C-Three-H-Five-(N-O-Three)-Three
by Akamine chan
Disclaimer: Benton Fraser, Ray Kowalski and the due South universe are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: 1x10^6 thanks to Nnos4a2no9 and Malnpudl for spectacular beta work. Without them, this story would have been without structure, without grammar, without punctuation and without sense. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. Also, thanks as always to Dugrival who managed to cheer me on while moving to another state and for reminding me why I was doing this. *hugs all of you*. Additional thanks to Sageness, Brynnmck and China_shop for once again hosting and moderating this crazy contest.
Story Notes: Written for Livejournal's ds_flashfiction Match 2008 Reality vs. Whimsy.
By the end of the course, participants will be able to identify the different types of explosives, the various improvised explosive devices (IEDs) and the explosive formulations often used by terrorists.
***
Center For International Law Enforcement
Box 5
Sloanville, Texas 78848
Sergeant S.R. Kowalski
27th District, Chicago Police Department
3512 South Michigan Avenue
Chicago, IL 60655
Sergeant Kowalski—
The Center for International Law Enforcement is pleased to accept you and Corporal Fraser into Class 55 of Anti-Terrorism and Incident Response for Law Enforcement Personnel, scheduled to run from June 2nd through June 16th at our main training center in Sloanville. Please contact our travel coordinator Leslie Griego at (555)563-2836 to make your travel arrangements as soon as possible.
In today's global society, officers of the law need continuous training to be as prepared as possible to meet the challenges of the modern world. The goal of the Center is to ensure that you have the training you need to protect and serve to the best of your ability. We look forward to seeing you in a few months.
Sincerely,
Josh Hensley
Director, Center for International Law Enforcement
***
"Uh-uh, Fraser. There's no way that she could have done it. She doesn't have the upper body strength to pull it off. It had to be him." Ray threw down his chopsticks. "I don't understand why you can't see that!"
Rubbing at the back of his neck, hoping to ease the pounding headache there, Fraser tried to be patient. "I can't see it because it makes no sense. He has no motive, no opportunity."
The argument had started with a heated discussion about a case they had been working on.
They'd both been tired, hot, and hungry after a frustrating day full of false leads and hostile witnesses. After they'd picked up some Thai takeout, they'd gone back to Ray's apartment. The fight had been inevitable.
Ray had been sure that Mr. Erickson had committed the murder and the missing boot proved it. Fraser, on the other hand, had completely disagreed. The murderer had to be Mrs. Erickson and the lost footwear had been a deliberate attempt to throw them off the trail.
They'd unpacked the food onto the coffee table and sat down on the couch to eat. Between bites of green curry and phad thai, Fraser had picked apart Ray's case against Mr. Erickson.
"Christ, Fraser. Not everything fits neatly into logical little boxes." Ray thumped his chest twice, voice rising. "Sometimes you just gotta go with your hunches."
Fraser felt his back stiffen at that. "A hunch won't stand up in a court of law, Ray. We need more than flimsy circumstantial evidence and your gut feelings."
"Logic." The words were clipped and angry. "Your precious logic that hasn't gotten us anywhere but back where we started. I should have never listened to you."
Fraser sucked in his breath, shocked.
Ray leaned forward and turned towards Fraser, shaking his head. "Shouldn't have let you talk me into this. Ignoring what we have just because it doesn't fit into your tidy world." He looked at Fraser with piercing blue eyes.
There was a long pause, full of doubt and fear and uncertainty.
Ray reached out and touched Fraser's cheek. "Tell me 'no' and I'll stop."
"Ray—"
Ray kissed him. Hungry and desperate, licking at Fraser's mouth until he let Ray in. At first touch of Ray's tongue, slick and wet, Fraser twisted his mouth away and gasped. "Don't stop." He pulled Ray closer, trying to fit their bodies closer. "Don't stop."
How to identify potential terrorist targets and threats in your community.
***
When Fraser got to the station, he found Ray smiling and happy, his body language echoing his good mood. Ray threw a friendly arm around his shoulders, squeezed and shoved a piece of paper at him. "Fraser, my friend, pack your bags. We're going to Texas. The Center for International Law Enforcement awaits us."
***
Francesca might have come up with the idea for the book, but it was their agent that had suggested the lecture circuit. It never would have come up if the book hadn't been such an unexpected, runaway best seller. But the book had been a success (23 weeks on the New York Times best seller list) and so Benton Fraser and S.R. Kowalski, authors of The Hand of Franklin, were in high demand.
Fraser had liked the idea, had seen it as a way to earn money for some deserving charities as well as shine a positive light on Canada and the RCMP. He had requested a leave of absence and then had spent two weeks trying to figure out how he was going to convince Ray to join him.
Armed with a logical list of reasons Ray should accompany Fraser on a lecture tour, he'd cornered Ray at in his apartment one night. Fraser had spent an hour pointing out all the positive aspects of the endeavor. This included promoting and publicizing their book and bolstering American-Canadian relations. He'd shown Ray the contract that the publicist had given him, surprised when Ray had insisted on reading it carefully.
"Needs work," he'd mumbled around a mouthful of pizza.
Ray had spent the next thirty minutes pointing out the flaws in the contract. Then he had spent the two hours following that outlining a plan that would protect their interests as well as ensure that any philanthropic donations would be used in the most efficient and thrifty manner possible.
"Stella had a hell of a time with her contract law class. I spent a lot of time helping her study," he'd explained.
Fraser found himself feeling simultaneously jealous of and thankful towards Stella.
The theory of explosives: the appearance, characteristics, and power of explosives.
***
Fraser had been looking forward to the Texas trip for some time. He'd never really had a chance to learn much about the use of commercial and homemade explosives. There had been a basic class at Depot on bombs and explosives. Much to his regret, he'd never had the chance to take it.
Chemistry had fascinated him as a young man and chemistry was the foundation of explosives. Acetone peroxide, trinitrotoluene, pentaerythritol tetranitrate, ammonium nitrate. These were the buzzwords of a frightening new world.
Ray was interested in explosives, but not absorbed like Fraser was. Ray was more involved in the ramifications of domestic terrorist threats: how to recognize them, how to prevent them, how to deal with the aftermath.
Ray was into the practical aspects, while Fraser was fascinated by the theory. It was one of the reasons they did so well as partners. They balanced each other.
***
They'd taken the Vecchio kids to a nearby park, trying to give Ma Vecchio and the rest of the adults a chance to relax and recover a bit. Ray and Stella had come back to Chicago for the holidays and Ray and Fraser had been invited over for Thanksgiving dinner as part of the extended Vecchio family. Or as Francesca had put it, "Once a Vecchio, always a Vecchio."
Dinner had still been two hours away and Ray had volunteered to take the kids out, to give everyone a break and maybe burn up some of the excess energy the little ones had. Fraser had suspected that Ray had needed a break from Ray and Stella, as well. Fraser had offered to help keep an eye on the children.
So he and Ray had bundled up the kids and marched them down to the park. Ray quickly split the children into two teams, Fraser leading one, Ray the other, and started a bizarre game that was half tag and half snowball fight.
After about ten minutes of laughter and shouts, cold snow down the backs of shirts and dumped over heads, Ray had managed to incite Fraser's team to mutiny against him. Fraser found himself surrounded by a horde of Vecchio children, all armed with hastily-made snowballs. "Where is your loyalty?" he'd howled at them. The children had responded with a volley of snowballs and giggles. "Some people don't know the meaning of team spirit," he had muttered as he'd tried to escape, dodging the fastest of the kids only to be tripped up by Ray.
Fraser had managed to twist as he fell, landing on his back and Ray toppling on top of him. Ray had looked at Fraser and something electric had passed between them, shocking him into a sudden awareness of Ray's body pressed against him, of Ray's strong thigh between his. He'd licked at his lower lip nervously and Ray's eyes had compulsively followed the movement.
The moment had been broken when the youngest of the Vecchio clan had thrown herself on top of Ray's back, screeching "Horsey!" The look that Ray had given him had said that they would discuss this later. Fraser hadn't been sure he was ready for such a conversation, though he could admit to himself that they'd been working toward such a talk for some time now. He'd just hoped that he wouldn't regret it.
Military, commercial and home-made explosives - how to tell the difference.
***
When it came time to pack for the trip, Fraser distracted Ray with a beer and a live televised game. He proceeded to iron and fold Ray's shirts carefully before packing them away. Ray saw what he was doing and called him a freak under his breath.
"I heard that, Ray."
Ray saluted him with his beer. "Mr. Bat-Ears."
When Ray wasn't looking, Fraser threw away all of Ray's holey socks and underwear, packing instead the new boxer-briefs and socks his mother had sent to him from Arizona.
***
The lecture tour involved a lot of travel.
Every time Fraser'd had to travel any significant distance with Ray, he swore to himself that it would be the last time. He would promise himself solemnly that he was not going to put up with Ray's rude, fussy, cranky behavior on an airplane ever again.
Granted, Fraser knew that he wasn't exactly a prize in the traveling-companion sweepstakes. He got slightly antsy on long plane trips. Unlike Ray, he had a lot more breadth to cram into the seats, though they both had issues with the lack of leg room. Being shoved into a space obviously designed for someone half his size made his back hurt. Fraser didn't feel he was as bad a traveler as Ray, though.
He usually tried to keep Ray away from excessive amounts of caffeine, guessing that Ray didn't need any more stimulants, but the moment he turned his back Ray would make a dash for the coffee kiosk.
Then the obsessive pacing would start. Ray would get up, walk around the perimeter of the departure gate, sit down, get up, explore the adjacent gates, sit back down, check out the men's room, investigate the various stores lining the concourse and return to where Fraser was patiently reading his book.
Ray would sit down for maybe thirty seconds before getting up and starting his jittery circuit all over again. And again. And again. Until Fraser was starting to plan how he was going to dispose of Ray's body in a very busy American airport.
By the time they boarded the plane, Ray was a twitching, nervous wreck that Fraser would have gladly shot with a tranquilizer gun, had there been one to hand. As it was, Fraser spent a lot of time contemplating how much damage he could inflict on Ray with his hardcover copy of Candide. He feared it wouldn't be enough.
Initiation and detonation: how to make things go boom.
***
They'd stopped into the 27th only to pick up some paperwork that Ray had forgotten. They were on their way to the airport but, mainly due to Fraser's insistence on being organized, they were ahead of schedule and had plenty of time for detours.
As Ray rifled through the piles of papers on his desk looking for the missing documents, Lieutenant Welsh stood in the doorway of his office, watching with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Kowalski. My office, if you please."
Ray looked up and frowned. "Be right back, Fraser." He held up a manila folder, wiggling it in Fraser's direction. "It's one of these, got 'Texas' written across the front. Be a buddy and see if you can find it, okay?"
"Of course, Ray." He worriedly watched Ray walk into Lieutenant Welsh's office. He hoped that Ray hadn't done anything that called for one of the Lieutenant's famous reprimands. Beneath his gruff exterior Ray was rather sensitive to criticism from those he respected.
Fraser continued to search for the missing 'Texas' folder on the desk and, by making efficient piles, he quickly found it. Looking back up towards Lieutenant Welsh's office, he noticed that while the blinds were closed, he could still make out Ray's lean shape.
Gesticulating wildly, Ray was obviously upset by whatever they were discussing. He was pacing back and forth, shaking his head in vehement denial. Abruptly, he stalked out of the office and slammed the door closed behind him. He looked pale and shaken and Fraser immediately dropped the folder and stepped toward him.
"Ray—"
"You find the folder?" Ray didn't give him a chance to reply. "Let's go. We're gonna miss our flight."
***
It had been Francesca that had come up with the idea for a book. She'd taken one look at the journal they'd come back with, the beginning done in Fraser's meticulous printing, detailing the hunt for Muldoon; the later entries an unholy combination of readable words (Fraser's) and chicken scratch (Ray's) as they had chronicled their three month expedition searching for the Hand of Franklin.
"It's an adventure story, Fraser, and everyone loves an adventure," she'd said, pushing the journal back towards him. "People would love to read about it."
"Do you really think so, Francesca?"
"Oh, yes, Fraser."
Ray, surprisingly, had been enthusiastic about the whole project. Even more surprising was Ray's talent for writing. Not spelling, though. His spelling was atrocious and Fraser suspected he was mildly dyslexic. In spite of that, Ray had an ease with words that Fraser had envied.
His own writing style tended toward the long-winded and the pedantic, which caused Ray to say, on more than one occasion, "Less history, more excitement, Fraser."
The whole thing had taken about seven months to write and polish. Ray had, through Stella's contacts, found them an agent who shopped the book around. Ironically enough, none of the Canadian publishing houses has been interested. Ray had sarcastically remarked that there wasn't enough snow in it to please Canadian audiences.
Fraser had often wondered if he was right.
Why explosives explode - the science behind explosives.
***
Ray slouched down a seat across from Fraser at their departure gate, folded his hands together over his stomach and closed his eyes. He stayed that way for the next two hours, occasionally opening his eyes when it seemed that an irate traveler was starting trouble with some airline employee over missed flights and unexpected delays.
Fraser found himself frequently staring at Ray's neck, unobtrusively checking for a pulse. Then he checked his own forehead for a fever - maybe this was a sickness-induced hallucination?
After two long, calm, quiet hours, Fraser couldn't take anymore. "Ray, what happened with Lieutenant Welsh?"
Ray opened one blue eye, peering blearily at him. "Don't wanna talk about it," he mumbled.
"Ray, please—"
"No, no, no, no, no and no." Ray became progressively more annoyed with each 'no'. "No, Fraser, I do not want to talk about it. I do not want you to analyze what happened. I just want some peace and quiet so I can figure out what I'm going to do."
Fraser looked away from Ray, out the window toward the runway, stung by the anger Ray directed at him.
"Fuck," Ray sighed.
He opened his mouth to chide Ray for his language when he slid out of his seat and into the one on Fraser's left, leaning his shoulder against Fraser's in apology.
"Look, Fraser—Ben. I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you." He sighed again and ran his hand through his hair. "I just need to think about what Welsh said."
Uncomfortable, Fraser cracked his neck before nodding reluctantly. "I still feel a burden shared is a burden reduced, Ray."
Reaching over and patting his shoulder, Ray nodded. "I know, buddy." He stood up and jerked his head towards the coffee stand. "I'm gonna get some coffee. You want something?"
***
It had surprised him when Ray had pushed him hard against the wall and kissed him, grinding his erection against Fraser's hip. He hadn't been expecting it, though it had quickly became obvious it was a perfectly normal response to the adrenaline generated by the rooftop chase. It was normal and natural to want to celebrate being alive after a close brush with death.
Ray hadn't been the only one feeling the after-effects of the danger they'd been in tonight. Fraser had opened himself to the kiss, willing to let Ray have whatever he wanted, as long as he kept his hand there, touching Fraser just like that.
Ray had unnerved him even more by breaking the kiss and placing his hand over Fraser's heart, holding him against the wall. He had stared at Fraser, seeing him. He brushed his thumb across Fraser's bottom lip and took a step back, sighing quietly. "Goodnight, Fraser."
He'd walked away, not looking back.
Improvised explosives and improvised explosive devices (IEDs).
***
When they arrived in San Antonio, Ray made Fraser wait with their luggage and promise not to talk to strangers while he went to pick up their rental car. Fraser waited patiently, watching the flow of travelers rush past him.
Here was a marked preference for cowboy boots and big hats, western-style shirts and jackets, bolo ties and fringes. It reminded him of some of the ranching communities in southern Alberta, but with a harder, sharper edge. This was modern Texas, an odd combination of high-tech venture capitalists and turn-of-the-century oil money, of old-fashioned ideals and get-rich-quick money-making schemes.
It wasn't long before Ray was back, and they trudged out to the rental car. They threw the luggage into the trunk and Fraser automatically moved toward the passenger side, unexpectedly bumping into Ray. Tossing the keys to him, Ray climbed into the car, leaving Fraser to make his way to the driver's side.
"Ray?"
"Get in and drive, Fraser."
The churning in his stomach intensified and the palms of his hand felt sweaty. Normally, the only way Ray would let Fraser drive was if Ray had broken a bone (or bones) in his hand, he was severely bleeding or if he was concussed. None of those scenarios seemed to fit this particular situation. Granted, this wasn't Ray's precious Goat, but still, he had never willingly let Fraser drive any of the CPD motor pool vehicles, either.
At this point, Fraser was pretty sure that the real Stanley Raymond Kowalski had been kidnapped by aliens again and an automaton had been left behind in his place.
Getting behind the wheel, Fraser glanced over at Ray. He'd put on a red ball cap and was scrunched down low in the seat, almost like he was hiding. His eyes were closed, and if Fraser didn't know better, he'd think that Ray was calm and relaxed.
"Follow the signs to the I-410 loop. Want to go west on the loop. Need to get onto US-90, still heading west. Once you're on US-90, stay on it. Drive for about an hour and a half. We should be near Sloanville. If we're in Mexico, you've gone too far. Wake me up if you get lost." With that, Ray turned toward the window, and using his backpack as a pillow, pretended to go to sleep.
***
"Ray?"
"Hmmm?" Ray hadn't looked up from the McPherson file he had been engrossed in, scribbling unreadable notes in the margins, tying off the last loose ends. His booted feet were propped up on his desk and Fraser had focused all of his attention on them.
"Ray?"
In Fraser's peripheral vision, he had seen Ray look up from the file. "Yeah, what, Fraser?"
"Do you think there will be much call for your skills as an undercover officer in the future?" Fraser had kept his tone bland and noncommittal, a simple request for information.
There had been a long, electric pause. Fraser had kept his face carefully averted, not wanting Ray to guess at what he was doing. Or why. As the pause had stretched out painfully, Fraser had started to worry. Maybe his voice had given too much away, had shown too much of what he was feeling.
"Look at me, Fraser." Ray's voice had been calm, with an undercurrent that Fraser hadn't wanted to examine too closely.
He'd closed his eyes and shook his head. Fraser had known that Ray would see straight through his attempt at misdirection, would see that part of him that he wasn't ready to show anyone, not even Ray.
"Fraser..." Eventually, Ray had sighed softly. "I can ask Welsh to take me off the list of active undercover officers."
Fraser had swallowed hard. "Thank you, Ray."
"Stella hated me going undercover, too."
At that, Fraser had fled the bullpen and Ray's presence.
Pipe bombs, letter bombs, and other common explosive devices.
***
The drive was quiet. Fraser suspected that Ray slipped from feigned sleep to actual slumber at some point. Which was for the best, really. He really hadn't wanted to spend the entire drive trying to extract information out of an extremely close-mouthed Ray. That would have only served to irritate the both of them. Ray in turn would have done his level best to annoy Fraser until they'd end up having a terrible argument, complete with yelling and screaming and name-calling.
Which Fraser would do almost anything to avoid.
He wasn't afraid that a fight would turn physical. Actually, there were times when he really felt that Ray would positively benefit from a punch to the nose. Sometimes they'd go to the gym, put on protective gear and try to work past the anger with a right hook and fast footwork. Other times it was the skating rink and hockey sticks and Fraser's larger build versus Ray's speed.
They'd physically take out their aggressions on each other and most times that worked for them. Sometimes, they'd leave the gym or the rink still humming with adrenaline and they'd go home and fuck desperately, barely taking the time to strip off their clothes. Fraser would end up with scratches on his back and Ray often had bruises on his throat from where Fraser would bite him just a little too hard.
Fraser didn't have a problem with the physical. It was the verbal violence he feared.
He'd been raised by quiet librarians, and there had never been bickering in his grandparents' home. Everything had always been discussed in a reasonable, logical manner. Conflicts had been resolved by discussion. There had been no room in their lives—and no tolerance—for raised voices.
In contrast, Ray had been raised in a loud Polish family, where fights had been won by whoever could shout the loudest. He'd carried on that tradition with Stella, and now he was trying to show Fraser that yelling wasn't necessarily the end of the world.
Fraser still wasn't convinced.
***
Fraser hadn't entirely understood how talented Ray was until the McPherson case. Ray had to pose as a low-level drug dealer. Fraser had thought that, like a professional actor, Ray would immerse himself in the role and, for the duration of the operation, Ray Kowalski would be gone and in his place would be Polish-American dealer Jozef "Joey" Szarabajka. At least, that's what every manual he'd ever read on undercover operations had said.
Fraser hadn't been sure he would want to spend time interacting with an unsavory character like Joey, even though Joey looked like a disreputable Ray Kowalski. Maybe like a Ray Kowalski who was down on his luck.
He'd been wrong, though. Ray hadn't buried his personality under Joey Szarabajka's. Instead, he would flip some internal switch and the Ray he knew would be partially gone and layered over him would be Joey, a small-time dealer who spoke a street dialect liberally laced with Polish words and phrases. Even Ray's movements changed, becoming more cocky and tough.
Under it all were still flashes of Ray Kowalski, but they were hard to isolate from Joey. Sometimes a phrase or a bit of body language would call Ray to mind, but the effect was disturbing. It was like having blurry double vision, which Fraser had suffered through the last time he'd been concussed.
On the rare occasions when Ray needed a break from the operation, he'd shown up at the designated safe house as Joey. "Cześć co słychac?" he'd ask, smirking in the doorway. What's up? Once safely behind locked doors, another switch would be flipped and Ray Kowalski, smiling and joking, would fully emerge.
It frightened him.
Air blast effects and post-blast forensic investigations.
***
He pulled over at a rest stop half way to Sloanville to stretch his legs. Leaving Ray sleeping in the car, Fraser walked around for a bit, working the kinks and knots out of his back and neck. He read the historical markers and learned about the region. In the little wooded area around the rest stop, he was pleased to see an armadillo and some white-tailed deer.
After a while, he headed back. Ray was sitting on the hood of the car, cross-legged and staring off into the distance, drinking from a bottle of water. Fraser approached cautiously. His hands ached to touch, to reassure, to sooth away the tension that was so visible in the stiffness of Ray's shoulders but he knew that Ray would just shrug him away. He couldn't help needing to get close, so he leaned against the car
Ray offered him the water bottle, which Fraser accepted. Their fingers brushed briefly. "It's so beautiful out here," Ray remarked, pointing his chin at the rolling green hills. "Figured it'd be more like Arizona, all desert and cactus. Instead, it's lush and pretty."
Fraser took a drink from the bottle and nodded. "This area is a transition zone between humid and semiarid climates. It has characteristics of both. There is cactus and mesquite, but also oak and prairie grasses and wildflowers." He pointed toward an informational poster by the rest rooms. "According to the sign, the hills are limestone, remnants from a shallow inland sea. Karst topography." He looked down at the bottle in his hands. "It's so different from what I'm used to."
Humming noncommittally, Ray nodded. "You still okay to drive, or you want to switch off? I can drive if you need me to."
Fraser shook his head and finished off the water. "I'm fine."
"Okay." Ray gracefully slid off the hood and onto his feet. "Stop for a late lunch in the next town?"
"Of course, Ray."
Fraser drove the remainder of the trip with Ray's hand resting companionably on his thigh.
***
He could always tell how Ray was feeling by his body language. Once Fraser had learned to interpret the series of unique gestures he associated only with Ray: twitches, shrugs, arm-waving, nose-rubbing, leaning. It was rare for him not to be able to discern what kind of mood Ray was in if he was able to observe Ray for a few moments.
For the longest time, Fraser hadn't understood how Ray could be an undercover officer. Being undercover required falsehood, required slipping into another persona and hiding your real self away. Undercover meant lying with your body, and Fraser couldn't see how Ray could do that.
Ray couldn't hide when he was having a bad day, let alone convince others he was someone, something else: a drug dealer, a bookie, a street hood, a male prostitute. He couldn't understand it and it had frightened Fraser; maybe Ray was good at this, maybe he was nothing but deceit and untruths. Could their friendship be a lie, nothing but a duty to be borne? It was possible that Fraser was naively refusing to see the true Ray that was right in front of his eyes.
For weeks Fraser had worried. After the Victoria fiasco, he felt that his judgment of character was terribly flawed. Perhaps he couldn't trust himself to see the truth about Ray. More importantly, without that truth, he couldn't trust Ray, either.
Ray had sensed something was off between them, and they had spent the next weeks constantly sniping and fighting with each other. The tension had culminated in a heated argument down by the docks with a hard right to the jaw. Events had cascaded relentlessly after that: pirates, ghost-ships, an almost-drowning, and buddy-breathing.
Fraser had learned a hard truth about himself during that case. He'd learned that while he'd managed to save Ray, it was much too late to save himself. He already trusted Ray. It was himself that he couldn't trust.
Blast scene dynamics and conducting incident scene operations.
***
Sloanville, like many towns in Texas, was small but stretched out over a long distance, following the twisting highway.
The outlying areas were mostly family-owned ranches. Names like Double Ladder Ranch and Willow Creek Ranch adorned wrought iron sign posts. The houses were widely spaced and a strange mix of styles: quaint Victorians and Mexican-influenced rancheros. Some of the larger structures were built with an off-white stone that was most probably locally quarried limestone.
Fraser drove past several signs indicating Civil War battlefields and the remnants of a fort. He made a mental note to visit them, time permitting. He was fascinated by historical and archaeological sites because they weren't that common in Canada. So much of his native country was untouched by human hands, and in the far north, the marks left behind by people were quickly obliterated by the harsh conditions.
The houses became less spread out as they got closer to the town proper. They passed by a few businesses, some closed and boarded up, others alive and struggling.
Fraser would have said the Sloanville was a dying town, except he suspected that the Center for International Law Enforcement kept the wheels turning. He guessed that the Center employed a large population of residents and that the law enforcement personnel attending classes there were responsible for fueling a good part of the local economy. If the Center ever closed or moved, Sloanville would become a ghost town, the residents leaving for greener pastures in bigger cities.
At the center of town was the plaza, the heart and soul of many border towns. Part park, part marketplace and part town hall. Fraser drove around the central park twice, peering at the old stone church and the courthouse. Ray woke and stared wearily out the window.
It was early evening by the time they'd found their motel and checked in. They ate at the attached Tex-Mex diner and retired to their room, exhausted by the day of travel but not tired enough to go to sleep yet. Ray brought out his beat-up laptop and spent some time organizing and transcribing his case notes while Fraser desultorily skimmed the course materials while sprawled out on one of the two queen-sized beds.
***
Fraser had missed Ray Vecchio.
Most days, he'd been content with his new Ray Vecchio. His new Ray was full of energy and emotion, street-smart and savvy. A solid but unorthodox police officer. Given enough time, he had thought that he could be friends with this Ray.
The friendship with his old Ray, though, was comfortable and familiar. He found that he missed that terribly.
Suicide bombing: recognition and prevention.
***
Fraser knew that if he could break through Ray's rare reticence, Ray would tell him what was wrong.
The fastest way to do that was with sex.
Fraser looked over at Ray. He was sitting cross-legged on the other bed, tapping at the laptop's tiny keyboard and muttering to himself. Ray had put his glasses on and Fraser felt a surge of arousal at the sight.
He moved to the other bed, sitting behind Ray and rested his chin on Ray's bony shoulder. Ray shrugged him off, but he persisted. Reaching out, Fraser shut the laptop with a decisive click and moved it to the nightstand.
Ray huffed irritably. "Fraser, I was using that."
He ignored the annoyance and pushed Ray forcefully onto his back, rolling on top of him and kissing him slowly and sweetly. Fraser used his tongue to explore Ray's mouth, loving the taste of him. He could feel Ray responding, growing hard against Fraser's thigh, and he sighed quietly.
Ray tried to push him off and succeeded in freeing his mouth. "Knock it off, Fraser, I'm not in the mood."
Looking down, Fraser grinned. He rubbed against Ray like a cat, sensuously enjoying the wiry body under his. Grabbing Ray's hands, he threaded their fingers together and pushed them onto the bed above Ray's head. "You know the rules, Ray. Tell me 'no' and I'll stop."
"Bastard," Ray whispered, trying to thrust upwards, searching for more friction. He closed his eyes against Fraser's knowing smile. "I hate you sometimes."
"Shush." Fraser kissed him again and untangled their hands. He lifted up enough to work on the buttons of Ray's jeans.
Ray made a sound that was part strangled sob, part sigh. "Fraser..."
Kissing him again, Fraser reached into Ray's underwear, finding the hard length of him and stroking slowly. "Shhh. I've got you, Ray. I've got you."
***
It had disturbed him that Ray had stepped in front of Greta Garbo's bullet without a second thought. He couldn't figure out why Ray would risk himself like that, for someone he'd barely known.
When he'd asked Ray about it, Ray had refused to give him a serious answer. He had tried to put Fraser off with the explanation that he'd been wearing the vest, that there'd never been any real danger, but Fraser had known better.
Case studies from around the world.
***
"Welsh put in for his retirement."
The words were spoken flatly, but Fraser knew Ray and could read between the lines to what he wasn't saying.
He was spooned behind Ray, one arm wrapped tightly around Ray's waist. Both of them were naked, sweaty, and sticky. "Hmmm."
"He put my name up as his replacement and it's been approved."
Fraser wasn't surprised. The Lieutenant has been grooming Ray to take his place for quite some time now. "You're worried." He nuzzled the back of Ray's neck, feeling him shiver and swallow hard. "Lieutenant Welsh is a very good man. He's been like a father to both of us."
Ray clutched tightly at Fraser's arm, pulling it even closer to him. "Yeah."
"Are you worried that you won't live up to his expectations? Or are you upset that the Lieutenant is leaving?"
There was a long pause while Ray worked it out in his mind. "Both, I guess."
Fraser rubbed at his belly soothingly. "Well, Ray, I have no doubt that you will be a fine replacement for Lieutenant Welsh. You're a different person than when you first transferred over to the 27th. You've always been competent and smart, but that's tempered now with patience and thoughtfulness. You take the time to think about things, to plan a little more carefully. These qualities will serve you well."
Quietly, Ray asked, "You really think so, Ben?"
"Yes, Ray, I do."
***
The first time he'd seen Ray Kowalski, he'd fallen in love with him. It took him almost a year to realize it. Even then, he wouldn't admit it to himself until he'd had no choice.
-fin-
End C-Three-H-Five-(N-O-Three)-Three by Akamine chan
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