Eight Sessions

by Speranza

Chapter 1

Tuesday, April 20th.

Lieutenant Harding Welsh knew it was bad the moment he saw Kowalski's face. He didn't even need to see the bodybags, the mothers' contorted faces, the other kids hugging the darkness in case he decided to take everyone here in for questioning. Six squad cars, three ambulances, a news van parked sloppily half up on the curb, reporting live to you now from the south side.

Out of that whole hellish scene, all he needed was one clear look at Kowalski.

It seemed like only yesterday Kowalski'd been a kid himself—all elbows and attitude and with a badge so new it actually shined. He'd been sent over from the one-nine to help Welsh on a drug case, and Welsh could hardly believe he was a gold-shield, he looked like such a good-for-nothing punk. So Welsh threw his weight around as 'senior member of the team', hassling him hard, giving him shit at every opportunity. But Kowalski got right up in his face about it, and Welsh decided he was the real deal after all.

Years later, when he'd had to replace Vecchio, Kowalski was the first guy he thought of. Funny hair and that damn bracelet notwithstanding, Kowalski was a good, gutsy cop. Plus privately, Welsh thought that Kowalski was tough in the real way—bent without breaking, snapped back like a sapling, would take your eye out if you didn't watch him close.

Except now, Kowalski looked at him from across the street, the red lights turning his hair orange, and Welsh wasn't seeing any snap there.

Welsh moved through the crowd to get to him, getting more and more of the picture as he went. Four bodybags—five—six—goddamn, this was a bloodbath. Kowalski just stood there, looking tired but still holding the street. And that was something, Welsh thought grimly. Hell, in a situation like this, it was actually everything.

Welsh lowered his voice as he approached. "How're you doin', Detective?"

"Fine. Yeah." Kowalski was all business, and holding it together; no punk like an old punk. "We had Jamison and Parker, and then the Tanks pulled up on two sides and pulled guns. They killed Parker, I returned fire—long and short of it is we got six dead and two injured: Jamison, Parker, and four Tanks in the bags, two more guys in critical."

Welsh nodded grimly; this had been coming, it was in the air. Gang heat had been ratcheting up for months, but somehow he'd figured that if anyone could cool things down it would be Kowalski and—

—Kowalski and the Mountie. Welsh frowned and scanned the crowd for Fraser, because usually the first thing you saw at a crime scene was Benton Fraser in his fancy red coat. He tracked for red wool, and finally spotted Fraser sitting on the curb next to a crashed Chevy.

Fraser's shoulders were hunched, and his head was down, though he looked up suddenly like he could feel Welsh's eyes on him. Fraser's face and jacket were spattered with blood and bone, and his expression was hard, maybe even defiant. And that look of defiance, on Constable Benton Fraser, was just as unnatural as Kowalski's lack of snap.

"Hell," Welsh muttered.

"Yeah," Kowalski said, and Welsh jerked his head around; he'd forgotten Kowalski was there. "Fraser was holding Parker when they shot him," Kowalski explained in a dead-sounding voice. "They blew Parker's head all over him..."

"Get out of here," Welsh muttered, trying to make his shock sound like anger. "Go home, get cleaned up, and be at the station first thing in the morning. There's gonna be questions on this one."

For the first time, Kowalski showed a little of his old spark. "What questions? Fuck questions. There ain't no fuckin' questions to be—"

"There'll be questions," Welsh said with grim certainty, "so you go home and rest and be ready. You and him—but especially you, Ray."

Kowalski stared at him for a long moment, his eyes weirdly blank. "Fuck this noise," Kowalski said softly, and then he was shoving his way through the crowd toward Fraser as Welsh grabbed a megaphone from a uniform and took control of the street.

---

Tuesday, April 21st.

"No, but this is bullshit!!"

Welsh let out a long sigh. Kowalski seemed to have gotten his snap back, all right. "It's routine," Welsh repeated for what seemed like the thousandth time. "It's all routine, Detective—and only through grace of God have you not been here before."

Kowalski stopped, wheeled to face the desk, and jerked two fingers toward his chest. "I gave a statement! I filed reports! I have a witness—witness right over there!" He flung his hand over toward Fraser, who was sitting on the sofa, staring down at the floor like he'd been transported bodily from the curb last night. Except now Fraser was back to being all neat as a pin again, no longer a blood-soaked mess. "Witness my witness, a reliable witness—a fuckin' Mountie witness, only thing better is a nun."

"It's routine," Welsh repeated for the thousand-and-first time. "I.A. wants it from you, and they want it live."

"What is this—Cats? This is not Cats. This is my fucking life here, sir, if you haven't noticed—"

All right, enough was enough; if Kowalski was gonna go all Catskills on him, he was gonna have to stop this right now. "We got six bodies here, Kowalski. Four on your gun," and Kowalski went all white and tight-lipped. "So there's gonna be questions. And you've got answers," he continued firmly, patiently, hoping for finality. "They fired first, you returned fire. I.A. will accept that, end of story. But there's a process, and you've got to go through it. No way out and that's that."

Kowalski turned away with a muttered, "Christ."

For the first time, Fraser raised his head. "Do I have to testify?"

"Probably, yeah," Welsh replied with a frown. "Is that a problem for you, Constable?"

Welsh noticed that Kowalski hadn't turned around, but he'd gone perfectly still, like he was hanging on Fraser's answer, too.

Fraser licked nervously at the corner of his mouth and seemed to think it over. "I'd rather not," he said finally.

"You'd rather not?" Welsh asked with some surprise.

"He'd rather not!" Kowalski was out of his corner, snapping back, ready to take his eye out. "You didn't hear him?"

Welsh felt very near the edge of his patience. "Look, Kowalski, it's your problem if Fraser doesn't testify! Like you said, he's your witness—he refuses to testify, I.A. will want to know why!"

"I'm not refusing to testify," Fraser clarified quietly. "I'd just rather not."

"He'd just rather not, which if that's what he wants, what do they care?" Kowalski demanded.

Welsh came to his feet without even realizing it. "I care," he said, feeling suddenly confused and furious. "And I am asking you, right now—did anything happen that you didn't report?"

Kowalski looked outraged and shook his head almost violently. "No. No. Christ, how could you think I would—"

In a flash, Welsh had turned his attention to Fraser. "Constable?"

"No." Fraser was bent forward, fingers laced together, but looking up and meeting Welsh's eye frankly. "He's telling the truth. It all happened just as he said."

That was a clear enough statement, and Welsh didn't think Fraser would lie to him. Then again, put the question another way—would Fraser lie for Kowalski? Fraser'd certainly bent rules for Kowalski before. But then again, Kowalski'd never killed anybody before. The stakes had never been this high for either of them.

Welsh slammed his hand down on the desk, and Kowalski and Fraser both jumped. "I want to know what's going on," he said, and it was only as he waited for them to answer that he noticed that they weren't looking at each other. He realized with a start that they hadn't looked at each other once, not throughout this whole entire interview, which was weird, which was just plain wrong.

Welsh looked slowly from one to the other. Fraser had his eyes fixed again on the office floor, and Kowalski was standing there, arms crossed, glaring straight at him across the desk—but it didn't matter where they were looking, it was where they weren't looking that mattered. Cops in this situation, they looked at each other to match their stories up, get their stories straight. But not these guys. Why not?

"I'll testify," Fraser told the floor.

"You won't," Kowalski told Welsh.

"I will. It's not a problem," Fraser explained to the floor.

"You shouldn't have to if you don't want to." Kowalski was staring straight into Welsh's eyes. "You don't work here."

"It's not a problem, Ray," Fraser repeated. "The facts are straightforward enough."

This was very possibly the weirdest conversation Welsh had ever had the pleasure to be in the middle of. It took him a second to find his bearings. "If the facts are perfectly clear, then what the hell is the problem here?"

Again, weirdly, Kowalski and Fraser didn't so much as glance at each other. "It was rough," Kowalski said, after a moment.

Behind him, Fraser nodded slowly, still staring at the linoleum. "Difficult."

Welsh sighed; this was at least an opening to his second unpleasant point of the morning. "Which reminds me of something else, another part of the process." Kowalski shifted his stance, looking tense and frustrated, literally waiting to be hit with it. Welsh took a deep breath and hit him. "You'll have to do a standard psychiatric run-through—"

Kowalski exploded with all the force of a eight-year-old boy being told that he has to go over and kiss his Great-Aunt Ethel. "Aww, come on ! " he yelled, flinging his arms up in the air. "I really gotta do this crap?"

"—which is eight sessions, starting tomorrow, and—"

"—eight sessions of navel-gazing with some egghead shrink who doesn't know shit about anything? What a colossal! fucking! waste of—"

"Detective!" Welsh roared, and Kowalski instantly shut up, although he went into a furious, violent mime. "Sit down!"

With great effort, Kowalski seemed to get control of himself, and threw himself into the chair in front of Welsh's desk.

"Okay." Welsh gritted his teeth and bent forward over his desk to loom over him. "I have been trying to exert all possible patience with you, but now I'm gonna lay this out flat. This is what your next two weeks will look like. You are off active duty. I will defer your I.A. hearing for at least a week—and in the interim you will attend therapy in the morning, meet with your union rep in the afternoon, and try to make yourself useful around here with whatever other time you've got."

Kowalski lay backwards in his chair, arms limp at his sides: the very picture of martyrdom. "Fuck. "

Welsh went on relentlessly. "You do the hearing, you get cleared, and you're back to work the next day, end of story."

"I wanna die. I want to be killed. Kill me now."

"Unfortunately, that's not an option," Welsh growled.

"All right, all right, all right, all right, all right. Fuck me hard, but all right."

"How wonderfully you accept the inevitable."

"Sir?" Fraser's voice broke the three seconds of peace they'd managed to attain. "What about me?"

Welsh sighed and smoothed a hand over his head. "I don't know about you, Constable. You're a lot more complicated."

"What are the options?" Fraser asked quietly.

Kowalski still wasn't looking over at Fraser, and so Welsh decided to take advantage of this and cut him out of the equation. He came around the desk and leaned against a filing cabinet closer to the Mountie. "Thing is, like Ray said, you don't really work here, which gives us some leeway," Welsh explained. "But here's the problem, Constable. If you really were Ray's partner, this would all apply to you, too. Eight sessions, plus UAB meetings to prepare you for the hearing. That would be standard, make everything aboveboard." Fraser nodded, seeming to understand this. "Now just possibly in your case we get away with not having you do it. Except follow me," Welsh said, pushing off the cabinet and standing up straighter to make the point. "You don't testify, it maybe makes things harder for Ray."

"I can handle it," Kowalski told the desk.

"Shut up," Welsh told Fraser, and Kowalski went silent. "Besides, you were there, you're involved, you were a witness to the shooting. You should testify." Fraser nodded silent agreement. Welsh raised a thick finger and pointed it at Fraser's face. "But if you're in this," he warned, "it's gonna raise questions about this whole arrangement. Personally, I would be a lot happier if we could go in there and say, special status aside, you followed procedures like any other cop. That would make me very happy. And it's safer for you, if you want to keep on working here. Because even if I.A. lets it slide for right now, the review board's gonna get wind of it at some point and try to pull your ride-along."

Fraser didn't say anything to that, and Kowalski didn't say anything either—which really surprised Welsh, because if there was any time he'd expect Kowalski to shoot off his mouth it would be now. This was the big gun, the big threat, splitting up the partnership—and most cops turned into rabid dogs if you even so much as hinted in that direction. But Kowalski just sat there, like he'd suddenly taken a vow of silence. What the fuck was going on here?

But Fraser was sitting up straighter now, and nodding vaguely to himself like he'd come to some sort of decision. "I'll do it," Fraser said—and was Welsh imagining things or did Kowalski seem to relax a bit over there?

Kowalski almost immediately contradicted the impression. "You don't have to." Kowalski's voice was pitched low and sounded hoarse. "You really don't have to, Fraser."

"I know, but I think we should play it safe," Fraser replied.

"We are safe. I didn't do anything wrong."

"I know, but it's important that Internal Affairs understand that as well."

"Then it's settled," Welsh said. He moved back toward his desk and picked up Kowalski's appointment card, which was already filled out. "You've got an appointment for 11:00 tomorrow with Dr. Melissa Wertzer. Don't be late."

Kowalski heaved himself forward and snatched the card out of Welsh's hand, looking at it like he was looking over his own death certificate.

Welsh picked up a second card and a pen, and carefully printed "Constable Benton Fraser" on the top line. "Constable," he said, and Fraser stood up and came over to the desk. Welsh turned toward him, shaking the card between his fingertips to make the ink dry faster. "Your first appointment is at 11:00 tomorrow, with Dr. David Berger." Fraser took the slip and studied it for a second before tucking it neatly into his breast pocket. "Are we done, here?"

They were done.

---

Chapter 2

Tuesday, April 22nd.

Fraser stopped short halfway down the hall toward the doctors' offices and turned to Ray. "Tell me again how it—?"

Ray sighed, stopped, put his hand on Fraser's arm and squeezed, once, tightly, reassuringly. "They ask you questions, Fraser, and then you answer them."

Fraser licked his lips; his mouth felt uncommonly dry. Nerves, he thought, and was annoyed at himself. "And this helps how precisely?"

Ray was scowling. "Who said it helps?" he retorted. "They make money, Fraser. It's all a big circle jerk—just a hoop we gotta jump through."

Fraser wasn't entirely sure what Ray meant by a 'circle jerk'; he supposed the circularity was related somehow to the idea of hoop-jumping, which he could at least picture, though the notion seemed quaint. "Surely, there must be more to it than that," he said, doubtfully.

Ray shook his head. "They call it the talking cure, Fraser. When was the last time talking cured you of anything?"

Fraser considered this. He had, in fact, been cured of a series of terrible migraine headaches the summer he was twelve by an Inuit Shaman who told him to imagine being eaten by a bear and then vomited up. He didn't think this was what Ray meant, though. "Some people believe in prayer, others in magic," he mused. "Incantations and so forth. But this seems like neither science nor magic."

"You got it," Ray agreed. "It falls into the larger category of bullshit. So just go in and tell them whatever you want to tell them—it's all confidential, anyway." Ray's hand tightened on his arm, and Fraser knew to believe the pressure of Ray's fingers rather than the casual tone of his voice. "They can't use it against you," Ray added offhandedly, but his hand was tight, tight, so tight on Fraser's arm. "Or me." Ray shrugged, and then, as if he suddenly realized he was cutting off Fraser's circulation, he unclenched his fingers and stepped away. "So go to town—tell them anything you want. Some people actually pay money for this out of their own pockets, so maybe you'll like it, who knows?"

"Maybe I will," Fraser said, trying to be optimistic. "I'll try to keep an open mind."

"Me too. Open mind." Ray drifted backwards down the hall. "See you in an hour, okay?"

"Yes. In an hour," Fraser said; and then he felt compelled to add, awkwardly, "Good luck, Ray."

"Yeah, you too."

Ray was in a good mood when he left Melissa's office; he'd won twelve straight hands of blackjack, and Melissa'd handed him a fancy gold pencil, claiming it was his winnings. He'd protested, but she'd insisted. "It's cheap," she explained with a shrug. "I got it from a bank," and he'd squinted at it more closely, seen the imprinted advertising slogan, and laughed.

Now he tucked the pencil behind his ear as he strode down the hallway to meet Fraser, who was waiting for him, hat in hand. It took a moment for him to register that Fraser looked oddly shaken; he obviously hadn't enjoyed himself or won any gold pencils. "Fraser, what?"

Fraser was staring down at the granite floor, not meeting his eyes. "I don't think I did very well, Ray."

"It's not a test, Fraser," Ray protested, feeling suddenly guilty; he'd gotten Fraser into this mess. "I'm sure you did fine..."

Fraser shook his head, nervously circling the brim of his hat through his fingertips. "No, I'm afraid not. Dr. Berger didn't seem to like my answers very much."

"Well, I mean..." What on earth did that mean when a psychiatrist didn't like your answers? "It's just the beginning," Ray said lamely.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Fraser said under his breath.

Ray slung an arm around Fraser's shoulders, ignoring his look of surprise. "C'mon, I'll buy you lunch, how about that?"

Fraser smiled faintly. "That would be wonderful, Ray, thank you."

---

Between the two of them, they could usually could manage most of a large pie. But this time Fraser wasn't pulling his weight; he was just staring down at the half-eaten slice in his hand.

Ray leaned forward over the table. "You've got to put it in your mouth. Otherwise it doesn't work." He took a bite out of his own slice as an illustration.

Fraser watched him eat for a moment and then said, curiously: "Ray, how do you feel?"

Ray stopped chewing for a second—he thought that was a pretty weird question, coming from Fraser, maybe even a dangerous one under the circumstances. But Fraser was looking at him intently, like he really wanted to know. "I dunno," he said carefully, after he'd swallowed. "Freaked about the shooting. Pissed off at Welsh, I.A., the regs. Okay about the therapy, kind of surprised by that. Worried about you," he admitted, then moved on quickly. "Really scared of this hearing, like they might nail me on something. Horny all the time," he said, and showed Fraser a lopsided smile, "which is just something I live with. You know, pretty much the usual for me. Your basic state of confusion."

Fraser sat back in his chair, looking gloomy. "Hmm."

"Well, what about you?" Ray countered, putting down his slice. "How do you feel?"

Fraser started eating his pizza again, but mainly as a way not to talk, Ray figured. Finally Fraser ate the last bit of crust and licked grease from his fingertips. "I don't know," he said, looking up. "I suppose that's the problem, really."

Ray reached for another piece of pizza to camouflage his surprise. Fraser'd just admitted that he had a problem, and Fraser normally wasn't a big one for admitting problems. Ray dragged the slice onto his plate and floundered for something to say. "Well," he said finally, trying to keep his voice casual, "I don't really know how I feel, either. Just I took longer to say it than you."

This was maybe a better answer, because at least now Fraser looked amused. "I suppose," Fraser said. "Though you just used a number of 'feeling' words— 'surprised,' 'confused,' 'worried,' 'scared'—"

"Freaked, pissed, horny," Ray finished, and stifled a grin. He wondered if he could get Fraser to repeat that. "Don't forget horny."

"I'm not entirely sure that counts as a feeling word," Fraser said gravely.

"You bet it counts as a feeling word! It's a feeling, believe me."

Fraser's tongue was poking gently at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I suppose I'll have to take your word for it."

"Oh yeah, right." He'd known Fraser too long to buy any of that bullshit—though Fraser sold it really well, straight face and everything. "Look, since I seem to have some extra 'feeling words' lying around—is that what he calls 'em?" Ray said, interrupting himself. "Feeling words?"

Fraser sighed and nodded grimly, and that told Ray everything he needed to know about Dr. Berger.

Ray slouched back in his chair and shook his head. "Geez. I could give him a feeling word or two," and Fraser was actually struggling not to smile now. Good. Good. "I got plenty of feeling words—go on and borrow a couple," Ray suggested. "Tell him you're freaked out. Tell him you're pissed off. Tell him you're mad as hell and you're not going to take it anymore."

Fraser's eyes widened slightly like he was having a revelation—and really, Fraser was the best straight man in the business. "Why, that's true, Ray. I am feeling rather freakish, now that you mention it."

Ray bit the inside of his cheek and nodded slowly, trying to seem thoughtful. "Plus you're mad as hell, aren't you."

"Yes. Completely pissed off." Damn, Fraser was going for it, playing to win—and now he was leaning in for the kill. "Thank you, Ray." Fraser's voice was thrumming with sincerity. "You've expanded my emotional world."

Ray slapped the table, laughing so hard that he was sure he was showing Fraser all of his teeth, even the bridgework. "Okay, you win, you're the master," he admitted, and handed Fraser his brand-new gold pencil.

---

"Detective Ray Vecchio?" The guy heaving himself out of the chair was one of those old guys you saw around the force; maybe sixty now, Irish, full head of white hair, tough as nails, on the streets for thirty years before dedicating his life to keeping the younger guys out of trouble. Ray felt instantly relieved. "Jack Flannery," he said, and extended a hand to Ray across the table; he had an anchor tattooed in pale blue across the back.

"You're my rep?" Ray asked, gripping his hand tightly.

"You got it." Flannery looked over his shoulder at Fraser, and Ray could see instantly that Flannery didn't think much of him. He mistook Fraser for being richer and whiter than he was, which was always the problem with Fraser, when in fact Fraser had less money and education than most of them. If Fraser'd been an American G.I., he'd've opened his mouth and had himself a decent southern twang, which would've given Flannery the right picture: poor white kid, military family, low-level soldier. Except what did Flannery know from a rank like Constable, plus Fraser's big words tended to put people off.

Whatever; he'd deal with it. "This is my partner, Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Ray told Flannery, and really, that "Royal" didn't help either, though not like it was Fraser who was royalty.

"Your partner?" Flannery asked, giving Fraser a second look—and if Ray knew guys like this, which he did, Flannery was now torn between his suspicion at Fraser's appearance and his die-hard respect for a guy's partner.

"Yeah," Ray said, and waited.

Flannery gave Fraser a last look and turned his attention back to Ray. "Normally this is private—totally confidential, you and me."

"Yeah," Ray agreed, "except there's nothing you can say to me you can't say in front of Fraser, plus also he was there and has to testify, plus also he's not American as you might have noticed, so he doesn't have his own rep. So I was thinking you could maybe see us together, help us out."

Flannery shot one more quick look at Fraser and then nodded, shrugging, and waved them both toward the metal chairs. Flannery took his own seat again, popped a toothpick into his mouth, and propped his elbows on the table. "So. Vecchio. Four kids—you really need to do that?"

The room went very bright and sharp, and the first thing he was really conscious of was an annoying pain in his left arm. He turned. Red. Fraser was leaning forward and gripping his elbow tightly. "Ray?"

Ray sucked in a deep breath and some of the scary brightness went away. "What the hell kind of question is that?!" he demanded, jerking back to face Flannery; he felt like leaping over the desk and beating the old bastard's face in. "You're supposed to help me, you fuckin' sucker-punch me, you fucking, fucking—"

"Wrong answer, Ray," Flannery said quietly, and the old bastard's face was kind. "But we're gonna work on it, so don't worry."

---

Ray pushed his way into the men's room, knowing that Fraser was right behind him—if he moved fast he could lock himself in the stall before Fraser got there, and hopefully Fraser would think he was taking the mother of all shits and leave him the hell alone.

He slammed the stall door shut and slid the battered metal lock into place, though it took him two tries before the damn thing connected. He turned and looked at the cracked white toilet, and for a second he really did think that he would throw up.

"Ray?" Fraser's voice was weirdly echoey against the tile. "Are you—"

"I'm taking the mother of all shits, Fraser," Ray said, violently undoing his belt buckle and shoving his jeans down his legs. "I wouldn't wait around if I were you." He sat down on the toilet and listened hard, but he didn't hear Fraser leave.

"I—all right," Fraser said finally. "Will you pick me up in the morning?"

"Yeah. Sure." Ray leaned forward and braced his elbows on his thighs; he really should take Fraser home, except he couldn't think right now, let alone drive, with all this bullshit spinning in his head.

"Justifiable force," Flannery'd explained flatly. "Those punks fired at you—they fired at a cop, Ray. You've got every right in the world to blow their heads off, except you can't quite say it that way before the board. So you've got to explain it to them in very small words, nice and calm. You lose your cool like that, they'll think something's wrong."

And maybe they were right to think that. Except they were punks, and they had fired first. And they'd fired at a cop, just like Flannery said.

Ray tried the phrase out on his tongue. "Justifiable force," he muttered. "I used justifiable force..."

He never even heard Fraser walk out.

---

Tuesday, April 23rd.

The knock at his office door surprised him; the Consulate didn't open for another half an hour, and he couldn't imagine who would be there before opening hours unless it was Turnbull, which was a depressing thought. He wasn't sure he could stand having what passed for a conversation with Turnbull right now. "Who is it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice sounding normal.

"It's Ray."

"Ray?" Fraser set his mug of tea down on the desk and went to open the door. "You're early."

Ray was standing there carrying a brown paper bag, looking a lot better than he had yesterday afternoon. "I know. But I have a plan. Can I come in?"

"Of course." Fraser stepped back, let Ray into his cramped office, and shut the door after him.

"I brought breakfast," Ray explained as he unpacked his bag on Fraser's desk; two large coffees in lidded paper cups, two circular objects wrapped in white butcher's paper. Ray held one up and said, "Guess."

Fraser sniffed the air. "Egg sandwiches?"

"You win an egg sandwich," Ray said, and tossed it to him. It was warm, and smelled a lot more appetizing than the biscuits he'd been having with his tea. For that matter, the smell of strong coffee in his nostrils was making the tea itself seem largely irrelevant.

"Thank you," Fraser said, unwrapping the sandwich. Egg and ham and melted cheese. Wonderful.

"So here's my plan." Ray sat down in Fraser's desk chair, while Fraser returned to sit on his not-yet-folded-up cot. "We eat breakfast and then I get you out of here before the Consulate opens. Good plan, huh?"

"Well." Fraser smiled down into his coffee. "It does have certain merits, I admit."

Ray tore the paper off his own sandwich, seized hold of it, tore it in half. "Yeah, like getting you out of two hours of boring paperwork and answering phones."

Not to mention the pleasure of Constable Turnbull's conversation. "Still," Fraser added, not entirely sure it was ethical to seize this particular lifeline, "therapy's not till eleven. We don't have any official duties until—"

The sandwich stopped on its way to Ray's mouth. "Sure we do. Welsh said we should make ourselves useful, right? So we go to the station and be useful. You'd be more useful there then you'd be useful here, plus we can hang out. Is it a deal?"

He was more than willing to be persuaded. "It's a deal, Ray, yes. Thank you," Fraser said.

---

"Hartley!" Fraser watched Ray wander through the bullpen with his clipboard. "Who's Hartley? You Hartley?" Ray asked, stopping by a man with a rather intensely effusive beard.

"What of it?" the man sneered.

Ray didn't even blink. "Nothing of it. Go to hell." He flipped a page of the clipboard and began calling out, "Watkins! Mistah Jeremiah Watkins—"

"All right, okay, I'm Hartley!" the bearded man said.

Ray raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, what of it?"

The bearded man rattled the chain binding his wrist to the chair. "Ah, c'mon already. I've been here all night!"

Ray sighed and flipped back to the previous page. "Hartley, Robert—Bob-the-biker-man. Drunk, disorderly, noise violation, damaging public property, and assault on the arresting officer." Ray shook his head, tsking softly. "Bet you make your mother cry, too, you bastard..."

"Constable?" Fraser turned and saw that Lieutenant Welsh had come up beside him, and was looking at him curiously. "How'd the therapy go?"

"All right," Fraser didn't want to talk about it. "I think we're both looking forward to being on active duty again."

Welsh nodded slowly, contemplatively. "That's good. Glad to hear it," and something in his voice kept Fraser standing at attention. "Because I'd hate to lose you. Either of you. I mean that."

Fraser wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just glanced down at his watch. "Speaking of therapy," he told Welsh, not quite changing the subject, "it's nearly time."

Fraser wasn't in the hallway yet. Ray glanced at his watch and then at Dr. Berger's closed door. He kept remembering Fraser's shell-shocked look from yesterday, and his imagination now conjured visions of Fraser having a full-fledged nervous breakdown behind the door, which would be not at all good.

Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and he rapped on Berger's door. "Come in!" a voice called.

Ray opened the door and poked his head in. No Fraser. "Oh, hey, sorry," he said, taking in Dr. Berger, who looked like a corduroy-and-tweed-wearing-twerp of the first magnitude. "I was looking for Constable Fraser—"

"He's already gone," Dr. Berger said. "He left early."

"Oh. Right. Thanks," Ray said and pulled the door shut. Then he opened it again. "He's okay, right?"

Dr. Berger sat back in his chair and studied him. "I can't discuss the progress of my patients," he said, finally. "I'm sorry."

"Oh," Ray said. "Okay, right." He pulled the door shut again, and then thought, oh, fuck it, and opened it again. "Except I'm his partner, right?" he told Berger, who was now staring at him like he was the crazy one around here. "The guy who shot all those kids? Which maybe he mentioned?"

Berger shook his head in mute refusal. Right. Okay. Ray moved to pull the door closed and then didn't. "I'm also, like, the nearest thing Fraser has to family in this country," he explained. "Or maybe in any country. Cause he doesn't have any family, really. So, like, if there's any family-type thing to report, you could maybe report it to me."

"Uh-huh," Dr. Berger said, staring at him. "And you are?"

"Ray Vecchio. Fraser's partner. Cop partner," Ray amended quickly, feeling his face go warm. "Not like—anything funny. You know. We're cops."

"Right," Dr. Berger said, nodding slowly. "You're cops," and this time Ray shut the door and fled down the hall.

---

He found Fraser in the men's room, bent over the sink. When Fraser raised his head, it looked to Ray like he'd already washed his face about 27 times, he looked so damned scrubbed. "Hey," Ray said, letting the door shut behind him. "Where've you been?"

Fraser turned away and wrestled a paper towel out of the rack on the wall. "Just waiting for you, Ray. I got out early."

I got out early—except Berger'd just said that Fraser'd left early, which was not at all the same thing. "Oh yeah?" Ray asked, trying to sound casual about it. "So how'd it go?"

Fraser dried his face carefully on the white paper towel, then folded it in halves and then in quarters before dropping into the trash. Which was not at all good, Ray thought; when Fraser got all anal about dumb things like that, it meant he was really messed up inside.

"It was fine," Fraser said, avoiding his eyes. "How was yours?"

"You first," Ray said. Fraser tilted his head noncommittally, which was just another way of refusing to answer, but this time Ray was ready for him. He grabbed Fraser's shoulders and hung on. "You don't have to do it," Ray said, ducking and dodging his head until Fraser finally met his eyes. "You hear me? This whole thing is my mess, and you just hit the exit ramp any time you feel like it, all right?"

Fraser's eyes seemed to be an even darker blue than usual. "It's not that simple."

"It is that simple. It is just that simple," Ray replied doggedly. "You heard Flannery—no way am I not justified here. I'm justified. This was justifiable homicide." Amazing how much easier that had gotten to say in twenty-four hours. "I'm gonna be fine, Fraser."

For a long moment Ray held his breath, terrified that Fraser was maybe going to contradict him. But Fraser just looked at him, and then he nodded. "Yes, of course. But still. We should keep our options open."

He wasn't sure what options exactly Fraser was talking about, and right now he couldn't bear to ask. "Not if you're hating this, we shouldn't. It's not worth it." None of it was worth a damn if Fraser was miserable—not the testimony, not even the partnership.

Fraser just leaned back against the sink and scrubbed at his face again, like maybe he was still trying to wash something off. "I don't hate it, per se. It's just...difficult for me."

Ray bet it was. He wasn't finding therapy to be any piece of cake himself, plus his therapist wasn't a big dork like Berger. If this was rough for him, it had to be hell on Fraser. "Well, yeah," Ray sighed, reaching out to straighten Fraser's lanyard. "Me too, if it makes you feel any better. This woman Melissa, she makes me think about things that I don't wanna think about."

Fraser nodded so hard that Ray thought his hat would fly off. "Yes, exactly. It's not—can they do this?" he asked, almost pleading.

"Apparently, yeah," Ray said glumly.

"It's—invasive." Fraser was looking seriously creeped out.

"You don't have to do it," Ray insisted. "I swear to you, Fraser: you do not have to do this thing if you don't—"

"We ought to go," Fraser said, straightening up. "You'll miss your appointment with Mr. Flannery."

---

"We finally cornered them in the alley between Clifton and Mott."

Flannery looked up from his notes. "Jamison and Parker? Both of them?"

"Yes," Ray said.

"No," Fraser murmured from his corner.

"No," Ray corrected himself, and then he glanced over at Fraser, frowning. "Whattya mean, no?"

"You cornered Mr. Jamison in the alley. I apprehended Parker further along Mott Street."

"Yeah, but we all ended up in the alley. You came back with Parker and we all ended up in the alley."

"We ended up in the alley," Fraser agreed.

"And I handcuffed Jamison. And you handcuffed Parker. And we were, like, talking to 'em, because this wasn't just a normal bust. Because okay, yeah, they were dealing, but this was bigger than individual dealers. It was a gang thing, Blades and Tanks, and I thought..." Ray looked over at Fraser again. "Well, Fraser really thought. He thought that—you know, maybe if we talked to them..."

Fraser obligingly continued the narrative. "Mr. Jamison and Mr. Parker commanded considerable respect within the Blade hierarchy," Fraser explained. "We thought that, perhaps, if we treated them with some respect, that they might use their influence to diffuse the building tensions between the two clubs."

"Which was why no squad cars," Ray interrupted. "Which was why we didn't call in for backup. The plan was just to take them back to the station in my car. Handcuffed, yeah, but other than that..."

"That's good," Flannery muttered, scribbling another quick note. "Board'll love that shit."

Ray shot a glance over at Fraser, who'd gone still. Fraser'd taken offense. "It wasn't shit," Ray protested, "it was..."

Flannery looked up at him. "Then what happened?"

Ray wasn't gonna be taken off track. "It wasn't shit," he insisted, "it was real, it was a real attempt to—"

Flannery waved his gnarled hand, trying to stop him. "Save it for the board, Ray."

"Yeah, but you're making it seem..." He didn't have the word for what he wanted to say. Fake, but that wasn't right. He looked over at Fraser, pleading for Fraser to drop one of his five dollar words on Flannery's head.

"Crass," Fraser said quietly, staring down at the table top. "Self-serving."

Ray could have kissed him. "Crass," he told Flannery. "Self-serving. Like I'm making it up, but I'm not—we were trying to do something there."

"All right." But Flannery was just yessing him now. "That's great, Ray. And it doesn't hurt none that it makes you look good."

Ray felt his stomach tighten up; there was no way out of this, suddenly everything was a Catch 22, a lose-lose.

Flannery sighed and put down his pen. "That's my job, Ray. To make you look good for the board."

Ray felt like if he didn't get out of that room he was gonna punch somebody. "Yeah, okay," he said. "Can we continue this next time?"

"Sure," Flannery said.

---

Ray went into the men's room—how long had his life been a series of men's rooms? What was wrong with your life, with your job, when the only place you had to collect yourself was the shitter?

Fraser was right behind him again, but this time Ray was glad he was there. "You hear how he tells it?" His voice felt tight; it was weirdly hard to talk. "He makes everything sound like a lie."

Fraser stepped close to him and lowered his voice. "We were trying to help, Ray. That isn't a lie."

For some reason, having Fraser's support made him lose it a little. He struggled to keep up a normal expression, except his face was falling apart the way your teeth sometimes did in dreams. "Just—it's like—he makes it sound like—"

"Shh." Fraser put his arm around Ray's shoulder, and Ray moved in closer to him, happy to hide his crumbling face. He slung his arms around Fraser's torso and returned the hug with a quick, tight squeeze.

"Just—I didn't lie," Ray muttered into Fraser's left ear.

Fraser's voice was calm. "I know."

I know. Fraser's confidence unnerved him—Fraser couldn't know, no way he could know. Or did he know, had he actually seen? Was Fraser lying to him or for him? Ray felt like blurting out everything—right here, right now, and let the cards fall where they—

Ray pressed his mouth to Fraser's ear. "I didn't lie. Not—exactly."

Fraser's arms instantly tightened around him. "Shhhh," Fraser said. "Don't."

---

Tuesday, April 26th

"Ray?" Frannie's bellybutton presented itself for his inspection.

For a moment, Ray considered talking straight to it, eliminating the middleman. Then he sighed and craned his neck up so that he could see Frannie's face. "What?"

"You gotta redo this," she said, flattening some paperwork on the desk in front of him. "You screwed it up."

She tapped the upper right hand corner of the photocopied sheet with a pink fingernail. Tuesday, he'd scrawled in the box. April 23. "April 23rd was last Friday," she explained.

Ray stared down at the paper for a long time. "Not for me, it wasn't," he said finally.

---

Fraser arrived at the station shortly after ten, carrying a stack of books under his left arm.

Ray got to his feet, really pleased to see him. "Hey, how're you doing? How was your weekend?" Ray's own weekend had mostly been spent locked in his apartment in a semi-alcoholic stupor—but hey, he had a therapist now, he might as well take advantage and let himself fall apart.

"Busy," Fraser said, setting the books down onto Ray's desk with a thud. "I've been at the library, mainly."

"Oh yeah? Got the urge for a little light reading?" Ray flipped his glasses onto his face, bent to squint at the titles, then straightened up and shrugged. "It's only six more sessions, Fraser."

"Yes, Ray," Fraser said grimly. "I know."

Fraser knew Ray was upset the moment he walked out of Dr. Wertzer's office; Ray was staring at the floor, head bent, looking like he wanted to hit someone very badly. Fraser wanted to touch him, but when Ray was like this he was afraid to. "Do you want lunch?" Fraser asked quietly.

"Yeah, okay. Sure." Ray looked like he was struggling to get control of himself. "Chinese?"

"That's fine," Fraser said, and they went down to his car.

Ray's state of angry distraction persisted on the ride to Hunan Palace—a couple of times he banged his hand hard on the steering wheel, making Fraser jump and cling firmly to his side of the car. Ray's face was thunderous, but he didn't seem to know it.

Fraser turned to face the window. "It didn't go well, I take it."

Ray's voice came back sharply. "No, it did not fucking go well, Fraser."

Fraser kept his eyes resolutely turned away, giving Ray privacy for his emotions. "Can I help?"

Ray didn't answer the question; Ray didn't say anything else until they'd parked near the restaurant. Then he switched off the GTO's engine and turned around, and Fraser thought there was something damn near desperate in his expression. "Fraser, that night...with Parker..."

Don't, Fraser thought, feeling suddenly desperate himself. Please don't say any more. If we don't talk about it, then for all intents and purposes it didn't happen.

But Ray didn't ask any questions, or tell Fraser anything. Instead he just lifted his fist and pounded the steering wheel three times, hard—bang, bang, bang!—and then said, "Fuck this. I want spare ribs."

They had spare ribs, and Fraser told Ray all about how Inuit dream-interpretation differed substantially from the Freudian model. Ray seemed interested.

---

"We were taking them back to the car." Every sentence was an agony. "Me with Jamison, Fraser with Parker." He was conscious of Fraser sitting down the table from him, staring down at his hands, saying nothing. "I was parked close by, just down the block, and the four of us were walking. They were handcuffed, okay, but it was pretty normal—we were treating them good, just like I said."

"You're doing fine," Flannery murmured. "Keep going, nice and slow—what happened next?"

Ray took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He reminded himself that he just had to tell what he saw, not what he felt. "We were maybe ten feet away from my car when I heard this screeching sound." How he felt was nobody's business. "Tires, and I turned to look, and then—" It was all a blur—sights and sounds, mixed with feelings. "And then—" Fragments hitting him, weird disjointed memories: the screech of tires, turning and seeing Fraser—

"You're doing fine," Flannery repeated.

Ray steeled himself. "I heard the cars stop. I turned, saw Fraser and Parker and—I saw the blood before I heard the shot."

"You saw blood?" Flannery asked. "Whose blood?"

And that was the whole question, really. "Parker's." Christ, this was hard, this was hard. "First I heard the screech. Then I saw the blood, because they'd shot Parker in the head, and there was blood everywhere. Then I heard the gun go off—the first shot—but this was all quick, real quick, nanoseconds."

Flannery nodded grimly. "Then what happened?"

"I reached for my gun." Ray could see it all in his head, like a movie—him standing on the sidewalk, pulling his gun, shooting over the dingy white hood of a Ford Escort. "There were two cars pulled up, sort of in a V, with us at the center. And I pulled out my gun, and I emptied the clip."

Flannery was nodding, scribbling, looking satisfied. "You emptied your entire clip?"

"Yeah. Standard clip, nine shots. There were two cars, at least two guns, they'd fired first—"

"Did they fire again?" Flannery interrupted.

"Yeah. They got off four more shots—ballistics says four, not like I heard it, because I was firing too and it was just blam, blam, blam. Chaos."

"They killed Jamison?"

"Yeah." Though he hadn't known that till afterwards. "Yeah, they shot him in the belly, and he bled out on the sidewalk."

Flannery raised a hand. "Okay, wait, slow down. Go through it again. They pulled up and killed Parker. You returned fire, they kept firing."

"Right," Ray repeated, automatically. "I fired, they fired. I emptied my clip, like I said."

"What color were the cars?" Flannery asked.

"One black, one red. The red car never moved—it was right where the uniforms found it. The black car tried to go—they backed up fast but they crashed."

"How many people were in each car?" Flannery asked.

Ray closed his eyes. It was like he was there, on the sidewalk, still shooting—god, he could see everything. "Two guys in the black car, both in front. Four guys in the red car, two in the front, two in back."

Flannery wrote this down. "And you hit...?"

"All of them," Ray said mechanically. "I hit all of them."

Flannery looked impressed, but who gave a shit what Flannery thought. It was Fraser who mattered, and he couldn't even look at Fraser. "All of them?" Flannery repeated.

"Yeah. I killed the four sitting in the front seats, wounded the two guys in back."

Flannery put his pen down. "You hit six guys with nine shots?" he repeated.

"Yeah."

"And killed four?"

"Yeah."

"At night?"

"Yeah."

"How many stray shots?"

"None." Every goddamned bullet in his clip had been pulled out of a body, dead or alive.

"Goddamn." Flannery let out a long, slow whistle. "You must be one hell of a good shot, Ray."

Ray looked away—and then to his surprise he heard Fraser's voice.

"Yes, he is. When he's wearing his glasses. Without them, he can't hit the broad side of a barn."

Flannery gave a long, rolling chuckle. "He oughta get contact lenses."

"Can't wear 'em," Ray said quietly. "They hurt my eyes."

"Too bad." Flannery scratched at his thatch of gray hair, and then sat back in his seat and regarded Ray thoughtfully. "So. Vecchio. Wanna try it again?"

Ray frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Four kids, Ray. You really need to do that?"

"Yeah." The answer came out easily now, somehow. "They were armed, they opened fire at us. I used justifiable force."

Flannery grinned at him, looking like death's own messenger. "Give that boy a cigar."

---

Tuesday, April 27th

"It's a week," Ray muttered to the floor. "It's a full week—Tuesday to Tuesday to Tuesday." Ray looked up suddenly. "I'm never gonna get out of Tuesday, Fraser. It's gonna be Tuesday forever, isn't it?"

"No, Ray," Fraser said quietly. "Not forever. Just for another week or so."

Fraser walked out of Dr. Berger's office feeling vaguely disassociated, and wondering whether he'd always been this disassociated and just never noticed. The hallway outside the doctors' offices was empty, but Dr. Wertzer's door was open. Fraser walked slowly toward it, his footsteps echoing loudly between the granite floor and the high, arched ceilings.

He tried to peer unobtrusively into the office to see if by any chance Ray was still there, and got a glimpse of an empty chair. Gone. He turned and began to walk towards the men's room at the end of the corridor, figuring that he'd find Ray there, but he'd only gone a few steps before he became aware of a change in the air and turned back.

Dr. Melissa Wertzer was leaning against the doorframe to her office, looking at him with frank curiosity. Instantly, Fraser took off his hat. "Good morning," he said.

She corrected him with wry good humor. "It's afternoon—twelve-fourteen to be exact. You must be Constable Fraser."

"Yes, I must be," Fraser said, taking the few steps back toward her to offer her his hand. "Dr. Wertzer, I presume."

She acknowledged the witticism with a brief nod as she squeezed his hand. "Please call me Melissa. Everyone does," and Fraser found himself grateful that, whatever his other flaws, Dr. Berger had at least never insisted that Fraser call him 'Dave'. "I assume you're looking for Ray, but he's already gone."

He knew it was improper to ask questions, so he tried to frame his inquiry as vaguely as possible. "He's...all right, isn't he?"

She smiled warmly at the question, and he felt instantly relieved. "Oh yes," she replied. "Ray's very resilient, as I'm sure you know. He's like an emotional gymnast—fear, anger, hate, loathing, joy, love, dismount, and the Russian judges give him a 9.8." Fraser smiled a little at the description; it seemed to him uncommonly apt. "What about you?" she asked, tilting her head at him. "How are your sessions going?"

Fraser pulled a rueful face. "I'm afraid I'm not quite as...flexible...as Ray is."

Refreshingly, she seemed to take him at his word, without any of that typically American desire to suggest a more optimistic interpretation. "Well, that's what we're here for—to provide space and time for experimentation." She shrugged her shoulder. "Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't."

Fraser nodded and began to back away down the corridor. "I should find Ray..."

"Probably, yeah," she granted, straightening up. "I'd tell you to be kind to him, but I suspect you already are," she added, and closed her office door.

---

Fraser pushed open the door to the men's room. It was empty, and for a moment he felt utterly lost—he couldn't think where else Ray would have gone. Down to the car perhaps?

And then he heard just the slightest scuff of footsteps underneath the drip-drip-dripping of the various taps, and he walked in, towards the sinks, letting the door shut itself slowly on its hydraulic hinge. "Ray?"

"Yeah." Another scuffle echoed off the tiled walls; he was in one of the stalls. Fraser scanned the bottom two feet of the blue doors until he spotted Ray's boots, which were facing quite the wrong direction for any of the stall's more conventional uses. Ray wasn't availing himself of the facilities, then, but simply seeking another layer of privacy.

"Ray, are you all right?"

"Yeah. Fine. Gimme a second."

"Sure," Fraser said, and decided to take the opportunity to wash his hands.

He looked up into the mirror above the sink when he heard the slide of the lock, and Ray was coming out behind him. Fraser thought he looked all right—but then again, he thought, shifting his eyes to his own face, he looked all right, too, so what did that mean?

He switched the water off and reached to take a paper towel out of the dispenser. "I met," Fraser began, meaning to finish the sentence, your therapist , but Ray had moved to the sink beside him and switched on the water and— his hands were shaking. Fraser couldn't tear his eyes away—Ray was rubbing his hands together quickly, spreading the lather over them, but when he reached again to switch the taps off the tremors again became evident.

Fraser snatched another paper towel out of the dispenser and handed it to him, wanting to save Ray the embarrassment of reaching past him with those shaking hands. Ray dried his hands roughly, mainly to keep them moving, Fraser suspected, before wadding the white paper up and throwing it into the trash.

"Let's get lunch." Ray jammed his hands in his pockets and avoided Fraser's eyes, but it was as if the tremors in his body were spreading upwards, resulting in an overall physical twitch.

"Ray..." Fraser couldn't seem to keep sympathy out of his voice.

Ray's face grew tight and he turned away. "Forget it, Fraser," he said tightly. "Let's just get some—"

"What happened?" Fraser asked.

"Just—nothing." A muscle in Ray's jaw was twitching, and the hands in his pockets were noticeably balled into fists. "Just—that woman," he muttered, keeping his eyes firmly averted. "She's a bitch, Fraser," and Fraser had to work to control his surprise, because he'd just met the woman and she'd seemed perfectly nice.

Fraser stepped toward Ray, but Ray's body language was telling him in no uncertain terms to back off. So he backed off.

"I don't wanna talk about it, Fraser. Let's just eat something and get back to work—pizza okay?"

"Yes," Fraser said—and then suddenly it was like some other voice was speaking through him. "No," he amended sharply, and Ray's head whipped around. He wasn't half as surprised as Fraser was, though—Fraser could feel his lips moving, hear his own voice in his ears, but the thoughts being articulating were entirely news to him.

The voice was his, but it wasn't his; this was him, but it wasn't him.

"I want a grilled cheese sandwich," the Not-Him announced. "With bacon."

Ray burst out laughing, maybe surprised at Not-Fraser's unexpectedly vehement luncheon preferences. "Well, I think we can do that for you, Fraser. We could go to Ron's Diner and—"

"And french fries," the Not-Fraser said, continuing to surprise him, though Fraser had to admit that french fries sounded very appealing at the moment.

Perhaps he was craving salt.

"French fries, sure," Ray repeated, sounding bemused, but no longer quite as upset as a moment ago, which was good. "I'll eat french fries..."

"And pie," Fraser added. "I want pie."

Ray yanked his hand out of his pocket, took Fraser's arm, and steered him toward the door. "Okay, pie. We'll get you pie. What kind of pie?"

He seemed to have an answer for everything today. "Pumpkin."

"Okay," Ray said.

---

Fraser watched Ray closely as he drove toward Ron's Diner. Part of Ray's mind was strictly engaged in the act of driving (Fraser could see his eyes flickering occasionally to the rear view mirror, and Ray was obviously conscious of fighting the traffic around them) but some other part was obviously rehashing whatever had disturbed him about this morning's psychiatric session. It was amazing, but Fraser could actually see Ray thinking. Ideas and emotions visibly crossed his face; it was like watching clouds, in a gale wind, blow past the bright sun in an otherwise blue sky.

It was fascinating. Fraser felt like he could have packed a lunch and made a day of it.

"Okay," Ray muttered, glancing over at him, "so now we gotta figure out where to—" Ray stopped and did a long, slow double take. "What's with you?"

"Nothing," Fraser said instantly. "I was just thinking about...what I want for lunch."

Ray cracked a grin. "Geez, Fraser, you must really be hungry."

"Oh yes, Ray," Fraser replied. "You can't imagine."

---

They sat at a free-standing table, since all the booths were taken, it being real-people lunchtime, too. The fake wood tabletop was none too clean—but Fraser didn't seem to notice, which was weird, cause usually sticky tabletops made his nose wrinkle up.

But not today. Today, Ray had to practically drag him away from the revolving glass cake thing. Fraser's face was following three-quarters of a pumpkin-pie, his eyes weirdly glassy. It was like being with Diefenbaker.

"Hey!" Ray yelled at the waitress, who came over to the table, along with her attitude. "Give this thing a wipedown, willya?"

He lifted his elbows off the table, then shoved Fraser back; Fraser wasn't paying attention. The waitress pulled a filthy rag from her belt and wiped the table down—it was less gunky, okay, but it smelled a thousand times worse and now it was wet.

"This food better be good," Ray muttered, picking up the large plastic menu.

They brought Fraser two grilled cheese sandwiches stuffed with tomato and bacon, a large order of fries, and a vanilla milkshake. "Don't eat fast, you'll get sick," Ray cautioned, but Fraser was squeezing ketchup over his fries in wild swoops. "Take it easy with the squeeze bottle, willya..."

He didn't have much of an appetite himself, because first of all his cheeseburger wasn't all that exciting, and secondly because the whole diner scene reminded him of being with Stella back when they were kids, when going to the diner was pretty much all you could do on a Friday night. He stared down at his plate and tried to remember how exciting it had been to be with her—and when the hell had that changed?

In his head, their divorce was all still about them having kids, but beneath that there were other memories, things he maybe didn't want to remember so clearly. Her sad eyes, the way Stella looked so sad all the time. Crushing feelings of failure, soft sobs in the middle of the night, light streaming from under the locked bathroom door. Go away! Just leave me alone! and him pounding on the door like an animal, desperate and sweating and ready to swear anything, I promise, I won't ever, I'll do better—

Except he wouldn't ever do better; it was all lies and lies and more—

Ray swatted something in his hair and came into contact with the warm flesh of Fraser's wrist.

It took him a second to put that information into any form his brain could actually process. Fraser was stroking his hair, sort of fingering the hair just by his left ear. Ray stared at him, but Fraser just seemed totally calm about it. He tucked a strand of hair behind Ray's ear, tickling Ray's earlobe and making him twitch, before slowly pulling his hand back.

Ray was trying to find some words to make a sentence with—touching, hair, public, restaurant, and crazy were floating around in his head but wouldn't combine into anything useful—when Fraser said, quietly, "You were very far away just now. Where were you?"

I was in the bathroom with Stella crying and did you just touch my hair?

Fraser was studying him curiously.

You did, didn't you. You just reached out and touched my hair when I wasn't even paying attention....

"Ray?" Fraser was looking worried now.

Ray tried to pull it together; his ear burned where Fraser'd touched it. "You still want pie, Fraser?"

Fraser stared at him for a second longer, and then nodded slowly. "Very much so, yes."

"So order it already."

---

Ray was muttering to himself as he drove them back toward the station. "...gotta get it together...gotta pull my head together to do something today..."

Fraser reached out again to touch the soft spikes of hair at the back of Ray's head, but Ray jerked wildly and flung himself toward the driver's side door, pulling his hair out of reach. "Would you just quit it?! You're acting just like the wolf!"

Fraser pulled his hand back quickly, thinking that perhaps he ought to give Dr. Freud another read. "What?"

"It's all ears and pie with you today!" Ray was trying to drive and yell and keep an eye on him at the same time. "Meanwhile, I got my own problems! I got a crazy shrink telling me my whole life is a fake, which not even in the undercover way which she doesn't know about. She's asking me questions I don't wanna answer, making me think about things I don't wanna think about, and now I got a head full of that plus you with the hair and the ears and the pie. I gotta go to work, now, Fraser; I gotta have my head focused on—"

Fraser's head was spinning. What in Ray's life was fake? What questions didn't he want to answer? Did Dr. Freud know more about wolves than he'd previously suspected? When did everything get so confusing? When did he start to feel so very—because he felt so very—

When the hell had he started to feel so damn much?

It took Fraser a second to notice that the Not-Fraser had a suggestion. "Let's not go," Fraser heard himself say.

"What?" Ray was staring from the road to him and back. "What did you say?"

"Let's not go to work," the Not-Fraser said; and all right, he had a point, it was a nice day—too nice to be cooped up in the bullpen interviewing criminals.

Ray looked like the words weren't making any sense to him. "Not go? How can we not go?"

"I don't want to go," the Not-Fraser said. "I'm not in the mood."

"You're not in the mood?" Ray looked like his eyes were going to fall right out of his head. "You have moods? Since when do you have moods?"

"I have moods," the Not-Fraser said, moodily. "I'm having one now, in fact. I don't want to go to the precinct."

Ray's mouth opened and closed and opened again, making him look like a punky, blond fish. "So...you...uh. You want me to drop you at the Consulate?"

"God, no," the Not-Fraser retorted. "I hate the Consulate."

"You hate the Consulate?" Ray repeated, his voice rising in near-hysteria.

"Very much so, yes," the Not-Fraser replied. Fraser felt an odd sort of exhilaration, but also desperation—he was going to have to shut this person up before he ruined his entire life. The Not-Fraser wasn't inclined to be laconic, though. "The only thing I hate more than working there is living there. Even Turnbull's cardboard box has more of a view. I'm surprised I haven't slit my throat in sheer despair."

Ray gaped at him. "Watch the road," Fraser chided, and Ray forced his eyes back to the road, which suddenly looked to Fraser like a winding mountain pass, except the mountains were huge glass buildings, towering in the afternoon light. Hello, Chicago, he thought.

"You're having a worse day than me," Ray said softly, apparently to the windshield. "You're having a worse day than me and you didn't even bother to say nothing."

"On the contrary, I'm having a fine day. An interesting day in any case, which is new." They were passing the University of Chicago Medical Center, and Fraser wondered idly if perhaps they had a dental school.

"I don't know where I'm going," Ray said, a second later, taking what was apparently a random right turn. "I'm not going to the precinct, I'm not going to the Consulate—where the hell am I going, Fraser?"

"You could just drop me off somewhere," Fraser suggested. "I'll find something to do."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," Ray retorted. "You've flipped your hat or something."

"Do you want to go bowling, then? I've never been."

---

"Those shoes don't work for you," Ray said churlishly, but Fraser thought that was only because Ray resented his superior score. He'd started slow, but by the fifth frame he'd gotten the hang of it, picking up two strikes and a spare.

"I think they look all right," Fraser countered, looking down at his red and white feet.

"I think my brain is gonna explode." Ray hefted his ball and centered himself in the alley before taking two quick steps and sending the ball cleanly away.

Fraser shook his head sadly; a seven-two split. "Well, now, that is tricky..."

"Yeah, that sucks," Ray said, making a face at the pins, before turning around and coming back to the scoring table. "I'm not drunk enough for this."

"Do you find that alcohol improves your performance?" Fraser asked curiously.

"Nah. Just makes me care less." Ray pulled his beer bottle out of the holder and took a long swig as his bowling ball popped out of the return device. "Okay, here goes nothing," he said, and Fraser watched as he carefully picked off the pin on the left. Nine—quite respectable.

He pushed up the sleeves of his Henley. "My turn."

"Knock yourself out," Ray said, sitting down at the score table and reaching for his beer.

Fraser picked up the ball he'd been using, distributed its weight evenly in his hands, and contemplated the pins. He thought there was something wonderfully Zen about this—he was enjoying the balance, the geometry, the satisfying bang as the ball smashed into the formation of pins. He took three long strides and released the ball, then watched with some excitement as it hurtled, spinning, down the lane.

Crash—and down they all went. Brilliant.

"Okay, you're kicking my ass," Ray said, etching an X into Fraser's sixth frame. "Not that I'm surprised or anything. I look better in the shoes, though." Just then there was a muted ringing, and Ray yanked his phone off his belt and stared at it for a long moment before saying, "What am I, crazy? I'm not answering this."

"Why not?" Fraser asked, and Ray held up the ringing phone up to show him the LED display. Lieutenant Welsh.

"You wanna explain today to him?" Ray asked.

Fraser heard the question as a dare, and took the telephone from Ray's hand. "If you wish, certainly," he said, yanking the antenna up and flipping the mouthpiece down before putting the phone to his ear. Ray skittered out of his chair and took two horrified steps backwards. "Detective Ray Vecchio's line," he said. "Constable Fraser speaking."

---

Ray was not nearly drunk enough for this, or maybe he'd gotten drunk sometime earlier in the day and didn't remember, because this was fucking surreal—Fraser standing there, calm as you please, in his t-shirt and suspenders and bowling shoes, talking to Welsh.

"Why yes," Fraser was saying, "that is the sound of bowling you hear. Yes, quite distinctive. Well, I'm afraid it was my idea. Yes, quite urgently—because, you see, I've been in Chicago for four years now and I'd never been. Yes, that's what I thought! No, I think Ray's merely indulging me—well, actually, he seems to think that I've dropped a decimal point or two, though really I feel fine. Oh yes, very much. I am, though I can't tell you the exact score, because I'm coming off a number of strikes and spares. I'll report back, though, if you want. Yes, he's right here," Fraser said, and Ray raised his hands and frantically waved no, no, no, no!

"He wants to talk to you," Fraser said, and thrust the phone at him.

Ray blew out a breath, wondering what exactly he was supposed to say, here. He held the phone up to one ear and stuck a finger into the other to block out the noise of the alley.

"Hello, sir?" Ray asked, wincing.

Welsh made it easy for him. "Watch him like a hawk, Ray. He's flipping out."

And even though Ray'd thought exactly the same thing not five seconds ago, he felt weirdly torn—he didn't want to sell Fraser out, not even to Welsh. "Nah, he's okay," Ray said. "Just he had to go bowling. Sometimes that happens."

There was an eerie silence on the line and Ray thought, well, there you go. Goodbye job.

"You know," Welsh said finally, "it's a good thing you guys are already in therapy, otherwise I'd have to put you into therapy."

"Well, you know," Ray said weakly, "good call there, sir."

Another eerie silence. Fraser looked at him expectantly and Ray shrugged helplessly.

"Can I tell Mr. Flannery to expect you tomorrow?" Welsh asked with an exaggerated show of patience.

"Sure, yeah—I don't know," Ray said, looking at Fraser; what if Fraser decided that tomorrow he really wanted to ride the Ferris Wheel or something? "Just—things are a little strange right now. Can I get back to you?"

"I think you'd better, Detective. The hearing's in less than a week," Welsh said, and hung up.

"So?" Fraser asked as Ray snapped the phone shut and then, for good measure, turned it off. "Are we all right?"

"He thinks we've both flipped out."

Fraser seemed to consider the idea. "Possibly," he granted. "But I'm having a good time, aren't you?"

Ray stared at him for a moment, his ears ringing from all the bowling noise around them. "I—well, yeah," he admitted, because despite everything, he was, actually.

Fraser's smile was just gorgeous. "Good. I'm glad. It's your turn, Ray," and for a moment Ray wasn't sure if he meant, like, in bowling or what.

---

Fraser beat the pants off of him in the first game, but Ray rallied in the second—maybe it was getting rid of the stress of Welsh, or maybe he just took longer to warm up or something. But his muscles finally started doing what he wanted them to, and he got into a rhythm, nice and easy, the ball just sailing off the end of his hand and pow, boom.

"Well done," Fraser murmured into his ear, and in his total bowling greatness Ray forgot about almost everything for a while—forgot about the shooting and about Melissa and Stella and whether or not he'd been lying for four years about how his divorce went down. Who gave a shit when you were bowling this good?

Plus, hey, if Fraser wanted to touch his hair—well, why the hell not, really? It wasn't like there was a line or anything. Besides, it felt nice—he got happy little shivers whenever Fraser did it—each time Fraser stroked a hand over his hair, or patted his shoulder in congratulations for a good shot.

Ray thought it made him bowl better, too.

It was getting dark by time they walked out of the bowling alley. The wind was coming up, so Ray turned up his collar and said, "You wanna go to a movie? Maybe get dinner or something?"

Fraser was again buttoned up in his Mountie jacket and hat; no sign of the magnificent bowler within. "I need to see about Diefenbaker," he replied.

"Okay, we can do that."

"But I don't want to stay there." Fraser's voice sounded oddly thin in the windy parking lot. "At the Consulate."

"Oh yeah?" Ray camouflaged his reaction by making a show of searching his pockets for his keys. "When'd you figure this out?"

"Today," Fraser replied, looking at him over the top of the car. "I'm figuring out a lot of things today."

---

When they got to the Consulate, Ray could see that Fraser hadn't been kidding—he really didn't want to go in there, not even to get Diefenbaker. "I'll go," Ray told him, leaving the keys in the ignition. "Tell me what you want and I'll get it."

Fraser looked at him, his face crossed with conflicting emotions. "No, I should—"

"You don't want to, you don't have to," Ray said firmly. "I'll go. Get Dief and what else?"

Fraser raised a hand to his temple; it looked like his head was aching. "I don't know, I can't think...there's a bag on the shelf in my closet and..."

"All right, I'll figure it out," Ray said, thrusting his door open. "Don't worry about it, just wait here."

Ray jogged up the steps to the Consulate and opened the door. The hallway inside was dark, and suddenly it really hit him how depressing it would be for somebody like Fraser to work here, him essentially being such an active guy. Never mind that mainly what he had to do was pointless paperwork. Inspector Thatcher's door was closed, but her office light was still on. Trying not to make noise, Ray stole past and went to the back where Fraser's office was.

Fraser's room was incredibly cramped, stacked with cardboard boxes, with barely any room to maneuver—and how the hell hadn't he noticed? Diefenbaker was curled up on a blanket in the corner. He raised his head as Ray snicked the door shut behind him.

"Hi, wolf," Ray said. "You're moving."

Dief was instantly on his feet and wagging his tail. Ray crossed to the closet and opened the door; there was a large army bag up there, just like Fraser said. A couple of things on the rod—spare uniform, couple of shirts, couple of sweaters, jacket, jeans—and Ray stuffed everything into the bag, hangers and all.

"What else has he got?" he asked Diefenbaker.

Diefenbaker jumped up and pawed the top cardboard box of a stack. Ray heaved it onto the desk, pulled the top off, and saw that it contained personal items—underwear, socks, long johns, shaving bag, towel, and what looked like a diary. It was better than a drawer in the fact that it was portable, anyway; Ray'd just take the whole thing.

"What else?" Ray asked Dief.

Diefenbaker sat back on his hind legs and seemed to think about it. Ray wondered when it had stopped being strange that he was consulting a wolf to help him pack.

Dief got to his feet and nosed his way over to a small side table. There was an electric kettle plugged into the wall, a canister of tea, a box of instant oatmeal, a bowl of fruit, a tin of biscuits. A single white mug, a single knife, a single fork, a single spoon. Fraser's kitchen.

Ray turned away from the table, angry again at himself that he'd never seen, never noticed. A single fucking spoon, for god's sake. "Not this, leave this," he told Diefenbaker. "Anything else?" Dief was already at the door. "What, that's it?" he asked, and Diefenbaker stared at him, impatient to go. "That's everything?" One half-filled dufflebag and one box? How could a guy have his whole life in one dufflebag and one box?

Ray sighed. "All right, wolf," he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder and picking the box up. "Let's go."

---

Ray was nearly out when Thatcher's door opened behind him. "Detective," she said, and Ray flinched and turned around. "What are you doing?"

"Uh, just stealing some stuff," Ray replied, shifting Fraser's box under his arm, trying to keep the dufflebag strap high enough up on his shoulder. "You know—Canadian memorabilia's real hot on Ebay."

She didn't look amused; instead she took a few steps toward him in her sensible shoes and peered more closely at what he was carrying. "Those are Constable Fraser's things."

Busted. "Yeah, they are," he admitted. "He asked me to pick up a couple of things for him."

"Is he moving out, then?" Thatcher asked with a frown.

"Maybe," Ray said with a shrug. "I don't know."

"Well, it's about time," she said, nearly flooring him. "I don't know how he stands it back there. He's a grown man—how long can he camp out there like a boy scout? See if you can help him find a place in a decent neighborhood—"

Ray recovered himself and showed her a grin. "Hey, you know Fraser. If he won't get stabbed or shot, he'll want a discount on the rent."

Thatcher smiled grimly in return. "Talk some sense into him, then," she advised, and then she seemed to take a hard look at him and remember that she was dealing with a moron. "Do your best, anyway," she added with a sigh.

Her look told him that he was dismissed, and Ray ran for it.

---

Fraser got out of the car to let Diefenbaker in, then quickly moved to the trunk to help Ray. "Well?" Fraser asked, wondering if Ray'd encountered any...difficulties. "Did you see...? Was anyone...?"

"Thatcher was there," Ray said, shifting things around in his trunk to make room for the box and bag he'd brought out. "She's happy to get rid of you."

Fraser hadn't expected that. "She is? Really?"

"Really, yeah," Ray said, slamming the trunk shut. "She thinks you should have your own place."

Astounding. "She said that?"

"She did, yeah." Ray moved back toward his seat and, after a dazed second, Fraser scrambled to get in. Ray was already tugging his seat belt over his chest. "She wants me to help you find something."

"Really." Fraser stared blankly out the window; had he been wrong about absolutely everything?

"Really." Ray started the engine. "Someplace nice. A place in a decent neighborhood, she said."

"Really," Fraser repeated.

"Absolutely," Ray said, and hit the gas.

---

It took Diefenbaker less than ten seconds to scope out the apartment and claim his spot—an old armchair near the window where Ray used to read when he used to read, which he hadn't in years. Fraser, on the other hand, had a bit more trouble; he stood near the door for a long time, clutching his box in both arms, looking like he didn't know where to put himself.

"Make yourself at home, Fraser," Ray said, grabbing the box from him and setting it down on the kitchen table. Still, Fraser didn't move. "Fraser," Ray said, getting right up in his face. "Earth to Fraser."

"Sorry," Fraser murmured, unbuttoning his jacket. "I'm just overwhelmed."

"Tell me about it." Ray yanked a hanger out of the closet and thrust it at him.

"I didn't meant to foist myself on you, Ray." Fraser hung his jacket carefully in the closet. "Or maybe I did," he added a moment later, one hand moving up to massage the bridge of his nose. "I'm not sure."

"Either way, don't worry about it," Ray told him. "I don't much care. Foist away."

Fraser wandered into the living room and sat down in Ray's leather chair. "I just...there suddenly seem to be so many possibilities."

Ray perched on the sofa arm and looked hard at him. "What the hell happened to you today?"

Fraser slowly shook his head from side to side. "I'm not sure—but I think it's still happening. I seem to be experiencing life as a series of deeply-felt imperatives. I don't want to go to the station. I do want to go bowling. I don't want to live at the Consulate. I do want—" He stopped suddenly and frowned, then jerked his head up to stare at Ray.

"What?" His skin felt suddenly prickly.

Fraser stared at him for what seemed like a long time. "I want to be here," he said.

Ray just couldn't figure out where to put that. "Well," he said finally, shrugging, trying to be all casual about it. "Here you are, then."

"Here I am," Fraser repeated softly, and man, was this a weird day or what?

---

It took a couple of hours, but things got easier. Fraser changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, which seemed to physically relax him, and then he managed to find some stuff in the kitchen and actually turn it into dinner.

"Okay," Ray said, staring as Fraser opened cans and beat eggs and spiced and seasoned, "you've got to show me how you do that."

"It's not difficult," Fraser replied, but Ray thought he looked pretty damn pleased with himself.

After eating, they ended up just hanging out on the sofa in front of the television. Fraser actually drank a beer, which was pretty wild in itself, and then, to Ray's complete and total shock, Fraser stretched sideways, put his head in Ray's lap, and passed out—just totally went conk.

Ray completely lost interest in the movie. Fraser was just lying there—one arm hanging off the sofa, one leg half drawn up, his face totally relaxed in sleep. The drama on the screen was just nothing compared to the drama going on in Ray's life, today—suddenly, he had this weird Canadian country boy and his dog living in his apartment, on his sofa, in his freakin' lap, even. He didn't know what to do, where to go, where to even put his hands.

Finally Ray let one hand rest on Fraser's rib cage—Fraser was warm, burning like a furnace under his sweatshirt—and then, because turnabout was fair play, Ray dropped his other hand into Fraser's hair.

Soft. Fraser's hair was incredibly soft, thick and warm around his fingers. Ray stroked it away from Fraser's forehead, ran his fingertip around the rim of Fraser's soft, soft ear—and suddenly Ray felt panicked, really panicked, because he was liking this way too much and without even bowling as an excuse.

He squirmed sideways, trying to get out from underneath Fraser. He was flushing, tingling, his dick straining hard against the fly of his jeans. This was bad, bad, bad, and he nearly fell off the arm of the sofa and onto the floor in his eagerness to get away. Diefenbaker lifted his head to stare as Ray got his feet underneath him. "What?" Ray hissed at him. "Just shut the fuck up!"

Fraser didn't even seem to notice Ray was gone; he just curled up a little tighter and went right on sleeping. Ray switched the television off, found a blanket, and covered Fraser with it. Then he turned off all the lights and retreated to the safety of his bedroom. He considered actually locking the door (liar), just in case Fraser got any more funny ideas (liar), which would be a bad thing right now (liar, liar, liar), because Fraser needed his support and this wasn't the moment for Ray to tell him that he wasn't bent that way (pants on fire).

Ray shoved his glasses onto the night stand and lay his head resolutely on the pillow, trying hard not to think about anything—but the nothing kept turning into Stella crying in the bathroom, or Fraser touching his hair at the diner, or Fraser asleep in his lap all heavy and warm—and maybe he was a liar but his dick wasn't, and his dick was thrumming in his boxers, maybe juiced on by the high-techno pounding in his skull.

He spent what felt like a hell of a long time just trying to ignore it