Welsh ran his hands through his hair, a gesture Ray had come to translate as "if I have to glare at you any longer I just may get violent."'

At first. These days he was pretty sure it was more like "I'm tired of glaring at you, I'm giving us both a reprieve, don't push it."

Which, as far as Ray was concerned, made it just about time to push. "So you goin' out tonight, Loo?"

The glare returned at nearly full force. "Detective?"

Ooooh, the incomplete sentence thing... "Well, I was just curious. It's been a tough day --"

"Because of you."

"Because of the abusiveness of the suspect --"

"Because of you."

"Because of me, it's been a tough day --"

"And continues to be a difficult day, Detective."

" -- and I was wondering if you wanted to, you know, step out for a drink."

Brief look of confusion softened Welsh's features for a moment before resolving into casual bemusement. Ray wasn't *entirely* sure what bemusement meant, but there was no doubt in his mind that Welsh could do it. Easy.

And thinking about fifty-cent words was a helluva lot easier than doing... whatever it was he was doing. Pushing. Yeah. "You know, a beer, maybe a shot of whatever won't kill us 'cause you know it only makes ya stronger..."

"While it pleases me to find my subordinates quoting dead German philosophers," and there was a mild and somehow pleasing stress on the word 'subordinate,' a sense that Welsh knew precisely what game Ray was playing whether he knew what it was himself and was letting him, a little, giving him his -- "... martini."

"Martini?"

"You have some difficulty with the concept, Vecchio?"

"Shaken, not stirred? All that cr -- business? You just never struck me as the martini type, Loo."

"Welsh."

Ray grinned. "Kowalski."

"Not in this office."

Then where? Ray settled back in the hard, wooden chair. Grinned some more. "'k, Loo."

"A bad martini is precious, pretentious, and, essentially, not worth a damn. But a good martini..."

"Elucidate it for me."

One corner of Welsh's mouth quirked twice, briefly. Two, count 'em, two separate grins that needed to be restrained. "A good martini is a mild, subtle thing. A blend of diverse flavors coming together to provide a wonderful -- perhaps even the ultimate -- after-work beverage."

"Not a beer?"

"Not a beer."

"Not a shot?"

"Not unless you want to wander down the road to AA."

"But isn't it the same amount of alcohol?"

"Ah, I fear you're missing my point, Detective," he was playing along, definitely playing. "A beer is a beer."

"I can follow that."

"A shot is the first of what is always a surprisingly small collection of steps toward inebriation."

"I think that's a pretty narrow interpretation --"

"You don't get paid to think, Detective."

"No, it's true, I *have* always been the pretty one." According to his mother, Ray had perfected insolence well before speech. This was familiar ground.

"And just how long has it been since your last psych evaluation?"

"I assure you, Loo, I am just as hinged as I have always been." Non-committal grunt. "As I was *saying*..."

Ray dutifully arranged himself into Attentive, collected his third aborted smile.

"A good martini, a martini made with care, attention, and respect for both the ingredients and the patron in question is a fine, fine thing. It adds a little -- dare I say a *touch* of -- class to any man's day."

"A little class."

"A touch of class."

"So you do dare."

"Excuse me?"

"You did that question thing, that dare I say thing. You just dared."

Welsh shook his head, but didn't bother to restrain his smile. "Dismissed, Vecchio."

"Yessir."

*

Of course, not even reliving the day's earlier conversation could explain precisely why he was here, at Webster's Bar -- Ray had long since grown accustomed to his mind collecting information without his conscious direction -- and in full drag.

Mind you, there probably wasn't anything that could explain this, but the earlier conversation probably came as close as anything else, and besides, it had the benefit of temporal proximity.

He was spending too much time around Fraser.

Of course, if he hadn't been spending so much time with his unofficial partner he would probably still be wearing those garish colors he'd purchased for years. Fraser had patiently explained to Ray that he was a winter, and honestly, that made his trips through the makeup aisles infinitely more fruitful.

Yes, the blend of paler reds and darker browns suited him quite nicely if he did say so himself... though he still wasn't sure about the blonde wig.

Sure, he was blond himself, but there was something so... concrete about long, blonde hair. Which was just ridiculous. If you were wearing uncomfortable pumps, stockings, shockingly itchy garters, and a simple dark brown shift, you really had no right to balk at a wig...

But he'd kinda dug being a raven-haired beauty.

The new wig was also Fraser's suggestion, but Ray wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't just Frase wanting to be the only Snow White in the fairy tale troupe.

Well, he'd see.

And here he was.

She?

Nah, he. Fraser might get into that whole embracing his inner woman deal, but as far as Ray was concerned he would be a guy until the minute when he *wasn't* helplessly aware of the fact that one overly vigorous wriggle could shake some very important bits of his anatomy free.

Ray did a mental inventory of himself and revised -- he probably could wriggle all he wanted, really. He'd gotten better at this since that first crazy, tipsy, afterglowing realization that he'd stumbled out of Stella's old high school bedroom with binding silk under his jeans as opposed to simple cotton, since later that day, behind the athletic fields, when Stella had made him show her...

Ray shifted in as subtle a fashion as possible and walked into the bar.

Quiet, just-barely danceable jazz coming from tastefully hidden speakers.

Sweet pipe and cigar smoke.

Lots and lots of dark wood.

Exactly one female of the species present -- and she was wearing the same uniform of mildly rumpled dress shirt, loosened tie, and suit pants as everyone else. He liked those odds.

Welsh sat alone in the far corner, apparently focused entirely on the marvel of a martini held gently between his blunt thumb and blunter forefinger.

Ray sauntered over.

Well, OK, he walked, but heels + shift = some measure of saunter, whether you wanted it or not.

Welsh didn't look up until Ray had brushed one nylon -- silk was for formal occasions only -- covered thigh against the thankfully well-sanded wood of his table. And then he looked up slowly. Ray treasured the smooth little smile that graced the other man's face as his gaze moved up over thigh to flat belly to gently enhanced chest to throat to Adam's apple --

Welsh blinked, quickly looked up into Ray's ready grin.

"Hey, Loo."

"Welsh." He sounded moderately strangled.

"Kowalski."

"Not --"

"Do you really think Vecchio could pull off a Donna Karan?"

"Ray."

"Rachel?"

"You want me to call you Rachel?"

"Would you?"

"No."

"Well, then, I'll settle for Ray. Or Kowalski." He sat down across from Welsh, sliding a little on the well-buffed leather of the bench, folded his hands on the table, and waited.

Welsh couldn't seem to decide where to settle his gaze, but this was a reaction Ray was accustomed to. It was just harder to look a man in the eyes when there was eye-shadow and mascara involved. He abruptly decided not to make things any easier.

"Buy a lady a drink?"

Welsh signaled the waiter reflexively, winced, glared, shook his head, glared some more, and by that time there was some college-aged kid at the table with a water-logged notepad. "A martini for... my companion."

Ray beamed. "Does this mean you think I'm classy?"

Heavenward gaze. "Detective."

"Ray."

"Detective --"

"Kowalski."

"*You*."

"Yes?"

Welsh opened and closed his mouth twice before speaking. "There are... so many, many things I could say at this moment."

Ray giggled. "Oh, Loo..."

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Right now? Waiting for my martini."

"I'm still armed."

"So am I." Ray could feel the perfection of the grin on his face.

"I wasn't talking about --" Welsh gave a uniquely human snarl, scrubbed his fingers through his hair. "Your voice suddenly went up. On the 'oh, Loo.' You weren't bothering with... with that before."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that, De -- Ve-- *you*. And you also giggled. What was that about?"

"I was being coy."

"Coy?"

"Yes."

"Don't do that."

"OK. I'm attracted to you, clean, and almost entirely single. Wanna have sex?"

Consternation. That was definitely the word for the expression on Welsh's face. There might have been a moment of shock, but it was too brief to be confirmed.

"I'm pretty sure I could give you a good time, Loo."

"Kowalski, do you have a death wish?"

"I love it when you call me by my name."

"Where... is this some kind of prank? Do you really want me to put you --"

"Vecchio."

" -- on report? You'd pin this on Vecchio?"

"Oh, c'mon, he's got more than enough macho to absorb the shame of it all. Besides, no one has to know you're fucking Ray Kowalski, bombshell extraordinaire."

"I'm not... oh, no. This isn't... I wouldn't call you a bombshell."

"No?"

"You're not really... substantial enough to be a bombshell."

"Well, that's not very nice --"

"Marilyn Monroe, now, *she* was a bombshell. You're much more of a Twiggy."

"Twiggy?"

Ostentatiously critical onceover. "A man needs someone with a little meat on his bones, Kowalski."

Ray narrowed his eyes. "I'd say you've got more than enough for both of us. Besides, you might find my meat quotient surprisingly high.

"Not to even mention the bone."

Brief chuckle, shaken off. "What are you *doing*, Kowalski? Is this something... is the undercover gig --"

And that was way too much thinking. "I want you."

Bright flash of something indescribable in the normally, deceptively sleepy dark eyes, followed by another head shake. "Look --"

"Do you think I'd do..." Broad gesture at himself. "Do you think I'd do all this if I just wanted to bitch about having to be some other guy for a while? You may have noticed that I see identity as being kind of a flexible thing, Welsh." Which wasn't entirely true, but...

"And you thought dressing up as a woman would be a good way to trip your sup --"

"Vecchio's."

"Your superior officer into bed?"

Ray grinned again, a bit more shamelessly than before. "Hey, I was just trying to make it easier for ya. I don't know too much about your preferences."

"You thought putting on a dress --"

"And assorted carefully chosen accessories."

"Would make me more likely to sleep with you."

"Was I right?"

"You've got exceedingly knobby knees, Kowalski."

"Hey, you weren't objecting when you were giving me the eye before, don't think I didn't... catch that." Under the table, a warm, broad hand had shaped itself to his leg, fingertips just brushing at the hem of his dress.

"I happen to be quite fond of knobby knees."

"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship, Loo."

"Not if you keep calling me 'Loo.'"

"Gotcha."

end.

Archilochus 60

I don't like a big general or one with long straddling legs,
Or one vain about his curls or who is partly shaven.
I'd like to see him small, with crooked knees,
Standing firmly on his feet, full of heart.

Back to Due South Fiction Archive