Rated R for bad language and m/m.

Sort of a sequel to Boredom's the Real Silent Killer, although can be read alone.

As always these characters belong to Alliance.

Doubting Ray

"Out on the wiley, windy moors
We'd roll and fall in green
You had a temper, like my jealousy
Too hot, too greedy
How could you leave me?
When I need to possess you
I hated you, I loved you too"

Kate Bush Wuthering Heights

Dead people. Stan hated any investigation involving them, even more so when he was alone, Ray was off work with the flu. Stan had put up with hours and hours worth of whinging on that particular subject. Fraser was busy with his duties at the consulate, making him officially and unofficially partner-less. Which meant he was not allowed near any case that may involve requiring back up. So far this week he'd dealt with a missing report of a cat, a stolen worm farm, a domestic spat over whose turn it was to wash up, two parking tickets, millions of backlogged reports, a missing person who was not actually missing, an insane woman, demanding that he find the people who murdered Elvis, she'd slapped him when he tried to tell her that Elvis was dead. Slapped him in front of the entire precinct, gave everyone plenty to rag him about for the rest of the afternoon, and now he had to deal with a dead guy.

He'd been driving home from work when he'd supposedly had a heart attack, dying at the wheel of his brand new Jaguar and writing it off using a lamppost.

Great. More paperwork without an actual case to solve. Ill or not, Stan was considering dragging Ray to work anyway. He was going stir crazy with this menial, working for the sake of working, bullshit.

He got the fun of arranging a post mortem with Mort and getting to hear the in-depth conclusion of it.

Flu or no flu, Ray was going to pay for this.

The deceased was a fifty seven year old taxi service owner. That surprised Stan a little; the taxis must be doing pretty good if this guy's car was any indication. Stan went through the car; the only thing that was remarkable was the small gift that was wrapped in a simple gold paper and a single bow in the corner. He read the tag.

Tim

All my love

S.

xxx

Kowalski then investigated the guy's wallet. Simon Walker, bingo, the present was from him, to... double bingo, picture of a little boy. Great, Stan thought bitterly, it was hard enough to break the news of a death to someone without the knowledge there's another little fatherless boy out there.

Stan put the present safely in his glove box, and sped off to the listed address on the driving licence.

<><><><><><>

"Good afternoon ma'am, I'm Detective Stanley Kowalski from the CPD, may I have a quick word with you?" she looked at him in confusion but waved him into the house anyway. Stan looked around; it was really homely, small yet cosy, decorated with warm colours. Mrs Walker was an attractive woman with shoulder length blonde hair, tastefully dressed and a polite smile she was also quite a bit younger than the late Mr Walker.

"What is this about detective?" odd, she seemed rather defensive.

"I'm sorry, I have some bad news..."

"Simon," she interrupted, Stan took a deep breath this was really hard; he really hated this part of the job.

"I'm sorry Mrs Walker, on the way home form work, your husband suffered a massive heart attack, there was nothing they could do..." he trailed off at the sound of a sudden intake of breath. Mrs Walker looked very pale, shock, Stan suspected.

"Would you like me to make you some coffee?" he offered kindly.

"No thank you," she composed herself, "his heart?" she asked.

"They think so," Stan affirmed, "however there will be a post mortem, the body will be released in a day or two and you can make funeral arrangements." Stan had always felt particularly bad about telling people that their loved ones would be cut open and prodded around. Stan shifted from foot to foot anxiously as Mrs Walker slumped down into a chair.

"Here," he said passing the present that had been tucked under his arm to her, "this was found in your husband's car." She took the gift and looked at the gift tag absentmindedly.

"Was it his birthday?" Stan asked to make conversation.

"Whose?" she asked confusedly.

"Tim's" jeez, shock is no reason to forget your kid's birthday.

"Who's Tim?" she asked him back. Stan pointed at the present as he had an overwhelming fear building in his stomach.

"Your son?" Stan asked uncertainly, hoping against hope, praying that her son was in fact called Tim. He really should have done more research on this one, but he'd got lazy, bored with tedious jobs. He'd got sloppy, and now he was going to pay for it.

"My son's name is Andrew, detective," she informed him angrily as she looked, really looked, at the tag, "who the *hell* is Tim?" she demanded.

"I.." Ok, he could understand she'd be angry with him, but she could have just *given* the present back to him. She didn't have to bitchslap him with it. The impact with his head made the pieces in the present ratted formidably, Stan hoped that it was something that was unbreakable and supposed to be in that many different pieces.

"I don't care *who* Tim is, Detective," she spat back at him. Stan just stared at her bewilderedly, "I want to know *why* my husband has a present for him," damn it, couldn't she ask him a question he knew the answer for, like, what colour do Mounties wear? Or just how far could he get his foot into his mouth? She seemed annoyed with his stunned silence and slapped him again. Man this really was *not* turning out to be a good day. Stan could feel his cheek begin to sting and was pretty sure it was going to be glowing red in a few minutes. That woman was strong, despite her petite size. With that she slumped down into a chair defeated, silent tears trickling down her cheeks.

"I know who Tim is," she admitted quietly, "I don't *know* him, know him, but I guess I've always known, inside." Stan committed himself to a nod, hoping this woman wasn't as insane as the mad Elvis fan, she noticed his confusion, "I can't even call him the other woman and calling him the other man would sound strange,"

"I'm sorry I..." Stan interrupted confused.

"My husband was having an affair, detective," and the penny dropped, oh dear, he was startled, no wonder she was upset and he was beginning to sound like Fraser.

"Ah," damnit, he had to stay away from the Mountie.

"I've always suspected, my friends used to tell me they saw him with a young man, I'd always ask him about it, and he'd deny it. I believed him. Was that wrong?" she asked him, "to trust my husband, was that wrong?"

"No, that wasn't wrong," he comforted her.

"I think I'd like to be alone. Thank you for coming detective," she choked out as she began to sob.

"I'll just...er...let myself out...." Stan made a hasty retreat, hating taking the cowardly way out, but not sure what else to do.

<><><><><><>

Stan went back to the precinct present under arm, to be called instantly into Welsh's office.

"What's this I hear about you ignoring a murder detective?" Welsh demanded angrily.

"Huh?"

"I've had a complaint made against you, I know that Vecchio is the brains of your outfit, but even you should know that. Murders. Need. Investigating."

"It wasn't a murder, sir, heart attack, unless Mort finished his report and come up with something else," Stan defended.

"Not *that* case detective." Stan continued to stare blankly at his superior, "a compliant was made by a Mrs Presley, saying her husband had been murdered and yet you chose to do nothing." With that Stan burst out laughing, both of his cheeks were red, one a very nice hand print, the other just a general redness from the box. But it all seemed unimportant at the moment, that was *funny*.

"Her husband? Sir" Kowalski choked out between bouts of laughter, fuelled even more by his boss's furious expression.

"Something funny about homicide Kowalski?"

"Her husband? Elvis?"

"Yes, how did you know...?" Welsh almost grinned, *almost*, but anger remained his primary emotion, "get the hell out of my office Kowalski."

<><><><><><><>

Stan slumped at his desk. Now all he had to do was track down the deceased's boyfriend, then he could go home. He was dead on his feet; the whole 'going solo' thing was a lot more tiring than he'd have thought it would have been. His first thought was that Mr Walker could have met Tim through his business, it was a long shot, but he didn't have any shorter ones. He made a few calls to the taxi company Sean had owned, after three phone calls, he finally was told that there were three Tim's working in the company. Could they tell him any details about them? No, they do not disclose information about employees. Did they care that he was a policeman? No, they didn't give a rat's ass if he was the surgeon general, thank you kindly.

He had to haul his ass all the way to their headquarters and talk to them in person.

This was when Stan decided he *really* hated his job.

Sticking the present back in the glove box and sped there in fury.

<><><><><><><>

The best they could do was to give him the addresses of the three Tim's. He came all the way across town for three fucking addresses? He was going to fucking strangle someone! Could his day get much worse?

He looked at the addresses, they couldn't have been more spread out over Chicago if the Tim's had deliberately conspired to get an even distribution of Timness through out the city. He looked at his watch; he'd only have time to visit one of them with the rush hour traffic. If he picked the wrong Tim, the right Tim would just have to wait until tomorrow.

<><><><><><><>

The first Tim did turn out to be the wrong Tim. He was over sixty, smelled of Dentifix and had a colony of cats in his house. Stan doubted that Mr Walker had had a fetish for false teeth.

Stan had made his excuses pretty promptly and escaped the man who had seemed intent on becoming his new best friend. What was with the insane people this week? They all came out to pester him in hoards.

<><><><><><><>

Welsh somehow had seemed to know the exact moment he got back in the car, because his phone shrilled into life.

"Kowalski," he whined down the phone, uncaring *who* was on the other end. After the day he'd had, they should consider themselves lucky he didn't yell at them.

"It's Welsh, I've got another assignment for you,"

"Lieu, I'm off duty in five minutes," he whinged, he was already pulling a double shift because they were so short staffed with the flu going around. No doubt it would be another, fun, fulfilling case that everyone else had refused to touch with a ten-foot bargepole.

"There's been a break-in at Mrs Walker's house, the wife of the stiff this morning, someone really turned the place over,"

"Get someone from burglary to deal with it,"

"Kowalski, this classes as *suspicious*, you are going to go over there and investigate it, OK? Your husband dies, you get robbed, that's having one fucking bad day...."

Stan's only reply was a growl as he hung up. He knew Welsh would take it as an affirmative, Stanley was a good little boy, Stanley ate all of his greens and Stanley hadn't eaten or slept for over twenty four hours and was still going to check on the newly widowed woman's broken windows.

He growled to himself all the way there in annoyance, or glucose deprivation, he didn't know or care which it was.

<><><><><><><>

Nearly an hour of making endless cups of tea, dusting for prints and comforting the crying woman, he made his way tiredly back out to the car. Yes, even he had to admit it was strange that she was burgled less than a few hours after her husband died. If it was a coincidence, it was a freaky coincidence that Stan did not like one little bit. They hadn't even stolen anything, not a single thing. They'd just turned the entire house upside down while Mrs Walker was at her mother's house with her son.

Weird.

<><><><><><>

Stan finally pulled up outside his apartment block, knowing Ray would be waiting for him. Ray had stayed there for fear that the Vecchio children would drive him nuts being cooped up all day with them while they were on holiday from school. No one had questioned that he had stayed at Stan's; they all seemed to think it was natural that he'd stay with his partner while he snivelled and sneezed. But then they probably didn't know that Stan had to share his bed with Mr Infectious. Ray was rarely ever ill, but when he was, he did it in style, got some sort of special mutant flu, another reason the Vecchio family were actually glad to be rid of a sick Ray. Which meant Stan was actually sharing his bed with a giant ball of mucus, and that meant no sex. An entire week of no sex, just another thing that was driving him nuts.

Just before he got out of the car, Stan remembered the present in his glove box, not really safe to leave it in there overnight. He stuck it in his bag he'd kept a change of clothes in for when he'd had an hour nap between his shifts and got changed. He was *so* glad that Welsh didn't expect him in on time tomorrow morning.

He dragged his feet tiredly up the stairs. He was kind of hoping Ray would already be asleep so he could just flop into bed. But if Ray was awake no doubt even though he was ill, Ray would make him eat nutritiously and right now he didn't have enough energy. He'd only end up snapping at him and causing a fight.

No scratch that.

He was too tired to fight.

Finally, after three attempts he got the key into the lock and opened the door. His luck was definitely not holding today. Ray was up and by the looks of it; he'd been waiting up, ill with his bright red, blocked nose, big thick green dressing gown. Just lying in wait to make him eat.

Stan shrugged off his jacket and dropped his bag next to the chair that Ray was occupying.

"Good day?" Ray enquired,

"I. Do. Not. Want. To. Talk. About. It."

"Oooh, moody," Ray observed, "there's salad in the fridge. Why are you so late?"

"Vecchio, did you not hear what I *just* said? Could you *please* shut the fuck up," okay, he was hungry and tired. He morphed into a complete asshole. It wasn't his fault. Really. But went and munched disinterestedly at the assortment of *healthy* things Vecchio in his delirium induced state had thrown together for him. He leant with his back against the fridge as he munched on a stick of carrot. Too tired to care, he shoved the half finished salad back and went on a mission to the bedroom, dragging a protesting Vecchio with him. Ok, so when he got hungry and tired he wasn't just an asshole, he was bossy, sarcastic and uncaring. He could just imagine the wise ass remarks that Vecchio would come up with if he ever told him that.

<><><><><><><>

Vecchio led awake next to an exhausted Kowalski until he was sure he was asleep. He'd never seen him quite that grouchy, or tired, or that disinterested in him. Ray knew he was being unfair expecting attention all the time from Stan, but he normally rang to say he'd be late, or to check how his fever was. Ray felt oddly neglected.

He'd never admit it, but Stan sometimes did the old mother hen act on him. Ray couldn't believe he'd never even put the moves on him. No matter how sick or mucus infested he got, Stan had *always* tried to persuade him, tried to coax him into bed.

Ray's ego was hurt. Ok, so he had a fever, was that grounds to make him undesirable to Stan?

Ok, so he'd dragged him to bed, but Ray suspected it was more to do with Stan was afraid that he'd keep him awake with the light on otherwise, because as soon as he got him there, Stan had stripped, led, back to Ray, and not moved since.

Ray, however, wasn't tired. He'd been in bed nearly all day. Now it was night time and he was wide-awake. He slowly crept out of the bed and out of the room. He flopped down onto the sofa and stared at the walls, bored with the apartment after have an enforced stay of nearly a week. Ray noticed Stan's bag on the floor, one day Ray was really going to have to teach him to tidy up after himself. He picked up the bag and emptied out the dirty clothing, his hands closing around an unfamiliar box in the darkness.

Ray smiled as he took it over to the window where a beam of light from the streetlamp outside shone in.

He knew he was just being paranoid. Stan was just tired. Stan had bought him a present because he was ill, Stan loved him, he only doubted him because of this damn fever. Yeah that was it, the fever. He rattled the box experimentally.

Ray was grinning inanely until he read the tag.

Who the *fuck* was Tim?

And why the *hell* was Stan giving him presents, signed with 'all my love'?

Ray was so fucking angry he actually considered hunting this Tim down in the middle of the night to strangle him to death. Ray couldn't remember the last time he'd felt quite this angry.

Yes he did. It was when he found Milner with his filthy paws all over Stan. But this was different, this was *consensual*. Stan was cheating on him. Not only was he cheating on him, he was buying gifts for his bit on the side. Oh, this was different, this time half of his anger was directed at Stan. Maybe a bit more than half.

Couldn't the guy go a week without getting laid? Was Ray neglecting him so much he had to look elsewhere? Although a week was hardly long enough to develop a relationship enough to be buying presents and sign them 'all my love'. That's at least third or fourth week dating behaviour. Mr Paranoid and Suspicious took over Ray's consciousness.

Stan had been 'working' late every single night this week. No Fraser, no partner to check up on him, he could have been doing whatever he liked. It wasn't that he didn't trust Stan... it was just that he didn't trust him enough.

All the excuses Stan had *ever* made came back to him in stereo surround sound.

I'm too tired.

Ray, for Christ sakes I was shot today!

Huh, what did you say? These meds are pretty strong. Zzzzzz

I've got a headache.

Well, ok, so he never used the last one. But he may as well have done, because *Stan* has someone to scratch his itch when Ray is not good enough.

Ray shoved the gift angrily back into Stan's bag along with him dirty clothes and stormed back to bed. He led, back to Stan and fumed to himself in the darkness. He was too pissed off to sleep, too pissed off to do anything other than lay lie stiffly next to his cheating lover and seethe.

<><><><><><><>

Five hours.

Five fucking hours.

Man, he needed more sleep than that, he rested his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes and concentrated. Nope, no good. He was in that weird transitional place between adrenaline high and complete exhaustion and his body didn't have a fucking clue what to do about it. Welsh wasn't even expecting him in for another four hours. Great.

Stan hauled his ass out of bed using a tremendous amount of energy. He stood there for a while and looked at Ray, for some reason he had chosen to lie facing away from him curled into a tight ball. Stan hoped he wasn't getting sicker again, he leant over and felt his lover's forehead careful not to wake him. If anything Ray's fever seemed to be breaking. Stan had been a complete git last night though, perhaps he was pissed off about having to stay up late then get yelled at.

Tough, thought Stan, he'd had an entire weeks worth of sleepless nights with his shivering fits, coughing fits and fits of uncontrolled whinging. He deserved a little sleep deprivation after what he'd put Stan through already.

Stan crept around the room, getting dressed, not willing to risk a shower for fear it would wake Ray and shove him further into the doghouse than usual. He grabbed a change of clothes so he could shower once he got to the precinct.

But first, he was going Tim hunting. He grabbed his bag, paused quickly, told a sleeping Ray he was going to work got a grunt in response, told him to be careful and ring him if anything happened. Another grunt. Told him there was stew in the fridge that he'd made the other night, he only had to heat it up. Yet another grunt. He kissed him chastely on the lips, thought he must have imagined the way Ray's lips stiffened beneath him and ran to the door.

<><><><><><><>

Ray had led there, feigning sleep as Stan went through his morning ritual of motherhenness and Ray couldn't help but resent him for it, was this to alleviate his guilt while he was with *Tim*? Then without warning he felt Stan's lips on his and he didn't want to think about how the sensation made him either want to punch his lover or be sick.

As soon as Ray heard the front door closing he jumped up and went to the window to watch Stan speed away in the direction *away* fro the 27^th. If Ray weren't so ill, he'd follow him.

He did the next best thing, he picked up the phone and dialled the consulate.

"Canadian Consulate, Constable Benton Fraser RCMP speaking, how can I be of assistance?" man, the Mountie sounded tired, kind of like he'd just got up, well what do ya know, he beat the Mountie up. That was an achievement. That's when Ray looked at the clock for the first time. Four o'clock. Four o'friggin'clock. What the hell was Stan doing up at that hour? Ray almost felt like crying, he *knew* what Stan was doing, he'd jumped out of his bed and went straight to some guy's called Tim.

"Hey Benny," Ray tried to sound cheerful. It nearly turned into he real thing when he heard the shock in his friend's voice.

"Ray! What are you doing up at this hour? Are you ok?" always the considerate little Mountie, concerned about his health.

"Yeah Fraser I'm fine," ok, he hadn't meant that to sound quite so bitter.

"Ray are you sure you're ok?"

"I'm not ok Fraser," he admitted quietly.

"What's wrong Ray?" apparently Fraser, even in his sleep-induced state could pick up on misery.

"Stan's having an affair," he nearly choked on the words. Ok, finally, he'd found something to leave the Mountie speechless, shame it couldn't be under different circumstances.

"Are you sure Ray?"

"Fraser, would I be this miserable and up at 4am if I wasn't sure?"

"Well, no. But what makes you so sure?"

"Fraser, the guy's been coming home late every night, he's been moody and grouchy, and I mean more than usual. He's got fancy dancy presents lying around for his beloved Tim and if you can think of a good reason he'd be out at this time in the morning, you've got one hell of an imagination."

"I'm sure there's a good explanation for all of those Ray, I know they're short staffed with the flu, Lieutenant Welsh probably has him on extra shifts to compensate,"

"Welsh may be an ogre, but even he wouldn't make it so Stan comes in at eleven and leaves at four." Ok, double speechless Mountie, "try and explain the present Benton buddy, cuz I got zippo for excuses on that one, except that maybe Stan has an illegitimate love child out there."

"Would you like me to come over Ray? I have a few hours before my shift starts..." Ray hated himself for being so weak and needy,

"Thanks buddy," craving someone to tell him he was having flu induced hallucinations.

<><><><><><><>

Stan growled to himself in the morning traffic jam. The second Tim apparently had never even met Mr Walker in person, he seemed completely unfazed by the news of his death, Stan didn't think someone who was involved with the guy, no matter how much they wanted to keep the relationship secret could act that nonplussed.

Third Tim lucky. Timothy Dalton.

Stan pulled up outside the apartment building, grabbed the present and made his way to the third floor. Third Tim looked promising. Late thirties, good-looking Stan observed in a disinterested way, dark hair, tall, well built.

He was not expecting the flood of tears to follow the news he just delivered though, or the desperate clutching at the front of his tee shirt as the other man sobbed into his shoulder. Stan patted him on the back awkwardly; hoping that the death grip the guy had on him wouldn't get any tighter.

Finally, after being released Stan went about his duty as a caring police officer and made Tim a cup of coffee. Tim sat stiffly in an armchair hiccupping with the after-effects of too much crying, the new object of his death grip being a steaming coffee mug.

"You see, me and Simon, we were more like soul mates. He was going to tell his wife about us yesterday, don't give me that look officer, I know what you're thinking, he was going to tell her, we were meant to be moving to France at the end of the week. He'd booked us seats on a flight and rented us an apartment and all,"

"What about his business?" Stan asked. He'd been over the financial state of the business, it was lucrative, yet not lucrative enough to pay for the all the fancy nik naks the guy had had.

"He was going to run it from abroad, let his deputy have the reigns," Stan nodded noncommittally, unwilling to say anything that may restart the endless wave of tears.

"Have you ever been in love officer?" Tim asked him out of the blue with a wistful dreamy expression on his face. Stan felt a grin equally as goofy take over his features as he thought of Ray.

"Yeah," Tim seemed to come back to himself, looking straight at him with a serious expression.

"You should cherish it while you can, don't take it for granted," Stan nodded in agreement; he'd never take Ray for granted. Then he remembered the way he had snapped and grouched at Ray last night while he was still ill, how he'd left him in bed alone this morning, how he'd left him alone all week for that matter. Guilty didn't cover the way Stan felt. He was also shocked at the look of sympathy the other man gave him after noticing his guilt.

"What's their name?" Tim asked him out of curiosity.

"Ray," ok, that wasn't meant to slip out, saying he was in a relationship with his partner was hardly something he wanted to advertise. He hadn't wanted to blurt out the truth, must be because he was so miserable and tired he was losing it, not being professional. Tim at least had the decency to look shocked.

"Is that 'Ray' as in 'Raymond'?" so he could hardly back out of it now, plus he couldn't think of a single female version of the name 'Ray', hmmm, 'Rayetta'? He just nodded in affirmative, annoyed at being caught out. But Tim just sat there and smiled at him knowingly, he still managed to look miserable through the grin.

"And you love him?" once again Stan looked at the grieving man and couldn't lie, nodding his head brusquely, "hang onto that for as long as you can," the man gave him his advice in a sage tone. Stan knew then and there he was going to do just that.

<><><><><><><>

"Ray, you really need to calm down," Fraser tried to placate the fuming man.

"You heard the Lieutenant, he's. Not. In. Work," he punctuated each work by slamming his fist into his palm, "that means he is somewhere else, and we all know where, or should I say with *who* that place is."

Fraser couldn't argue in Stan's defence, as much as he'd like to be able to. The evidence against Stan was beginning to become insurmountable. Fraser had convinced Ray to not jump to conclusions, suggesting that he call Stan at the station, certain that Stan would in fact be there and that Ray had been imaging things in his paranoid delusional state. That was before he'd heard Ray saying to the lieutenant it was nothing serious and he didn't need to leave a message, he'd just call back later when Stan got there. Ray had then informed him that Stan was not due in till at least nine and he had no idea where the wayward detective had gone. Fraser was proud of the mature and calm way Ray was taking the news, that was *before* he punched a hole through the plasterboard in the kitchen wall and threw Stan's mobile phone against the wall, watching with a smug look of satisfaction as he watched the shattered pieces fall to the floor. The look of satisfaction, however, was short lived and was soon replaced by the more familiar look of misery. Then he watched helplessly as Ray turned his destructive ministrations onto Stan's beloved stereo, watching as Ray *accidentally* knocked it onto the floor and *accidentally* repeatedly kick and stamp on it until it resembled the mess that was once Stan's former phone.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," Ray promised. Fraser at this point was unable to tell for certain the *who* Ray was referring to, Stan or the alleged object of his desires, Tim?

"Ray, I'm sure this can be solved in a non-violent way,"

"Who am I kidding Fraser? I'm not going to kill him, I love him," Ray seemed shocked at his own admission as he slumped down dejectedly in the chair, "you know, I must be some kind of loser, I've already decided that I've forgiven him, I'd take him back if he promised not to do it again, how pathetic is that?"

"That's not pathetic Ray, it's noble, and forgiveness is a very elusive gift, to err is human, to forgive divine,"

"Of course, I'd probably have to destroy every piece of his property and force him to stay where I could see him 24-7, and quite possibly beat the shit out of him."

"I thought we'd had this discussion on violence?"

"You had the discussion, I'm still in favour of it," as much as Fraser hated to admit it, he was angry with Stan himself, he'd never seen Ray hurt quite this bad, so bad that he was being open and honest. Why just looking at the look of utter misery on his friends face he'd like to....

No. He was a Mountie. A Mountie I tell you, they do not succumb to whims of the violent kind.

<><><><><><><>

"Here," Stan belatedly remembered the present, the entire object of this little extracurricular activity, after running out to the GTO to retrieve it. Tim took it and looked at it reverently, "It was found in his car,"

"And you tracked me down?" Tim's voice was kind of wondrous, awed.

"Uh, yeah,"

"Most cops wouldn't have bothered, to find the 'other man'"

"I'm not most cops." Tim smiled at him in understanding.

<><><><><><><>

Ray was furious, he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt so consumed with rage and have nothing to take it out on. He didn't really want to take it out on Stan, it was just a shame he'd taken the GTO with him otherwise he'd have had racing stripes 'a la' key scratches down his precious paintwork. Ray was inordinately pleased that Fraser was still with him, stopping him from doing anything too drastic. Ok, so he'd destroyed a few of Kowalski's best possessions, but in the end they were just materialistic objects, Ray wanted to inflict pain like what Stan had bestowed upon him. Having your heart ripped out given a good going over with a rolling pin, shredded up in a cheese-grater, washed in vinegar and replaced into his gaping chest. Ray was also concerned about the origin of all of the food metaphors.

<><><><><><><>

Kowalski decided to drive straight to the precinct after Tim assured him he was going to be fine. He'd still be in earlier than Welsh was expecting him, he wondered if it was possible for him to be blamed if his boss keeled over and died out of the shock of him turning up early.

By the time Stan had got to the GTO his mood have improved somewhat. He was almost *smiling*, his facial muscles had forgotten what it was like to pull his face into anything other than a scowl, which was all he'd done in the last week. He was nearly half way to the precinct when he heard the message over the radio, for a very familiar address where they'd found a man badly beaten, Stan pulled the GTO in a very daring U turn on a busy road and raced back to the apartment where he'd just left Tim.

Flying full pelt along the road and screeching to a halt outside the apartment building, only to hear another report over the radio saying they were in foot pursuit of the suspected criminals a block and a block and a half away. Peeling away again in a cloud of burning rubber and a petrol smell that was an accurate indicator that the operator of the vehicle was not using the gas pedal in moderation. Swinging the car into the alley where the beat cops had reported the sighting, seeing a flash of deep blue all but fly over the wall at the end of the alleyway, Stan jumped out of the car, slammed the door and joined the fray.

Stan wasn't sure how he'd managed it, but by the time he'd got over the wall he had a good view of the backs of the cops and the two running guys in front of them. Time for drastic action Stan decided, which meant time for Fraser- like action. He could see the bad guys rounding a corner, hoping to escape at the other end of the alley. Stan flew up the fire escape, positive that Fraser must have done something equally stupid at one time. Luckily the roof of the building was relatively low so he didn't have to run up too many flights of stairs. Sprinting across the roof, he noticed the ever-pointless yet reliable wire, running from the edge of the building he was on to the shorter building on the other side of the alley. Without thinking, he pulled his jumper sleeve over his hand and hooked it over the wire, prayed to whatever gods keep insane red tunic-ed men safe when they did stupid things, and jumped.

Stan wasn't even sure why he was doing this to catch these guys, yeah, he believed in the pursuit of justice, but not normally to the extent where he was voluntarily jumping off of buildings. Possibly it was because he felt a connection with Tim, knowing the roles could very easily be reversed, him being the bereaved lover.

//I'm sorry Kowalski, they did everything they could...//

Which was now, why he was plummeting towards the ground at breakneck speed, hell, he'd even overtaken the cops and the suspects. Things were going exactly to plan.

He was nearly there. So close.

//snap//

Oh shit. Ok, the ground was rushing up to meet him at a speed Stan was non-too thrilled about. Drawing his gun while he still could, Stan braced himself for the impact, landing heavily on his shoulder at the feet of the suspects, rolling for what felt like a thousand times until Stan was not sure which way was up. Coming to a stop in a convenient position, facing the perpetrators uninjured gun arm stuck out in their direction. Scrambling to his feet in a drunken like heave, nearly toppling as the world continued its insistence to spin. He heard himself shout.

"Freeze assholes," Saw the beat cops surround their captives, heard the clinking of handcuffs, and then sank back to the floor.

"Hey, mister, you got a permit for that?" if he could have got up to kick the guy in the head for asking him such a dumb ass question, he would have. Luckily for the guy, Stan felt like he couldn't move.

"M'a'cop," was all he could get out.

"Sure," oh, man the kid was *patronising* him, he felt the impersonal pat down, finding his wallet. What a way to thank the guy who just caught the bad guys for you.

"Hey, Brad, if we hurry, perhaps we could stick him in the same bus as the other guy," Stan felt two strong pairs of hands haul him unsteadily to his feet.

"Can you walk buddy?" it wasn't a question, Stan could hear the blatant undercurrent; 'you *will* walk buddy'.

Stan didn't really remember the walk back to Tim's apartment, his shoulder hurt too much to concentrate on anything else, plus his head felt kind of fuzzy, Stan didn't think he could remember hitting it, he hoped it was just the pain making him feel funky, he knew Ray would kill him if he got concussion *again*.

Apparently, by the time they'd got him into the ambulance, they were satisfied with his identity, after finding his badge and handcuffs. They'd even apologised, in a round about kind of way, for their unbelieving.

"You want us to call your CO?"

"Lieutenant Welsh," was all he supplied them with before closing his eyes in the empty seat in the ambulance, so he wouldn't have to look at the broken body in front of him, they had, however, reassured him that it looked worse than it was and he would be fine.

<><><><><><><>

Welsh had forgotten the number of times that he had got a phone call from the hospital telling him that another one of his detectives were damaged again. But Kowalski? He'd given him more stress than the rest of the department put together. He was once again in hospital, they were fairly certain that there was nothing serious wrong with him and he'd probably be fine. That would be until Vecchio got hold of him, Welsh wasn't stupid or blind, he knew about their relationship, although he was fairly sure no-one else knew, so until it became common knowledge, Welsh could quite easily turn a blind eye. Although that did make it more difficult when he had to inform Vecchio about his partner's whereabouts. He knew Vecchio would go ballistic.

<><><><><><><>

Fraser was pleased that Ray was finally calming down. After he'd smashed Stan's television and his CD collection had been strewn over the apartment, Ray had quieted and now sat silently on the couch. Fraser stood stiffly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do, he was aware he was going to be late for work, but was unwilling to leave Ray like this. Then the phone rang, saving him from the uncomfortable silence.

"I'll get it," Fraser was unsure whom he was talking to, as Ray had made no move to answer it.

"Kowalski residence, Constable Benton Fraser speaking,"

"Aahh, constable, is Vecchio there?" Fraser looked at Ray and his current mission carving chunks out of Stan's coffee table.

"Uuhh, yes sir, but he is otherwise indisposed,"

"I won't even ask, is it possible to give him a message?"

"Of course sir,"

"Kowalski's in hospital, now before you say anything, all they've told me is it isn't serious, if they tell you anything else it will be nothing short of a miracle and I'd appreciate being kept updated,"

"Of course sir," Fraser was shell shocked, Ray had just been discussing how he'd like to hospitalise his partner, he wondered how he would react when he'd found his wish had come true.

He moved and sat next to Ray,

"What did Welsh want?"

"He was calling about Stan," Fraser started, "he's in hospital," he could see the instant change in demeanour in his friend, his cast worried eyes towards him.

"Is he ok?"

"Yes, they have assured Lieutenant Welsh that his condition is not critical," Fraser could see the instant that the meaning 'not serious' hit home to Ray, his eyes once again became hard, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

"Good," he ground out.

"Ray, surely you can't mean that,"

"Yeah, I do buddy, he deserves it."

"Ray, we still do not know the extent of his injuries, would you like me to come with you to the hospital?" Fraser really hoped that seeing Stan in a hospital bed would appeal to Ray's softer, more forgiving nature.

"You can do whatever you want buddy, I don't care,"

<><><><><><><>

Stan sat, propped up by pillows in a stark white hospital room. He had a dislocated shoulder and the procedure to pop it back in unpleasant, actually he thought, to say it was unpleasant was an understatement. Now though, he was just bored, they given his head a scan and doped him up good on all kinds of drugs, they were just waiting for the results, then he was a free man. He'd been pretty much out of it since the fall, but since getting to the hospital he'd been doing great, well that was before the wacky cocktail of drugs took effect, now he felt out of it again, everything was strange and surreal, the lights too bright, the bed too soft and the noises of hustle and bustle around him far too loud. He wondered if the cops had informed Welsh like they said they would, he was sure he could remember them saying that they would, but then if someone had told him he'd seen dancing pink elephants at the moment, he'd be inclined to believe them.

He could only presume that they hadn't, because he hadn't had a single visitor, not Welsh, not the complimentary cop from the 27^th, not Fraser and, most importantly, not Ray. He was Mr Popularity.

He hated to admit the sign of weakness, but he was lonely, he hadn't had a single solitary moment to himself since taking the Vecchio gig and he'd just, kinda, got used to other people being there.

<><><><><><><><>

Fraser had made sure Ray was in the customary six layers of clothing that any flu patient should have when leaving the indoors. After that he drove the posted speed limit and stopped at every red light until the finally got to the hospital. Not that Ray had complained at all about the delay, in fact Fraser thought he looked rather relieved about delaying the inevitable for a while.

"We're here to see Detective Kowalski," Fraser politely informed the already flirting receptionist.

"Of course sir, I'll get the doctor to come and get you," she beamed at him while indicating that he should wait in chairs.

They hadn't long sat down before a balding man in a white coat came up and introduced himself as Stan's doctor. He told them they were just awaiting the CT scan results then, all being well, they could take him home. He also warned them that Stan wouldn't be up to much in the way of conversation because of the medication they had used, Fraser reflected that was probably a good thing considering Ray's mood. They were escorted to a small examination room where they could see a semi dozing Stan propped up by pillows, scratches down one side of his face enhancing the deep lines of exhaustion a stark white sling encasing his arm with a matching support band.

Stan opened his eyes as they came into the room. His smile as he saw them could have rivalled the one hundred watt bulbs on the ceiling. The only word Fraser could come up with to define his expression was smitten, although Stan would quite possibly kill him if he ever found out he'd even *thought* that.

Although this just didn't corroborate with the alleged affair that Stan was apparently having. Apparently Ray, however, still thought the same as Fraser watch his jaw tighten in anger and cross his arms defensively across his chest.

Oh dear, this wasn't going to go well.

<><><><><><><><>

Ray couldn't help the way his stomach did somersaults when he saw Stan. The guy looked like shit. Despite the happy grin he greeted them with Ray was still angry, so he remained stood at the end of the bed.

"What's wrong Ray?" good detective skills you've got there Stanley.

"Nothing," he lied harshly.

"Oh," Ray couldn't help but feel slightly triumphant that the smile was gone. He knew it was petty and childish, but he didn't care. An uncomfortable silence descended on the room, he could see Fraser out of the corner of his eye, fidgeting, Ray knew he was just dying to bolt out of the room. Stan just led there, fiddling with his sling nervously.

But they were saved from the awkwardness far too quickly when the doctor remerged.

"You were very lucky detective, next time you want to jump off of buildings, at least wear a crash helmet, as it is though, you escaped relatively unscathed, however I am putting you on a weeks light duties, you are to bathe the scratches twice a day with salt water and wear that sling all of the time. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah, yeah," Stan replied as he swung his legs from under the covers grabbing his jeans from the table next to him and pulling them on. Slinging his tattered tee shirt on over his head, an abnormal bulge remained where his other arm was still under the fabric, the left sleeve lying flaccid at his side. He shoved his feet into the boots lying at the side of his bed and then strode, somewhat precariously, out of the door.

"Hey, Stan the exit's this way," Ray called after him in annoyance as Stan took a wrong turn. Stan just looked at him and carried on in the direction he'd started off in, leaving Ray and Fraser no choice but to follow.

They followed him all the way back to the receptionists desk, that's where Ray had a bout of blind fury, the moment he heard his lover ask about the whereabouts of Timothy Dalton, Ray could have been quite happy to shoot Stan, right in the middle of a hospital. He watched numbly as Stan thanked the receptionist politely and headed off down the corridor again.

<><><><><><><>

Ray was acting weird. Well, weirder than normal. Stan hoped it was the fever making him so strange, not something he'd done.

He turned the corner and went into the room the receptionist had told him, Tim looked worse off than he did, his face had a huge purple bruise over one eye, a bandage encased his head and a plaster cast over one forearm. But, he was a wake and smiled at him when he came in.

"Hey," he greeted him.

"When they said that a police officer had attempted a daring feat to capture my attackers, I didn't think it was you,"

"Well, ya know, I was in the area..." Stan blushed.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, greatness, not going to go jumping off of any more buildings anytime soon, how about you?"

"I'll live," and that was all the conversation they had time for until they were interrupted by a blur of furious Italian.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Ray demanded. Stan was confused, what the hell was his lover so angry about and why was he yelling at him?

"I, uh..."

"Don't play the fucking innocent with me, I haul my bedridden ass all the way down here, *not* so you can go and visit your bit on the side." Oh, that made sense; Vecchio had finally lost his mind.

"You must be Raymond," Tim interrupted.

"How the fuck do you know my name, don't tell me he fucking talked about me!" Stan was finally beginning to catch up, Ray, for some reason, thought he was having an affair, and seemed ready to kill someone over the misconception.

"Ray, calm down,"

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down," he yelled back, "and it's *detective* Vecchio to you, scumbag," he directed at Tim. Stan grabbed Ray's chin with is good hand,

"Look at me Ray," forcing Ray to meet his eyes, "do you really think I could ever cheat on you?" Ray just shook his head miserably.

"I *thought* you'd never cheat on me, but how the hell do you explain *Timothy* here?"

"He was in a relationship with a heart attack victim,"

"So, you had to buy him a present?"

"No, that present was from his lover, I was just the delivery boy," Stan could almost watch the light dawn in Ray's eyes and he cast a sheepish grin to them both. Then hugged Stan fervently. Stan promptly let out a yelp as he pressed against his shoulder.

"I can't believe you'd ever think that," now it was Stan's turn to be angry, as he stalked off to find Fraser so he could get the hell out of this hospital.

"I'm, er, sorry," Ray apologised to Tim.

"You know, I really didn't think you'd be his type,"

"What's *that* supposed to mean?" Ray demanded in irritation.

"I just thought he'd go for the muscley type, possibly someone younger,"

"Keep talking buddy and you won't need a hospital bed, you'll need a morgue."

<><><><><><><>

Apparently things had not gone well, well that was judging by the mood he met Stan in. Fraser quickly fussed him into the back of the Riv and took up position in the driving seat, waiting for Ray.

Inspector Thatcher was going to be extremely agitated, to put it mildly, about his absence from work. It was going to get considerably worse as well. The doctor had demanded that someone stay with Stan throughout the night, waking him up every two hours to check to see if there was any concussion, Ray was clearly not well enough to do this. So the duty fell towards this particular Mountie, otherwise Stan would have to stay in hospital for the night; and they'd *never* hear the end of *that*.

But to make matters worse, Ray needed looking after as well, he was no as *over* the flu as he would like to pretend he was. That means that he would also have the inevitable job of referee.

I am a Mountie.....

<><><><><><>

Ray found both partners already in the car waiting for him. Stan, almost half asleep, still managed to scowl at him. The silence that encased the entire ride home grated at Ray's nerves, ok, so he did something *stupid* it wouldn't be the first time, and it also wouldn't be the first time Stan had done something stupid, like, for example; jump off of a building.

He watched helplessly as Fraser slowly helped a wobbly Stan up the stairs.

<><><><><><>

"What the *fuck* happened to my apartment?"

This brought Ray out of his reverie, he looked around the place, yes it was a state, and everything that was, or had ever been valuable to Stan was either: crushed, splintered, gouged, smashed, or unrecognisable.

Ok, so he'd been a little mad.

And now it was Stan's turn to be mad.

"What the *fuck* did you do to my apartment Vecchio?" No more *our* apartment, we were strictly on surname basis now.

"Well......"

"Never'the fuck'mind!" he growled back as he stormed off into the bedroom. The loud slamming of the bedroom door echoed around the apartment.

"Maybe I shouldn't have touched the television,"

<><><><><><><>

Stan was furious, he was so fucking angry he couldn't see straight. His lover didn't trust him *and* said lover had methodically destroyed his home. Plus his head hurt like a son of a bitch, and he couldn't even get undressed properly with. One. Frigging .Arm!

He flopped down dejectedly on the bed, absurdly happy that his medication made him fall quickly into a deep slumber.

<><><><><><><>

Fraser set to work with Ray to clean up the apartment as best they could. There was nothing that could be done for the television, Stan's cell phone, his CD collection or his stereo. Ray was going to be in big trouble when Stan woke up and realised the extent of the damage. Fraser would have preferred not to be around for that particular fall-out. Yet he didn't have a lot of choice in the matter, he had promised to look after Stan, so he was going to.

He was a Mountie.

<><><><><><><>

Stan woke up to a tentative prodding and the usual 'Stan, Stan, Stan' litany. His head felt like it had been steamrolled and used as a baseball. It didn't help that when he opened his eyes he had a face full of Mountie. It felt as if he'd only been asleep for two minutes after he'd last been woken up.

Having a head injury sucked.

"How are you feeling?" all Stan allowed himself was a noncommittal grunt.

"Leftenant Welsh would like a word with you, I was against waking you up again, but he was rather, uh, insistent on the matter," Stan reached out blindly and felt the phone being placed into his hand.

"N'yah,"

"Still as eloquent as ever Kowalski,"

"N'grrrr,"

"It's about those perps you caught earlier," now, this got his attention, "it's about the contents of the gift," Welsh paused, Stan hoped his wasn't expecting some kind of prompting or *conversation*.

"Uncut diamonds to be precise,"

"Diamonds?!?"

"Ah, so you haven't forgot how to speak,"

"Get back to the bit about the diamonds lieu."

"Apparently Mr Walker, the model family man, smuggled Diamond from Europe in his spare time," a thought suddenly occurred to Stan.

"No, his death was completely legit, he died before these guys could get a chance to kill him." Man, was he *that* predictable?

"I was followed?" damnit, he'd actually led those assholes straight to Tim.

"It would seem likely detective." How could he have been so *stupid*? He hadn't even noticed that he was being followed; they must have followed him here, to Mrs Walker's house, hence the burglary, then back here to his apartment, then to Tim's. He hadn't even noticed, yeah he was tired, but that shouldn't have stopped him doing his duty, his 'protect' part of 'serve and protect' was sadly lacking.

He was out of bed and checking himself in the mirror before he even realised it. He looked a little rumpled, make that a *lot* rumpled. He sniffed his one accessible armpit, uhhh, not wonderful, but it'd do.

He grabbed his car keys; pretty certain that because he was only missing the use of his left arm he'd be able to get to the precinct.

"Be back later," he yelled at Ray and Fraser in the kitchen as he left.

<><><><><><><>

"Kowalski, what the fuck are you doing here?" Welsh demanded the moment he got there.

"I was just in the neighbourhood and I thought I'd stop by,"

"Yeah right Kowalski,"

"Come one lieu, this is *my* case, and it just turned interesting." He whined.

"*Was* your case Kowalski, it was handed over when you hospitalised yourself, Huey and Dewey are working it, they got the small fish to rat out the big fish and they're off to go fishing,"

"You *gave* them my case? They only just got back from sick leave today, I've been making up their slack all week and you *give* them my one, *not* mindnumblingly boring case?"

"Relax Kowalski, why not go and enjoy *your* sick leave?" Welsh looked behind him at the door, "and take your keepers with you," and that was all he said as he left them and went into his office.

"What the fuck are you guys doing here?" he demanded as he turned around, knowing he'd find Fraser and Ray there.

"Stan, you're hardly in a suitable state to drive,"

"How many people did I kill on the way here, don't tell me you found me by following the trail of corpses I left?"

"Well, you didn't kill anyone, I believe they've just all been hospitalised," Stan did a double take.

"Did you just make a joke?" Fraser pulled at his collar.

"Yes,"

"It wasn't funny,"

"Understood,"

<><><><><><><><>

They returned to the apartment, after Fraser confiscated the keys to the GTO abandoning it at the precinct. A guy with a lot of boxes was waiting for them.

"You, Mr Vecchio?"

"That's me," Ray stepped up from behind them.

"Sign here," the guy pointed to a box on his tattered sheet. Ray signed and then tipped the guy *way* too much.

"Thanks for the fast delivery," Ray said to the retreating delivery guy, "hey Benny, give me a hand with these boxes,"

"Of course Ray,"

<><><><><><><><>

Things were back to normality. Ray had restocked his electrical appliances after blowing an entire months wages.

Stan couldn't stay mad at anyone who bought him a wide-screen TV that big.

Ray had also promised that he would trust him; his bank account couldn't afford it not to trust him.

Stan sneezed; he felt as if he was coming down with something, possibly Ray's mutant flu, revenge was going to be *so* sweet.

The End

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