Author's website: http://www.tomparisdorm.com/genie/place.html

Disclaimer: Disclaimers: Characters aren't mine, not making any money, I'll just declare bankrupt if you decide to sue.

Author's Notes: This started out as a co-written piece 2 years ago after I started thinking why would they offer Ray a transfer in MOTB if he was supposed to be pretending to be Vecchio, but, the other author (who wished to remain nameless, so we shall call her M. You know, like in the Bond movies? *g*), decided to pull out of it for some reason. I thought it was a little wasteful to just throw the stuff we had away, so I polished it up a little, and here it is. Most of the first half was written by M.
Big thanks to Andrea and Kazz for beta reading!

Story Notes: Note: Major spoilers for the ep Mountie On The Bounty Pt 1. Then it goes AU from there.

March 2002

Ray had been waiting in the car less than five minutes, and he was already bored. The radio didn't help.

Ad for toothpaste, ad for ice cream, ad for shoes.

He flipped to the next station.

Ad for coffee.

He just wasn't good at waiting, never had been.

Ad for soap.

Fuck fuck fuck...

Ray stepped out, slammed the car door behind him, and leaned on the hood. He could still hear the radio through the open window.

All natural ingredients, satisfaction guaranteed.

Ray went over the speech again in his head, then wished he hadn't. It seemed more dangerous by the second. Fraser was sure to feel uncomfortable, or even angry, and worst-case scenario, they would stop being friends. But, Ray was a good reader of people. He lived by instinct. He was almost certain that Fraser returned his feelings. For God's sake, Fraser had taken him in when Volpe had been shot, had put his own career and his reputation and his freedom on the line, when no one, not even Ray was sure about what had happened. Fraser had believed in him. If that wasn't love, Ray didn't know what was.

And Ray knew another thing: It was up to him. Fraser would never confess to his feelings. Ray had to have courage. If there was one thing he'd learnt from life, it was that you didn't get the things you wanted unless you took risks.

The sky was pink and orange and darkening steadily, but Turnbull was still on guard duty.

What was it that Fraser said? It was cerebral? As in officially-enforced thinking time? That would be weird even for the Frozen Zone. Ceremonial probably.

Ad for peanut butter.

Ray shifted his weight to the other foot, and drummed his fingers on the door. He felt himself getting tense, which was not good. Definitely not good.

Damn damn damn....

How could Turnbull just stand there like that?

"Ray."

Ray started and swiveled, feet crunching gravel. And somehow his cool leaning-on-the-car posture disintegrated into a tripping-over-his-own-feet stumble. Fraser was right there, right in his face, and Ray hadn't even seen him leave the consulate.

"Damn it Fraser!" And because he had tripped, and because of the speech, and because Fraser was right in his face, with his hands on Ray's shoulders where they had settled to stop him falling, Ray's voice came out raised and shaking. "Do not do that!"

"Don't do what Ray?" Fraser seemed faintly perplexed. "Don't prevent you from falling?" His tone was mild, but his hands moved soothingly over Ray's shoulders.

"No, not-" Ray stopped, swallowed, tried again. "You shouldn't sneak up on a guy like that." He sighed inwardly. It was no good. His voice was still shaking, and they hadn't even started. There was no way he was going to be able to tell Fraser anything if he was like this. Ray closed his eyes, leaned back against the car. Yellow. Think yellow. Relaxing yellow.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't aware that I was walking so soundlessly."

Fraser's hands were still massaging his shoulders in strong, slow squeezes. Ray nodded so he wouldn't have to say anything and concentrating on the gentle pressure of Fraser's hands, the leather smell of his jacket. The Mountie was touching him. That had to mean something, right? Normal partners just did not have their hands all over you at every possible opportunity. It was instinct, and Ray's instincts were almost always right. Besides, Ray had never seen Fraser being physically affectionate towards anyone else, not even Dief. It had to mean that Fraser wanted him. Ray just had to be brave enough to make the first move.

"Ray?"

"Just gimme a moment."

Fraser raised an eyebrow, and managed to look both concerned and speculative at once.

Ray sighed, raised a hand to forestall the Inuit story that inevitably followed that expression. "I'm fine." Got to get this over with. "Look, I gotta tell you something. Something important."

"All right."

"I uh... I have something to tell you."

"So you said."

"Yeah. And it's important."

He expected Fraser to get exasperated, but Fraser just nodded patiently.

"Perhaps you might be more comfortable telling me in a different setting?" he said gently.

Ray pushed down a surge of panic at the suggestion of more waiting. He'd psyched himself up for this, he didn't think he'd be able to handle a delay. He'd probably freak out completely, and end up not telling Fraser at all. "No, this is a good setting. This is the perfect setting."

"I see."

Ray swallowed. Just come right out and say it. Just say it, say it, say it. Say it, just say it, sayitsayitsayitsayitsayit...

"You know, Ray, when the Inuit-"

"No, Fraser, no stories, okay." Ray pushed a hand through his hair. "No stories... Or maybe. Wait. I'll tell a story." Yeah, something kind of distanced. It might make this easier. "Say there's this guy... A cop, maybe. No, make that two guys. There's two guys, and these two guys are friends."

"Like us?"

"Yes. No." Ray sighed. So much for distance. "Yes. Okay, like us." Great, one minute into it, and Fraser had disconcerted him already. Though truthfully, Ray's carefully rehearsed speech had flown from his head, the moment Fraser had stepped into his personal space.

"Two friends?" Fraser said encouragingly.

"Right. Two friends. One of these guys... Well, at first he thought the other guy was a freak. But pretty quickly, he realised that he was feeling something...more. More than friendship. If you know what I mean."

"Not really, no." Fraser ran his thumb over his eyebrow. Most people looking at him would see politeness and bewilderment, but Ray knew him too well. Ray could see the subtle tension in his stance. The cluelessness was a facade. Underneath, Fraser was carefully controlling himself. The only problem was, Ray couldn't sense what Fraser was feeling beneath that control.

Ray knew that he had said too much. Even if Fraser didn't understand now, that incisive intellect would tick away until he worked it out himself. No way out but through. "What I'm trying to say is-"

Sayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayit...

"I love you Fraser," he blurted. The words hung there for a moment between them. Ray heard Fraser's breath catch, but his composure was back almost as soon as it had slipped.

"And I you-"

"No." Ray held up a hand to ward off Fraser's flip response. "Not as a friend." His heart pounded hard against his chest. He couldn't leave any room for misunderstandings. "I'm in with love you."

Bang. Fraser's hands were gone, and there were three long strides between them. The absence of his touch felt like the loss of a limb, like he had been split in two. Ray wrapped his arms around himself, trying to physically hold together what was left. Fraser looked stricken, utterly shocked. Body language. Ray was an expert. This is a No Ray Zone.

Unconsciously echoing Ray's stance, Fraser crossed his arms protectively over his chest, as though he thought Ray was going to jump him, right there at the parking lot. Yeah right. All Ray wanted to do was get the hell out of here. He didn't care where. He'd been wrong. He'd been utterly and completely wrong. He couldn't have been wronger.

Fraser was moving his mouth, but no sound was coming out. It was almost as if a pane of glass had slipped between them. Then, somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, jolting Ray out of his deaf state. Like a switch being flipped, the movement of Fraser's lips became words.

"-that is to say, that even if I did feel... feelings that might in some way be construed as... Under the circumstances - well my point is... My relationship with the former Ray Vecchio, being what it is... Well it would preclude..."

Vecchio. The ground under Ray's feet, suddenly seemed pliant and rubbery. Oh God, Vecchio. Fraser and Vecchio. He backed up against the car, felt his way to the door handle. "Look, just forget it, Fraser. Forget I said anything. Actually, I didn't say anything. You've mis-, miscon-, you've heard me wrong-"

"Ray, had I any idea that you felt this way-"

"...and you don't have to worry. I won't come on to you or nothing."

"Ray."

"And anyway, I have to go. There's stuff I have to do. I have to uh... I have to do it now."

"Ray."

Ray wrenched at the door handle. He wanted out of here so badly it was hard to think of anything else.

"Ray!"

Something in Fraser's voice made Ray hesitate. He couldn't leave like this; it was too much like an ending. He curled his fingers tightly around the edge of the car door. "We're okay, right?" he said.

Fraser opened his mouth, then shut it again, but he didn't say anything. Ray felt the humiliating weight of a sob start to form in his throat. He swallowed it down. "Right?" he said again, desperately, even though it was all too clear that nothing was right. "We're okay?"

Fraser breathed out, shakily. "We're fine, Ray."

Ray nodded. He got into the car, and slammed his foot on the accelerator.

Fraser stood motionless as he watched Ray's car sped into the distance, his thoughts whirling.

Ray loved him. How was that possible? It must be a dream, he must have fallen asleep while filling out the endless piles of paperwork in his office. It must be. How else could he explain what had just happened? Must be a dream, must be a dream...

"Wroof!"

Fraser snapped out of his trance and looked down at Diefenbaker.

Dief was looking back at him pointedly. It wasn't a dream.

"Oh God."

The efficient, competent part of Fraser surged into gear, seemingly distinct from the part of him that wanted to collapse, and stay kneeling right here in the car park for the rest of his life. He'd just lost another Ray. His beautiful, kinetic- no, he mustn't think like that.

He had to find him. He would work out what to say to him afterwards.

Ray had been going in the wrong direction for his destination to be either the precinct or the apartment. Fraser would need to track him down, and ideally, that would involve Diefenbaker's help.

He pulled himself straighter, feeling marginally better for having a plan.

"Dief."

He was interrupted by Turnbull, who came jogging out of the consulate, a dishcloth in one hand, and a plate in the other.

"It's Detective Kowalski on the line, sir."

Ray! Fraser's heart started pounding. "Is he all right?" he demanded.

"He just got a call from Lieutenant Welsh. He's coming to pick you up. There's a problem at the docks."

An uneasy silence settled between the two of them as soon as Fraser got into Ray's car. Gone were the friendly jokes and battering, replaced by silence and tension. It was as though there was a fishing line between them that was stretched to its limit, ready to snap any minute.

"Ray," Fraser started, trying to fill in the silence and dissipate some of the tension between them. "It was once said that..."

"Fraser. Don't." Ray's tone was calm enough, but the wave of emotions that was barely withheld behind the facade of calmness was obvious.

"There is no reason why we..."

Ray did not give Fraser the chance to finish.

"Not now Fraser." A warning.

"Ray, you're..."

The line snapped.

"Shut up! Just shut up Fraser! Why is that so hard for you to do? Just sit there and be quiet. Just be quiet, is that something even a Mountie like you couldn't do?! Is that what yer trying to tell me? That Super-Mountie couldn't shut up for 5 minutes?!" With that, Ray slammed the breaks, bringing the car to a halt at their destination and stormed out of the vehicle.

Fraser followed the detective, determined to talk some sense into his friend. But Ray would have none of it. The more they spoke, the louder their voices got, and it wasn't too long before the suspects they were trailing heard them. But even with two entire gangs of drug dealers on their tails, their argument, which had finally turned into a dispute over the best way to elute the bad guys, continued.

It only ended when the anger in Ray flared so bright that he could no longer contain it and he let it out the only way he knew; he hit Fraser. The Mountie just stood there and stared at him in disbelief. Then he walked away without another word.

As the anger wore off and guilt took over, Ray wanted to call out to Fraser, to apologize to him, but he couldn't seem to find his voice to do so.

He could still feel it. His fist connecting with Fraser's jaw. What was he thinking? Hitting Fraser. Just what the fuck was he thinking?! But it was either that or kiss him, and the latter was definitely not an option. It wasn't as though he hadn't warned him or anything. He had. Twice. But would that stubborn Mountie listen? No, of course not. He never did, not to stuff that really mattered anyway. That would teach him a lesson.

That would teach him a lesson? Oh God, oh God, why was he thinking like this. How. Could. He. Even. Be. Thinking. Like. This. He was like one of those domestics. Something was wrong with his head. Everything wrong with his head. He was in love with a guy. A guy for fuck's sake! And he'd hit him.

Maybe it was time to leave. Just ship out before the going got worse. The Vecchio cover would hold in Miami or San Francisco as well as in Chicago.

"Vecchio!"

Now what? He stood up and headed for the lieutenant's office. Welsh was behind his desk and motioned Ray to close the door behind him. As soon as Ray was within range, Welsh handed him a piece of paper.

Transfer.

He almost laughed. My wish, their command. Timing was just perfect, damn bloody perfect. Couldn't be better.

Transfer... Wait. Wasn't he supposed to be...that meant...

"Vecchio's coming back." It was more of a statement than a question.

Welsh only nodded.

"Great." The tone of his voice didn't match the enthusiasm the word was supposed convey.

"Detective?" Welsh sounded concerned.

"Nothin'," his tone was still a little flat. "Was just thinkin' about getting my life back and all. When's he..."

"About a week. You sure you're okay? I know all of this is pretty sudden and all, if you need more time..."

"No," Ray interrupted. "No. I...I've just got something on my mind, that's all. I'm fine and a week's fine for me. I can do a week. No problem."

"Good then. So, unless there's something else..."

"No. I'll get going."

Ray opened the door and walked out, not even caring where he was going.

Vecchio was coming back. Vecchio and Fraser, back where they've ended off, just like old times.

He felt sick.

Lake Michigan was still, almost eerily so. There were no boats, no anglers, and the water was as smooth and opaque as stone. If he faced the lake, and held his breath so that the tar and petrol scents of the city didn't break the pretence, Fraser could almost convince himself he was home. He often found himself homesick, but now more than ever, he wished himself free of the city, and all of its complexities.

He had changed since he had first arrived in Chicago. He had felt himself changing, becoming more flexible, less naive, and he had come to tolerate more from other people, and from himself. He still had not gotten used to people leaving him, though. Perhaps he never would.

Ray Vecchio was coming back. And Ray Kowalski was leaving. He mouthed the words soundlessly, hoping that would cement them, make them make sense.

A gust of wind marred the lake's surface, whipping water drops onto Fraser's face. His jaw tingled at the faint pressure. Almost unconsciously, he reached up and touched the bruise there.

Ray had hit him.

Ray loved him.

Those two concepts should have been mutually exclusive. Why would Ray have hit him if he loved him? It didn't make sense.

And Fraser had done it too. He loved Ray, but he had hit Ray. He didn't even make sense to himself. He wished again, desperately for the simplicity of snowfields and pine trees, when a day's goal might be repairing a leaking barn roof, not trying to make sense of hitting his best friend, his partner.

He hadn't thought himself capable of the act.

Ray had asked him to do it. "Even the score, Frase. Can't leave without evening the score."

Fraser had wanted to protest, but admit it, some part of him had wanted to do it, had wanted to see some strong emotion on Ray's face, to feel skin against skin.

"This is where it started, so this is where we'll end it."

Fraser had flickered a glance up at Ray's face, and looked away quickly. Ray's face had been unbearably full of pain. "All right. I was over there... I can't do this, Ray." He would have done anything to ease that pain. Anything but inflict more pain.

But Ray had been characteristically stubborn. "Look, you have to."

Fraser had sighed. "This is for good?"

"You go back workin' with Vecchio, I'll put in my transfer. It's quits."

"You're sure about this?"

"Do it!"

Right up until the moment when his fist connected with Ray's jaw, Fraser had been certain he wouldn't be able to go through with it. The sight of Ray doubled over, clutching his mouth, almost came as a surprise.

"There. . . Done. . . Pleasure working with you. . . Come on, I'll give you a lift."

Fraser had declined. "I need some fresh air." He thought he was going to be sick.

Ray had opened his mouth to say something, but in the end, he had just dropped his head, as though defeated, and driven off, leaving Fraser alone with his thoughts.

He loved Ray Kowalski.

He loved Ray Vecchio.

And he wasn't even sure of that. With the unexpected reappearance of his father, Fraser couldn't even be sure of his senses anymore, let alone something as elusive as love.

It was the city. Nothing made sense here. There were always too many choices, too many regrets...

Another gust of wind blew, colder this time. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees in the last five minutes, and there were heavy rain clouds above. Fraser allowed himself to be soothed by the chill. He closed his eyes, and pictured himself somewhere remote. Fort Morbison perhaps, four day hike from the nearest town, not another person as far as the eye could see.

"You can run from your problems, son, but in the end, they'll always catch up with you."

Fraser let his chin drop. It had not been a very convincing illusion anyway. The car horns and mechanical droning of Chicago in no way resembled the sounds of the wilderness. "I don't want to talk about it," he said stiffly.

"Partnership is like a marriage, son. Give and take, up and-"

"Dad, I don't-" Fraser sucked in a breath, trying to alleviate the ache that he had been able to ignore somewhat in the silence and cold. "I've made my decision, so I'm not in need of advice. Therefore, if you would leave now, I would appreciate it."

"You're going with the first Yank, then?"

His father had an uncanny ability to irritate him. "That's none of your business."

"Ah."

"But, yes," he added defiantly. "When Ray Vecchio returns, if he'll still have me, then I'll still be... available."

"So you're sure."

"The choice is between loyalty and... Well, it doesn't matter. The point is, that there is no choice, Dad."

"Well good. It's good to be decisive. I'm sure I taught you that."

"You didn't, but thank you."

There was a silence, and Fraser allowed himself to hope that his father had left, so that he could be alone again with his pain.

"You can't stay with someone purely out of loyalty, son. It isn't fair to him or you."

Fraser sighed. "I betrayed him once, I won't do it again."

"Ah. Sounds familiar."

"Yes."

"What did I tell you last time?"

"You told me there were no second chances."

"Sounds like good advice to me. So what about the other Yank?"

Fraser's chest clenched. "He's taking the transfer."

"Ah."

Silence again, but apparently his father wasn't done yet.

"You're the one who has to live with your decision. I'm dead, it doesn't make a difference to me, but you're not. Keep that in mind."

Fraser felt a sudden surge of anger. His father was always trying to influence the mortal world, and the trouble was, he didn't have to live with the consequences.

"Keep what in mind? That I'm not dead?" he asked sharply.

"That you're the one who has to live with it."

With that, his father was gone, replaced by another gush of cold night air.

Transfer. Was he really going to take it? But he didn't really have much choice in the matter. Vecchio was coming back. There would be no place for him in the 27th, and there would be no place for him beside Fraser. He wasn't needed, nor was he wanted.

Ray lifted his fifth refill to his lips and swallowed it in three practiced gulps. The bartender was starting to eye him warily. Or was it appraisingly? Christ, he had been wrong about Fraser, he was probably wrong about everyone. *You're projecting Kowalski,* he told himself bitterly. You're paranoid, so you think the bartender's fueling to boot you. You want the Mountie, so you think he wants you.

Oh, God...it was happening all over again. The thing he had hoped to get out of, run away from by taking on this assignment, it's all happening all over again.

Abandoned.

Left behind.

Unwanted...

Call it whatever you want, but it was all happening again. Just like when Stella left, only worse. Much worse. This time, there wasn't an undercover gig waiting for him, there wasn't someone's life waiting for him to take over and pretend that nothing ever happened. Now, the only life that was waiting for him was his own... He would be facing his demons. By himself.

The saying was true after all. You can run... Ray let out a bitter laugh.

"Care to share the joke?" the bartender asked.

"It's nothin'," Ray muttered, not really in the mood to talk. Maybe coming to the bar was a bad idea after all.

The bar tender raised his eyebrows.

"Life," Ray said.

"Life?"

"Yeah. It's a great big cosmic joke. You run, but in the end, ya still end up where you started and where yer started ain't that pretty, that was why you're running in the first place, but you still end up where you started. It's like that guy upstairs," Ray said, pointing towards the ceiling, "That guy up there, it's like he's jabbin' ya in the ribs. Great big cosmic joke."

"Well, like they say. You can run, but you can't hide."

"Yeah? Watch me." With that, Ray pulled out a twenty, handed it to the bartender and left.

Ray had no idea what time it was when he finally got back to his apartment. Taking of his jacket and kicking off his boots, without switching on the lights, he hit the play button on his stereo, not caring what was in the CD tray. He needed something to fill in the silence, to wash away the thoughts that had been filling his brain.

The music of Enigma swept through the dark apartment. Closing his eyes, Ray let himself being drawn to the beat of it, letting himself drown in the sensation of the music. No thoughts... Just music and movements in perfect harmony.

Song after song, there was nothing but the beat of the music, the rhythm of it. Minutes, perhaps hours passed as Ray danced away the pain, the fear, doubts, love, hate...

*I'm asking why
I'm asking why
Nobody gives an answer

I'm just asking why*

Somehow, those few phrases managed to get through to him and Ray slowed his movements. The thoughts that he had wanted to banish were now back, all because of the song.

Why?

Why indeed.

Why did he hit Fraser?

Why did he fall for Fraser?

Why was Fraser with Vecchio?

Why was this his life?

Why, why...

WHY!

He desperately wanted the answers, he needed the answers, but like the song, nobody gave the answers. No body gave them because nobody knew them...

Slowly, Ray sank to his knees.

So many why's...

No answers...

With his eyes closed, he silently mouthed the single syllable word: "Why?"

The rest of the week seemed to have past in a blink of an eye, yet time seemed to have slowed down to a crawl. Ray did his best to avoid Fraser whenever he could, and with the Mountie being occupied at the Consulate most of the time, it wasn't hard.

Last day. After this, I'm outta here. Ray thought bitterly.

It was almost the end of his shift and he was glad that Fraser hadn't turned up. He had no idea what he would have done otherwise. Probably break down in front of the entire station and beg him not to go back to Vecchio.

He stood up and headed for the Lieutenant's office, determined.

Gotta do this. Can't go on with it without him. Just can't.

"Come in." Welsh barked.

Without saying a word, Ray threw an envelope onto Welsh desk, he then took out his gun and badge and dump them on top of the envelope.

"Detective?"

Not bothering to explain himself, Ray left, slamming the door behind him.

"There's still time, son."

"Go away."

"You didn't get this stubbornness from me. I'm as flexible as a gymnast. It's your mother who was the headstrong one."

"Dad..."

"I still think I like the second Yank better. Maybe it's the hair..."

"Dad!"

"Oh very well. I can take a hint. How about I just go back to my office, and get some paperwork done."

"That'll be great."

"That was a bluff, son. It's not surprising you never won a game of poker. You can't recognize a perfectly good bluff when you see one."

"Hear one. And I have won at poker."

"I was never that pedantic either."

Fraser finally lost his patience. He swung around to face his father, hands clenched. "What do you want, Dad? What do you want from me? Because I should tell you, I don't know if I have the reserves to give it to you." Some part of his mind registered that he must have lost grip of some important part of himself, to be speaking so openly about his weaknesses to his father, but he was too irritated and exhausted to analyze it.

"What do I want?" His father shook his head. "That's the wrong question. What do you want? Maybe you should think about that."

Fraser heard himself make a sound, suspiciously like a sob.

What did he want? Ray, Ray, Ray. His humor, his temper, his vulnerability, his edge...

What he wanted, and what he couldn't have were all Fraser ever thought about anymore. He clutched at the fragments of his self-control, and cleared his throat. Articulated weaknesses were all very well, but he was not about to cry in front of his father.

"Oh Benton." Fraser's father reached with a finger to touch Fraser's face. Fraser closed his eyes, but the comforting contact did not come. He opened his eyes again in time to see his father pulling his hand back regretfully.

"You can't touch me," Fraser whispered.

His father nodded. "I know, I know." He looked at Fraser sadly. "I can't do as much as I'd like. But I still have some influence, I hope."

It was way past the wee hours of the mornings when he stepped into the bullpen of the Detectives' Division in the 27th Precinct of Chicago P. D., maybe for the last time in his life. There wasn't anybody around, not even the janitor who always seemed to be there no matter what time of the day it was. He was well and truly alone.

The precinct was his last stop. Most of his belongings were either being sold, on their way to his new place or packed in his car.

He picked up a box from the supply closet and began to stuff his personal stuff from his desk and stuffing them into it. When he was done, the box wasn't even half full.

That was yer life for the past six months Kowalski - half a box of junk.

He wasn't due to leave until tomorrow, or rather later today, Vecchio was scheduled to report back about the same time. He didn't want to see Vecchio being welcomed back while he just fades into the background, forgotten. Or worse, they might pity him. It would be easier for everyone if he left now.

On his way out, Ray passed by Francesca's desk. Stopping in his tracks, he thought how she would be utterly excited and happy to finally have her real brother back. He could just imagine the smile on her face, her eyes wide with joy while blithering something stupid, but adorable nonetheless. Smiling to himself at the image, he slid out of the precinct as quietly as he had came and drove off into the night towards a strange city, a strange new life.

The End
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End Undercurrent by Eugenie Chua: genieweb@hotmail.com

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