Disclaimer: AA ownes 'em, I make no profit.

Author's Notes:

Story Notes: Set about 2.5 years after the series ends. Vecchio is back in the 27 after a disasterous marrige to Stella and Kowalski is in Canada with Fraser.

This story is a sequel to: Taking out the Trash 2/?

"He was asking for you," Fraser was peeling off some very smelly socks while Ray unwrapped the scarf and pulled off a blue knit cap to reveal dirty light-colored hair. "Rather, he was asking for Stanley Kowalski, he didn't know your middle name. Do you recognize him, Ray?"

"No," Ray frowned down at the way too thin face. "No, buddy--I don't know this kid. Josh, huh? Nope."

The kid--Josh--was still waving arms and legs around but Ray was pretty sure he wasn't really home. "Jeeze, Ben, he really stinks. The things you find out there, I swear to god."

"He's injured," Fraser checked over the kid's feet for frostbite then jumped up and headed for the bathroom. "I'm going to get some hot water ready, be careful of his right arm."

"Right," Ray went on peeling the kid down--he didn't get any less smelly--while the tub filled in the other room. He got down to the sweater, stiff and crusty along the arm and had to stop, stomach churning. The black crud crumbling off was old blood and he didn't have Fraser's nose but he could still smell something not good. "Frase? Could you--ew-- come take a look at this? I think this kid needs a hospital."

Fraser came to lean on his shoulder, one hand resting warm on his neck briefly, then he fetched a pair of scissors. Ray took them and began to cut off the sweater, revealing bandages not much better than the sweater. They ran from the kid's wrist to his elbow. Fraser leaned down to hold the kid's hand--he'd finally passed out for real, limp and unresponsive, breath whistling in his nose.

"His hand is still warm," Fraser murmured and Ray moved onto the kid's belt and pants. "No sign of gangrene. But, you're right, Ray--he needs to see the doctor tomorrow. The clinic is closed now and I don't want to take him back into the cold unless there's a crisis."

"No kidding," Ray grimaced as he pulled the filthy jeans off. Old habits die hard and he patted the pockets as he set them aside. Empty wallet, no money, no ID, no nothing. Naked, the kid was way to thin, all narrow bones and hollow belly and pasty, dirty skin.

"Ray."

"Yeah, I see it," Ray ran a light hand over the long scab on the kid's side, fading bruises radiating out from it. He'd seen that before, had a few memories that looked like that himself. "Just grazed, doesn't look like the bullet stuck."

"Well," Fraser stood back and Ray gathered the kid up, wrinkling his nose. "Let's get him into the tub and soak those bandages off and see what we have."

The kid stayed out while they cleaned him up and Ray was pretty glad of that, considering the mess of his arm. He let Fraser soak and peel the bandages off while he tried to get some of the dirt washed off.

"There's no sign of systemic infection."

"That's good," Ray grunted. He was trying real hard not to watch Fraser with the arm; hot water and pressure was bringing out all kinds of nasty crap and Ray just didn't want to see it. He really did not want to see it. He ran a hand down the kid's thin back. There were fading bruises and old jagged little scars on his shoulders. Ray knew them; he'd seen them on kids before--and adults too--marks left when someone hit you with the buckle end of a belt. He soaped up the washcloth and swabbed gently, even though the kid was out cold. It looked like he'd already had a hard enough time without Ray manhandling him. The water was gray and brackish when they were done and Fraser warmed some blankets to wrap him in.

"Ben," Ray looked over where Fraser was neatly re-wrapping the long, pussy, scabby cut on the kid's arm after slathering it with some patented smelly Fraser cure. Fraser's face was still in the soft light, sober, with that little line between his eyebrows he got when he was thinking, or angry and Ray guessed he was both. Ray was thinking too; he didn't know why somebody--some teenager--would come up to find him with a bullet wound in his side and a cut on his arm that should have seen a doctor days ago. Especially since it looked like the kid had gone all out to get here--and might be bringing trouble with him. That part really bugged Ray, trouble was fine--trouble he didn't know about, not so fine. "I don't know--really don't have a clue--why someone would be looking for me. Especially some kid. Hell, Josh is a common name, we got two in town, my nephew is Josh."

"The accent is distinctive," Fraser looked over at him with a faint smile. "And familiar."

But Ray wasn't listening, he headed back into the main room, stepping around the pile of smelly clothes--they had to go--and hauling out the big book of relatives; pictures that his Mum and the Vecchios and half the people Fraser had met in Chicago sent them. He was the one who kept it up--Ray did it because Fraser loved it, seeing all the people he was connected too--so he didn't mind the work. He came back to the bedroom and paged around until he found some pictures from Arizona. "Ben, look, ya think?"

Ray peeled a photo of his mum with her grandkids from a couple of years ago. Julie was between his dad and mum, grinning awkwardly the way kids do with relatives, and his nephew was standing next to Damian with a smile that didn't go anywhere but on his lips. The photographer's shadow stretched across the red dirt around his folk's RV, falling over the kid and that darkness and the blank expression on his face made Ray's skin prickle. He knew that look; it was an undercover face, the face of someone who didn't let anything out.

"He does resemble the photograph, adjusting for age and health," Ben said and flipped the photograph over. "Julie Stephanie Kowalski and Joshua Damien Kowalski. This was taken almost two years ago. Did you ever meet your nephew in person?"

"Nope," Ray grimaced bitterly. "My brother's a chip off the ol' Kowalski rock, I ain't talked to him--" and this throat closed up tight, gaze shooting back to the bed where the kid--maybe his own nephew--lay motionless. He took the photo back with icy fingers. The cabin had gone sub-zero all of a sudden, he was shaking and looking at those smiling faces with all their secrets tucked away inside. He wasn't super mountie but he'd been a cop and Ray knew how to read scars and those scars on the kid's back were more than two years old. He lurched to his feet with and headed out the door, rage crushing his chest like a lead weight. He couldn't breathe, he had to get outside.

"Ray!" Ben's voice sounded far away, Ray stumbled faster.

Ray didn't care about the snow seeping into his indoor shoes or the biting cold, he ran blindly away from the house, fetching up against the winter bare tree in the front yard. "Fuck, fuck--"

"Ray, Ray--!"

"Fuck!" Ray yelled, punching the tree, hungry for the solid smack of pain, the way it let him catch a breath. He punched again, feeling the skin over his knuckles split. "Goddamit! How could he--damn, damn--ahh, damn!"

"Ray,Ray!" Ben's arms like bands over his chest, stopping his crazy man hammering at the tree. Ray lurched and struggled, god, he was crying and Ben was chanting his name over and over, frantic. Ray stopped fighting and let Ben manhandle him into a rough, hard hug. He buried his face against Ben's sweater and howled.

"Talk to me, Ray," Ben's hand was shaking on the back of his neck, fingers rubbing in his hair. Ben rocked them back and forth in a cloud of condensation and Ray clutched at him and cried. He couldn't speak, couldn't tell Ben why he knew the kid was his nephew now. How fucked was that? Recognizing his nephew not from hair or eye color but from the scars on his back? Ray couldn't believe his brother would do that--do that--not with what they'd both lived through. "Ray, I'm here, I'm here. Talk to me."

"I'm gonna kill my brother," Ray panted into Ben's warm, familiar skin. "How could he do that? We both--after all--after Pop. How could he? I swear I'm gonna kill him. It ain't right."

"Do you mean--" Ben started, then paused to go on even more tentatively. "The scars of- -older--abuse?"

Ray groaned and pushed his head hard against Ben's shoulder, comforted by the way he braced himself and held on. Ben wasn't gonna let go of him, Ray wound his arms around Ben's waist. He wasn't gonna let go either. "Damn it--he's a chip off the old block all right. I don't understand, we were both so scared all the time--"

"I'm sorry, Ray," Ben whispered. "I wish I'd been there for you."

Later in a nest of sleeping bags and spare pillows with the kid asleep in their bed, Ray felt Ben's breath on his shoulders, then the soft press of his mouth. He shivered as Ben's tongue traced memories so old they were probably nothing more than faint specks of shiny skin. Ray pushed himself back into the curve of Ben's body, pulling his arms around his waist and burying himself in the solid feel of skin and muscle and bone.

"He knows how it feels, I don't get how he could do it." Ray whispered bleakly.

"Your brother?" Ben murmured, his thumb swept soothingly over Ray's hipbone, gentling the tremors of memory that shook Ray now and then.

"Yeah."

"It's not--uncommon for victims of physical abuse to abuse their loved ones in turn," The sound of Ben swallowing was loud in Ray's ear. "It's a very difficult cycle to break."

"Yeah," Ray squeezed his eyes shut, holding Ben's wrists hard, he knew that. He'd seen it often enough when he was working the beat--domestic disturbances that looked more like war zones than a family home--with generation after generation doing the same damn thing. He choked out a faint bark of laughter. "I guess it's a good thing Stella didn't want kids after all."

"Ray," Ben squirmed around until he could look Ray in the face, holding his chin gently when Ray tried to look aside. "No. You would never abuse a child, or someone you love."

"How do you know? You just said it yourself, like father like son."

Ben's eyes were steady in the dimness as he loomed big and solid over him. Ray turned his face into his stroking fingers. He'd never been afraid of Ben, not even at the craziest moments, all that size and muscle had always been a shelter, not a threat. He didn't have to be afraid with Ben, not even of himself; the mountie could take care of himself.

"Because I know you," Ben was saying softly. "You're a good man, Ray, you would never give in to your family history. You're too strong for that, too brave. Even your-- behavior--with Stella had no hint of violence."

Ray burrowed back in against him again and snorted. "Yeah, I was just stalking her, that's all."

Ben rubbed his back and yawned over his head. "It wasn't your best moment, Ray but you still worked to save her life and Orseni's despite your ambiguous emotional state."

"Ambiguous huh? That's one way to put it."

Ray wanted to believe Ben, he could see that Ben believed it but "I hit you, Ben. I hit you." He could feel Ben tense and he hugged him tight, feeling that long ago misery like a knot in his throat, even after all this time.

"Once," Ben said, leaning back to look Ray in the eye. "Once, and I saw the look in your face when you did it. I know you'll never do that again."

"I wanted to die," Ray closed his eyes and muttered. "And it was worse when I made you--hit me back. There wasn't no even-steven there."

"No."

"I'm sorry," Ray whispered and Ben sighed shakily, pressing kisses to the top of his head. Ray had never apologized for that, he'd pushed it aside instead, tried his best to pretend that day on the docks had never happened. He'd never apologized and Ben had never mentioned it either. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Vecchio turned his back on the bullpen and tried not to shout into the phone. He'd called Stella during what he knew would be her lunch-break, which was just before work started for him. "What is this with the daycare? If you didn't want Benny, why the hell did you ask for joint custody?"

Stella could try the patience of a saint and Vecchio squeezed his eyes shut, fumbling behind himself for his bottle of Excedrin while she explained about her new job and the hours it took and Benny needing to socialize with children his own age.

"He's just a little baby, Stella," he said. "He's not even two, can't you work part-time until he's a little older?"

He hardly heard her reply and wasn't that just the way the whole marriage had gone? Both of them looking for something different and neither of them smart enough to realize they weren't going to find it in each other. "Look, if you don't want to take care of our son, fine but no college drop-out is going to take care of our baby. Ma and Frannie will love him to pieces and he'll have plenty of other rug-rats to play with Frannie's pack. I can--"

Stella didn't want him so far away. "Yeah, it's not much fun from where I'm sitting either, Stella."

And she didn't want to impose on his mother, or his sisters. "Impose what? Benny's my son, he's family. You're acting like you don't want him raised by my family--" In the long pause, Vecchio's headache went from miserable to stroke warning. "If you got a problem with my family, Stella, you shoulda figured that out before we got married! Benny's my son, just like he's yours and no son of mine is going to be raised in some storefront baby warehouse!

I got to work, we'll talk about this later." Vecchio slammed down the phone.

O'Brian was hiding in a case folder and Vecchio bent over, resting his head on the cool wood of his desk until it didn't feel like he was going to bust a blood vessel. "Don't ever get married."

"The Illinois legislature is making sure that will never be a problem for me," O'Brian said tartly. Vecchio groaned. It was going to be one of those days.

It was one of those days all day long. They were still hunting down their size 28 witness to the Spanetti murder. They'd gotten lucky with Spanetti's laundry service, the lady wasn't too pleased to be cleaning up after Spanetti's perversion every few weeks so they knew for sure that Spanetti brought hustlers home periodically--and a general idea that he liked 'em young. So, out to the meat market they went, looking for someone willing to talk.

"Here," O'Brian broke the last Rolaids in half and gave one part to Vecchio before chewing down his bit. "The department needs to start stocking this by the carton."

Vecchio grimaced at the chalky taste as he chewed on the pill and parked the car. "Yeah, I'm getting too old for burgers for breakfast, lunch and dinner."

Smoothing down his tie and with O'Brian a step behind, he made his way to the latest in a long day of cheap burger joints full of kids with no place to go, no family to care and no fucking useful information. They'd had to contact vice to get some places and names; they'd been hitting shelters and clinics--none of the overworked docs had seen a kid with a bullet wound in the last few days--after a day of that they were making the rounds of restaurants where street kids and hustlers hung out. Vecchio glanced up at the sign as they passed under it; "Shakey's Shak" in red and yellow letters, advertising the super sized chili-dogs for a dollar.

"This looks promising," O'Brian muttered as they slid into a greasy booth after placing an order with the kid behind the counter. Vecchio nodded jerkily, watching the cluster of kids in the far corner in the reflection on the plate glass windows. A half-dozen kids, none of them legal age, laughing too loud, waving thin hands and tossing back dyed, dirty hair. There were two large chili fries and three pops among the six of them and Vecchio watched them share out the food with a prayer that his little boy never spent a day in his life like these kids. He and O'Brian ate their food, watched the kids and--when the two oldest left--slid out of their booth to follow them.

"Hey," Vecchio stretched his legs to keep from losing the kid they'd picked as the best bet. O'Brian dropped back, close enough for back-up, far enough to keep from spooking their target. "Scotty--right?--wait a sec."

The boy swung around with a manic smile that would've put a whore to shame. He had the jittery restlessness of a tweaker, was wearing a mesh shirt in the spring chill and a miniature cat-o-nine tails dangled from his belt. Vecchio didn't think that he fooled those too old eyes in a young, worn face for a second.

"What's the deal, Officer Friendly?" Scotty waved his hands, thin as two birds, while his friend looked about ready to bolt. "Gonna show me your gun?"

"Ah," Vecchio cleared his throat. No point in pretending, the kids had pegged him and O'Brian as cops right away. "No, nope. Just want to ask a couple of questions."

"Hmm."

"No one's in trouble, not from us," Vecchio hurried on. "And I might be able to help you out with a meal, or two."

Scotty only shrugged so Vecchio plunged on. "We're looking for a--a kid. Was picked up 4 days ago, maybe hasn't shown up since? Or, maybe was hurt? We'd like to talk to him. Skinny, young, probably blond."

Scotty's smile fell away and he tossed his hair. "Well, Mr. Cop Officer, we're all skinny out here. And, missing--don't y'know we're the lost boys?"

"Yeah, yeah," Vecchio said, watching Scotty's attention jump from him to the street, beyond to the buildings, back to fix restlessly on him. Tweaker all right and if he thought it would do any good, he'd take the kid in just to get him a couple of meals and a shot at rehab. Instead he held a folded twenty in his hand, palm up to show off his sincerity. "Anything jog your memory? He'd have been picked up by a rich man, green Mercedes."

That drew in Scotty's attention, at least for a moment, or perhaps it was the money, which disappeared out of Vecchio's hand. The kid gave an elaborate shrug, leaned back to let his nameless friend whisper in his ear and laughed. "You must be talking about the boy who lived, 'cause there's not so many who come back from the ride in that car. Josh-y did though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, see--there's a hotel California out there--" Scotty waved his hand towards the suburbs. "Rent boys check in but they don't check out, dumb fucks take a ride in a pretty car and--" Scotty shrugged. "One less piece of garbage on the street yeah?"

"But Josh came back," Vecchio could hardly hear the fragile whisper from the other kid.

"You know where he is now?" Vecchio asked softly, trying to reel in as much information as he could before the kids took off. They were already restless. "He might be in trouble."

Scotty gave him a crowing laugh, slinging his hips from side to side. "Trouble--maybe-- but Josh got smart and no one in Chicago's going to be seeing him around anymore. More tricks for me, right? He was too pretty anyway."

If Scotty care about this Josh, Vecchio couldn't see any sign of it. "He have a last name? Where'd he go, did he say?"

Scotty laughed at him and turned away, leaving Vecchio with the urge to slap some cuffs on the kid and drag him into the station, instead of trying coax information out of him.

"You got your twenty bucks worth, gimmie another and I'll give you a blow job."

"I think I'll pass," Vecchio snapped.

But the other kid, Vecchio didn't know a name, or even if they were a boy or a girl, hesitated. "Josh--he was hurt."

"I want to help him," Vecchio tried to be sincere. He tried to be just like Benny and make this scared, scarred kid believe him. "But I have to find him."

"He's a pollak," the kid hissed, backing away. "Kowalski, he told me once. He hated the name. He left the city, he was afraid."

And all Vecchio was left with was the sound of running footsteps and disbelief. "Nu-uh. That is too fucking bizarre."

But, he'd have to follow it up anyway.

TBC

End Taking out the Trash 3/? by XTricks: x_tricks2000@yahoo.com

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