Party Animal    Party Animal by Leslie Crismond

  

Thanks yet again to the amazing eagle-eyed Jills, Supreme Editor (she
makes me call her this.) Actually, her suggestions and insights are
invaluable, but let's not tell her that. 

 Ray looked at his watch. If it wasn't for the fact that all the
party-goers were cops, this shindig would have been shut down. He could
hear the revelry while he was still blocks away. He shook his head.
Judging from the volume, it would take an armed detachment of the National
Guard to restore order. Ray yawned. It had been a long night. He would
collect his partner and head home ASAP. That was assuming, of course, that
his partner, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,
hadn't already fled the demented chaos Ray expected to find inside the
house. 

 It had been a big day at Chicago's 27th Precinct. A long-term, multi-team
investigation had paid off in spades with the arrest of one of the city's
most notorious drug traffickers. The dragnet had also pulled in a major
shipment of cocaine with a street-value close to three million dollars. A
well-liked vice cop had lost his life during the six month long undercover
operation so there was an additional sense of satisfaction in nailing this
particular drug lord. Everyone wanted to celebrate, hence the party. 

 Detective Stanley Raymond Kowalski, aka Detective Ray Vecchio, had
planned on joining the fun hours earlier, except a snitch he was working
with on a frustrating string of warehouse robberies insisted on a meet. It
had been tempting to blow off the face-to-face, but the warehouse
businesses were bringing a lot of pressure to bear on the department. Ray
knew Lieutenant Welsh needed a quick resolution. The detective figured he
owed the lieutenant at least a couple of hours. 

 'Yowza, that's some party,' he thought as a squad car careened past him
and drove up on the lawn of Detective first grade Bryan Dooley's house.
Three car doors crashed open and the driver and passengers spilled out
with their arms full of six packs. "Got more brewskies!" one of them
screamed and staggered off towards the front porch. Ray could see someone
puking in the bushes by the side of the house. "Chicago's finest," he
muttered and then shrugged. 'They deserve some fun. It's been a nasty six
months, especially since Tony went down.' 

 A knot of men were standing by the front walk laughing raucously and
waving beer bottles in the air as they recounted some event. "Hey,
Vecchio!" 

 "What's happenin, guys?" Ray countered. 

 "Swell party. We really nailed that sonofabitch, didn't we? His ass won't
see light of day for a long, long time." 

 "Amen to that," Ray agreed. 

 "Hey, where you been, Vecchio? You shoulda been here earlier," another
guy interjected. 

 "Had to follow a hot lead, but I'm here now and needing something wet and
cold. Catch ya later," Ray said heading up the walk. 

 "Hey, Vecchio, that's some partner you have!" 

 'Uh oh,' Ray thought, 'Hang on, Fraser. The calvary is here to save you.'
Ray could just imagine how the straight-laced Mountie would be reacting to
the unbridled, drunken antics of the Chicago PD. Actually, Ray wasn't sure
which side would find the situation more awkward. 'Love you like a
brother, Fraser, but you can be kind of a wet blanket. Inuit stories don't
really sit well with guys soaking their brain cells in 80 proof.' Ray
hurried up the walk to the front door. 

 As he cracked open the door, the noise slammed into him like a physical
punch to the head. 'The joint is jumpin all right,' he thought as he
pushed his way through a cluster of people crammed into the entryway. He
heard someone call his name, but couldn't see who had hailed him. Some
unknown person thrust a cold unopened bottle of beer into Ray's hand and
gave him a drunken salute before staggering out the front door. "Uh,
thanks, man," Ray hollered at the retreating back. 

 He bogged down in a clutch of bodies pressed into the doorway of what
looked like a living room. The room itself was no less crammed with
people. 'If Fraser's in there, I'll never find him,' he thought
helplessly. Heads bounced and jived to some throbbing, heavy-on-the-bass
hard rock music, but none of the heads sported a RCMP stetson. 

 Crowd momentum carried Ray further back into the house. "Party's this
way," squealed one of the rookie violent crimes cops and the group Ray was
wedged into surged forward. He managed to inject himself into a dining
room area with only marginally more breathing room. There was still no
bewildered Canadian Mountie cringing in the corners, but Ray did see Tom
Dewey glad handing a bunch of veterans from vice. 

 "Hey, Dewey! Dewey! Didja see Fraser? Ya know where Fraser is?" Ray
wasn't sure Dewey understood him with the noise, but the other man gave
him a negative shrug and resumed his schmoozing. Ray did find a church key
and popped the top on his bottle. The cold liquid revived him somewhat and
he braved another foray into the hall so he could explore other parts of
the house. 

 "Whoa, what are ya doin back there?" Ray tried to twist around to see who
had goosed him. Several flushed faces smiled back at him, but he couldn't
figure out which belonged to the perp. He felt another stab of sympathy
for Fraser. The guy was a chick magnet anyway and in this crowd would be
lucky to escape with his honor still in tact. 'I'm coming, buddy. Uncle
Ray will get you out of here.' 

 More music pounded out of the back of the house. This had more of a Latin
flavor and the detective found himself propelled in that direction. The
kitchen loomed up ahead. Ray could just barely see a spacious family room
to the left of that. 

 "Glad you could make it!" a voice boomed in his ear. 

 Ray looked up into the grinning face of Jack Huey. "Yeah, me too. Seen
Fraser?" Ray shouted. 

 Huey's grin got wider and he pointed to the family room area. Ray peered
into the room, but didn't immediately see his partner among the gyrating
bodies. This was apparently the designated dancing arena and Ray found his
eyes drawn to the slithering forms of several females sensuously swaying
into a macarena type dance. 'Nice moves,' Ray whistled appreciatively
under his breath. 

 He reluctantly pulled his eyes away and scanned the edges of the crowd
for Fraser. 'The poor Mountie's probably shell shocked,' he thought as a
vision of Fraser, standing in a corner ram-rod straight and wide-eyed,
flashed into his head.. 'Welcome to life in the fast-lane, Benton-buddy.'
Ray's eyes roved the faces marking the perimeter of the room. He took long
sip of beer and found himself pushed further into the room. Once again, he
turned toward the lovely ladies and admired their sinewy moves. 'Go,
mama.' 

 The dancers separated slightly and Ray found himself looking at someone
who looked remarkably like Fraser except this look-alike had a cigarette
dangling out of his mouth, a drink in one hand and was moving as
seductively as his female counterparts. Ray blinked. 'It can't be Fraser.
I've seen the guy dance. He moves like a block of wood.' 

 Ray forced himself to look away and tried again to ferret his partner out
of the surrounding crowd. A strong fist pounded him on the shoulder. Ray
whirled around to discover the rosy countenance of Richie Vey leering at
him. "Hey, Vecchio, looks like your partner's really cut loose. We all
thought he had a stick permanently lodged up his ass." Ray instantly went
defensive and spit out a "F___k, you." before Richie got reabsorbed by the
milling crowd. 

 Ray's attention snapped back to the dancers just as the music segued into
a hot salsa style number. The Fraser clone tossed back his drink, handed
off his glass and placed his hands on his dance partner's hips. Another
female slid behind him and used her hands to direct his swaying hips. The
three moved in perfect rhythm. It was then that Ray noticed the
unmistakable striping and goofy bulging of RCMP issue jodhpurs. 

 "Good God, it is Fraser," Ray took a hasty swallow of beer and looked at
his partner in dumbfounded amazement. The Mountie moved with a silky grace
that was mesmerizing. Completely swept up in the music, he danced with
fluid abandon, the perfect vortex of swirling sexuality. Ray was suddenly
grateful that Francesca Vecchio, his would-be sister, had chosen this week
to make her annual pilgrimage to the Florida sunshine. 'If Frannie got a
load of this....', he shuddered at the thought and quickly sucked down
another mouthful of brew. 

 Just when Ray thought he'd better find a hose to cool down the dancing
threesome, the music wound down and Fraser and his partners collapsed
laughing into each other's arms. "Thank you, kindly," the Mountie said
gallantly to his partners and drew both women into a hug. Fraser's
cigarette hung threateningly above the dark, sleek head of the woman
snugged under his left arm. "Need more cider," he announced, his mouth
expertly twisting around the cigarette. The women giggled and hugged him
tighter, unwilling to lose their prize possession. 

 As the Mountie looked around in search of liquid refreshment, he caught
sight of Ray and broke into an ear-to-ear grin. "Ray!! That's Ray, my
partner!" he yelled, dragging his fellow dancers toward the blond haired
detective. 

 "Ray," Fraser intoned happily when he finally churned his way to the
space in front of his friend. 

 "Hiya, Fraser," Ray said. "Having fun?" 

 "Why, yes, I am," the Mountie responded, "but I need more cider," he
added plaintively. His hair had flopped down on his forehead and a light
sheen of perspiration glistened on his skin. He beamed down at his two
charges. "Worked up quite a thirst," he smiled. The women twittered
appreciatively and snuggled closer. 

 The smoke from the cigarette was curling up Ray's nose and in irritation,
the detective snatched the offending weed out of Fraser's mouth and
dropped it into his nearly empty beer bottle. 

 "Hey," the Mountie protested. One of the woman murmured her own
objection. 

 "Fraser, you don't smoke," Ray huffed. 

 "I don't?" The Mountie seemed genuinely surprised. "Oh, well,
then.....have you seen Detective Dewey?" Fraser looked around the room.
"He's got my special cider," Ben clarified. 

 "Special cider, Fraser? What is that?" Ray squinted at his partner
suspiciously. 

 "The apples come from Kentucky, I think he said. His uncle Jim grows
them. A little hard and tangy, but they grow on you, " The Mountie
continued his scan. 

 Ray doubted cider gave off that distinctive whiskey aroma he was
detecting on his partner's breath. "Uh, Fraser, did this uncle have a last
name, like maybe, Beam?" 

 "Why, yes, Ray, I believe that was the name Detective Dewey mentioned.
You've sampled his uncle's cider as well?" 

 "Oh, yeah, Fraser. Oh, yeah." 

 The music changed again into another driving, up-tempo Latin number and
the woman on the right bumped her hip meaningfully into Fraser's. "Benito,
baby!" she cried in an exaggerated fake Spanish accent. She grabbed his
arm and pulled him back toward the center of the dance area. The other
woman latched onto his free arm. Fraser managed a brief wave and glided
back onto the dance floor, easily slipping into the serpentine moves
demanded by the music. Soon, he and his lady friends commanded the
attention of the crowd which moved back to give the dancers room to flaunt
their sensuous interpretation of the song. 

 Ray sighed and considered the warring sides of his conscience. He didn't
know whether to appreciate the fact that Fraser was enjoying himself or
worry about the possible consequences of too much fun on a body unused to
wild indulgences. Ray had to concede that there was something irresistible
about watching his normally prudish partner operate without restraints.
'Oh, hell, I'm not your mother. Go for it, buddy. We'll mop up later. I'll
watch yer back and make sure those wanton women don't molest you.' That
decided, Ray relaxed and leaned back against the wall to watch his partner
and best friend continue to wow and amaze their fellow officers. 

 Knowing that he was tired and that eventually, he'd have to take himself
and the Canadian party animal back to their respective homes, Ray allowed
himself only one more beer. He was asked out on the dance floor many times
and thought he did a pretty smooth job. Latin music wasn't his first
choice, but he was light on his feet and knew how to let his body respond
to the beat. 'Fraser, uh, Beniiittooo, may be the Salsa King, but I've
still got finessssssee and look pretty damn good out here,' Ray thought
with pride. He fingered the two scraps of paper in his pants' pocket. 'I
also have some new admirers' phone numbers.' 

 Although, Ray never saw Fraser with Dewey, the Mountie seemed to have
found a supply of his "special cider" which he drank liberally after every
third or fourth twirl around the dance floor. By the end of the night,
Fraser was entertaining those partygoers who were still conscious, with
risque little ditties and ribald camp songs. Ray was willing to bet his
partner would be sick with embarrassment, not to mention other things, if
he remembered any of this in the morning. 

 When 3:00 rolled around, Ray decided that was the magic hour. "Come on,
Benito, baby, it's time for all good little Mounties to head home," Ray
sing-songed, grabbing his partner's arm and prying him away from his two
clinging female admirers. The detective pulled him toward the hallway. 

 "But, Raaay, I haven't told them the one about the young lady from
Joussard," Fraser objected. 

 "That's right, you haven't," Ray admitted, continuing to haul the Mountie
into the hall. 

 "It's a very good poem," Fraser declared solemnly. 

 "Yeah, I'm sure it is, Fraser," Ray agreed. 

 "Wait, Ray, my hat, my tunic." 

 "Got'em, buddy." The detective had earlier unearthed Fraser's hat and red
serge from a pile of debris in the living room and had them safely stowed
in a closet by the front door. 

 "Wait, Ray, I should say good-night and thank my host," Fraser decided. 

 "Do you have a clue who that is, Fraser?" Ray asked indulgently. 

 The Mountie stopped and looked perplexed. "Well, no, Ray." 

 "Didn't think so." Ray steered his charge through the gaping front door,
stopping only long enough to snag Fraser's hat and serge. 

 The cool night air had an interesting effect on the Mountie. Perhaps
fortified by the boozy, smoke-filled air and buoyed by the excitement of
the party, the Canadian had not acted particularly drunk while he was in
the house. He was uninhibited, yes, but not sloppy drunk. Once outside,
though, the fresh air seemed to bring on all the symptoms of inebriation. 

 "Come on, Fraser, the car's this way," Ray directed, plunking the Stetson
on its owner's head. 

 The Mountie stood swaying, as if dazed. 

 "Earth to Fraser," Ray waved a hand in front of his partner's face. 

 "Ray! I seem to have lost my bearings, perhaps you could direct me to
your car," Fraser enunciated every word very carefully. 

 "Yeah, this way, Columbus," Ray said, grabbing one of the Mountie's
suspenders and tugging him down the front walk. 

 When they reached the sidewalk, Ray went left and Fraser went right.
Fraser's suspender stretched ominously tight. 

 "Ray, the car is this way," the Mountie maintained, pulling hard against
the detective's grip. 

 "Fraser, I'm parked two blocks down this way." Ray corrected, not daring
to release the suspender in case he twanged Fraser into the next block. 

 "Ray, I distinctly remember the moon was in the 3rd quadrant above the
horizon when we parked. That means the car is this way. " 

 "Well, that may be, Galileo, but you rode over with the Duck Boys. I am
parked down this way." 

 "Oh....well...okay then," Fraser agreed meekly and stumbled along after
his partner. 

 They had just cleared the first block, when the Mountie pulled up short
and started looking around. 

 "What's wrong, Fraser?" Ray asked. "Did the moon slip a quadrant or
somethin?" 

 "I have to urinate, Ray. I'm looking for the proper facilities," the
Canadian announced. 

 "Tell you what, buddy, there are no proper facilities out here. Just find
a tree or bush or something," Ray suggested tolerantly. 

 "Ray!" exclaimed Fraser, scandalized. "This is a residential
neighborhood, that would be improper." 

 The detective shrugged. "When you gotta go, you gotta go, Benton-buddy."
Ray started scanning the various lawns for an appropriately secluded piece
of foliage. "There, next house down, by the driveway. How about that?" 

 Ray spun around when he heard a tell-tale splash. 'Oh, shit, Fraser!" 

 The Mountie was relieving himself against a mailbox. 

 "What are you doin? You consider that proper? You'll get us arrested,"
Ray yelped. 

 'I hardly think so, Ray. It's a natural bodily function that...." 

 "That you do in the privacy of your home," Ray cut him off. 

 "But I'm not at home, Ray," Fraser reasoned. 

 "We're going to take care of that. Come on, Fraser, let's get you to the
car," urged Ray, hustling his partner down the remaining block. 

 Once in the car, Fraser slumped against the seat with his eyes closed.
"I'm feeling rather tired, Ray. I'm just going to rest my eyes for a
minute." 

 "Yeah, that's good, Frase. You rest." Ray leaned over and snapped his
partner's seatbelt into place. He took a minute to examine the disheveled
Mountie before starting the car. 

 'If I take him back to the Consulate, Turnbull will go berserk and run
around like a chicken with his head cut off. If the Ice Queen sees her
favorite whipping boy in this state, it'll be Fraser's head that's cut off
and mine, too, just cuz. I did say I would do mop up, if needed.' Ray
reached around and started the GTO. "Home, James," he declared. 

 They were about three blocks from Ray's apartment when Fraser suddenly
roused. 

 "Oh, look, sleeping beauty is awake," Ray chuckled. 

 "Uh, Ray, I don't feel so good," the Mountie interjected. 

 "Shit, Fraser, you toss yer cookies in my car and I'll kick you in the
head." Ray wrenched the car to the curb. 

 "That's such an odd phrase, Ray." 

 "Fraser!" 

 "Understood." Fraser groaned, "Oh, dear, please...." He gagged and groped
for the door handle. 

 "Out, out," Ray screamed. "Belt, belt," he amended when he realized
Fraser was hung up in seat belt. Both men fumbled for the release. Ray hit
the button and pushed his friend out of the car. Fraser landed in an
untidy heap just clear of the door, but managed to crawl well away from
the GTO before the evening's transgressions spewed out of his abused
insides. 

 Ray waited until the retching had stopped before hopping out to lend a
hand. "Uh, sorry, Fraser," he said sincerely when he saw the Mountie's
dark head bowed over his knees. 

 "Something I ate seems to have disagreed with me, Ray," the Mountie said
carefully. 

 "More like something you drank," Ray muttered. He put his hand on his
friend's shoulder. "You gonna be okay, Fraser?" 

 "In a minute, I think," the Mountie answered doubtfully. 

 Ray felt the muscles beneath his hand tremble slightly. "Here, let me
help you back to the car, buddy." 

 The rest of the trip to the apartment was mercifully uneventful. Ray kept
a nervous eye on his partner, fearful there would be another vomiting
episode, but Fraser remained quietly puddled in the passenger seat with
his head leaning against the cool side window glass. 

 "We're here, Fraser," Ray shook his partner's arm. 

 "Okay." There was no movement. 

 "Fraser?" 

 "Here where?" the Canadian asked gingerly moving his eyes back and forth,
but leaving his head plastered against the window. 

 "In front of my apartment. You're spending the night at my place," Ray
explained. 

 "Oh." There was no movement. 

 "Fraser, you have to get out of the car." 

 "Of course." There was no movement. 

 "Fraser!" 

 "Yes, Ray?" 

 "Get out of the car." 

 "You don't have to get huffy, Ray." There was no movement. 

 The detective stifled his exasperation as he got out of the GTO, circled
around to his partner's door and pulled it open. One hundred and eighty
pounds of Mountie spilled onto the sidewalk at Ray's feet. Ray was too
surprised to catch him. "Oh, sorry, Fraser." 

 It was an arduous trip to the apartment. Fraser's coordination had gone
south by way of some "special Kentucky apples" and Ray found himself half
carrying, half dragging the Canadian up the stairs. 

 "I should go to the Consol...the Consul...my house. Well, it's not
tech...nically....my house, but... I have
duties....responsss...ibilities," the Mountie protested feebly. 

 "The Canadian government won't collapse if you're not there in the
morning, Fraser. Your duties can wait. B'sides, I gotta a feeling you're
not gonna be feeling like performing any of the Ice Queen's little chores
come morning." 

 "Ray, that's my ssssu...perior you're referring to," Fraser said
indignantly. "She happens to be a very fine offi..ccccer with a lot of..."


 "Don't care, Fraser." Ray used one arm to hold the Mountie against the
wall while he fumbled the key into the lock. "Okay, we're in, buddy. Let's
get you to the couch," Ray grunted with the effort. 

 Fraser flopped bonelessly onto the cushions. His legs splayed out in
front of him and his slouch had a definite tilt to the right. "Thank you
kindly," he murmured, closing his eyes. 

 Ray went into the bathroom and grabbed a bottle of aspirin from the
medicine cabinet. "Better give him three," he calculated and went to get a
glass of water for his charge. 

 "Fraser. Fraser. Fraser. Fraser." 

 One reddened blue eye peeked open. "You gotta take these," Ray insisted 

 "I don't take drugs," Fraser argued. 

 "Yeah, and you don't do alcohol or tobacco either....here." Ray shoved
the pills into his partner's hand. 

 Fraser stared at the aspirin for a few minutes, then shrugged and popped
them in his mouth. "They taste terrible, Ray" he complained, chewing the
tablets pensively. 

 "Shit, Fraser, you're supposed to swallow them." Ray thrust the water
glass at him. 

 "Oh." 

 "Come on, let's get your boots off and get you comfortable," Ray directed
after he retrieved the glass. "I'll help you." 

 "Ray," Fraser said with a show of dignity, "I can take my own boots off."
He managed one before he slumped over and closed his eyes again. 

 "Yeah, whatever. Sleep it off, party boy," Ray chuckled and went into his
bedroom to change clothes. A glance at the clock told him it was close to
5:00. 'I'll get Fraser really settled, call the Consulate, call the
Precinct and then grab some shut-eye.' He had just finished pulling on his
favorite tee-shirt for sleeping when he heard a panicky "Oh, dear" from
the living room. 

 "Bathroom!" Ray shouted and raced out into the hall in time to see Fraser
make an unsteady turn into the room in question. As the unmistakable sound
of violent heaving floated down the corridor, Ray prayed his partner had
gotten to the toilet in time. The detective peered around the bathroom
door jamb and saw the Mountie had ignored the toilet and was now draped
inelegantly over the side of the bathtub. "At least it's not the floor,"
Ray sighed. "I'm getting you some water to rinse your mouth, Fraser," Ray
said to this partner's back. 

 "Thank..." another gag cut off the rest. 

 When Ray returned with the water he found the Canadian wedged in a
semi-upright position between the tub and the toilet. His head lay heavily
against the side of the toilet tank. His eyes were open in a fixed, dazed
stare. 

 Ray felt a wild desire to laugh as he looked at his bedraggled partner.
It was hard to equate this pathetic creature sprawled on his bathroom
floor with his prim, proper RCMP issue friend or even the smooth, graceful
Benito of earlier. Fraser's hair stood out in wild disarray, one suspender
had fallen down past his elbow, his undershirt was hitched up high on one
side and he only had that one boot on. 

 'I'm laughing with you, Fraser,' Ray thought, though he seriously doubted
the Mountie would find any humor in the situation. Ray choked back a laugh
as he knelt down to offer his partner the water. Fraser raised his eyes
and looked at Ray with such misery that the detective immediately felt a
surge of compassion that doused the rising hilarity. 

 "Oh, damn, Fraser. Puking's the pits. Are you over it? Can you walk?
Let's get you back to the couch." 

 "I feel like I've been trampled by that musk ox again, Ray," Fraser
moaned. 

 "You were run over by a musk ox?" Ray asked incredulously. 

 "Yes, Ray." 

 "Yeah, you would feel crummy after somethin like that." 

 "Yes, Ray." 

 They were halfway back to the living room, when the Mountie stopped and
leaned his head against the wall. "You gonna be sick again?" Ray asked
anxiously. 

 "No, Ray," Fraser whispered. 

 "What's wrong, buddy?" 

 "I'm all tilted. I can't walk straight. Ray, something dreadful has
happened to me." The Canadian gave his friend a stricken look. 

 Ray felt the laughter burbling up again, but tamped it down. "Uh, maybe
it has something to do with the fact that you only have one boot on," Ray
pointed out gently. 

 The Mountie dropped his head and stared at his feet for a long minute.
"Oh. Never mind." He straightened his shoulders and continued to make his
lopsided way down the hall. 

 In another fifteen minutes, Fraser was stretched out on the couch,
de-booted, re-aspirined, wrapped in a quilt Ray's mother had made, and
snoring softly. Ray looked at his friend and smiled. In the vulnerable
state of sleep, the Mountie was the picture of little-boy innocence. There
was no sign of the smouldering, sexy Benito. Ray re-positioned the empty
metal wastebasket designated as an emergency sickness receptacle. 

 "Sweet dreams, Fraser." 

 Ray made his phone calls, cleaned up the bathtub, finished getting
himself ready and finally, gratefully collapsed into his bed. It was 6:05.
He'd been up for close to 24 hours. "Need my beauty sleep," he yawned.
"Also need my strength to nurse Fraser through his first hangover." The
detective felt a twinge of sympathy as he envisioned the Mountie prostrate
with a pounding head and aching body brought on by too much alcohol. Ray
yawned again and hugged his pillow. His last conscious thought was of
Fraser begging to be put out of his misery. 

 "Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray." 

 The detective burrowed deeper into his bed trying to get away from the
voice that buzzed like a mosquito in his ears. 

 "Ray. Ray...." 

 "Go away," Ray snarled. At least that's what he meant to say. He wasn't
sure it came out as much more than an angry string of unintelligible
syllables. He didn't care. 

 "Ray. Ray..." 

 "Leave me alone," the detective groaned and stuffed his head under the
pillow. 

 "Ray." The pillow was pried away. "You have to get up, Ray." The voice
was insistent. 

 "I have a gun. I will shoot you if you don't go away," Ray threatened,
pulling the covers over his head. 

 "No, you won't," Fraser said confidently. 

 "Yes, I will. What time is it?" Ray's voice was muffled by the blanket. 

 "It's 9:30. You have to go to work," Fraser elaborated. "I have to be at
the Consulate by 11:00." 

 Ray sighed with the passion of a long-suffering martyr. He un-buried
himself enough to uncover his mouth and one eye which he blinked furiously
against the morning brightness. 

 "We are not working today. I called us out. You're sick," Ray spoke
slowly and deliberately. 

 "But, Ray, I feel fine," the Mountie protested. 

 "Huh?" Ray shifted the blanket and squinted up at his partner. 'Damn it,
he does look fine,' he thought, taking in Fraser's freshly scrubbed
appearance. The Mountie's hair was washed and neatly combed, his clothes
somehow appeared fresh and crisp and he was looking at Ray with his usual
alert expression. 

 Ray was confused. "You were pretty sick a couple of hours ago. And,
considering last night, you should be a hurting unit right now." 

 Fraser frowned. "Well, yes, I did eat something that disagreed with me,
but it has passed and I feel fine now," he proclaimed. 

 "Good for you, Fraser, but we're still not working today. I'm dead here.
I need sleep," Ray stated and reclaimed his pillow. He scrunched back down
in his bed. "Gimme a coupla hours. Go watch TV or rearrange the living
room or something." 

 "Ray, I ......" 

 "Fraser, if you want to live, leave me alone," Ray yelled. 

 "You're very cranky in the morning, Ray," Fraser observed. "Perhaps, if
you cut back on your caffeine input during the day, it would help." 

 "Fraser!" 

 "Understood." 

 The next time Ray looked at the clock it was 11:55. He yawned and
stretched. He could hear the TV playing softly in the living room. That
meant his partner was still in the apartment. It was tempting to roll over
and grab another hour of sleep. He deserved and needed it, but his
conscience nagged him into getting up and checking on Fraser. 

 Ray padded down the hall and peeked into the living room, mentally noting
the new positioning of the furniture. The Mountie was perched on the edge
of the couch, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees. He
was focused intently on the television. 

 "Watching something interesting, Fraser?" Ray yawned. 

 "Good morning, Ray! Yes, actually. Viki may have cancer, but she doesn't
want her husband to come back to her if she's sick. Dorian is leaving town
with Drake which has her family quite distressed. In the meantime, Sam
thinks he can use Skye to prove that Max is faking his medical condition.
And Skye has just....." 

 "Fraser, what are you watching?" Ray demanded. 

 "I don't know, Ray, but it's quite riveting." 

 The detective sighed loudly and headed for the bathroom. "Back in a jif,"
he called over his shoulder. 

 When Ray returned, he found the TV off and Fraser, in the kitchen,
humming as he prepared what appeared to be an omelet. 

 "Ouch, damn it," Ray swore, hopping slightly in reaction to the hard
thump of his shin against one of the living room end tables. "Why'd you
move this here, Fraser?" 

 "Oh, sorry, Ray. I thought it would allow better flow through the
apartment. There's a fresh pot of coffee on the counter, Ray," the Mountie
said with a bright smile. "I'll have your breakfast ready momentarily." 

 "Uh, thanks, Frase." Ray helped himself to a steaming cup of java. "Ahh,
needed that," the detective moaned after he swallowed his first sip. "How
are you feeling?" 

 "Quite well, thank you," said Fraser, cheerfully. He slid half the omelet
onto a plate and put it down on the small round table Ray used for eating.
He handed his partner a fork and a paper towel and waved him to a table
chair. 

 "This is good," Ray garbled through a full mouthful of egg when his
partner joined him at the table. 

 "I'm glad, Ray. I had to improvise somewhat. I wasn't sure if the....." 

 Ray cut him off. "Don't tell me. Just let me enjoy this and pretend it's
full of stuff I like." 

 "As you wish, Ray." 

 The men ate in companionable silence with Ray casting furtive glances at
his friend. 'He's got to be faking it. There's no way he's not suffering
with a killer headache or something.' The detective was amazed at his
partner's recuperative powers. Ray finished his meal and started on his
second cup of coffee. "So, Fraser, did you sleep all right?" 

 "Well, I did have the most extraordinary dreams, Ray," the Mountie
responded, running a nervous knuckle along his eyebrow. 

 Ray laughed. "Did it involve dancing and a couple of foxy ladies?" Ray
watched for his friend's reaction. He wasn't disappointed. 

 Fraser's eyes widened in disbelief and a hot pink flush crept up his
neck. "Ah, well....yes, actually. How did you know?" the Mountie asked
suspiciously. 

 'Oohh, I'm going to enjoy this,' Ray thought and proceeded to regale his
partner with the story of Benito, the salsa dance king, purveyor of bawdy
limericks and songs, and all round party guy. 

 "Ray! You're making this up. I would never do anything like that," the
Mountie objected, his face a deep scarlet with embarrassment. Shock gave
Fraser that frozen deer-in-the-headlights look. 

 It was tempting to continue the tormenting, but his partner looked so
distraught by these revelations that Ray decided not to mention the
mailbox incident right then. "It's the truth, I swear. That little rat ass
Dewey was spiking your cider." 

 Fraser dropped his head into his hands. "I'm sorry, Ray," he lamented. 

 "Huh? For what?" Ray was puzzled 

 "I've humiliated you, the Chicago PD, the RCMP and myself. How can I ever
face my colleagues again?" The Mountie looked up. His expression was so
woebegone that Ray felt guilty. 

 Ray leaned over and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Whoa, buddy,
don't go whipping up on yourself like this. It's okay. Really. The truth
is I was kinda proud of you. You can really dance, partner, and everybody
was having a good time. You didn't do anything to be ashamed of," Ray
tried to assure him. 'The mailbox is history. Our little secret, Frase,'
he resolved to himself. 

 "I'm not kidding, Fraser," Ray continued out loud. "It makes you more
human. I mean, here's super Mountie being just a regular guy. People like
that. People relate to that. It's nice to know you can carry on and drink
and smoke just like everyone else." 

 "I was smoking?" the Mountie asked in horror, his hand instinctively
reaching for his throat. 

 "Yeah, well, don't sweat it. I don't think you blackened your lungs or
anything. Look, I'm telling you, everything is good. You made some new
friends and proved that even Canadians can have fun." Ray shot his friend
a big grin. 

 Fraser still looked doubtful, but he managed a small answering smile. 

 "Hey, I'm going to grab a shower and get dressed. Do not touch the
dishes. I don't want my water pressure going all funky," Ray said. He
stood up and stretched. "If I'm not out in 20 minutes, send in one of
those Baywatch babes or maybe," he couldn't help himself, "one of your
dancing partners." 

 "Raaayyy!" 

 The End