Dead people   Graham Gregory Graham Gregory 9 1516
2000-12-14T11:52:00Z 2000-12-14T22:47:00Z 16 7853 44764 Home 373 89 54973
9.2720	       Rated R for bad language and m/m.   Sort of a sequel to
Boredom's the Real Silent Killer, although can be read alone.   As always
these characters belong to Alliance.   Doubting Ray   "Out on the wiley,
windy moors
 We'd roll and fall in green
 You had a temper, like my jealousy
 Too hot, too greedy
 How could you leave me?
 When I need to possess you
 I hated you, I loved you too"	Kate Bush Wuthering Heights     Dead
people. Stan hated any investigation involving them, even more so when he
was alone, Ray was off work with the flu. Stan had put up with hours and
hours worth of whinging on that particular subject. Fraser was busy with
his duties at the consulate, making him officially and unofficially
partner-less. Which meant he was not allowed near any case that may
involve requiring back up. So far this week he'd dealt with a missing
report of a cat, a stolen worm farm, a domestic spat over whose turn it
was to wash up, two parking tickets, millions of backlogged reports, a
missing person who was not actually missing, an insane woman, demanding
that he find the people who murdered Elvis, she'd slapped him when he
tried to tell her that Elvis was dead. Slapped him in front of the entire
precinct, gave everyone plenty to rag him about for the rest of the
afternoon, and now he had to deal with a dead guy.   He'd been driving
home from work when he'd supposedly had a heart attack, dying at the wheel
of his brand new Jaguar and writing it off using a lamppost.   Great. More
paperwork without an actual case to solve. Ill or not, Stan was
considering dragging Ray to work anyway. He was going stir crazy with this
menial, working for the sake of working, bullshit.    He got the fun of
arranging a post mortem with Mort and getting to hear the in-depth
conclusion of it.   Flu or no flu, Ray was going to pay for this.   The
deceased was a fifty seven year old taxi service owner. That surprised
Stan a little; the taxis must be doing pretty good if this guy's car was
any indication. Stan went through the car; the only thing that was
remarkable was the small gift that was wrapped in a simple gold paper and
a single bow in the corner. He read the tag.   Tim All my love S. xxx  
Kowalski then investigated the guy's wallet. Simon Walker, bingo, the
present was from him, to... double bingo, picture of a little boy. Great,
Stan thought bitterly, it was hard enough to break the news of a death to
someone without the knowledge there's another little fatherless boy out
there.   Stan put the present safely in his glove box, and sped off to the
listed address on the driving licence.	  <><><><><><>   "Good afternoon
ma'am, I'm Detective Stanley Kowalski from the CPD, may I have a quick
word with you?" she looked at him in confusion but waved him into the
house anyway. Stan looked around; it was really homely, small yet cosy,
decorated with warm colours. Mrs Walker was an attractive woman with
shoulder length blonde hair, tastefully dressed and a polite smile she was
also quite a bit younger than the late Mr Walker.   "What is this about
detective?" odd, she seemed rather defensive.   "I'm sorry, I have some
bad news..."   "Simon," she interrupted, Stan took a deep breath this was
really hard; he really hated this part of the job.   "I'm sorry Mrs
Walker, on the way home form work, your husband suffered a massive heart
attack, there was nothing they could do..." he trailed off at the sound of
a sudden intake of breath. Mrs Walker looked very pale, shock, Stan
suspected.   "Would you like me to make you some coffee?" he offered
kindly.   "No thank you," she composed herself, "his heart?" she asked.  
"They think so," Stan affirmed, "however there will be a post mortem, the
body will be released in a day or two and you can make funeral
arrangements." Stan had always felt particularly bad about telling people
that their loved ones would be cut open and prodded around. Stan shifted
from foot to foot anxiously as Mrs Walker slumped down into a chair.  
"Here," he said passing the present that had been tucked under his arm to
her, "this was found in your husband's car." She took the gift and looked
at the gift tag absentmindedly.   "Was it his birthday?" Stan asked to
make conversation.   "Whose?" she asked confusedly.   "Tim's" jeez, shock
is no reason to forget your kid's birthday.   "Who's Tim?" she asked him
back. Stan pointed at the present as he had an overwhelming fear building
in his stomach.   "Your son?" Stan asked uncertainly, hoping against hope,
praying that her son was in fact called Tim. He really should have done
more research on this one, but he'd got lazy, bored with tedious jobs.
He'd got sloppy, and now he was going to pay for it.   "My son's name is
Andrew, detective," she informed him angrily as she looked, really looked,
at the tag, "who the *hell* is Tim?" she demanded.   "I.." Ok, he could
understand she'd be angry with him, but she could have just *given* the
present back to him. She didn't have to bitchslap him with it. The impact
with his head made the pieces in the present ratted formidably, Stan hoped
that it was something that was unbreakable and supposed to be in that many
different pieces.   "I don't care *who* Tim is, Detective," she spat back
at him. Stan just stared at her bewilderedly, "I want to know *why* my
husband has a present for him," damn it, couldn't she ask him a question
he knew the answer for, like, what colour do Mounties wear? Or just how
far could he get his foot into his mouth? She seemed annoyed with his
stunned silence and slapped him again. Man this really was *not* turning
out to be a good day. Stan could feel his cheek begin to sting and was
pretty sure it was going to be glowing red in a few minutes. That woman
was strong, despite her petite size. With that she slumped down into a
chair defeated, silent tears trickling down her cheeks.   "I know who Tim
is," she admitted quietly, "I don't *know* him, know him, but I guess I've
always known, inside." Stan committed himself to a nod, hoping this woman
wasn't as insane as the mad Elvis fan, she noticed his confusion, "I can't
even call him the other woman and calling him the other man would sound
strange,"   "I'm sorry I..." Stan interrupted confused.   "My husband was
having an affair, detective," and the penny dropped, oh dear, he was
startled, no wonder she was upset and he was beginning to sound like
Fraser.   "Ah," damnit, he had to stay away from the Mountie.   "I've
always suspected, my friends used to tell me they saw him with a young
man, I'd always ask him about it, and he'd deny it. I believed him. Was
that wrong?" she asked him, "to trust my husband, was that wrong?"   "No,
that wasn't wrong," he comforted her.   "I think I'd like to be alone.
Thank you for coming detective," she choked out as she began to sob.  
"I'll just...er...let myself out...." Stan made a hasty retreat, hating
taking the cowardly way out, but not sure what else to do.   <><><><><><>
  Stan went back to the precinct present under arm, to be called instantly
into Welsh's office.    "What's this I hear about you ignoring a murder
detective?" Welsh demanded angrily.   "Huh?"   "I've had a complaint made
against you, I know that Vecchio is the brains of your outfit, but even
you should know that. Murders. Need. Investigating."   "It wasn't a
murder, sir, heart attack, unless Mort finished his report and come up
with something else," Stan defended.   "Not *that* case detective." Stan
continued to stare blankly at his superior, "a compliant was made by a Mrs
Presley, saying her husband had been murdered and yet you chose to do
nothing." With that Stan burst out laughing, both of his cheeks were red,
one a very nice hand print, the other just a general redness from the box.
But it all seemed unimportant at the moment, that was *funny*.   "Her
husband? Sir" Kowalski choked out between bouts of laughter, fuelled even
more by his boss's furious expression.   "Something funny about homicide
Kowalski?"   "Her husband? Elvis?"   "Yes, how did you know...?" Welsh
almost grinned, *almost*, but anger remained his primary emotion, "get the
hell out of my office Kowalski."   <><><><><><><>   Stan slumped at his
desk. Now all he had to do was track down the deceased's boyfriend, then
he could go home. He was dead on his feet; the whole 'going solo' thing
was a lot more tiring than he'd have thought it would have been. His first
thought was that Mr Walker could have met Tim through his business, it was
a long shot, but he didn't have any shorter ones. He made a few calls to
the taxi company Sean had owned, after three phone calls, he finally was
told that there were three Tim's working in the company. Could they tell
him any details about them? No, they do not disclose information about
employees. Did they care that he was a policeman? No, they didn't give a
rat's ass if he was the surgeon general, thank you kindly.   He had to
haul his ass all the way to their headquarters and talk to them in person.
  This was when Stan decided he *really* hated his job.   Sticking the
present back in the glove box and sped there in fury.   <><><><><><><>  
The best they could do was to give him the addresses of the three Tim's.
He came all the way across town for three fucking addresses? He was going
to fucking strangle someone! Could his day get much worse?   He looked at
the addresses, they couldn't have been more spread out over Chicago if the
Tim's had deliberately conspired to get an even distribution of Timness
through out the city. He looked at his watch; he'd only have time to visit
one of them with the rush hour traffic. If he picked the wrong Tim, the
right Tim would just have to wait until tomorrow.   <><><><><><><>   The
first Tim did turn out to be the wrong Tim. He was over sixty, smelled of
Dentifix and had a colony of cats in his house. Stan doubted that Mr
Walker had had a fetish for false teeth.   Stan had made his excuses
pretty promptly and escaped the man who had seemed intent on becoming his
new best friend. What was with the insane people this week? They all came
out to pester him in hoards.   <><><><><><><>   Welsh somehow had seemed
to know the exact moment he got back in the car, because his phone
shrilled into life.   "Kowalski," he whined down the phone, uncaring *who*
was on the other end. After the day he'd had, they should consider
themselves lucky he didn't yell at them.   "It's Welsh, I've got another
assignment for you,"   "Lieu, I'm off duty in five minutes," he whinged,
he was already pulling a double shift because they were so short staffed
with the flu going around. No doubt it would be another, fun, fulfilling
case that everyone else had refused to touch with a ten-foot bargepole.   
"There's been a break-in at Mrs Walker's house, the wife of the stiff this
morning, someone really turned the place over,"   "Get someone from
burglary to deal with it,"   "Kowalski, this classes as *suspicious*, you
are going to go over there and investigate it, OK? Your husband dies, you
get robbed, that's having one fucking bad day...."   Stan's only reply was
a growl as he hung up. He knew Welsh would take it as an affirmative,
Stanley was a good little boy, Stanley ate all of his greens and Stanley
hadn't eaten or slept for over twenty four hours and was still going to
check on the newly widowed woman's broken windows.   He growled to himself
all the way there in annoyance, or glucose deprivation, he didn't know or
care which it was.   <><><><><><><>   Nearly an hour of making endless
cups of tea, dusting for prints and comforting the crying woman, he made
his way tiredly back out to the car. Yes, even he had to admit it was
strange that she was burgled less than a few hours after her husband died.
If it was a coincidence, it was a freaky coincidence that Stan did not
like one little bit. They hadn't even stolen anything, not a single thing.
They'd just turned the entire house upside down while Mrs Walker was at
her mother's house with her son.   Weird.   <><><><><><>   Stan finally
pulled up outside his apartment block, knowing Ray would be waiting for
him. Ray had stayed there for fear that the Vecchio children would drive
him nuts being cooped up all day with them while they were on holiday from
school. No one had questioned that he had stayed at Stan's; they all
seemed to think it was natural that he'd stay with his partner while he
snivelled and sneezed. But then they probably didn't know that Stan had to
share his bed with Mr Infectious. Ray was rarely ever ill, but when he
was, he did it in style, got some sort of special mutant flu, another
reason the Vecchio family were actually glad to be rid of a sick Ray.
Which meant Stan was actually sharing his bed with a giant ball of mucus,
and that meant no sex. An entire week of no sex, just another thing that
was driving him nuts.   Just before he got out of the car, Stan remembered
the present in his glove box, not really safe to leave it in there
overnight. He stuck it in his bag he'd kept a change of clothes in for
when he'd had an hour nap between his shifts and got changed. He was *so*
glad that Welsh didn't expect him in on time tomorrow morning.   He
dragged his feet tiredly up the stairs. He was kind of hoping Ray would
already be asleep so he could just flop into bed. But if Ray was awake no
doubt even though he was ill, Ray would make him eat nutritiously and
right now he didn't have enough energy. He'd only end up snapping at him
and causing a fight.   No scratch that.   He was too tired to fight.  
Finally, after three attempts he got the key into the lock and opened the
door. His luck was definitely not holding today. Ray was up and by the
looks of it; he'd been waiting up, ill with his bright red, blocked nose,
big thick green dressing gown. Just lying in wait to make him eat.    Stan
shrugged off his jacket and dropped his bag next to the chair that Ray was
occupying.   "Good day?" Ray enquired,   "I. Do. Not. Want. To. Talk.
About. It."   "Oooh, moody," Ray observed, "there's salad in the fridge.
Why are you so late?"   "Vecchio, did you not hear what I *just* said?
Could you *please* shut the fuck up," okay, he was hungry and tired. He
morphed into a complete asshole. It wasn't his fault. Really. But went and
munched disinterestedly at the assortment of *healthy* things Vecchio in
his delirium induced state had thrown together for him. He leant with his
back against the fridge as he munched on a stick of carrot. Too tired to
care, he shoved the half finished salad back and went on a mission to the
bedroom, dragging a protesting Vecchio with him. Ok, so when he got hungry
and tired he wasn't just an asshole, he was bossy, sarcastic and uncaring.
He could just imagine the wise ass remarks that Vecchio would come up with
if he ever told him that.   <><><><><><><>   Vecchio led awake next to an
exhausted Kowalski until he was sure he was asleep. He'd never seen him
quite that grouchy, or tired, or that disinterested in him. Ray knew he
was being unfair expecting attention all the time from Stan, but he
normally rang to say he'd be late, or to check how his fever was. Ray felt
oddly neglected.   He'd never admit it, but Stan sometimes did the old
mother hen act on him. Ray couldn't believe he'd never even put the moves
on him. No matter how sick or mucus infested he got, Stan had *always*
tried to persuade him, tried to coax him into bed.    Ray's ego was hurt.
Ok, so he had a fever, was that grounds to make him undesirable to Stan?  
Ok, so he'd dragged him to bed, but Ray suspected it was more to do with
Stan was afraid that he'd keep him awake with the light on otherwise,
because as soon as he got him there, Stan had stripped, led, back to Ray,
and not moved since.   Ray, however, wasn't tired. He'd been in bed nearly
all day. Now it was night time and he was wide-awake. He slowly crept out
of the bed and out of the room. He flopped down onto the sofa and stared
at the walls, bored with the apartment after have an enforced stay of
nearly a week. Ray noticed Stan's bag on the floor, one day Ray was really
going to have to teach him to tidy up after himself. He picked up the bag
and emptied out the dirty clothing, his hands closing around an unfamiliar
box in the darkness.    Ray smiled as he took it over to the window where
a beam of light from the streetlamp outside shone in.   He knew he was
just being paranoid. Stan was just tired. Stan had bought him a present
because he was ill, Stan loved him, he only doubted him because of this
damn fever. Yeah that was it, the fever. He rattled the box
experimentally.    Ray was grinning inanely until he read the tag.   Who
the *fuck* was Tim?   And why the *hell* was Stan giving him presents,
signed with 'all my love'?   Ray was so fucking angry he actually
considered hunting this Tim down in the middle of the night to strangle
him to death. Ray couldn't remember the last time he'd felt quite this
angry.   Yes he did. It was when he found Milner with his filthy paws all
over Stan. But this was different, this was *consensual*. Stan was
cheating on him. Not only was he cheating on him, he was buying gifts for
his bit on the side. Oh, this was different, this time half of his anger
was directed at Stan. Maybe a bit more than half.   Couldn't the guy go a
week without getting laid? Was Ray neglecting him so much he had to look
elsewhere? Although a week was hardly long enough to develop a
relationship enough to be buying presents and sign them 'all my love'.
That's at least third or fourth week dating behaviour. Mr Paranoid and
Suspicious took over Ray's consciousness.   Stan had been 'working' late
every single night this week. No Fraser, no partner to check up on him, he
could have been doing whatever he liked. It wasn't that he didn't trust
Stan... it was just that he didn't trust him enough.   All the excuses
Stan had *ever* made came back to him in stereo surround sound.   I'm too
tired.   Ray, for Christ sakes I was shot today!   Huh, what did you say?
These meds are pretty strong. Zzzzzz   I've got a headache.    Well, ok,
so he never used the last one. But he may as well have done, because
*Stan* has someone to scratch his itch when Ray is not good enough.   Ray
shoved the gift angrily back into Stan's bag along with him dirty clothes
and stormed back to bed. He led, back to Stan and fumed to himself in the
darkness. He was too pissed off to sleep, too pissed off to do anything
other than lay lie stiffly next to his cheating lover and seethe.   
<><><><><><><>   Five hours.   Five fucking hours.   Man, he needed more
sleep than that, he rested his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes
and concentrated. Nope, no good. He was in that weird transitional place
between adrenaline high and complete exhaustion and his body didn't have a
fucking clue what to do about it. Welsh wasn't even expecting him in for
another four hours. Great.    Stan hauled his ass out of bed using a
tremendous amount of energy. He stood there for a while and looked at Ray,
for some reason he had chosen to lie facing away from him curled into a
tight ball. Stan hoped he wasn't getting sicker again, he leant over and
felt his lover's forehead careful not to wake him. If anything Ray's fever
seemed to be breaking. Stan had been a complete git last night though,
perhaps he was pissed off about having to stay up late then get yelled at.
  Tough, thought Stan, he'd had an entire weeks worth of sleepless nights
with his shivering fits, coughing fits and fits of uncontrolled whinging.
He deserved a little sleep deprivation after what he'd put Stan through
already.   Stan crept around the room, getting dressed, not willing to
risk a shower for fear it would wake Ray and shove him further into the
doghouse than usual. He grabbed a change of clothes so he could shower
once he got to the precinct.    But first, he was going Tim hunting. He
grabbed his bag, paused quickly, told a sleeping Ray he was going to work
got a grunt in response, told him to be careful and ring him if anything
happened. Another grunt. Told him there was stew in the fridge that he'd
made the other night, he only had to heat it up. Yet another grunt. He
kissed him chastely on the lips, thought he must have imagined the way
Ray's lips stiffened beneath him and ran to the door.   <><><><><><><>  
Ray had led there, feigning sleep as Stan went through his morning ritual
of motherhenness and Ray couldn't help but resent him for it, was this to
alleviate his guilt while he was with *Tim*? Then without warning he felt
Stan's lips on his and he didn't want to think about how the sensation
made him either want to punch his lover or be sick.   As soon as Ray heard
the front door closing he jumped up and went to the window to watch Stan
speed away in the direction *away* fro the 27th. If Ray weren't so ill,
he'd follow him.   He did the next best thing, he picked up the phone and
dialled the consulate.	  "Canadian Consulate, Constable Benton Fraser
RCMP speaking, how can I be of assistance?" man, the Mountie sounded
tired, kind of like he'd just got up, well what do ya know, he beat the
Mountie up. That was an achievement. That's when Ray looked at the clock
for the first time. Four o'clock. Four o'friggin'clock. What the hell was
Stan doing up at that hour? Ray almost felt like crying, he *knew* what
Stan was doing, he'd jumped out of his bed and went straight to some guy's
called Tim.    "Hey Benny," Ray tried to sound cheerful. It nearly turned
into he real thing when he heard the shock in his friend's voice.   "Ray!
What are you doing up at this hour? Are you ok?" always the considerate
little Mountie, concerned about his health.    "Yeah Fraser I'm fine," ok,
he hadn't meant that to sound quite so bitter.   "Ray are you sure you're
ok?"   "I'm not ok Fraser," he admitted quietly.   "What's wrong Ray?"
apparently Fraser, even in his sleep-induced state could pick up on
misery.   "Stan's having an affair," he nearly choked on the words. Ok,
finally, he'd found something to leave the Mountie speechless, shame it
couldn't be under different circumstances.    "Are you sure Ray?"  
"Fraser, would I be this miserable and up at 4am if I wasn't sure?"  
"Well, no. But what makes you so sure?"   "Fraser, the guy's been coming
home late every night, he's been moody and grouchy, and I mean more than
usual. He's got fancy dancy presents lying around for his beloved Tim and
if you can think of a good reason he'd be out at this time in the morning,
you've got one hell of an imagination."   "I'm sure there's a good
explanation for all of those Ray, I know they're short staffed with the
flu, Lieutenant Welsh probably has him on extra shifts to compensate,"  
"Welsh may be an ogre, but even he wouldn't make it so Stan comes in at
eleven and leaves at four." Ok, double speechless Mountie, "try and
explain the present Benton buddy, cuz I got zippo for excuses on that one,
except that maybe Stan has an illegitimate love child out there."   "Would
you like me to come over Ray? I have a few hours before my shift
starts..." Ray hated himself for being so weak and needy,   "Thanks
buddy," craving someone to tell him he was having flu induced
hallucinations.   <><><><><><><>   Stan growled to himself in the morning
traffic jam. The second Tim apparently had never even met Mr Walker in
person, he seemed completely unfazed by the news of his death, Stan didn't
think someone who was involved with the guy, no matter how much they
wanted to keep the relationship secret could act that nonplussed.   Third
Tim lucky. Timothy Dalton.   Stan pulled up outside the apartment
building, grabbed the present and made his way to the third floor. Third
Tim looked promising. Late thirties, good-looking Stan observed in a
disinterested way, dark hair, tall, well built.   He was not expecting the
flood of tears to follow the news he just delivered though, or the
desperate clutching at the front of his tee shirt as the other man sobbed
into his shoulder. Stan patted him on the back awkwardly; hoping that the
death grip the guy had on him wouldn't get any tighter.   Finally, after
being released Stan went about his duty as a caring police officer and
made Tim a cup of coffee. Tim sat stiffly in an armchair hiccupping with
the after-effects of too much crying, the new object of his death grip
being a steaming coffee mug.   "You see, me and Simon, we were more like
soul mates. He was going to tell his wife about us yesterday, don't give
me that look officer, I know what you're thinking, he was going to tell
her, we were meant to be moving to France at the end of the week. He'd
booked us seats on a flight and rented us an apartment and all,"    "What
about his business?" Stan asked. He'd been over the financial state of the
business, it was lucrative, yet not lucrative enough to pay for the all
the fancy nik naks the guy had had.   "He was going to run it from abroad,
let his deputy have the reigns," Stan nodded noncommittally, unwilling to
say anything that may restart the endless wave of tears.   "Have you ever
been in love officer?" Tim asked him out of the blue with a wistful dreamy
expression on his face. Stan felt a grin equally as goofy take over his
features as he thought of Ray.   "Yeah," Tim seemed to come back to
himself, looking straight at him with a serious expression.   "You should
cherish it while you can, don't take it for granted," Stan nodded in
agreement; he'd never take Ray for granted. Then he remembered the way he
had snapped and grouched at Ray last night while he was still ill, how
he'd left him in bed alone this morning, how he'd left him alone all week
for that matter. Guilty didn't cover the way Stan felt. He was also
shocked at the look of sympathy the other man gave him after noticing his
guilt.   "What's their name?" Tim asked him out of curiosity.   "Ray," ok,
that wasn't meant to slip out, saying he was in a relationship with his
partner was hardly something he wanted to advertise. He hadn't wanted to
blurt out the truth, must be because he was so miserable and tired he was
losing it, not being professional. Tim at least had the decency to look
shocked.   "Is that 'Ray' as in 'Raymond'?" so he could hardly back out of
it now, plus he couldn't think of a single female version of the name
'Ray', hmmm, 'Rayetta'? He just nodded in affirmative, annoyed at being
caught out. But Tim just sat there and smiled at him knowingly, he still
managed to look miserable through the grin.   "And you love him?" once
again Stan looked at the grieving man and couldn't lie, nodding his head
brusquely, "hang onto that for as long as you can," the man gave him his
advice in a sage tone. Stan knew then and there he was going to do just
that.   <><><><><><><>   "Ray, you really need to calm down," Fraser tried
to placate the fuming man.   "You heard the Lieutenant, he's. Not. In.
Work," he punctuated each work by slamming his fist into his palm, "that
means he is somewhere else, and we all know where, or should I say with
*who* that place is."   Fraser couldn't argue in Stan's defence, as much
as he'd like to be able to. The evidence against Stan was beginning to
become insurmountable. Fraser had convinced Ray to not jump to
conclusions, suggesting that he call Stan at the station, certain that
Stan would in fact be there and that Ray had been imaging things in his
paranoid delusional state. That was before he'd heard Ray saying to the
lieutenant it was nothing serious and he didn't need to leave a message,
he'd just call back later when Stan got there. Ray had then informed him
that Stan was not due in till at least nine and he had no idea where the
wayward detective had gone. Fraser was proud of the mature and calm way
Ray was taking the news, that was *before* he punched a hole through the
plasterboard in the kitchen wall and threw Stan's mobile phone against the
wall, watching with a smug look of satisfaction as he watched the
shattered pieces fall to the floor. The look of satisfaction, however, was
short lived and was soon replaced by the more familiar look of misery.
Then he watched helplessly as Ray turned his destructive ministrations
onto Stan's beloved stereo, watching as Ray *accidentally* knocked it onto
the floor and *accidentally* repeatedly kick and stamp on it until it
resembled the mess that was once Stan's former phone.    "I'm going to
fucking kill him," Ray promised. Fraser at this point was unable to tell
for certain the *who* Ray was referring to, Stan or the alleged object of
his desires, Tim?   "Ray, I'm sure this can be solved in a non-violent
way,"   "Who am I kidding Fraser? I'm not going to kill him, I love him,"
Ray seemed shocked at his own admission as he slumped down dejectedly in
the chair, "you know, I must be some kind of loser, I've already decided
that I've forgiven him, I'd take him back if he promised not to do it
again, how pathetic is that?"   "That's not pathetic Ray, it's noble, and
forgiveness is a very elusive gift, to err is human, to forgive divine,"  
"Of course, I'd probably have to destroy every piece of his property and
force him to stay where I could see him 24-7, and quite possibly beat the
shit out of him."   "I thought we'd had this discussion on violence?"  
"You had the discussion, I'm still in favour of it," as much as Fraser
hated to admit it, he was angry with Stan himself, he'd never seen Ray
hurt quite this bad, so bad that he was being open and honest. Why just
looking at the look of utter misery on his friends face he'd like to....  
No. He was a Mountie. A Mountie I tell you, they do not succumb to whims
of the violent kind.   <><><><><><><>   "Here," Stan belatedly remembered
the present, the entire object of this little extracurricular activity,
after running out to the GTO to retrieve it. Tim took it and looked at it
reverently, "It was found in his car,"   "And you tracked me down?" Tim's
voice was kind of wondrous, awed.   "Uh, yeah,"   "Most cops wouldn't have
bothered, to find the 'other man'"   "I'm not most cops." Tim smiled at
him in understanding.   <><><><><><><>   Ray was furious, he couldn't
remember a time when he'd felt so consumed with rage and have nothing to
take it out on. He didn't really want to take it out on Stan, it was just
a shame he'd taken the GTO with him otherwise he'd have had racing stripes
'a la' key scratches down his precious paintwork. Ray was inordinately
pleased that Fraser was still with him, stopping him from doing anything
too drastic. Ok, so he'd destroyed a few of Kowalski's best possessions,
but in the end they were just materialistic objects, Ray wanted to inflict
pain like what Stan had bestowed upon him. Having your heart ripped out
given a good going over with a rolling pin, shredded up in a
cheese-grater, washed in vinegar and replaced into his gaping chest. Ray
was also concerned about the origin of all of the food metaphors.  
<><><><><><><>   Kowalski decided to drive straight to the precinct after
Tim assured him he was going to be fine. He'd still be in earlier than
Welsh was expecting him, he wondered if it was possible for him to be
blamed if his boss keeled over and died out of the shock of him turning up
early.   By the time Stan had got to the GTO his mood have improved
somewhat. He was almost *smiling*, his facial muscles had forgotten what
it was like to pull his face into anything other than a scowl, which was
all he'd done in the last week. He was nearly half way to the precinct
when he heard the message over the radio, for a very familiar address
where they'd found a man badly beaten, Stan pulled the GTO in a very
daring U turn on a busy road and raced back to the apartment where he'd
just left Tim.   Flying full pelt along the road and screeching to a halt
outside the apartment building, only to hear another report over the radio
saying they were in foot pursuit of the suspected criminals a block and a
block and a half away. Peeling away again in a cloud of burning rubber and
a petrol smell that was an accurate indicator that the operator of the
vehicle was not using the gas pedal in moderation. Swinging the car into
the alley where the beat cops had reported the sighting, seeing a flash of
deep blue all but fly over the wall at the end of the alleyway, Stan
jumped out of the car, slammed the door and joined the fray.    Stan
wasn't sure how he'd managed it, but by the time he'd got over the wall he
had a good view of the backs of the cops and the two running guys in front
of them. Time for drastic action Stan decided, which meant time for
Fraser- like action. He could see the bad guys rounding a corner, hoping
to escape at the other end of the alley. Stan flew up the fire escape,
positive that Fraser must have done something equally stupid at one time.
Luckily the roof of the building was relatively low so he didn't have to
run up too many flights of stairs. Sprinting across the roof, he noticed
the ever-pointless yet reliable wire, running from the edge of the
building he was on to the shorter building on the other side of the alley.
Without thinking, he pulled his jumper sleeve over his hand and hooked it
over the wire, prayed to whatever gods keep insane red tunic-ed men safe
when they did stupid things, and jumped.   Stan wasn't even sure why he
was doing this to catch these guys, yeah, he believed in the pursuit of
justice, but not normally to the extent where he was voluntarily jumping
off of buildings. Possibly it was because he felt a connection with Tim,
knowing the roles could very easily be reversed, him being the bereaved
lover.   //I'm sorry Kowalski, they did everything they could...//   Which
was now, why he was plummeting towards the ground at breakneck speed,
hell, he'd even overtaken the cops and the suspects. Things were going
exactly to plan.   He was nearly there. So close.    //snap//   Oh shit.
Ok, the ground was rushing up to meet him at a speed Stan was non-too
thrilled about. Drawing his gun while he still could, Stan braced himself
for the impact, landing heavily on his shoulder at the feet of the
suspects, rolling for what felt like a thousand times until Stan was not
sure which way was up. Coming to a stop in a convenient position, facing
the perpetrators uninjured gun arm stuck out in their direction.
Scrambling to his feet in a drunken like heave, nearly toppling as the
world continued its insistence to spin. He heard himself shout.   "Freeze
assholes," Saw the beat cops surround their captives, heard the clinking
of handcuffs, and then sank back to the floor.   "Hey, mister, you got a
permit for that?" if he could have got up to kick the guy in the head for
asking him such a dumb ass question, he would have. Luckily for the guy,
Stan felt like he couldn't move.    "M'a'cop," was all he could get out.  
"Sure," oh, man the kid was *patronising* him, he felt the impersonal pat
down, finding his wallet. What a way to thank the guy who just caught the
bad guys for you.    "Hey, Brad, if we hurry, perhaps we could stick him
in the same bus as the other guy," Stan felt two strong pairs of hands
haul him unsteadily to his feet.   "Can you walk buddy?" it wasn't a
question, Stan could hear the blatant undercurrent; 'you *will* walk
buddy'.    Stan didn't really remember the walk back to Tim's apartment,
his shoulder hurt too much to concentrate on anything else, plus his head
felt kind of fuzzy, Stan didn't think he could remember hitting it, he
hoped it was just the pain making him feel funky, he knew Ray would kill
him if he got concussion *again*.   Apparently, by the time they'd got him
into the ambulance, they were satisfied with his identity, after finding
his badge and handcuffs. They'd even apologised, in a round about kind of
way, for their unbelieving.    "You want us to call your CO?"  
"Lieutenant Welsh," was all he supplied them with before closing his eyes
in the empty seat in the ambulance, so he wouldn't have to look at the
broken body in front of him, they had, however, reassured him that it
looked worse than it was and he would be fine.   <><><><><><><>   Welsh
had forgotten the number of times that he had got a phone call from the
hospital telling him that another one of his detectives were damaged
again. But Kowalski? He'd given him more stress than the rest of the
department put together. He was once again in hospital, they were fairly
certain that there was nothing serious wrong with him and he'd probably be
fine. That would be until Vecchio got hold of him, Welsh wasn't stupid or
blind, he knew about their relationship, although he was fairly sure
no-one else knew, so until it became common knowledge, Welsh could quite
easily turn a blind eye. Although that did make it more difficult when he
had to inform Vecchio about his partner's whereabouts. He knew Vecchio
would go ballistic.   <><><><><><><>   Fraser was pleased that Ray was
finally calming down. After he'd smashed Stan's television and his CD
collection had been strewn over the apartment, Ray had quieted and now sat
silently on the couch. Fraser stood stiffly in the middle of the room,
unsure what to do, he was aware he was going to be late for work, but was
unwilling to leave Ray like this. Then the phone rang, saving him from the
uncomfortable silence.	  "I'll get it," Fraser was unsure whom he was
talking to, as Ray had made no move to answer it.   "Kowalski residence,
Constable Benton Fraser speaking,"   "Aahh, constable, is Vecchio there?"
Fraser looked at Ray and his current mission carving chunks out of Stan's
coffee table.   "Uuhh, yes sir, but he is otherwise indisposed,"   "I
won't even ask, is it possible to give him a message?"   "Of course sir,"
  "Kowalski's in hospital, now before you say anything, all they've told
me is it isn't serious, if they tell you anything else it will be nothing
short of a miracle and I'd appreciate being kept updated,"   "Of course
sir," Fraser was shell shocked, Ray had just been discussing how he'd like
to hospitalise his partner, he wondered how he would react when he'd found
his wish had come true.   He moved and sat next to Ray,   "What did Welsh
want?"   "He was calling about Stan," Fraser started, "he's in hospital,"
he could see the instant change in demeanour in his friend, his cast
worried eyes towards him.    "Is he ok?"   "Yes, they have assured
Lieutenant Welsh that his condition is not critical," Fraser could see the
instant that the meaning 'not serious' hit home to Ray, his eyes once
again became hard, his mouth drawn into a thin line.   "Good," he ground
out.   "Ray, surely you can't mean that,"   "Yeah, I do buddy, he deserves
it."   "Ray, we still do not know the extent of his injuries, would you
like me to come with you to the hospital?" Fraser really hoped that seeing
Stan in a hospital bed would appeal to Ray's softer, more forgiving
nature.   "You can do whatever you want buddy, I don't care,"  
<><><><><><><>   Stan sat, propped up by pillows in a stark white hospital
room. He had a dislocated shoulder and the procedure to pop it back in
unpleasant, actually he thought, to say it was unpleasant was an
understatement. Now though, he was just bored, they given his head a scan
and doped him up good on all kinds of drugs, they were just waiting for
the results, then he was a free man. He'd been pretty much out of it since
the fall, but since getting to the hospital he'd been doing great, well
that was before the wacky cocktail of drugs took effect, now he felt out
of it again, everything was strange and surreal, the lights too bright,
the bed too soft and the noises of hustle and bustle around him far too
loud. He wondered if the cops had informed Welsh like they said they
would, he was sure he could remember them saying that they would, but then
if someone had told him he'd seen dancing pink elephants at the moment,
he'd be inclined to believe them.   He could only presume that they
hadn't, because he hadn't had a single visitor, not Welsh, not the
complimentary cop from the 27th, not Fraser and, most importantly, not
Ray. He was Mr Popularity.    He hated to admit the sign of weakness, but
he was lonely, he hadn't had a single solitary moment to himself since
taking the Vecchio gig and he'd just, kinda, got used to other people
being there.    <><><><><><><><>   Fraser had made sure Ray was in the
customary six layers of clothing that any flu patient should have when
leaving the indoors. After that he drove the posted speed limit and
stopped at every red light until the finally got to the hospital. Not that
Ray had complained at all about the delay, in fact Fraser thought he
looked rather relieved about delaying the inevitable for a while.   "We're
here to see Detective Kowalski," Fraser politely informed the already
flirting receptionist.   "Of course sir, I'll get the doctor to come and
get you," she beamed at him while indicating that he should wait in
chairs.   They hadn't long sat down before a balding man in a white coat
came up and introduced himself as Stan's doctor. He told them they were
just awaiting the CT scan results then, all being well, they could take
him home. He also warned them that Stan wouldn't be up to much in the way
of conversation because of the medication they had used, Fraser reflected
that was probably a good thing considering Ray's mood. They were escorted
to a small examination room where they could see a semi dozing Stan
propped up by pillows, scratches down one side of his face enhancing the
deep lines of exhaustion a stark white sling encasing his arm with a
matching support band.	  Stan opened his eyes as they came into the room.
His smile as he saw them could have rivalled the one hundred watt bulbs on
the ceiling. The only word Fraser could come up with to define his
expression was smitten, although Stan would quite possibly kill him if he
ever found out he'd even *thought* that.   Although this just didn't
corroborate with the alleged affair that Stan was apparently having.
Apparently Ray, however, still thought the same as Fraser watch his jaw
tighten in anger and cross his arms defensively across his chest.   Oh
dear, this wasn't going to go well.   <><><><><><><><>   Ray couldn't help
the way his stomach did somersaults when he saw Stan. The guy looked like
shit. Despite the happy grin he greeted them with Ray was still angry, so
he remained stood at the end of the bed.   "What's wrong Ray?" good
detective skills you've got there Stanley.   "Nothing," he lied harshly.  
"Oh," Ray couldn't help but feel slightly triumphant that the smile was
gone. He knew it was petty and childish, but he didn't care. An
uncomfortable silence descended on the room, he could see Fraser out of
the corner of his eye, fidgeting, Ray knew he was just dying to bolt out
of the room. Stan just led there, fiddling with his sling nervously.   But
they were saved from the awkwardness far too quickly when the doctor
remerged.    "You were very lucky detective, next time you want to jump
off of buildings, at least wear a crash helmet, as it is though, you
escaped relatively unscathed, however I am putting you on a weeks light
duties, you are to bathe the scratches twice a day with salt water and
wear that sling all of the time. Do you understand me?"   "Yeah, yeah,"
Stan replied as he swung his legs from under the covers grabbing his jeans
from the table next to him and pulling them on. Slinging his tattered tee
shirt on over his head, an abnormal bulge remained where his other arm was
still under the fabric, the left sleeve lying flaccid at his side. He
shoved his feet into the boots lying at the side of his bed and then
strode, somewhat precariously, out of the door.   "Hey, Stan the exit's
this way," Ray called after him in annoyance as Stan took a wrong turn.
Stan just looked at him and carried on in the direction he'd started off
in, leaving Ray and Fraser no choice but to follow.   They followed him
all the way back to the receptionists desk, that's where Ray had a bout of
blind fury, the moment he heard his lover ask about the whereabouts of
Timothy Dalton, Ray could have been quite happy to shoot Stan, right in
the middle of a hospital. He watched numbly as Stan thanked the
receptionist politely and headed off down the corridor again.   
<><><><><><><>   Ray was acting weird. Well, weirder than normal. Stan
hoped it was the fever making him so strange, not something he'd done.  
He turned the corner and went into the room the receptionist had told him,
Tim looked worse off than he did, his face had a huge purple bruise over
one eye, a bandage encased his head and a plaster cast over one forearm.
But, he was a wake and smiled at him when he came in.    "Hey," he greeted
him.   "When they said that a police officer had attempted a daring feat
to capture my attackers, I didn't think it was you,"   "Well, ya know, I
was in the area..." Stan blushed.   "Are you ok?"   "Yeah, greatness, not
going to go jumping off of any more buildings anytime soon, how about
you?"   "I'll live," and that was all the conversation they had time for
until they were interrupted by a blur of furious Italian.    "What the
fuck do you think you're doing?" Ray demanded. Stan was confused, what the
hell was his lover so angry about and why was he yelling at him?   "I,
uh..."   "Don't play the fucking innocent with me, I haul my bedridden ass
all the way down here, *not* so you can go and visit your bit on the
side." Oh, that made sense; Vecchio had finally lost his mind.   "You must
be Raymond," Tim interrupted.   "How the fuck do you know my name, don't
tell me he fucking talked about me!" Stan was finally beginning to catch
up, Ray, for some reason, thought he was having an affair, and seemed
ready to kill someone over the misconception.    "Ray, calm down,"  
"Don't fucking tell me to calm down," he yelled back, "and it's
*detective* Vecchio to you, scumbag," he directed at Tim. Stan grabbed
Ray's chin with is good hand,   "Look at me Ray," forcing Ray to meet his
eyes, "do you really think I could ever cheat on you?" Ray just shook his
head miserably.   "I *thought* you'd never cheat on me, but how the hell
do you explain *Timothy* here?"   "He was in a relationship with a heart
attack victim,"   "So, you had to buy him a present?"   "No, that present
was from his lover, I was just the delivery boy," Stan could almost watch
the light dawn in Ray's eyes and he cast a sheepish grin to them both.
Then hugged Stan fervently. Stan promptly let out a yelp as he pressed
against his shoulder.    "I can't believe you'd ever think that," now it
was Stan's turn to be angry, as he stalked off to find Fraser so he could
get the hell out of this hospital.   "I'm, er, sorry," Ray apologised to
Tim.   "You know, I really didn't think you'd be his type,"   "What's
*that* supposed to mean?" Ray demanded in irritation.   "I just thought
he'd go for the muscley type, possibly someone younger,"   "Keep talking
buddy and you won't need a hospital bed, you'll need a morgue."  
<><><><><><><>   Apparently things had not gone well, well that was
judging by the mood he met Stan in. Fraser quickly fussed him into the
back of the Riv and took up position in the driving seat, waiting for Ray.
  Inspector Thatcher was going to be extremely agitated, to put it mildly,
about his absence from work. It was going to get considerably worse as
well. The doctor had demanded that someone stay with Stan throughout the
night, waking him up every two hours to check to see if there was any
concussion, Ray was clearly not well enough to do this. So the duty fell
towards this particular Mountie, otherwise Stan would have to stay in
hospital for the night; and they'd *never* hear the end of *that*.   But
to make matters worse, Ray needed looking after as well, he was no as
*over* the flu as he would like to pretend he was. That means that he
would also have the inevitable job of referee.   I am a Mountie.....  
<><><><><><>   Ray found both partners already in the car waiting for him.
Stan, almost half asleep, still managed to scowl at him. The silence that
encased the entire ride home grated at Ray's nerves, ok, so he did
something *stupid* it wouldn't be the first time, and it also wouldn't be
the first time Stan had done something stupid, like, for example; jump off
of a building.   He watched helplessly as Fraser slowly helped a wobbly
Stan up the stairs.    <><><><><><>   "What the *fuck* happened to my
apartment?"   This brought Ray out of his reverie, he looked around the
place, yes it was a state, and everything that was, or had ever been
valuable to Stan was either: crushed, splintered, gouged, smashed, or
unrecognisable.    Ok, so he'd been a little mad.   And now it was Stan's
turn to be mad.   "What the *fuck* did you do to my apartment Vecchio?" No
more *our* apartment, we were strictly on surname basis now.  
"Well......"   "Never'the fuck'mind!" he growled back as he stormed off
into the bedroom. The loud slamming of the bedroom door echoed around the
apartment.   "Maybe I shouldn't have touched the television,"  
<><><><><><><>   Stan was furious, he was so fucking angry he couldn't see
straight. His lover didn't trust him *and* said lover had methodically
destroyed his home. Plus his head hurt like a son of a bitch, and he
couldn't even get undressed properly with. One. Frigging .Arm!	  He
flopped down dejectedly on the bed, absurdly happy that his medication
made him fall quickly into a deep slumber.   <><><><><><><>   Fraser set
to work with Ray to clean up the apartment as best they could. There was
nothing that could be done for the television, Stan's cell phone, his CD
collection or his stereo. Ray was going to be in big trouble when Stan
woke up and realised the extent of the damage. Fraser would have preferred
not to be around for that particular fall-out. Yet he didn't have a lot of
choice in the matter, he had promised to look after Stan, so he was going
to.   He was a Mountie.   <><><><><><><>   Stan woke up to a tentative
prodding and the usual 'Stan, Stan, Stan' litany. His head felt like it
had been steamrolled and used as a baseball. It didn't help that when he
opened his eyes he had a face full of Mountie. It felt as if he'd only
been asleep for two minutes after he'd last been woken up.   Having a head
injury sucked.	  "How are you feeling?" all Stan allowed himself was a
noncommittal grunt.   "Leftenant Welsh would like a word with you, I was
against waking you up again, but he was rather, uh, insistent on the
matter," Stan reached out blindly and felt the phone being placed into his
hand.   "N'yah,"   "Still as eloquent as ever Kowalski,"   "N'grrrr,"  
"It's about those perps you caught earlier," now, this got his attention,
"it's about the contents of the gift," Welsh paused, Stan hoped his wasn't
expecting some kind of prompting or *conversation*.   "Uncut diamonds to
be precise,"   "Diamonds?!?"   "Ah, so you haven't forgot how to speak,"  
"Get back to the bit about the diamonds lieu."	  "Apparently Mr Walker,
the model family man, smuggled Diamond from Europe in his spare time," a
thought suddenly occurred to Stan.   "No, his death was completely legit,
he died before these guys could get a chance to kill him." Man, was he
*that* predictable?   "I was followed?" damnit, he'd actually led those
assholes straight to Tim.   "It would seem likely detective." How could he
have been so *stupid*? He hadn't even noticed that he was being followed;
they must have followed him here, to Mrs Walker's house, hence the
burglary, then back here to his apartment, then to Tim's. He hadn't even
noticed, yeah he was tired, but that shouldn't have stopped him doing his
duty, his 'protect' part of 'serve and protect' was sadly lacking.   He
was out of bed and checking himself in the mirror before he even realised
it. He looked a little rumpled, make that a *lot* rumpled. He sniffed his
one accessible armpit, uhhh, not wonderful, but it'd do.    He grabbed his
car keys; pretty certain that because he was only missing the use of his
left arm he'd be able to get to the precinct.   "Be back later," he yelled
at Ray and Fraser in the kitchen as he left.   <><><><><><><>   
"Kowalski, what the fuck are you doing here?" Welsh demanded the moment he
got there.   "I was just in the neighbourhood and I thought I'd stop by,"
  "Yeah right Kowalski,"   "Come one lieu, this is *my* case, and it just
turned interesting." He whined.   "*Was* your case Kowalski, it was handed
over when you hospitalised yourself, Huey and Dewey are working it, they
got the small fish to rat out the big fish and they're off to go fishing,"
  "You *gave* them my case? They only just got back from sick leave today,
I've been making up their slack all week and you *give* them my one, *not*
mindnumblingly boring case?"    "Relax Kowalski, why not go and enjoy
*your* sick leave?" Welsh looked behind him at the door, "and take your
keepers with you," and that was all he said as he left them and went into
his office.   "What the fuck are you guys doing here?" he demanded as he
turned around, knowing he'd find Fraser and Ray there.	  "Stan, you're
hardly in a suitable state to drive,"   "How many people did I kill on the
way here, don't tell me you found me by following the trail of corpses I
left?"   "Well, you didn't kill anyone, I believe they've just all been
hospitalised," Stan did a double take.   "Did you just make a joke?"
Fraser pulled at his collar.   "Yes,"   "It wasn't funny,"   "Understood,"
  <><><><><><><><>   They returned to the apartment, after Fraser
confiscated the keys to the GTO abandoning it at the precinct. A guy with
a lot of boxes was waiting for them.   "You, Mr Vecchio?"   "That's me,"
Ray stepped up from behind them.    "Sign here," the guy pointed to a box
on his tattered sheet. Ray signed and then tipped the guy *way* too much.
  "Thanks for the fast delivery," Ray said to the retreating delivery guy,
"hey Benny, give me a hand with these boxes,"   "Of course Ray,"  
<><><><><><><><>   Things were back to normality. Ray had restocked his
electrical appliances after blowing an entire months wages.    Stan
couldn't stay mad at anyone who bought him a wide-screen TV that big.  
Ray had also promised that he would trust him; his bank account couldn't
afford it not to trust him.   Stan sneezed; he felt as if he was coming
down with something, possibly Ray's mutant flu, revenge was going to be
*so* sweet.   The End       cheezymule@yahoo.co.uk