Story Notes: Written in July 2007 for the prompt of "Good morrow, good lieutenant; I am sorry for your displeasure; but all will sure be well." Set post-COTW. Warnings: Really mild het (Frannie/Welsh), some other hinty stuff, a joke lifted from "Angel."

Monday 9 a.m.

Wilson calls to see if Welsh wants to go in on their dad's birthday present together. "What about a gas grill?" he says. "Fast, easy, you don't have to mess with charcoal."

"Wilson," Welsh says. "You still fail to grasp the concept that giving him good-dad presents is never going to make him a good dad. Also, you may not have noticed with your keen detecting skills, but he doesn't have a yard. Or a balcony. The Chicago Fire Department frowns upon the use of gas grills in the living room."

"You're right." Wilson says. "Of course you're right." Welsh can hear his desk chair creaking as he rocks it to think. "How about a riding mower?"

11 a.m.

The Duck Boys bring in an entire ring of pickpockets, who all seem to be about twelve. And while Huey's calling Social Services and Dewey's telling the other detectives about their daring and dangerous capture of the mob of seventh-graders, all the little goons are spreading through the station rifling desks. Welsh barks at the Boys to round up the baby perps and put them in a holding cell, and when he gets back to his office there's a huge-eyed waif sitting in his chair and eating his last damn Twinkie.

"OUT!" Welsh says.

The boy looks mournfully down at the empty wrapper and says, "Please, sir, may I have some--"

"OUT!!!!!!!"

Noon

The delivery guy arrives with what's supposed to be a giant pastrami sandwich, but he looks suspiciously nervous, and when Welsh opens the bag what he's got instead is a giant salad. With grilled chicken breast.

"I'm sorry," the guy says. "She gave us a list of stuff you could have and said if we ever brought you anything else she'd put us on the no-call list with the dial-a-porn numbers so none of the detectives could ever call us again. Can she do that?"

"Probably," Welsh says, and tips the guy, and eats his salad.

Two p.m.

Ms. Vecchio shows up at his door. "Break time," she says.

"Yes," he says. "Do you know what break time is supposed to be, Ms. Vecchio? Break time is supposed to be when a man gets to step outside and have a cigar."

"Not anymore it isn't," she says. "Stairs."

He follows her out and they walk up and down the stairs for ten minutes. And he's hot and sweaty and tired and he really wanted that pastrami, so he stops and says, "Why, exactly, am I doing this again?"

"For your lungs, and your pants size, and your cardiovacillatory system," she says. "And if you stick it out for fifteen minutes, on the last flight of stairs I'll walk in front."

"Right," he says, and climbs some more.

Four p.m.

Kowalski and Vecchio blow through the door screaming at each other, which means it must be a day with a "y" in the name.

Welsh sticks his head out of his office to see if he needs to intervene, and just to keep track of which argument this is, whether it's Vecchio telling Kowalski that he needs to get the Miranda warning tattooed on his arm since he hasn't got enough brain cells to retain it, or Kowalski telling Vecchio that if he's going to be whining every time he gets anything on his clothes maybe he should just wear cheap jeans like a normal fucking human.

It's a new one. They're arguing over who would win in a fight to the death, cavemen or astronauts.

"Gentlemen," Welsh says. "I take it from the rising tension in recent weeks that it has been a long while since your last trip up to see Constable Fraser?"

They blink at him, and both start to turn a little pink, and Vecchio says, "That has nothing to do with--" and Kowalski says, "He's just crazy, lieutenant, cavemen would kick--"

"Would you like to see your upcoming visit disappear in a sudden attack of emergency mandatory overtime?"

"We'll be good," Vecchio says, and claps his hand over Kowalski's mouth, and drags him off.

6 p.m.

He gets his coat off the rack and shrugs into it, and it is getting a little loose.

When he gets down to his car Ms. Vecchio's already sitting on the hood, her feet dangling.

He leans his forehead into hers and she gives him a quick shoulder rub. He's always surprised how strong those little hands are.

"Rough day?" she says.

"Nah. Pretty good."