Webpage: http://www.slashcity.com/barb

It's different to move without feeling the layers of clothing against me, but we're in a city again and it's May and the hand of Franklin is found. I mean, not liter...I mean not exactly by us, but we got to the coastline and it didn't matter that it wasn't there; it was my adventure and I was on it. Everything...everything was perfect. I got used to the smell of Fraser, his warmth. He was always there, looking out for me, looking over me, I felt him. I didn't want it to end. But the dogs couldn't handle the spring break up and eventually we had to go back. It was...inevitable. Yeah, that. There was a warm spot in me even when the outside wasn't. It was...I was pathetic, but for once I didn't care. Fraser would look at me and smile when he was busy at something and the warm spot got warmer.

The ticket from Yellowknife back to Chicago costs me the rest of my savings, but it feels good to be in my hand right up until I look over and see Fraser doesn't have one. "Uh...Frase?" I ask.

He's not looking at me. He's not coming back. He's not looking at me and he's not coming back. It didn't seem real, so I try repeating it a couple more times. Nope, nothing but dull shock. "Uh, Frase, the...um...flight's in a couple hours, shouldn't you be..." tactful. Make it more awkward for the guy. Better yet, throw yourself at him and start to sob. Begging never hurt no one. "You're not coming back, are you?" I ask.

He shakes his head. He can't speak. I wonder how long he's figured this out and didn't fucking tell me. The swear in my head stops me. I used to curse a lot more before I met the mountie; cleaner living by association. I shake my head as well, but he's not looking at how awkwardly my mouth moves without me saying anything. I rub my eyebrow, trying to stop the headache before it reaches me. The warm spot in me cools.

"Uh...Frase..." I start, but stop. I saw him up there; he was happier. But it's not fair. I want to shake him, hold a gun to his head and force him back with me. I need him. I need him to be who I am. His selfishness stuns me; without knowing it, I convinced myself he'll make himself miserable if it means keeping me happy. And I'm okay with that.

Until he looks at me for the first time. Damn it. I never realized why the boy shot Ole Yeller until he looks at me. I couldn't do it, so I walk away. It's better than saying what I really want to...or saying what I have to. It's not going to make a difference anyway. He has no right to be all perfect and...and...Fraser-like and then do this to me.

There's a stop-over in Winnipeg so I can't even break into the duty-free. I go through the security check. Fraser has come to the glass wall that divides it, but I sit with my back to the wall. Eventually I turn around as the flight's called, but he's gone.

The warm spot died.

Chicago feels wrong. It's already in a late spring heat-wave, and I roast in my sweater all the way back to my place. The GTO wintered well without me, and I collect the turtle from my neighbor.

I never realized how much city air stinks. It gets in your mouth and you have to taste it. I don't know what bothers me more; tasting it for the first time or on the second day realizing I couldn't taste it anymore. It didn't take long for me to get used to it.

Shaving with hot water and a new razor feels strange. So does getting into my car and driving straight to the station without stopping and picking up Fraser. The car lost the smell of Diefenbaker while being stored, and it's just wrong. I have to park in visitors' parking; there's a green Rivera parked in Vecchio's parking spot. My stomach tightens and I just about drive on, but I haven't gotten any transfer papers in the stack of mail that waited for me.

People stop working as I walk in, but they aren't looking at me, they're looking for someone else. Vecchio isn't in sight, but Welsh calls me into his office. "Detective," he says, holding the door open.

I close it behind me. He's shocked to see me, so I run my fingers through my hair. It's long enough to flop over, and my clothes are kinda too tight in places and loose in others. "Welcome back," Welsh said.

A dozen idiotic phrases come to mind, but I shut my mouth and wait. Eventually Welsh comes to his point. "Where is Constable Fraser?"

"He decided to stay north, sir," I say.

Welsh frowns, for only a second, but I see it. I ask to be reassigned, he denies it. They're understaffed. I say I understand, but now I have to spend all day staring at my ex-desk and the current me sitting at it. Great.

I open the door and hear their voices. He's laughing, and she's murmuring affirmations. I almost turn around until they're gone, but I'm not going to avoid them in the squad room. "Stanley, Where's Benny?"

My mother calls me that, but I'm not going to accept it from the balding freak. "Kowalski, Vecchio," I say.

"Kowalski," Vecchio says, "And Fraser?"

"He didn't come home...back...he didn't come back here," I say. It still hits me like a blow to the stomach. Vecchio nodded. Stella pulled on his arm, but he motioned for her to give him another minute. "How's he doing?" Vecchio asks. He drops his voice, making it like we're buddies or something. Still, he's Fraser's friend first. I only got him 'cause he was part of the package.

"Happier," I say, rubbing my eyebrow again. Not that I would know, but I'm not saying that. Vecchio nods.

"He would be," Vecchio says. He looks back to my...his desk, to where Fraser usually stood, and it's like another punch to the gut. Stella's looking at me now, new contempt on her face.

"Yeah."

"Vecchio!" Welsh say from the door. We both turn, but he only wants to talk to the real one. I turn around and go.

I drive home after a day of filing papers for the transfer. I'm thirsty and stop at a convenience store, but the cold beer and wine store next to it is more appealing. I buy a liter of orange juice, but I get a six-pack as well. It's going to be a long night.

The apartment is quiet enough that I can hear the tap dripping. I let it drip; it's calming. I leave the TV off, thinking of all the times we naturally just did...something after work. Dinner, movies...just anything but going home alone to an empty apartment. And after three months of having Fraser with me all the time I'm not ready to be alone again.

I haven't felt this shitty since Stella left me. No...that was numbness, this is pain. I'd prefer being numb. I'm cracking open and pulling back the first beer before I realize what I'm doing.

The phone has a message on it. I push the button, and for the first while it's just static. It's him, of course, but the message clicks off before he speaks. I wouldn't have returned it if he had left his phone number.

#

The new job's okay. I can bury myself in it and forget the rest. It works, to a point. I have a new partner, so at least I'm not alone. She's a rookie and she makes me feel old. But at least she doesn't taste things off the street. She has a dog, too, only it's a Pomeranian.

I pick her up. I love that she brings coffee or bagels for the favor. She's sweet, but she has a boyfriend who works as an investment banker. I know her mom has chronic arthritis and her father is a mailman, but she doesn't seem to mind I don't talk. I keep the heat in the car cranked, and she doesn't complain.

She's late. I wait. Eventually she runs out her front door, all apologies. I say nothing, and Welsh glares from the open door of his office. He doesn't say anything; Jess and I were here the day before until almost eleven checking up on alibis. Vecchio glances at me and I nod, but he goes back to his sheets.

I look down to my file. Some idiot's breaking into seniors' homes. The homeowners were usually missing, but on two different occasions the husband had been beaten while his wife watched in horror. One of them was still in the hospital. They realized it must have been a delivery boy or a meter reader, and had narrowed it down to four. Three had rock-solid alibis for the nights of the attack, but the organic delivery boy on 137th had logged a two-hour delivery during one of the attacks.

It's a simple matter of bringing him in. He won't report for the job for another hour, which means filing out more paperwork. The computer won't print the damn form, and I kick it hard enough to shake the desk.

"Is it resisting?" Jess asks behind me and I jump away, guilty.

"Don't sneak up on me," I snap.

She looks around the obviously crowded squad room and shakes her head. "You obviously need this more than I do," she says, and passes me her coffee.

I'm so annoyed I drink it black. It makes me even more jittery. Jess slips behind the computer and pushes three buttons. The form shoots out of the printer, and I snag it. "Uh...thanks."

"You had it networking to the wrong printer," she says.

Well...duh. It isn't much of a comeback so I keep it to myself. I grab the car keys and motion her to follow. She does.

The delivery boy enters the store on time, but sees us. He bolts out again and I'm after him. I used to hate foot chases. I used to think my heart would stop before I caught the bastard. The three months in the arctic change that. I run him down easily. He throws a punch, and suddenly he's resisting arrest. I block it, but the second blow catches me in the eye. I stumble back and he tries to knee me. I punch him, hard, and the jolt down my arm feels so good. He tries to punch me back, so I kick him and he drops. Jess pulls me back, and I'm not sure I would have kicked him again. The perp's definitely contained.

Jess doesn't talk to me on the ride. I don't blame her, I'm not totally cooled down yet. Fraser wouldn't have let it happened. Fraser would have outrun me and the punk would have signed the confession and already started his community service by the time I got there.

Welsh calls me out of the interrogation room. "Pretty big bruises on the kid," he says, conversationally.

"He resisted arrest," I say. My eye itches and I rub it with my fist.

"I could well imagine," he says. The phrase reminds me of Fraser and POW, right to the gut again. I want to stumble away and lick my wounds, but Welsh continues to talk to me. "The hospital called. Mr. Jonahs died an hour ago."

I nod. Mr. Jonahs had been a tough old guy, reminded me a lot of my dad. Welsh doesn't move, but doesn't tell me what else he wants. "Did you want to tell me something, sir?" I ask, straightening up from my slouch.

"Just be careful, Detective. Take up a hobby. Keep your mind off it."

"Off of what, sir?" I demand.

Welsh looks at me and sighs. "Any news from Constable Fraser?"

"I think he called a couple nights ago, but he didn't leave a message."

"Um," Welsh says. He looks down to the boy, who's dummying up for his lawyer. "You did good here, Detective, but I think you're coming down with a cold. Take the rest of the day off."

"I don't need the day off, sir."

"Don't argue with me, Kowalski."

"I don't need the day off!" I slam my fist against the table. The sudden pain is sharp, but I like it. It's real.

Welsh's eyes widen, but he's done arguing and he knows he won. I storm out of there, slamming the door behind me. I don't want to go home, but I have no other place to go, and I'm starting to get itchy again. Fraser called me. It took the afternoon, but I got a record of my phone calls. There's only one with a 780 prefix.

There are three more beers left over from the night before, but it's too early to start. It's even too early for the cheap phone rates.

I go for dinner and bring a book. I feel like a geek, but Fraser lent it to me. The Stone Diaries. I can't get past the first chapter; it's a chick book, but I can see Fraser reading it. I'm so pathetic. His hands would have been on the spine.

The thought makes me flush. I drop the book, pushing it away. I never thought of Fraser's hands before. I had never thought of Fraser before. I miss him. I mean...not like I missed Stella. I missed the way Stella feels. I miss the way Fraser smells. Always so clean and...soapy. And leather. The smell was always there; I'd turn around and smell it. Even when he wasn't with me it was still on me. Now it's gone, and I'm starting to forget. I smell the book, but it's only paper. Turnbull's gone, and Thatcher; I drove by the consulate the other day and the mountie out front was a complete stranger. I drove off. What was I supposed to say? Hey, mister, can I smell your serge? Ha.

Dinner arrives, but suddenly the fries and burger don't seem appealing. I push them away, and go back to the fat lady making bread-pudding. You'd think it would make me hungry, but no such luck.

Finally, six o'clock arrives, and I can go home to drink and make the phone fall. I wait until seven on both accounts 'cause I don't want to seem pathetic.

The phone rings and rings, but no one answers. I almost hang up, but he finally answers. He's out of breath, "Hello?"

And suddenly, I have nothing to say. The words freeze, and I'm sweaty and awkward and calling up Suzy Whatshername for a date in junior high. So, I do what I did then. I hang up. Let Fraser run his own trace. I'm pretty sure he knows it's me, but the phone doesn't ring all night. The beer's there, though.

I go for a run in the morning. I'd like to wallow, especially with this headache, but I don't want to go soft. Just in case Fraser ever wants me to go snow-shoeing again. It puts me in a shitty mood, and when Jess comes out to the car, I can see she's kinda nervous.

The day goes by slow. It's full of phone calls between us and the lawyers on both sides. The kid apparently came from some bucks and his folks' lawyer is screaming improper conduct and police brutality. My face is cracked open because of the kid, but no one seems to notice the purple under my eye where his elbow smacked.

And it's on record Welsh sent me home after the deal went down, so the whole thing is starting to stink. Forget about the old guy who died and the other who got his head bashed in; the stupid perp has rights.

It makes me sick, so I have to leave, but the kid's lawyer stops me in the hall. "Wendall Black, the defendant's attorney, Mr...?" he asks, giving me his card. I pocket it out of reflex.

"Detective. Kowalski," I say. The man oozes. His suit is tailored to his short little body, and was probably more than my plane ticket from Yellowknife.

"Detective Kowalski. Are you sure you have the right perpetrator for these crimes?" he asks.

"The punk attacked one of the families when he was still on the clock."

"How do you know he didn't just stop for a coke and a sandwich somewhere? You have no solid proof Andrew actually did anything, do you?"

"He ran when he saw us."

"He was scared and stupid. I have to say, Detective, Andrew has had a troubled past; his parents have tried dozens of therapists, but he's still acting out. But this is beyond him. He's just a boy."

"Your boy picked up Mr. Jonahs' cane and beat him over the head with it. Mr. Jonah's never woke up again, and now he's dead," I snap. I don't say how the rich kid probably took the job working for tips just to find his new victims.

"Allegedly, Detective. He allegedly picked up the cane. You forget yourself."

"Do you actually think you can get your boy off of this?" I snap. I'm losing it; but I can't help it. The guy needs a kick to the head, and my fists clench. He notices it with a smile, and I know he's just trying to goad me. "That's quite a temper you have there, Detective," he says.

"Go to hell," I say, and walk away. People are staring, but I don't care.

"Is that your professional opinion?" he calls after me. I turn around and open my mouth, but Jess is there and she stops me from ruining my career. A simple thank you isn't enough, but it'll have to do. I walk away.

Four o'clock finally comes around, and I'm out of there the moment the second hand touches the twelve again. Jess stays late and I'm sorry she's tainted by this shit. I want to tell her that it's S.O.P. for the assholes to defend the scum, but I don't know how to say it and I can't wait for me to stumble through it.

I drive for a long time. A real long time. It's nice to be on something that doesn't need Alpo to get started. That brings a whole different wallow up. I don't stop for supper because if I do, it will lead to a beer and then two and then I'd either have to cab it home or risk getting a DUI, and that would look great for the arresting officer on the case. So I go straight home. There's nothing in the fridge to cook and the milk's gone sour, but there's a can of condensed soup I eat out of the pot.

The phone rings, but I'm across the room and don't want to get up to answer it, so I let it ring. More static. It's him, but I still don't have the urge to cross the room and get it. He actually speaks this time.

"Hello, Ray."

That's it. I wait for more, but nothing else comes. I can hear him breathing, though, and I stand up and go to the phone, but I don't answer it. It's his dime, let him breathe all he wants.

"Call me sometime. I know you have the number," Fraser says, and hangs up.

I sit down. I'm on the floor and it's been a long time since I could sit on the floor and feel comfortable, but moving to a chair seems like too much work.

I spend the next twenty minutes or so trying to figure out the most I've ever hurt. The tattoo, I guess, but that was different. That was external, and I was drunk. The punch to the gut feeling is stronger now. I can't breathe.

I know now I should have picked up the phone when he called, but I can't pick it up now and dial the number. I still have nothing to say.

#

The next morning I wake up before my alarm goes off. I can't help it; it's light out. Two weeks ago I would have been struggling out of my sleeping bag next to Fraser and starting to make breakfast. Coffee tastes better over the fire, and even biscuits are good. Fraser would be impossibly awake and chirpy, moving around like he owned the arctic. It made me smile, and I didn't even know why. Fraser had been happy. I was happy. Hell, even Dief had stopped begging potato chips. We had all been so...happy.

The word makes me sick. I stand up and miss the feeling of my clothes sticking to me. I want my friend back. And suddenly I'm angry again. I'm angry at him for leaving. I'm angry at me for letting him go. I'm angry at the coffee machine for being out of filters. I kick the cupboard, but it does nothing but hurt my toe.

By noon, my entire foot throbs. I know I must have broken the damn toe, but I'm too stubborn to say anything. I bite the pain, keeping it. The throbbing feels good in a way, it disrupts the punched-in-the-gut feeling. Stella's still complaining about the case, but it's still a solid one, all the perp's bitching is not going to help him. All four of the old people picked him out of the line up, and he's going to jail.

Vecchio nails me at the water cooler, and I can't get away. He's less smug now. "Fraser called last night," he says. My back knots up. I try to relax back into my usual slouch, but it ain't happening.

I try the next best thing, go for casual. "Yeah?" I ask.

He looks at me again and frowns. "He wants to know how you've been, Kowalski. Why doesn't he just ask you?"

"It's...complicated," I say, but he's not buying it. He's actually going all protectoring on me. I can't believe it, but it's like a train-wreck and I can't stop it.

"Fraser is my friend first, Kowalski, and if you're doing something to make him miserable, I want you to stop it, now. You don't have the right--"

"Fraser's miserable? He told you that?" I break in. Vecchio frowns at me, but his thoughts are obviously broken.

"No. Not really. He just sounds tired."

"It's the um...the um...arctic air. Did that to me all the time. We'd be up and going and then all of a sudden, bang, nap-time," I say. Vecchio frowns again. I know he wants to ask what happened up there, but he's not going to. But it leaves us with nothing to say and he goes away. I'm relieved. Welsh calls for Vecchio again, and this time I barely glance up.

I'm learning.

I bring Jess a cup of coffee for abandoning her the day before, and she takes it gratefully. She's on the phone, talking to an obviously upset individual, and I gotta respect the way she handles herself. "Ma'am, ma'am, please. This isn't helping. You have to tell me where this happened. I know, ma'am, please. We just want to help you," her voice drones on and on and she motions me to pick up the other extension but presses her finger against her lip.

I pick it up and cover the mouthpiece. A break-in, her husband was still in the house. The woman is hysterical, but Jess gradually gets the address and we go. I drive.

The woman is standing in the neighbor's yard waiting for us, and I wonder how many calls 911 had got. She's covered in blood, old and new. She has a gash over her eye that goes into her scalp, but it's stopped bleeding. Both of her eyes are blackened in a way that makes my slight shiner look like a good day.

Jess takes her inside, and I cross the alley to her house. The backdoor's open and banging in the wind. A teakettle is still whistling on the stove, and a mug and a teabag sits on the counter. The knife is on the floor in the puddle of blood, covered in blood and hair. My gag reflex goes off; there's too much blood for anyone to have survived. Someone dragged the body by the heels, and I follow the trail of blood. I'm calling the coroner's office as I take out my gun. The dining room is off from the kitchen through a swinging door, and I push it open with my elbow. The room's been ransacked, everything from the silver to the china's out. The front door's been jimmied open, and my stomach clenches for the first non-Fraser reason since we got back. Same M.O. as the kid.

The downstair's clean. I brace myself and go up. I don't step on the bloody trail, but I can't figure out why the guy would drag the body all the way upstairs again.

It's a small house. The guestroom's empty and so is the bathroom and laundry. The master bedroom's door is closed but not latched, and I toe it open, slowly.

He put the guy back to bed. I had to turn around and take a deep breath. The writing on the wall says "Wrong" and I didn't have to wait for labs to tell me what it's done in.

My toe starts to throb again once I'm back in my car with the heater going. Jess slips inside the car once I've already taken my sneaker off. She looks at the toe and says, "You should go to the hospital, that looks nasty."

The bruise is over half my foot, and I wonder how I didn't feel it when I was inside. "I'll splint it," I say. Yeah, like I know how to do that. Fraser would. I'd go to the emergency room when I drop her off.

The hospital is busy and it takes the rest of the afternoon to get in, but I'm in no hurry to get anywhere. Finally I go home, limping slightly, and I don't even bother with food. I pick up the phone and dial it from memory.

This time he's waiting by the phone. "Constable Fraser," he says.

He's probably waiting for another call. "Hiya, Frase," I say. There's no way I'm going to come out of this conversation sounding cool.

"Ray?" Fraser demands, like who else would it be. "I...uh...hello, Ray."

I smile at his stumbling. "Hello, Fraser."

This was the man I slept, ate and survived with for over three months, and now we have nothing to say. He knows it, too. "So, uh...how's work?" he tries.

I think of the bloody body on the bed and the kid's already screaming false imprisonment lawsuits and Mr. Jonahs who had looked so broken on his hospital bed, and shrug. "Oh, you know," I say.

There's a long pause, and I wonder what he's not trying to think about, either. "Yes, the same...pretty much...here."

Bullshit. He's lying to me, but I'm lying to him so I'm not going to start the stone throwing. "And uh...Diefenbaker?" I ask. Lame, lame, lame. If I have to start talking about curling, I'm hanging up.

"Good, well, he's missing MacDonalds, but he's adjusting."

"And you? You're...adjusting?"

"I'm home, Ray, why would I need to adjust?"

"You sound tired," I say. He doesn't, but there's something wrong.

"Do I? I don't feel tired. Just..."

Just? There's a just? If there is, Fraser doesn't want to talk about it, and I don't want to push. After another heatbeat of silence, I cough.

"I gotta run. Talk to ya later?" I ask.

"I'd like that," Fraser said.

I hang the phone up and go to bed. I sleep until morning, and still feel like hell. I take one of the pills the doctor gave me, and the pain settles back down to tolerable levels. I don't want to think of the conversation the night before, I don't want to think of Fraser unable to talk to me. It nags at me that I couldn't talk to him, but the double murder is different. There's nothing he can do to help me from where he is, so there's no point in dragging him in.

The voice in my head continues to nag, and I crank the music in the car to compensate. Jess' boyfriend is taking her down, so I drive in alone. Once in the station, Welsh calls me in and tells me there letting delivery boy go.

"What?" I demand.

"The other attack casts doubt on his involvement," Welsh says, sounding like the party line's heavy to tow.

"That's bullshit, sir. The two cases are separate. No one's been knived before, and the way the body was put up..." I say, but Welsh isn't listening; I'm not saying anything new to him.

"The kid's out on bond. There's nothing we can do. IA wants to talk to you once they are finished with your partner."

The day kept getting better. The interview's a sham, I know that from the beginning. I didn't strike Mr. Frelick any more than I thought warranted. Yes, he did strike me first. Yes, I still thought he was guilty. He ran from us when he saw us. They get nothing from Jess, she wasn't there, so it was my word against his. They let me off with a warning about my temper, so I resist the urge to flip him off.

Probably a good thing. The urge would never have hit me if Fraser were here.

Stella's on my case again, but she knows she needs me for her case. Vecchio is hovering without wanting to seem like he is. He almost makes me smile. I do what I can to answer her questions, but I'm suddenly tired and my foot's hurting again. I take another pain pill when the labs from the crime scene come back. Well, some of them. The blood from the kitchen belonged to the victim, but there were a few drops that weren't his type. They weren't too hopeful, it matches the blood type of the wife. The knife didn't have prints, but the hairs on the blade were thick and black, and the victim was bald.

We do more checking, but there is nothing to find. There seems to be no reason why the house was targeted. Five o'clock comes and we're still tangled in phone lines. I stay till six, but then stand up. Jess glances at me, but waves me away. I don't ask her if she wants a ride in on Monday, and she doesn't remind me.

I have a bottle of scotch somewhere in my kitchen. It takes a while to find it, but I pull it down. I want the phone to ring. It's his turn, he has to call. But he doesn't. I fall asleep on the chair next to the phone, but it stays silent.

I wake up stiff and sore, but ignore the jingle of pills in my pocket as I stand up. I limp to the bedroom and change. I know I should clean the place, but it's not going to happen today. I do a load of laundry, but that only kills an hour and a half.

I'm shaking again. I can't help it. Parts of me are knotted up. So I walk. It helps, but not enough. I got over Stella. It took a while, but eventually it stopped hurting. This is different. I try to tell myself it's just 'cause Fraser's different, Fraser's a guy, but it doesn't make the clenching go away.

I go in on Sunday. The off-shift found a last known address and they're about to go out with it, so I go with them. It's a bust, the address is empty, but there are signs someone was there. We stay outside, waiting for the search warrant, and Williams passes me a smoke. I take it, thanking him with a nod. It takes half an hour, but we get it and go in.

Nothing much. No smoking gun or signed confession, but it's a matter of shifting through everything, and I got time.

"Nothing," Williams cursed. He stands up, and I watch him leave. I stand up and kick over the garbage pail, just as frustrated, and see the business card. It's stuck on with chewing gum, and I'm glad Fraser's not there to taste it. I pull it off, and then pause.

It's the rich-kid's lawyer.

Welsh comes in the next morning and is surprised to see me. I rub my palm against my cheek, and the stubble burns. Stella's pissed at me waking her up, but she's wide-awake when I tell her about the card.

Welsh calls me in when I'm off the phone. I tell him what I find and where. Welsh nods, but when I turn to go he stops me. "Detective?"

"Yeah?" I ask.

"You look like hell, Kowalski."

I tense up. The last thing I want is more time off filled with nothing. "I'm good," I say, but he's not believing me.

"I think you need to see someone."

That's even worse than forced time off, but Vecchio's knocking on the door and he dismisses me.

The APB brings in John Weiss by noon. He's a big guy, curly hair, flat nose. He's a thug and he knows it. The lawyer's not technically a suspect, and he won't be until Weiss shops him for a lesser plea. Doesn't take Weiss long though, but Welsh won't let me go with the pick-up crew.

I wait. Jess waits with me, but she's nervous too. Black is furious as they drag him in, and they're screaming planted evidence within the hour. IA gets its teeth into this one and they're not letting go, but I didn't plant the card and they can't get me to admit I did. We bang heads all afternoon. I don't get a lawyer 'cause I know how it'll look, but at the end I'm exhausted and I want to go home. Welsh says nothing as I walk past his office with my coat on.

I call him, he answers. I don't know what to say, but I'm tired of not saying it. "Ray?" he asks.

"Hiya, Frase," I say.

He knows something's wrong, but he waits for it, and I love him more.

The thought stops me. I do. I love him. Holy shit. How did that happen? I want a smoke, or at least something to keep my hands busy. "I...uh..." It doesn't come out; I can't make it, but Fraser doesn't try to rush me. "How was your day?" I ask instead.

Fraser exhales, and he's rubbing his face. I can see it. He's trying to decide if he wants to continue his own "Everything's perfectly normal" line. He exhales, sharply. "Not good," he finally says.

I relax, totally. Like slouch back into the chair and feel the relief in my elbows type relax. I want to ask why, but I give him the time. "It's different here. It's a small reserve...I thought it would be the same, but it's not. I see generations of lives...ruined, and I'm the bad guy, here."

I open my mouth, but close it again. I want to tell him he could never be the bad guy, but my tongue's stuck again. "You..." I try, but it doesn't help. He continues without me, and I hug myself.

"I live in a compound we have to lock at night, Ray. There's barb-wire fence around the top, just in case. Two brothers got drunk last night and one of them stabbed the other. With a butter knife. The victim died, Ray."

Fraser's voice broke. It would be totally different for him; he spent his whole life trying to help people. Shit. He needs out. Fraser takes a deep breath, and sniffs. He's embarrassed now, probably looking for an excuse to hang up. He laughs though, and it sounds forced. "And you?" he asks, like nothing's wrong.

I want to blow it off. I don't want to make him feel worse. But I owe him. "Oh, you know. IA thinks I planted evidence against a double homicide," I say, trying to make it seem like an everyday thing. I don't mention that I love him; I'm not sure and he don't need to hear that. Or that I'm falling apart, or that I hurt my toe or that I couldn't read the book he gave me. Or that I want him here; he don't need to hear any of that.

He laughs again, completely inappropriate, but I love him more for it. The ache in my stomach gets stronger, and it's just like old times. He's quiet and I'm quiet, but we're quiet together and that's all that matters.

"So...uh..." I stop, realizing I was about to ask him when he was coming home. I wince. "Vecchio says hi."

"Does he. Are you two still getting along?" Fraser latches onto the new conversation.

"Same as always," I say, not lying.

"You still hate him," Fraser said.

"He's such a jerk, Fraser. You can't tell me you actually liked the guy!" I burst out, and then pause. I shouldn't have said it, and I shouldn't have put it in past tense. He just laughs again, softly.

"He grows on you."

I flush; his voice has dropped. "And me?" I ask, pathetically.

"Even more so," Fraser says, and I have to swallow. Fraser likes me best. The thought makes me grin, and suddenly I'm thirteen again.

There's a long pause, longer than the others. We say, "You should go," and "I should go," at the same time, and Fraser laughs again.

"Tomorrow?" he asks.

"It's a date," I say without thinking, and my flush turns into a real blush, but I don't correct myself and he doesn't pause.

"Tomorrow, then," he says. "Good-bye."

"Yeah, bye," I say. Oh, by the way, I love you, but that goes unsaid. I sleep better that night than I have since I left the arctic.

The next morning, the entire squad room is grim. I walk in, and no one looks at me. Jess motions me over. "They're...claiming you set the whole thing up with Black."

"What?" I ask, annoyed, but there's no point shooting the messenger.

This time the IA guys aren't fooling around. I sit down in the metal chair they assign me to, and everyone is grim.

"Did you threaten Mr. Black in the hall the day you brought Andrew in?" another lawyer asked. His suit isn't quite as well set as Black's but he has that oily presence.

"No," I say.

"There were witnesses, Detective Kowalski."

"And none of them heard me threaten him."

The man consults his notes. "I'm sorry, you told him to "Go to hell". Is that right?"

I tense, and my fingers curl around the armrests. "Yeah."

"Yeah. Yes? Yes, you told him to go to hell?" the man snaps.

"Yes, I told him to go to hell," I say.

"Is that standard police procedure, telling the defendant's lawyer to go to hell? Is it fair to say you didn't like Mr. Black?"

I don't say anything until he prompts me again. "Detective?"

"No, it's not standard," I say. The lawyer smiles.

"And did you like Mr. Black?"

"He tried to pass off murder as a childhood prank," I snap, and the lawyer's smiling indulgently at me again.

"So you wanted him punished."

"No!"

"Did he, at that time, give you his business card?"

"Yeah," I say, but I reach into my pocket, but besides the forty-seven cents it's empty.

"So you had a business card of Mr. Black's, and now you don't?"

I search my other pocket, and the inner one, but it's not there. I don't know how many times a day I clean out my pockets, but I can't honestly remember what I did with it.

The lawyer backs away, and I'm dismissed. They wait for me to leave before they start over again.

Welsh is waiting for me outside. He's looking at me like he's starting to doubt me, but I meet his look. "I didn't do this," I say.

He tries to nod. "Prove it, Detective."

I go down to the holding cells.

Weiss doesn't look surprised to see me. "I smell roasted pig," he said as I come up to the bars.

"You know, that's very funny. Really. I'm killing myself laughing inside."

"What do you want?"

"I'm just wondering how much he's paying you," I say.

Weiss frowns. "He ain't paying me shit."

"Well, he should be. I mean, he gets off on the charges, and they're coming after you with both barrels. Work for hire gets off more easy than original work. And if he gets off, Weiss, they're pinning both murders and the house break-ins on you. He better be paying you a lot, 'cause you're gonna be needing it for legal fees. Two, three hundred bucks an hour is what you'll be paying."

"Fuck you."

"Your dime."

"Listen, asshole, I ain't telling you shit."

"Fine by me. I'm sure you'll be up for parole in...sixty, seventy years. Hope the money holds out till then," I say. He doesn't call me back as I go, but I turn around just before I get to the door and he's sitting on the bench, holding his head. Even if he starts singing it'll be the word of a criminal against a lawyer, but it's better than nothing.

Stella takes the rest of the day. She grills me over an open fire, and I wonder if I'll taste better too, like the coffee.

"Hold on, I didn't say that!" I finally say.

"No? Didn't you just say that you couldn't find the card?"

"You're putting words in my mouth."

"Do you think they won't? Believe me, Ray, if they can tear you apart, they will."

I realize she's only trying to help, but it's typical Stella style. Vecchio's pacing the hall, it's past five, but he doesn't bother us. I rub my face. "You're giving me a headache," I say.

"You have to be careful, Ray. They're waiting to destroy you. Don't give them anything more than they ask."

I look up from my hands. Her voice is soft, but worried. "You know I didn't do this, right?" I ask.

Her eyebrows almost touch for an instant. "I know you're a good cop," she says.

The headache lets up a bit. "Thanks," I say.

She touches my hair, wrapping it around her fingers. "You should get this cut," she says, toying with it. "You just look...wrong."

I hadn't thought much about it. Vecchio knocks on the glass, and Stella gathers up her briefcase. "The next deposition is tomorrow, Ray. You should be better prepared. And find that card."

I mock salute her, but she's already out the door and taking Vecchio's arm. My life is officially ruined.

I stop at a barbershop and have the extra inches lopped off. Running my fingers through it feels better, but the hair down the back of my shirt itches and I have to shower and change before I can tear the apartment apart.

I check the most obvious places first. On my dresser, on the floor of the closet, around the television. I'm glad at least that I didn't clean up the place on Saturday, 'cause my usual method is tossing everything in the garbage.

It's not in any of the usual places, so I dig deeper. The doorbell goes off a couple hours later and I'm covered in dust and grime. I'm annoyed at having to stop, but it's obvious that it's nowhere in the living-room or kitchen. I throw the door open, not bothering with the peep-hole, and stop.

Dead.

Like in my tracks.

Fraser.

I think it's a hallucination caused by dust mites for a minute. He's not wearing his serge; he's wearing his leather jacket and civilian clothes, but the hat's there and it's Fraser and I'm seriously fighting the urge to throw myself at him. He smells like Fraser, well, Fraser after a long airplane ride, and I'm grinning like a moron and I don't care.

He hesitates, for a second, not sure, and then puts out his arms. I forgot, buddies hug. Buddies can do that, so I do. Leather and Fraser. Mine. He's holding on tight enough to crack ribs but I'm not complaining, and this has been going on longer than just buddies but I don't care 'cause Fraser's here and I'm not imagining it.

Finally I realize we're still hugging and we're in the middle of the hall and he's not stopping it as much as I'm not. Finally I push back, and he lets me go. "What gives?" I ask.

He looks around, and I bring him inside the apartment. He's probably hungry but I don't got anything in the fridge and I don't want to suggest going out. He looks around, sees the ransacked living-room, but doesn't say anything about it. I clear off the couch and he sits down. I sit down beside him 'cause the chair has the contents of the shelf on it, and he's not complaining, even though I'm not sitting against the arm.

He sighs and rubs the back on his neck. It's been cut recently, like mine, and I want to touch it. "I transferred back," he said.

I blink. "So soon? Doesn't it take weeks to get things done up there?"

He sighs again. "My transfer papers were on the sergeant's desk on my first day," he said. "They just needed to be initialed."

"Fraser?" I ask.

He rubs his neck again. "I was told I couldn't go back. I thought enough time had passed...but I should have known being posted to Fort Assumption was a hint they didn't want me."

I don't want to pry. I should be angry with him, but I'm not. I'm still grinning like a fool, and that's not likely to change soon. I put my arm around him, comforting-like, and he rocks his head down on my shoulder. I touch his hair, silky and soft, and his neck is vulnerable and exposed. He's already half asleep, but if I lick the tendon standing up from his neck, he'll probably notice. It's late and I'm tired and I still hadn't found the stupid card, but Fraser's seconds from snoring. "Take my bed. I'll sleep out here," I say. Buddies do that.

He, of course, won't hear of it. He takes a spare blanket and one of my pillows and bunks down comfortably on the floor of the living room.

I close the doors to my bedroom. It takes me an hour to realize I'm not going to be falling asleep; the bed's too comfortable. I can hear Fraser's breathing from the next room, though the closed door. I listen to it, thinking of all the times I heard it over the crackling fire, and I turn over. It doesn't help. The bed's suffocating me, and I gotta get up.

Fraser wakes when I open the door; I can see the whites of his eyes in the thin light from the window. He doesn't say anything as I bring my pillow and blanket out. He shifts back, even with the all the room on the carpet.

Next to him on the hard floor, I fall asleep almost immediately. I can reach out and touch him any time I want, and I can feel the warmth he gives off. In the middle of the night he puts his hand on my shoulder and moves up behind me, and I relax into him. His arm makes a better pillow than the foam thing I used. Everything's where it should be.

I wake up a couple hours later to my alarm going off in the next room. It was in my dream for a while. Fraser's already awake, which is weird, 'cause his arms are still around me. Not that I'm complaining, of course, I could wake up with Fraser's arms around me for a long, long time, but this is kinda different; we haven't talked yet.

And we definitely gotta talk. Not just the, "Hey, Fraser, unless I find a business card, I'm toasted" speech either. But Fraser's stretching now and rather than letting me to go to it he's pulling me closer to him and rather than arguing or complaining, my tongue's sneaking out to taste the soft spot under his throat and I'm screaming at myself, but Fraser only tilts his head back and lets me.

Okay, so maybe we don't need to talk. Salty. Fraser tastes salty, like I knew he would, and also like lantern fluid, a little. He hadn't washed in a while. I'm not complaining, oh, no. Eventually I lick up all the taste from the little spot and I don't know what to do but that's okay 'cause Fraser does. I gotta know all of a sudden. Where did he learn it? If your best buddy sneaks beside you in the middle of the night and it's not for warmth, what do you do? It would occur to me to put my arms around him and let him lick me, but that's what's Fraser's doing.

Only now he's working his way through our blankets. Mine's wrapped around me like a mummy but his sheds easily enough. I'm trying to help him, but the damn thing just isn't coming off and all that groping is seriously turning me on. His breathing is rough for the first time I've known him. He finally just moves over me, blanket and all, and as he weight settles down over me, and wow. I can feel him against my upper thigh, I want to pull him down to me, but if he gets off his elbows he won't be able to move against me and the first time he does, I don't anything to change.

He's breathing hard now; I'm panting like a dog. Dog...where's Dief? I want to ask but now is not the time. He's concentrating; his face is tight and he's sort of frowning like this is serious business and wrapped in the blanket I'm suddenly 130 degrees, but begging doesn't help because I can't form the words and Fraser's still moving against me and his thigh is the best thing I've ever felt.

He comes with an un-Fraser-like grunt and then falls over me. I can't move my hips under his weight and I am honestly dying under the blanket. "Fraser," I say, but he doesn't move. "Fraser, come on, not funny. Come on, Fraser!" I try again. He starts to shift and that's even worse 'cause the tiny movements against me aren't doing any good. He seems to wake up, sees me, and is all apologies, but I don't care. His hand moves against me in the next breath, gathering me up, working my cock, and I'm groaning again. It doesn't take much. I'm coming in my shorts and Fraser doesn't back away until I can sit up unassisted.

We should be talking, but he stands up instead. I try to join him, but the sticky blanket trips me up and I crash down to the floor. Now it's personal. I fight with the stupid thing until it lets me go, and then I gather the blanket up and throw it in the corner. Fraser's watching me with his amused half little smile again, like he always does when I've done something stupid, but I don't mind 'cause he's here to do it.

He goes into the bathroom, and I look over the kitchen but there's really nothing there worth attempting. We'll go out. I glance down to my watch. And I have to be at work in twenty minutes. No problem.

Fraser's shaving with my razor, but he doesn't seem to mind me barging in on him. I mean, we just...well...whatever we did we just did it and that gave me bathroom sharing rights. I strip off my shorts and jump in the shower. I scrub for a few seconds, but I'm really late. Shampoo's out, but at least I don't smell like a barn-yard anymore.

I jump out again, Fraser's just finishing up. I go to tell him he missed a spot, but I wipe the shaving cream off with my finger instead. Fraser opens his mouth to say something, and I kiss him.

Really fast. Like a first date with the parents watching kiss, but I did it and it's done and I'm still late. Jeans and a T-shirt, and I grab my jacket. By the time I'm out again, Fraser's ready.

"Fraser?" I say. It's the first thing said this morning.

"Yes, Ray?"

"Fraser, um..." the words trip up again. Thanks? Too casual. That was great, oh yeah, might as well ask if it was good for him, too. I'm tripping around trying to think, and he comes to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and the thoughts that are racing around in my head just stop. He kisses me, lips parted, tongue in mouth, slowly meeting each other type kiss, and all the tension in me kinda drips away from me.

He breaks away first, and I'm left leaning against the wall, breathless and stupid. It's a nice feeling, and I'm more than willing to keep IA waiting for a second, more naked round, but he motions to the door. "We should go."

I follow behind, just digging the way Fraser's walking. He turns around once and catches me grinning despite my career being pretty much over. I wonder if we can live on his income; I am not moving to the consulate.

"So where's Dief?" I ask.

"Quarantine, he'll be out in three days. They get more and more leery allowing him into the country each time," Fraser says. He looks straight ahead, and I'm thinking he's thinking about the wolf, but then he clears his throat. "How bad is it?" he asks.

I pull on my bottom lip. "Bad," I say.

"And there's nothing I can do?"

"You can find a business card I have idea where is," I say. I don't exactly pull off the light banter I want.

He's thinking again. "And the man incarcerated, he's not talking?"

"Too stupid to. Still expects Black to make life worth his while."

"This is...less than ideal, Ray."

"Yeah, Fraser, it is," I say. But I don't care. He's here. The rest can wait. He catches me grinning again and his hand comes down over my knee. I swallow quickly, but we're already at the station, damn it.

It takes a minute to get back under control, but we're already ten minutes late so another one won't matter. Fraser nods to me as I go into the interrogation room, and they're all waiting for me. Black's just finishing, and he looks at me smug enough that he knows he's won. Welsh and Vecchio stare at Fraser, but they're not going to say anything.

They call me, and I sit down on the chair. "Did you find the business card?" the guy from IA asks.

"No."

"No? Do you admit to planting the evidence?"

"No."

"Did anyone see you find the card, detective?"

"No."

"So you could have planted it."

"No!" I say. Fraser's frowning, but when he sees me looking at him he smiles. It calms me down, and I don't want to punch him out so much anymore.

"No? Why not?"

"I didn't need to. He butchered an old man to get his client off."

"Or so you allege."

I'm dying here, or at least I'm getting buried. "I didn't plant that card!"

"So where is the card Mr. Black gave you?"

I shrug. He walks away, gloating.

And I'm sunk. Welsh meets us afterwards, but even when he's welcoming Fraser back his voice is subdued. "They should have their decision back tomorrow, Detective."

If I'm lucky, it'll only be a suspension without pay. Worse...I didn't want to think of worst.

Fraser takes me home. I don't feel much like driving, and for once I don't complain about the speed. He doesn't mind me leaning over and smelling him. If I'm going down, I'm not going to forget what he smells like again.

We get back to the apartment, and the only clear spot is the spot we slept the night before. I hope it gives him a hint, but he's going all methodical on me. He starts in the living room and I work in the bedroom, but after the day, we both find nothing.

He's not discouraged, but I am. We collapse onto the sofa, and I feel bad I have nothing in the fridge but beer to offer him. Well, almost nothing. I put my hand on his thigh, and he puts his hand over mine and I really want to jump him but I'm too tired to make the effort.

He doesn't seem to mind either. We sit back, and he tugs on the belt loops of my jeans. "Did you put the card in your jacket or your pants?" Fraser asks.

"My jacket," I say, but then pause. "Or my jeans..." I trail off. I was pretty sure I put it in my jacket, but I can't remember. I checked all the jeans; they were empty.

"And you didn't wash them since?"

Shit. Of course I had. We're out the door at a run. The laundry room is down the hall, with coin-operated machines, but the pail used for the laundry traps is still brimming with blue piles of fluff. We dig through it. The dust makes me sneeze and I have to back away, but he continues digging through. The sneezing fit ends, but Fraser's found it. It's crumpled and washed, but it's the lawyer's card.

I tackle him, and he falls back. I pin him, and he doesn't fight me over him. The laundry room door's open, but I can't resist. I slide down his body, and he can toss me off any time, but he lets me stay. I kiss him again, a slow, toe curling kiss and something else moves against me. All right.

"Ray--"

"Not now, Fraser," I say around his mouth.

"Uh...Ray, wouldn't you be more comfortable in your apartment?"

Well, yeah. I climb off him, taking the card.

Fraser is up against me before I have a chance to shut the door. There's none of this taking it slow business, and he knocks my shoulders back against the door so he can wedge his thigh between my legs and...wow.

I kiss him, our noses bang up against each other and I'm trying not to laugh but he's tearing at my clothes and it's not funny anymore. I take the hint, but the buttons escape me.

We have to break away to get my shirt off, and he moves his thigh. I'm cold without him. But my shirt's off and he yanks at his too. Buttons fly everywhere, and this time we're laughing now 'cause I've always wanted to do that.

He's over me on the floor of the kitchen and I wonder if we'll ever actually make it to the bed, and if we do, if Fraser'll actually stay in it. But the floor's good; I like the floor.

He unzips my jeans, and with some shifting, I can undo his. And then...we stop.

He looks at me, and he's just as uncertain as I am. I take his cock out, feeling the heat. He follows my lead, which is kinda weird, but I like it. We like it different; I like it hard and fast, he likes it gentler. I have to follow his breathing, but it's like I know what he wants.

He burrows against my neck, and it makes me flush. His tongue works against my throat, and he does this thing with his thumb and I groan.

I lick my fingers and then work it behind his testicles, and he really likes that. I've never seen him jerk like that before. It suits him.

He's fighting it now, but that's okay, so am I. He makes noises; I thought he'd be more quiet. But they're sweet and very polite. He comes first, spilling on my stomach, but he does that thumb thing again and I'm gone, too.

I'm absolutely boneless on my back, and I have no desire to move again. We shouldn't have to, the fridge is close enough that we could crawl to it if we had to, but eventually I start to realize the floor's cold on my bare back.

"Frase?" I ask.

"Yes, Ray?"

"Can you sleep in a bed?"

"I can."

I sit up and look down at him. "Will you?"

"Will you be in this bed?"

"I was thinking."

"Then I'd be glad too."

"Good."

"Um...Frase?" I ask.

"Yes, Ray?"

"Can we move to the bed now?"

We order in.

#

I show up the next day. Black's there looking smug, but I'm looking smugger. More smug? Whatever. I take the card out and put it down on the table. Black's face falls. I walk out of there, grinning like an idiot.

Fraser doesn't seem to mind the different desk. He goes over to talk to Vecchio, and for the first time I don't feel punched in the gut. Fraser definitely likes me best, and he's not going to trade me over. Vecchio looks kinda strange, though, and when they part, Fraser puts his hand on Vecchio's shoulder and they just kind of stay there.

"You must be happy," Stella says behind me. I jump. "They're dropping the charges. Black and Weiss are going down together."

I look at her. I mean...I'll always love her, but I'm not in love with her anymore. It's a calming feeling. "Um...good," I say.

She's looking at Fraser. "He's here for a visit?"

"He's transferring back," I say. My voice does this weird thing, but she either didn't notice it or doesn't care enough to ask.

She nods though. "I'm taking a transfer, too," she says.

I cough. "Where?"

"Florida."

"Florida. That's...far away," I say.

"Ray is coming with me."

With all that's happened, I know I should be more...deep, but all I can think of is I get my parking space back.