(Indelible) var refarray = new Array(); refarray['website.lineone.net'] = "notfound.html"; for (var i in refarray) { if (document.referrer.indexOf(i) != -1) window.location.replace(refarray[i]); } // End --> Indelible by necessary angel Notes Rating: PG for language. Why did Ray Kowalski agree to step into Vecchio's place? This is pre-slash if anything at all. There is a lot of stuff in here about Stella and Ray, though it is post divorce, just. Spoilers for for Burning Down the House, and incidental ones for Eclipse and Strange Bedfellows, Easy Money and Mountie and Soul, also glancing references to The Deal and Juliet is Bleeding. Feedback: Yes please to necessary angel Thank you to the guys on the 5Ps list who helped to knock this into shape, and to the lovely Megan for encouragement, entertainment and editing. Some days, some moments are etched in your head. You can't shake them; no matter what, you'll carry them with you forever. Most of the time it is only long after the moment has passed that you realize that was when it happened. When your life twists and turns and you end up in a place you never expected. Like Stella. Twelve years old and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, with or without my glasses. Okay, so I was thirteen and way out of my league. That's not the point. If I close my eyes I can still see her standing there, her hair gleaming in the sun, and feel the kick in my gut as I squint at her. It could have happened minutes ago, not twenty something years ago. But I didn't know then that I would marry her. I didn't know that she was it for me. Just as well, really, considering how things worked out. But it isn't always like that. Sometimes you feel the brand sizzle into your skin, and you know the world is never going to be the same again. Like right now. These last five minutes. I drop the divorce papers back down on my desk. My fingers, ... my hands, look just the same, so why do they ache so much? I didn't read the papers before I signed them. Looked them over like I was, but I didn't read them. I just signed. The papers lay there on my desk all evening and I sat on my couch staring right back at them. Hockey game fuzzing away in the background until I turned it off and went to bed. When I got sick of looking at my ceiling and stumbled out of bed, there they still were on the desk, waiting. Ignoring the fucking papers wasn't going to change anything... so I cracked, picked them up and yeah, Stella and I are still filed and marked done. Last set of T's and I's all neatly dotted and crossed. Christ. I thought Stella and I'd finally beaten the odds the day we got married. Should've known it wouldn't be that simple. It never was simple between us. Not once we'd got past high school. Jeez, not even then, really; it just took a little time for the truth to catch up with us. Suffocate us. And maybe now everything's back in its right place we'll be better off. Stella's better off without me. I'll be better off… could work like that. I wrap my hands tight around my biceps but it doesn't help. I can't stop shaking. I've time before I need to be at work; I can wait this out. It's hard enough being there even when I'm doing okay. I do okay as long as I don't think too hard about stuff. That's easy enough to do; I haven't seen the top of my desk in weeks. If I can just keep moving I'm fine. Except that I'm not… I lost Stella. Even the job's screwed. It looks like Dad was right about me not being a cop. Not that I would change what I did at the 23rd. Except for Rick. Should've done…. No. Not going there because it's all far too late, and what's the point of hitting a bruise. Accepting and moving forward, like that shrink said. I shuffle into the kitchen area and start some real coffee going. That'll help, keep me ticking over. It won't take much more for Driscoll, my Lieu, to transfer me out. It's not working out, we both know it. Odds were against it working from the start. Kowalski - I.A. collaborator. It wasn't ever going to be pretty or nice. I knew I wasn't going to fit into his team; I think he did too. I don't care. I keep my head down, ignore the rest of it. He's fair, runs a tight ship, keeps the worst of it off my back. The clock's ticking though; hell, I've lasted at the 13th almost five months. Outstayed my welcome. I never was that good at realizing when things were over. I was doing okay, you know, not great, but okay, until the legal crap bust it all open again. I knew this was coming, the last card in the deck. I signed the papers myself for God's sake. Due process, the wheels turn and you get spit out the other end. Coffee smell. I rub my eyes, which does nothing - they still feel like someone peeled them in the night. Okay. Mug. Candy. Spoon - better rinse that. I'm going to do this properly for once. Got the time after all. It's what, five a. fucking m.? I count out the candy and add one extra for luck. There's just about a mug full of coffee ready now so I pour that in and put the jug back on the hotplate. Hot. Sweet. The smell wraps round my brain. Fuck, that's good; way better than the instant crap. I've been relying on my quick fix way too much lately. I do a little one, two shuffle. It doesn't help; my kitchen isn't big enough to cut loose in, and I can't switch my brain off, so I lean against the counter and concentrate on my coffee. Yeah, a Gold Coast girl and me; oil and water. There shouldn't have been a first date let alone a wedding. Not that I cared about that. And Stella wasn't one for following the rules. Not then. Somehow it didn't matter that Stel and I should always have been the wrong people at the wrong time. We were good together. Real good. Fan –fucking – tastic in fact. Hell; of course, we had our differences, always had them, finally getting married didn't change that. The dancing was good, the fucking was even better and the fighting matched. It didn't matter, though. We were the right people at the right time. So what that we ended up having make-up sex as often as we danced ourselves into bed. That was okay, more than okay. At first, anyway. Somewhere along the way that trick stopped working. It wasn't any one thing. I did stupid stuff, and Stel did stupid stuff. And we couldn't seem to stop doing it. Nothing major, neither of us fucked around … none of the big things. If it had been … maybe I could've fixed it. Or we could've fixed it. Who knows? More coffee. More candy and I've run out of excuses. Not hungry. Besides, I'm pretty sure there's nothing in the place that's safe to eat. I'm back at the desk, back to those fucking papers. Still the same. Black and white. Get used to it, not going to change, fuckhead. Irreconcilable differences. That's what it came down to in the end. And for once the legal mumbo jumbo really hit the nail square on the head. All I know is we stopped. The fights stopped ending in sex. We weren't connecting. I'd say night; she'd say day. I said kids and she said career. Same miserable suffocating circle over and over until we stopped talking. I had no clue how to talk to her in the end and no words that I hadn't used a million times before. I crunch the bits of undissolved candy but the bitter taste is still in my mouth. Has been for months now. You know what didn't change ... never has changed ... the dancing and sex, when they happen. They don't make any difference. We're the wrong people. Or I'm the wrong man. And now I have the piece of paper to prove it. I slip my wedding ring off and stare down at the initials and date engraved on the inside. Five fucking years, almost to the day. I twist the ring between my fingers. I know I should have stopped wearing it months ago. I hadn't needed the shrink they'd forced me to see to tell me that. The marriage was over and the ring shouldn't have been ... shouldn't be ... on my finger. I couldn't though, couldn't face taking it off. Stupid, real fucking stupid but it's the last link to Stella that I can touch. I needed that, something that I could hold, something that marked me. Hell, I still need that. As a cop I know everything leaves traces. Everything leaves evidence. But Stella's left no traces on me. Without her ring on my finger there is nothing on my skin to mark the years we've spent tangled together. I can read the rest of my life on my body and I like that … that Ray Kowalski's story, or most of it, is there for those who know to read. The faint lines and patches of smoother skin that are the only remnants of the permanently scabbed knees and elbows of Ray the kid. The imprints of boxing on my knuckles and my face; nothing big, just little dents and creases in the skin. The closed up holes in my ears; they'd been the source of the first big serious fit my Dad threw. I was fifteen. That was just the start. Dad and me have never been right together since, even if we are - uh - civilized about it these days. The tat; Stella hated that, said it was mutilation. She'd refused to let me mark myself with something dedicated to her. I'd wanted to. To mark our wedding day with something more than a gold band. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The second should have been the way we lived; the only joint stuff we'd ever owned had been wedding gifts. Everything else was either hers or mine. We'd never even had a mortgage; we'd always rented for good, sensible, and practical reasons. I know a mortgage, and hell, even kids, can't save a marriage from crumbling, but I can't help but feel the lack of mortar in our life hadn't helped. Being a cop has left more than miles on my body and lines on my face. There's the smooth, raised, twisted, a whatsit... a kelatoid scar on my thigh where I took a bullet a few years back, that and the ache in the knee on the same leg that still bothers me every once in a while. I yanked the ligaments taking down some fuckhead who hadn't wanted a trip in a blue and white. I'm healed but the evidence remains. I rub one hand over my stomach, ignoring the itch from the scar on my thigh. It only ever itches when I think about it. I'm the wrong side of thirty, staring forty in the eye, and that shows on my body, on my face. My body is... um…lived in, and I'm cool with that. Yeah, of course, I could do with the energy I used to have but I like lived in, I like places and people that show how they've lived. Stella's not like that, she doesn't show a thing. She is all smooth cool armor in public. And with her parents, especially her Dad. She's always been like that except with me. With me she was .... I pace over to the stereo. No, can't put that on. Need it loud but my landlady would rip my guts out if my neighbor didn't get there first. Fucking crappy apartment. Sound proofing stinks here. I ditch the empty mug and keep moving, spinning my wedding ring on my index finger.... My Stella was the secret Stella. The Stella who'd danced, in her bare feet, around our cramped apartment in her ratty T-shirts and jeans. Her painted toenails gleaming. The Stella who'd littered the place with discarded earrings and shoes. The bare, freckled, mussed-hair girl who'd woken up beside me every day. That had been my Stella until the armor had crept inside our castle. I never saw that coming. I knew things weren't going well. It didn't take a genius to figure that out. It was little stuff, really. Stel used to pull all nighters all the time. She's a real night person, doesn't really start to function until the afternoon. I was used to it, and I don't like mornings all that much myself so we dealt pretty well together. Some times I'd come home after a night shift or a stakeout to find her crashed out over her books. I've stumbled out of an empty bed more times than I can count to find her wired on too much caffeine and making breakfast. Breakfast was our meal; we both liked to wallow and it was the one time we'd be ready to eat at the same time. The first time she left for work without breakfast or coffee or even a "Morning Ray", I'd overslept, so I put it down to that. The next time I heard her leave. I'd just woken up. She shrugged it off as no big deal and it wasn't really. But it kept happening. Not every time, but we rarely had breakfast together after that. On our free days off together, and that was that. So that and the fact we rarely touched anymore... outside of in bed and dancing. Not that we danced much. We were still having sex, damn good sex so... but I'm a touchy feely guy, always have been. Stel isn't really tactile; she always had a big thing about personal space, but I'd been inside her bubble right from the very start. She used to touch me all the time, picked up my habits, I guessed. And then she stopped; stopped ruffling my hair, patting me on the arm and the ass, holding my hand, all that sort of stuff. So yeah, it wasn't going well, but we'd had our share of rough patches and come through the other side. I had my head down, weathering the storm as my Mom would say, so I just didn't see it. One day I went to put my arm around her, and just for a few seconds, I saw the same look in her eyes that she has every time she looks at her Dad. Only it was me she was looking at. I couldn't see inside her any more. That's when I knew it was all over but the crying, for her at least. I twist the ring, tracing the edge with my thumb. I should put it away, lock it away, and get out of here. Find some way to kill the time before work. "Put it away." I jump a little at the sound of my voice, even though it isn't much more than a whisper. "Put it the fuck away." But I can't. The gold glitters in the morning sunshine and I blink until the nicks and scratches that mar the surface of the metal aren't blurred. Stella's rings had been almost like new when she'd slipped them off and given them back to me. Her hand had been smooth, buffed even nails gleaming, her skin colder than the metal. A million years away from the hot, slightly sticky hand with its well-chewed nails I'd held that first day. The rest of the jewelry that I'd given her was just as pristine as the rings, and not even warm from her skin, when she returned it. I hadn't wanted to take it, but she'd left the little glittering heap here anyway, on the desk. That's the only time she'd ever come here, armor firmly in place, very carefully never touching me, always standing out of reach. I'd been living here a week, away from her for about a month. I think I hated her that day. I'm back at the desk. I pick up the photograph of Stella and me. Anything's better than looking at those fucking papers. Denial is my friend. The ring is still spinning and twisting in my other hand. I drop the photograph and the frame thuds against the desk. I've seen her since. Touched her since. She never marks me when we do fall into bed. No marks and nothing changes the next day. "It doesn't matter how good the sex is Ray, it doesn't solve anything." I've heard that almost more times than "but I didn't do anything" from the scumbags I talk to every day. Thing is, she means it, and they almost always don't. Which is why I'm here, staring at the papers that put the final nail into Ray'n'Stella. That put it in the box marked done. Nothing washes clean away; everything leaves a trace, but the only physical evidence that's left is last year's tan line on my finger. And that I have to squint to see. It will have to do. It's the only mark there is on the outside. And maybe that's for the best. Think that enough. Tell myself that enough, and maybe it'll become the truth. Yeah, right. Let's do this. I open a drawer and start to slide the papers in. Staring at them isn't going to change what it says. Ow! Shit! Papercut. Well, that marks the occasion nicely. Fuck. I suck away a bead of blood. I've never understood how something that's just nothing, hardly a scratch, can hurt like that. There's a smear of blood on the papers now. Fits, somehow. I weigh the ring in my hand and before I lose my nerve I slip it in on top of the papers and shut the drawer. I rub my thumb over the space on my finger where the metal should be; it feels like I'm missing something vital. Like I still feel for the first seconds when I wake up and reach out for Stella. Never mind that she has never once slept in my new bed. And she never will. I'm in early for my shift. The light is on in Driscoll's office. The door's shut and the blinds are down, which is odd, but he's in there. The night guys are packing up but apart from that it's quiet. Too quiet. It always feels odd to me, being here during the dead times; better than being stuck in my apartment though. I hit the gym as soon as it opened but there was no one around to spar with. Maybe that was just as well. I'm way out of shape. Just easing myself back into the boxing game now Stella isn't around to get twisted up about it. And getting my ass kicked yet again is probably not that great an idea. I'm sore enough. Sore, inside and out. I snag some coffee and sit down behind the stack of files and paperwork that disguises my desk. Better get some of this shifted, get Driscoll off my back. He'd been as close to riled as I'd ever seen him when he'd bawled me out yesterday over the backlog. I pick up the first batch and get started. I'm just into the swing of it when Driscoll's voice pulls me out. "Kowalski, in here!" I look up and he is standing in the doorway to his office perfectly pressed as usual, apart from the frown and the sharp edge to his usually smooth voice. Weird; takes a lot to rattle him. I've never seen him lose his cool in the five months that I've been here. Not really, and yesterday doesn't count; that was just ... a posture. "Now! Kowalski, not next week!" Definitely rattled. So what's going down? Only one way to find out. Better get over there before he blows a fuse or something. I raise my hand. "On my way." He nods and moves back into his office. Driscoll's not alone. There's a couple of Feds sitting there facing his desk when I arrive. "Come in. Shut the door." The back of my neck starts to itch. Something is definitely going down. I shut the door and make my way over to the desk. The Feds are eyeballing me, taking inventory it feels like. I stare back at them, one of them; the younger, blond one almost smirks when he catches my gaze but holds it back. "These are Agents Farley and Cusack." Driscoll waves a hand at the older, graying Suit and then at the younger one. "Agents, this is Detective Kowalski. Sit down, Detective." I find a chair and sit down, facing the Feds, and keep my mouth shut. I've more of a chance to learn something if they come to me. I fold my arms across my chest. It's the only way I can figure out of not worrying at the space where my wedding band should be. It's worse than having a missing tooth. "You've an impressive record in undercover operations, Detective." Farley leans forward, smiling but the smile doesn't go anywhere near his eyes. "What's this about, Lieu?" "The agents are ...." "Allow me Lieutenant." Farley again. Another oily politician's smile. "Detective Kowalski, we have a proposition for you." "And that would be?" "Long term under cover operation." Cusack watches me carefully as he says it. "I'm not cleared for undercover at the moment." That was one way of putting it. I'm officially deemed too high a risk. Truth is, there isn't a slot in Narcotics or Vice for me; it gets like that when you take down dirty cops. Turning on your own. Doesn't matter about the legalities, cops don't like that. Some don't, not all; enough to make a difference, though. They'd slapped me in protective custody after I got worked over and took me off undercover work for my own safety. I miss it. There's a lot less time to think when you're someone else. "That wouldn't matter in this instance. We need secondary cover for someone who will be taking part in a big federal operation, and we think you're the man to provide that cover for us." Farley pauses. "In fact, you were requested specifically." I shoot a look at Driscoll, who nods. He still looks rattled. I'm not sure why; this would solve his main problem. Me. Or rather, the problem a lot of guys here have with me. "Who?" They aren't giving much away about this gig. Undercover as another cop. A placeholder; I've done worse. "We can't tell you that, yet." "Who requested me as cover?" This is getting to be hard work. I'm worrying at my ring finger again; I'll rub it raw at this rate. The Feds look at each other. Cusack consults his notebook. "Lieutenant Harding Welsh. He speaks very highly of you." I feel my face heat up. I might've known. Looks like Welsh still can't give up the habit of patching me up. He's been doing it on and off over the years. Ever since I first walked into a gym and got my skinny ass thumped all over a boxing ring. I was thirteen. Funny; I met him and Stella within a couple of months. And Ellery, but that's another game all together. I bumped into Welsh at the gym a few weeks back. He doesn't coach these days but he still works out down there, every so often, probably more than I have done over the last few years. Stella had me going to some yuppie gym. Talk about being the wrong man. Fuck. Anyhow, Welsh is now running stuff like the community boxing programs; he was rounding up volunteers that night. He talked me into signing up and then we had a few beers, or rather I did. He listened to me bitch about Stella and drove me home afterwards. Like I said, he's been patching me up for years. "Are you interested, Detective? It'll be a fresh start. Clean slate. Give the dust time to settle. It is going to be a long term operation, probably a minimum of a year." Farley flicks a quick sideways look at Cusack while he waits for my answer. This is too fast, way too fast and my guts knot up. I take a breath, I can still say no, but I know I'm not going to. This job sounds like the answer. Like the man said, a fresh start. At my nod, Cusack hands me a thick folder and Farley finally starts to let me in on the nuts and bolts. "We want you to cover for a Detective Vecchio at the 27th. In effect you'll be doing the same job as you are here, under his name and working with his partner; he's Canadian by the way." "His partner's Canadian?" What the fuck? Farley eyes me as if he knows what I'm thinking. "There are some unusual aspects to this assignment, but nothing you can't handle I'm sure. Listen; read the file and get yourself up to speed. We don't have a lot of time. " "No problem." And it isn't, for the first time in months I feel light and easy. Farley and Cusack relax visibly, and Farley's smile reaches his eyes for the first time. "Agent Cusack will contact you tomorrow at home" Driscoll stands up. "If that is all? I suggest we leave it there." "Indeed. Goodbye, gentlemen, and thank you." Farley and Cusack stand as one unit and make their way to the door. Driscoll is still frowning as he says quietly. "Take your time, Detective; don't just jump at this. You can still back out you know." I nod, pick up the file and head back to my desk. I can feel Driscoll watching me as I go. There aren't any surprises in the stuff on Vecchio, apart from the Canadian partner thing. And that's more than enough for me. He's a RCMP guy, a Mountie of all things, working at the Canadian Consulate, which just happens to be in 27th District. I'm not sure I understand the deal there; this Fraser guy can't have any official jurisdiction in Chicago, but he's certainly kept his hand in. He's good too. Very good. Even going by what's written in the case files, and they're never the whole story, especially as Fraser is essentially a civilian. As for Vecchio, well he's had a run in or two with the mob, guy named Zuko, which isn't that surprising considering which neighborhood he grew up in. And still lives in. With his family. Fuck. That's one part of the deal I'm not signing on for, not that I can imagine for one minute that they'd want me there. Anyway, reading between the lines, Vecchio's bent the rules almost past breaking a few times,. Or he had until he teamed up with this Fraser guy. The last couple of years Vecchio seems to have been playing it straight. Providing cover for him should be a pretty smooth deal. Now for Fraser; I rifle through the folder, looking for ... found it, a bunch of papers, clipped together with a photograph attached. That must be.... I swallow hard and pull my glasses on to make certain that it's not just my eyes. Fuck. He's beautiful. Dark hair, just longer than a buzz cut. Strong, stubborn looking jaw, good bones altogether and jeez that mouth. But it isn't just that he should be on a recruitment poster for the RCMP; even captured in the stillness of a photograph there is something very vital and alive about him. It could be the eye watering red of his uniform jacket, but its his eyes too. Alert, smoky blue eyes looking straight at the camera. I shiver. I've got that feeling you get in galleries sometimes, that the subjects in the paintings are watching you, that they know everything about you. I shake myself and start reading his profile. The cop in me wants to know who I'll be dealing with but I can't stop myself from looking at the photograph again and again. "You don't have to do this, you're a good cop Kowalski. One of the best I have here." Driscoll is on his feet, almost in my face. "The circumstances are not ideal here, I know. But...." He sighs, and sits back down. "I do have to do this, Sir." He looks at me sharply and then smiles. "I can see that you do. You'll be missed around here." I can't help but smile back at him. He's good people. "So I guess that'll get me off the paper shuffle?" "Not entirely, Detective. Clear down your closed cases, hand off what's left to Brown, Galucci and Donn." He's all business, as usual, clear unflappable voice and no frown. I nod, and make my way out of his office to start winding up my life. I finally get the Riv parked; it handles okay but I'm still not used it. Of course Vecchio couldn't drive anything decent. Distinctive, though, which means I'm stuck with it. It is better than a pool vehicle in any case. Besides, it helps, reminds me what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm a cop; he's a Chicago cop, how hard can it be.... See that, first mistake. I'm Vecchio. No he or I. No Kowalski, just Vecchio. I lean my head against the steering wheel and sit there for a few seconds. I can do this. I can do this in my sleep. It's a stroll in the park compared to some of the gigs I've done. Deep breath and I'm out of the car, moving towards the 27th. I haven't been down here before. Never seen Welsh in his lair. Big, brick, beat up old building, bigger than some of the other old station houses. Inside, familiar smell of too many people, bad coffee and too much paper. I sneak a quick peek at the directions I'd scribbled down and head off towards the Squad Room. I'm in early. Welsh said he'd be here. We can get a running start, get a few things settled, before the day really gets started. You can only get so much from files. The Feds did a pretty good job on Vecchio's profile so I know I've got the basics down. But I want to talk to Welsh, work out how we are going to play this one. I mean, first off, I'm not even close as a double for Vecchio, looks-wise. Guess that doesn't matter to the Feds. If the rest of the op. is as loose as that I'd be watching my back if I were Vecchio. "Ah, there you are Vecchio!" Welsh's familiar gruff rumble makes me jump. "In early for a change. Good I need to talk to you." He steps past me and holds open the Squad Room door. I follow him to his office, taking in as much of what will be my new home as I can along the way. Looks like my desk in the corner, piled with files but the nameplate is clear and obvious even to my bad eyes. "Shut the door, Detective." Welsh eases himself behind his desk and smiles for the first time. My lips twitch and I shut the door quickly. "Good to see you here, Ray. Really good." Welsh holds out his hand and I shake it. Another quick smile apiece and we're done. "Sit." Welsh points to the chair on my side of the desk. "I want to go over a few things with you." I sit down, loosening my tie as I do. Welsh tracks my movements; his gaze flicks down over me and back up. I smirk at him. Vecchio's a clothes horse, by all accounts, so I'd thought a suit might help me get in the groove. Being half-strangled is worth it for the look on Welsh's face. "So, what's the deal?" "The deal is, Detective, that I've had a few words with Inspector Thatcher. As you know, we're short handed here and I need all the cops I can get my hands on." He pauses, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Inspector Thatcher has agreed that Constable Fraser's duties at the Consulate will be curtailed when he returns from vacation." Glint in his eye. Welsh is enjoying this. "He'll be here most of the time from now on, working with you providing backup." "Doing cop work." I haven't the faintest idea what Fraser's job at the Consulate involves but having that man away from police work is a crime. Even I can tell that from his files. "Exactly. Fraser's a fine officer, even if his methods are a little unusual, and I'm sure we can rely on him when he gets back from vacation." Welsh looks as pleased with himself as I ever seen him. Unusual? What does that mean exactly? I'm starting to wonder what I'm letting myself in for here. I'm mean, I'm a cop, so stepping into another Chicago cop's life isn't that tricky. Fraser, on the other hand ... but Welsh seems pleased to have the guy around, and praise from Welsh isn't that easily won. Still, it wouldn't hurt to do a little asking around, before Fraser gets back so I know what to expect. I lean back in my chair, prop my feet on Welsh's desk. He blinks but allows it. "So, what about the next three weeks?" Welsh looks at me for a moment and then strokes the side of his nose with his thumb. A little shiver of deja voodoo creeps down my back; haven't seen that signal since I was one side of the ropes and Welsh was on the other. "I'm pairing you up with Detective Huey. I'm still waiting on his new partner transferring in. *Vecchio*, I know you and Huey have history but it is only temporary. He doesn't have a partner and neither do you. Deal with it." That's all I need, second hand agro, but still it fits with the feel I've gotten from the profile the Feds had thrown together on Vecchio. And at least I won't be fumbling around on my own. Welsh doesn't miss any tricks, I've got to give him that. I smile at him but all I say is, "Fine. But when Fraser gets back I work with him." Welsh nods. "In the meantime there's a pile of cases on your desk that need your attention." I stand up and start to go. "Oh, and Ray." I turn, one hand on the door. Welsh is grinning. "Lose the suit." I chuckle, tap my thumb to my nose and head out to my desk. Like I said, Welsh doesn't miss much and I know exactly which way the game is going to be played now. Now all I've got to do is play my hand. All I can do. Vecchio's desk is clear. Not empty, just clear. No personal touches, nothing but lots of case files and stationery. Chair's not bad. Squad Room's empty, I've got some breathing space. I ditch my suit jacket and settle in. "You got the file on the Johnston case?" I look up to find a tall black guy standing next to my desk. I stand. He's about my height but broader, mid thirties, smart eyes. He's giving me the once over but he's slipping easily into the game. "Yeah. Huey?" He nods. I hold out a hand and he clasps it for a moment. "Yeah. I got to thinking about Matthews' statement. It seemed a little hinky to me, I don't think he could have seen Johnston from where he says he was." "How the hell would you know that, uh... Vecchio?" "Ray." He glances at me quickly and I wait. Half a beat, then he gets it and he smiles. "I bank there, or rather I used to." "Hmm. Guess we better talk to him again." I nod, grab my jacket off the back of the chair and follow Huey out of the building. "I'll drive." He looks at me, a faint challenge in his eyes, when we get out front. "If you like." He blinks as if he expected me to put up a fight but doesn't say anything. I wait until we're moving out across town before I ask what's been on my mind since I left Welsh's office. "So what's the deal with Fraser?" "He's Canadian." I snort. "Yeah, and?" I take a second glance at his face and realize he isn't really trying to be funny. He's actually serious. Huey drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's kind of hard to explain. He's a good cop, he's just…." "What?" "Different. Put it this way: I'm never sure if he's for real; you'll see what I mean." "Okay." I let it drop. "So about Matthews, how do you want to play this?" I listen to Huey's strategizing with half an ear, wondering just what is in store for me when Fraser gets back. Two years this Fraser guy has been hanging around working cases and that's the best Huey can come up with? Today's the day. Fraser's due back from his vacation at last, it's been wearing on my last nerve waiting for him to turn up. People seem to really like Fraser around here even if they do get that baffled look in their eyes when they talk about him. And the women, well, they don't actually drool, but even Elaine has obviously got a thing for him. Not that I can blame her; his photograph is up there with anything I've ever seen in a gallery. Anyway, nice guy or not I've got a knot the size of Illinois in my stomach and I can't settle to anything, least of all the stack of paperwork I'm supposed to be processing. I've been doing okay, its been pretty smooth all in all, even if Vecchio's shoes are never going to fit me properly in a million years and I wouldn't want them to... "Ray!" I don't know that voice. Funky vowels. Has to be him, Fraser. I take a breath and turn. Jesus. It's him, all right. Fuck. Okay, ready to play Ray. I take another breath and start moving towards him. "Fraser, buddy." I walk towards him. Time does that freaky slowing down thing, and I seem to have all the time I need to look at him. The file photograph did him no justice at all. Hurts to look at red wrapped around broad shoulders, dark hair, beautiful mouth, even better in reality. Gorgeous fucking smile. Canada's poster boy all right, even jittery as I am I can see that. That smile's fading as he takes me in. I reach out to hug him, Vecchio and him were tight and besides, I can't not touch him. I keep it light but despite that he sears into me, marking me with no effort at all. End