to say; you've heard it all before; I know dat." He shook his head again and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force back an impending headache. "I don't know what I'm sayin' anymore. First I'm screamin' at Fraser, now I'm tryin' to blame you fer..." He inhaled sharply, and Stella realized he was close to tears. "It's good of you to be here fer Mum. I appreciate it. Dad would want you here, he...he loved you very, very much, Stella."
        Stella blinked back her own tears and stepped up to him. Dropping her belongings into a chair, she hesitantly wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek between his shoulder blades. She could feel him trembling beneath her touch and her heart went out to him.
        "Dad loved you too, Ray," she whispered and he nodded.
        "I know," he admitted. "I just..." He bit his lip and lowered his eyes, bracing a hand against the window for support. He leaned against her for the briefest instant, then moved away.
        Stella understood his fear of being hurt by her again, and she wished she could reassure him that she wouldn't spurn his affections this time. Instead, she took that as her cue to leave and gathered her belongings once more.
        "Tell Mum I'll be by first thing in the morning," she requested quietly. "Maybe I can convince her to come shopping with me, since it will be Saturday." Ray nodded, but remained with his back to her. Stella was sadly surprised when he did not even offer to walk her to the door or help her on with her coat, as he usually did. "I...I guess I'll see you tomorrow then, Ray?"
        "Sure, " he replied, softly, and Stella nodded, grateful for that much at least. She had just opened the door when she heard him speak again. "Stella?" She paused and turned toward him.
        "Yes, Ray?" she inquired. Ray was silent again, and she wondered if he had changed his mind about what he was going to say. Finally, he continued.
        "Be...be careful drivin'. I...I couldn't handle...just be careful, kay?" Stella blinked furiously at his concern. Why did things have to be so complicated between them? Why couldn't they just tell each other how much they cared, without it causing more hurt?
        "I will, Ray," she assured, softly. "Should...would you like me to call when I get home?" Ray nodded and she wished he would turn so she could see his face, but he remained stubbornly peering out the window. "Okay."
 

         "What's dis?" Welsh asked when Kowalski slipped his badge on the Lieutenant's desk two days later, along with a single white envelope.
         Welsh ignored them both, already suspecting what this was about. Ray had returned to duty just yesterday, after taking time off to get his parents' affairs in order. The high charging energy seemed to have left the usually vibrant Detective, though he still went about his duties in a totally professional manner. Welsh had seen this coming, but had been unable to avoid it. Now he had to find away to convince Kowalski not to throw his career away.
         "I'll follow any story ya say to keep Vecchio's cover goin', Sir," Ray stated quietly. "But I can't be a cop anymore."
         "Ray, take a little more time off," Welsh suggested gently. "Don't do anything you'll regret."
         "I'm sorry, Sir," Ray refused, and Welsh noticed the younger man kept his gaze hidden by the dark glasses Welsh had hardly seen him without, especially recently. "I have to take care of my Mum and...and it's better dis way. I never should've become a cop in the first place."
         Welsh rose and walked around to lean against the desk and peer at Kowalski intently.
         "I'm only gonna say dis once, Detective," he warned gruffly. "So listen up and listen good. You are one of the best damn cops it has been my pleasure to command. Yer dedicated, trustworthy, and ya know da law better den most lawyers I know. You becoming a cop was probably one of the best things to ever happen to dis city, and don't you ferget it."
         Ray was silent for a long time and Welsh continued to observe him. The detective still wore his trademark outfit, jeans, biker boots and T-shirt, but his shoulder holster was gone and he had worn his gray jacket partially zipped up instead of open wide as usual. Ray's hands were shoved into the narrow pockets and he seemed hunched over, as though trying to fold in on himself. Welsh thought he looked much smaller and more vulnerable than he had ever remembered seeing him.
         "I...I appreciate ya sayin' dat, Sir," the detective finally answered. "I...It's been an honor to serve with you too, yer probably the best commander I ever had." Ray shrugged, not knowing what else to say, then pulled one of his hands from his pocket and extended it toward the Lieutenant. Welsh sighed in defeat and grasped it tightly.
         "You change yer mind, you'll still have a place here, Detective," he offered and Ray nodded gratefully.
         "I appreciate dat too, Lieu," he returned, then turned toward the door.
         "Ray," Welsh called, and the Detective paused at the door. "If you ever wanna talk, grab a beer or somethin' sometime, you call me, okay?" He thought he saw Kowalski's hand shake slightly as he reached for the door handle. Ray nodded, without turning back, and headed out.
         He moved to his desk, correction Vecchio's desk, and continued filling the small cardboard box with his assorted personal files and junk from his desk drawers. He pulled down the small hoop he had tapped to the wall as Francesca and Detective Huey cautiously approached.
         "Doing a little spring cleaning, Vecchio?" Huey taunted with a hint of concern mixing with his curiosity. Ray tossed the toy hoop to him.
         "Here, it's a great stress relief," he commented to the startled man. "But yer partner won't fit through it. I've tried." Huey smirked and examined the toy.
         "Where are you going, Ray?" Francesca demanded. She knew he was having a hard time with his father's death. She had wanted to attend the funeral, but was told it might blow Ray's cover if she had. Now it didn't look like it mattered.
         "I'm outta here, Frannie," he replied encouragingly. "You'll never have ta put up wit me again." Francesca frowned. But she liked putting up with him! He helped her miss her real brother a little less.
         "Yer really gonna quit?" Huey questioned in disbelief and Ray nodded. He extended his hand toward the other Detective.
         "It's been good workin' with ya, Jack," he offered and Huey shook his hand.
         "Same here, Vech...Ray," he amended, and Ray's expression told him he appreciated the correction.
         "You can't leave!" Francesca cried. "Damnit, why does everyone have to leave?" She turned on her heel and hurried away.
         Ray and Huey exchanged a sad glance, then Ray moved away from his desk to go after her. He found her on the bench in the corridor, her face in her hands. He settled beside her tentatively, unsure what to say. He hadn't expected her to be upset. It wasn't like he was her real brother. However, he suspected that a stand-in brother was better then no brother at all, and perhaps that was why she was distraught.
         "Frannie," he began softly, and she turned away from him slightly, sniffing suspiciously. Oh God, she was crying! Why the hell did she have to start crying? He tried again. "Frannie, I'm sorry yer upset, but dis is somethin' I gotta do." He glanced around to see if they might be overheard, then whispered, "Yer brother's cover will still be safe. The department will work something out fer dat, don't worry."
         "Leave me alone!" Francesca sobbed mournfully, still unable to look at him. Ray sighed dejectedly. What more could he do? He gently squeezed her shoulder.
         "I'm sorry, Francesca," he offered quietly, then rose and headed back to his desk.
         He retrieved his box and shook hands with a few of the other officers that approached him, then he signed out on the board for the last time. He was unaware that everyone was watching him as he headed out. He paused by Francesca's desk and pulled from the box the large, hollow book he usually kept his real files in. He placed it on her desk, straightening it fondly. Maybe she could use it for her diary or secret trinkets.
         He had just stepped up to his car, placed the box on the hood and turned back to open it, when he saw Francesca standing hesitantly by the station door. He straightened and turned back to her, removing his glasses to show his eyes were as red as hers. Francesca ran to him and he wrapped his arms around her a tight embrace that spoke of their unusual friendship.
         "Will...will you still call me sometimes and...and tell me what I'm doin' wrong and make fun of me...and come to dinner," Francesca stammered through her tears and Ray smiled.
         "Of course I will," he promised. "I can't get through the day without my daily Frannie bashing." She smiled at his teasing and hugged him hard once more before hurrying back inside.
         Ray released a shaky breath and covered his eyes with the glasses once more. He opened his car door and placed the box in the passenger seat, then walked around to slide behind the wheel. He glanced up at the station house and saw Welsh staring down at him from his office window. The Lieutenant raised his coffee mug toward him in silent salute, and Ray gave a halfhearted salute back before climbing into the GTO and driving away.
 

         "Mum?" Ray inquired from the doorway of his Mother's room. It was well past noon and she still had not risen from her bed.
        Ray knew the signs of depression when he saw it, and was trying to keep her active and cheerful. However, he wasn't feeling all that energetic himself lately, so his attempts were probably not what they should be. A few days before, while Tim was around, she seemed a little more responsive and willing to go on living. Ever since Ray had refused to put her in a home, however, she had sunk into a black mood.
        Tim and Vivian had only stayed a couple of days, really only long enough to see what they could get out of Barbara, in Ray's opinion. His Mother had ended up giving them some of their father's belongings, but Ray couldn't fault her for that. Damien was Tim's father too. Although, Ray suspected most of what his brother had received from their Mother would be sold, it was not in Ray to begrudge her choice to give those things away.
        Now, Barbara slept most of the time, hardly left the trailer or ate a meal. Ray and Stella both had tried to get her actively involved in life again, but she refused. She continued to insist that she was being a burden to her son and that Ray would be better off if she was left to die as well. This of course infuriated Ray, but he didn't know how to convince her otherwise.
        They had fought once more, after the incident with the trailer, when Barbara found out Ray had quit his job. She started crying and screaming and going on about being a nuisance, despite Ray's attempts to console her. He told her he was tired of being a cop. He told her he was tired of the stress and burned out. She didn't believe a word of it and started blaming herself for his loss.
        Fraser continued to visit regularly, but his appearance only seemed to agitate Barbara further. The Mountie suspected his presence only served to remind Ray's mother of the career her son had thrown away. Everyone had tried to change Ray's mind, but the Detective was firm and refused to talk about it. He remained friends with the Mountie, for which Fraser was grateful, but they were no longer partners and that took getting used to.
        Ray sighed and moved further inside his Mother's room to settle on the bed next to her. He gently shook her shoulder.
        "Com'ahn, Mum," he encouraged, softly. "It's a beautiful day out. The sun is shining and it snowed last night, so everything's covered with white." She turned away from him, defiantly. "Please, Mum. What's wrong? Tell me what to do to make you feel better?"
        "Go away and leave me to die," she demanded and Ray closed his eyes tightly against the pain her words caused him.
        "Don't say dat, Mum!" he cried, distressed. "I don't want you to die, Mum. I want you to live. Why do you want to die?"
        "I want to be with yer father," Barbara muttered into her pillow. "I don't want to be a burden to you anymore. A mother should never be a burden to her children."
        "Yer not a burden!" he exclaimed, frustrated. "Why do ya keep sayin' dat? I love you, Mum. Yer not a burden to me." She sat up suddenly and faced him with furious eyes.
        "Will you let me sell this place and move to a home?" she demanded and he growled.
        "You can sell dis place all ya want," he retorted, in exasperation. "I can't stop ya from sellin', but yer not goin' to a home..."
        "I'm yer Mother and I'll decide what is best for me," she snapped. "I was taking care of myself long before you came into the world, young man, and I can continue taking care of myself without yer help!"
        "I know you can take care of yerself..." Ray began but she cut him off.
        "Then let me, Stanley," she implored, in a softer voice. "I'll be okay on my own. I was on my own before I met yer father and I did fine."
        "Mum, dat was a different time," Ray insisted. "The world is a more dangerous place dan it was, especially fer..." he paused and she glared at him.
        "An old woman like me," she finished, raising her eyebrow sardonically. Ray averted his eyes contritely. "I may be old, Stanley, but I'm not an idiot. I may not be the most technically modern woman, but I can certainly fend fer myself."
        "Why?" Ray charged and rose from the bed, agitated. "Why won't you let me help you, Mum? Don't you trust me enough to do what's best? I know I ain't dad, but I got a little bit of sense in me, Mum. I..."
        "This isn't about you being like yer father, Stanley," Barbara refused quickly. "This is about you giving up on yer own life because he died." Ray stared at her, surprised.
        "What?" he demanded, confused.
        "Yer punishin' yerself, Stanley," she insisted. "Yer tryin' to make up fer things you think you did wrong, when there's nothing to make up for." Ray shook his head.
        "Mum, yer talkin' in circles..."
        "Why did you quit yer job?" Barbara challenged suddenly. Ray paused a moment before answering.
        "I was tired of it," he lied. "I didn't want to be a cop anymore."
        "It won't change anything, Stanley," Barbara affirmed. "It won't bring yer father back from the grave and it won't replace all the things that weren't said between the two of you." Ray growled, pulled at his hair, and paced to the small window.
        "What is it with you and Stella?" he accused angrily. "Dis had nothing to do with Dad. This was my decision, my choice. I wanted a change and so I quit. How hard is dat to understand?" Barbara threw back her covers and rose from the bed.
        "Stanley Raymond Kowalski, I ought to take you over my knee and thrash the daylights out of you! How dare you lie to yer Mother! I taught you better than that."
        "I'm not lyin'," Ray assured, but couldn't help the blush of shame that rose in his cheeks. "I don't want to talk about dis."
         "You will talk or I'll pack my things and leave right now," Barbara threatened, her voice rising.
         "God Damnit, Mum! Why are you bein' like dis," Ray screamed back. "I'm only tryin' ta help, but you gotta push me away, just like Dad always did! Nothing was ever good enough, I was too much of a screw up to be counted on. Well, Dad's gone, Mum, and now you have to depend on me, unless you share his opinion dat I don't have the sense ta dress myself!"
         "Stanley, I never..." Barbara began, appalled, but Ray was too far gone to listen.
         "Yer just like him!" he accused and Barbara gasped as she watched a tear slide down her son's cheek. "You think I'm a screw up too, well fine. Sell yer trailer, sell yer freakin' soul if it makes ya happy! Move to an old folk's home where dey treat ya like shit and suck the life out of ya. If dat's preferable to dependin' on me, Mum, den do it! Whatever the hell makes ya happy!"
         "Stanley!" Barbara cried as her son stormed from the room and almost knocked Fraser off his feet.
         "Ray, I knocked, but..." he began, but Ray waved a curt hand at him and walked around him toward the door.
         "And fuck you too, Fraser," he growled furiously, grabbing his coat and car keys. "You talk to her, maybe she'll let you help, since yer so much better at everything dan I am."
         Fraser exchanged a worried glance with Mrs. Kowalski as Ray stormed out of the trailer.
 

         The Mountie finally located his friend almost two hours later. He had called Stella and requested she stay with Mrs. Kowalski, then Fraser had contacted Welsh and asked if he would help look for the missing Detective. They had scoured most of Ray's usual hiding places, even the gym where he did his best thinking when he was frustrated, but there was no sign of the Detective. Finally, they had returned to the station and Huey informed them Kowalski had come in about thirty minutes ago and had requested use of the firing range.
         Fraser and Welsh entered the basement of the precinct, where the main firing range was set up, and spotted their prey almost immediately. They both selected a set of headphones for their ears to block out most of the echoing gunfire, and started toward the Detective. Welsh tapped the three other officers present on the shoulders, indicating they should be given privacy, and all three men left. Ray was in the forth stall down, also wearing a set of headphones, and his glasses. He was emptying his clip into the targets in front of him and had a dangerous look about him that caused both men to hesitate before approaching.
         "Detective," Welsh called over the gunfire, moving to stand on Ray's left, while the Mountie remained on his friend's right side. "May I ask what yer doing?"
         "Bakin' a freakin' cake," Ray retorted, pausing to change targets and reload a fresh clip into his weapon. "You wanna piece?" Welsh ignored the underlining threat and placed his hand over the gun, as Ray aimed once more. "Good way to lose a finger, Sir."
         "Put the gun down, Detective," Welsh ordered and Ray complied, slowly. He pulled off his earphones, as did the other two men. "Now, shall we talk about what's got you so fired up, or should we just wait fer the movie to come out?"
         "I don't wanna talk," Ray refused, his eyes rising to meet Fraser's almost shyly. "Sorry fer swearin' at ya, Frase. Didn't mean it." Fraser nodded. He had been a little surprised at how much more vulgar his friend's language had become recently, but considering the stress Kowalski was under, Fraser could hardly fault him for it.
         "I know, Ray," he assured, gently. "I came at a bad time. I apologize." Ray shook his head, and fiddled with his weapon, averting his eyes again.
         "No such thing as a good time anymore, Buddy," he muttered and Fraser frowned.
         "Your Mother is very upset, Ray," Fraser informed. "She's worried about you running off like that." Ray shrugged indifferently and changed target sheets.
         "So? You tracked me down, now ya can run back and tell her I'm fine."
         "Don't you think you should be the one to do that, Detective?" Welsh suggested. "She is yer Mother, not Constable Fraser's."
         "It doesn't matter," Ray replied and moved away from the booth to gather his jacket in the chairs behind him. "I can't do anything right anyway, so let Fraser do it."
         "Oh my, are we having a pity party here," Welsh charged, sarcastically. "And here I didn't even bring a gift, what a shame."
         "Back off, Lieu," Ray warned and Fraser watched the two men apprehensively.
         "Make me, Kowalski," the Lieutenant dared and Ray glared at him. "Do you think yer the only one to lose someone they loved? Do you think yer the only one who's father misunderstood you and let you down?"
         "I said back off!" Ray growled menacingly, but the Lieutenant ignored him.
         "And I said, make me."
         "I don't work fer you anymore, so you can just go to hell," Ray informed and Welsh chuckled.
         "You seem to be there already. Why not tell me what it's like?"
         "Fuck you!"
         "Fuck you too," Welsh retorted and both Fraser and Kowalski blinked in surprise. "Now, you wanna talk like men or like street thugs, I'm good fer either."
        Ray's posture radiated hostility, but Welsh didn't back down. Fraser was uncertain of his friend would actually give into his anger and hit the Lieutenant, so he continued to watch, concerned. Finally, Ray stopped clenching his fists and turned around. Fraser caught the look of relief in Welsh's eyes and almost smiled, so the Lieutenant had also been a little unsure of Ray's loyalty.
         "Fine," Ray replied tossing the headphones on the booth hook. "You wanna play shrink, do it with one of yer own men." He gathered his ammunition, the sheets and his weapon and tossed them in his small duffel bag. "I'm outta here." Welsh grabbed Kowalski's arm as Ray turned to leave and spun the blond back around to face him.
         "Yer one of my men, God Damnit," he growled. "You think because you got it in yer head to quit I stopped feelin' responsible fer ya? Ya think because yer having a devil's time right now, I no longer give a shit about you? Well, yer wrong Detective. I could no more stop caring about you or any of my men, den I could cut off my arm."
         "I don't care!" Ray exclaimed furiously, although he had hesitated long enough to show his surprise at the Lieutenant's words. "I don't care about bein' a cop, I don't care about yer words of wisdom, I don't care about anything anymore, you got dat?"
         "Not even me, Ray?" Fraser inquired quietly and Ray glanced at him, startled. "Do you no longer care about me, or Diefenbaker?" Ray was silent and lowered his eyes. "What about Stella, Ray, or Francesca? Do you care about them anymore? They care about you. Your mother cares about you, Ray. Do you care about her?"
         "Frase, yer..." Ray paused, uncomfortable. "I didn't mean..." he shook his head. "Look, I don't wanna hurt yer feelings, I just want to be left alone."
         "Why, Ray?" the Mountie pressed. "So you can wallow in your grief and continue to run through all the things that weren't done or said between you and your Father?"
         "Dis isn't about him," Ray declared angrily. "Why does everyone keep thinkin' dis is about my father?"
         "Then what is it about, Ray?" Fraser demanded. "Explain it to us and then we'll understand." Ray shrugged away from Welsh.
         "It's none of yer business, dere's yer explanation," he hissed and headed away from them. Welsh shook his head at the Mountie, and Fraser frowned before hurrying after his partner.
         "Ray! Ray, wait, please."
         Ray paused on the stairs leading up to the precinct and waited for his friend to catch up to him. He didn't meet Fraser's gaze, but kept his eyes lowered and his hands clenched around his bag of equipment. The moment the Mountie was behind him, he started walking again, accepting that Fraser would follow him.
         They stepped outside, through one of the lower exits, and Ray moved across the parking lot to his car. He unlocked the trunk and tossed the bag inside, then opened the driver's side door. Fraser had already settled in the passenger seat, his Stetson on the dash.
         "It's not about my Dad, Fraser," he suddenly stated, so quietly Fraser had to strain to hear him.
         The Mountie glanced sideways at him, but remained silent, as they pulled out of the lot. He sensed Ray just needed someone to listen, so he would refrain from commenting for awhile at least. Unfortunately, Ray had decided that was all he needed to say and did not speak again for many long moments after.
         "Are ya hungry, Buddy?" he inquired, finally. "I'm in the mood fer somethin' different. Any suggestions?" Fraser stared at him surprised, but decided to go with the flow.
         "There is a new Thai restaurant on Elm, Ray," he suggested and Ray shook his head.
         "Not dat different," he smirked, and Fraser offered him a small smile. "How about dat Russian Tearoom? We've never eaten dere. I'll bet Mum would like it too."
         "I hear it is tremendously expensive, Ray," Fraser cautioned. Although the idea of traditional Russian food did sound appealing, as he had only sampled their delicacies at Consulate functions.
         "Dat's okay," Ray assured with a grin. "I'll put it on Vecchio's account." Fraser gave him a reproving look, but it didn't last. He was too happy that a glimpse of the old Ray had emerged, finally.
         "I'm sure Ray Vecchio would approve, then," he replied and Ray chuckled. They both grew quiet again, until Ray finally asked.
         "Where's Dief?"
         "With your Mother and Stella," Fraser stated without thinking. He watched Ray's expression close over and his hands grip the steering wheel tighter.
         "What did you do, call her to come baby sit," he demanded, and Fraser could only nod.
         "I simply asked her to look after your Mother so I could go find you, Ray," he insisted. "We were worried."
         "You all act like I haven't got a brain cell in my head," Ray growled. "Do I really appear dat incompetent, Fraser?"
         "Oh no, Ray," Fraser protested quickly, cursing his automatic honesty. "Your Mother was upset and I didn't know who else might be able to calm her. Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski was very accommodating and happy to come by." Ray started to drum his fingers on the steering wheel in agitation.
         "Great, so now she's gonna think I can't take care of my Mum, either," he muttered, angrily. Fraser shook his head.
         "I don't think she thinks that at all, Ray. She was very worried about you. You and Mrs. Kowalski have been through a terrible tragedy and it is perfectly understandable that you feel a little overwhelmed."
         "I don't feel overwhelmed, Fraser," Ray snarled, then sighed and removed the sting from his voice. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to snap. I admit I'm a little...on edge right now, but it's nothin' I can't handle. All I'm tryin' ta do is take care of my Mum, Frase. Everyone thinks I'm hung up on Dad, but it ain't dat at all." Ray shook his head, morosely. "I mean, yah, I miss him and I regret we never got to say some of the things we should've, but...I was angry about it. I am angry about it, but dere's nothin' I can do about it now."
         "Why did you quit being a police Officer, Ray?" Fraser inquired quietly. Ray pulled off the road and into an abandoned grocery store parking lot. His hands were shaking as he pulled the gear into park. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat.
         "I can't be a cop and take care of my Mum," he admitted, quietly. "When it was just me it...it didn't seem to matter if something bad happened on the job. I mean, I don't go lookin' fer it, but my Dad was right. Bein' a cop is dangerous and without him being here to take care of Mum, I have to be more careful." Ray opened his eyes and cast Fraser an imploring look. "What would you do, Fraser? Would you continue to put yer life in danger, knowin' ya had someone dependendin' on ya?"
         "I don't know, Ray," Fraser admitted, slowly. "Being an officer is what I am. I don't know that I could give it up." He gazed at his partner intently. "Do you really think you can stop being a cop, Ray?" Ray was silent for a long time. He closed his eyes again and shook his head.
         "It's all I ever wanted, Fraser," he admitted. "I mean, sure, I blamed Ellery fer startin' the ball rollin', but other dan havin' kids, bein' a cop is my dream." He groaned and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I'll never have kids, not now, and I already miss bein' out dere, solvin' crimes and even dealin' wit da scum we have to mess with sometimes."
         "Perhaps you wouldn't have to give it up, Ray," Fraser offered and Ray shot him a suspicious look.
         "Aw, yer just sayin' dat because yer worried about Vecchio. Don't worry, Welsh will come up with a good story fer my, or rather, his absence."
         "I am worried about Ray Vecchio," Fraser concurred. "But that is not why I think you should continue being a police officer, Ray." Ray smirked.
         "Why den, so ya can continue to risk my life in wildly bizarre ways?"
         "Not at all. That is merely a fringe benefit," Fraser returned, straight faced, and Ray smiled at his teasing. "You are a very good officer, Ray. You are honest and diligent and trustworthy and passionate about what you do." Ray held up his hand.
         "Flattery will get ya nowhere, buddy," he assured and Fraser's lips twitched in amusement. "I can't be a cop and still take care of Mum. It isn't fair to her or..." He swallowed, convulsively. "Dad was right. I don't want her gettin' the call in the middle of the night abut me bein' hurt or killed."
         "Ray, whether you're a cop or an accountant, when your time comes there is little you can do," Fraser insisted, frowning. "Your mother seems upset that you have given up your career. Doesn't that tell you something?" Ray nodded, grimly.
         "Yah, it tells me I should have listened to my father and stayed in school." Fraser frowned at his partner.
         "That isn't what it tells me, Ray," he stated. "It tells me that your mother is very proud of what you do and doesn't want you to give it up for her."
         "What else am I supposed to do, Fraser?" Ray demanded. "I can't just toss her out dere and expect her to fend fer herself."
         "Of course not," Fraser agreed. "But you cannot protect her from the world, either, Ray. She's a grown woman, not a child. She has to be allowed to live as an independent person, make her own way."
         "She doesn't need to make her own way," Ray snapped, then caught himself again and offered the Mountie an apologetic look. "I mean, Dad's insurance policy will take care of her fer the rest of her life. I'm not worried about dat."
         "Then what are you worried about, Ray?"
         "I don't know! I just...I just worry. She's my Mum, I can't help myself."
         "Perhaps you need to start treating her as your mother then, Ray," Fraser suggested, "and not a child that needs looking after." Ray shook his head.
         "I don't know how to do dat," he confessed, wretchedly. "I don't know how ta do anything but protect her from all the bad stuff I see every day, Fraser. It's a scary world. I don't want her to get hurt or be taken advantage of." Fraser placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.
         "Your Mother is stronger than you give her credit for, Ray," he stated. "Talk to her, give her a chance at least. She had to make the decision to let you go, her baby boy, out into the world when you wanted to be a cop. Now you have to give her that same opportunity."
         Ray was silent for a long time as he continued to stare out the windshield at the gently falling snow. He knew the Mountie was right. He did have to let his Mother lead her own life. He shook his head in bemusement. He had been treating his mother like a child, afraid to let her leave the nest or the protection he could offer. Ray couldn't put her in a home. That would kill him, and she wasn't nearly old enough for that kind of choice. She wouldn't let him buy a house so they could live together, but she obviously didn't want to stay in the trailer. He wondered where that left them?
         His gaze moved toward the small shop before them curiously. It had obviously been closed for some time, but the building looked sound enough, a solid concrete foundation badly in need of paint. The windows were all boarded up and there was a second floor over the shop that looked the right size to house a small apartment.
         Ray stepped out of the GTO, startling the Mountie to follow, and headed for the store. He surveyed it from all sides, found a window that wasn't boarded and peered inside. Sure it was dirty, but it had potential. He started grinning like a Cheshire cat as Fraser watched him, confused.
         "Ray?" he finally asked, his curiosity getting the better of him as Ray pulled out his cell phone and started dialing.
         "Frannie," Ray inquired to the other person. "Yah, it's Ray. No, I'm good. Listen, could you look up an address fer me and see who owns it?" Fraser continued to watch his partner, puzzled.
 

         "Com'ahn, Mum," Ray encouraged a few weeks later, as he hustled his Mother into the GTO. It was Christmas Day and he had promised to take her somewhere special for dinner.
          Barbara didn't know what had come over her son lately. He called her a few times a day to see how she was and was still sleeping at the trailer at night, but he was gone early the following morning until late in the evening. He never told her where he was going or what he was doing. He just smiled and told her she'd know soon enough.
         "Where are we going, Stanley?" she sighed as they pulled away from the trailer. "I'm really not up to going out. I could have cooked us a little something here and..."
         "It's Christmas and yer not cookin' dis year, Mum," Ray insisted, pleasantly. "I'm taken' ya out to dinner and dat's dat."
         "Stanley, nothing will be open today," Barbara protested.
         "One place will be. We got a reservation," he assured and she cast him a suspicious look.
         At least her son had seemed more cheerful and active than he had been since his father's death. He was sleeping too, exhausted by the time he got home and eating whatever she fixed for him. His turn around seemed to aliviate some of her own grief and depression, but she still missed Damien terribly. Of course, she still harped on Stanley about going back to his job.
         She knew something had been going on, because Stella and Benton would drop by and often talk with her son. However, they would always stop talking the moment Barbara entered the room. She wondered what they were plotting. If Stanley dared to buy a house for them, she would never forgive him. She refused to be a burden to him, and living with her over-thirty son would indeed be a burden.
         "Okay, Mum, we're here," Ray announced from beside her as they pulled into the small lot of a country style store. It was pleasant looking and had obviously been repainted in soft grays and dark greens. The windows were dark and it looked closed and vacant, yet someone had strung Christmas lights and a wreath on the exterior.
         "What sort of restaurant is this, Stanley?" she inquired as he helped her out of the car and guided her to the door.
         "You'll see," he assured as they stepped inside. Ray reached for the light switch by the door and flipped it on, prepared for the chorus of Merry Christmas that accompanied it.
         Barbara Kowalski's hands flew to her mouth, startled, as she stared at the people before her. She recognized Benton, Stella, and the Lieutenant her son used to work with. There was also the Italian girl from the precinct, as well as a few others she didn't immediately recognize.
         The inside of the shop was deceivingly large, considering the exterior looked so small. There were glass casings under a green marble counter top. Rows of pine shelving behind it scattered around the shop. Large, open windows that gave the room an airy look and a green tile floor. The walls were painted a pale cream and with a delicate green border. Six little round tables, complete with four chairs to each, were clustered in one area of the shop, for dining.
         "I...I don't understand, Stanley," Barbara murmured, confused. Ray wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
         "It yer's, Mum," he stated quietly, watching her for any sign of distress. "You said you always wanted to open yer own shop fer Polish foods and baked goods. Now you can. Ya always liked feedin' people, here's yer chance to feed lots of dem." When Barbara remained silent he trudged on anxiously, and indicated the counter. "See, you can display most of your sample foods here and yer baked goods can go on the racks behind." He moved toward the tables, which had been lined with cream table cloths and candles for the occasion. "People can eat here or dey can take it home."
         "It has a huge kitchen, Mom," offered Stella, stepping forward and grasping her Mother-In-Law's hands. "And you can hire extra help to wait tables or just help you cook."
         "Dat's not da best, though, Mum," Ray encouraged and led her through the kitchen to the back stairs, the others following. "Ya can have yer own place all to yerself." Ray opened the door at the top of the stairs which led to a large, three room apartment. Barbara stepped inside, dazed. "See, it has a bathroom and bedroom and den ya have yer living area." Ray pointed out the wide windows at the side. "Lots of light in the day time and a pretty view of the hills and lake."
         "What do you think, Mom," Stella encouraged. "Ray put a down payment on it, but you could pay it off easily once you sell your trailer. He's been working day and night," she smiled and glanced back at the small crowd gathered by the door. "Well, we all have, painting and scrubbing. Constable Fraser and Lieutenant Welsh put in the counters. I picked the colors and Francesca decided where they should go. Ray and Fraser updated the kitchen and...." She stopped as Barbara Kowalski began to cry.
         "Aw, shit," Ray swore mournfully. "I'm sorry Mum. I thought you would like dis. I...I guess I screwed up again." Barbara shook her head, unable to speak, and pulled her hesitant son into her arms. "Don't cry, Mum. I'm sorry. You don't have to take any of dis, really. We'll do whatever you want, just tell me and..."
         "My boy," Barbara sobbed cupping his face between her hands and kissing him tenderly. Her heart was so full she felt it might burst from her chest. Never had anyone given her such a gift, or sacrificed so much of themselves for her happiness. "I love you, Stanley. I love my shop, I love my apartment and I love you, my sweet, sweet boy."
         Ray smiled with relief and returned her embrace, blinking back his own tears. Finally, he had done something right. They parted and she looked up at him.
         "But I know nothing about running a business, Stanley," she began and Ray shrugged.
         "Dat's okay, Mum," he assured. "I took a year of business at college, I know enough to figure most things out and I'm gonna take a couple of weekend classes, just to refresh what I learned. Besides, operating a small business was one of the first things we covered at school. I already checked on getting the permits you'll need and..."
         "We'll need," she insisted, firmly, wiping the tears from her eyes with the handkerchief Fraser offered her. "You have invested in this too, so you are my partner, Stanley. I won't have it any other way."
         "I...I don't have ta be yer partner, Mum," he protested. "I'm yer son..."
         "We will be partners, Stanley. I insist." Ray nodded.
         "Okay, Mum, whatever ya say. I'll be a silent partner." Barbara hugged him again. He was going back to school, even if it was part time, and he could finally use some of the education she and Damien had paid for.
         "Yer Dad would be so proud, Stanley," she almost sobbed and Ray blinked furiously to dispell the rush of moisture from his eyes. "But what about yer job?"
         "I never accepted yer Son's resignation, Mrs. Kowalski," Welsh stated stepping forward. "He'll be back to work Monday." His eyes narrowed on Ray. "Won't you Detective? I think you've had plenty of time to goof off, but there's work to be done." Ray grinned.
         "Yes, Sir," he assured sheepishly. Stella clapped her hands to gather their attention.
         "Enough of that," she decided. "We've got turkey to eat downstairs, so let's go." Everyone laughed and moved toward their guest of honor.
         Barbara accepted hugs and kisses from evberyone and Francesca introduced her to the Vecchio family. Fraser bent to kiss her cheek affectionately and wish her a Merry Christmas. She pulled him close for a long, grateful hug, before releasing him. He smiled at her and headed down with the others. Barbara caught Stella's hand and then reached for Ray's, holding them back for a moment.
         "This has been the most wonderful Christmas," she told them, lovingly. "Only one thing would make it better."
         "What's dat, Mum?" Ray inquired, curiously.
         "You two haven't been very nice to each other since you divorced and I want you both to kiss and make up. Be friends again." Ray and Stella stared at her, surprised. They protested simultaneously.
         "I don't think..."
         "Mum dat's not..."
         "It's what I want," Barbara insisted, putting their hands together, over hers. "For an old woman, please. You two used to be such good friends. Let the wounds heal." She cast her ex-daughter-in-law a pointed look. "It's the time for miricles, Stella." Then to Ray. "And a time for forgiveness."
         Ray and Stella stared at each other for a long moment, their hands remaining clasped, as Barbara moved toward the door. She glanced back at them only once, before stepping through and closing the door behind her.
         "I'm sorry," they both offered then smiled, shyly.
         "You were my best friend, " Ray admitted and she nodded.
         "And you were mine, Ray," she concurred. "I never meant to hurt you."
         "I know. I...I think maybe, we were only ever meant to be close friends, Stell," he confessed, quietly. "Maybe we never should have changed things."
         "I don't regret it, Ray," she replied. "I'll never regret it. You were always so wonderful to me, even in the bad times you never stopped loving me."
         "I'll always love you, Stell."
         "And I'll always love you."
         "Maybe dat will be enough," Ray suggested hopefully, and she nodded.
         "We can make it enough, Ray," she assured and leaned in to kiss him. One last, breathtakingly passionate kiss, for old times.
         "Friends?" he asked, when he could finally speak. She squeezed his hand.
         "Always," she agreed, then giggled when he pulled her in for another quick kiss.
        "God, I'm gonna miss dat," he sighed, then gave her that special smile that started always her heart beating a little faster. "Let's go eat."
         They descended the stairs hand in hand and moved to settle on either side of Barbara. Fraser and Welsh had pulled a couple of the tables together so that they could all sit together. The Mountie sat next to his partner and Welsh settled next to Stella. Francesca and her family, Ma, Maria, Tony and the kids, took up the other side of the table and Huey and Dewey were settled between them.
         Ma and Francesca had cooked a Christmas feast that would put the finest restaurants to shame, including some Polish dishes that Ray had given them the recipe for. It came time to say grace, and Barbara suggested Ray have the honor. Slightly intimidated to be called upon, Ray rose as Francesca made sure everyone had wine in the glass, except Fraser and the kids, who had cider.
         "I ain't good at speeches," Ray admitted, lowering his eyes slightly, before glancing at his partner. "Fraser's much better at dat stuff. He has excess lung capacity." Fraser chuckled at his friend's teasing, as did the others at the table. "Um, I haven't said grace in a long time either, so I'll just offer a toast." He stared adoringly at his mother. "To the woman I love more dan anything else in this world, my Mum. I hope dis new start will be a great adventure fer you and make ya happy." He smirked. "And I promise to try and not hover or call eighteen times a day to check up on ya." Everyone chuckled and Barbara smiled at her son with shining eyes. He glanced at Stella and Fraser. "To old friends and new. I thank whoever's responsible fer giving me the chance to know and love such an extraordinary person as my Stell."
         "Thank you, Ray," she offered, lowering her eyes and sniffing suspiciously.
         Ray glanced around at the others. His gaze finally rested on Welsh, who was playing with the stem of his glass and watching the Detective sardonicaly.
         "To my superior and very fine friend, Harding," Ray offered tipping his glass to the Lieutenant. Welsh blinked, surprised at Ray's use of his first name. "I am proud to be considered one of yer men, Sir. I hope one day to be as good a commander as you are with my own special team of officers." Welsh raised his glass to him endearingly.
         "God help us all," he teased and everyone laughed again.
         "To my pretend family," Ray began, his voice catching slightly as he gazed over the loving faces of the Vecchio's, before resting on Ma's. "I started out knowing you as an assignment and ended up loving you all like you were my own. Ray Vecchio is one lucky SOB." He grinned. "Sorry Ma." Mrs. Vecchio blew him a kiss and wiped at her eyes.
         "We love you, too, Caro," she vowed and he blushed slightly. His gaze moved to Francesca.
         "To the best sister a fella could have," he offered her and Francesca smiled shyly. "You could talk the ears off an elephant, Frannie, but I wouldn't want ya any other way." Francesca blushed, but laughed with the others. She knew he was only teasing. Ray glanced at the Duck boys. "To Huey and Dewey, who continue to watch my back and help make the streets a little safer, good work, guys."
         "You, too, Vec..." Huey smirked, "Ray." Ray nodded in acceptance. He was glad Huey had told Dewey about the charade. He didn't like people he had to work closely with being kept in the dark. Ray's eyes finally rested on Fraser.
         "To my friend and partner, Constable Benton Fraser," he began as the Mountie met his gaze. "He can track muskox through miles of arctic wilderness, but he still hasn't learned the difference between inanimate and edible evidence." There was another round of laughter as Fraser smiled and blushed. Ray's gaze softened. "But he can always seem to find me anywhere I go, even when I don't want him to. He will support me in any decision I make and will always be dere to watch my back. I couldn't ask for a better guardian angel or a better friend and partner than you, Buddy."
         "Or I you, Ray," Fraser returned, his voice endearingly soft and suspiciously high. Ray smiled at him and blinked away another rush of tears. Damn he was getting maudlin in his old age.
         "Finally, I wanna thank you all fer comin' and helpin' me make dis a special Christmas fer my Mum," he stated, lowering his eyes and spinning his glass between his fingers. "I...I wish my Dad could be here with us, but he's gone to a better place now. I hope he's lookin' down and knows we're all okay, and dat we miss him." He sniffed slightly and raised his eyes once more, now swimming with tears. He raised his glass and the others followed. "Thank you Lord for all you have given us this day. For providing warmth from the cold, the food we are about to consume and the friends to share it with. Merry Christmas, everyone."
         "Merry Christmas!" everyone echoed and took a sip from their glasses to seal the toast. Ray set his glass down and stepped away from the table.
         "Are you all right, Honey?" Barbara inquired and he bent to kiss her cheek.
         "I forgot somethin' in the car," he whispered. "I'll be right back." She watched him pull on his jacket and step outside.
         Ray walked toward the GTO, but didn't stop there. He continued on toward the small lake below. At the shoreline he pulled the letter he had written to his father out of his pocket and thought back over the past week.
 

          Stella had caught him crying in the kitchen of his Mother's new shop, a little less than a week ago. Fraser had run out to get a few extra materials and Ray should have been preparing the shelves for the new countertop. But as he hammered and sanded the wood, he started to think of the projects he had worked on with his father. He suddenly found himself sitting on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably.
         "Ray?" Stella inquired, kneeling down next to him. He moved into her arms before he could help himself, and was glad when she didn't push him away as she had so many times before.
        "I can't believe he's gone, Stella," he cried, forlornly. "I always thought I'd have plenty of time to...to say the things I wanted to." He shook his head sadly. "Now, there's no time left and it all feels so...unfinished." Stella leaned against him, her hands making soothing circles across his chest.
        "Then let's go finish it, Ray," she suggested and he released a bitter laugh.
        "How, Stell?" he scoffed. "Want me to hold a séance? Maybe I can call the psychic friend's network and they can relay the message."
        "Let's just go visit his grave, Ray," she implored, turning him to face her. "Speak to him there. He'll hear you."
        "He's dead, Stella," Ray reminded angrily. "Dad's dead. It's just his body in that grave. He won't hear anything..." Stella reached up and cradled his face between her hands, much like his Mother was prone to do.
He'll hear you, Ray," she assured softly. "If you speak with your heart." Ray shook his head.
        "I can't, Stell," he protested. "I can't say...my mouth won't say what my mind wants to." Stella paused for a moment, then nodded and pulled him over to the small kitchen table. She retrieved a notepad and pen from the counter and set it down in front of him.
         "Then we'll write him a letter," she decided. "You've always been more expressive in your letters then you were verbally." Ray stared at her hesitantly. "You know I'm not much of a believer in miracles or things I can't see, but I have heard that sometimes, if you believe, the people that you love can always hear you, no matter where they are." She pushed the pen and pad toward him. "Write him a letter, Ray. Tell him all the things you need to say."
         "What do I do den?" he asked, looking so lost that Stella found herself reaching for his hand sympathetically.
         "Sometimes people burn it and let the ashes float into the sky, going to Heaven or wherever they think that person might be," she stated gently. "Sometimes they'll put it in a balloon and let it float away. You'll know what to do after you write it, Honey. The important thing is to write it."
 

         It had taken Ray the rest of that week to complete the letter for his father, stopping and starting many times. Finally it was finished, and as Stella had said, he knew what he had to do with it. His father had loved the water and had joined the navy when he was just fifteen, lying about his age, as many did during that time.
        Because he was so young, Damien was able to leave when he was in his late twenties. He and Barbara had settled in Chicago with their six year old son, Timothy. Ray came along less than a year later and had grown up listening to his father's stories about the Navy. Damien always said if he told Ray stories and then Ray repeated the stories to another and so on, a person could live forever.
         There had been some sort of mix up about his father's benefits and pension and so Damien had gone to work at a slaughterhouse. They hadn't even been able to give him a military burial because of the confusion of his father's Navy papers. But they had long since stopped trying, anyway.
         Ray had developed a fear of the water and had never learned to swim, much to his father's disappointment. But Ray knew being on the water was when his father was happiest. Whether it was in a submarine or just a fishing boat, Damien Kowalski adored the sea in all its forms.
         Ray pulled out the old glass bottle he had found in the storeroom of the store and rolled the letter tightly to fit inside. He capped it with the small cork and caressed the stem. If his father was anywhere he would be in or around water, so this was the best way.
         He tossed the bottle as far out as he could and watched it hit the water with a delicate splash. If by whatever powers God possessed his father did receive the letter, he would finally know how much Ray loved him. However, it would be just as good if someone else found it, and after reading it understood the tragedy of not communicating with someone they loved. Maybe Ray's letter would inspire them to try to heal any old wounds they may be harboring.
         "Ray," Fraser inquired, softly from behind, and Ray turned.
         "Hey, Buddy,"
         "Are you all right?"
         "Sure," Ray nodded and headed back toward his friend. "Just saying goodbye." He tossed an arm around Fraser's shoulders. "Did I ever tell ya my dad was in the Navy, Fraser?"
         "Why, no, Ray," Fraser denied, wrapping a friendly arm around his partner accomodatingly, as they headed back across the lot. "I didn't know that."
         "Well, it was before I was born, but he used to tell me stories about it, "Ray replied then chuckled. "There was this one story..."
 
 
 

Merry Christmas!
 

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