Author: Rhi Marzano Censor: NC-17 A/N: [Post CotW, spoilers for Victoria's Secret. characters != mine, though I don't imagine you thought they were. Thanks to Starfish for beta!]

Three fucking days I spend at this shindig -- "Something Very Boring About Guns That You Already Know Because You're Not Living in a Cave" or something, I don't remember. The name is not the point. The point is my weekend, which is gone and never to return, even with me leaving early.

I open the door, toss off an "I'm back" and hang up my jacket. Not like he doesn't know it's me, or that I really have to keep my jacket on a hanger. But I do the first out of habit and the second so that I don't have to see that disappointed face of his.

That face of his, though, is not in the kitchen eating dried fruit, or on the couch glued to some special on beavers on the Discovery Channel. It's too late to be taking a nap and too early to go to bed, so probably he's reading in his room. I knock on his door. "Fraser?"

A beat or two later, his bedroom door opens a crack and he sticks out his head. "Ray," he says, surprised. And not a pleased surprise, either -- a panicked surprised. "You've returned ahead of schedule."

"Yeah, I skipped out. The Lieu said it was okay."

Something's up, because he starts babbling things like "I hadn't anticipated," and "You've caught me off guard," and "More preparatory time would have been optimal."

I scowl and hold up a hand. "You got a woman in there?"

He gets even more pale, which I sure didn't think was possible. "No, no -- nothing like that."

"Then what is it?"

No answer.

"Look, whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?" He's still not saying anything and I sigh. "I'm going to take a leak -- can you please explain what's going on when I'm done?"

Fraser moves almost aggressively in front of the bathroom door. "Perhaps now might not be the best time to use the facilities."

"If you're hiding a woman in there, I swear I will kick you in the head." I stalk in his room and take hold of the doorknob. "And not because I don't like it when you're getting action and I'm not. But because you'd've lied to me."

"Ray -- "

I open the door. The good news is that there's not a chick hiding out. The bad news is that there is a three-year-old boy with brown hair sitting on the toilet.

"Hi," the boy offers brightly.

"I can explain," Fraser says hastily.

"You'd better," I snap.

"Can you wipe my butt?" says the boy.

"Tell me a story?" Giles says.

This Fraser can handle.

When he's done, I flip off the light and we leave on a lamp. Dief settles himself at the foot of the bed, and Fraser and I go out to the living room. I plop my ass down on the couch and Fraser does the same, though with a little more grace.

It's silent for twenty, thirty seconds tops. Then I guess that whatever patience I have runs out. I turn to him, arms folded. "Explain."

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some papers, and hands them to me.

The first is a birth certificate.

Giles Metcalf, mom Laura Metcalf. No father listed. And if I'm not off my rocker, a birth date of about nine months after Fraser got shot. Only Metcalf involved in that mess that I know of was Victoria, but then I remember something about Victoria faking her death and assuming her sister's identity. I shoot a glance at Fraser, who's rubbing his eyebrow.

The second is a will, of one Laura Metcalf. There's a lot of boring stuff, but I guess the most important line goes something like:

the guardianship of my son, Giles Metcalf, shall be entrusted to his biological father, Constable Benton Fraser.

At first it doesn't make any sense. Even with giving birth -- in a very public hospital -- she'd managed to be safely tucked away for three years. And if she'd done that for that long, she probably could have kept it up forever. Why blow it?

Scenario one: Overwhelmed by guilt for her sins, she decides to kill herself. But she's thoughtful enough to make sure her son is taken care of. Doesn't wash, for some reason.

Scenario two: She's afraid someone will find her and kill her, so she risks it and makes a will. But by making the will, someone finds her anyway. She kills herself to avoid more jail time.

That doesn't sound right either. She would have known going to a lawyer was a big bright bull’s-eye. Why would she risk it?

Then it hits me. Lightning bolt, bam. It wasn't a risk, because someone had already found her out. She knew it, and she knew that a single woman is much harder to find than a woman with a three-year-old.

She faked her death again and ditched her son.

I shuffle the papers and look back at him. "Who was on her trail?"

Fraser's thumb pauses and he blinks. "Maggie," he responds.

Well, that explains it.

"Was she the one who dropped him off here?"

"Yes, yesterday."

We sit there, staring at the blank television screen. I don't say anything, he doesn't say anything. Finally I sigh. "You want to talk about it?"

"I'm not sure that I can."

So much for that. "You want a beer?"

The corner of his mouth twitches a bit. "No thank you, Ray, that's quite alright."

"We're good, then."

"Indeed."

We're both relieved, and I flip on the tube. Let's just say I'm less than shocked to see it on the Discovery Channel.

"Oh, look, Ray," he says. "Turtles."

I glare at him, and maybe manage to convince him that I am pissed off for about two seconds. Then he starts giggling -- I swear, that's the only way to describe it -- so then I start laughing, and then of course we have to watch an hour of the snapping turtle in its natural habitat.

So after the three months, I got a little homesick for people with nonexistent manners and putting scum in jail, and Fraser admitted to a "certain desire to return to Chicago." We headed back, at which time Fraser found out that his new boss at the Consulate frowned upon him living in his office. And I discovered that my landlady had been replaced by her sister, who was a raving bitch.

And we'd spent three months alone together in the Canadian wilderness without killing each other. Alone if you don't count Dief, which you shouldn't, because it's not as if he helped solve any arguments.

We both needed a new place, and we got along great. Getting an apartment together would be a lot cheaper, and sharing expenses would just make sense.

As apartments go, the one we have isn't bad at all. It's close enough to the Consulate, not so far from the precinct. Two bedrooms with a shared bathroom and a decent living area. When you take into consideration our comfy couch and the hugeass t.v., the fact that the kitchen is a bit small is piddling.

And when the shrink asks if I'm happy, I can honestly say, "Yeah."

"That is so not right," I declare.

"It's a perfectly acceptable meal," Fraser informs me.

"Yeah, for a senior citizen," I snap. "He's a kid and he needs to eat kid food."

"Perhaps a few strawberries wouldn't be amiss, but I see no need to promote tooth decay."

"That's what toothbrushes are for. Besides, he'll be the geekiest kid in school, eating oatmeal and pemmican while everyone else will be eating Super Honey Sugar Bombs and he'll be, whatsit, ostriched."

"I'm sure you mean 'ostracized', Ray, and now you're just being silly."

We settle on Frosted Mini Wheats. Sugar and fiber, what a combo. The kid immediately begins to scarf it down. I give Fraser a Sorry for being a jerk face, and he returns with an At least it's good for his colon face.

I pour my own bowl and a cup of coffee. Halfway through the former and starting on my second of the latter, something occurs to me.

"Where's he going to stay today?"

Fraser clears his throat. "I had thought of leaving him at the Consulate, but realized the Inspector would probably be even less fond of children than he is of constables sleeping in their offices. So then I thought perhaps I might ask Francesca -- "

I nearly spit out my coffee. "No, no, no. I would not inflict Frannie upon anyone."

"Then where would you suggest?"

"Skokie. With my parents."

"We couldn't just drop him in their lap without asking."

"You don't get it," I say, waving a hand. And I tell him a story.

From age eighteen on, all unmarried Kowalskis hear is, "When are you going to settle down and have babies?" and "You're looking too thin -- have another golabek." But once you do get married, it's, "She's not feeding you right. Maybe you would start making babies if you ate more of my kapuniak."

I share this with him, then conclude, "Basically, life boils down to one thing."

"Cabbage?"

"Kids, Fraser. My mum is never happier than when she gets to play grandma. You wouldn't take that sort of opportunity away from her?"

Of course, when I guilt him into it like that, he can't help but agree.

Fortunately, Fraser rigs something functional and legal (though freaking me the fuck out about my upholstery). Giles is big enough that he's in a front-facing seat, which means nothing to me except that I can see him making faces at me in the rear-view mirror.

The kid also likes playing the "let's drop my stuffed octopus and see how long it takes Fraser to pick it up" game. Even though I explain the objective of this game to Fraser, he can't last more than five seconds before rescuing the toy from the floormats. Round 26 of this game finishes up as I pull into the trailer park with the score being: Giles, 25; Fraser, 0; and Dief, 1, for gnawing a leg off the goddamn octopus when it hit his nose for the 15th time.

"Does that make it a septipus now?" I ask, turning carefully into a parking space. Fraser always bitches at me for taking turns too fast, so I thought I'd humor him while the kid was in the car with us.

"No, Ray, I don't think so." Fraser unfastens his seatbelt and opens the door. "No more than removing a leg off a millipede would make it a -- "

"Nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine-a-pede?"

"That's actually a common misconception." He leans in the back seat and starts doing something with the duct tape. I wince and look away. "Millipedes only have -- "

"Stanley!" my mom squeals, flinging open her door. "Constable! How wonderful to see you! What's the occasion?"

"Hi, Ma," I say over my shoulder. I pry out Giles while Fraser holds the seat just right, then turn around and plaster a smile on my face. "This is Giles. Giles, say hi to your Grandma K."

Grandma K? Fraser mouths.

"Hi, Gramma K," Giles says instantly. He's smiling huge (as well as twelve times more genuine than I am) and I can just see my mom melting.

"Oh, isn't he precious," my mom coos, taking him from me. "Who does he belong to?"

"Whom?" Fraser says helpfully.

"Giles, of course," says my mom, blinking.

"This is Fraser's son, Ma," I jump in before anyone gets any more confused.

"Precious," she repeats. Christ, she's beaming.

Fraser clears his throat. "Would it be too much trouble for him to stay with you during the days until we find a reliable daycare service, ma'am?"

"Daycare!" Mom looks horrified. "You'd put this sweet child in daycare?"

I send Fraser a smug I told you so look.

"Damian and I would be more than happy to take care of him until he's ready for school."

I kiss my mom on the cheek and thank her before Fraser can babble on about making large commitments on impulse. He sees the move, and resigned to the corner I've backed him in, he rattles off information.

"I'm afraid we haven't much in the way of toys, but Diefenbaker ought to provide at least a modicum of entertainment. He is potty trained but lacks something in dexterity, though I've been assured that's perfectly normal for his age. He eats solid foods, although not nuts, as I wouldn't want to risk an allergy. Also -- "

He's never gonna shut up. "Frase. If anything comes up, they have my cell number."

He hesitates, then nods.

"We should be back around six," I say to my mom, then ruffle Giles's hair. "See ya then, kid."

"Goodbye, Giles," Fraser says a little more solemnly.

"Bye," says the kid.

"Wear your seatbelts," my mom says.

We're stopped at a light. Fraser's distracted and looking out the window, though he jerks a little when I speak up. I don't need to use fucking names. He knows who I'm talking about.

Slowly he turns his head towards me. "No," he says. "No, I don't."

He doesn't trust himself.

The light turns green. I drum my fingers on the wheel while I wait for the bozo in front of me to hit the gas. "Come on, come on, come on," I mumble.

A few blocks down, I see a "for rent" sign. "Maybe we should invest in a bigger apartment. Or rent a house, or something. The kid should have his own room."

"I'm entirely capable of sleeping on the couch."

Yeah, right. "He deserves a yard, too. Not fair of us to confine him to the halls of the complex."

"There are playgrounds and parks."

"But no place of his own to dump his crap."

"Our current accommodations shall suffice for a while longer." And it's smackdown, final, over. This conversation has been terminated, have a nice day, and thank you for shopping at K-mart.

"If you could drop me off at the Consulate, I would be much obliged."

I get it. He needs to be alone today, with mindless tasks like standing guard and stapling papers. I don't say anything, just keep my mouth shut and drive.

But this doesn't matter to anyone. They're all petty, and paid days off are paid days off, regardless of how suicide-inducing they might be.

Welsh calls me into his office about ten.

"How was the seminar, Detective?"

"Fantastic." I fold my arms and scowl a little.

"Boring stuff you already knew because you're not a complete idiot?"

"You called it, sir."

"We do what we can to keep the Commander happy." Welsh looks back down at the papers at his desk, which is the cue for "get the hell out of my office." Which I don't really have a problem with.

It feels like twelve days until my shift ends. I punch out and go pick Fraser up.

"I apologize for being short with you this morning," he says as he gets in the car.

He's sorry, even though it was my fault. I started it, and I kept picking at it. He's got no real reason to feel guilty, except he does anyway because he feels he should be above that sort of twelve-year-old shit.

It's just one thing you have to get used to about Fraser.

"I know," I say finally. "Me too."

Friday I nix lunch and go house hunting.

Skip VanDerHaaganDaas or something, that's the realtor. He smiles constantly, showing off those perfect white teeth of his. Which, of course, just makes me want to beat the crap out of him.

Skip's a decent realtor, even if he is a slimy piece of shit. "What are we looking for?" he says broadly. He keeps saying "we" and "us" like he's going to be my new roomie.

It actually doesn't take that long. It's a nice neighborhood, a lot more north of where we are now. A little more north than I'd like, actually, but it's much closer to Skokie. It's mostly old people, which aside from the smell I'm okay with. Apparently the mortgage and house insurance monthly payments are on par with what we're paying for the goddamn apartment. Plus there's a garage, three bedrooms, two baths, and a kickass neighbor named Elsie. Elsie's seventy-two, so she says, and first thing she asked me was if I wanted some Bacardi.

Elsie and I are going to get along great.

I have enough for the down payment tucked away. Skip assures me we can have all the papers final in a couple of weeks.

I'll tell Fraser then.

It's funny how we've adapted to having the kid around. We get up, eat breakfast all around, take Giles to the folks' place, go to work, pick the kid back up, put the kid to bed after we've eaten, and then Frase and I chill on the couch -- lamenting over what new items have found their way into our apartment via the backpack.

Today was no different than normal, except we'd had to give Giles a bath. Though to say "bath" is pretty misleading. Basically it's a half hour of playing with ducks and ships, and fifteen seconds of hair washing. Not that I have a problem with that. I dig the never-ending struggle of the tanker and the mallard.

But Giles is definitely ready for bed afterwards. Fraser's only two paragraphs into his story and the kid is zonked. Night night, sleep tight, I'm going to go watch some hockey now.

I settle in on the couch. Hockey's not on until 8:30, so I'm being tortured by watching European soccer on ESPN2 until then.

"No clothes today," Fraser reports, easing himself down onto the cushions. I see that, I want to snap, but I don't, which is either due to knowing that this Fraser-nobly-aggravating-his-spine shit will stop soon or the fact that he gives me a present from someone in the kitchen. Someone named Samuel Adams.

"That's good." Beer. I can make it through fifteen minutes of soccer with beer.

He notices the TV, finally. "Soccer, Ray?"

"Face-off's at eight-thirty." He knows I hate soccer. And he knows that I know he likes it.

He smiles at me, for half a second. It's the thank-you grin.

So I'm watching it despite the lack of sticks, the stupid shorts, and the insane hair. Thank God not for long.

First period goes pretty bad. The Hawks just aren't making enough shots on goal, which equals not much chance to score, which equals two unanswered goals, which equals nail biting and under-the-breath cursing and Fraser laughing at me.

First intermission also goes badly, which you'd think couldn't go badly as there's no actual hockey on during that time (which is why it's called intermission). Except it is bad. I have to keep changing the channel so I don't have to listen to the commentators rehash over and over that -- by the way -- the Hawks need to make more shots on goal.

Second period opens up with a nice little goal from Daze -- which is more like it. Hawks win the next face-off, passing back and forth across the ice, everyone into the zone and it's shot on goal, rebound, another shot from Daze --

"Does that sound like crying to you?"

I tear my eyes from the screen -- which you just know had to be the exact moment the little red light goes off -- and cock my head. It does sound like crying, and I say as much.

Fraser begins to get up, then gives me the Aren't you coming? look. I respond with the But there's hockey on! And it's tied 2-2! look, which earns me a Get up anyway look.

Nightmares, okay, I had a lot of them as a kid. And some of them resulted in peeing the bed. Well, most of them. Anyway, the point is that I sympathize with the kid, though on the nightmare part and not the urine. Apparently he has more control of his bladder than I ever did.

Fraser and I both know he shouldn't be left alone after a bad dream. Factor in the kid's psycho bitch of a mom, and I figure it was pretty damn bad. But bad dreams or no, neither of us wants to miss the game. So I scoop up Giles from the bed, nab his blanket, and stick him between us on the couch.

"H'key?" Giles mumbles with interest.

I knew those Canadian genes would show up sooner or later.

He falls asleep pretty quick, burrowed right into Fraser's side. Fraser lets his hand drop into Giles's hair, playing with it, though he doesn't seem to realize what he's doing.

In the end, the Hawks blow it with three minutes to go. But somehow I don't really mind too much.

I open my eyes. Giles stares back at me, grinning. I look over at the clock, red numbers piercing and huge.

"Christ, kid," I mumble. "It's six-thirty. This is my day off. You've got to know this is my day off. Where's your dad?"

"Bafroom."

I can hear the shower running.

"'MHungry," he announces.

Okay, okay, okay. I'll get up. I roll out of bed, pull on some pants, and pad out to the kitchen. Somewhere between my bed and the fridge, Giles attaches himself to my leg. "I'm a dinosaur," he says by way of explanation.

I start the coffee -- I'm going to need it this morning.

I fix him a bowl of cereal, which he immediately begins to wolf down. "Hey. Chew with your mouth closed. And breathe once and a while."

"'K, Ray," he says.

"And don't talk with your mouth full."

I clamp a hand over my mouth. Where the hell are these sayings coming from? I am not turning into my mother. I am not turning into my mother.

"Good morning, Ray," Fraser says cheerfully. He kisses Giles's cheek, who is cheerfully munching on his cereal. Just a big bundle of cheer, these people.

"Morning."

"Are you going to be able to handle him on your own today?" Fraser pours a cup of coffee and carefully measures out a tablespoon of M&M's. He hands the cup to me as he sits down at the table.

"I've got coffee now, so yeah."

"If you have any trouble -- "

"I call my parents. You don't have to worry."

He's going to worry anyway.

Fraser leaves a little after seven, only after making sure we had a freshly stocked first aid kit and milk.

Giles and I spend the morning playing with Legos. I build a pretty good truck, wheels and all. He builds an endless succession of elaborate buildings, all of which get destroyed when Giles summons Dief to stomp on it or has his septipus crash on it from above. It's kind of weird how he puts so much effort into making the things only to knock them down. But it makes him happy, so whatever.

Around ten or eleven, I put some boring Nick Jr. on and sprawl out on the couch. Giles waits about ten minutes before joining me, and in another ten he's snoozing. He's so warm, and small, and peaceful, and I just stare at him.

Victoria had to be really psychotic to give him up.

I hear some knocking at the door and figure I must have nodded off. It's not Fraser knocking, that's for sure. For one, he's got a key; for two, his knocking isn't so bum... badumba...bumbumbum uneven like. I roll off the couch careful, not that I'll wake the kid up.

"Benny?" the knocker calls.

Okay, one of the last people I want to see. I could never see Ray Vecchio again and be perfectly happy. He's not a bad person. He just annoys the shit out of me. (And his clothes, okay, make me want to hurl. Personal opinion.)

I groan and open the door. "Hey, Vecchio. What do you want?"

Vecchio's eyes zip over me briefly, I guess confirming that in fact, I'm not Fraser. "Where's Benny?" he demands.

"At work. And if you don't cut down on the shouting, I'm gonna kick your teeth in." Not that I had a problem with his teeth in particular. But see, if I kicked in his teeth, I might break his nose as a bonus. And then maybe his nose would bleed all over his suit, and then maybe I could just look at red instead of this pastel paisley barf. It is a sad state of your wardrobe when it could be improved by sabotage.

He ignores me on the volume thing. "Why aren't you at work then?"

"We do have separate jobs, Vecchio. You might remember that. Because I have your old job, and all."

He scowls at me.

I scowl at him.

Suddenly he stops, and his face turns into really confused rather than really pissed off.

"Are you watching Nickelodeon?"

"Yeah. What of it?"

SpongeBob SquarePants appears on the screen, and that opening theme song is the one thing that could wake Giles from a coma. There's an "Are you ready for this?" from the freaky pirate guy, an "Aye-Aye, Captain!" from a newly conscious Giles, and a "Who the hell is that?" from Vecchio.

When I don't answer, Vecchio flails his arms and points in the general area of our living room, and repeats, "Who the hell is that?"

"Well, he lives in a pineapple under the sea."

"The kid, Kowalski -- the hell... who..."

"Sp'Bob, Ray." Giles pats the cushion next to him insistently. "Sp'Bob!"

Dief echoes with a bark.

"In a minute, kid."

Vecchio looks like he's going to have heart failure. "Who is that?" he repeats, and the way he keeps saying it, I think he knows. He just doesn't want to believe it's true.

"You're gonna stop saying that," I tell him. "We're gonna watch some cartoons, and during the commercials I might feel generous enough to give you an intro. You try any investigative work, you're gonna fail, because the kid is mesmerized by sponges that wear pants and talk. Also, the wolf is protective of him despite the fact that the kid routinely abuses him. So. Take a seat."

I nab my spot on the couch next to Giles; Vecchio looks warily at the third cushion. I guess he doesn't want to be that close to me. Apparently Dief doesn't want Vecchio that close either, 'cause he hops up next to me. Vecchio sits in the crappy orange chair instead.

"This looks like someone barfed all over it," Vecchio snarks. Like he has a right to talk, with those shirts.

"We got it at a garage sale for twelve dollars."

"I think you were ripped off."

I glare at him.

We watch for about ten minutes or so, then commercials come. "Sp'Bob," Giles says happily, along with some babbling that makes no sense. At all. I catch "Pat Rick" in the midstream, only because Fraser's been trying to get him to correctly bridge the syllables for the past week.

"I have no idea what you just said." I grin and pinch his cheek. "I'll tell your dad it was sophisticated commentary, and maybe he won't yell at us for watching cartoons all day. You want Mac and Cheese?"

He nods and beams.

I get up and open the cupboards.

"So are you going to tell me what's going on now?" Vecchio's sulking. His nose is blotchy and everything.

"This is Giles Metcalf," I say, gesturing with the macaroni box. "Giles, this is one of your dad's friends. His name is Ray, too, but if that's too confusing, you can call him something else."

"Pat Rick," Giles declares.

"Good enough for me," I say.

Vecchio sputters for like, a minute, before getting out, "How long has he been here?"

"Couple of weeks." I fill a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

His face turns red. Some people get pale when that light bulb goes off over their heads, but he just looks like he's a big red balloon that's gonna explode. "I've gotta talk to Benny," he mutters, and just leaves. Just walks out the door.

"Bye," I say after him.

Giles waves from the couch.

I nab the phone, dial the Consulate -- tell Turnbull to fetch Fraser.

"Good afternoon, Ray. Everything going well?"

"Yeah, yeah, Giles and I are good. I'm making lunch as we speak. Listen, we just had a visitor, and he's headed to see you."

"Oh?"

"Vecchio. He met the kid. Though I'd give you the heads-up."

"Thank you kindly."

"No prob." I hesitate. "You'll be home five-thirty?"

"I should be, but naturally I'll call if I'll be delayed."

"Okay. See you then."

"Indeed."

I shake my head, even though it's a lie. I signed the papers today -- a couple hours earlier. It's final. The house? Mine. A shitload of debt? Also mine. But on the plus side, I never have to see Skip VanButthead again.

Tonight just doesn't seem like the right time to fess up.

"What did Vecchio want?" I ask.

Fraser looks uncomfortable. "Ah -- that is... nothing."

Apparently Fraser feels the same vibe I do. But I don't say anything, because he can keep his secret and I can keep mine, at least for a few days yet. Instead, I grin and offer him dinner.

He looks relieved and accepts. Politely, of course.

Fraser knows something, but he's not telling.

"Come on in," my mother calls from inside. "I've just made some coffee."

I open the trailer door for Fraser and the kid. I get the thank-you-kindly-smile, even though it only takes an extra second and all that.

The good news is that my mom isn't sitting alone with Vecchio in her kitchen. The bad news is that Stella is in plain sight.

"Hi, Grampa K," Giles says, detaching himself from my leg and climbing up on the couch.

"Hey, sport," he says. Dad's watching the news but not for long. As soon as the weather's over, he'll turn it to Nickelodeon.

Fraser sets Giles's bag on the counter, right next to the coffee pot, like there's nothing wrong with Stella drinking coffee with my mother inside and Vecchio's car but no Vecchio outside.

"Ray, I need to talk you." Stella looks up from her coffee and turns those eyes right on me.

I flinch, because she looking right in my eyes on purpose. She knows what it does to me, she's manipulating me, because I'm the puppet, she's the puppet-pulling-string-guy, or girl really, but that's not the point. The point is that puppet is no longer in my job description.

I ignore her.

"Ray," she says again.

Fraser's talking to Mom. "We're concerned about the amount of sugar in his diet, so if you could limit him to one glass of apple juice -- "

I add in my two cents, interrupting Fraser though he doesn't seem to mind. "He knows he can only have one, but he'll try to talk you into more. He's wily."

"Ray," but it's with a little more force this time, and she's getting up and taking my chin and forcing me to look at her. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"No, in fact I don't," I snap.

My life is a constant game of good news, bad news, worse news. Good news: no Vecchio around despite his car hinting otherwise; bad news: ex-wife chatting with my mom over coffee; worse news: what comes out of Stella's mouth.

"I'm getting married."

And it's click, click, click as the puzzle pieces snap into place. Vecchio needing to talk to Fraser and Fraser keeping things from me and Vecchio's car but no Vecchio and a Stella. And she gives me this final piece, and I step back and see the whole awful picture.

"You're marrying Vecchio," I say, and my voice sounds hollow.

She nods.

There're all these words and phrases running around in my mind but they're going so fast I can't get a hold of them long enough to get them off my tongue. On the outside I'm silent but on the inside I'm bubbling over. Congratulations or I hope you're happy or nice to know I could have said, but what comes out is, "Are you fucking nuts?"

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Fraser murmurs, "Ray, could you watch your language please."

The kid, the kid. Don't swear in front of the kid. "Yeah, I'm sorry."

"I fear we're going to be late," Fraser says, sounding apologetic. He leaves out the part that it doesn't matter what time we get out today, because we aren't doing squadroom work today. Nobody gives a shit what time we go interview Lester Poag.

But I need to get out of here, and he knows it.

And then it comes, accusing and ugly, but just launches out of me. "You knew."

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me." Oh, hell, I think I'm crying. I wipe my left eye with the back of my hand. "I hate secrets."

"As do I," he says, though not like he's sorry, more like he's turning the accusing right back on me.

And I'm a hypocrite, big fat giant order.

"No more secrets, then," I say, and take a left turn -- no signal.

"Where are we going?"

To the house. Our house.

I shut the door behind us. The room is pretty empty, consisting of ugly green shag carpet and a little cat piss smell.

"It's got three beds, two baths and a -- "

"Ray."

" -- garage. Yard's not much bigger than a graham cracker but there's enough for a little swingset and a sandbox, plus it -- "

"Ray."

" -- gives Dief some room to run around. The carpets, yeah, they'll have to be cleaned and probably replaced in a while, but other than that -- "

"Ray!" He stares at me and says, "What on earth is going on?"

"I bought it." When the look of utter confusion doesn't leave his face, I try again. "I bought it. The house. Well, not like with spare cash I had hanging around, but..." I trail off as he steps towards me.

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to. Couldn't stand cooping up the kid and the wolf, and you need a bed with that back of -- "

I don't know how it happens, but one minute I'm talking and the next I'm not because Fraser is kissing me. And not in the Euro "nice to see you" way -- in the noses bumping, mouth on mouth, holy-shit-is-that-his-tongue way. And maybe my tongue's playing, too, or maybe it's just self-defense. More and more I start to think it's not a fight at all. There's moves being made on by both of us but it's like we're on the same team. It's Fraser that's pressing me up against the wall, but it's my hands clenching his hair. As to whose cock is rubbing against whose, I can't quite say.

After a while -- I don't know how long -- we aren't even kissing anymore. Just standing, plastered together, breathing and staring at each other. His lips look swollen and his eyes almost wet.

"Fraser," I say finally. "Did we just make out?"

"It would seem so."

I drop my hands from his hair. "We have to go to work," I say, because I'm an idiot.

"Indeed," he says.

Fortunately the way back to the apartment isn't so awkward, because Giles chatters like a freaking monkey. It's funny because about every other paragraph makes sense, and you spend the whole time wondering how the hell he got from A to C. We do the dinner thing, and the story thing, and soon the kid's asleep and we're still not talking. Instead I'm drinking a beer and he's drinking tap water, even though our tap water seriously sucks. The TV's on but I'm just channel surfing -- which drives Fraser batshit, and I know it. Maybe I'm doing it on purpose to make him say something. Or maybe there's just nothing on TV.

But we don't say anything, and we both go to bed early.

The milk is cold and so am I. And then my glass is empty and I'm still awake, though instead of being awake in my bed I'm awake, leaning against the counter in the kitchen and cold. I feel just as drained as the glass but I can't sleep.

She was my wife, 'til-death-do-us-part, except we parted and neither of us were dead. Physically, that is. But now she's marrying Vecchio and I feel like the guy I was for twenty years is dead and I don't know who I am.

My glass is empty and I think I'm crying again.

Thing about Fraser sleeping in the living room is that late night kitchen raids tend to wake him up, no matter how quiet or sneaky I am.

Suddenly my milk glass is taken from me and put on the counter, Fraser's arms wrap around me, and I'm crying into his undershirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he murmurs into my hair.

"No," I say, even though I've wanted to talk about it all fucking day. But my mouth is so damn close to his and maybe it's wrong but it seems a damn waste to talk right now.

The first kiss barely deserves to be called a kiss; it's short and dry and there's still some space between us. The second is better, the third better yet. I lose count after that, because all I've got more important things to think about. Fraser's tongue, for one. His hands, for another.

My hand finds its way down to his shorts -- "What is the point of starching your boxers?" "It's not the point, Ray, it's the principle of the thing." -- and I hope you don't have a principle against my hand on your dick, Fraser, because I don't think I can stop this now. He's thick and...um. Wet. And warm.

He makes a noise when I start stroking him, like a squeak but more dignified. And my hand gets faster and faster until I'm practically pumping and all sorts of noises are coming out of his mouth and I'm kissing him the whole time, his mouth and his jaw and his throat.

He comes and I pull my sticky, wet hand out of his boxers. "Ray," he says when he can form coherent speech again, "perhaps we should adjourn to your bedroom."

"What, you want more?"

"There is the matter of...ah...reciprocal attentions, as it were."

Reciprocal like fractions? The hell? "You want to do it upside down?"

He looks at me strangely. "Not particularly -- not that I would be averse to it, you understand, aside from the difficulty of the mechanics..."

I stare at him.

He gestures helplessly at my cock, which, by the way, is still hard.

"Oh," I say. "That kind of reciprocal."

We get to the bedroom, I don't know how, because each time I look at him I can barely breathe and my eyes cross, and then I run into things like the couch and a chair and the wall, and that door is gonna leave a bruise the size of a pie on my ass. It doesn't help that he keeps on kissing me, or that I can't keep my hands off him.

And then we're on the bed, and I'm -- what's the word, what's the word... the wriggling, snakey word -- writhing, that's it, twisting and contorting like if he doesn't do something in short order I'm gonna fucking die. He tugs down my shorts and his lips brush down my belly.

"You're sure?" I don't know where I get the courage to say it, but I don't want him down there if he doesn't really want to be down there, even though I'm gonna die if he gets up and leaves.

"Absolutely certain," he says like he sucks cocks on a regular basis (even though he doesn't, because I would have known, and this little scenario would have happened a hell of a lot sooner).

And then he takes me in his mouth, slow and controlled, licking and sucking in some kind of pattern I can't figure out. I'm doing that snake thing again but I've lost the word and it doesn't seem that important to find it, because the much more important part is that I'm. Coming. My. Brains. Out.

He draws up beside me and kisses my cheek. "You should sleep, Ray."

"Okay," I say, and I do.

Can't complain about how Fraser does reciprocal.

The breakfast thing goes okay, mainly because a good cup of coffee goes a long way. There's a little struggle between the Giles-ster and his cereal (he's a dinosaur, and dinosaurs don't eat cereal, apparently) but he's happy to eat it after I tell him his cereal is actually stegosaurus bones and the frosting is T-Rex boogers. Fraser is unsettled, he says because I lied, but I think more because it worked.

We pack the kid up and drop him off, and then it's off to work we go.

"When can we move in?"

I jerk, look at him quickly. He doesn't seem like he's nervous or just searching for conversation -- just has that patient, waiting for an answer look on his face. It's the first time he's mentioned the house since... yesterday. Funny how yesterday seems so long ago.

"As soon as we pack and find someone to sublet, I guess. Old lady died and her kids cleaned out all her crap a while back. They just wanted to sell it, quick." I try not to make her kids sound like greedy bastards even though I think they are.

"We should get that done as soon as possible."

And we should talk. I don't say it, and he doesn't say it. But we're both thinking it.

Christ, I need a cigarette.

It should be perfectly normal, you know, dropping Fraser off at the Consulate and me heading off to the station, except we just had sex last night.

My desk is a mess, files and files and files and messages -- five, four from Stella (telling me to call her) and one from Vecchio (also telling me to call her, though with some profanity mixed in).

"If you ignore her much longer, she's gonna come in." Frannie hovers above my desk, smacking her gum and slapping another pink "While You Were Out..." slip down.

"I'm not here. She calls again, I'm not here."

"She's gonna come in," she proclaims, snapping a bubble. "And you're gonna be in hot chocolate."

"Hot water."

"Hot chocolate tastes better." She huffs off.

No cigarettes, of course I don't have any cigarettes stashed away. I settle for gnawing on a toothpick. What the hell is wrong with this computer?

It'd probably be easier to write these damn reports if my case notes weren't on post-its or cocktail napkins or in my brain (which, let's face it, isn't the most reliable thing I've got going for me).

"Ray!"

It's Stella, looking pissed. Frannie mouths "I told you so," from her desk and smirks.

"Why haven't you called me?" she demands.

"Listen, Stell." I stab one of those pink message with a pen. "I've got a lot going on right now. If you haven't noticed, I've got files out my ass here, plus a mortgage, and a three-year-old -- "

"He's not your son, Ray."

I flinch.

"You're living in some sort of fantasy world, though who am I to disparage your coping strategies -- "

"I really don't want to talk to you right now." I shove my chair back. "I'm fine, okay? You and Vecchio want to get hitched it's your business. And it's my business to think you're fucking nuts."

"Ray?"

"I'm fine."

She's not convinced, but she leaves.

"Good afternoon, Ray," Fraser says. He waves at the suit. "This is Constable Laval. He's transferring in from Montreal."

That's right, Turnbull's going to Ottawa... next week? in two weeks? Soon, on any count. I offer my hand and Laval takes it. "Detective Ray Kowalski. Nice to meet you, Constable."

"You can call me Frank," Laval says in the weirdest accent I've heard in a while.

"You married, Frank?"

"Five years," Laval says, smiling. He doesn't look old enough, not nearly old enough.

"Kids?"

"Marie-Madeleine. She's four."

Fraser says, "The Constable and his family are currently looking for housing."

I can feel a grin creeping up my face. "You've come to the right place, Frank."

Even when you're moving somewhere better, somewhere safer, it always sucks, shoving your stuff and your memories into boxes. And it doesn't even matter that you know all your stuff is gonna wind up in your new place, and your memories are gonna still be in your head. Bottom line, it still sucks.

Usually I deal with the trauma of packing by stretching it out as long as humanly possible. But Laval and his family are already in town, so that's not really an option.

I take my time going up the stairs, trying to delay the misery any way I can. When I get to our floor, I think about saying I forgot something in the car. Something, something, something. Cigarettes? That would work, except Fraser would be pissed to find out I'm smoking again, which I'm not. So then I'd have three problems -- Fraser being pissed at me for nothing, my stuff still not being packed, and the fact that I don't even have cigarettes in the car...

"Ray?" Fraser says. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just..." I fiddle for the keys and sigh. This is me, resigning myself to my fate. "I hate packing."

"Ah." He nods sympathetically. "You should have thought of that before you went out and purchased a house."

Good thing I just slid the key in the lock because otherwise I would have dropped it right then. "What is that, a dig?"

"Nothing of the sort."

"It is!"

"It's not," he counters, reaching over to open the door.

I open my mouth to say something witty -- "It is!" or something -- but I shut it and just stare, because what is before my eyes is not our messy apartment. It's some kind of alternate universe, where our front closet is full of neatly stacked boxes, clearly labeled with black magic marker.

"When did this happen?"

"During the day," Fraser says. "I mentioned something about our need to pack up our belongings, and Turnbull insisted that I allow him to help."

"And then he just decided to do it all by himself." I look at the boxes some more. "He must have worked fast."

"His efficiency is remarkable at times."

And so's his ability to irritate everyone, but Fraser's too polite to mention that.

Fraser suggests we order pizza, since all of our dishes are in a box labeled "dinnerware." The kid and the wolf are staying at my folks' place until we've got everything set up in the house.

"...pineapple, yes. While I respect your philosophical objections, I'm afraid he would be most put out..."

And it's nice, you know, that he gets the pizza how I like it. Stella, she never would. "I hate pineapple," she'd say, and I'd say, "Pineapple is the best fucking part," but she wouldn't budge. So then I'd be like, "Can't we get half pineapple, half not?" -- even though half-and-half is totally for pussies -- but she'd not even be happy with that, because somehow the pineapple would infect her half of the pizza. So I'd get pissed and she'd get pissed and we'd wind up getting Chinese instead.

But with Fraser, it's about give and take. Pineapple on the pizza and hanging up jackets. Tradeoffs.

Reciprocity.

He hangs up the phone and I kiss him. He's stiff at first, but I keep at it -- one mississippi, two mississippi, c'mon -- and he softens, opens up. I slide my tongue in his mouth, inch my hands down his sides --

"Ray," Fraser says, breaking away from me. "We should probably talk."

"Later?"

"If we say we'll do it later, we won't."

He's right. I sigh, step back from him, and lean against the wall. And then realize I have no idea where to start. "Yeah, ok. So. Talking." Not so brilliant, but at least the ball's rolling now. Very, very slowly. I wait.

Fraser waits.

And I realize we're both just... afraid.

Fraser's afraid of his past, afraid of his future. Afraid he's a bad parent (which he's not, that kid adores him). He's afraid that he's weak, afraid he can't trust himself should he meet Victoria again.

Me? I'm afraid somehow I'll screw this up, that in some way that only I could possibly manage, I will drive him away, and lose him, his kid, and his wolf. I'm afraid to be alone, afraid I'd lose myself.

And we're both afraid to talk about anything that matters.

"I don't want to lose you." I cringe the moment it comes out of my mouth. It sounds pathetic and weak and worthless. "You're my best friend, you're my partner..." And that' s not it, it's tiptoeing around the issue, just a rehash of all the time we spend talking but not talking. I fumble around my pockets, find one of those individually wrapped toothpicks you pick up in restaurants... "I know I'm not easy to live with," I say finally. "And the house thing, I don't want you to feel you're obligated to stay with me. If you get sick of me, you can leave. I just... want to be with you. For as long as you can stand me."

What I don't say -- can't quite get out of my mouth just yet -- is: I love you.

"And I you, Ray," Fraser says.

He heard me anyway.

I don't know who decides that forcing a bunch of people to listen to a bunch of idiots is a good idea, but whoever they are, they should be shot. Normally I'm against the death penalty, but Jesus. It's the only way to stop these wackos.

I make it two days before I call Welsh, begging to leave. Two and a half, really, which is pretty amazing considering I started rehearsing my plea on day one.

It's nine or so when I pull in the drive. Elsie offers me a drink but I turn her down, and promise to come over tomorrow and watch football with her.

I open the door and hang my jacket on one of the hooks. "I'm home."

Fraser's on the couch, reading something French. He looks up and smiles. "You're early."

"Thank god." I lean over and brush my lips against his.

"How was Indiana?"

"Miserable." Kiss. "Boring." Kiss. "Lonely. I missed you."

He sets aside his book and threads his fingers in my hair. His tongue dips in my mouth, swirling and running along my teeth and...

"Giles asleep?"

"Soundly," he assures me.

"Bedroom," I suggest, and he nods.

He closes the door behind us. We stumble onto the bed -- between his back and both our knees, it's the best place -- and we shuck off our clothes, all the while kissing and touching and licking each other. Impatient, impatient, I reach for his dick and he grabs mine and we pump -- and our arms are rubbing against each other, extending the friction until I'm losing my mind.

Fraser breathes, "Faster," and "Harder," and his eyes are so beautiful and it is faster and harder until we're both a sticky, white mess.

Some time later, I feel the bed shift. I open my eyes to see Fraser leaving. And I'm bothered, because Fraser hasn't slept in his own bed since we moved in -- even when I'm gone, he sleeps here.

Mumbling, I manage, "Where you going?"

"The bathroom."

Oh. "You're coming back?"

"Of course."

I draw the blankets back up, relieved.

He slides back in bed five minutes later, confiscates some covers from me, and burrows in.

"Do you think Giles is bored?"

Fraser rolls over and stares at me. "Come again?"

"Do you think he's bored?"

"I don't see why he should be."

"He's only got us, the wolf... the septipus..."

"And a host of playthings. He's fine." He closes his eyes.

"I'm just saying, effectively we have an extra bedroom. And maybe Giles would appreciate a little brother or sister."

His eyes shoot open and he gives me that look, that You're obviously sleep deprived and just babbling look.

"I'm serious."

He sighs. "Unless you're trying to tell me you're with child, could we possibly have this discussion at sometime other than -- " he squints at our clock -- "3:32 a.m.?"

"Yeah, yeah. Gotcha." I wait a beat. "Frase?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"I love you."

"And I you. Now go to sleep."

And I do.