Until Midnight

The Demo Track

by Speranza

 I.

Things were crazy when Fraser called, which meant that Ray didn't really get to think about the phone call until later. The bullpen was just chock-a-block full of criminals, all of whom were screaming for their lawyers. Ray himself was personally trying to interview some guy who insisted that he'd never even been near the gas station in question, and even if he had, he didn't rob it—and okay, even if he had robbed it, he'd been legally insane at the time. It was taking all of Ray's self-control not to whack him upside the head with his stapler.

In the middle of this came Fraser's telephone call, so Ray wasn't at his best when he swiped the receiver out of its cradle. "Vecchio—what?"

"Hello, Ray, it's me," and Ray knew instantly who the "me" was; nobody else was nearly that polite.

"What can I do for you, Fraser?" Ray asked, meanwhile showing his most vicious look to the legally insane guy opposite him, just in case he got any funny ideas.

Fraser always had an amazing knack for stating the obvious. "Sorry, is this a bad time?"

"Yeah, terrible time," Ray said tersely, "so could you maybe get on with it?"

"Ah. Yes. Of course," Fraser said, but then he seemed to struggle for speech. "I, uh..."

Ray spun his hand frantically in the air even though Fraser couldn't see him. "Come on, come on, while I'm young—"

"Yes, all right," Fraser said, and Ray heard him take a deep breath. "I was calling to ask if you'd have dinner with—"

"Sure, yeah." Ray grabbed for a pencil. "Where and when?"

"Tonight. Eight o'clock," Fraser replied promptly. "At the Parkland."

Ray scribbled "Parkland @ 8" on his blotter and said, "Right, done, see you then."  

II.

So it was only later, when Legally Insane Guy had been booked, and Indecent Exposure Guy was cooling his noodle in the tank with Drunk and Disorderly Guy, and Welsh had actually come out of his office to mutter, "Good work today," which had stunned the entire bullpen into silence, what with fear of the impending apocalypse, that Ray sat down at his desk with a donut and a cup of coffee and remembered that Fraser had called.

Because there it was—"Parkland @ 8," clear as day on his blotter—except if the message hadn't been in his own handwriting he would have sworn it was some kind of mistake. Fraser wanted to go to the Parkland?—since when? Normally they just grabbed a bite at the diner, maybe Chinese or Mexican if they were feeling fancy. The Parkland wasn't even on the map; it was off the radar, out of their range.

Ray had actually been there twice before. Once was with Stella near the end of things, when they were trying to put some last jolt of electricity back into their relationship by getting out more, not that it had worked. The way he remembered it, they'd ordered their food and then had a real whopper of an argument, the kind that Stella liked to end by hissing, "Shh! Just stop it— you're ruining everything."

The other time was when he and some other guys had taken John Leary out for drinks after he got engaged to Patty, but they'd all gotten rowdy and hadn't stayed for dinner. Ray's mind conjured up the dark, oak-paneled bar room, and then the main dining room, which he seemed to remember was done in pale yellow.

Stella'd thought the dining room was pretty. He couldn't picture Fraser there at all.

Frowning, Ray picked up the phone and dialed the Consulate, but the message machine picked up and asked him, very politely, to please call again during normal business hours. On a whim, Ray dialed information and got the Parkland's number, and thirty seconds later he was being informed that yes, Constable Fraser did in fact have a reservation for eight p.m. that evening. A table for two, was that correct?

"Yeah," Ray said and put the receiver down slowly. He cupped his coffee mug in both hands and tried to ignore the sudden flutter in his stomach. Because something was up, he was sure of it; you only took someone to a fancy place like that when you wanted to tell them something important, like that you were getting married or dying of cancer. Normal people didn't eat at the Parkland; it was a place for a special occasion, like getting together or breaking up.

So he wondered if Fraser was finally leaving, transferring back up to Canada. That seemed the most likely scenario, but he didn't want to think about that.

So he let himself have a five-minute fantasy that maybe it would go the other way. Hey, it was possible, wasn't it? Ray rubbed his stubbled chin . After all, you never knew.  

III.

When Ray showed up at the Parkland at ten after eight, the head waiter told him that Fraser was waiting for him at the bar. Ray pushed through the heavy stained glass door that led into the bar area and did a scan for Fraser. But Fraser wasn't there, and Ray was on the verge of walking out again when—geez, there he was, and no wonder. Fraser was wearing normal clothes for a change (black pants, gray shirt, not a glimpse of red anywhere) and drinking something that looked suspiciously like whiskey.

Ray crossed the room and slid onto the empty barstool beside him. "Hey."

Fraser looked up from his drink and smiled warmly. "Hi, Ray, glad you could make it. How was your day?"

"Okay. Crazy. Same old," Ray said, and then he looked up at the approaching bartender and said, with a jerky nod at Fraser, "I'll have what he's having."

"You sounded pretty frantic when I called," Fraser said, and Ray rolled his eyes and explained about Legally Crazy Guy and the whole nutty afternoon he'd had. "Hmm," Fraser said, when he'd heard the whole story. "Well, that sounds like a confession, doesn't it? He admitted he was there, that he robbed the gas station—"

Ray interrupted with a shake of his head. "You would think so," he said, as the bartender brought his drink over, "any sane person would think so, but it doesn't work that way. Because of all the ifs. He says he wasn't there, but if he was there he didn't rob the place and if robbed the place he was legally insane. He actually gets to make those arguments in that order because the legal code was written by morons."

Fraser's lips twisted wryly and he nodded, apparently admitting the truth of this. "That's very frustrating, Ray, I'm sorry."

Ray picked up his drink and took a sip, Whiskey, he'd been right, and it was the good stuff. "Frustrating is right, but I keep telling myself that it isn't my problem, it's the D.A.'s problem. Our job is to catch 'em, let someone else try to keep 'em. Let Stella—" he instantly wished he hadn't mentioned Stella, "—let somebody else lose sleep over it. Me, I'm going to enjoy this drink." He touched his glass to Fraser's until they clinked softly. "To, um...uh..."

"To a job well done," Fraser said firmly and tossed back the rest of his glass.  

 IV.

At Fraser's suggestion, they moved into the restaurant proper. Ray'd accurately remembered the pale yellow walls and the foofy art from his time here with Stella, but what he hadn't remembered was that the restaurant's entire east side opened onto the park. Of course, Ray realized a second later, that was cause they'd been here in November, when it had been butt cold. But now, in late August, the huge glass doors had been thrown open, revealing a canopy of dark trees and a thin slice of silver-blue lake.

Ray wasn't surprised that the waiter led them to a table near the doors. He had the picture now, he knew why Fraser'd picked the place—from their table, if you turned your chair a little, you saw nothing but trees and water. Ray couldn't help smiling as he yanked his napkin out of his wineglass and spread it across his lap; for Stella, the place had been "The Parkland"; for Fraser, it was about park land a lot more literally.

"So you like this, huh?" Ray spun his finger in a slow circle that took in restaurant, lake and park. "Dining with the squirrels?"

Fraser only half-heard him; he was already preoccupied by the view. "I like this part of the park."

"Oh." Ray braced himself on his forearms and leaned forward, trying to seem suave. "So, do you come here often?"

To Ray's dismay, Fraser took the question literally. "No, I've actually never eaten here before. I've always meant to," Fraser explained, "because I walk by here a lot and you can see these windows, all lit up, through the trees. I hope the food's good," Fraser added with a sudden worried frown. "Perhaps I should have checked."

Ray felt his lips twist into a smile. "It's good, Fraser. It damn well better be good for what they're charging."

"Oh?" Fraser glanced down at his menu for the first time, and Ray would have sworn that his eyes perceptibly widened. "Oh dear..."

"Yeah, I know. There are third world countries that don't have this kind of budget." Ray watched Fraser's eyes skim down the menu and then added, "You know, we don't have to stay. We could go eat at—"

"No," Fraser said slowly, still engrossed in the menu, "no, let's stay. It's expensive, I grant you, but everything sounds really—" Fraser looked up suddenly and added, awkwardly, "My treat, of course."

"Your treat," Ray repeated, but then suddenly it made sense; of course Fraser was the kind of guy who'd think he had to pay for everything.

"Well, I picked the restaurant," Fraser explained. "It's only fair I should pick up the check."

Ray eyed Fraser speculatively. "You know, I wouldn't have thought you could afford it."

"Well...." Fraser looked away for a moment, and when he looked back, Ray found it hard to gauge his expression. "It's not as if I spend my money on anything else," Fraser said quietly. "And I think I'm entitled to the occasional treat. Speaking of which," Fraser said, raising his hand to signal for the waiter, "will you have another drink?"  

 V.

Fraser had some kind of fresh fish with lemon and capers, a fancy rice side-dish, and three more glasses of whisky. Ray just sat there, eating his steak and arguing with himself.

Some part of him wanted to bang his fist down on the table and bring the evening to a screeching halt. He had it all planned out—his dramatic monologue would begin, "What the hell is up with you?" and go on from there, covering all salient points like Fraser's bizarre lack of red uniform and his sudden urge to eat in Stella-type-restaurants and drink whiskey.

On the other hand, why the hell shouldn't Fraser have a fresh fish and a couple of drinks? It wasn't a crime or anything. Maybe Fraser needed a break from being Fraser all the time.

The waiter brought the check in a soft, leather folder, and Fraser reached out for it so steadily and deliberately that Ray was suddenly sure he was drunk. "You okay there, Fraser?" he asked, squinting across the table suspiciously.

Fraser blinked owlishly down at the check for a moment, then put it down and pulled a wad of folded money from his front shirt pocket. Carefully, Fraser began counting out bills. "Yes, Ray," he said without looking up, as if looking up at Ray would disrupt his concentration. "I'm fine." Fraser counted and recounted the money before finally pushing it toward the center of the table and sitting back in his chair. "Do you want to take a walk?"

"Sure," Ray said, and stood up—and an instant later, he was grabbing Fraser's arm and steadying him, because Fraser had fucking teetered when he'd gotten up. "Whoa—"

"I'm fine," Fraser said instantly. He sounded perfectly normal, and exactly like Fraser, except that Fraser was never clumsy or drunk. "Really, Ray," Fraser said gently, though he didn't pull his arm away from Ray's hand. "I'm fine."

Ray couldn't seem to unclench his fingers. "Maybe we should call it a night," he suggested. "I'll drive you home and—"

Fraser shook his head once and then stopped, like maybe his head hurt. "Take a walk with me," Fraser said, and his voice was quiet and insistent and a little desperate. "This area, this part of the park, is particularly nice..."

"All right," Ray said. "Okay."

Together they went out through the French doors and down three stone steps into the park proper. Once out, they followed the asphalt path towards the water until Fraser decided to veer off through the trees. The grass here was slippery underfoot, plus Ray found it hard to see without streetlights. Still, Fraser seemed to know where he was going, and how lost could they get in a city park anyway?  

 VI.

They ended up at a bend of the lake where Ray'd never been before, which was weird, because he could have sworn that he'd biked the whole lakefront back and forth a thousand times. Still, the bike path didn't always stick tight to the coastline, so there were places you missed, areas you could only get to on foot.

This looked like one of those places; a weird bend in the shoreline, far off the path, where the ground curved up to a hill. Some bright park planner had stuck a bench down, planted a streetlight, and provided a trash can, and Ray could see why—the area was something of a natural viewing spot.

Fraser sat down on the bench and stared out across the dark water. Ray lit a cigarette and wandered around, taking in the scene. There were beer bottles in the trash and cigarette butts in the dirt underneath the bench. He'd bet there were used condoms in the bushes, too—this place had all the hallmarks of a lover's lane, a place to meet or neck or fuck.

Ray circled behind the bench and stood there, feeling the wind off the lake, staring at Fraser's strong, broad back, while he smoked.

Finally Ray dropped the cigarette to the ground and carefully crushed it under his boot before going to sit on the bench next to Fraser. "Hey," Ray said softly, and Fraser took his eyes off the water and trained them on Ray's face. Such unreadable eyes. "You ready to move on?" Ray asked.

To his surprise, Fraser glanced down at his watch, like he was literally checking to see if they were on schedule. Reflexively, Ray looked down at his own wristwatch—nearly eleven, whatever that meant.

"Can we stay here a while?" Fraser asked.

"Okay." Ray wasn't sure what Fraser was really asking him, but since when had that mattered. "Yeah, sure—if you want." He slouched back on the bench and impulsively slung an arm around Fraser's shoulders—which turned out, weirdly, to be the right thing to do, because Fraser instantly leaned into him. Ray felt Fraser's body heat along his left side and wondered how drunk Fraser was, wondered how close they were to actually crossing over into something else, and why this was happening today—tonight, now.

They sat together in companionable silence, staring out over the water. Ray let his own head list sideways, so that his temple brushed the top of Fraser's head.

He felt, more than heard, Fraser's faint sigh of contentment.  

 VII.

After that, it was slow, inevitable, and easy. They melted into each other by degrees.

They didn't move, but they were moving—falling inward, leaning hard against each other. Ray tightened his arm across Fraser's shoulders, and Fraser's arm went low and loose around Ray's waist. What started as casual contact built in intensity until Ray was sure they'd be fused together, welded by pressure and the heat of Fraser's skin.

"Ray?"

Ray didn't move. He didn't think he could move. "Hm?"

"Thanks for coming to dinner. And for keeping me company." Fraser raised his left wrist and glanced at his watch, then let his arm drop with a sigh of the purest relief. "It's almost over, thank God."

"What is?" Ray asked, frowning. "The day?"

"Yes. It's my birthday," Fraser said carelessly—except those words didn't make sense, not in the current context. Birthday? "For another fourteen minutes, not long now," and why did Fraser sound so damn happy about that?

"Why didn't you say?" He couldn't bear to look at Fraser; he was happy to let Fraser be a blur of black hair in his peripheral vision, a glimpse of gray shirt, the feeling of heat along his left side. Fraser's head felt so heavy against his.

"I just did. It isn't important, really."

Ray stared at the water and thought about how Fraser hadn't ever had a birthday, except of course he must have. Ray himself had had four birthdays since he met Fraser—two of his own, two of Vecchio's. "Don't you like having birthdays?" Ray asked him.

"No." Fraser's voice was firm on this point, though he sounded tired, or maybe still a little drunk. "Not at all. Not in the slightest. Each year, I think—not again. Not this again."

Right. Suddenly Ray understood. This year Fraser took the bull by the horns, planned his own dinner, made his own reservations. This year Fraser planted his feet and took a stand. Ray felt Fraser's arm around his waist, Fraser's warm hand on his hip, and took his very best guess. "So, tonight," he began, feeling his way cautiously, "these last fifteen minutes—"

"Ten," Fraser murmured.

"—these last ten minutes," Ray amended, "these are the last ten minutes of the old year, is that right?"

Ray felt, more than heard, the deep breath Fraser took beside him; it was an inhalation like when you smell something wonderful, hot coffee or bacon or something like that. "That's right," Fraser said, breathing the words out.

"Ten minutes of the old year, then it's the new year and you start over." Ray wished he had something to give Fraser, a dreamcatcher, maybe. A city one for Chicago, made out of butcher's string and pigeon feathers. "Everything's up for grabs."

"I hope so," Fraser said softly, and that's when Ray turned his head a little and pressed his nose and mouth to Fraser's hair. Fraser smelled nice, and Ray tightened his arms and held Fraser for the next ten minutes, until after midnight.    

The End

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