Slam Dunk, Part One      Slam Dunk, Part One

 by Kiki Cabou

  

 

 Disclaimer: World's Shortest Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. 
Enjoy.

 Author's Notes: This thing took FOREVER to write. I'm only exaggerating
slightly. Naturally, I had help. I'd like to thank my friends, who
encouraged this lunacy: Postcard, for sticking with me and beta-in as much
as she could stomach, Tanya Reed for her support, and Lea Barrett,
RedDragon, and Gemma-Louise Millar for just being cool. Thanks, everybody!
:)

 Story Notes: Okay, here goes nothing: This takes place after COTW, and
everybody's back from where they were. Ray Vecchio and Stan Kowalski are
official partners at the 27th precinct. (I call them Ray and Stan because
two Rays in one fic is just way too confusing.) Fraser tags along with
them. Frannie is still the Civilian Aid. Thatcher and Turnbull are still
at the consulate, etc. 
As for the PG rating, I'll be honest. Like the Motion Picture Association
of America, I'm no good at rating things. So, I'll just give you a heads
up about what to expect, and you can decide if you want to read it or not.
You will find, if you make it through this entire story: a sprinkling of
foul language, including the occasional use of the f-word, some violence,
and one rather graphic death. There is also an implied sex scene and a
wolf puking. I think that's it --- you've been warned.

 

 

 CHAPTER ONE: THE TAO OF THE ROCKETS 

 "C'mon, Jack! Sink it!" 

 "What the hell do you --- ungh! --- think I'm trying to do?!" Jack
hollered at Ray, shoving his way past Tom and trying to keep out of Stan's
reach. The latter was flailing every available limb in his face to keep
him from shooting. 

 Finally, annoyed, Jack jumped up, focused, and took his shot. Swish!
Right through the hoop. The dirty, orange ball bounced hard on the ground,
and Stan grabbed it. 

 "Nice shot, Jack." 

 "Nice arms, beanpole." 

 "Dork." 

 Jack Huey and Stan Kowalski kept insulting each other good-naturedly as
they walked over to the wooden, pull-out bleachers. Ray Vecchio and Tom
Dewey were already there. All four of them were sweaty and exhausted, and
within thirty seconds, everyone was slumped in different stages of
relaxation off the side of the court. Stan wiped his nose on his hand and
looked around --- the large YMCA gym was practically deserted by this time
of night, used only by the truly devoted (or crazy) and cops, American and
Canadian, just getting off of work. The Canadian one was, as usual, a
little late. He always had a hard time getting off of work to come and
play. Ray had worked with him constantly on making up good excuses, but
did he ever use one? Noooo. 

 Stan sighed and shook his head. That was Fraser for you. As to the gym,
he would never have admitted it, but he sort of liked it here. The floors
were scuffed, the backboards were battered as hell, and the harsh light
from the cheap ceiling fixtures turned everything an orange-beige color.
In fact, the illumination was so bad that only the difference between the
walls and the floor was that the latter was dirtier. But still, it was
quiet. And while most everyone bitched and moaned about how neglected it
was, they'd never found anyplace else. It was just fun to come here and
play. 

 "Hey! Yo! Stan!" Ray hollered in his direction, and waved a water bottle.


 Stan nodded, and Ray threw it to him. He started to chug it, and his mind
cleared back up. It was time to get back on the court, and he sighed.
Whenever the four detectives and Fraser got together to play a "friendly
game," it was always ended up being a slamfest, with more contact and
falling than was necessary. And although it was nice for everybody to vent
their daily frustration, nobody escaped unharmed. Ever. Stan and Huey, on
occasion, got really upset, took the basketball court for a boxing ring,
and would attempt to punch each other's lights out over "foul/no fouls."
When the others had the energy, they'd break it up. When they didn't, Stan
usually got creamed. 

 Ray tried to stay out of the way, but regularly went home with something
bruised --- last week he thought it was his spleen. Fraser was pretty
quick too, and occasionally refereed, but not often enough. He was tough,
though, and didn't seem to acknowledge the pain with a moan or a whine,
like the rest of them. 

 Canadians. Yeesh. 

 "C'mon! Let's play!" Dewey shouted, and they all ran back to the court,
but not to lazily toss the ball around.  

 The games had stopped being lazy and "friendly" about two months ago,
when the detectives had found out that the 27th precinct was putting
together a team for the All-City Police and Fire Department Basketball
Competition, held once every three years. The only rules were that every
participating precinct and fire-house had to have five men and at least
one reserve player, and that no auditions were necessary, out of fairness
to those with less-than-perfect hand-eye coordination. 

 The last rule sounded pretty lame, but nonetheless, Huey was pretty
excited about it, and had told everybody else. They were the first four
guys to volunteer, and signed Fraser up, too. And since no one else signed
up during the period to do so, Lieutenant Welsh had allowed them to be it.
They even knew their positions: Huey, who was just a hair taller than Ray
and could jump the highest, was their center. Ray and Stan were the left
and right forwards. Fraser and Tom were the left and right guards. 

 When the cops found out that they were officially "it," they were pretty
psyched, but only for a few seconds, because Francesca Vecchio, as soon as
she heard the news, came rushing over to them. She was worried, and not
really paying attention as she tripped in her black high heels and her
"Civilian Aide" patch slapped against the chest of her tight, short top. 

 "Oh my God! You guys! I just heard! Are you sure you want to do this?"
she asked. 

 Ray looked at his sister like she was even crazier than he already knew
her to be. 

 "What are you talking about?" 

 "Ray, Jeez! Don't you even read the papers? Every time this event
happens, the fire-fighters win! I mean, they're like football players!
They're huge!" 

 "Frannie, it's no big deal if we lose. What's your point?" Stan asked,
the shakiness in her voice making him uneasy. 

 "Oh, hell, Stan! Every year, without fail, the cops bite it. Hard. I'm
talkin' injuries. Not pretty." 

 Everybody looked at each other, slightly scared now, and then back at
Frannie. 

 "Look, don't worry. We'll be fine. If we have to yield instead of getting
killed, we'll yield! No big deal, a'right? Besides, there's no guarantee
we'll get anywhere at all," Ray said. 

 She sighed. "Okay. Just don't be a big-shot, 'ya got me?" 

 "I gotcha. C'mon, guys, we're off shift. Let's go practice!"  

 So here they were, tonight, practicing again. Fraser finally walked in,
late as usual. 

 "Hi!" he said cheerfully. 

 They all grunted 'hello' at him as he walked around the court to the
bleachers and set down his RCMP gym bag. He wore sweats and sneakers, and
hopped about stripping his pants off. The others were off the bench and
scuffing the court, working hard, passing, shooting, and scurrying around
trying to block each other. They were looking really good --- fast, lean,
and ready to ram the ball down the oppositions' throats. In a few seconds,
Fraser was free, in the shorts and tank top he'd been wearing under his
sweats. 

 "C'mahn, Fraze!" Stan yelled. "We're waitin' on yeh!" 

 "Coming!" 

 He pulled off his watch, plopped it on his sweats, and ran out onto the
court. Stan passed him the ball. He took it and raced it up the court,
having to dodge very fast to avoid getting rammed by Dewey, and pulled a
fast jumpshot. Swish! Stan rebounded and flew down the court. He took a
wild shot from the three-point line just as Huey accidentally slammed into
him --- the ball hit the backboard and bounced off very fast, and sailed
at Ray just he turned around. It caught him in the chest, knocking the
wind out of him a bit. He wheezed and sputtered a bit, but shook it off
and then hurled the ball at Stan angrily. Stan barely caught it, an inch
from his face, and glared at Ray. 

 "Ray!" came an admonishing voice. 

 Ray turned around, still pretty mad, and faced Fraser, who had his arms
crossed. 

 "What?" he said grumpily. 

 "That was an accident. Now either count to ten or apologize to Stan." 

 "Hmph! Guy oughta watch his shot. It almost creamed me." 

 "You heard me. Count to ten, or apologize." 

 Ray didn't argue. He just stared coldly at Fraser, but he wasn't throwing
a fit. It was quite an amazing sight --- Fraser had a calming power over
the rest of the team. He was their shortest player, and he could be clumsy
and a bit of a blabbermouth at times, but his shooting was deadly accurate
and he was even faster than Stan on a breakaway. Besides which, he was the
one who broke up most of the squabbles and did most of the calling to set
up practices. He'd lugged the water more times than everyone else put
together. The guys were naturally grateful for this, and had come to rely
on him, much as they hated to admit it. Fraser, like the quiet gym, was
what made the game fun and private, and prevented them from killing each
other. The Mountie and the cop stared each other down for a full minute
until finally, Fraser pointed at Stan. Ray sighed and slowly walked over,
his head hanging a little. 

 "I'm sorry," he muttered. 

 "S'okay," Stan said, a bit taken aback. He looked at Fraser. "What the
hell did yeh do? Hypnotize him?" 

 Everyone else laughed, and the game continued. They all took turns being
the ref, shouting out as many things as they could think of to keep
everyone else in line. Fraser's mind, however, was obviously somewhere
else. During his stint, he kept hollering, "Penalty! Illegal check!" and
everybody else had to keep politely yelling at him that this wasn't
hockey, it was basketball. It was almost eleven before they all collapsed
on the bench a second time. 

 "Well," Ray said, his chest heaving, "I think we're as ready as we'll
ever be. We've got our team, we've got our skills, and we've got our first
game in two days." 

 "Wait a minute," Fraser said. "You have your team?" 

 "Oh, damn! He's right!" Stan said. "We never told him!" 

 In the midst of all the excitement of registering and having practice, it
had somehow slipped their minds that they'd signed him up. The other four
guys gave each other meaningful looks, and Fraser was puzzled. He'd always
been on the assumption that the four cops were the heart of the team. He
was the left guard, the organizer, making sure everyone was where they
were supposed to be, and doing what he could. But he hadn't expected ... 

 "Aaacck! Pththbhth!" 

 He squealed as the ice chest was plopped over his head, raining chilly
water and ice chips down on him. The other guys laughed and cheered, and
they were close by; he could smell the sweat and felt the plop of hands
raining down on his back. 

 "I forgot, Benny! Now it's official! You're it! We're five!" Ray yelled,
although Fraser had a hard time hearing him --- the ice chest was still on
his head. 

 "Whoo-hoo!" he yelled, muffled, raising both fists. 

 "Now all we need is a 'replacement,' and we're set!" Dewey said. "Because
us five are tops! No way are we going to need anybody else!" 

 Everyone made various noises of disapproval, even Fraser, because they
knew they needed a replacement to comply with the rules. But who?  

 Their problem was "solved" for them the next day at four o'clock. Fraser
had stopped in to chat with Ray about a case. He looked fresh from guard
duty. The shoulders of his navy pea coat and chest of his tunic were
dusted with snow and his cheeks were reddened by the chill of late
January. Everything combined gave him the appearance of a happy toy
soldier. He plopped down opposite Ray and took off his hat and gloves. Ray
eyed him. 

 "Thatcher made you stand guard out there?" 

 Fraser thought for a moment, and his mind drifted back to that afternoon,
after he'd gotten off work.  

 "Come on, Fraser! Let's go! Wheeee! Ha-haaaa!" 

 The wind whipped her shoulder-length brown hair as she glided around the
ice, holding her arms out as though she were flying. She was no longer
Inspector Margaret Thatcher of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. She was
just Meg, enjoying a good skate with a good friend. Fraser laughed and
struggled to catch up with her. For him, this was perfection made life ---
there were few things better than ice skating on a secluded pond in a
park. But mostly, he was thrilled to ice skate on a secluded pond in a
park with this particular woman. After countless lunch dates, he'd finally
gotten the courage to ask her to go skating, and she'd said yes. 

 When he finally matched her speed, he caught her around the waist and
lifted her into the air --- and she let out a shriek that rang like a
carillon. Then she wrestled herself out of his grip, playfully slugged
him, and skated off again, leaving him to chase her, seeing his breath,
seeing her happy, and feeling so terrific about everything ...	

 "FRASER!" 

 He let out a little shriek, jumped about three inches in his chair, and
turned bright red. Half of the squad room was staring at him and someone
began to giggle. Ray, however, just looked at his Canadian friend like he
had a screw loose for not paying better attention, and repeated his
question. 

 "So Thatcher, made you, stand, guard duty." He paused. "Yes, or no,
Benny. Are you okay?" 

 "Um, yes. I'm fine. Sorry. Um, to answer your question..." 

 "HEY! EXCUSE ME! WILL THE ROCKETS PLEASE CONVENE!" a voice bellowed,
conveniently cutting Fraser off. 

 They had decided to call themselves "The 27th Precinct Rockets," and knew
who was calling, so the four cops and the Mountie turned and trudged into
a familiar office. The room was serviceable and homey, with a solid couch
on one side, and pictures tacked to the flimsy walls. The large desk,
which had grease stains on it from all the semi-deli lunches prepared
there over the years, was being leaned on by Lt. Harding Welsh. 

 "Yes, sir?" Huey said. 

 "Ah, yes. The players have arrived," Welsh said with a smile. "Gentlemen,
Constable," he acknowledged, "I need a favor. But first, uh, Fraser?" 

 "Sir?" 

 "I'll have to ask you to leave for a moment." 

 Fraser was a bit confused, but nodded and left. Welsh shut the door after
him and turned to the other men. 

 "Guys, I have some news. I've found you a fifth man." 

 "A fifth man? But sir, Fraser's ..." 

 "Canadian, Dewey. Have you guys squared this with the committee?" 

 "The committee?" Ray repeated cluelessly. 

 "Yeah! The committee! The guys who decide if it's okay to have someone
play on your team!" 

 "Oh, them," Huey said. "Well, we'll check it, but I mean, he is a cop,
and he is a deputy liaison officer. He has every right to be here." 

 "Sure. In the precinct. But you'd better check it." 

 "All right, fine. But as for a fifth man, rules or no, we've got him,"
Stan said. "It's Fraser." 

 Welsh leaned back on his desk and sighed. 

 "I knew you guys were gonna do this. Look. You might need to do some
readjusting. Make Fraser the replacement." 

 "WHAT?" they all shouted at once. 

 "No way!" Ray yelled. "Our first game is tomorrow! What for?!" 

 "Because you're going to need room for Wilson." 

 Everyone stopped. 

 "Wilson?" Huey said. 

 "Wilson Parker. My nephew, kinda. He's my brother's wife's brother's
son." 

 "So he's your nephew-in-law?" Ray asked. 

 "Yeah. Like that. Anyway, he loves basketball, and my brother-in-law is
kinda upset at me right now, for reasons that I will not discuss, and he'd
like to play on the team." 

 "Wait a minute. If he wants to play on the team, why didn't he sign up?"
Stan asked. 

 "He was too scared, so he came straight to me," Welsh answered with a
sigh. "He likes being alone in the mail room and watching the basketball
games on t.v." 

 "Mail room? T.V.? We need someone who can PLAY, for godsake!" Dewey said
angrily. 

 "What the hell does he do in the mail room, anyway?" Ray asked. 

 "He sorts stuff, and apparently does a little computer programming on the
side, but that's not important," said Welsh. "All you have to do is let
him play the first game. That's it! Besides, you guys, it's not about
winning. You know that. Just play him in game one, and then you can bench
him if you make it past anybody else." 

 But the angry gleam in the eyes of his subordinates told quite a story
--- he was looking at a group of men who had worked very hard and were
determined to get somewhere. They obviously didn't trust this Wilson
character at all, and seemed convinced that whoever he was, he would
somehow screw up their team. 

 "I don't like losing a front-runner who's worked s'damn hard," Ray said,
crossing his arms and getting miffed. 

 "You wouldn't be losing him completely, and besides, Fraser isn't
everything!" Welsh said loudly. 

 "Fraser is our rock!" Ray shouted. "You're just want us to bench him 'cuz
he's Canadian!" 

 "No, I don't! I just want Wilson to play the first game!" 

 "We don't know anything ABOUT Wilson! He could be a total shmuck with a
basketball! We've never even met him!" Dewey hollered. 

 "Yeah, well y'aint got a choice! He HAS to be on the team, because you
lunkheads didn't find a replacement!" Welsh roared. "Now get yourselves
down to the registry and put him on before you all get disqualified!" 

 The cops' rage bore down on him in a tidal wave of voices, and the din in
the office was so deafening that Fraser could hear the heated roaring
quite clearly from the outside. But after a moment, the noise stopped. The
four guys stomped out, gave him angry, defeated looks, and walked back to
their desks. Stan, however, grabbed his coat and strode out, mumbling
something about the "registir" and the "committidee" and Ray, on reaching
his, picked up his jacket and nodded for Fraser to do the same. As they
both collected their things, Ray sighed. 

 "Benny, we gotta talk. C'mon." 

 "Where are we going?" 

 "The mail room."  

 "So yeh see, he really should be on the team," Stan said, and smiled. 

 The committee, three men and two women who all wore the same shade of
gray, stared back at him blankly. 

 "So you're telling me," the chair said, "that a Canadian Mountie is so
well acquainted with the detectives of the 27th precinct that he deserves
a spot on the team, even though he isn't a member of the Chicago PD. Is
that accurate?" 

 "Yes, ma'am." 

 "You're also telling me," she continued, "that this Mountie has been
registered as a member of the team from the beginning, even though you
haven't come to see us until the day before your first game." 

 "Um, y-yes, ma'am." 

 "You're ALSO telling me," she concluded, "that you've just found your
last man today, and registered him only a few moments ago. Correct?" 

 "Uh, y-y-yes, m-ma'am." 

 She sighed. "Detective Kowalski, I think all of this shows quite a bit of
irresponsibility and procrastination on your part. Based on your behavior,
I have seen no reason to allow this Mountie to play on your team. Thus,
the team would be down to five men, and you would be disqualified." 

 Stan looked down at the floor in despair. The team really had taken its
own sweet time in addressing this with the committee --- they'd always
just figured it was okay for Fraser to play. Worst of all, they'd sent a
representative who had never been very good at last-second comebacks.
There was nothing to be done --- their little team would be finished
before it even started. 

 "However." 

 He looked up. 

 "You did go on about this Fraser fellow for a good five minutes. He
sounds like a valuable player, in many ways. So, if his superior officer
allows it --- I believe that's Inspector Thatcher at the downtown
consulate? --- I ... will allow him to play. You must get permission for
him by five o'clock." 

 Stan's face widened into an enormous grin. 

 "You got it!" he said happily, said a hasty goodbye and ran out the door,
already dialing the consulate on his cell phone.  

 That night was their final practice. Stan had done his best wheedling and
Thatcher had allowed Fraser to officially play. He was the most excited
player on the court that evening. 

 They had all arrived on time, and ten minutes in were doing a simple
passing drill when a skinny guy peeked in through the doors. Fraser was
the first to spot him. Ray had already angrily explained the situation,
told him that they were going to do what Welsh wanted, and that they were
all pissed off about it. The Mountie, however, was determined to be
gracious, even though frankly, the whole thing made him mad as hell, too.
He much preferred hockey to basketball, but playing with his friends was a
lot of fun, especially since he'd never played in competition before. But
based on his observations in the mail room that day, if Wilson was playing
instead of him, they might not see a second game. 

 He waved, and then motioned the man over to the court. Everyone stopped
playing and turned to look as he approached, in shorts and a t-shirt. He
was everyone's nightmare. Slightly stooped, with skinny, muscle-less legs,
lanky, weak arms, big wire-rimmed glasses that were constantly slipping on
his oily nose, thinning blond hair and watery blue eyes, Wilson Parker was
the last person who could help their team in any way. He walked over to
the court, but just before he reached the end line, he tripped over his
shoes and fell flat on his face. 

 Even Fraser looked at everyone else in dismay. This was their last
practice, and they were saddled with the player from hell. He sighed a
bit, walked over, and helped Wilson up. As soon as he straightened, it was
apparent that he was taller than Fraser by a few inches, but it didn't
really matter --- there were tears running down his cheeks, apparently
from the fall. 

 "Are you all right?" 

 "--- sniff --- Yeah," he said, his voice stuffy. It also cracked, as
though he didn't use it often. "I think I scraped something. I'd better
sit down." 

 Oh, God. "Well, all right, but you'll have to get up again soon, okay?" 

 "Yeah, okay," he said grumpily, and made his way to the bench. 

 Fraser ran over to join everyone else. They were just standing around
like a bunch of statues, their face frozen in blank shock. The man had
been on the court for exactly five seconds and he had to sit down? The man
tripped over nothing while attempting to walk? This was going to ruin
everything. 

 "Huddle," Fraser said. "Now." 

 They did. 

 "Okay, you've all seen him. And yes, he tripped over his feet in the mail
room, too. Does ANYBODY have a plan?" he asked. 

 They all looked at each other around the circle, quite clueless until it
came to Ray, whose face was set in a mask of smoldering anger. 

 "Yeah. Ignore him." 

 "We can't just do that, Ray." 

 "Look, you asked if anybody had a plan! That's my plan! I refuse to deal
with this guy. What about the rest of you?" 

 The others all nodded assent. Ray, after all, was the team captain. 

 "Well I agree with your idea, Ray, although that might not be prudent,
considering that the Leftenant will probably be in the audience, and
perhaps, so will his brother-in-law. What I'm going to do is work with
our, --- sigh --- our 'newest arrival' as much as I can tonight, and then
you'll put him in the game tomorrow." 

 "Man, this is gonna suck!" Stan protested. 

 "I'm not finished --- he'll be on his own. Do you understand?" 

 "Uh, not really," Dewey said. 

 Fraser scratched an itch on his forehead. "What I mean is, that during
the game, no matter what he does, I want you all to concentrate. You've
worked too hard for this man to hamper you. I DO want you to give him a
fair chance tonight. But tomorrow, if he's not on his game, then he's not
on his game. He isn't our responsibility, he was sprung on us at the last
minute, and there is very little we can do. You just get out there and do
your best. All right?" 

 Everyone nodded. 

 "Okay, break. Let's go!" 

 He clapped and everyone sprang back into position on the floor and
started dribbling the ball around. Fraser motioned at Wilson, who had
dried his face on his sleeve, to come over to him. He grabbed a basketball
and did, but Fraser kept moving to another court, so the cops could have
some room to practice. 

 While the others spent two hours passing and practicing their shooting,
Fraser tried to get Wilson to properly dribble a basketball and run with
it. Apparently that was a task he couldn't manage. He could travel, of
course, but that was illegal, and he could stand still and dribble, but he
couldn't combine the two. Fraser tried to pass him the ball. He dropped
it. Invariably. Half a court away, six feet away, three feet away, it
didn't matter --- he just fumbled with it and dumped it on the floor. His
passing was way off, as well. The ball was always to the side of Fraser,
somehow, never right to him, and moved desperately slowly. And to make
matters worse, Wilson insisted that he could do everything right even
before he tried it. The Mountie ran his fingers through his now sweaty
crew-cut and tried to instruct Wilson how to shoot. 

 Wilson responded with a haughty, "I already know how to shoot! What do I
look like?" 

 Fraser dearly wanted to answer that question with an insult, but bit his
tongue and refrained. Wilson took a shot at the basket and it bounced off
the rim. 

 "Whoops." 

 Off the backboard. 

 "Oops." 

 Into the pole supporting the backboard. 

 "Wow." 

 Into the wall. 

 "Gee, I thought I knew..." he mumbled sheepishly. 

 Fraser, by this time, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, face buried
in his hands, feeling utterly defeated. Wilson was terrible --- there was
no other word for it. He was also rude and boorish. He had an arrogance
about his abilities that had absolutely no grounding in reality. He
couldn't pass. He couldn't run. He couldn't dribble. He couldn't shoot.
And the game was the next day. For the first time in a while, Fraser felt
ready to cry. 

 Ray and the others saw their friend looking slumped and watched Wilson
heaving the ball at the hoop, with no success at all. 

 "Huddle," Ray said. "Now." 

 They huddled, and listened to Ray's very quick bit of advice. 

 "A'right, look. I know Fraser's trying to help this guy, but his moves
are shit. So tomorrow, at the game, DO NOT pass that turkey the ball. I
don't care if he's wide open. I don't care if there's no one within twelve
feet of him. Hell, I don't care if he is f**king SITTING on top of the
hoop. DO NOT pass to him. Got it?" Everyone nodded, looking a little
uneasy. 

 "Uh, Ray?" Stan asked. "Remember what Fraser said. What if Welsh and the
big bad brother-in-law are in the audience? Won't the guy think we're not
playing fair and screw the Lieutenant, who will in turn screw us?" 

 "Jesus, Stan, you worry too much! Just so long as we win and Wilson is on
the court, nobody is gonna give a shit. This is about Welsh making
nice-nice with his brother-in-law. This is not about that computer geek
reject getting to play. Nobody passes to him. We're Rockets, Fraser is a
Rocket, and he is NOT. We are going to win this thing, got me?" 

 They nodded again and broke up. 

 "Hey, Fraze!" Stan hollered. "Bring him over here! We gotta work on
defense with him a bit, and then we'll all go home!" 

 "Okay," Fraser called unenthusiastically. "Come on, Wilson." 

 "Call me Mr. Parker, Mountie." 

 Fraser gave him something dangerously like a glare and walked ahead of
him to the other court without looking back. 

 Ray and the others saw Fraser's stormy eyes and let him go sit down on
the bench without a word. Then they gave some man-to-man defense a try
with Wilson. Everyone got by him, even Dewey, who wasn't moving that fast,
and finally Ray just hauled off and yelled, "'The hell's the matter with
you?!" before Fraser could stop him. 

 "There's nothing the matter with me!" Wilson shouted back, sniveling a
little. "You're just playing too rough! They won't allow this in the
competition!" 

 Huey gave everyone a look like, "Is he for real?" 

 "I just bumped you, you moron!" Ray said angrily. 

 "I'm not a moron! And you have no right to say that!" 

 To everyone's muted horror, a few tears dribbled down his cheeks. He was
actually crying. The Rockets stared at this complaining, whining, weak,
useless thing in front of them, and looked at Fraser, who stared back
helplessly and shrugged. Ray sighed. 

 "A'right, that's it. We're done for tonight. Game's tomorrow, eight
o'clock, at Roosevelt High School's gym. Be there by seven thirty. We're
playing the 10th precinct. Is everybody set on that?" 

 They all nodded and broke up. Wilson quit the gym as fast as he could,
and Stan, who had brought Huey and Dewey, took off a few minutes later,
leaving Ray and Fraser to re-pack the ice chest, bundle themselves up
against the weather outside, and lug their burden out of the gym. 

 "Man, that new guy sucks like a Hoover," Ray commented sullenly. 

 "You'll notice I'm not disagreeing." 

 They hauled the chest to Ray's Buick Riviera, the "Riv," and Fraser
climbed into the passenger seat as Ray got in on the other side. They both
sat there for a moment, stressed and silent, and just breathing for a
while. Finally, Ray started the car and took Fraser home.  

 Fraser waved goodbye at the front stoop of the apartment building before
going inside. He had to admit, this place was better than the one he'd
found near the consulate during his first year in Chicago. It was a ten
minute walk from the consulate, but in a better neighborhood. And even
though the building was elevator-less and he on the sixth floor and the
room was still spartan and spare, it was still fine. The place was clean,
the door locked, the plumbing worked, the heat was on, the electricity was
constant, and he had his own bathroom. Quite remarkable, actually, he
thought. Smiling, he unlocked the door and heard the familiar panting and
clicking of canine nails behind it. 

 He opened the door and Dief immediately jumped up onto his hind legs and
started pawing at him, licking his chops and whining. 

 "Oh, stop it. I fed you your dinner at seven. How can you possibly be
hungry again?" 

 ~Whine~ 

 "I walked you, too. I don't know what you're complaining about." 

 ~Whine!~ 

 He grabbed Fraser's pant leg with his teeth and guided his human toward
his predicament; the ratty old blanket that he liked to curl up on in one
corner was ripped to hell. He needed a new one. 

 "Oh, is that all it is? Well for heavens' sakes, don't make such a fuss!
You have all that fur for a reason, you know." 

 ~Bark~ 

 He closed the door.  

 Their first game was upon them too soon, even though it couldn't really
be called their first game. They had, during the two months after the
initial team assignments, been allowed to freely challenge the teams from
other precincts, in order to get a feel for everybody. The only catch was,
they had to report who won and lost. And in the end, of the many precincts
in Chicago, 32 would be left to compete in the tournament, based on their
wins throughout the "mini-season." So far, the Rockets had practiced
almost every night, challenged about eighteen of the other precincts to
friendly pick-up matches, and had gotten to know some highly decent people
from other corners of Chicago. They won more games than they lost, and it
was actually a pretty nice experience, but now it was about to get a bit
more serious. 

 Fraser had notified the inspector of their play schedule, and she agreed
that he should be free of duties during the games. She also hinted at
coming to the finals, if they made it that far. He blushed, thanked her,
and left, to go watch the others and cheer them on at their first match.  

 Everyone was jittery in the locker room. They were already wearing their
purple shorts, and were changing into their new jerseys. Frannie had
wrangled them for free from an ex-boyfriend she was still friendly with.
The jerseys were as purple as the shorts, with the word "ROCKETS" in big
red letters on the front, with a simple silver rocket shooting through the
word. Their last name and "number" were on the back in black. Fraser came
into the locker room and wished everyone luck, including Wilson, which
took some effort, and then walked out and sat down on the bench to watch.
He looked around at the stands --- both sides were fairly empty. The 10th
precinct had about ten people, (actually less than the number of players
on the team --- 12. They had two lines of players and two extras.) The
27th side had about fifteen. They all looked rather lonely and cold and
Welsh, Fraser noticed, was also there, sitting in the third row next to a
man in a business suit who he didn't recognize. The lieutenant pointed at
him and gave Fraser a meaningful look, then mouthed "I'm sorry." Fraser
understood who this was --- his brother-in-law. He nodded and then turned
to look back at the game. 

 This game was quite important, because the tournament was arranged in a
strict double pyramid. All of the cop teams played each other while
simultaneously, all of the fire department teams played each other. The
end result, after two weeks of playing, was one cop team that would
challenge one fire department team. Every game eliminated somebody. There
could be no losses. 

 "Players, set!" the ref yelled. 

 The Rockets and the Badgers (for that was the 10th precinct's team) got
into position. The Rockets knew the Badgers very well --- they were
friendly guys, but had a group tendency towards overconfidence. Huey shook
hands with the opposing center and team captain, Lenny Bryce, and then
lined up against him. Ray and Stan said hello to the other forwards and
then dashed out to their positions across from Huey. Dewey and Wilson (who
was playing Fraser's position) hung around Ray and Stan as defense. Dewey
seemed solid, but Wilson was cowering. Fraser sighed, crossed his fingers
for everybody else, and tried not to look at the idiot who was taking his
place. 

 The whistle tweeted, Huey jumped for all he was worth, and smacked the
ball at Ray, who grabbed it, charged up the court with the others flanking
him, avoided the Badgers' guards, and sank the first shot of the game. The
Rockets fans applauded. The Badgers took possession and started anew, but
just didn't quite have the steam to power the ball up the court. Stan
moved fast and stole it. Then he sank it. 

 It was quite remarkable. Fraser and the other fans were standing up and
cheering or applauding every ten seconds as the Rockets blew the Badgers
to hell. This was despite Wilson, who, after fumbling a few
grudgingly-thrown passes and hurling wild shots at the basket, let the
others take over. Finally, he even gave up shouting "Here! Over here!" and
just tried to follow the action. Fraser watched proudly as the Rockets
completely dominated the court. They were a seamless team of four, even
though there were some glitches here and there, and, since the committee
was using the amateur game timing method, the game was over after two
halves of 20 minutes. It only stopped a few times, for flagrant fouls, and
the Rockets walked away with it, 56 to 13. They shook hands with the other
team, who were good losers, but a tad astounded at how a pipsqueak team
with only six players had beaten their twelve. 

 The fans applauded as Fraser got the guys some water from the cooler.
Even Welsh was nodding appreciatively. Fraser grabbed the ice chest and
followed the rest of the team into the locker room, where Huey went nuts
and started doing a little victory dance on a bench. They had actually
won! 

 Of course, winning was the easy part. Wilson was looking quite sulky,
sitting by himself, while the others celebrated. When they finally calmed
down enough to talk, they noticed him, hunched over on the bench, looking
at his shoes. No one knew what the proper decorum was for telling somebody
that unless one of the players died, he would never be allowed on the
court again. They had to do it, though. If they could wipe the floor with
the 10th, they could probably win another game, but Wilson would just get
in the way. Besides, the deal was for one game only. They all looked to
Fraser, who had the eloquence to break the bad news properly. He looked
back at them and his blue eyes got very big before he fervently shook his
head "no." 

 "I'm not the captain," he hissed at Ray. "You are! You tell him." 

 "I might kill him if he cries," Ray hissed back. "You do it." 

 Fraser sighed and finally nodded. He walked slowly over to Wilson,
feeling everyone's eyes on him. 

 "Um, Wilson? I mean, Mr. Parker?" he asked. 

 Wilson turned and looked at him. His arms were crossed and he looked
quite sour. 

 "What?" he asked angrily. "Are you going to tell me that nobody likes me
and that I should get off the team?" 

 "No, that's not what I was going to say at all. I was going to tell you
that we need you very much." 

 Fraser somehow managed this with a straight face, and it caught Wilson's
attention. 

 "Really?" 

 "Really," Fraser replied with a bit of a smile. "You see, you are a very
valuable player. If something happens to any of us, ... we'll need you to
step in and save the day." 

 By this time, the cops were biting their lips to keep from smirking. 

 "In fact, you're so talented, you probably don't even need to come to
practice." 

 Stan almost snickered, but coughed instead. 

 "So, I'm asking you if you will consider the supreme honor of being our
permanent replacement." 

 Wilson eyed him, and thought for a minute. Fraser watched him closely,
his own face blank. 

 Come on, you arrogant moron. I've got you, ... you just don't know it
yet. 

 "Very well, Mountie. --- sigh --- I'll do your team this favor. On one
condition." 

 "And that is?" 

 "That I get a lemon-lime Powerade every game." 

 "I think we can manage that, ... Mr. Parker. Thank you kindly." 

 He smiled a little and held out a hand. Wilson shook it with a smirk, put
on a sweatshirt, and left. The Rockets were alone. Four of them were
holding their breath. As soon as the main door shut and Wilson was
officially gone, they burst into gales of laughter, patting Fraser on the
back for his diplomatic skills, and now truly looking forward to their
next game.  

 The rest of week snailed by as the team waited to see who else they would
challenge. Everyone was on edge, because after the first round, only
sixteen of the original thirty-two would remain. The Rockets had made the
cut, of course, by defeating the Badgers, but so had fifteen other teams.
Their next game, it turned out, was to be against the 47th precinct
Cannons. 

 While the Badgers had many good personalities to their credit and a lot
of players to keep them going, the Cannons had only the former. They were
a rather small team, but still bigger than the Rockets. And as the Rockets
had learned after their first game, this tournament was going to be hard
going for that very reason. They were a very small team. They had one
line. Period. Five guys that had to be on the court and in the game at all
times. They didn't even have a coach! 

 Added to that, the Cannons had developed a reputation for being very
fast. Their primary forwards were identical twin brothers from Homicide,
Mark and Joe Stein. They were nice guys, but, being twins, they could
practically obey each others' thoughts instead of shouts out on the court.
Their coach, needless to say, encouraged this. Fraser and Dewey, who were
not twins, knew they were going to have a problem guarding people who
were. Even Ray and Stan were a little freaked, because the Cannons were
almost at the top of the "league" going into the tournament. They had won
13 games and lost 5 during the mini-season.  

 Nobody spoke in the locker room. They'd heard the rumors about the
"Flying Gemini" (that was Mark and Joe), and how big and tough the guards
were, and how tall their center was. This team had a lot of talent. Fraser
chose not to worry about the rumors, and advised the others to do the
same. Once everyone had dressed and stretched, they gathered in a circle. 

 "Okay," Ray said. "We're up against some tough guys. We can't change
lines like they can. We might not be as fast as they are. Hopefully
Stan'll prove me wrong, but I don't know. We don't have ten playbooks or a
fancy coach or nothin'. We don't even have a waterboy. All we got is us.
And that might be enough to beat them, because I don't think any team can
square with ours for pure guts." 

 Fraser had never seen Ray wax this eloquent about anything before. 

 "So let's get out there, muscle through it, and kick some ass!" 

 "Yeah!" the team yelled. 

 They all put their hands into the circle, threw them up in the cheer, and
ran out onto the court, which had a very small bench on their side with
their water cooler and towels. The opposition's side was fancier, complete
with a large cooler, a chubby coach, and a large supply of fluffy towels.
The bench even looked more comfortable, somehow. The coach sized up the
Rockets and smirked. Fraser ignored him and looked up at the audience. He
was surprised and pleased to see their stands were a bit fuller, taken up
by whistling, applauding cops. Welsh looked a bit calmer --- the man from
the first game was conspicuously absent. Frannie, Elaine, and some others
from the 27th precinct were there, and the bottom two rows were taken up
by none other than the Badgers, who'd come to cheer them on. 

 "Hey hey! Lenny!" Ray yelled, and waved at him through the noise. 

 Lenny waved back, and so did the rest of the team. The Rockets waved at
their stands as the Cannons came jogging out onto the court. Their side
exploded into cheers, and everyone shook hands politely as the ref
announced the teams. 

 Finally, it was time to start. Wilson took the bench and immediately
began to nurse a lemon-lime Powerade. Huey and the other center lined up,
Ray and Stan took their positions across from the Cannons' guards, who
were quite muscley, and the Flying Gemini kept at a decent distance from
Dewey and Fraser. Fraser looked at them, and honestly couldn't tell one
from the other. 

 The whistle tweeted as the ball was thrown into the air. The opposing
center smacked the ball at the Gemini. Mark caught it, and Fraser
immediately blocked his shot, but the forward zipped out of the way like a
slippery fish. He avoided Dewey, and tossed the ball to his brother, who
scored. Fraser rebounded, stepped beyond the end line and fired the ball
at Stan, who indeed proved his speed by zipping up the court and scoring
one for the Rockets. 

 It was an exciting game. People were firing three-pointers from
everywhere and accidentally whacking into each other, sprawling all over
the court. There were more fouls and freethrows going on than playing, it
seemed. The Flying Gemini played as good a game as they could, but it
ended up being of no consequence, because Fraser and Dewey caught on to
them fast. They figured out the tactic --- one twin caught the ball and
distracted both guards while the other twin tried to stay out of sight.
Meanwhile, the first twin would maintain a lot of eye contact with the
second. Then when the first twin threw the ball to the second twin, it was
so visually confusing that it froze the guards for just a millisecond ---
all the time the second twin needed to jump up and pop the shot. 

 Three minutes into the game, Fraser called a time out and talked to
Dewey. He told him of his observation of their tactics. 

 "So what do we do?" Dewey asked, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his
nose. 

 "Well, I knew a pair of twins in the Yukon --- Michael and David St.
Claire. They seemed to have a very special bond, which, if not maintained
through close proximity, was maintained through eye contact. If the eye
contact was broken, particularly in the heat of a sporting event (such as
competitive seal herding), it left both twins with a sort of alienated
feeling, which was not very conducive to concentrating. Do you
understand?" 

 Dewey nodded, and they went back into the game. They refused to get
distracted. Fraser stuck to one twin like glue, and especially took care
to keep him from catching sight of his brother. Dewey did the same. This
maneuver successfully confused the twins, who, not being able to see each
other, lost a bit of their spunk. One twin dribbled too much and Fraser
stole the ball. He threw it to Huey, who sank a three-pointer, and Stan
grabbed the rebound. He passed it to Ray, who nailed another, who threw it
back to Huey, who jumped up, but had the ball stolen from him by the
opposing center. He dribbled it into the Rockets' court and Fraser and
Dewey, comparatively short guys to this enormous center, double-teamed
him, but weren't successful. He slam dunked, and the first half ended with
the Cannons just barely in the lead, 47 to 45. 

 The Rockets sat down on the bench, everybody heaving and sweating. Fraser
asked Wilson for a water bottle from the cooler, but Wilson just said,
"What do I look like, the waterboy?" and Fraser had to get his own. He
tossed drinks to everyone else, and they all rested for a bit. 

 "So, when do I get to play?" Wilson asked. 

 Everyone just looked at each other. No one was dead yet. 

 "In a bit," Ray said. 

 The second half seemed to fly by. The coach had yanked the Flying Gemini,
and replaced them with two very tall players, but they didn't have the
communication the other two had shared. They ended up with the ball and
were treated to a full-court press by the Rockets, which ended when Fraser
swatted it away from a fiercely dribbling forward and Stan grabbed it. He
took off in the opposite direction, nine players trailing him, and sank it
before anyone got there. With three minutes left, the Rockets had taken
the lead --- 98 to 94. In the end, the other team gave out and the Rockets
stood firm to take the very close victory, 100 to 96. 

 Their stands exploded in cheers and whistles, and the Cannons just stared
at the Rockets in amazement when it was all over. One line of four cops
and a Mountie had decidedly kicked their ass. Unreal. They shook hands in
a daze, and everyone walked back into their locker rooms. Huey and Ray
were incredibly psyched. Their team was moving on to the final eight in
three days. 

 They were all changing when Wilson came into the locker room, looking
quite displeased. 

 "Why didn't you play me?" he asked coldly. The question seemed to be
directed at Fraser. 

 "Well, I'm not the person who says who plays and who doesn't," the
Mountie responded, toweling off. "You'd better talk to Ray." 

 "Very well, then," Wilson said, and marched over to Ray. "Why didn't I
get to play?" he demanded loudly, scaring the detective into whacking his
head on the inside of his locker. 

 "Ow! ... What? What did you say?" 

 "I asked why I didn't get to play." 

 Ray got his head out of the space and looked Wilson over. He wasn't sure
what to do. 

 "Oh. Um, well, y'see, we just didn't need you this game. We'll use you
next time, a'right?" 

 "Oh. Okay, then." 

 He walked out of the locker room looking slightly less miffed, and took a
final look at Fraser before leaving. The doors shut. 

 "That man is becoming quite insistent," Fraser said, putting on
deodorant. 

 "Tell me about it," Huey said. "He was bitching about it during the game,
too. What the hell are we gonna do? We can't just tell him the truth ---
he'll walk, and then we won't have a replacement, and then we'll be out of
the tournament. Damn, what a mess. I wish we could just dump him and get
somebody else!" 

 "Here here!" Stan agreed, trying to do something with his sky-pointing
spiky blond hair. He finally gave up with the comb. 

 "Let's not be too hasty, gentlemen," Fraser put in. "He might have
improved a little bit. It couldn't hurt to give him another try, could
it?" 

 He was answered with flying towels, an empty plastic water bottle, and a
sock, along with some aggravated yelling. 

 "I take it that's a 'no?'" he asked as he tried to disentangle himself
from the fabric. 

 Ray sighed and went over to help him get free. "Bingo, Benny."  

 Their next game was surprisingly easy, after the assault that the Cannons
had put on. The Badgers and the Cannons had both joined their audience,
which had now grown to include plenty of people from the 27th. Turnbull,
who took it upon himself to show some Canadian pride for his fellow
officer, was cheering and waving a little Canadian flag. Fraser inwardly
rolled his eyes at the guy, but waved and smiled just the same. 

 Their opposition was the 16th precinct Wildcats, and how they had gotten
into the final eight was a mystery to everyone, because the Rockets wasted
no time in creaming them. 

 Stan, however, got a bit of a surprise during the game. He looked up into
the stands as he was racing down the court, and of all people, SHE stood
up and waved him on. Stella. The Stella. The D.A. who got away. He looked
at her, stunned, and the opposing guard crashed into him and they fell on
the floor in a tangle. Stella winced. The two halves were over before they
knew it, and their stands went nuts, standing up and yelling. They had
won. Wilson remained on the bench. He had his arms crossed and didn't even
bother to smile. He didn't come into the locker room afterwards, either,
but no one cared. They were heading into the final four. 

 Stan was so excited about seeing Stella in the audience that all he could
do in the locker room was babble like an idiot for a few minutes. When the
team was dressed, they went back out into the gym. 

 "There they are!" screamed Frannie, and in a second, they were bombarded
by friends congratulating them for having gotten this far. 

 Apparently, it was the first time the 27th precinct had ever pulled
anything like this off. The detectives and the Mountie were all pleased.
Turnbull told Fraser he would inform the inspector of the team's victory
and its left guard's rather impressive blocking skills. Fraser thanked
him, and he left. 

 Stan managed to spot Stella, even though she didn't see him. He sneaked
around the crowd and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and
jumped. 

 "Stan," she acknowledged. 

 "Hey," he said, smiling shyly and scratching his head. 

 "Hi." 

 "So, yeh liked the game?" 

 "Um, yes. Look, I have to go. I'll try and come to the next one." 

 He grinned. He knew she was being short with him because they were in
public, but he still appreciated the gesture. 

 "Okay. See yeh then." 

 "Yeah. Bye." 

 She walked away, yakking with a girlfriend from the office. Stan sighed a
little bit. Even if he didn't make her crazy, she certainly had that
effect on him. He was jolted out of his Stella daze by Fraser tapping him
and asking if he wanted to go out for dinner with the team. His stomach
growled its assent, and the five guys took off together. 

 That was the first moment Fraser noticed Wilson had left, but no one else
seemed to care, and he wasn't that interested in eating a meal with him
anyway, so he didn't point it out.  

 Wilson was chowing down on some fries and a milkshake from Burger King
and watching a basketball game on the mail room's television, but he
couldn't concentrate on the screen. His thoughts kept floating back to
that afternoon. That Mountie was scurrying everywhere, working in tandem
with the rest of the team, running with the grace of a dancer and sinking
shot after shot, when he wasn't blocking somebody. He was the one they
wanted out there, not Wilson. He was the one they wanted to guard people
and assist with scoring and help their team to victory. 

 "They're just stringing me along. Assholes. They picked that damn Mountie
instead of me." 

 Since the beginning of the tournament, he'd had a moving picture in his
head --- a gaggle of guys in purple holding up an enormous, gilded trophy.
For once, he'd be one of them. He'd be a winner. But what if they didn't
win? Then what? He'd have just sat on the bench for four games and done
nothing. He wanted to play again. His father had always told him that he
just needed to be persistent, and he'd get what he wanted. After all, he'd
gotten on the team, hadn't he? He'd bullied Welsh into it easily enough.
His father WAS quite upset about those investments that Welsh had
suggested that hadn't gone so well. Having a powerful investment broker
for a father and a police lieutenant for an uncle-in-law had been enough
to get him this easy job, so he could have enough time to keep writing his
computer programs and still make a nice living. 

 Sure, he could succeed at writing programs. Big deal. Ever since he could
remember, he'd been the last picked for every team, in every sport
imaginable. He was the one with weak knees and bad eyesight, and everyone
let him know by finally groaning and pointing at him as if to say, "Yes,
you're on the team. However, that doesn't mean you'll be allowed near the
rest of us. You're completely talent-free." But this childish behavior was
supposed to be a thing of the past --- a thing that belonged to the age of
monkeybars and kickball. It wasn't supposed to happen to a grown man. 

 But it had. 

 He angrily chomped on a fry. Even with all of his talents on the court
--- at least, that was what Fraser had said ---this team had dared to go
with a foreigner. He'd seen Fraser coming into games, with that stupid
navy-blue pea coat and odd-looking hat. A Mountie. A Mountie from Upchuck
somewhere in Canada, who had no business playing basketball. A Mountie who
had no business being on this team, especially when there was a choice
between him and a proper, red-blooded American. It wasn't fair. And with
only three games possible after this one, the Mountie was becoming a
serious roadblock to his participation. He'd have to do something ... but
what?  

 The Rockets poked at their food, quite puzzled by it. Fraser had
encouraged them to try the new Thai restaurant near the consulate for
their celebration dinner. Ray and Stan had both ordered things they could
barely pronounce, and were now looking at their food without the slightest
notion of how to eat it. Huey tried his, chewing it thoughtfully, until
finally he nodded and reached for another fork-full. Ray gave his a try,
found it tasted good as well, and dug in. Stan tried it too. He wasn't
thrilled about the spicy peanut sauce, but everything else was good.
Before long, everyone was offering their plates around and taking what
looked good from everybody else's. Fraser was delighted that they were
actually trying something new, but restrained himself from saying "I told
you so," lest they stop eating and start insulting him, as they were prone
to do. 

 Some pitchers of milk and water were brought, and the team guzzled it
down happily. Fraser was happy to see they were taking his advice with the
milk --- ever since they'd started training, he'd been urging everyone on
the team to either drink two glasses of milk a day or take calcium, as it
would keep their bones strong. The response was the usual "Yeah yeah, shut
up, Fraser," but apparently this tip had sunk in. Stan had privately
mentioned to him that he'd really been taking the Mountie's advice --- two
glasses of milk a day AND a calcium supplement every morning. 

 Meanwhile, everyone was on cloud nine, slurping on their drinks and
cracking jokes. They actually had a chance to do something meaningful in
this tournament.It hadn't been easy with so few players. The team was
really worn out. But even though they were a small group, somehow, the
five of them had developed themselves into an incredible force on the
basketball court. All that was needed between them was a nod, or a wink,
or an ear wiggle, or whatever, and everyone knew what was going on. They
had no plays or strategy --- just combined strength going in an agreed
direction. And miraculously, it had worked. It helped that they liked each
other, too, because as friends, there wasn't much to stop them. 

 They were united. Even though Ray was the "team captain," Huey exerted a
little more leadership. Sometimes Kowalski or Dewey took control. Fraser
even led them well. There was no hierarchy and no coach to answer to. It
was a beautifully simple plan --- just go with the flow, and kick ass. The
tao of the Rockets. 

 They nibbled away at the last of their meal and congratulated Fraser on
his choice of restaurant before laughing and sticking him with the check.
The Mountie checked his wallet. 

 "Oh, dear. Um, Ray, could you ...?" 

 Ray let out a sigh big enough for Godzilla and helped Fraser with it.
Thai food turned out to be tasty, but costly. In more ways than one. 

 Ray was driving Fraser home when they heard it. A rumbling, and then ... 

 ~Fppppppptttt~ 

 Fraser looked at Ray, who had suddenly gone quite red and was now
beginning to massage his belly. 

 "Hey, Benny?" 

 "Yes, Ray?" 

 "Y'know those little white things with the yellow blooms that we ate so
many of? I mean, they were in the salads, in the entrees, everything. What
were they?" 

 "Um, I believe they were bean sprouts, Ray," Fraser said with a bit of a
wince and began to rub his own stomach. 

 "Huh boy." 

 This was answered by a quick ~Fip!~ that came from Fraser's direction. He
pretended to be very interested in something out the window while Ray
laughed. 

 "I can't believe we were so dumb! Oh, man!" ~Thththp~ "Poor Stan! He's
taking Huey and Dewey home!" 

 Fraser started to laugh, too. "They'll have to roll down all the
windows!" ~Ththp~ 

 Ray snickered again, and then farted. The bean sprouts had a lot of kick,
and he couldn't help himself. Sure, this was juvenile and downright
idiotic, but they were alone and exhausted and filled to bursting with
Thai food. They both started giggling at each other and began to have a
sort of conversation with their butts. Ray let a real zinger go, Fraser
answered it with another, and for a long time, they couldn't stop
laughing, which naturally engaged the abdominal muscles and made them keep
going. In some odd sense, there were few things better than this ---
playing basketball, eating dinner with other males, and of course, working
on the fine art of flatulence. Fraser finally blew a few by pressing his
hands against his mouth just so and blowing really hard. 

 "Well I gotta hand it to 'ya, Benny. I had no idea how impressive the
Canadian digestive system was." 

 "Well, thank you kindly." ~Frap!~ 

 The Riv pulled up to Fraser's apartment building and Ray shook his head. 

 "I still say it's a dump. You be careful, y'hear?" 

 "I always am. Oh, Ray?" 

 "Yeah?" 

 "Would it be a big problem for you to give me a lift to Stan's apartment
building tomorrow? I need to help him hang some drapes. I promised I
would." 

 Ray sighed. "Yeah, sure. What time?" 

 "Could you come around at nine?" 

 "I'll try. See 'ya tomorrow." 

 "Thank you," Fraser said as he climbed out. "Goodnight, Ray. Drive
safely." 

 "Yeah, thanks. See 'ya." 

 Fraser waved as Ray drove off, leaving him to look up at his apartment
building. The glow of a streetlamp hit the top of his hat, casting shadows
on his face and letting his breath sparkle in an icy cloud before it
vanished. He jammed his gloved hands in his pockets and walked up the
steps into the small lobby.  

 His bloodshot eyes snapped open a few hours later and he checked his
alarm clock. 1 am. This was bad. All of that Thai food was more than his
"impressive Canadian digestive system" could handle. The gas, coupled with
the exhaustion from the past week and a half of doing his duty and playing
basketball, turned that night into a living hell. He got up once every two
hours to use the toilet. It was even worse than waking up once every hour,
because two hours gave him a chance to fall into a deep sleep and then be
jolted out of it.  

 The next day at nine, Ray parked the Riv in front of Fraser's building
and the Mountie came out to meet him, blinking in the morning sun.
Saturdays in February were usually quite pleasant. There wasn't the biting
wind of January or the responsibilities of the office, and so long as you
had on a warm coat and gloves, you were all right. Fraser came down the
front steps with Dief trailing behind him. He let his wolf into the back
and took shotgun. Head up, shoulders back. He was doing his best to hide
his exhaustion. Slamming the door shut, he looked at Ray. The detective
was evidently taking his face on a trip --- the bags under his eyes were
packed. 

 "Ray?" Fraser said, alarmed, "Are you all right?" 

 "No, I am not all right," Ray answered. "I got hardly a wink of sleep
last night." 

 "Oh, dear. What happened? Was it the food?" 

 Ray glared at him as he started the car and pulled out. "I wish. No. It
was this weird phone message. I would pick up the phone and there would be
this computerized voice. Y'know, the kind of thing that the library
renewal thingie has, and all the big government agencies have when no
one's there? That kind. It kept saying three words: 'You Picked Him.' Over
and over until I hung up the phone. Damn thing calls back an hour later
--- same thing. Finally, I just turned on the answering machine, but that
wasn't until like, three, and by then I couldn't sleep because the words
had kinda leaked into my brain and I couldn't stop thinking about it, and
--- damn. I gotta shut up. I'm babbling." 

 "No, no. It's fine. That's quite distressing --- I could understand why
you wouldn't be able to sleep. There hasn't been anything odd happening
with any cases you've been handling lately, has there?" 

 Ray slowly shook his head 'no.' 

 "Ah. Well, it might have been some kind of weird prank. That's possible,
isn't it?" 

 "I guess." 

 They pulled up to Stan's apartment building, and the blond detective
stuck his head out of the front-facing window and waved at them. Fraser
got out of the car, let Dief out of the back, and waved back before
turning to Ray. 

 "Would you care to come up and help?" 

 Ray shrugged, which Fraser took for a 'yes.' He parked the Riv and walked
with Fraser and Dief up the steps. 

 "How many drapes does he need hung?" Ray asked. 

 "Many, apparently, and they're high up," Fraser said. 

 Actually, hanging drapes wasn't a big deal. Stan knew it. Fraser knew it.
Ray knew it. It was an excuse to hang out and perhaps do something
beneficial for Stan's apartment. The guys knew the drill --- they'd come
in, take off their coats, have a beer (well, just the cops, because Fraser
didn't drink) talk about sports, and maybe, if they felt like it, do a
little housework. Diefenbaker was there for the donuts. 

 Normally, Ray wasn't adverse to any of this. Stan might have been a
little hyper and hard to take, but he was a good cop, Ray's official
partner, and basically harmless. Stan also had really good beer. However,
Ray had to be on at noon today and it was already pushing ten, so he
couldn't stay long. That meant that they really had to actually hang
drapes, so that he could take Fraser wherever he needed to go and then get
down to the station. He shook his head in amazement as the two of them got
into the small elevator of the apartment building. I've actually planned
Fraser into my day. How the hell did that happen? 

 When they reached Stan's apartment, he opened the door for them with a
smile. 

 "Hey. C'mahn in." 

 He walked into the apartment --- drapes, neatly pressed into plastic
bags, were dumped all over his couch. He padded across the livingroom rug
on bare feet and scratched his head with a bony finger as he made his way
into the small kitchen. His jeans were ripped and all he wore on top was a
long-sleeved t-shirt. 

 "Hey, Stan?" Ray said. 

 "Yeah?" the other detective called from the kitchen. 

 "I can't really stick around today --- I'm on at noon. So if you need
some help, we'd better get to it." 

 Stan re-appeared with two beers and a large glass of ice water, looking
slightly disappointed. "Oh. Okay. Sure." He put down the drinks and
motioned at the couch. "All the stuff's over there --- I jest gotta read
the tags to see where it goes, and we're in business." 

 He walked over to the couch, and Fraser noticed, for the first time, that
Stan looked just as exhausted as Ray. His lithe frame made the slump in
his shoulders even more obvious than in someone else, and there were dark
hollows under his eyes. 

 "Stan? Are you all right?" he found himself asking someone for the second
time in half an hour. 

 "Yeah, I'm fine," the slim blond grunted. He read the tag on the first
one. "Living room window." 

 Fraser didn't believe him, but didn't say anything. He and Ray shed their
coats and Fraser flicked out his knife to get to work on the drape bag.
Stan, meanwhile, motioned Dief into the kitchen, scratched him behind the
ears and offered him a longjohn, which the wolf took on a plate. He sat
down on the linoleum and his tail thumped the floor as it wagged. It
started to thump faster and faster as he ate the pastry. 

 Stan came out to join Fraser and Ray, who were looking at the drape they
had just unpacked. The drapes were simple pleated ones that met in the
middle of the window, and it took Fraser and Ray to get it up onto the
support bar. After ten minutes of hanging drapes all over the apartment,
Stan finally sighed. 

 "I was up all night," he confessed. 

 "Why?" Fraser asked. 

 "I kept getting this weird phone call..." 

 All work stopped. Stan's call had been exactly the same as Ray's, except
that poor Stan's answering machine was broken, and he had been forced to
pick up all night. Ray then launched into his own explanation. When he
finished, Stan was more anxious than before. Fraser asked him if he was
tracking anyone who might want to unnerve him like this. He shook his
head. 

 "This is really weird, Fraze." 

 "I think it's gotten a little more than weird, Stan. This is no longer a
random incident. It's happened to two of you, and you're both connected,
by your jobs. Someone out there has something to say. We just have to wait
for it to get clearer." 

 Needless to say, no more drapes got hung. Everyone was either confused or
distressed or, in Dief's case, nauseous. Apparently the sugar content of
the longjohn was too high, and he vomited on the linoleum before letting
out a noise that only a wolf with a bellyache can make --- a mixture of a
strangled human cry and a dog's whine. Fraser heard it and went into the
kitchen. 

 "Oh, dear." 

 A big area of the linoleum was covered by a puddle of saliva, stringy
longjohn bits, and nearly liquefied kibble. Dief was panting crazily, and
his eyes were bright. Fraser patted him gently. 

 "Well now you've gone and done it," he muttered. "Stan?" he yelled. "Do
you have any paper towels?" 

 In the middle of cleaning up Diefenbaker and the mess he'd made on the
kitchen floor, everyone forgot about the phone calls. Ray left at a
quarter of noon, apologizing for not being able to finish the clean-up.
Stan saw him out and helped Fraser finish mopping up the floor. Both of
them were sweaty from the cleaning effort. 

 "I swear, Fraze. It never made him sick before. I'll never give Dief
another donut again." 

 Fraser raised an eyebrow at him. 

 "Honestly!" 

 Fraser raised the other eyebrow. 

 "Smart ass. C'mahn. We got pick-up practice in twenty minutes." 

 "But what about the drapes?" 

 "I'll finish 'em tomorrow." 

 "But..." 

 "Now, Fraze! Let's go!" 

 They hurried out of the apartment and locked the door. Fraser had to
carry Dief, whose legs were too wobbly to support him properly. The
Mountie was mumbling to himself about greed and stupidity all the way to
the GTO. Stan swung them by Fraser's apartment. 

 "I'll just be a minute. Hang on." 

 Stan nodded as his friend zipped up the front steps, still carrying Dief.
Fraser huffed up the flights of stairs to his apartment, got the door
open, and set Dief down on the floor next to his bed, on a clean towel. He
put a bowl of water next to his fuzzy friend, rubbed him behind the ears,
and then gently took the wolf's jaw in one hand, guiding the lupine face
up until the trusting eyes met his own. 

 "Stay here until you feel better. If you want, there's water here for
you. Get some rest, all right?" 

 He made sure to say all of this very clearly. Dief made an indistinct
noise and licked Fraser's hand with a rough tongue. 

 "Atta boy." 

 A final scratch behind the ears and pat on the head, and the Mountie was
gone. Dief fell asleep.  

 Fraser met Stan at the GTO and they took off for practice. The drone of
the engine was soothing, and Fraser sneaked a look at Stan to make sure he
was concentrating on the road. Then he yawned and rubbed his eyes. 

 When they got to the gym, however, Huey and Dewey weren't practicing.
They were sitting in the stands, discussing something in worried voices. 

 "Um, Detective?" Fraser asked, startling them both. 

 "Oh! Fraser! Stan! Sorry, you scared us," Dewey supplied. 

 "Sorry about that," the Mountie responded. "What's wrong?" 

 Dewey tried to explain, was quickly reduced to frantic gesturing, and
then motioned at Huey. 

 "Some psycho got our phone numbers and spent all last night ringing us
with this message: 'You Picked Him.' It was just crazy. Neither of us got
any sleep." 

 "Neither did me or Ray," Stan said. 

 "Ray or I, Stan." 

 "Shut up, Fraser." 

 "Okay." 

 "Yeah, we didn't sleep either," Stan said. "We kept getting the same
thing you guys got. This is truly weird." 

 The other two detectives nodded. 

 "Hey, did you get a call, Fraser?" Huey asked. 

 Fraser shook his head. 

 Stan snorted. "Of course not! He doesn't have a phone!" 

 "Oh, that's right. Hey, c'mon. Let's play a little b-ball. When's Ray
coming?" Dewey asked. 

 "Eh, he got stuck working. We'll have to play without him." 

 "Two on two, then. No ref. Let's go!" Jack said, and they all got out
onto the court. 

 They practiced as hard as they could without their captain --- their next
game was Wednesday, and if they got really lucky, they'd be playing in the
cop finals on Friday. Everyone was moving a little more slowly than usual,
though. Fraser tried to concentrate on guarding and shooting, but his game
was a little off. He was tired. It didn't help that his brain refused to
let go of the situation --- all of his teammates, and friends, at that,
had gotten phone calls of a very curious nature. They'd all come from the
same source, evidently, since everyone had described the same voice. But
none of the detectives were really well associated with each other, and to
his knowledge, no one was working on a shared case involving a
psychopathic telephone operator. But then again, they all played
basketball together ... 

 WHACK! 

 Something very hard hit him in the side of the head and his forearms
rubbed painfully on the floor as he hit the court. All meaningful
pondering leaked out of his ringing ears as he hit the ground. The shout
came way too late. 

 "Fraser! Ball!" 

 "Thanks, Stan," the Mountie slurred. 

 He tried to pick himself up, stumbled, and fell over on his side,
drained. What had he been thinking about? Was it important? He couldn't
remember. In no time, three sets of legs were hurrying over to him, and
everything was jumping in and out of focus. He felt arms underneath his
own picking him up, and someone carrying him to the bench. Stan was
apologizing. 

 "Sorry, Fraze. I thought you saw me. Are you okay?" 

 Fraser grunted what he hoped was a 'yes.' Huey pressed an ice pack up
against the side of his head, and Dewey shouted for him to sit still until
the ringing stopped. 

 "He looks terrible," Huey said. 

 "So do you," said Dewey. 

 Things were looking grim. It was dawning on everyone that they probably
shouldn't have been playing basketball, much less hurling passes at a
distracted Mountie. This tournament was taking a toll on everybody.
Between practice and long shifts and stake-outs and fast food, no one had
enough juice to do anything properly today. Could they muster the energy
to smash their way into the finals? And how would they get any sleep if
the crazy phone calls continued every night? 

 Stan looked around at the other two detectives and his Canadian friend.
Finally, he noticed that Fraser looked tired, too. 

 "Fraze?" 

 "Mm?" he said, turning toward him. Despite the ice pack, a small lump was
starting to form on one of his temples. 

 "Did you get any sleep last night?" 

 "Not really, no." 

 He would have liked to say something else, but was interrupted by a loud
snore next to him --- Dewey was lying on his back, conked out on the
bottom row of the bleachers. Huey shrugged and followed suit, but picked a
higher row. Fraser shrugged and closed his own eyes, and Stan let out a
yawn. He curled up like a cat on another row of bleachers and was soon
sound asleep. It was the Rockets' latest defensive maneuver: the
Full-Court Nap.  

 Ray stared blearily at the pile of papers in front of him and wondered if
his presence at the station was helping anyone in any way. Probably not.
He wished he were practicing. Hell, he wished he were sleeping. But he
couldn't do either. He had reports to write up, and other things to do,
like staying awake long enough so as not to catch hell from Welsh. He
stood up with a grunt and took his empty coffee cup to the lounge to get a
refill. 

 Before he poured the steaming, brown liquid into the cup, he glanced at
it for a few moments with a smile. He really liked this mug. His sister
Maria's oldest son, Pietro, "Pete," was becoming quite a whiz with
ceramics. (He was eleven.) He'd made the cup for Ray a few months ago, and
glazed it with a sparkly green substance that he said reminded him of his
uncle's eyes. It looked more like a vase with a handle than a cup. In
fact, everything Pete made seemed to look suspiciously like a vase. But it
was the thought that counted, and besides, it held twice as much coffee as
those crappy Styrofoam cups supplied by the station. 

 He filled his cup, took a sip, and prayed for energy, but it didn't come.
He was truly fading --- desperation time. He shuffled over to the candy
machines. If it worked for Stan, why not for him? He put in some money,
pressed the button, and the package fell into the bottom trough. He
scooped it out, ripped it with his teeth, and dumped about ten M&M's into
his coffee. He stirred them in with a small straw and then tried it. 

 The desired effect took a mere five seconds to happen. With a jolt, his
eyes shot open and he started blinking rapidly. 

 "Holy shit!" he commented, and twitched a little. "Thank you Stan!"  

 Monday was hell on earth. Huey and Dewey had two murder cases and a lost
dog to deal with. Ray and Stan spent three hours staking out an empty
building before they realized their mistake and went off to try and help
somebody else. Then they got caught in the middle of a nasty
almost-mugging in the park. Fortunately, they were better armed than the
would-be mugger, and arrested him. Fraser had gotten very little sleep
that night because of Diefenbaker, and ended up standing sentry duty all
day until five o'clock, when he immediately bolted from his position and
ran to the vet's office. 

 It turned out that it wasn't the longjohn that had made Dief get so sick
on Saturday --- it was the canine equivalent of the stomach flu. When
Fraser had returned to his apartment after the group nap, it was to find
that poor Diefenbaker had once again made a mess on the floor, and the
vet's office was closed. Sunday was out too, so Fraser spent the day
taking care of his friend, cleaning up everything Dief had accidentally
done to his apartment, and trying to make him comfortable. Sunday night
was even worse than Saturday night. Fraser didn't get a wink, as Dief
couldn't even keep water down and ended up with it coming out of both
ends. Fraser felt horrible. It was terrible to be so helpless, so unsure
of what to do. It was all he could do to just pet Dief and try to keep him
calm. Monday morning, at seven o'clock, he wrapped the wolf up in a few
old blankets and carried him to the vet's office, where they immediately
took him in and told the Mountie that he could come back after five. 

 To top everything else off, the phone calls had continued, so everyone,
for one reason or another, was barely able to stay on their feet. The Riv
and a tan Honda Accord pulled up outside the vet's office at 5:20. Huey
and Dewey got out of the Accord (it was Huey's) and Ray and Stan hopped
out of the Riv. They'd heard that Fraser had run from the consulate, but
Inspector Thatcher had known about the Dief problem and, quite decently,
had told them the vet's address. They all parked. Everyone noticed the
matching bags under everyone else's eyes, didn't comment, and ran inside. 

 In the reception area, they found Fraser sitting in a chair. Well,
perhaps "sitting" was too strong a word. He was slumped over about as far
as possible without falling onto the floor, and his shoulders were moving
up and down slowly. Despite the chilly day outside, he'd taken off his
tunic, coat and hat, and looked somehow less impressive without them. His
hair was tousled, his usually pristine white undershirt was rolled up to
the elbows and bunched messily, and one of his suspender straps had fallen
down. Ray walked over, sat down, and put an arm around him. 

 "Benny?" he asked quietly. 

 Fraser gave a sudden jolt and sat up. He blinked at Ray, who immediately
removed his arm. 

 "Ray?" the Mountie asked, confused. "What are you doing here?" 

 It took Ray a moment to reply. His friend looked terrible. The dark rims
under his eyes were pronounced, and coupled with the rest of his
appearance, he looked only like a shadow of the strong, vigilant man the
others had come to know. 

 "Um, well, Thatcher said you'd be here. We all just figured we oughta
stop by. How is he?" 

 Fraser ran his tongue along his bottom lip and shook his head. 

 "No one's told me anything. I've just been waiting out here. I hope he's
okay." 

 Everything was heartfelt, but toneless --- too exhausted to be touched by
emotion. Ray nodded and patted him on the shoulder. Stan and the others
came a little closer, and the five men stood in a tight circle, saying
very little. Stan picked up Fraser's navy pea coat and threw it around the
Mountie's shoulders. He nodded gratefully, and was just finishing
explaining everything he knew that had happened to Dief when the doctor
came out with a clipboard. There were very few people in the waiting room,
so his calling voice seemed inappropriate. 

 "Who is here for ... Duff-... Deff-... Diffenbacher?" he read, confused,
and looked around. 

 "The name is Diefenbaker. And, that's me," Fraser said quietly, and stood
up. 

 "Excellent. Come with me, please." 

 Fraser looked back at his friends. 

 "We'll wait here," Stan said. 

 Fraser nodded and went off with the doctor, who didn't speak as he led
Fraser past rows and rows of cages, stopping finally in an area full of
small metal gurneys. A few of them were covered in sheets and taken up
with cats and dogs, lying on their sides and covered in blankets. All were
attached to i.v.'s. Finally, Fraser spotted a gurney with a large sheet
covering the animal underneath. It was evident from the blanket movement
that the creature was breathing, and he saw a very familiar nose sticking
out from under the covers. 

 "Diefenbaker?" he said, hurrying over. 

 He lifted the blankets and exposed the face of his companion, who let out
a weak bark and nuzzled the palm of his hand. Fraser turned to the doctor.


 "What did you do for him?" 

 "Well, we gave him some strong antibiotics through an i.v. and
replenished his fluids, too. I think he should be all right to go home in
a little while, because his fever seems to be gone. Rhonda gave him some
water earlier, and he kept it down. I think the worst of it is over. But
he'll need rest, and you'll have to give him this medicine twice a day for
a week." He began to write a prescription. "To be taken with food." 

 Fraser nodded and took the paper. 

 "When can he leave?" 

 "As soon as the drip is finished," the doctor said, pointing at the bag
suspended over Dief's little cot. It was nearly empty, and actually seemed
to dry up as soon as he finished his sentence. "Which is now, apparently.
I'll get the needle out, and then Rhonda will come to help you with him." 

 "Thank you kindly." 

 The doctor just nodded curtly, removed the needle, and then went for
Rhonda, leaving Fraser alone to run his fingers through his friend's soft
fur. Dief's eyes were half-closed, and he was panting slowly. 

 "I'm glad you're all right," he said to the wolf. He smiled a little and
continued to pat the furry head. "I'm very glad you're all right." 

 ---Rowrrlll.--- 

 "Shh."  

 CHAPTER TWO: STAN'S CROSSING 

 Tuesday night was the breaking point. Friday night, Saturday night,
Sunday night, Monday night ... no sleep for any of the detectives. Fraser,
however, had been spared, sort of. He was just finishing putting Dief down
for the night when there was a knock on his door. 

 "Just a minute!" he called, and returned to his task. 

 He was kneeling next to his bed, tucking in the top cover on the
makeshift bed he'd made for the wolf. It was taking him a little while to
get used to the idea that Dief really needed his care --- he was usually
an impossibly independent creature. At the moment, he was settled on his
side in a warm nest of blankets, covered with a thick towel. He wasn't
even squirming, as he usually did when trying to get comfortable. Fraser
shook his head as the deep brown eyes started to close and the breathing
began to slow down. Then he went to answer. 

 When he did, he was greeted by a bizarre sight --- four exhausted
detectives, each carrying a duffel bag. Utterly baffled, Fraser let them
in. The detectives and the Mountie politely stared at each other for a
moment before Stan shoved Ray forward. Ray glared at Stan, and then looked
at Fraser as he ran a hand across the back of his head. 

 "Benny, I have a favor to ask." 

 "Of course, Ray. What is it?" 

 "Can we bunk here for the night?"  

 A few minutes later, the four of them were settling in. Ray kicked his
sleeping bag out on the floor next to Diefenbaker and laid some pillows
inside to give his tired body some support. Fraser told Dewey to take the
bed. It was hard, but it was the most comfortable place in the apartment.
Dewey tipped an imaginary hat at Fraser in thanks, and clambered on. Huey
camped out in the kitchen, and asked Fraser if he happened to have another
pillow. Fraser found him one, which he accepted gratefully. 

 Stan looked unenthusiastically at the bathtub. 

 "Ferget it. No way." 

 "Stan, it's perfectly clean and dry. Besides, you'll be in your sleeping
bag." 

 Fraser knew the tub was clean because he had just scrubbed it that
morning, as he did once a week. Because after all, you never knew when
someone would stop by your apartment and be forced to sleep in your
bathtub. Finally, after a few moments of muttering and sighing, the wiry
detective seemed willing to try it. He kicked off his shoes, unrolled the
sleeping bag into the small tub, and got in. Fraser helped him zip it up. 

 "How does that feel?" 

 "Well, I dunno. My back kinda hurts, and the enamel is really hard on my
neck and --- chchchaaacck..." 

 He went down for the count with a wall-rattling snore. Fraser put a
pillow between Stan's neck and the edge of the tub, quietly closed the
bathroom door, and listened for a moment. There were sounds of snoring
coming from all over his apartment. Satisfied that everyone else was
satisfied, he should have been able to rest, but a few little thoughts
dropped by to ruin things. First of all, it suddenly occurred to him that
he had nowhere to sleep. Secondly, he realized that if someone had to use
the bathroom during the middle of the night, Stan was going to get a
rather nasty surprise! 

 Fortunately, the kitchen table was decently comfortable, and the latter
didn't happen all night. Wednesday morning, at seven, everyone began to
stir. Two groggy cops woke up with the sun in their eyes. Ray sat up in
his sleeping bag and yawned, and Dewey sat up in his sleeping bag, which
he'd spread on Fraser's bed, and blinked. Fraser woke up sitting at the
kitchen table with a few blankets wrapped around his shoulders and
discovered, to his horror, that he'd accidentally drooled on the tabletop.
He got up to get a damp rag to wipe away the evidence. Huey, who had been
sleeping in a sitting position up against the wall, fell to the side with
a snore and banged his head against the nearest cabinet. He woke with a
start. 

 It was Ray who started it, when he meandered into the bathroom to relieve
himself. He couldn't find the light-switch, but he could find the dim
outline of the toilet, so he unzipped his pants and began to do his thing.
Stan picked that moment to wake up. 

 Fraser heard the yell outside, just as Dewey tried to get up too fast and
fell over the edge of the bed. He landed with a thud and an "Ow!" on the
hardwood floor. But the voices in the bathroom were unmistakable and
caught everyone's attention. Stan and Ray were in open, very vocal combat.


 "Oh JEEZ, Vecchio! I'm tryin' ta sleep in here! What da hell!" 

 "What the --- avert your eyes, ya moron! FRASER! What the hell did you
do?!" 

 They kept fighting. Huey started snickering. Fraser looked over at Dewey,
who was trying to get his bearings and claw his way back up onto the bed
from the floor. Diefenbaker had woken up at all the noise and was now
treating the apartment to a continuous howl. Between Dewey stumbling all
over the place, Ray and Stan having a verbal 'WWF Smackdown' in the
bathroom and Dief carrying on, it was all Fraser could do to just stare at
the wall blankly and heave a sigh. This was ridiculous, but they had to
make it work, at least for a little while. 

 In fact, the detectives' whole purpose in coming here was to avoid the
phone calls they'd been getting and get some sleep. No one had said
anything, but Fraser had perceived a pleading underneath the request to
stay here. They probably wished to remain until the calls stopped. Which
might be never. It was better to get used to it. His back was a little
sore from sleeping at the kitchen table, but beyond that, it hadn't been
bad having four other guys "bunking here," as Ray had put it. 

 He got up, pushed open the bathroom door (which caused some yelling from
Ray about his privacy) and decided to stop the fight. If he could do it on
the basketball court, it would be no sweat to do it on his own turf. 

 "Stan, be quiet. If Ray needs to use the washroom, you let him, and you
don't comment. We're all adults here, and the situation is only temporary.
And Ray, I must insist that you not refer to Stan as a moron." 

 The two cops, one zipping up his pants, stared back at him like grumpy
children. 

 "Now I want you both to apologize to each other. Right now." 

 Both of them simultaneously crossed their arms and gave him a cross look.
It was remarkable how similar they could be sometimes, for all their
differences. Fraser glared at them and put his hands on his hips, hoping
he was doing a reasonable imitation of his grandmother. It must have
worked, because finally, the two of them let their arms fall and faced
each other. 

 "Come on, gentlemen, shake hands. I don't have all day," Fraser said as
sternly as possible. 

 It worked. Ray and Stan sullenly shook hands and mumbled "I'm sorry"
before breaking away very quickly. Stan hopped out of the tub, taking his
sleeping bag with him, and stuck his tongue out at Ray when Fraser wasn't
looking. Since everyone was already dressed, having slept in their
clothes, Fraser made up a quick breakfast of pancakes, most of which were
eaten without plates (he only had two), and they all departed for their
jobs. Their final four game was that night. 

 Ray and Stan, feeling considerably more refreshed, dropped Fraser off at
the consulate, holding a bundled-up Diefenbaker. 

 "Hey, Fraze! Yeh sure yeh don't want help carryin' him in?" Stan yelled
out the window. 

 "No, I think we'll be all right! Thank you kindly for the ride!" 

 "No problem! Hey, Benny! Five o'clock tonight, right?!" Ray shouted. 

 Fraser nodded. Ray waved goodbye and the Riv drove off. Fraser entered
the consulate holding Diefenbaker and immediately collided with Inspector
Thatcher, who was coming out of her office. 

 "Oh!" she said, as they bumped. "Sorry, Fraser, I..." She quickly snapped
back into "inspector" mode. "You're late." 

 "Yes I am, ma'am. I apologize." 

 "Whatever." 

 But she made a slight motion at him with a finger and walked back through
her door. Puzzled, he followed her into her office, still holding
Diefenbaker. She closed the door and motioned him over to her computer. 

 "I really am quite sorry, ma'am. There is a slight complication going on
at my apartment as of late, and ..." 

 "I'm not really interested, Constable." 

 But she typed: Tell me later. Please. 

 Fraser nodded and smiled, then cleared his throat. "I see. Do you have
any duties for me, ma'am?" 

 "Yes, I do. I'll need you to start organizing the files on old cases
starting with 1938." 

 Put your wolf down on the couch and take it easy. You need your strength
for tonight. 

 Fraser blushed. "Yes, ma'am. Um, should I use any particular type of
organizational system?" 

 "Yes. Categorize it by case type." 

 Turnbull said you're an excellent left guard. I'm proud, Constable. And
I'm coming tonight --- I can get off. 

 He smiled again, quite pleased. "Ah. Right. So, murders, breaking and
entering..." 

 "Yes, Fraser. All the basic types, for every year." 

 That fker Ovitz is listening at the door. I know it. 

 Fraser looked at her, stunned. She nodded. 

 That's why I'm typing to you. I'll get Turnbull and Susie to take care of
Diefenbaker while you play tonight. 

 Fraser gave up thinking of things to say. He just set Diefenbaker down on
the couch and typed back. 

 Thank you kindly, ma'am. I appreciate it. I'll get Susie the medicine so
that she can give it to him. And I honestly will do whatever you need
done, but I have to leave at five o'clock --- Ray and Stan are picking me
up. 

 That's fine. Tell them when you see them that the 'Dragon Lady' wishes
the Rockets the best of luck. 

 Fraser smiled at her and nodded. 

 God, those dimples make me crazy, she thought, and smiled back.  

 Ray and Stan were sitting at their desks at the 27th, going over some
paperwork before hitting the streets, when all of a sudden, Lenny Bryce
came in. He was flanked by Mark and Joe Stein. This was certainly a
surprise, as their precincts were on the other side of town. Ray and Stan
stood up. 

 "Mark! Joe! Wassup?" Stan said, and shook hands with the twins. 

 "What's goin' on, Lenny?" Ray said, shaking his hand. 

 "Hey, Ray, Stan. Listen, the three of us have been doin' a little
digging," Lenny said. "We found out some interesting things you might
wanna know..." 

 It turned out that Lenny and the twins' "interesting information" was the
word on the other three possible teams the Rockets might challenge that
night. Ray and Stan listened carefully and took every syllable in. When
their three new-found friends had left, the partners knew that they had to
pass the information along. 

 "You call Huey and Dewey," Ray said to Stan. "I'll call Fraser." 

 "Greatness," Stan agreed, picking up his desk phone. "We're gonna whup
ass tonight."  

 That evening, the final four game was set to begin. Their stands were
packed with about fifty people, and included the Badgers and most of the
Cannons. Lenny, Mark and Joe were screaming pretty loudly, and Fraser
caught sight of Inspector Thatcher sitting in the stands. 

 With everyone else cheering around her as the players were introduced,
she took the opportunity to semaphore to Fraser: "Diefenbaker is okay.
Turnbull and Susie are caring for him." 

 Fraser sneaked a look around, and then semaphored back: "Excellent. Thank
you kindly, and enjoy the game!" 

 She smiled at him, got out her little Canadian flag, and started to wave
it. Francesca, seated next to her, got out her own little Canadian flag,
and started waving it, too. Fraser couldn't help but grin. Welsh and
Elaine were holding up a purple banner that said, "GO ROCKETS!" and
screaming excitedly. 

 "How's that for support, eh, Ray?" Fraser yelled to him over the crowd
noise. 

 Ray just nodded with a goofy smile on his face, and he and Stan slapped
five before running out into their positions. Fraser and Dewey stepped
back, and Huey lined up against the opposing center. 

 They were playing the Buffaloes, from the 42nd precinct, a team with,
according to Lenny, Mark and Joe, a reputation for playing fairly rough.
They had a lot of enormous, powerful players on the team, and three lines.
The Rockets knew what to do, though. They could counter power with
agility. 

 But just as Fraser stepped back into his place, his mind drifted back to
a few hours before, at the office. After "talking" to Inspector Thatcher,
he'd slipped into his office, where he now had a computer to help with
processing information and helping to link the consulate up with others in
Canada. He'd turned his computer on only to find, much to his distress,
that the start screen wouldn't load. It was simply black, with a small dos
prompt up in the upper left-hand corner. He was almost ready to turn it
off, when a computerized song came out of the small speakers --- it was
nothing more than a driving techno beat and a weird, repetitive melody.
And then suddenly, the words flashed onto the screen --- "THEY PICKED
YOU," in bold red letters. He stared at the message, turned off his
computer, and re-started it again --- and this time, everything was fine.
That incident was easy to hide from everybody else. But in the locker
room, the same message had appeared, written in red paint on the inside of
his locker. Fraser had no idea what was meant by this, but evidently the
two messages were connected. If the four detectives were getting messages
saying "You picked him," and Fraser was receiving messages saying, "They
picked you," then obviously, the four detectives had picked Fraser for
something. But what? It was very unnerving. And the red color of the
writing reminded him of blood, which he didn't really feel like thinking
about. 

 Fraser found himself shaking slightly, and got his head back into the
game just before the jump ball. The opposing center slapped it towards one
of the powerful forwards, but Fraser managed to distract him for a bit.
Not without getting elbowed in the ribs, however. It knocked the wind out
of him, and he went down on the court. 

 Tweet! 

 "Foul! Number 46 of the Rockets! One free throw!" 

 Fraser got to his feet, trying to breathe properly, and caught the ball.
His head was spinning. Stupid message! It had put him off his guard for a
moment, and look what happened. 

 He stepped up to the free-throw line to take his shot at the basket. 

 "C'mon, Benny," he heard Ray muttering. 

 He jumped slightly and took his shot. Swish! The Rockets fans cheered as
Stan caught the rebound and play resumed. It was a fast and furious game.
The Buffaloes were playing it as though it was football, which was really
bad for the Rockets, because they were quite small compared to everyone
else on the other team. At half-time, the Buffaloes were ahead, 50 to 32.
Everyone on the Rockets' side was icing something, but the injuries were
minor. It was scrapes and bruises, mostly. They'd all thoroughly stretched
before the game, so no one had pulled anything. 

 "Are you going to send me in now?" Wilson asked from his usual place on
the bench. 

 "In a bit," Ray groaned. "Keep your shirt on." 

 Wilson looked sulky. Fraser felt pity for him for a moment, but then the
ref's whistle tweeted, and they had to get back to the game. 

 "Don't worry, Mr. Parker," Fraser said. "I'm sure you'll get a chance
soon enough." 

 "I'm sure I will too," Wilson said, almost pleasantly. Then he went back
to his drink. 

 Fraser shrugged and walked back out onto the court. The Rockets' fans
were a little less enthused now that the team was losing, but Ray called
them all into a huddle before play resumed. 

 "Okay. Remember. Agility is what these guys don't have. We do. All we
have to do is slip around 'em. Bing bang boom, and we're outta this jam.
Okay?" 

 Everyone nodded. 

 "A'right, BREAK!" 

 They all ran out into their positions. Most of their plays usually
sounded like what Ray said --- "bing bang boom, and we're outta this jam."
In fact, that's probably what their playbook would have said, if they'd
had one. One benefit to having no strategy was that no one could steal it.


 The whistle tweeted again, and the Rockets began to pick up their pace.
Stan zipped in-between the Buffalo guards like a mosquito, caught the
ball, and sank a few good shots that really pissed off the other guys. He
was incredibly fast on the rebound and a good team player --- when he saw
Dewey was wide open, he chucked the ball at him. Dewey sank a two-pointer.
He noticed that Fraser was open on the next play, so he passed it to the
Mountie, who landed a three-pointer, and the stands started to get a
little nuts. In a bit, the Rockets were tied with the Buffaloes, 50 to 50.
And amazingly, when the second half was over, the Rockets had hung in and
won. 

 The stands went crazy. Wilson applauded politely, but didn't smile.
Thatcher was standing up and cheering. Stan stared in amazement as Stella,
a few rows down, did the same thing. Even Ray stopped dead --- Angie, his
ex-wife, with whom he was still friendly, was standing next to Stella,
waving at him and whistling. He waved back, blitzed and happy. The "final
two" was on Friday.  

 Wilson sat in his office in the mail room that night, folding paper
airplanes and thinking about what he could do. So far, he hadn't been able
to dig up any dirt on the cops or the Mountie that he could use to
blackmail his way into one last play. 

 Squeaky clean jerks. 

 He threw a dart at the board on the opposite wall --- it struck the
picture of Fraser that he'd put there square on the nose. 

 "You won't stop me, Mountie. I know where you work. And from there... I
can find out where you live." 

 He smiled, madness gleaming in his eyes, and started to type away at his
keyboard. 

 "No one will step in my way again. Not you, not anybody."  

 The cops spent that night at Fraser's apartment, and the morning was
remarkably better than the first time they tried it. Stan figured out how
to get out of the bathroom before anyone else got in. Dewey brought more
plates and cups. Huey brought more food. Ray brought forks and a big bag
of dog food for Dief, who was getting a bit better, and everyone was
adjusting, slowly but surely. However, Thursday night held a jarring
surprise for Fraser. 

 When he got back to his apartment that night, he knew that the others
would be waiting for him out in the hall, because he had the key and they
got off-shift a little later. But to his surprise, he found the hallway
empty, and the door to his apartment slightly ajar. He sniffed quietly ---
paint. He listened carefully, and heard some muffled voices. No
discernible words, though. He listened closely at the door, to make sure
no one was there, and then quickly opened it slightly. The voices got
clearer. 

 "Jesus H. What are we gonna tell Fraze?" Stan asked. 

 "This is bad," Huey agreed. 

 "Poor Dief," Ray said. 

 That did it. Fraser flung open the door and strode in. 

 "Tell me what?" he asked. 

 The four detectives suddenly bunched themselves around his kitchen table,
doing their best to hide something from his view. Ray was looking quite
nervous. 

 "Ray, what happened?" he inquired again, feeling the timbre of his voice
change in fear. 

 Ray looked at the others, nodded, and they all stepped away. There, on
the kitchen table, was Dief. He was whining slightly and pawing at the
air. There, on his side, were the words "THEY PICKED YOU" written in red
paint. Fraser stared at the creature and then looked at Stan --- not in
anger, but in shock. Fraser looked back at Dief and shook his head.
Whoever had did this had no heart. This creature was not at his full
strength yet. Who could be that senseless and cruel to spray a harmless
wolf with chemicals? 

 "How are we going to remove this?" he managed, calmly. 

 "Well, Benny, I think he got lucky. The paint only got on his fur. So if
you give him a close cut, it should be gone." 

 "You think?" the Mountie asked, a bit worried. 

 "I think." 

 "All right." 

 He got out the scissors and stood over Dief. The other cops watched like
it was surgery, and held Dief down lest he jiggle and accidentally get
cut. After a few minutes, Dief's fur was shorter but paint-free, and the
floor was covered in trimmings. He wagged his tail, and Fraser patted his
head. 

 "Good boy." 

 He picked him up again, carried him over to his little bed and put the
covers around him. The other cops tried not to look. They had a feeling
this was private. They also knew how Fraser felt about this animal. He was
going to find whoever did this. Once he'd finished with his task, he
turned to everybody else and calmly explained about the other two
messages. They stared at him. 

 "I didn't want to frighten anyone, but it would appear that the message
has gotten more violent. I put everyone in this room in danger, and I
apologize. I don't know how I'll make this up to Dief. He's a smart
animal. And that's the worst part of it, I suppose. He knows what
happened. I could've helped him somehow, and I didn't." 

 He said most of this in a mumble, and plopped down on a chair to fix his
gaze on the floor. The other four cops stared at each other. They couldn't
believe it. And yet, of course they could. This was Fraser, after all.
Master of taking responsibility for anything and everything. It was
maddening and endearing all at once. Also, the fact that he'd been
carrying around the knowledge of the other two messages made things ten
times worse for him. 

 Fraser got the bed that night.  

 Their game on Friday was to be against the 31st precinct Fireballs. The
Rockets were worried, though, because the word from Lenny, Mark and Joe
was that the Fireballs had Jim Kelly, a hot left forward from Narcotics
who could put on some serious heat. With a nickname like "The Crusher,"
who wouldn't be a little nervous about him? 

 They arrived at the gym in plenty of time for their four o'clock game and
set up in their locker room. Wilson put on his uniform and got the water
cooler out onto the floor next to their bench. Then he sat down. The crowd
was enormous --- at least a hundred people had shown up to cheer on the
Rockets, and the crowd for the Fireballs was just as big. 

 Back in the locker room, Fraser ran a towel through his hair and started
to bounce a little to warm up his calves before stretching. Huey was
practicing shooting with an imaginary ball. Dewey was running in place.
Stan was stretching his triceps, and Ray was crossing himself and
muttering a Hail Mary for the team. Too soon, it was time to start and the
guys huddled in a circle, a tight group in the dank locker area. Ray
snorted, coughed, and stuck out a hand into the center. Everyone else put
a hand on top of his. 

 "3! 2! 1!" Ray shouted. 

 "Gooooo... ROCKETS!" everyone shouted at once and threw their hands up
into the air. 

 They ran through the doors and out onto the court. There was wild
applause from the 27th side, and boos from the 31st. The opposite occurred
when the Fireballs came out on the opposite side and met the Rockets in
the middle. Fraser, in a friendly gesture, tried to shake the opposing
guard's hand, but the guy looked at him like he was a toad and backed
away. Fraser, a bit astounded, backed off as well. 

 "Ladies and gentlemen!" the ref shouted. "This is the final game of the
police trials of the All-City Police and Fire Department Basketball
competition! On my left, in the purple jerseys, ... the 27th precinct
Rockets!" 

 The Rockets fans went nuts. Fraser looked up and spotted Welsh, Elaine,
Frannie, and Turnbull, Stella, and Angie, all waving at them like maniacs.
They waved back at everyone, grinning. Fraser was slightly disappointed to
see that Inspector Thatcher wasn't there, but he knew she'd told him about
having work to do and that she just couldn't make it. 

 "And on my right, in the orange jerseys, ... the 31st precinct
Fireballs!" 

 The Fireballs fans went nuts. The team barely acknowledged them. 

 "Let's play some basketball!" 

 The entire room cheered and everyone took their positions. Huey and the
other center were glaring daggers at each other. The Crusher eyed Fraser.
Fraser gave him a once-over, too. The Crusher was a head taller than
Fraser, with sandy blond hair, gray eyes, and arms and legs that could
have stopped a truck. His face was set in a serious mask and he looked
quite menacing. The Mountie gulped slightly. It would be very difficult to
guard this player and blocking a shot would be hell, unless he somehow
sprouted wings. 

 The ref's whistle blew and Huey jumped, but the other center got there
first and knocked the ball towards The Crusher. Everything seemed to
happen in slow-motion, as Fraser saw his chance. Perhaps it was stupid,
but it might make a difference. Fraser shot out of his position and zipped
in front of the The Crusher as fast as he could (which was pretty darn).
The Crusher began to power up the court, but Fraser kept in front of him,
watching the dribbling basketball very intently. Then suddenly, like a
cat, he swiped his arm like a scythe, and grabbed it right out of the
man's hands. The Rockets fans went nuts as Fraser hurled the ball at Ray,
who was racing up the court in the opposite direction, being tailed by an
opposing guard. The Mountie got rid of the ball, but not before an
enormous weight slammed into him, knocking him to the floor and pinning
him there. Ray caught the ball, though, turned around and sank the shot
before anyone could touch him. The ref blew his whistle. 

 "Foul!" 

 Finally, Fraser felt the weight being lifted from him and completely
understood why the forward was nicknamed The Crusher. He wasn't in the
mood to get up just yet, though. His entire body felt squished. With a
grunt, he rolled over onto his back and just lay there, staring up at the
ceiling, blood leaking from his bottom lip. The fans were standing up to
see what happened. 

 Frannie screamed, "Benton! Omigod!" as the other Rockets ran over to him.


 "Sir?!" Turnbull yelled, standing up. 

 "Fraser?" Ray said, gently slapping his friend about the face while Stan
dumped water on him. 

 Fraser coughed, shook his wet head and forced his eyes to focus. "What
happened?" he asked. 

 "Man, The Crusher smashed you like a gnat! Are you all right?" Huey
asked. 

 "I think so. Hang on a minute." 

 Stan and Ray righted him. They didn't back off until they were sure
Fraser could stand properly. Finally he nodded at everyone, and they all
ran back out onto the court while their fans applauded. 

 "Foul! Number 46 of Rockets! Two free throws!" the ref yelled. 

 "I barely tapped him!" The Crusher hollered, but he couldn't be heard
over the noise. 

 Fraser stepped to the free throw line, dribbled the ball a few times,
licked his bottom lip, and sank both shots easily. That was the beginning
of the end for the Fireballs. Once they saw that someone from the opposite
team (and the smallest player at that!) could survive The Crusher, they
seemed to lose a little bit of their concentration. Their coach turned red
screaming at them, because they began to make stupid mistakes --- little
ones, like not watching Stan hard enough. He zipped through their defenses
and sank a lot of shots that should never have happened, even in the
middle of a crush of people around the basket. 

 There were an awful lot of personal fouls called, because everybody was
playing really rough --- the Fireballs out of directed strategy, and the
Rockets out of anger. The ref was blowing his whistle way too often for an
amateur game, and the Rockets were feeling the pressure. Their offense was
a tad distracted by the strong-arm tactics of the other team, and their
defense left something to be desired (Dewey was finding it hard to guard
the slippery forwards and Fraser couldn't move real fast for the rest of
the game), but they picked it up with lots of good free throws. Huey was
unguarded occasionally, and sank a few three-pointers. And Dewey and
Fraser, in the last five minutes of the game, geared up their courage,
made themselves as solid as possible, and consistently double-teamed The
Crusher. He didn't get anywhere. In the end, everyone was bleeding from
somewhere and the Rockets kicked ass, 78 to 71. 

 The stands went wild when the buzzer went off. The Rockets were it! They
were going to challenge the firefighters on Monday night's final game.
They were probably going to get their butts kicked, but they had made it
this far, and that was something to be proud of.  

 Fraser got back to the consulate that evening for his shift to find
Susie, a secretary, just leaving. 

 "Oh, good evening, sir. How was the game?" 

 "Well," Fraser said with a slight grimace, "we won." 

 "Ah," said Susie, finally taking in Fraser's face, complete with a cut
cheek, bloody lip, and slightly bruised eye. "Well. You were playing
hockey, then, sir?" 

 Fraser laughed a little. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?" 

 She smiled a bit. "Good night, sir. Oh, by the way --- I stayed with
Diefenbaker, and he's doing much better. He's in your office." 

 "Thank you." 

 She nodded and patted Fraser on the shoulder. The constable had to bite
his tongue to keep from crying out. 

 He managed a tight "Good night, Susie" and limped into his office, to see
that Dief was indeed there, reasonably awake and yawning, draped lazily
over his desk chair. Except for his blinking brown eyes and lolling
tongue, he was doing a remarkable imitation of a white angora sweater. 

 "Feeling better, are you?" 

 Dief yawned again and got down off the seat. The Mountie replaced him and
scratched him behind the ears. He closed his eyes in an attempt to take a
rest before going on ... guard duty. Boy, was this going to be a doozy of
a shift. 

 There was a knock on his door. 

 "Come in," he called. 

 The door opened and Inspector Thatcher entered. She was a vision in light
blue, wearing a lovely, long evening dress and a matching shawl. She swept
in, her skirt billowing on the carpet, digging through her evening bag for
something. 

 "Hello, Fraser, I just wanted to tell you again that I'm sorry I missed
the game, and that you'll be on your own for the evening because I have to
go to some stupid function and --- what the hell happened to you?" 

 She'd finally looked up and seen him. Before he could even reply, she'd
crossed the room, dumped her purse on his desk and had one hand on his
chin. 

 "Did you get in a fight?" she asked, examining his face. 

 "Ah, no, ma'am. It was a particularly rough basketball game. Our
opponents ..." 

 He had to stop because she was running a finger along his lip. 

 "Never mind," she said. "If something happened to your face, I have a
hunch you're bruised elsewhere. Is that accurate?" 

 "Um, yes, ma'am." 

 "Many places elsewhere?" 

 "Quite a few, ma'am, yes." 

 "Hm." She stood back and looked at him, her hands on her hips. "Can you
stand up straight?" 

 He did his very best to try, and almost convinced her. "Yes." 

 Dammit, you're not supposed to say that! You're supposed to develop a
limp to try and get out of guard duty! Rrgh. You are such a moron. A
decidedly handsome moron, but a moron nonetheless. And I suppose if you're
going to be honest and stoic about it, I'll just have to solve your
problem for you. 

 "Very well then, Fraser." 

 Oh, dear. She's seen my injuries and she's going to assign me guard duty
anyway. Maybe I should have developed a limp. 

 "I doubt very highly that anyone will attack the consulate, and it will
be empty tonight, so I suggest that you make use of that," she said,
surprising him. 

 "Ma'am?" 

 She sighed. "The aspirin is in the medicine cabinet in the downstairs
bathroom, the first aid kit is under the sink in the kitchen, there is
frozen meat in the freezer, and all the bedrooms upstairs are free for
anyone to use." 

 He looked at her blankly. 

 "And yes, Constable, that is a completely bird-brained, no-shit hint
about what you should do with yourself tonight." 

 "Ah. Right. Understood, ma'am. Have a lovely time at the function." 

 "Oh, please. Don't even bother wishing me that. It's impossible to have a
'lovely time' at one of these things. It's utterly boring, and there's no
one to talk to, ... but Canada has to be present, somehow, so there you
are." 

 "I see. May I get your coat?" he asked as she left his office and made
for the door. 

 "Oh, could you? It's in my office." 

 "Certainly." 

 He walked slowly into her office, retrieved her long, wool overcoat from
her desk, and came out into the hall, where she was checking her lipstick
in the mirror. She turned to him, and it was like being slightly blinded
--- everything went a bit fuzzy, and he had a distinct feeling of warmth
in his fingertips. The view snapped into focus as she stared at him,
concerned. 

 "You're flushing like a stop sign, Fraser. Are you all right?" 

 He shook his head a little and blinked. "Quite. Here you are." 

 He helped her into it, and got the top button at her throat while she
buttoned the rest. They were close enough to feel each other's breath on
their faces. She nervously began to straighten his lanyard. 

 "You'll be warm enough, ma'am?" he asked finally, realizing his hands
hadn't moved from her lapels. 

 Neither, she realized, suddenly, had hers. They were on his broad
shoulders, having just smoothed down the leather tabs. 

 "You've made me quite warm already," she said. I can't believe I just
said that. Her heart began to race, and she saw Fraser's face begin to
blush again. The pulsing inside her was irresistible. Oh, God, not again.
First that little thing Vecchio's place after that cookie disaster, now
this --- oh, boy. We'll have to stop, or it'll become a ... 

 Their lips met. 

 Habit. 

 They broke away quickly, and Fraser focused himself, reluctantly, on
straightening her collar. 

 "You look l-lovely, ma'am," he stammered. 

 "Thank you, Fraser." 

 It was already snowing slightly outside when he opened the door for her.
A consulate car was parked out front, and a driver opened the door for
her. She waved goodbye. 

 "You follow my orders now, Constable!" she called. 

 "I will, ma'am!" he called back, waved, and closed the door. 

 He turned around into the consulate and everything was silent. He leaned
against the door and stood still, listening to his own heartbeat,
breathing in the air where she'd been, until the noise of a car driving
away faded into the night. Finally, with a bit of a grunt, he pushed off
from the door and walked slowly towards the restroom, every available inch
of him aching. 

 *Aspirin. Aspirin. Meg. Oh, for heavens' sakes, man, focus! Aspirin.
Aspirin."  

 "Hey, ow! Cut it out! Dat stings!" 

 "It's supposed to sting, you dingbat, now hold still!" 

 "No!" 

 "Yes!" 

 "No!" 

 "Yes, dammit!" 

 "NO!" 

 "Sit down, Stan, or I'll dump this iodine over every orifice I can find
on your body!" 

 "Way ta go wit da bedside manner, Stella." 

 "Well if you weren't such a moron, I wouldn't have to scream at you!
Rrgh! Why am I here again?" 

 "Hey, yeh came knocking on MY door. No way I can answer dat." 

 Stella Jackson, formerly Stella Kowalski, sat down on the couch next to
Stan, dropped her head in frustration, and heaved a sigh. They were both
silent for a moment. Stan looked at her and it took everything in him to
keep still --- his heart was pounding in time with his head. He still
loved this woman. Dammit, he still loved her. But why? As far as he knew,
she just barely tolerated him. It truly was a mystery to him why she'd
shown up at his apartment a few moments ago after the game. He looked out
the window at the light snowfall. Maybe it was da snow. She never did like
da cold dat much. 

 She'd gotten to a few injuries on his shoulder that he'd taken during the
game, but not much else. He didn't know why she'd even come, but he was
glad she had. 

 "Hey, Stella?" he asked, afraid she might explode if he spoke too loudly.


 "What?" she responded, and looked at him. 

 "I'm ... I'm sorry I was bein' a baby. Go fer it." 

 He held out his arm, which displayed a nasty cut that she'd been trying
to treat. Cautiously, she took his limb and applied a little of the
iodine. He winced, but didn't make a sound, so she cleaned it completely
and bandaged it. 

 "Stella? Why are yeh here?" he asked as she got up off the couch. 

 "Where do you keep your extra blankets?" she asked, and headed for the
linen closet. 

 "Right where yer goin', and dat's not gonna cut it. Why are yeh here?" 

 She didn't reply at first. Instead, she gave him one of those half-looks
that always made him crazy, and turned back into the closet. She got out a
few blankets and brought them over to where he was lying on the couch. She
still didn't speak as she covered him with two of them and sat down. They
sat there for what felt like an eternity, Stan prompting her with his
face, she turning away. Finally, she answered him. 

 "Because I just wanted to see you one more time." 

 "One more time?" 

 "Before I officially draw the line and leave." 

 "Leave? Where are yeh goin'?" 

 "Ohio. I'm leaving on Monday night, right after the final game. I'm
getting married, Stan." 

 She might as well have whacked him in the stomach with a bowling ball.
Stan stared at her and blinked, settling back against the arm of the sofa
in mute shock. 

 "Wow. Well. Um, so yer here ta ... yer here ta what, torture me? 'Sat
it?" he said, getting angry. 

 "No. That's not it. I came here to tell you that I don't ... that I ...
that I like you, Stan. A lot. I just wanted to wish you the best of luck."


 "Yi'll fergive me if I tell yeh dat ain't much comfort." 

 "Yeah, I will." 

 They both took each other in for a moment. 

 "S'dat's it." 

 "Yeah." 

 "Who's da guy? Not dat it's any of my business..." 

 "A very nice man --- Ronald Harrington. He's a real estate agent from New
York, but most of his family lives in Ohio, so that's where the wedding
will be." 

 "Sounds great," Stan said, trying to sound somehow positive. "I'm very
happy fer yeh. Yeh deserve better den me and my pet turtle anyway." 

 "Thanks," she said, and patted his arm. He's taking this awfully well.
Maybe he's over me. "Well --- I guess I'll be seeing you around. Good luck
at the game." 

 "Yeah. Thanks." 

 She got up to leave, but felt someone grab her hand. She turned. Stan had
her. She smiled. He's always had me, hasn't he? In some minute way, he's
always had a hold on me. One of those nice, comforting ones that you never
want to break. God, Stan, I love you. I really do. Good luck, sweetheart.
She leaned down, allowing him to lead her face to his, and they kissed
gently. 

 "You'll do me a favor?" she asked. 

 "Sure." 

 "You'll feel better in the morning?" 

 "A'course," he said, giving her a slightly lopsided grin. 

 Those eyes and that grin --- that's how he'd won her. That and making a
jackass of himself in the park that afternoon. He was funny, and sweet,
and that grin just tied everything together. She found herself smiling
back shyly. Then she forced it to fade. She was engaged, after all. Stan
was funny and sweet, but he was also gone. She was moving on with her
life. 

 "Well, I'll just let myself out. You'd better get some rest." 

 She grabbed her purse, turned out the lights, tried to control her tear
ducts, and headed for the door. Stan's voice shattered the darkness and
stopped her. 

 "Hey, Stella?" 

 "Yeah?" 

 "Take care of yerself, okay? And y'know, da offer still stands, if you
wanna come back here again." 

 "Yeah, thanks," she said, her voice choked. "Goodbye, Stan." 

 She left. As soon as the door clicked shut, Stan allowed the tears to
bloom in the corners of his eyes as he stared up at the darkened ceiling.
Before long, he was crying silently. He had to tell somebody about all of
this, someone who wouldn't laugh, or comment, or anything. He reached out
for the phone on the coffee table and dialed a number. An answering
machine picked up. 

 "Hello, you have reached Constable Benton Fraser's office. I am away from
my desk at the moment, but please leave your name, number, and message,
and I will return your call as soon as I am able. Thank you kindly!" 

 BEEP 

 "Hey, Fraze? It's Stan. Stella's getting married to a real estate agent.
... She's leaving Monday night after the final game. I just ... I just
don't know what to do. Call me, 'kay? Bye." 

 He hung up the phone and lay there in the darkness, wondering if God had
it in for him or something. Perhaps if he was a Buddhist he could just
come back as a cockroach in his next life and avoid all meaningful
relationships. Getting smashed by a shoe had to be less painful than this.
 

 Fraser looked around him to make sure everything was as good as he could
make it. He was wearing his red long johns, but still felt oddly chilly
under the covers of the forbidden canopy bed in the Queen's Bedroom. He
smiled at the ceiling and thanked the powers that be that Turnbull wasn't
there. Then he blew a kiss at the picture of Queen Victoria and started to
giggle. He was punchy. 

 He'd done his best to ice his eye, although it would still swell a bit.
The unpleasant sensation of something inflating his flesh from the inside
out was already creeping in. He'd put a band-aid on his cut cheek and
treated his bloody lip, although there was very little he could do to make
them heal faster. He'd bandaged the scrapes on his arms and legs, and his
head hurt from making sudden contact with the floor and then being jerked
every which way when he really HAD gotten into an honest-to-god fist fight
with one of the players on the court. He kept forgetting that this was
basketball, not hockey, and that this sport allowed for a lot less
violence. It hadn't been pleasant to fib to Meg, but the less she knew,
the better. 

 Still cold, he checked the bedside clock --- 1:00 am. His internal clock
finally overpowered the ice creeping through him and he fell asleep.  

 Meg wandered back into the consulate with a groan. She couldn't believe
she'd left her car in the parking garage across the street, and her keys
inside the building. I must be permanently brain-damaged from all of these
dumb functions. But she had to return and get her wheels, or else she
would have no way to get to work the next day. What the hell am I saying?
she thought, checking her watch. It already IS the next day! She yawned,
and then her sleepy eyes took in something odd --- a hat hanging on the
stairway's banister. 

 Not just any hat. His hat. She recognized it immediately --- the buckle
was bright and shiny, in contrast to Turnbull's, which was often caked
with something that fell into the "I don't want to know" category. Hoping
Fraser had taken her advice, it occurred to her to check on him. So,
silently, she picked up his hat, set it on her head (because this was a
two-handed dress), lifted her billowy skirt so she wouldn't trip, and
crept up the stairs. 

 At the top of the stairway, the hallway light was still on. She noticed
that the door to the Queen's bedroom was slightly ajar, and she grinned a
little bit; Fraser was being a bad boy, for once. She pushed open the
door, and it made no noise, but cast just enough light into the darkened
room to show the object of her search curled on his side in the fetal
position, the few covers up halfway over his ears. He was shaking. She let
her skirt drop and hurried to the bed. 

 Fraser was mumbling nonsense to himself, deep growling noises and an
occasional consonant here and there, and she swore she heard "Dad,"
"tap-dancing," and "fish." Of course, it was close to 1:30 in the morning.
Somehow, though, not hearing Fraser make sense (even though he rarely made
sense anyway and wasn't supposed to while asleep) scared the hell out of
her. 

 Her hands were warm --- she put on one his neck, and cold skin met her
fingertips. He needed some more blankets, and fast. It was pretty cold in
the room. 

 She went to the linen closet and dug out a padded comforter with a
matching quilt, and brought them both over. She spread the comforter over
him, and the quilt over that, and watched, quite astounded and happy, as
he turned over onto his back and began to breathe deeply. No more
mumbling. She gently bunched the covers at his neck and sat down. It
looked like he'd done what he could for himself --- his hair was slightly
damp, so he'd probably taken a shower. He'd treated his face, but she had
no idea what he'd done to the rest of himself. Well, that's his business.
After all, I'm not his mother. ... But if I can just do something ... Hmm.


 She went to the foot of the bed, uprooted some of the covers, anxiously
watching his sleeping face to make sure she didn't wake him, and felt his
right foot with one hand. It was like a block of ice. She let the covers
fall back, left the room for a minute, and came back with a hot water
bottle wrapped in a towel. Going by feel, she slipped it under the covers
and put it right near his heels, then re-tucked the covers at the corner.
She looked at him again. He was still out. She smiled and plopped down
into the chair next to the bed, planning to just sit down for a bit. 

 But, her feet didn't feel like walking her out of the room just yet. All
was quiet, and dark, and intoxicatingly sleepy ...  

 "Thanks, Ma." 

 "You're welcome, caro. I want to come to the final game, too." 

 "But Ma, you're always saying how you hate basketball! Why do you want to
come, huh?" 

 "Why do you think?" Antonia Vecchio said as she gently punched her son on
the arm. "To see my Raymondo score a goal." 

 Ray couldn't help but laugh. "Ma, I think you mean, 'sink a basket.'" 

 Antonia snorted. "Whatever." 

 He shook his head, smiling, as she packed away the first aid kit. Ray had
been properly taken care of --- he had an ice pack on his side where some
opposing provocatore had dared to elbow him. She'd put iodine and bandages
on his facial injuries and he was in bed, where he should be. All was
right. 

 "Good night." 

 "'Night, Ma." 

 She pulled the covers up to his chin, turned out the lights, and left the
room quietly.  

 Meg let her mouth open as wide as it needed to and yawned, stretching in
the morning sun. It felt good and warm, and she smacked her lips in a
rather dopey, un-Inspector-like way. She settled down and stared sleepily
at the wall for a few seconds until she stopped. Her contentment
disappeared abruptly. Her chocolate-brown eyes widened dramatically and
she realized where she still was. In the Queen's bedroom. With Fraser.
Alone. On a Saturday morning. 

 OMIGOD! WHAT TIME IS IT?! 

 Very cautiously, she looked over at the bed. Much to her consternation,
Fraser was still in it. The clock read 8:15. Then she sneaked a look at
Fraser and almost laughed, because the constable looked a lot less
romantic asleep than he did awake. He'd twisted the sheets all over the
place, and his right leg was dangling off the bed. His mouth was hanging
open and he was emitting some very quiet snores. Occasionally he would
snort in his sleep, and the whole picture reminded her of a dozing,
friendly dragon. Just to see if he was still warm from the blankets she'd
provided last night, she touched his hand, resting on top of the covers.
It was quite warm, and she was pleased. Somehow, she hadn't been cold at
all last night, either. *Perhaps,* she thought with a smile, that kiss had
a lingering effect. 

 She took a look at herself. She'd abandoned her shawl, and her dress was
pretty skimpy on top. She felt quite exposed, all of a sudden. The window,
which was to the right of the bed, looked out on the building next door
and the snowy ground. A sudden movement outside it distracted her, and she
got up and decided to go take a look. 

 Unfortunately, she was still wobbly and tired from the night before, and
her heels didn't help. She caught one leg against the bed and fell
forward, losing her shoe, but just managed to catch herself on the
bedpost. Which creaked really loudly. The bed was quite old --- an antique
--- but she had never anticipated this. She tried to pull herself back up,
and to her horror, the bedpost came off the bed in her hand, ripping the
canopy and allowing a corner of it to fall down. The post was quite heavy,
however, and kept going. It crashed into the wall opposite the bed with a
deafening bang and then fell over onto the floor. She was panicking
silently and looked over at Fraser. Nope, still snoring like a chainsaw.
Then suddenly, the other bedpost at the foot of the bed began to come off.


 She ran over to stop it, but, only wearing one shoe, tripped. She just
managed to guide it into smashing through the window. The breaking glass
was incredibly loud, and this managed to make Fraser stop snoring. She
irritably kicked off her other shoe. And then ... no. This was a dirty
trick by some prankster. It had to be. The bedpost to the left of Fraser,
at the head of the bed, was beginning to come loose as well, and it was
careening over, heading straight for the unsuspecting constable ... 

 "NOOOOOO!!!" she screamed and dove. Her billowy skirt caught on the ends
of the bed, and most of it came off --- a bit of her underwear was peeking
through the shredded fabric. She landed on Fraser like a bag of wet
cement, finally waking him up, and flipped over on her back. She put her
arms up to try and catch the on-coming post. 

 "Oof! Huh?" he said in a daze. "Dief?" And then he saw the bedpost coming
down. "Aaah!" 

 He managed to catch it with Meg's help, before it hit either of them, and
together, they heaved it off toward the left. It fell like a pine tree,
crashing into an old scroll top desk, littered with valuable porcelain
figurines. It looked like an explosion at the "Antiques Road Show." Wood
and statuettes went flying everywhere, crashing onto the floor and into
the walls, shattering on impact, and breaking an antique mirror in the
process. Both Mounties winced at the damage, and then they stared as the
final bedpost crashed down alongside the bed and landed on the floor,
ripping the carpet. Unfortunately, there was now nothing to support the
canopy, and they quickly found themselves not two people, but two lumps in
a sea of rose-colored chiffon. 

 Thatcher sighed underneath the fabric. "Good morning, Constable." 

 "Good morning, ma'am."  

 Stella came to in her car, of all places. Her first impulse was the fear
that she'd fallen asleep at the wheel and had crashed into something, but
there was no key on the ignition. In fact, the keys were still sitting on
the seat next to her. Her parking space looked oddly familiar though, and
she looked up at the building next to her to get her bearings. It was the
apartment complex where Stan lived. She could hardly believe it --- she'd
spent the night accidentally camped outside his building like some idiot
groupie, waiting for ticket sales to start for a rock concert. Or perhaps
an autograph. 

 Jesus Christ. How stupid. Well, at least it's Saturday. 

 The cool light of dawn was gentle on her face, and she yawned. She was
preparing to drive off when a demonic, needling thought pushed through her
sandy blond hair and into her head. "Why were you here in the first
place?" it asked. Indeed. Why here? On the eve of her marriage to someone
else, why on earth had she gone to see Stan? And why was she still here,
outside the building? 

 Because I got tired and fell asleep in my car. That's all there is to it.
I just need some coffee, and I'll be fine. Remember what Lizzy said ...
(Lizzy was her therapist.) *"It's natural to have doubts and insecurities
about a second marriage. Just don't feed them, and they'll go away."* 

 She tried a few calming breaths and finally drove off down to Starbucks
for java and a raspberry scone before going home. All she had to do was
keep her wits about her and then she'd be going to Ohio on Monday night. 

 Breathe, honey. Just breathe.	

 Fraser pulled the canopy off of himself and his superior officer, and
they both looked at each other. His hair was tousled and messy, and her
dress was ripped at the bodice from moving too fast in it, not to mention
practically skirt-less. He only wore his red underwear. Her shawl was
gone, revealing her well-developed, ropy shoulders and graceful
collarbone. They looked around at the damage. 

 "This is not good," Meg said decidedly. 

 "How so?" Fraser asked, scratching his head sleepily. He still wasn't
quite "with it" yet. 

 Meg stared at him in disbelief. "Fraser, we've just destroyed the Queen's
bedroom!" 

 The constable took a moment to let this register. "Oh, dear. That will be
expensive to fix. How much will come out of my salary?" 

 His blinking, honest blue eyes were quite disarming. 

 Why would you think that I'd take it out of your salary, you dope? You
were asleep through most of the damage, for heavens' sakes! Oh, right.
Because I'm the office's official bitch, and I happen to run your life
from nine to five. Ooh, you make me nuts! Nuts! 

 "None of this is coming out of your salary, Constable. It..." Oh, hell.
There goes my reputation. "It was my fault." 

 Fraser stared at her for moment, opened his mouth to say something,
decided against it, and just nodded. 

 "Unfortunately, we have a bigger problem," the inspector said irritably. 

 "And that would be?" 

 "Fraser, do you have any idea what this looks like? We're both here,
alone, half-clad, sitting in this bed together. If anyone finds us here,
this is grounds for scandal!" 

 Suddenly, Fraser's eyes widened and he stared at the clock. "And Turnbull
will be here in five minutes for the morning shift!" 

 "WHAT?!" 

 It was instant chaos. Fraser, in a panic, tried to clamber off the bed,
got twisted in the sheets, and crashed onto the floor. Meg was scurrying
around, trying to gather pieces of her clothing from all over the bedroom,
and hiding them in the enormous closet along one wall. 

 "Time?!" 

 "Three minutes!" 

 Fraser finally wrestled himself free of the covers and got to work making
the bed. He'd been at it for thirty seconds when Meg screamed at him to
ignore the bed and help her sweep up the shattered figurines. 

 "Time?!" she yelled. 

 "Two minutes!" he hollered back. 

 More working. They dumped the broken porcelain into the trash can, hid
the ruined desk in the closet, looked at the bed, and gave each other a
meaningful glance. Each grabbed an end of the first bedpost and slid it
under the bed. They took the second one and did the same with it. 

 "Time?" she squeaked frantically, shoving the third one under. 

 "Uh, one minute!" 

 "Oh, Jeez!" 

 They grabbed the last one and slid it under. Fraser dove for the canopy
and started to wad it up. Suddenly, Meg put a finger to her lips and
pointed downstairs. Fraser was silent and listened. A door slammed beneath
them and there was the sound of someone whistling. Turnbull. Fraser shoved
the canopy under the bed with the bedposts. Meg ran to the other side of
the bed, and he threw her half of the covers. It was quite interesting to
watch her, Fraser decided. She looked almost like a ballet dancer, with a
tight bodice and a frilly little skirt that was almost tutu length,
sweating and working wildly. The bed-making fairy. A smile played on his
lips as they made the bed as quietly as possible. 

 Then suddenly, they heard footsteps getting closer. They stared at each
other, wide-eyed. Neither of them was supposed to be here, much less
together. Fraser reached and grabbed Meg's hand, pulling her along after
him into the closet. He closed the door, and they both stood there, inches
apart, shaking like rabbits. Meg looked at the small pile of shed clothing
she'd hidden beside where she stood, and she and Fraser peered through the
slats in the door as Turnbull walked in. He was just his normal, friendly,
completely unhelpful self, but to the two hiding Mounties, with their
hearts racing and palms sweating, he looked like a bloodhound, sniffing
around, just daring them to make a noise and get caught. 

 And then Meg noticed something. There was only one satin high heel in the
closet next to her. She looked out into the room and bit her lip ---
there, next to the freshly made bed, with the comforter edges hanging down
to carpet level to hide the little store of broken wood and shredded
fabric, was the matching shoe. Fraser saw it too, and he looked at her and
took her hand. She smiled --- he was trying to reassure her. 

 They both held their breath as Turnbull took a careful look at the bed,
cocking his head this way and that, wondering what was different about it,
because it just didn't look right. Fortunately for Fraser and Meg,
Turnbull shrugged, didn't even notice the shoe, and left, closing the door
behind him. Fraser and Meg both released their breath and stumbled out of
the closet. 

 "Well, your hiding skills are quite impressive. I could barely hear you
breathing, and I was standing next to you," Fraser commented. 

 It was her turn to blush. 

 "Did you do those sorts of evasion tactics during your stint in CSIS,
ma'am?" he asked. 

 "Um, no," she muttered quietly, flushing. 

 She grabbed her other shoe and finally shivered, quite cold. Fraser,
seeing this, found a heavy, long overcoat in the closet and got her into
it. 

 "Thank you, Fraser." 

 "You're welcome, ma'am." He crossed to the door and listened. "I think
Turnbull's gone for now --- you can probably sneak down the stairs and out
of the consulate without much trouble." 

 "And what will you do?" 

 "Well, I'll find my clothes and go home." 

 There was a pause. 

 "And that's it, huh?" she found herself asking. 

 "Ma'am?" 

 "Nothing, Fraser. Let's just get out of here." 

 "Yes, ma'am." 

 They slipped out and closed the door.	

 Wilson spent Sunday sitting in front of his computer, most of it smiling.
After every press of the "send" button, he threw a dart at the picture of
Fraser he'd tacked to his dartboard. Most of them were hits, and after all
the throwing he'd done for the past week, the paper was now riddled with
so many holes that Fraser's face was practically indiscernible. Finally,
he decided he'd sent enough to get the hint across, and threw one last
dart. It landed squarely on the constable's nose. Perhaps this would
unnerve Fraser enough to break an ankle or something. Then he'd have to
play.  

 Monday came, and after a good nights' rest, albeit surrounded by snoring
cops, Fraser had slept well. Dief was back to normal, and the stress level
of life was coming down. If they lost tonight (pretty much a sure thing),
or even if they won (yeah, right), this was it. No more tournament. No
more orange balls, no more sweat, and no more fear of letting anyone down.


 Fraser arrived at the consulate whistling, and said good morning to
Inspector Thatcher, who informed him that she, Turnbull, Susie, Ovitz, and
Diefenbaker would all be at the game that night to cheer him on, and make
sure that he represented Canada well with his outstanding playing. But no
pressure. 

 Fraser skittered into his office to escape, shut the door, and sat down
at his desk. The first thing he noticed was that he had a message. He
pressed the play button. 

 "Hey, Fraze? It's Stan. Stella's getting married to a real estate
agent..." 

 He listened to the rest of it. It was quite brief, and he wasn't sure how
to react. He could feel the pain in the other man's voice, underneath the
dangerous lack of emotion. This was it. The final tie had been cut. But he
was just a friend, and besides, it was no good to talk about feelings with
another man. That he knew from experience. There didn't seem to be
anything he could do. 

 With a heavy heart and a sigh, he sat down at his computer. The consulate
was connected with DSL, so there was no waiting as he checked his e-mail.
He never got a lot of messages, but that was all right. They were all from
Stan, or Ray, or the other cops, or other Mounties that he knew. No one
else had his e-mail address, and it was always fun to look, even if only
to hear the little voice say, "Welcome. You have. Zero. New messages." 

 Smiling, he pressed the button, and waited for the response. 

 "Welcome. You have. Twenty six thousand. New messages." 

 He stared at the screen. 

 "What?" 

 He clicked open his e-mail and blinked, rather bewildered, at the subject
of all of the messages. They appeared to be the same: "They picked you."
Over and over. He cautiously opened one. 

 "Hey, Mountie," it read. "You're a ..." 

 The rest of it was profanity of the most disgusting kind. It went on for
a good half a page, and there was no signature. Amazingly enough, the
writer had somehow encoded his return address, too! It didn't show up.
Fraser quickly pressed the "back" button to the in-box and spent fifteen
minutes putting a check by every letter with that subject. Then he pressed
"delete." No new messages. He leaned back in his chair, completely
baffled. 

 This was getting tiring and annoying, but he decided not to tell anyone
else. After all, getting spammed was nothing new. Although how this writer
had gotten his e-mail address was beyond him. He had other things to think
about, however. That night was the game. He had to concentrate on getting
his work done, and then on not getting killed, as he'd heard some pretty
nasty stories about the firefighters. He logged off and went to work
typing up some reports, but those three words refused to leave him alone. 

 Picked me for what? he wondered, and angrily pressed the letter "M" to
start a street address.  

 That night, tensions had never been higher. Fraser peeked out at the
crowd from the locker room ten minutes before the game --- it was huge!
The firefighters had at least two hundred people there to support them,
and the police had about the same. The two sides were booing and hissing
at each other across the court. Stan came up beside Fraser, took it in,
and whistled. 

 "Wow. Dis is unbelievable." 

 "Mm hm," Fraser agreed. The "mm hm" was emphatic enough to serve as a
response, but quite frankly, the Mountie was afraid to open his mouth. His
heart was beating very fast. He politely nodded at Stan, ran for the mens'
room in the locker room, and slipped into a stall. 

 You're a wonderful left guard, Constable. 

 Goooo ... ROCKETS! 

 We're gonna whup ass tonight! 

 THEY PICKED YOU. 

 He leaned over and put his head against the toilet until the nausea went
away. He was tired and not feeling well. It was getting to be too much ---
why did it feel so horrendous to have the whole world counting on him to
do a good job? Especially when it wasn't? He was only the left guard,
after all. Not the center, or a forward, or anything. And besides, it was
only a game. 

 "It's only a game. It's only a game." He took a breath. "Only a game." 

 He stood up straight, left the stall, washed his face at the sink, and
ran out to join his team in the locker room. Ray gathered them all in a
huddle, including Wilson, who looked at Fraser's pale face with barely
contained glee. No one noticed. 

 "Will you play me in this game?" he said, switching gears fast and
glaring at Ray. 

 "Maybe," Ray said. 

 "Maybe?" Wilson asked, shocked. "You HAVE to! It's the last game! We're
going to lose, that's no question, so there's no risk putting me in.
Besides ... the Mountie looks sick." 

 Everyone stared at Fraser, and Stan did something that surprised even the
constable. He popped Fraser's jaw open and took a quick sniff near his
mouth. Then he quickly backed off, shaking his head. 

 "No, he isn't." 

 Fraser showed nothing on his face, but he was secretly very proud of Stan
--- during their trip to the Northwest Territories, one of the things he'd
worked with him on was olfactory analysis. He'd sniffed in the right
place, and unabashedly. 

 "Stan's right. I'll be fine. I just need some water." 

 "No! He looks horrible!" Wilson whined. "Send me in!" 

 "Shut up!" Ray hollered at him and whirled around to look at Fraser.
"Benny?" 

 "I'm really all right, Ray. Just some pre-game jitters." 

 Ray handed him a water bottle. "Drink something before we get out there."


 Fraser nodded, took the water and drank some just as the ref burst in. 

 "Hey, you guys, come on! Get out on the court! Game's in ten minutes!" 

 They nodded, gathered in a circle and raised their cry for the final time
before scurrying out onto the court. There was a burst of tremendous
applause, and they got a good look at their fans. There were lots of
people from the 27th, Ma Vecchio had shown up along with Maria and the
kids, Thatcher and the entire Consulate staff was there, and most of the
teams they'd already played were there in support. The Badgers, Cannons, a
few Buffaloes, two Wildcats, and even one member of the Fireballs were
sitting in the stands, most of them waving furiously and whistling. There
was even a local newscaster there with a camera man. Ray pointed him out
to the rest of the team, who shrugged and went over to greet the
opposition. 

 The firefighters were what they expected --- big, burly, and fairly
menacing-looking. But they all wore decent expressions, and didn't seem
inclined to kill anybody, so the Rockets (all six of them) went over to
greet the starting line of the Hornets, the official team of Firehouse 76,
dressed in black shorts and yellow tops. Their captain was their starting
center, and began to laugh a little when Ray approached him, flanked by
the others. Ray was fairly tall, but not that impressive. The firefighter
was not only taller, but broader. Ray looked like a twig standing next to
a pine tree. The center didn't even look Ray in the eye, but scanned over
the top of the detective's balding head and glanced at the rest of the
team. 

 "Man, what the hell is this? You guys don't have a chance!" he said
haughtily. 

 This only served to piss Ray off. 

 "Hey, screw you! Of course we do! We made it here, didn't we?" 

 "Big deal! We're the best! No contest! Just get your little wussy boys
outta here before you all get hurt!" 

 A friendly-looking man, well-built with blond hair and warm brown eyes,
was standing nearby and tapped the captain on the shoulder. 

 "Uh, Ralph, isn't that a bit arrogant? I mean, we're really not that
great." 

 "Shut up, Smith." 

 Fraser tapped Ray. 

 "Ray, please. Don't get yourself all flustered. It won't help. Besides,
it's just a game!" 

 "Shut UP, Fraser!" 

 Fraser and Smith sighed and backed away as their two captains kept
arguing. Fraser cocked his head to one side and looked at Smith. Smith
cocked his head to the other side and looked at Fraser. They both righted
their faces and cautiously approached each other, before Fraser finally
found the nerve to speak. 

 "Look, um, I'm sorry about Ray. He's a tad intense." 

 "Oh, no, please. I have to apologize for Ralph. He's a doofus. Don't let
the exterior fool you, though. He's actually quite a nice person once you
get to know him. I'm Ed Smith, by the way. You?" He extended a hand. 

 "Benton Fraser. Hi." 

 They shook. Smith shook his head with a rueful smile. 

 "You'd think I'd be able to tolerate rudeness a little better, wouldn't
you? I still can't believe I'm not used to this city by now. I mean, I've
been a firefighter for a long time. Moved to Chicago four years ago, and I
still can't get the hang of the hustle and bustle, 'ya know?" 

 "Completely. I've been a Mountie for a long time, and I moved here four
years ago, too. The rhythm of life is so incredibly different! It's quite
remarkable." 

 "I fought fires in Wisconsin, near a small logging town. You?" 

 "I chased criminals in the Yukon and the Northwest Territories." 

 The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Smith furrowed his
brow and waggled a finger at Fraser, thinking. 

 "Do you like trees?" he asked finally. 

 "I love trees!" 

 "FRASER!!" Ray barked, startling him. 

 "Yes?" 

 "Would you stop talking to him? He's your OPPONENT!" 

 "Well, Ray, I'm sorry, but I can't help but feel a certain kinship with
this man!" 

 "Oh, for the love of God!" 

 Before Fraser or Smith knew it, they were both being yanked apart by
their team captains and roughly shoved into their places, shrugging their
apologies to each other across the court. 

 "I'm really sorry about him," Ralph said to Ray. "He's such a
blabbermouth, it's a wonder he hasn't told anyone our playbook yet! I
mean, the guy would talk to a freakin' fencepost." 

 "Hey. That Mountie IS a freakin' fencepost. At least from nine to five.
But I gotta warn 'ya," Ray said with a mischievous grin, "He never stands
still on the court. Have a good game." 

 "You too." 

 They shook a little harder than was necessary and ran to their positions
--- they were both fowards. Huey lined up against the opposing center. 

 TWEET!  

 The ball shot into the air and miraculously, Huey got to it first. He
swatted it towards Ray, who blasted up the court, dodging the
firefighters. Stan ran ahead, skidded to a halt under the basket, caught
Ray's pass and popped it in. The Rockets fans cheered. Their team was off
to a rousing start. 

 The firefighters quickly caught up though, and the play turned powerful
and furious. After ten minutes, the score was tied, 30-30. Sweat was
dripping off of everybody. Fraser's hair was standing on end from all the
moisture. Stan's cut looked like a fright wig. Eyes were wild, and
breathing was labored. Sneakers were pounding all over the court, and the
racket of people shouting at each other was deafening. There were also a
lot of near injuries. Fraser ducked quite a few elbows while being guarded
and usually managed to pass the ball to a teammate, but a few times he
just flung it into the air --- there was very little he could do. 

 Ray was racing up the court when another player tried to jump on him but
tripped and fell over. He became a human speed bump, which Ray hopped over
in the nick of time and tossed it in. Flailing limbs were a problem, and a
few people accidentally got knocked off their feet by misplaced arms and
legs. 

 At the half, the Hornets changed lines. The Rockets couldn't. They were
up against not the polite, skillful players of the first half anymore, but
the people Frannie had warned them about a long time ago --- the ones that
would try and rip them limb from limb. They had one small advantage,
though --- their connection. Just by looking at the other side, Fraser
could see that they didn't really like each other. The body language said
it all. He called a quick time out and explained this to everyone else.
They didn't have any strategy for dealing with it, but it made everyone
feel better. Stan managed to move just a bit faster. Ray's shooting got
more accurate. Huey caught more passes, and Fraser and Dewey felt a bit
more solid. 

 That didn't stop the Hornets' new line from fighting dirty, though.
Elbows came flying from every direction. One of them knocked Fraser across
the face and the constable felt the blood begin to leak from his nose in a
small river. It cascaded down over his lip and splotched on his jersey.
Knees became battering rams. One caught Ray in the ass. Toes were for
stepping on. Duey's were it. The ref was blowing his whistle every thirty
seconds, but it didn't matter --- the Rockets were not feeling terribly
good. With five minutes remaining, all the crowd noise had gotten blocked
out by sensations of pain. Another time out. Huey was limping, but okay.
Stan had escaped, so far. Fraser's nose was still going, but he didn't
care. The remarkable thing was, the score was still tied. 56-56. It was
for this reason that the Rockets fans were going so crazy. 

 They all put their heads together. 

 "Say it, Ray," Fraser said, and snorted up dried blood. 

 "Bing bang boom, and we're outta this jam," Ray wheezed, winded from
playing. 

 Huey clapped his hands and they ran back out onto the court. The
firefighters were amazed that the cops could still get up, let alone
challenge them. The first line was sitting on the bench. They weren't
cheering on their own, nor were they booing the cops. They were merely
silent, with small smiles on their faces. 

 Summoning up every last bit of strength they had, the Rockets battled
with the Hornets' second line for the last four and a half minutes. At the
end of it, the floor was slippery with sweat and blood, and the score was
still miraculously tied --- 79-79. It was the last thirty seconds, and the
Rockets had possession. Wilson, unnoticed by anyone else, stormed out.
There was no way he was going to get to play. 

 Damn Mountie. Damn Mountie! I'll fix him! 

 Fraser had the ball. He dribbled it, looking for a teammate to pass it
to, and saw Stan, momentarily unguarded. He hurled it at the wiry
detective, who jumped up and sank it. The Rockets went nuts, but quickly
went silent as one of the firefighters rebounded and the Rockets ran for
their court. The firefighters charged down the court, and the Rockets did
an admirable job, but one of Hornets busted through their defenses and
sank a shot to tie up the score again at 80-80. 

 It was down to the last fifteen seconds. Stan had the ball outside the
end-line and saw Fraser. Time to give back. He and the Mountie locked
eyes, and Stan passed him the ball. Fraser quickly found himself
surrounded by a rather vicious pack of firefighters and five seconds left
on the clock. 

 4! 

 He burst out of the circle, and ran for the basket, dribbling as fast as
he could. 

 3! 

 A firefighter caught up to him. Fraser yelled in surprise and ran even
faster. The other man was practically nipping at his jersey. The other
Rockets hung back to watch. 

 2! 

 Fraser reached the basket. Inspector Thatcher and half the cop audience
stood up, screaming. 

 1! 

 In the biggest mistake of his sports career, the firefighter did the
dumbest strategic thing that popped into his mind ... He scared the
Mountie. 

 "Raaauughh!!" he yelled. 

 Fraser was not a tall guy, as basketball players went. Fraser was more
interested in hockey than this sport. And at six foot zip, with basically
no previous training in this particular maneuver, Fraser never expected
his legs to do what they did. 

 He jumped like a jack rabbit and ... 

 "Haaaaa!" 

 WHAM! 

 Slam dunked. 

 BZZZZZZZZZZZT! 

 The crowd went berserk. Thatcher was jumping up and down like a lunatic,
all status forgotten, and hugging Frannie, who was ecstatically hugging
her back. Welsh was bellowing and screaming. Elaine was whistling and
waving the Rockets' banner. Turnbull and Susie were waving their Canadian
flags and Dief was howling with delight. Stella and Angie were cheering
crazily. The second line of the Hornets was stunned, but the first line
ran out onto the court to congratulate the others for making history ---
the cops had finally won the tournament. 

 It took the Rockets a few seconds to realize what had happened and to
start celebrating. Huey and Dewey began screaming and waving at the fans,
while Stan and Ray went to go pry Fraser off the basket. The poor guy was
just dangling there, breathing and waiting for his heart rate to come
down. The two cops looked at each other, and each grabbed a leg and
pulled. 

 Big mistake. Fraser came off with a slight pop and landed on them both.
They were all tangled up on the floor for a second before Stan was giving
him a noogie and screaming something happy and incoherent in his ear, and
Ray was helping him up. 

 "Benny, we won!" 

 "We won?" 

 "We won!" 

 "We won! Omigosh! We won!" 

 They embraced with a slap of sweat and fabric and before long, the entire
team had hefted Fraser onto its shoulders. He waved at the crowd, the
sweat pouring down his face and the blood leaking down his chin. His hair
was going in ten different directions, and he looked a mess, but his
entire countenance was lit up in a brilliant smile. He hadn't let anyone
down after all. Then he spotted Meg, who was whistling loudly and waving
at him with both arms --- it looked like semaphore on acid. He waved back.


 Finally, the rest of the team put him down, and the referee came out with
the trophy. It wasn't big, or particularly gorgeous, but it would look
quite nice in the station. They all held up the trophy as the crowd
whistled and cheered, and observed the six names etched on the back.
Fraser looked around for Wilson and didn't see him. He shrugged and went
back to the celebration. Their supporters had long since left the stands
and were milling around on the court. Angie congratulated Ray on a job
well done. Stella was brisk with Stan about it, but there was a secret
smile playing about her eyes that only he could see. He knew it was there
by experience. Meg got Fraser away from the camera man, who was hunting
for him. 

 "Congratulations, Fraser. You made a spectacular job of that game." She
was blushing furiously. 

 "Thank you, ma'am." 

 There was an awkward pause. 

 "Well, I expect you'll probably be going out to dinner with the team, so
there's no need to show up for work tonight." 

 "Ma'am?" 

 "You deserve a break. Just make sure you get your nose cleaned up." 

 "Ah. I will. Thank you." 

 "You're welcome. Oh, and Fraser, I'm afraid I have another engagement
next Tuesday around eleven, so I won't be available for lunch." 

 "Oh." 

 He was slightly disappointed --- he'd grown to look forward to his weekly
or bi-weekly lunch dates with Meg. They had always been ... relaxed.
Missing one would be like missing his socks. They weren't essential, but
boots were quite uncomfortable without them. 

 "However, I was thinking that maybe, um, we could make it dinner." 

 He gulped. Dinner? Ray said something about dinners to me, once.
Something like "They're always dates." Would this be a date? Oh, dear. 

 "Fraser?" 

 "Ma'am?" 

 "Dinner. Instead of lunch. How about if we meet at the same caf? Is that
all right?" 

 The Mountie breathed a quick sigh of relief. "That's very all right,
ma'am. I'm looking forward to it." 

 "Good. Now hurry up and get yourself a shower. No one wants to talk to a
stinky Canadian." 

 Fraser laughed, nodded, and went to do just that. She casually watched
his behind as he left the court.  

 Ten minutes later, the rest of the team was in the locker room. Ray and
the others had been happy for the attention, even though the reporter had
been intent on getting an interview with the Mountie. He never found him,
and decided to go home. 

 "Hey, Benny!" Ray hollered as they came in. 

 "Yes?" Fraser called. 

 He stepped in from the shower area, wearing only a towel, completely damp
and smelling like soap. Stan, who had also escaped a little early, was
sitting on the bench, wrapped in towels and drying his hair. 

 "No Thai food!" Ray yelled. 

 "Agreed!" Fraser answered. 

 Ray and the others headed for the bathroom and pretty soon, everyone was
dry, dressed, fresh, and ready to go home. Huey was helping Dewey get some
stuff into a bag, and Ray was busy styling his hair, when Stan slapped
himself in the forehead, and then stared out the window --- a light snow
was falling. He shivered slightly in his white t-shirt and dark blue
sweatpants. 

 "Stan?" Fraser asked. 

 "I left my damn jacket in deh car," the blonde explained irritatedly, and
sighed. "Gotta go get it, and look! Snowin'. Shit. Well, I'll jest run." 

 "You will not!" Fraser said firmly, catching him by the arm.  

 Wilson sat in the driver's seat of his blue Toyota sedan, poised at the
beginning of the alleyway between the back exit of the gym and the
buildings of the next block. The two intersecting alleyways made a "T."
The exit from the mens' locker room led right out down the main vertical
line. Guys would regularly walk across the alleyway and then keep going
between the two buildings to where they'd parked on the busy street
beyond. Wilson was positioned at the far right of the horizontal bar. 

 He smiled and pushed his glasses up. "Just like a shooting gallery." 

 Then he revved the motor. 

 "I'm waiting, Mountie."  

 "Fraze, yer not my mom!" 

 "Stan, you've just been very hot, and getting very cold is not a good
idea. You'll get sick." 

 "I look STUPID." 

 The other guys laughed --- Stan had a point. Fraser had gotten the slim
detective into his navy peacoat and set the Stetson on his head. 

 "I don't care! At least you'll be warm. Besides, you'll look stupid for
approximately..." He looked at his watch. "Twenty seconds at the maximum.
Now go." 

 Stan sighed. "Yes, Mommy." He waved. "I'll be back in a minute, you
guys." 

 "Take your time!" Dewey said with a laugh. 

 "Har dee har har!" 

 Everyone except Fraser sniggered as Stan stepped out into the snow.  

 Wilson's eyes widened when he saw the man in the coat and Stetson. 

 "You are mine, asshole!" 

 He flattened the accelerator.	

 By the time Stan looked to his left in surprise, he was in the middle of
the alleyway, and it was too late. Fraser looked up from packing just in
time to see Stan scream. The rest of his reality came in spurts. 

 A blue blur flashing past the doorway. 

 A terrible whacking noise. 

 A series of sounds --- flesh hitting and bouncing off of glass and metal.
Something was rolling up and over the blur, hitting a hood, a windshield,
a roof, and a trunk. 

 A limp body in a blue coat that bounced off the end of the speeding car
and landed like an abandoned rag doll in the snow. 

 "STAN!" 

End Slam Dunk, Part One by Kiki Cabou: kcabou@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.